Embra cursed as she fumbled for her Stone while trying to stay in her wildly bucking saddle-and Blackgult's blade slashed past her out of nowhere to hack at monstrous jaws reaching to close on her arm.
Orange blood fountained from the beast's sliced snout, accompanied by a loud, pain-filled roar-a roar echoed by other beasts along the trail, where Craer had raced his own frightened mount back to join them, busily hurling daggers into red eyes and down beast-throats as he came.
Hawkril stood up in his stirrups, reins bouncing free, and held his own fearful mount steady by gripping its head in one iron-strong hand. His other hand swung his warsword, hacking tirelessly, the sharp steel rising and falling in a blur soon marked by sprays of orange gore.
Tshamarra cried out and clutched at her head as three coldly hostile minds broke her seeking spell and then fled from her thoughts again, as swiftly as if three swords had slid icily through her-and as they departed, the surging, unified beast attack broke apart into a growling flurry of monsters fleeing in all directions.
Branches splintered and cracked as hairy bodies plunged through them, Hawkril riding hard in pursuit. More than one wide-jawed beast fell heavily, squalling, as the armaragor's blade hit home. Embra called up a burst of fire in the air under the nose of the only beast still menacing the two sorceresses, as Blackgult pursued another on its ungainly scramble back into the trees.
At the forefront of the chaos of frightened, plunging overduchal horses, Craer cursed softly as a six-legged monster wheeled away wearing one of his best daggers. Leaping from his saddle, he bounced once in the swirling trail-dust, sprang forward, and landed running.
His sprint was short but swift: he caught the beast as it was shouldering between two trees in pain-wracked haste. Catching hold of his knife-hilt as if it was a handle provided by the gods, Craer hauled hard-and found himself steered bruisingly by a tree branch up onto the thing's surging, stinking back.
Which was about the time he saw another beast-head turning toward him in the tree-filled gloom, jaws opening, and remembered that this was no bards' ballad-and that overbold heroes seldom live long.
Taking hold of his dagger with one hand and an overhead tree limb with the other, Craer jerked, twisted, and ended up dangling above emptiness, gore-dripping dagger in hand, as those wide jaws reached up for him.
He kicked out at hand-sized teeth, driving the snarling snout aside-and as he swung away and it whirled amid a great splintering of small branches to bite at him again, Hawkril arrived at a run.
The armaragor swung his great blade in both hands, down and in, like a woodcutter seeking to fell a tree with one ax blow-and the beast roared in pain and fell back, one leg almost severed. Wailing, it fled into the trees, disappearing with many crashings.
Meanwhile, Blackgult was swinging his own sword in a smaller but just as tireless metal storm, slicing and slashing at a beast as it turned its head repeatedly to try to bite Embra and Tshamarra.
" 'Tis almost as if someone's controlling it," he gasped, hacking a snout already raw, diced, and dripping flesh in four places. Moaning, the beast finally whirled and fled blindly through the nearest saplings, trunks shattering under its weight.
And then all the beasts were gone, and the anointed Overdukes of Aglirta were panting at each other across a blood-spattered ruin of hacked branches, trembling and snorting horses, and Craer's mocking comment, "My, but a stroll along a woodland trail in Aglirta these days is apt to be awfully entertaining!"
"W-what were they?" Embra gasped. "I've never seen the like before…"
"Dlargar," Hawkril growled. "Beasts sometimes called running bears and sometimes widejaws. Of the swamps nigh Elgarth-never seen in the Vale."
"So they were conjured?" Craer asked sharply. "By someone still out there?"
"Well," the Lady Talasorn replied, "yes, and they were, but…"
"No awakened magic or scrying near us," Embra reported. "They've fled."
"Serpents?"
"Yes," Tshamarra said grimly. "Three of them guided those beasts, and broke my tracing spell. Their minds were… not nice."
Hawkril frowned. "The same ones who turned the carters against us?"
The Lady Talasorn shrugged in reply.
"Will they try again right away, do you drink?" Blackgult asked gently.
The sorceress shook her head. "They're nowhere near-gone by magic. One was very angry, a rage born of fright. He won't willingly face us again until he has better spells to hurl."
Craer rolled his eyes. "Then let's be on our way, before someone else decides overdukes are good hunting."
The five clapped spurs to their horses together. The still-frightened mounts were only too glad to flee, galloping wildly over a ridge and out of the thick trees. Their riders peered warily around when the horses slowed, snorting and pawing, flanks streaming with sweat.
Embra looked to Blackgult questioningly, indicating her horse, but the Golden Griffon shook his head curtly, and pointed ahead down the trail. Winded or not, the horses would have to wait for a chance to rest.
Not many words were exchanged as the overdukes descended out of gently rolling hill farms, the trail often running beside a chattering brook that garnered strengdi and size as springs joined it, until-over a broad green shield of intervening forest-they could see the roofs of Stornbridge ahead.
It was a fair-sized place, a market-moot surrounded by several twisting streets of cottages. They could see gardens amid the trees, and many folk at work in them. With the day well past its height, much of Stornbridge lay in the shadow of the tersept's castle, which rose like a cluster of stone lances out of a little lake that served it as a moat.
"We've been seen," Craer announced, pointing at someone only Blackgult saw before the tiny, hastening figure passed into concealing greenery.
"Let's hope we won't have to fight our way through the town," Tshamarra commented. "My spells aren't endless."
"Embra," Blackgult asked politely, "have you such a thing as a shielding-spell against arrows?"
"Of course," the Lady of Jewels replied, "but even with the Dwaer to source it, I can't hold something large enough to protect ^11 of us on horseback, on all sides, as we ride. Not without many gaps, albeit shifting and unseen. If we stood tight together, more or less unmoving, yes, but…"
Her father held up his hand. "Forget it. 'Twas only a passing thought. Perhaps I'm being foolish…"
Craer looked back at him. "You mislike the look of yonder trees as much as I do?" he asked quietly, gesturing at the thick stand ahead, where the trail plunged into gloom, turning and descending swiftly out of sight.
"Yes," Blackgult replied simply, reaching for the small, almost useless shield slung across the high back of his saddle. Hawkril already had his own out. Embra looked at Tshamarra, who gazed back and shrugged.
"As usual, my sweet curves are all my armor," the last surviving Talasorn announced-as Craer spurred his mount to swiftness, the rest of them did likewise, and they thundered into the trees together.
Here and there woodcutters' glades opened out on either side, but for the most part the forest was old, dark, and thickly grown, branches interlaced above the road to form a dark tunnel. Wherever their steep descent revealed glimpses of what lay ahead, it seemed the five were always looking at the tall towers of Stornbridge Castle.
Slippery leaves forced them to slow, and Hawkril growled, "Made for brigand strikes," as he fell back to ride beside Embra. There was no room for anyone to shield her other side, even if they'd had armored riders in plenty to do such a thing. As it was, Blackgult fell back to let Tshamarra ride just ahead. Craer was left alone at the forefront, and he thanked his companions loudly and sarcastically for that as they plunged down through the last stretch of forest, spurring more swiftly again now as sunlight-and the waiting homes of Stornbridge-opened out ahead.