Not that there seemed to be any great shortage of arriving bullyblades. Whirling and panring in the hearr of a ring of sreel, rhe ranger fought on, wondering how soon it would be before it was his turn to be one of the dying.
Morkoun was doomed, as good as dead, and Hanstel would be too, if he didn't stir his boots and get gone!
Blade of the Dragons Hanstel Harrow ducked aside from an outlaw sword, tripped the man, then whirled and ran.
Head down, sprinting like a youngling in a race, he fled across the clearing, heading for the open road. If he couldHe tripped on one of the bodies he'd been trying hard not to look down at, and he went sprawling. Rolling to his feet and wincing, he looked back at what had tripped him.
It was the body of First Sword Aubrus Norlen, huddled dead on the ground with flies already buzzing around staring eyes and open mouth. Out of which hung that runaway tongue, now forever stilled. Well, at least he wouldn't have to listen to that particular flood of utter nonsense, ever ag-hold!
Norlen had been carrying something deadly, a 'battle blast' or some such, for hurling at foes when a fray was going poorly. And if this wasn't going pootly, he didn't know what would be.
The weapon would be at his belt.
Hanstel found his feet and darted forward cautiously, half-expecting some deadly magic-ot worse still, the corpse of the First Sword, stiff in fresh undeath-to lash out at him. There! That must be it, that hand-sized, unfamiliar thing tied at Norlen's hip. Gingerly Hanstel bent, plucked it, tugged hard, and dashed away, feeling the body stirring under his hands for one horrible instant before the thong broke and the carrion slumped back, leaving him the new owner of… of whatever it was, round and dark in his palm. It was starting to glow now.
Glow. Magic. It was going to do whatever deadly thing it was intended to do, very soon. The glow was spreading across it with frightening speed!
Something flashed in the air before him. Hanstel looked up.
He saw the dagger that had flashed as it came whirling end over end toward him. It arced down, falling short and thunking deep into the dirt right in front of him.
Beyond it, back across the clearing, was the.one who'd thrown it. He'd seen her once, back in the Royal Palace when the reception for the envoy of Silverymoon had been so dramatically disrupted. It was the little flame- haired Knight of Myth Drannor, the one who could hurl spells like a novice war wizard. Quite a looker, he'd thought, and still did. A lass he'd not mind a kiss and cuddle with. Who'd just tried to kill him.
Their eyes met.
With a certain wild glee-he had the means to kill a mage! A Mystra-loving she-wizard! — Hanstel Harrow hurled the deadly glowing thing in his hand right at her.
At this range, he could hardly miss.
Bullyblades were everywhere, and he was meat for their blades, holy symbol of Lathander and all.
Semoor Wolftooth scrambled wildly across the clearing, fleeing he knew not where, still half-blind behind his mask of blood. His own blood, still streaming down his face, getting in his eyes with every step, stlarn it, keeping him from seeingHe tripped over something, probably a body, and crashed to the ground like a felled tree, driving all the wind out of his lungs and shaking every bone in his body. Dazed and trying ro groan, he rocked back and forth in agony.
Something slammed into his ribs, hard-something that cursed and thudded hard to the ground right beside him, a sword cartwheeling past his blurred gaze. It seemed he'd tripped a bullyblade who'd been rushing up to gut him.
He had to move fast, to get at the man before a knife came out or that sword got snatched up again, and 'dicing-handy-Lathanderite-holy-man time' arrived. He had toSomething slammed hard into his ears and heaved the ground under him in the same explosive instant. A blast hurled men off their feet all over the clearing, and the bullyblades fallen sword spun up into the air again. Semoor's face met the trampled weeds of the ground, his ears ringing, and a sudden wet rain thumped and pattered to the ground all around him, like mud hurled in the wake of speeding hooves.
Wiping and blinking furiously so he could see whar was going on, he caught sight of the bullyblade just beyond him, who'd struggled up to a sitting position and was now reeling dazedly. The man was drenched in gore- and more than gore: large wet things that were now sliding off him.
As the bullyblade groaned and tried to gather his legs under him, Semoor spotted a staring eyeball in the midst of one large and hairy chunk. His stomach lurched.
He knew what he was staring at.
He'd not have to turn around to see what wouldn't be standing there, back across the clearing. The Knights' hobbled horses.
He swallowed, trying hard not to be sick. Well, at least there hadn't been any Knights of Myth Drannor slaughtered along with them.
Had there?
Desperately, Dauntless parried again. Steel shrieked, spitting sparks as it was driven back almost to his nose.
He gave ground, panting, as the sword came at him again. This farm wench wasn't giving him time to set himself, time to fight her off! He wasHe lurched aside, twisting so the thrust that had been reaching for his codpiece sang off his armored thigh. Bitch! Murderous bitch!
'I am an ornrion of the Purple Dragons of Cormyr,' he shouted, retreating again, 'and my words and my sword are the law of Cormyr! I command you to-'
'Surrender so you can butcher us?' Islif snapped back at him. 'I wondered how soon you'd start to trumpet your legal right to butcher us on sight! The law, indeed! Vangerdahast's secret orders, more like-and your own gleeful desires!'
Dauntless was forced to parry again. She was driving him back, besting him in both strength and swordwork.
'Well, I have gleeful desires, too!' she told him, eyes blazing. 'I desire to stay alive and ride Cormyr freely, so I can obey the royal orders given to me! Or do you and the Royal Magician of Cormyr now presume to ignore the words of their king and queen, in favor of what you would prefer to do? Hey? Hey? '
Her latest roundhouse slash almost struck his sword from his numbed hands; parrying it sent him slipping backward on something wet.
He was afraid now, more afraid than he'd been in a long time. This hairy-armed farm girl could match him and more, toe-to-toe in a sword fray, andDauntless backed right into someone, in a collision that startled them both and left him hopping awkwardly aside, his flank and face undefended against the Lady Knight's seeking blade.
She came not after him, though. Instead, she slashed at the man who'd blundered against Dauntless, laying open the side of the man's head and sending him spinning and squalling to the ground. Dauntless knew that face. It was one of the Lord Yellander's bullyblades, a man who'd onceSomeone screamed, right behind Dauntless, and it was a voice he knew, too.
The shriek died into a rattling gurgle before he could hurl himself around to see its source: Blade of the Purple Dragons Albaert Morkoun, dying with two bullyblade swords in his neck.
As Morkoun staggered and fell, Dauntless hacked at the face of one of his slayers in a fury, then plunged past to get behind the man, to make him a shield against Islif Lurelake.
He needn't have bothered. The Lady Knight seemed to have forgotten him for the moment. She was hewing her way through bullyblades like a drunken reaper at harvest-tide, and wounded men reeled and fled in all directions. One tripped over the thief Knight and went boots-in-the-air, crashing down on his face and coming up reeling worse than she'd ever been. Another flinched back from Sulwood as if the priest had been some sort of roaring clawed monster, and sprinted away across the dark, spattered gore that blast had left strewn everywhere.
Dauntless felr like running after him. They were between him and the Ride, all of them, these Knights, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
