Dauntless brought his blade down so hard, it couldn't help but break the dagger raised against it and both the wench's slender wrists gripping that knife, too. If she managed to parry at all.
Only to find himself stumbling awkwardly forward, almost impaling himself on his own pommel, as his sword bit deep into forest leaf mold. Somehow the thief had ducked or twisted away, and-where was she?
He spun, fearing being hamstrung.
Damn all if he didn't find himself looking into her defiant grin! Pennae was reeling, teeth clenched in pain and fighting to keep standing. Blood was running in a dark wet flood down the arm that held out her dagger to menace him, and that arm was wavering. She had been trying to hamstring him, gods take her. Only the weakness of her wounds had kept her from doing it before he could get his sword unstuck and whirl to face her.
"Curse you, wench!" he spat, stepping back from her to give himself space enough to swing his blade back up to his shoulder.
She fought to keep standing, lurching forward to try to stay close to him, too close for his seeking steel-but Dauntless turned with her, took another step back, and then leaned forward and put all the strength in his shoulders behind a woodcutter's chop, bringing his sword down in a cleaving that-missed the staggering thief entirely as something slammed hard into the ornrion's knees from one side, snatching his hacking sword away from his intended victim.
It was his turn to stagget, as his sword bit into turf again and plunged him into a fight to keep from falling. He managed amid all the awkward hopping to turn his head enough to look down his struck leg and see that his assailant wasThat weakling of a Tymoran priest among the Knights!
Sulwood, Doust Sulwood. That was his name.
And this Doust Sulwood was glaring up at Dauntless fight now, gasping for breath with his hands still clawing at the knee-plates of the ornrion's armor.
Dauntless jerked back with a snail and kicked his way clear of the sprawling priest.
"Deal with you later, holynose," he growled, swinging his sword aloft again.
Then he let out a roar that rang with the rage rising in him, and charged the thief again. If he did nothing else this day, felling this little bitch and delivering Cormyr from her tireless thievery shouldShe was stumbling back, gasping, staring at him almost beseechingly through her hair. Defenseless and reeling, on the brink of begging for mercy.
"Not this time, wench," Dauntless said. "Not this time!"
He drew his blade back for a killing blow, bounded forward, and brought it down.
In midair it struck a bright blade rhat seemed to thrust out of nowhere, a sword as hard and unmoving as an iron bar.
The impact struck sparks past his nose, nigh deafened him with its clang, and numbed his sword arm right up into his shoulder. Dauntless roared in startled pain and hastily stepped back. The bright blade followed, thrusting at him.
"Well met, ornrion," said a cold, sarcastic voice, and Dauntless found himself blinking into a wintry gaze he recognized. "Islif Lurelake, at your service."
Onrushing bullyblades washed over Florin Falconhand in a tide of pounding boots and thrusting swords. He parried, danced aside, and slashed like a madwits, running another few strides toward the Ride whenever he could snatch an instant amid the frantic swordplay.
After those brief skirmishes, most of the bullyblades swept past him and across the clearing, seeking easier prey. Of the few who tarried, Florin sent one man staggering away clutching a slashed face, plunged his sword into the shouting mouth of a second to silence him forever, and drove a third to his knees, gurgling and feebly trying to hold his head on an almost-seveted neck.
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.