They widened still more when Islif struck aside two spearheads with her sword, and ran in past the third to backhand its wielder across the face.
He stumbled into his fellows, there was a moment of startled hopping and cursing-and Pennae came out of the dark with a startling shriek, daggers flashing in both hands, Doust and Semoor trotting behind her.
The Purple Dragons wavered, and Islif drove her knee hard up into a codpiece and then thrust her leg sideways, toppling that soldier into the one next to him. Pennae landed hard on their wavering spears, smashing them to the stone floor and splintering the shaft of one of them as she flung herself forward, her fists hammering down two dagger pommels into two helms.
The Dragons reeled, and Pennae jerked on their helms, tilting the metal down half-over their faces. They struggled under her, punching and kicking and trying to rise-and as Islif wrenched spears out of the hands of two of them, Semoor leaned in, plucked a mace from the belt of one Dragon, and crowned the man solidly with it, leaving him reeling.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he remarked happily. “Are you going to start cutting pieces off them now?”
The Dragons were already trying to shove themselves back and away, and his words goaded them into frantic flight. Back into the blue glow, with Islif’s and Pennae’s chuckles trailing them.
“Now get away,” Islif ordered, waving her fellow Swords to the sides of the passage. “Against the walls and away. I’d not put it past them to find some bows and start volleying right down this-”
A spear burst out of the mist and sailed down the passage, to bounce and skitter to a harmless stop beside Jhessail, who was helping a sweating Florin up, and easing the bent and ruined shield off his arm.
“Move!” Islif roared, as a second spear followed the first. The Swords moved, in haste, as a third spear rattled past them.
“Florin says there’s a crossbowman somewhere ahead of us,” Jhessail warned, as they hastened on together.
“Broke my arm,” Florin grunted. “Never saw him.”
“When do we start having fun?” Semoor complained. “Pools of coins and gems, dancing girls, our own castles… when does that side of adventure kiss and cuddle us?”
Behind them, the blue glow burst into a wild, blinding-bright explosion that spat lightning bolts down the passage at them, crackling and ricocheting in a chaos that sounded like hundreds of harps being smashed all at once, metal strings jangling and shrieking. In its wake, all light faded; the blue glow was gone.
“A war wizard making sure we won’t return,” Jhessail said as darkness descended, leaving them all blind.
Doust groaned. “Now what?”
“Well,” Semoor said, “we can sit down right here and pray, the two of us-and in the fullness of time be granted the power to make light to see by.”
A dim glow occurred not far from his elbow, and brightened, as it was uncovered and held up, to about the same strength as a mica-shuttered lantern. “Or,” Pennae told them all, holding what they could now see was a hand-sized glowstone, “we can use this.” Its radiance showed them her sweet smile.
It was Jhessail’s turn to groan. “Do I want to know where you ‘found’ that?”
Pennae shrugged. “I imagine the lady lord, or one of her staff, will eventually miss it. Yet I doubt, somehow, she’ll now be able to chase after us to reclaim it.”
“What happens if you drop it?” Doust asked. “Is it likely to break and go dark?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on finding out.”
“So where are we?” Florin gasped, his voice tight with pain. “And which way shall we go?”
“The Haunted Halls, of course. In the long passage just north of the room where we found the boots, pack, and pole. See yon cracks in the wall?” The thief gestured with the glowstone. “So the fastest way out is that way- and Bey might remember the route; I doubt Agannor ever paid that much attention to the maps-but the three we’re chasing went that way.”
“After them,” Florin growled. Pennae nodded.
Islif took hold of her elbow, and steered her hand to hold the glowstone close to Florin, so she could peer at him. “Healing, holy men?”
“Not until after we pray for a good long time,” Semoor told her. “We spent our divine favor helping Pennae.”
“I’ll live,” Florin told them tersely. “Let’s get after them.”
The Swords exchanged nods, hefted their weapons, and set off into the chill darkness.
They’d gone only a few paces when they came upon a discarded crossbow on the floor. Pennae peered at it. “Not broken,” she murmured, “so he was out of bolts to fire.”
“Bright news,” Semoor grunted. They hastened on to a wider chamber that offered them a door and three passages onward. Islif went to the door, made a pocketing gesture to tell Pennae to hide the light, and opened it.
Still darkness greeted her-then Pennae patted her shoulder, leaned past her, and pulled the glowstone out of its pouch again. Nothing. The room was empty-and across the door in its far wall was a fresh cobweb. Pennae shook her head and stepped back out of the room. “They probably went that way,” she said, pointing down the passage that led to the feast hall, “but we’d best check this end way, just to be sure. I don’t fancy them leaping out behind us and slicing Doust or Semoor into platter-slabs.”
The end passage ran northwest, not far, ere turning west to a chamber that still held, along one wall, the collapsed and sagging remnants of ancient barrels and carry-chests. In the center of the facing wall was a door-a stone affair that lacked lock or bolt, and led to a room that had been empty when they’d explored it, days back.
As Pennae neared it, she tensed, stepped back, and whispered, “A man’s voice-unfamiliar-declaiming some grand phrases that mean nothing to me. I’d say he’s working magic.”
“Let’s move!” Islif hissed. “In, before he finishes!” And she launched herself at the door with Pennae right behind her.
The Swords burst through the door and down the short passage beyond, startling a man who stood there into looking over his shoulder at them.
It was Bey, his drawn sword in his hands, and he shouted, “Get gone!” to someone around the corner, and ran that way.
The Swords raced after him, rounding the corner fast and ducking low, swords up in front of them.
They were in time to see Agannor’s boot vanishing through an upright, swirling oval of blue radiance of the same hue as the glow that had brought them back here. An unfamiliar man in battle-leathers was keeping Bey from following with one outflung arm, but snatched it out of the way the moment Agannor had vanished, to let Bey plunge through.
Giving the onrushing Swords a malevolent smile, he followed, leaving behind the blue glow.
“Tluin!” Jhessail spat. “Where does this one go?”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Pennae flung back at her, racing for the whirling portal with Islif right behind her.
Its glow swallowed them both before any of the other Swords could reply.
Ornrion Barellkor blinked again, his head still swimming. Strong hands were lifting him by his armpits, helping him to sit up.
“All right, are you?” one of his swordcaptains asked.
Barellkor put a hand up to his jaw and tried to shake his head-which proved to be a mistake. His head felt like it was splitting slowly open with someone’s war axe firmly embedded in it. His chin felt even worse.
“I think my jaw is broken,” he moaned.
“Idiot,” the Lady Lord of Arabel said curtly, dragging the wincing man to his feet. “If that’s all the hurt you took, Tymora must smile on you, Barellkor. Now get out of my sight before I decide to reduce you to lionar.”
The ornrion stared at her disbelievingly. “But I-but they… they were the ones as murderered all our lads!”
“Horsedung, Barellkor, as I believe you’re fond of saying,” Myrmeen snapped. “Why don’t you step over there and try throttling yon portal-blasting war wizard, instead of a gallant young forester? Perhaps you two stoneheads will succeed in murdering each other, and I’ll be shut of the pair of you!”
