As the bullyblade groaned and tried to gather his legs under him, Semoor spotted a staring eyeball in the midst of one large and hairy chunk. His stomach lurched.
He knew what he was staring at.
He'd not have to turn around to see what wouldn't be standing there, back across the clearing. The Knights' hobbled horses.
He swallowed, trying hard not to be sick. Well, at least there hadn't been any Knights of Myth Drannor slaughtered along with them.
Had there?
Desperately, Dauntless parried again. Steel shrieked, spitting sparks as it was driven back almost to his nose.
He gave ground, panting, as the sword came at him again. This farm wench wasn't giving him time to set himself, time to fight her off! He wasHe lurched aside, twisting so the thrust that had been reaching for his codpiece sang off his armored thigh. Bitch! Murderous bitch!
"I am an ornrion of the Purple Dragons of Cormyr," he shouted, retreating again, "and my words and my sword are the law of Cormyr! I command you to-"
"Surrender so you can butcher us?" Islif snapped back at him. "I wondered how soon you'd start to trumpet your legal right to butcher us on sight! The law, indeed! Vangerdahast's secret orders, more like-and your own gleeful desires!"
Dauntless was forced to parry again. She was driving him back, besting him in both strength and swordwork.
"Well, I have gleeful desires, too!" she told him, eyes blazing. "I desire to stay alive and ride Cormyr freely, so I can obey the royal orders given to me! Or do you and the Royal Magician of Cormyr now presume to ignore the words of their king and queen, in favor of what you would prefer to do? Hey? Hey? "
Her latest roundhouse slash almost struck his sword from his numbed hands; parrying it sent him slipping backward on something wet.
He was afraid now, more afraid than he'd been in a long time. This hairy-armed farm girl could match him and more, toe-to-toe in a sword fray, andDauntless backed right into someone, in a collision that startled them both and left him hopping awkwardly aside, his flank and face undefended against the Lady Knight's seeking blade.
She came not after him, though. Instead, she slashed at the man who'd blundered against Dauntless, laying open the side of the man's head and sending him spinning and squalling to the ground. Dauntless knew that face. It was one of the Lord Yellander's bullyblades, a man who'd onceSomeone screamed, right behind Dauntless, and it was a voice he knew, too.
The shriek died into a rattling gurgle before he could hurl himself around to see its source: Blade of the Purple Dragons Albaert Morkoun, dying with two bullyblade swords in his neck.
As Morkoun staggered and fell, Dauntless hacked at the face of one of his slayers in a fury, then plunged past to get behind the man, to make him a shield against Islif Lurelake.
He needn't have bothered. The Lady Knight seemed to have forgotten him for the moment. She was hewing her way through bullyblades like a drunken reaper at harvest-tide, and wounded men reeled and fled in all directions. One tripped over the thief Knight and went boots-in-the-air, crashing down on his face and coming up reeling worse than she'd ever been. Another flinched back from Sulwood as if the priest had been some sort of roaring clawed monster, and sprinted away across the dark, spattered gore that blast had left strewn everywhere.
Dauntless felr like running after him. They were between him and the Ride, all of them, these Knights, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
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.