Free Unholy by Richard Lee Byers Page A

than those of the fellows in front, so everyone could stab at once.
    Khouryn had time to glance at the human faces to each side of him, and he felt satisfaction at what he saw: fear—that was natural—but not a hint of panic. They’d stand fast as he’d trained them to, as dwarves themselves would hold the line.
    Howling, the first Aglarondans lunged into striking distance.
    For a few heartbeats, the defense worked as theory said it should. Overlapping shields protected those who carried them and protected their neighbors, too. The bristling hedge of spears pierced foes reckless enough to come within reach, often before those warriors could even strike a blow.
    But then, as so often happened, the work got harder. Aglarondans somehow sprang past the spear points, struck past the shields, and killed defenders, tearing gaps in the formation, even as the relentless pressure of their onslaught buckled the lines. Meanwhile, spears broke or stuck fast in corpses, and sellswords snatched frantically for their secondary weapons.
    Khouryn was one of those whose spear stuck fast. He dropped it and his shield, too, and pulled his urgrosh off his back.
    A white warhorse, its legs black with muck, cantered at him, turning so the half-elf on its back could cut down at him with his sword. Khouryn parried hard enough to knock the blade out of its owner’s grip, then, with a single stroke, chopped the rider’s leg in two and sheared into the destrier’s flank. Rider and mount shrieked as one, and the steed recoiled.
    Khouryn glanced around, making sure he was still more or less even with the soldiers to each side. To anyone but a seasoned warrior, it might have seemed that any semblance of order had dissolved into a chaos of slaughter, into the deafening racket of weapons smashing against shields and armor and the wails of the wounded and dying. But in fact, there was still a formation
    of sorts, and it was vital to preserve it.
    He killed another Aglarondan, and more after that, until the gory urgrosh grew heavy in his hands, and his breath burned and rasped. The man on his left went down, and Gaedynn, who’d traded his bow for a sword and kite shield, darted forward to take his place.
    Sometime after that, the enemy stopped coming. Peering out across the corpses heaped two and three deep in front of him, Khouryn saw the survivors fleeing north toward the safety of Glarondar. The Brotherhood’s horsemen harried them along.
    The last Khouryn knew, Aoth had been holding the cavalry in reserve. At some point, he must have ordered them forward, possibly to play a crucial role in foiling the Aglarondans’ attack.
    If so, Khouryn supposed he’d hear all about it later. For now, he was simply grateful for the chance to lower his weapon.
    Nevron studied the fleeing Aglarondans for a time, making sure they had no fight left in them. Then he drew a deep, steadying breath. He’d need a clear mind and a forceful will to compel his demons and devils back into their various prisons. They were having a jolly time of it hunting enemy stragglers, torturing and killing Aglarondan wounded, and devouring elf and human flesh.
    He was just about to start when Samas floated up in the huge, padded throne that spared him the strain of having to waddle around on his own two feet. “Should we chase the Aglarondans and finish them off?” the transmuter asked.
    “No,” Nevron said. “A wounded bear can still bite, and we need to conserve our strength if we’re going to Thay. The simbarchs won’t try to take the Reach again for a while. That will have to do.”
    “But if we don’t come back to protect it, they’ll take it eventually.”
    Nevron spat. “I realize the name of Samas Kul is synonymous with greed. But if you’re dead, I doubt that even you will care what becomes of your dominions.”

Chapter four
    15-28 Tarsakb, The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR)
     
    With his swarthy skin, the prisoner was evidently Rashemi, although if he’d ever