freshening flames, and the doorway erupted in Deldragon knights, a dozen or more-yes, definitely more!
Taerith frantically cast his manydaggers spell and tried to destroy the faces of the foremost knights with his racing blades, as they swiftly and ruthlessly hacked down the fifth Dark Helm and swarmed forward, kicking the sack aside.
They were going to destroy the fire, they were going to-
There was a shrill, high, but oddly faint scream from those flames, as four or five Deldragon blades met in the still-forming sixth Dark Helm, who toppled sideways and faded from view. Taerith saw some of his racing daggers struck to the floor with swords, and stamped on to keep them there, as unsmiling men in armor closed in on him.
With trembling hands he ended the manydaggers magic and tried to cast his teleport spell, twisting desperately aside from the first sword thrusts.
'Farewell, Taerith,' Arlaghaun's voice said quietly from his belt buckle.
Those dreaded words were the last thing the apprentice ever heard, as Falconfar exploded into bright crimson around him.
The explosion in the cellars rocked the keep with a deep shuddering, blasting three Dark Helms at the other end of the tantlar to dust. In the cellars of Bowrock, what little was left of the ceiling cracked and fell into the whirling dust, spilling the contents of the storeroom above down into the deep pit that the cellar room had become. A few hands, fingers, and twisted fragments of sword blades bounced and rolled far down the passage from the riven room; in the room itself, nothing was left but roiling dust, busily adhering to cracked walls that were now covered with a red mist of blood.
Taerith Saeredarr had always wanted to make a splash in Falconfar, and he'd certainly achieved his fondest wish.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Swordguard Markoun Darfest's head was ringing as if all the war-horns in Bowrock were blowing at once, close around him, and some how he kept staggering bruisingly into the wall. His sword-arm felt like it was on fire, just above his elbow, but when he stared at it he could see only blood and torn armor, no flames at all.
So he must be dazed, then, as well as wounded, and no wonder. He'd been far down the passage from the room where the firelight and all the fighting was taking place, at the back of a long line of Deldragon guards, but what a blast!
He'd been hurled back and around a corner, smashing into the roof of the passage, with his fellow guards all around him in a meaty tangle that had shielded him even as their bones and helmed heads shattered and crunched around him. They had died, all of them, leaving only him to stagger out of the slaughter.
Nothing could have survived that blast, nothing. Yet his orders were clear: 'Find out what lurking foe is down there, slay or capture, and report back.' There was no one left to find out anything but him, now.
Markoun rebounded off the wall one more time, shook his head ruefully, and devoted all of his effort to walking down the rubble-strewn passage without kissing its walls every fifth or sixth step.
He managed it, and was quite proud of himself as he left the shattered rooms behind, certain that no foe was still alive to do anything to anyone. A few more limping strides brought him to the passage-moot where a left turn would take him to stairs up, when something sharp and sudden and cold as ice slid across his throat, leaving him breathing only blood.
As his choking started and his slayer dragged his head ruthlessly around, Markoun Darfest found himself staring helplessly at the helmed and visored head of a Dark Helm, thrust forward almost nose-to-nose with him.
There was a malicious grin behind that gleaming black metal; Markoun could feel it. As the darkness rushed in, the last thing he saw was a fire in a cellar room behind the Dark Helm's shoulder, and Dark Helm after Dark Helm striding out of it.
Rod Everlar was lying on a vast and very comfortable bed, dozing in the largest, fluffiest bathrobe or 'warming-robe,' if he'd caught Tay's murmurings properly, he'd ever encountered. Dozing, but hoping he'd not fall really asleep. '
He was waiting for Taeauna to finish in the big round pool of smooth stone that served guests housed in these chambers as a bathtub. He sorely needed a bath of his own.
Earlier, she'd been splashing and murmuring in contentment, and Rod had half-hoped she'd call him in to help her scrub or wash her hair, but she'd settled down to mere occasional sighs of contentment. He suspected she was dozing, too.
Ah, well, at least they weren't-
From behind the wall just to Rod's left, there came a short, choked-off cry, followed by some heavy thuds and bumps.
A man being murdered, inside the wall? That's certainly what it sounded like.
The bathroom erupted in a sudden crash of sheeting water, and Taeauna burst out into the bedchamber, bare and dripping.
'Get dressed and armed, now!' she snapped, snatching up her sword from where she'd laid it ready on the bed. 'Throw me your robe; I'll dry myself with that!'
Heart pounding, Rod scrambled to obey.
No banners fluttered from the turret-tops of Galathguard, and no horns rang out in greeting. The gates stood open with no sign of guards or any living person within, at all.
Birds darted, perched, and flew as if there were no humans near, and a lone, statue-like perched vaugril was the only living thing visible on the battlements.
As Baron Margral Nyghtshield and his bodyguard of knights rode in through the grand gate and looked around at dark doorways, the hooves of their horses echoed back emptiness. Weeds and saplings sprouted amid the stones, and no servants came running, no one stood watching; there was not one stick of furniture or a lantern in sight.
'Looks like a ruin,' Nyghtshield muttered to his shield-knight, peering about with the one eye he had left; the battle that had robbed him of the other was so long ago that he'd almost forgotten it. He hadn't, however, forgotten the shambles that the once-grand Galathgard had become. 'Even worse than before.'
The knight pointed to a distant gaping archway. 'We're not the first here, lord.'
'Oh? How so?'
'Horse dung. Fresh. There, just inside the arch.'
'Hmmph. Eve seen better stables.' The baron urged his horse forward at a careful walk; the shield-knight turned, waved a swift signal, and watched knights dismount and trot ahead, one of them stepping away from the horses to ready and light a lantern.
Galathgard certainly wasn't the most welcoming of royal palaces.
Taeauna didn't take much time drying herself. She was dressed before Rod was, had retrieved their laedlen from a side-chamber, and was tugging at the bed-furs while he was still sitting on one corner of them, dragging on his boots.
By then, sounds of battle-clanging swords, shouts and screams-were rising all around them.
'Well, that didn't last long,' Rod muttered. 'Who do you think's attacking us this time?'
'Whomever Arlaghaun could send or compel to swing swords here,' the Aumrarr told him bleakly, tossing him a fur. 'They're searching for you.'
Rod shook his head. 'Have they nothing else to do with their lives?'
'To master more than a few of the lesser spells, one must hunger for ever more magic; ever more power,' Taeauna replied. 'They see you as the most power to ever come within reach, so they grab for you.'
Rod rolled his eyes. The din of battle was growing almost steady, now, coming faintly but steadily through the walls. No one came to their doors, and no servants or anyone else came rushing out of hidden back ways. Yet.
'What's this for?' he asked, holding out the fur. It was so heavy that he needed both hands.
