A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [29]
Bloodblade swirled the goblet to watch it flash back reflections of the candlelight as he padded barefoot across what had been until recently Glarsimber the Wolf's study. His men had installed two terrified but still attractive chambermaids in the bed he'd sleep in this night, but the warlord was in no hurry to seek that particular door. Darag had gagged the wenches to keep them silent, and bound them to the bedposts to keep them unharmed and where they should be; they would keep until it suited him to go visiting.
He wandered about the study. Books, many books, some of them too old and dusty to have known Glarsimber's touch. Idly he drew one form, flipped it open to a random page, and read aloud, "The blessed text begins, aye, so it doth, calling forth trumpet-clear o'er hills and turrets, battlements and spires, to smite the ears of foolish men and their hearts besides, and leave no life untouched, no soul unguided…"
Smirking, Bloodblade slammed the book, rearing his head back from the inevitable cloud of dust, and slid it back into place, shaking his head. Why did otherwise clear-witted men waste their time with such airy fripperies-such utter dross?
There was a restlessness in him, this night. Sart had fallen too easily; the task seemed unfinished, somehow. The Baron of Glarond and Brightpennant lingered by Glarsimber's map of Aglirta, staring thoughtfully at the twists and turns of the Silverflow. "Where to conquer next?" he asked the empty air lightly. "Ah, decisions, decisions…"
The voice from the darkness behind him was as unexpected as it was soft, "Nay, Bloodblade, don't alter what we've agreed to. We can't shield you with magic if you turn willful tyrant on us and ride where we don't expect."
Sendrith Duthjack's face was suddenly as hard as stone, his eyes two glittering gems as his hand closed like a claw around the baronial goblet- but he took care to relax his features into a calm mask ere he turned to face the speaker. He did not, however, smile.
Red-gold it was, bright against the darkness of his dreams, looming up bright and fierce to stare right at him.
He stared back into the dragon's golden, knowing gaze, caught and held by its regard as if he was transfixed on a sword. He could not move, could not speak, too terrified to even weep as the great wyrm turned lazily, so smooth on its vast wings.
As large as a castle it dived at him, racing down, its great jaws and claws opening…
And then, as always, he woke up.
Meanwhile
Flaeros paused for breath, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "Baron," he gasped, "could we rest, perhaps?"
The Baron of Brightpennant turned and gave him a quizzical glare. "Why, lad? It's been but half a day, at none so brisk a walk! Have you stepped on something? D'you nurse some hidden wound or other?"
The Bard of the Delcampers drew himself up, breathing heavily, and then gave Glarsimber the Wolf a miserable smile. "No," he panted, "I'm just not used-to this-"
The baron snorted. "How can you be a bard, and sing of long pursuits and hunts, if you've never even walked in the woods for a day? Wet with sweat, and not even wearing armor! What do Delcampers have for backbones, anyway? Broken straws?"
Flaeros winced, but Glarsimber put a heavy hand on his shoulder and practically forced him down into a sitting position on a wayside stone. "Sit, lad, and rest," he growled. "It's not like Aglirta hasn't needed saving for several centuries or so! What boots another day or two?"
And he lowered his own substantial backside onto an adjacent stone.
They'd been sitting thus, breathing in heavy unison, for quite some time when the baron stiffened, turned his head a little, and listened intently, holding up a hand for silence.
Flaeros bent his head and leaned in that direction, too. It wasn't long before he heard what had caught the baron's attention-and that even now made Glarsimber put a finger