Dolmur's visitor smiled over it at the patriarch of the Bowdragons. "This is but an illusion of the Stone I already control. I'm not foolish enough to think I can control more than two Dwaer. Wherefore I need someone I can trust, stand in common cause with, and respect, to wield the third and hopefully the fourth Dwaer, once we win them. I already know where one Dwaerindim lies: in the hands of one of the overdukes who seek us both. The Lady Embra Silvertree has it, and must be made to yield it… or neither of us is safe. I need your help, Dolmur Bowdragon-and the reward for your aid could well be what wizards of all Darsar dream of: an everlasting and mighty Dwaer-Stone."
Ambelter held out his hand, and the Stone spinning above it drifted toward the eldest living Bowdragon. Small motes of light sparkled into life, orbited it, and winked out again in an endless, excited cycle of eager power. Dolmur stared narrowly at it, and then drew his head back and said bleakly, "No. I'm not yet interested."
"Aha! Then the day will soon come when you are?"
"The day may come when I'm changed enough to be overly tempted by such power," Dolmur Bowdragon replied in a level voice, "but it is not a change I shall welcome. Or encourage."
"Then-"
"Then begone, Ingryl Ambelter. Take your sending, and your spying, too, and return my privacy to me!"
Ingryl Ambelter nodded, and the winking Stone vanished, leaving him empty-handed once more. "I respect your wishes, Lord Bowdragon, and have no desire to give offense or make of you an enemy. But by the names of your slain kin, I entreat you to remember my offer. Should you ever desire vengeance for-"
"Begone!" Dolmur Bowdragon snapped, rising to his feet. He took a swift, threatening step toward Ambelter, but the sending only sat, smiling faintly at him, until with a sudden furious incantation Dolmur banished it.
He was breathing heavily as he went back to the window, and stared out at the garden without seeing a single tree or flower. "So it's begun," he murmured. "Far sooner than I'd like… But then, things always do."
Mouth tightening, he whirled away from the window, silently calling on the binding to strengthen his wards. They sang and glowed in the air around him as he added reluctantly, "Wherefore I must make ready. Time to earn my share of the fell reputation that clings to wizards."
Shuddering, Embra clutched her Dwaer to her breast and snarled out a spell-and the gale that roared out from her swept away arrows like dry leaves whirled away by a winter-heralding storm.
Hawkril lowered his head against the hissing flood of arrows and sprinted forward, waving his warsword wildly as if he could bat speeding warshafts out of the air with it.
He could not. One arrow shrieked along the armor covering his shoulder and bit home deep enough to hang from him as he ran-and the next slammed home right through the lacings of his side-plates, driving the air from him and spinning him half around. His insides blazed up into numbing fire as he roared, struggling to keep going. Two more arrows found him, an archer dodged away through the trees in front of him, and then a howling storm caught the armaragor from behind and tried to hurl him off his feet. Hawkril snarled at the fire now raging in his innards and leaped forward, seeking to reach another man in the trees-and the gale at his back plucked him right into the forester. They fell heavily to the ground together, rolling and growling like beasts… beasts trying to sink sharpened fangs of steel into each other…
The Lady of Jewels watched her sorcerous wind howl away from her. It slapped Tshamarra to the ground and rolled a groaning, cursing Craer away from Embra, too, but… 'twas that or they'd all be slain hosting half a dozen arrows each, or more.
Blackgult was whirled to the turf with a snarl, and even Hawkril struggled against her rushing wind, staggering through the trees bent over in pain and clutching at the arrows in him, so Embra reluctantly let it drop.
As soon as she did, a fresh volley of arrows came racing at her from all sides-aimed right at her, this time!
Gasping, Tshamarra Talasorn found herself able to move again, the moan of the gale dying as it slackened. She was wallowing in road mud, fighting for breath, and couldn't even see if anyone was running up to stab at her… hastily she rolled over onto her back, seeing a brief whirlwind of greenery and rushing arrows and sun-dappled sky. Embra's magic had left the air still roiling up twigs and old leaves, in a storm that began inches above her nose. Sobbing for breath, Tshamarra tried to think of what spell she could use to deliver herself-and all the overdukes-from this now. She could hear a distant Hawkril roaring in pain, gasping to match her own that must be Embra, and Craer grunting with effort, grunts that moved rapidly away from her. She dared not even lift her head to look, as arrow after arrow hummed through the air just above her…
Embra threw herself into the dirt. Something struck her elbow a numbing blow as she went down-a burning that swiftly became a tearing, sickening pain. She bit at her lip to keep from retching, her ears full of the vicious, wasplike buzzing snarl of arrows whisking over her, only inches away. Her arrow-struck arm felt wet… wetness that was trickling between her fingers. She did not have to look to know it was blood.
Well, if Embra's little gale was going to roll him like an empty tankard, roll he would-into the trees where he might at least find someone to bury a dagger in. Anything to take his mind away from the numbing fire of the arrow in his shoulder…
Craer tumbled enthusiastically, drawing in breath for a whoop-and then spending it in a curse as the gale suddenly died, leaving him all too far away from the nearest tree, with movement behind it that just had to be a bowman shifting to see him better, so as to put an arrow-his next one-through a certain stranded procurer.
"Graul," Craer grunted, kicking off hard and tucking his head under so tightly it hurt. The world whirled, his boot heels slammed into the ground as he trailed his injured shoulder, and red pain blinded him for a moment.
He flung himself forward and out of that red mist, growling "Bebolt!" this time, and rolled on, bruising his knuckles but not daring to let go of the daggers clutched in both fists. If the-"Sargh!"-gods were willing, he'd live long enough to have a chance to use them, once he reached that tree…
"Enough!" the Lady Silvertree spat, and furiously hurled her will up and out at the trees above, willing the air to become not a gale, but a great hand that would slam and push.
A half-heard heaviness rippled in the air, rolling outward from above her. She heard Craer cursing softly, and then some startled, angry oaths from farther away.
A trunk as large around as one of the thrashing, dying overduchal horses cracked with a sharp, deafening sound. Embra watched it topple-and as if its fall had been some sort of cue, small branches splintered, tumbled, and then were hurled away in all directions. Most of the other trees she could see started to groan and then lean away from her, farther… and farther…
The ground heaved under Embra as a deep root was forced to the surface. She rode it upward in time to come upright and see fearfully crouching archers loosing a volley of shafts low along the ground at her.
Setting her teeth-Three Above, but her arm was hurting! -Embra slashed out with a sudden gust of wind that snatched the arrows far off to the right, well away from her companions.
The trees all around were leaning slowly outward like the spreading petals of an opening flower. One fell as the groaning of tortured wood grew as loud as a roaring bull, and its crash spurred some of the archers to startled shouts. Those angry, frightened cries were still rising when Embra heard something else: the sudden crashings of heavy-booted men fleeing frantically away through dead leaves.