Whenever he had dealings with the Knights of Myth Drannor, everything always went horribly wrong.
Another bullyblade fell, this one merely grunting as he staggered forward and rhen went down, face first into the trampled rurf. Florin barely had time to notice. He was still running and fighting, frantically fencing and thrusting and then rushing on to run and fight some more, trying above all to keep from being surrounded by bullyblades and cut down by blades he couldn't hope to parry. He was leaving a trail of slain or sorely wounded bullyblades in his wake, yes, but how many of them were left?
Florin sidestepped a man wielding a pair of swords who greeted him with a defiant yell and two vicious thrusts. He whipped his own blade across the man's throat and ran on.
Hadn't Yellander quietly assembled something like a private army? Not that he was the only oh-so-loyal noble the Knights had taken a hand-howevet clumsy or unwitting-in bringing down. They all had private armies, didn't they?
The bullyblades eyes widened as he made it up to his knees, coming face to belt with Semoor Wolftooth. Instead of shoving himself to his feet, the bullyblade grabbed for a dagger at his belt.
Whereupon the Pride of Lathander swung the large and bloody warhammer he'd found lying nearby just as hard as he could in a roundhouse swing at the side of the man's head.
That swinging cost him his balance and all sight of his foe, but the hammer hit something solidly enough to rattle Semoor's teeth before whatever ir was sagged a bit and then fell away. Letting go of the hammer and rolling hastily over and away, Semoor peered back at the man he'd struck, as swiftly as he could.
All he could see was knees, thrust upward at awkward angles and not moving. Little wonder, he discovered a few moments later; there wasn't much left of one side of the man's head. It looked as if some unskilled idiot had driven a warhammer just as hard as he could into the bullyblades head.
Semoor started to chuckle, but it turned into choking, and he found himself spewing up his stomach all over the man's knees.
Which promptly vanished again behind a wet, red curtain of blood. Starfall, he had to stop this bleeding!
The dead bullyblade was wearing a broad leather sword belt over his breeches-belt, its sword sleeve and dagger sheath already empty. Semoor fought with the buckle only briefly, managed to drag ir out from under the man, and wound it twice around his own forehead before buckling it up again.
It was tight-throbbingly tight-but at least his own blood wasn't sheeting down into his eyes any longer. One last swipe with the back of his own gore-sticky hand, and he could see again.
Really see. Which meant, as the belt's empty dagger sheath dangled into his eyes, bumping against his nose, Semoor could clearly behold four-no, five! — bullyblades now bearing down on him, running hard.
With a yell, he grabbed at the warhammer and rose to meet them.
Hoping, as he struggled to lift the heavy weapon, that Lathander wouldn't be overly offended at what he was bellowing.
'Beard of Omthas, you useless Star of the Morning! Protect me, damn you! How can I spread the stlarning holy word of stlarning Lathander if I'm dead? Hey?'
Doust Sulwood was hopping and whirling among enemy blades to parry and lash out with his mace this way and then that, not daring to stand still for a moment.
He hoped-oh, how he hoped-Holy Tymora would stand with him when he most needed her. Right now, for instance.
Semoor's shout brought a grin to his lips. Well, at least he wasn't the only priest fighting to stay alive. And being as he wasn't the one cursing Lathander, perhaps rhe Morninglord would aid him rather than Semoor. As long as that aid didn't offend Tymora, of course.
A sword missed him entirely, and Dousr reached over ir and leaned into his swing. His mace crashed home above a bullyblade ear, and that foe dropped like a full potato sack. Ah, but he was lucky these murderers weren't wearing armor!
Oh. Aha. Tymora had seen to that, of course!
'Ah, but I'm lucky to so bask in the bright favor of Lady Luck!' he said as he spun to face a new foe.
And promptly slipped and fell.
Chapter 7
Whirlwind come a-reaping Though brave words ring out strong Setting every bold heart to leaping There'll be lessons hard and lessons long When the whirlwinds come a-reaping.
Jhessail backed away, breathing hard. Her dagger was gone, hurled at the thing the Purple Dragon had thrown at her. It had stuck into that missile and had probably been blasted to dust in the explosion that had followed after the thing had skipped aloft, spinning end over end to crash down among the horses.
Her ears were ringing, and she was drenched in horse gore. More of it was splattered everywhere around her, leaving her slipping and sliding at every step as she retreated, trembling. She circled to the right as she went, not wanting to go into unknown forest where she might well get tangled among trees and trapped with no way to flee.
Wearing the grim beginnings of a sly and cruel smile, the bullyblade leader stalked after her, drawn sword in hand.
'Don't make me use my spells,' she warned, raising a hand. The man sneered. 'A little cantrip thar will make rhe end of your nose glow, perhaps? Or banish the rust from my dagger? Or perhaps you'd like me to stop and watch you light a candle with your fingertip?'
'Oh, I can light more than candles,' Jhessail told him, smiling with a confidence she was very far from feeling. They were back amid the fighting now, curling around behind bodies and frays still raging.
'Then why don't you, Lady Silvertree? Mage so mighty of the Knights of Myth Drannor? Little lying slut.'
'Oh,' Jhessail said, still backing away. 'Is there something wrong with your sword? Is that why you're trying to insult me to death?'
The man stalked forward. 'Lady, I am Eerikarr Steldurth. I served a great and noble lord of Cormyr long and well. I feel no need to insult a landless, lowborn, backcountry hedge mage. I can merely say 'lawbreaker' or 'murderer of lords.' When I speak thus of you, I utter truths, not insults.'
Then he was upon her, dropping into a lunge that brought his blade thrusting in so close to Jhessail that it whispered between her right arm and her body, slicing garment and skin alike.
She gave a little shriek, flung up her arm, and ducked away to the left as he rose back into balance and slashed at her, backhanded.
He was an instant too late. She was just out of reach and bounding back to the right as his blade swept by. Steldurth sprang after her, hacking, and caught one of his own men in the shoulder as that bullyblade hastily backed away from Florin's flashing sword.
The man yelled, lashed out blindly, and kept on turning and retreating, blindly jostling Jhessail and sending her staggering.
Steldurth sidestepped the bullyblade's wild slash then ran right ar Jhessail. She ducked away, diving between two bullyblades, and then dodged around a third-and almost into the waiting arms of Steldurth, who'd guessed her tactic correctly.
She spun away, leaving a great torn-out handful of her hair in his hand, and plunged past a bullyblade. Or tried to.
That outlaw was in full retreat from Florin, and she tripped over one of his swiftly moving boots. Jhessail sprawled, clawing at the ground to try to get up and run. She almost made it, rising but being turned over in midair by a boot deftly hooked around her ankle.
