The Dragon's Doom

Hawkril did so, dragging the tunic up with one hand as he held the corpse's belt firmly with the other. Craer swarmed over the garment, and in another breath had relieved the guard of two daggers and a slender purse. "Drop him into the moat," he hissed. "Drop, don't throw."

Hawkril gave his friend a weary look. "I'm not completely stone-headed, you know."

Craer blew him a mock kiss. "I know, my Horse."

Hawkril rolled his eyes and lowered the body between two merlons, dangling it at the full length of his arm before letting go.

The splash was louder than they'd hoped it would be, and they both saw the priest's head jerk around to stare directly at them.

Or rather, at Hawkril. Craer was crouching down behind his friend, hissing, "Act like a Storn cortahar standing nightguard."

"Like an idiot, you mean?" the armaragor growled. "Or do you mean stare out from the walls with a bored look on my face?"

"Bebolt him, he's casting a spell! We'll just have to hope Embra quells it. Stride toward him like a guard. I'll be right behind you, but remember: I'm not here. No turning to look to me-and no talking, either! Breezes take our words too far."

"Aye, Mother. Any more advice for the witless warrior?" Hawkril growled, settling the cortahar's helm over his head and smoothing down the front of the scarlet hawk-adorned tunic as he started walking, slow and purposeful, along the battlements. "Like perhaps what you want me to do when I get nose to nose with this particular hostile holy hand of the Serpent?"

"I'll think of something," Craer muttered, from a foot or so behind the armaragor's shoulders.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of, Longfingers," came the dry, flat reply.

A few steps later, Hawkril finished refolding his cloak, tucked it back into his shield, and added, "We're past halfway there, and yon priest's starting toward us, now. Think faster, little thief."

"Anyone with him?"

"Of course. Four cortahars. You don't think Serpent-clergy dare to do anything dangerous alone, do you?"

"Any bows? Handbows?"

"None I can see. Swords and grim looks-oh, and his spells, of course."

"We have to trust in your lady-love to break those. Mist all gone?"

"Aye, but Embra's sending more now. There're about a dozen more Storn swords by the turret-that's who's calling to the priest. He's turning back to see, and 'tis coming up over the battlements like an eel, right in front of him. Aye, he's going to be mightily suspicious of this mist."

"My, my, another chance to practice his mighty suspicion. How nice for him."

Hawkril sighed. "Craer, as much as I love your familiar leaden wit, how about reassuring me just a trifle? In the matter of just what, by all the Three, I'm supposed to do now? These battlements are quite wide enough for them to come at me six or seven at a time, you know."

"Keep walking. I need us to be much closer."

"Craer! I've dined quite heavily enough from your 'Trust me and my mysterious little stratagems, thick-headed warrior' platter. I can act far more effectively if I know what you're pla

"Ah, a fair point. A fair point, indeed. There's just one little problem, Tall Post."

Hawkril waited, striding on. And waited.

Finally, he sighed and came to a stop, turning to peer out from the battlements.

"What're you doing?" Craer hissed, from beneath him.

"Waiting for you to tell me what your little problem is, without my having to ask, 'And what would that be?' "

"Ah," the procurer responded jovially, "I'm glad you asked that. The little problem is this: I haven't the faintest notion what we're going to do, beforehand. I just go-and do."

Hawkril bent over and gave Craer a very cold look. The procurer smiled crookedly up at him, bright-eyed, and spread his hands. "Well," he added, "you must admit that thus far every one of our battles has worked out all right in the end, yes?"

The armaragor straightened up and squared his shoulders. "Eight." Then, ignoring the frantically hissing procurer behind him, he strode to where the priest was furiously dispelling mist (with only passing success) and called: "Orsor? Orsor?"

The priest turned and fixed him with a glacial glance. "Get back to your post, fool! You heard the orders, did you not? Whatever business you have with Orsor, it can wait. Go!"

"Sorry, Lord, but I'm afraid not," Hawkril replied. "Someone calling himself the Great Serpent wants Orsor back at my post right now. 'No matter what' were his words, and meaning no disresp-"

"The Great Serpent? You're sure he called himself that?"

"Oh, yes. Twice he said it, like he was afraid I'd not get the title right. He's a right scary one, too, Lord-uh, meaning no disresp-"

"Yes, yes! Where is he?"

"Orsor, Lord? I know-"

"Not grauling Orsor, you ox-brained lummox! The Great Serpent!"

"Ah. Here!" Craer said brightly, popping up over Hawkril's shoulder by the simple expedient of bounding up and perching on the armaragor's shoulder-plate with both hands.

The Serpent-priest gaped at him-and the procurer swung on Hawkril's shoulder, launching himself into a drop kick that put the toes of both his boots into the cleric's throat.

That throat exploded in blood as the dagger points protruding from Craer's boot tips plunged into them. The priest staggered backwards, head bobbling loosely on the shoulders it was almost separated from.

"Now I'm going to have to ask someone else where Orsor is," Hawkril complained in mock exasperation, as the two cortahars able to see what had happened through the billowing mist stared at them in amazement. Craer put a dagger through one of those open mouths, and then sprang off in pursuit of the other knight, who whirled and fled into the clouds of mist. Hawkril bounded after him, drawing his warsword.

Craer's favorite tactic in mist or smoke, he knew, was to dive at any ankles he saw, toppling foes. Already, just ahead, Hawkril could hear the startled grunts and thuds of men falling. So as long as he slashed with his blade above Craer's head height, anyone he struck should be a foe. "Longfingers?" he called, just to be sure.

"Fallen again," Craer sang back, and Hawkril gri

Hawkril moved toward that noise, guessing Craer couldn't be crouching anywhere that a sword could slide through unimpeded-and that a cortahar might approach the sound.

Hawk's boot soon struck the sword, and he promptly hacked the mist around him like a madman, in case someone charged. When nothing happened, he carefully plucked up the sword, and hefted it to throw.

Someone cursed and then screamed, ahead to his right. Craer hamstringing or neck-stabbing, no doubt. An unseen door grated open and someone else inquired coldly, "What's going on out there?"

A Serpent-priest, for all the gold in Asmarand! Hawkril threw the sword he'd just acquired as hard as he could at where the voice had sounded from, whipping it end over end into the eddying mist.

He was rewarded with a strangled cry-and an angry shout. "Get that door closed! The overdukes must be out there! Bowmen, up here! Brothers of the Serpent, to-Eeeee!"

The scream that ended that cry was cut off abruptly by the slam of a heavy door, which in turn was followed swiftly by an urgent call of "Tall Post! Over here!"

"Coming," Hawkril rumbled, hefting his warsword and advancing into the mist.

"Tall Post!" the call came again. Something was moving to his right… a striding swordsman, taller than Craer… hidden again by mist…

An armored shoulder, the scarlet hawk of Stornbridge-and Hawkril thrust his sword in under that arm with all his strength.