The Sword Never Sleeps

Chapter 6

The horse under Dauntless had tasted battle before, but that didn't mean it had any particular liking for fire that came racing right at it, shrieking.

It bucked, heaving and plunging under the ornrion in its haste to be elsewhere, away from those rushing flames, back out of these trees onto the open road, whereArrows came hissing out of the trees to thud hard and deep into the horse's haunches, causing it to scream in pain, rear, and dance sideways so wildly that Taltar Dahauntul decided being spilled out of his saddle was wiser than staying in it.

He crashed down hard onto his shoulders and rolled hastily away-or tried to. Pain stabbed across his neck and shoulders as the breath slammed out of him. He groaned, and the plunging hooves of another horse came crashing down all around him.

And were gone, leaving in their wake a cursing Purple Dragon who thundered to earth through a rather fragile thornbush, shouting out his own curses.

That straining, sputtering voice belonged to Telsword Grathus. Dauntless saw more arrows hiss past overhead and heard Grathus gulp suddenly, choke, and stop spitting out curses forever.

" 'Tis a monster!" First Sword Aubrus Norlen cried. "A monster, to be sure! Hew it down! Dragons, to me now! Slay this beast that all Cormyr be delivered from its grave peril!"

Panting, he hacked at the lithe, dark, flaming thing that was rolling in the stream at his feet. A hissing cloud of smoke was billowing up from it. He could hardly see his foe. Yet he swung lustily, and his steel bit into something solid. That brought a shriek of pain from the thing, and it clawed at his ankles. He stumbled hastily back.

"Dragons!" he shouted again. "To me now! Aid, for the love of Cormyr! Aid, for the love of-"

"— a little piece and quiet!" Blade Orbrar snapped, coming up beside him and slashing at whatever was thrashing and rolling in the stream beneath the drifting smoke. "Norlen, will you belt up?"

"Whaaat? I am your superior, Teln Orbrar!" First Sword Norlen bellowed. "Obey me and address me with the proper respect and defer-uhhh!"

First Sword Aubrus Norlen's gasp was as loud as everything else that had been coming out of his mouth. It hung in the air as he staggered backward and sat down, hard.

The Purple Dragon Blade turned to see why Norlen was retreating so precipitously. He was astonished to see an arrow had appeared, sprouting as if by magic, low on his front. It was sunk deep in a gap in the First Sword's too-small armor, between two plates that had quite failed to grow and cover his expanding belly over these last few months. The arrow was quivering, and so was Norlen. He stared up at Teln Orbrar in disbelieving horror, spitting up dark blood, as the light behind his eyes went out.

Orbrar was neither a stupid man nor a slow-witted one. He flung himself flat on the ground right beside the First Sword even before Norlen toppled sideways. The arrow that had been meant for him whistled harmlessly past and was lost amid brief cracklings in dark undergrowth.

"Naed," Orbrar gasped, rolling frantically over and down into a little hollow in the ground, almost cutting himself on his sword doing so. 'Gods-cursed stlarning naed!'Oh, tluin, tluin, tluin!"

"Not now," a voice that was tight with pain hissed in his ear, an instant before a very, very cold knife entered his throat. "I'm too busy being wounded right now. Later, perhaps-you murdering Purple Dragon bastard."

Choking around the icy metal that had so suddenly somehow appeared in his gullet, Blade Teln Orbrar found himself unable to reply.

"Not-" he struggled to say, staring into two eyes that wept tears and blazed with pain and fury.

"Not a bastard," he managed to choke out as Faertin went dim around him. "Not. Decent, really. I…"

Night fell. Forever, he knew. Forever.

"That's the last tluining arrow!" Halmur snapped, tossing his bow down and reaching for his sword.

Steldurth nodded, raised his own blade, and gave the sardonic, dusky-skinned Turmishan an approving smile. "You feathered Dragons enough for us. No one left to get in the way of us killing the Knights this time!"

"Kill?" Kraskus growled, bending down to thrust his red-bearded, brutish face close. "Time to kill?"

"Time to kill, Kraskus," Brorn said firmly from behind them all. "To avenge Lord Yellander!"

"Yellander," the bullyblades snarled in unison, hefting their swords, and rushed out of the concealing trees.

"I don't want to kill you!" Florin said, striking a Dragon's thrusting sword aside, then slashing in the other direction in time to parry a second Dragon's attack. "Stop this!"

"Stop this? Man, we are the law here!" Blade Hanstel Harrow snapped back at the ranger. "Lay down your sword, and we'll-"

"You'll kill us where we stand," Semoor Wolftooth said, retreating and vainly trying to wipe his forehead clean of blood from a gash made when the very tip of one of the Dragons' swords had just caught him a lunge or two earlier. His streaming gore was almost blinding him. "Those're your orders, aren't they? Well?"

Neither Dragon answered with more than wordless growls of exasperation and effort, as they went right on hacking at Florin as hard and fast as they knew how.

"Stop this!" Semoor spat through the blood dripping from his nose and chin. "Stop or someone's going to get killed!"

Raging, Dauntless came to his feet. Their horses were dead or fled, the last one lashing out with its steel-shod hooves at one of the priest Knights-Doust Sulwood, wasn't it? — as it reared one last time before racing back toward the road.

Grathus was dead at his feet, and their saucy wench of a thief was just rising from beside Orbrar, his life-blood all over the knife in her hand.

With a roar the ornrion launched himself into a run across the uneven, trampled ground, swinging his sword up and back for a great cleaving stroke that should end her sly evil forever.

She was reeling, wet with blood and with half her hair and leathers burnt off her, but her eyes glittered with a fury to match his own as she raised arms that trailed wisps of smoke, bloody knife coming up to greet him.

Dauntless slowed not a whit. That fang could do nothing against his armor for the moment he needed to hack her down-and then she'd not be using it on anyone, ever again.

"Die, outlaw bitch!" he bellowed, bringing his sword down. "Die!"

Florin sprang aside again. He didn't want to kill these Purple Dragons, didn't want their blood on hisThe snarling face of the nearest Dragon changed, fear falling across it ere its owner backed away. He was gazing past Florin, and so was the other Dragon, whose outflanking rush had faltered.

Florin kept moving, aside and back, but turned his head ro see what they were both staring at.

A swarm of men with swords raced toward them, the foremost almost close enough to touch, clenched teeth opening to bellow, "Yellander!"

"Oh, tluin," Florin said and set his feet to meet the nearest of Yellander's bullyblades blade-to-blade. Just in time.

Jhessail rose out of her crouch, daring to breathe again, as Doust said, "Guard yourself!" and erupted out of the little hollow where they'd crouched together. Mace in hand, he charged into the fray.

Standing-these outlaws must have run out of arrows, hence their charge out into the open-the spellhurler drew the dagger from her belt.

It seemed so puny, against all these hulking men in armor and their swords. Yet her battle spells were all gone now, most spent on half-seen archers in the trees. So she could run away, sprint after Doust, and do what little she could, or she could stand here and watch.

Which really bid fair to mean stand and watch her friends die.

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.

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.

And promptly slipped and fell.