“Speak no treason!” Rarambra snarled at him. “And I say again, in Azoun’s name, lay down your arms, Knights-if you are Knights-or I’ll proclaim you traitors and treat you accordingly.”
“Which would be… how?” Doust Sulwood asked, stepping forward.
In reply, Lady Tarlgrael gave him an unlovely smile and touched the gorget at her throat. There was a sudden shimmering in the air around her, that moved with her as she suddenly charged at Doust, sword flashing. “Let us see how enthusiastically Tymora aids you, Luckpriest!”
Doust retreated hastily, hefting his mace. She sneered, judged him, “Coward!” and lunged at him.
In the air, her blade was met and stopped short by Islif’s longer, heavier sword with a ringing clang.
The Lady Highknight blinked in disbelief, then set her teeth and shoved, even though Doust had now backed well away. Islif’s arm stayed where it was, as hard as an iron bar and utterly immobile, the locked swords quivering a little but not moving.
A breath passed, and then another, as Highknight Targrael struggled, Islif stood like a grimly smiling post, and the rest of the Knights watched.
They saw Lady Targrael’s face grow dark with anger as she strained and shoved, then tugged her sword to try to dart it past, only to find it deftly caught and bound by Islif’s blade… the silent contest of sword arms went on-until the Highknight suddenly snatched a dagger from her belt, to stab at her foe.
Only to find the wrist of her dagger hand gripped in midair, iron-hard, with Islif’s gently smiling face behind it. The Lady Highknight stared furiously at that face, and saw contempt looking back at her.
“Traitor!” she hissed.
“I have found that word is flung around far too loosely,” Islif replied, “by folk such as you, merely to brand anyone who stands against them. I’m growing tired of it.” Her shoulders rippled, and she plucked her adversary up into the air by the hold she had on one straining wrist, and hurled the Lady Highknight across the passage, into the wall.
Lady Targrael thumped solidly against unyielding stone, well off the floor, slid down to meet it with a snarl of anger, and launched herself back across the passage at Islif, blade whirling.
“Knights,” Islif commanded, as she stepped forward to meet that storm of steel, “go on opening doors. We can’t let this woman delay us further. She could well be part of the treason!”
Jhessail and the two priests stared at her, and then hastened a little way along the passage, to where there were doors they hadn’t examined yet, and started trying to open them.
“Well, Lady Highknight?” Islif asked, as their swords rang sparks off each other in a dazzling dance that let the woman in black advance not a stride. “Tired yet? Willing to consider a truce, that we can serve the realm together?”
“No!” the Highknight spat, starting to pant now. “ I guard this level, and you will submit to my authority! Or I’ll-”
“Or you’ll what?” Islif growled, pressing forward and forcing her foe to give ground. “Sneer me to death?”
With a wordless grunt of anger and a toss of her head, the Lady Targrael sprang back, breaking off their blade play, and sprinted along the passage, heading for Doust’s unprotected back.
Semoor barked a warning and Jhessail raised her hands to weave a spell, but Islif barked, “ Save our spells! ” as she ran after the Highknight. “Leave her for me!”
Doust whirled around, saw his peril, and sprang away from the door he’d just forced open, leaving it swinging.
“Find anything useful?” Islif called to him, merrily.
“Nay,” he called back, trying to ignore the gale in black leathers racing down on him, sword and dagger flashing. “Nothing but a laundry chute! Goes down, not up!”
“That’ll do!” Islif replied. “That’ll do just fine!” And with a burst of speed she caught up to the Highknight, struck aside Lady Targrael’s vicious attempt to stab her-and slammed into the running guardian, shoulder-first.
The Highknight reeled, almost falling, but caught her balance and whirled to slice Islif with sword and dagger.
The Knight ducked suddenly and kicked out, sweeping Targrael’s feet from under her. She bounced on her behind, hard enough to make her shriek and lose her grip on both sword and dagger, but came up with another drawn dagger in hand and murder in her glare.
Islif was up, too, sword lashing out to force the Highknight to sway back and away or be cut open. Lady Targrael gave ground with a snarl-and then suddenly turned, dashed away, running raggedly but still at blinding speed, and scooped up her fallen sword, hard by the passage wall.
Whereupon Islif’s drop-kick, with all her weight behind it, smashed the Lady Highknight’s sword hand, shattering it against the stone wall.
Targraerl screamed in pain, her sword spinning away, and Jhessail darted in, slicing at the Highknight’s belt with her dagger.
It sagged a trifle, exposing a little flat and sweating belly. Jhessail dropped her dagger, caught the bottom of Targrael’s jack, and tugged straight up, pulling the garment inside out and up over the Highknight’s head.
Then she planted one tiny fist in what she judged to be the face of that blinded head, only to back away, wincing and clutching her hand.
As Doust, Islif, and Semoor closed in, Islif starting to say that this should be left to her, Jhessail charged at the struggling Highknight, found that shattered sword hand, and punched it hard, slamming it momentarily against the wall.
Targrael shrieked and doubled over, sobbing, her furious struggles to be free of her leathers momentarily lost in writhing pain.
“Lathander defend!” Semoor muttered to Doust. “Remind me if we’re ever captured: don’t let them give me to the women!”
“Take over,” Jhessail gasped to Islif, wringing her hand and retreating. Islif nodded, took one long stride to reach the Highknight, and delivered a solid punch to Targrael’s shrouded head that bounced it off the wall.
The Highknight sagged, and Islif punched her again. This time, as the Highknight rebounded off the wall, she staggered. Islif took her by one shoulder and the back of her breeches, ran her a few steps along the passage, and thrust her head-first down the laundry chute.
Her descent was a short but noisy succession of bangs and slitherings that made the Knights of Myth Drannor grin at each other in satisfaction.
Their mirth would have been louder had they known that somewhere beneath them, a bloody and disheveled Telsword Bareskar of the Palace Guard had just revived. Bewildered, he was flailing around in seemingly endless dirty clothes, seeking to gain his footing and get out-when something fast, hard, heavy, dark-leathered, and very sudden slammed down atop him, smashing him back into the rather unpleasant dream he thought he’d finally escaped.
“This way!” First Sword Brelketh Velkrorn gasped, winded from all his running. The war wizards, of course, had fallen well behind his fellow Dragons, but surprisingly, the duty priest-a cleric of Helm the Vigilant-was right behind Velkrorn.
Good, because his healing would be needed swiftly. Down this passage, turn at about where that hrasted courtier had gotten away, and…
Velkrorn slowed, cursing. The wounded and the dead were still sprawled in the passage, but Rellond Blacksilver was gone.
They rushed to the bodies regardless, peering, and gently rolled the blood-drenched Kaerlyn over for the Watchful of Helm to lay hands upon, and begin his prayer.
“Gone,” Velkrorn said in disgust, “and all we have is this!” He hefted Blacksilver’s magnificent sword in his hand.
It promptly exploded, taking that end of the passage and everyone in it to the gods.
In the depths of her crystal, the dust and smoke hadn’t stopped swirling, but the rubble had ceased to rain down. She could see enough to know no one was still standing.
Lady Merendil turned away from that chaos with a bitter smile on her face. “Witnesses are tiresome in the extreme,” she murmured aloud. “Even corpses can be made to talk. Splattered blood and innards, now, thoroughly mixed… they can keep secrets.”
