*****
Jansibal Otharr sighed in perfumed exasperation. "Why, in the name of all the gods, does this have to happen now?"
He finished at the chamberpot, turned with his elaborate codpiece dangling to look longingly at the woman waiting on the bed, and then sighed and reached down to buckle himself up. He knew what the penalty would be if one of the magelords dis¬covered he'd ignored their precious warning bell for a little rut-ting.
"Stay," he ordered, "but avail yourself not over-heavily of the wine, Chlasa. I'll be back soon." Snatching up his bejewelled blade, he strode out.
The torchlit passage beyond, in the part of the castle re¬served for noble visitors, was usually deserted except for the oc¬casional scurrying servant. Right now it was crowded with hurrying bodyguards in livery, an envoy in full Athalantan tabard, and Thelorn Selemban, his hated rival. Thelorn was striding along toward him, his slim-filigreed blade drawn.
Jansibal's face darkened, and he struggled to belt on his own blade and get it out into his hand before Selemban reached him—in such chaos, "accidents" could all too easily happen.
Thelorn's eyes were dancing with amusement as he bore down on Jansibal. "Fair even, lover mine," he said lightly, know¬ing his reference to that little embarrassment in the Kissing Wench would enrage the only scion of the noble house of Otharr.
Jansibal snarled and jerked his blade free—but Thelorn was past him with a mocking laugh, and hurrying down a broad flight of stairs toward the guard room below. A twisted, sneer¬ing smile slid onto Jansibal's face, and the perfumed dandy hur¬ried after his rival. Accidents could happen, yes, especially from behind...
* * * * *
"What befalls?" Nanue Trumpettower set down her glass, real alarm in her eyes. Ah, thought Darrigo delightedly, the lass is such a delicate little flower . . . wasted on young Peeryst, come to think of it...
The old farmer stumped to his feet. "Well, now," he growled, "them's the alarm bells, calling out the guard. I'll just have a—"
"No, uncle," Peeryst interrupted grandly, drawing his blade with a flourish. "I've brought my steel with me. . . . I'll go and look. Guard Nanue until I return!"
He shouldered past Darrigo without waiting for a reply, jaw set and eyes bright. Aye, trust him to leap on any chance to show off before his wife, Darrigo thought, and reached out to keep the door from banging into a table the magelords might be rather fond of, as Peeryst flung it wide.
Almost immediately, he gave a startled cry. Darrigo saw a rushing armsman crash into the youth, reel, and keep on run¬ning. Peeryst wasn't so lucky; he hit the wall nose-first and groaned.
Darrigo groaned. Of course blood was leaking from the idiot's over-delicate beak when he got up ... and of course, little Nanue would have to get up and rush out to see what had be¬fallen her light-o'-love. . . . On cue, Nanue rushed past him, skirts rustling, and shrieked in earnest.
Darrigo peered out in time to see a well-dressed noble shove Nanue off his blade, snarling, "Step aside, wench! Can't you hear the alarm?" Nanue fell back against the doorway with a sob of fear. The man's blade had gashed her arm, and blood was running freely down her skirts. That was enough for Darrigo.
Two strides took him to Peeryst. With one hand he snatched the dainty little blade out of his nephew's hand. With the other, he shoved the young hope of the Trumpettowers at his wife. "Bind her wounds," he snarled, setting off down the passage after the hurrying noble.
"But—how?" Peeryst called after him desperately.
"Use yer shirt, man!" Darrigo snarled.
"But, but—'tis new, and—"
"Then use yer hose, stonehead," Darrigo roared back, as he took a flight of stairs three at a time.
He was wheezing and stumbling by the time he reached the bottom, but he caught up with the hurrying noble there. His quarry was just raising his blade, looking for all the world like he was going to plant it in the ribs of another dandified fellow a little farther along the hall. Darrigo smacked him across the back of the head with his sword. Thankfully, the dainty weapon didn't break. The dandy whirled, the reek of his perfume swirling about him.
"You dare to touch me, old man?" The noble's blade was dart¬ing at his throat before Darrigo could have uttered any reply.
Snarling, the old farmer beat it aside and shouldered for¬ward. "Set steel to a Trumpettower lass, would you? And her unarmed, yet! You don't deserve to live three breaths longer!"
Jansibal leapt backward just in time. The old man's orna¬mental sword hissed past his nose. His urge to laugh died abruptly ... this graybeard was serious!
Then a clear laugh rang out from behind him: Thelorn, damn him before all the gods! Jansibal snarled and slid aside, forcing his way past the old man to get his unprotected back away from the reach of his rival.
"Attacking old men now, Jansibal? Younger ones starting to refuse you?" Thelorn called interestedly. In sudden fury, Jansi¬bal lunged at Darrigo. Their blades crashed together—once, twice, and thrice ... and Janisbal's codpiece clanged to the floor, both of its tiny straps cut.
The old man gave him a mirthless smile. "Thought perhaps you'd be able to move a mite faster without all that weight down there," he remarked, advancing again.
Jansibal stared at him in astonishment, and then that little blade was sliding in at him again, and he was forced into a des¬perate flurry of parries. Thelorn laughed again, enjoying his rival's humiliation. Jansibal snarled and attacked, and almost casually the old man's blade floated in over his guard and drew a line across his nose and cheek.
Jansibal spat out a startled oath and backed away. Darrigo lumbered after him, and the perfumed dandy turned and ran down the dark hall, away from them all. The old man raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Fleeing a challenge? And you think your¬self noble?'
Jansibal Otharr made no reply but a gasp, and a moment later Darrigo saw why. A blade was protruding from his back, dark with the nobleman's blood. The blade shook, a booted foot kicked, and Jansibal Otharr slid down to his knees on the floor and sagged back into a silent heap.
"That's an Athalantan noble?" said the battered old warrior who held the bloody blade. "We should have cleaned out this place earlier!"
Thelorn Selemban strode forward, past the staring Darrigo. "Just who are you?" he demanded.
Helm Stoneblade eyed the noble's ruffed open-to-the-waist silk shirt, its puffed sleeves adorned with many crawling dragons.
"A knight of Athalantar," he growled, "but by the looks of you, it seems I'd've done better down the years as your tailor."
"A knight? What idiocy is this? There are no—" Selemban's eyes narrowed. "Are you loyal to King Belaur and the mage-lords?"
"I fear not, lad," Helm said, striding forward. There were ten or more warriors in motley armor behind him.
Thelorn Selemban flourished his blade. It glittered in the torchlight as he said excitedly, "Come no farther, rebels, or die!"
" 'Tis certainly a day for grand speeches," Helm responded, moving steadily forward. "Let's see if you're any better with that blade than your aromatic friend was ..."
"Friend?" Thelorn snorted. "He was no friend of mine—de¬spite anything you may have heard. Now stand back, or—"
"Or you'll wave your sword at me?"
Helm's voice was heavy with sarcasm, but it trailed away as Thelorn jerked something from around his neck, raised it to his lips, and sneered, "Or I'll slay you traitors with this! I'm told i—"
It was then that Darrigo Trumpettower made his decision. He took two shuffling steps forward and thrust his blade into the young nobleman's ear.
Thelorn gurgled, dropped blade and bauble, reeled, and fell on his face.
Darrigo peered past him at the grim-faced men beyond. "Helm?" he asked, squinting. "Helm Stoneblade?"
"Darrigo! You old lion! Well met!"
A moment later they embraced, keeping their swords out of the way with the ease of old veterans.
"I heard you were an outlaw . . . what've you been doing, Helm?"
"Killing armsmen," the knight said, "but I've found killing magelords more fun, so I'm doing that right now. Care to join me?"
"Don't mind if I do," Darrigo Trumpettower growled. "Thank you—I will. Lead the way."
Helm rolled his eyes. "You nobles," he said in disgust, and strode forward....
*****
The magelords stared at the Old One and then at each other. There was reluctance in their words of agreement, and suspi¬cious looks in plenty were exchanged. These pleasantries were yet incomplete when the tall window at the far end of Ith¬boltar's vast spell chamber shattered from top to bottom.
Through the opening strode the grand figure of a mage as tall as two men, white-bearded and crowned with fire. He moved purposefully toward them, walking on air and holding high a staff as tall as he was. Its shining length glowed with pulsing, moving radiances. Every magelord shouted out a spell, as one—and the very air seemed to shatter.
The end of the Old One's chamber vanished, raining dust down into the inner courtyard of Athalgard. Unseen behind them all, Ithboltar's crystal winked into life.
*****
El let the crystal Tass had taken fade into darkness once more. "Beautifully done, Myr . . . each one wasted a powerful spell."
Myrjala nodded. "We'll not catch them that way again, though—and they're together now, whisked away from their chambers where the knights and Farl's folk could outnumber them."
El shrugged. "We'll just have to do this the hard way, then."
*****
Armsmen clattered up the stairs by the score. Tass wasn't that good with a crossbow, but it wasn't easy to miss striking something in that river of armored humanity. As they watched, an elf spread his hands in a spell, and the foremost armsmen stumbled, clutched at their eyes, and ran on blindly into the wall. Their fellows running right behind them tripped over the sightless, falling armsmen. Curses arose, and a thief leaned out from his perch high on a stair to slip a dagger into one open helm and bellow, "We're under attack!" Another thief uttered a gurgling scream from somewhere near the head of the stair. A breath later, the entire stairway was a tumult of slashing blades and screaming men. Farl watched it with a widening grin on his face.
"How can you smile at that?" Tassabra said, waving down at the men mistakenly killing each other.
"Every one dead is one less guard to chase us, Tass—men I've itched to strike down for years, and dared not for fear of magelords' seeking magic. And here they are chopping and hacking at each other—they've no one to blame for their deaths but themselves. Let me enjoy it, will you?"
Braer smiled thinly but kept silence. The tall elf felt much the same way, though he didn't like to admit it even to himself. Whatever befell hereafter, they'd got in a few good sword thrusts right through the might of the magelords this night. Nay ... this day, by now....
Braer looked up out the great window into the gray sky of breaking dawn—and stiffened. A warning spell he'd set three days ago had just been triggered, sending its cry into his mind. He stepped back in haste; as his battle comrades turned star¬tled faces his way, he waved at them to keep away from him.
"My own battle begins, I fear," he murmured, and started to grow taller, his body darkening swiftly. Wings sprouted and spread, scales shone silver in the flickering torchlight, and a dragon shifted its bulk experimentally for a breath before bounding up through the window. Glass and timber flew in all directions, and a long tail switched once as it slid out of the room.
Tassabra stared openmouthed as those great wings beat once, and the dragon that had been Braer surged up into the sky out of their sight. She turned her head a little to catch the last possible glimpse of him, and then her eyes rolled up in her head, she gave a little sigh, and toppled sideways.
Farl gathered her against him with one long arm. "She never used to do this," he complained to no one in particular. One of the elves—Delsaran was his name, Farl thought—leaned over and stroked her hair tenderly, just once.
*****
Undarl Dragonrider's face was set in anger as Anglatham¬maroth flew swift and strong across the realm, heading for Athalgard. Something was seriously amiss. Magelords fighting magelords, a rebel mob inside the castle . . . didn't those fools know hated rulers will be attacked by commoners the moment they show weakness? This is what comes of letting ambitious magelings do as they pleased.... If it hadn't been for Ithboltar, Undarl could have kept them all in a tight harness!
The mage royal snarled in frustration as the great black dragon dived down over Hastarl, and then gaped in utter aston¬ishment as the breaking dawn showed him a dragon rising to meet them!
A silver dragon . . . Undarl's eyes narrowed. This must be some trick set by a magelord who knew the mage royal would come to the city on dragonback ... a trap to intercept him. Un¬darl smiled tightly and cast the strongest spell he carried. Spheres of black, chilling deathflame rolled out from his out-flung hands, expanding as they rolled through the air.
The silver dragon sheared away to one side, and Undarl's death flames vanished. The mage royal stared at the empty air in disbelief, and then snatched out one of his wands and fired it. A green bolt of ravening radiance tore along the silver wyrm's side. It shuddered and circled away. With a short laugh of satis¬faction, Undarl urged his own dragon after it.
*****
"By all the gods!" a carter swore. Folk around him followed his incredulous gaze, and there was more than one shriek of ter¬ror. One man fell to his knees on the cobbles and began babbling a prayer; many others decided to pray on the run, sprinting away down the street—away from the battle raging in the air overhead as two mighty dragons circled and roared in the first bright rays of morning.
Magic flashed, and the carter snarled a bitter oath. Of course one of the two would be the mage royal, not caring if death rained down on the citizens below—but who was the other? A silver wyrm, now! The carter peered up into the sunlight, see¬ing the black dragon breathe out acid in a curling cloud. That would fall as a stinging rain on ... the docks, he judged, and wondered if he should be elsewhere, somewhere safer.
