this blackness.”
Others were shouting or screaming. The rumble of their voices was augmented by the shuffle of feet and the thud of stumbling bodies. Overloaded benches groaned and began to topple. Bolts squealed as their threads were shredded loose. One bench went over, and then another, and two more. Blinded guests foundered atop each other.
Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The unarmed and night-blind guests were no match for them. Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came on through the stygian hall.
They’re after us, Piergeiron realized grimly. Only now did his dread find its true cause. He thought, one of us will not survive this.
The din of blind battle increased. The cries neared, converging on the couple.
A shoulder knocked against Piergeiron’s waist. Someone blundered into his legs. Panting, he raised his sword overhead, m this black crush of panicked guests, he could accidentally slay his own people. An elbow caught his jaw. Another body rammed into him. In moments, he was up to his shoulders in struggling, fleeing folk. At the edge of vision, he saw Kern attempting vainly to stem the tide. The flood of bodies pressed hard against Piergeiron, and he staggered. It was battle enough to keep to his feet in the mad press. He reeled.
“Eidola!” he shouted. “Are you still there?”
He could not hear her answer over the commotion, but felt her pressed, back to back against him.
A man who had been rammed up beside Piergeiron suddenly was gone, sprawling onto the floor. Then another fell away, and another, until Eidola alone remained with him. The roar of panic was still around them, but the people had cleared away.
“It’s just us now. Eidola. They want one or both of us.”
His blade sliced the air before them. “I wonder where Khelben has gotten off to.”
Doggedly swinging Halcyon through a defensive drill, the Open Lord cried breathlessly to the attackers, “Who are you, and what business have you here?”
“You know our business, I’m sure. Lord Piergeiron,” came a nasty voice. The dialect was like that of the western Heartlands, but with a nasal edge. “As to who we are, you must find that out yourselves.”
“You have us at a disadvantage. You know us, but we do not know you. You clearly can see in this unnatural night, but we cannot,” Piergeiron said, angered by the pleading tone in his own voice. He added in challenge, “Unless you are cowards, you would not fight this way.”
“Would you battle me, Piergeiron Paladinson, even in this darkness?”
“If the way is clear of my countrymen, I would fight and slay you, yes,” growled Piergeiron.
“The way is clear, Open Lord,” came the reply. “My warriors and I have cleared it. I challenge you to an honourable duel. My first officer will meanwhile fight your bride”
“I accept,” said Piergeiron.
He closed his eyesthey were no good to him in this darkness anywayand let his pure soul sense the presence of evil before him. Any true paladin, with concentration, could sense evil. Given practice, an elder paladin could almost see evil with his heart. Piergeiron concentrated. A smallish image came to his mind’s eyethe faintly shimmering form of a warrior. Farther back stood the warrior’s comrades, holding back the crowd.
In a whisper, Piergeiron asked Eidola, “Do you see them? Do you sense themwith your soul? Close your eyes. You can feel where they are”
She was still behind him, but only silence answered his question.
“You can do it, Eidola,” the Open Lord insisted. “Summon the good in you”
“Are you ready to die, Paladinson?” interrupted the nasty voice.
Piergeiron drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer to Torm the True: Guide my sword, and guard my bride. Then he turned toward the shimmering
Others were shouting or screaming. The rumble of their voices was augmented by the shuffle of feet and the thud of stumbling bodies. Overloaded benches groaned and began to topple. Bolts squealed as their threads were shredded loose. One bench went over, and then another, and two more. Blinded guests foundered atop each other.
Those trapped beneath fallen comrades and overturned benches soon seemed the lucky ones. Screams rang out as the shadow warriors advanced into the crowd. The unarmed and night-blind guests were no match for them. Many Waterdhavians fell to swords and flails; more still were simply shoved out of the way as the invaders came on through the stygian hall.
They’re after us, Piergeiron realized grimly. Only now did his dread find its true cause. He thought, one of us will not survive this.
The din of blind battle increased. The cries neared, converging on the couple.
A shoulder knocked against Piergeiron’s waist. Someone blundered into his legs. Panting, he raised his sword overhead, m this black crush of panicked guests, he could accidentally slay his own people. An elbow caught his jaw. Another body rammed into him. In moments, he was up to his shoulders in struggling, fleeing folk. At the edge of vision, he saw Kern attempting vainly to stem the tide. The flood of bodies pressed hard against Piergeiron, and he staggered. It was battle enough to keep to his feet in the mad press. He reeled.
“Eidola!” he shouted. “Are you still there?”
He could not hear her answer over the commotion, but felt her pressed, back to back against him.
A man who had been rammed up beside Piergeiron suddenly was gone, sprawling onto the floor. Then another fell away, and another, until Eidola alone remained with him. The roar of panic was still around them, but the people had cleared away.
“It’s just us now. Eidola. They want one or both of us.”
His blade sliced the air before them. “I wonder where Khelben has gotten off to.”
Doggedly swinging Halcyon through a defensive drill, the Open Lord cried breathlessly to the attackers, “Who are you, and what business have you here?”
“You know our business, I’m sure. Lord Piergeiron,” came a nasty voice. The dialect was like that of the western Heartlands, but with a nasal edge. “As to who we are, you must find that out yourselves.”
“You have us at a disadvantage. You know us, but we do not know you. You clearly can see in this unnatural night, but we cannot,” Piergeiron said, angered by the pleading tone in his own voice. He added in challenge, “Unless you are cowards, you would not fight this way.”
“Would you battle me, Piergeiron Paladinson, even in this darkness?”
“If the way is clear of my countrymen, I would fight and slay you, yes,” growled Piergeiron.
“The way is clear, Open Lord,” came the reply. “My warriors and I have cleared it. I challenge you to an honourable duel. My first officer will meanwhile fight your bride”
“I accept,” said Piergeiron.
He closed his eyesthey were no good to him in this darkness anywayand let his pure soul sense the presence of evil before him. Any true paladin, with concentration, could sense evil. Given practice, an elder paladin could almost see evil with his heart. Piergeiron concentrated. A smallish image came to his mind’s eyethe faintly shimmering form of a warrior. Farther back stood the warrior’s comrades, holding back the crowd.
In a whisper, Piergeiron asked Eidola, “Do you see them? Do you sense themwith your soul? Close your eyes. You can feel where they are”
She was still behind him, but only silence answered his question.
“You can do it, Eidola,” the Open Lord insisted. “Summon the good in you”
“Are you ready to die, Paladinson?” interrupted the nasty voice.
Piergeiron drew a deep breath and said a silent prayer to Torm the True: Guide my sword, and guard my bride. Then he turned toward the shimmering
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