A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [8]
"Lord Baron," the old seneschal said nervously, "there's a man come to see you. In full armor, with sword ready and a dozen war-ready fighting men at his back. He gives as name only 'Little Flower.' "
Baron Nesmor Glarond smiled thinly and lifted one hand in a signal that stirred his guards into a brief flurry of drawing swords and stiffening into new positions, here and there about the throne room of Glarondar.
Their master cast a glance up at the gilded balcony and made another sign. His pages saw, turned, and snapped low-voiced but coldly firm orders. Many faces of courtiers who spent hours every day along that opulently carved rail, peering down at Baron Glarond, awaiting his smallest slip-or slightest sign of favor-abruptly vanished, amid unfriendly murmur.
Glarond lost his smile. Let them wonder at why they'd been swept away. Ambitious rabble, all, best kept distant from the bargaining ahead. Only those who mattered need, or would be allowed to, stay. His "Little Flower" was a dangerous man, and would undoubtedly drive a hard bargain; if things went poorly for the Pride of Glarond, the fewer folk who were watching, the better. Baron Glarond was well aware he was not a deeply loved man.
In a matter of moments the seneschal stood forth, near the doors, and bowed to his lord; the populace of the hall was now as the Pride of Glarond had desired it. The man on the throne nodded back, lifting his hand almost idly to indicate the doors. The seneschal turned, flung them wide, and stood back without announcing who was entering.
A near shout would have been necessary to do that heralding above the sudden, rhythmic clanking that arose then: the sound of men in full coat of plate marching swiftly in step. Into the throne room of Glarondar they came, bareheaded and empty-handed, but striding as if they were masters in this hall. They ascended the dais before the throne, and there stopped as smoothly as any formal guard on parade.
The baron's guards stiffened, eyeing the new arrivals nervously. It did not take a veteran eye to judge that they were outnumbered-and probably overmatched. Most of them failed to notice brief scuffles on the balcony stairs and along the back of the hall, as procurers in leather harness, hand crossbows held ready but pointed at the ceiling, wormed their way past courtiers and pages alike, to certain vantage points. Unfamiliar men, who stared about the hall with hard, eager eyes, seeking targets.
"Be welcome, Lord Bloodblade," Glarond said calmly, rising from his throne. "Your fame precedes you."
The man at the head of the armored throng acquired a ghostly flicker of a smile that stopped far short of his eyes, and said, "No lord am I yet, Glarond, though some have called me 'warlord.' Sendridi Duthjack, at your service-if we can come to agreement."
Baron Glarond inclined his head. "I am not an unreasonable man."
Some who stood listening in that hall might have disagreed with that statement, but no one in all that tensely frozen assembly chose to do so audibly just then. The baron was also not held to be a swiftly forgiving man.
"And I," Duthjack said clearly, "honor the pacts I make. I believe you know that."
Glarond inclined his head. "I do. I am also in the habit of honoring pacts, as it happens. Shall we begin by my stating what I desire to hire you and the swords you command for?"
"Do so. No task is unacceptable to me, if we can agree on price-and mine shall be my first answer," Duthjack replied. His men turned in perfect unison, though no order or sign had been given, to face the courtiers on both sides-and their gauntleted hands clapped firmly to the hilts of their weapons.
The silence, when it came, sang as tightly as a drawn bowstring. More than one man in that hall swallowed-and found his throat dry in doing so.
"I desire," Baron Glarond said calmly, "to be King of Aglirta. Before first snowfall, I would sit upon the River Throne, undisputed master of all the Vale, all barons sworn to me or dead. Plain enough?"›
Duthjack