A Dragon's Ascension - Ed Greenwood [9]
The baron shook his head. "None," he said, in a tone that suggested he was about to say more. Instead, he fell silent. A sheen of sweat had appeared from somewhere to gleam on his brow, but he lifted his chin and stared at his armored visitors as if he already was king.
Duthjack said flatly, "Others will. Our losses will be heavy. Two thousand gold coins-sundars of Ragalar or Garraglan zostarrs, not Aglirtan minting-for every swordsman I bring to the fray. A written roster of my command, copies held by us both. Half paid out before blades are drawn; survivors only to collect the balance, by midwinter at the latest."
Glarond nodded slowly. "And your share?"
"One hundred Ragalan sundars, and a downriver barony. Brightpennant, I think."
"Loushoond," the baron countered firmly.
Silence fell, softly at first but then, as it stretched, rising in tension. The courtiers who remained in the hall glanced at each other, then swiftly looked away. No one dared gaze for long upon the two men facing each other at the heart of the hall…-,
Slowly, Duthjack nodded, his face thoughtful and withdrawn.
Scarcely believing it could be this easy, the baron leaned forward on his throne. Sweat was streaming down his face as he asked eagerly, "So- have we a deal?"
The man often called Bloodblade smiled. Drawing off his gauntlets and handing them to one of his men behind him, whom he did not look at, he stepped forward and held out his hand.
The baron rose from his throne, descended the single step to the dais where the mercenaries stood, and reached out to clasp Duthjack's offered grasp.
Their hands met, gripped, and a look of pain crossed Glarond's face. Before he could utter even a gasp of protest, the warlord's other hand took the baron by the throat.
Fingers of iron tightened, and the Pride of Glarond made a thin, startled, throaty sound.
Duthjack’s smile was as cold as his voice. "No, my Lord of Glarond, we do not. I've taken counsel with others in the Vale besides barons, and heard other views as to the best future for the realm. Why should I settle for being a baron-among so many fat, decadent, arrogant fools of barons-when I can sit on the throne of Aglirta? You need me, dear Glarond… but I don't need you."
He drew his fingers together with sudden, quivering strength, a throat crumpled into bonelessness, and the strangled noises coming from the baron ceased. Deftly Duthjack plucked the golden coronet from the brows of the sagging Pride of Glarond-and then his shoulders tightened, muscles rippled, and the mercenary infamous as Bloodblade in a hundred bloody tales threw the corpse away from him. Limply it tumbled down the steps of the dais.
The baron's guards surged forward, hands on sword-hilts, snarls rising in their throats… and then paused uncertainly as those little crossbows rose to menace their throats and faces, all over the hall-and the Pride of Glarond came to a stop, his lolling head staring glassily and purple-faced at the ceiling in frozen, eternal startlement.
From out of the shocked group of courtiers nearest the throne a grandly dressed man stood forth in ruby silks. Clearing his throat, he gestured with one heavily ring-adorned hand, essayed a brittle smile, and called, "All hail Baron Duthjack!"…
The warlord smiled, strode forward to meet the man, and said coldly, "No. I think not."
With smooth, unhurried grace he drew his sword-and ran the courtier through. As bloody steel burst out of the man's trembling back, slicing through ruby silk with the briefest of whispers, crossbows twanged all over the hall, and courtiers groaned, screamed, gasped, or gurgled-and started to fall, dying.
"Barons have been Aglirta's curse for too long," Duthjack told an old guard who stood stiffly at attention a sword's reach away, gray-white moustache trembling in fear. "It's high time, and past time, that someone should have gone baron-hunting. Not quite as good sport as chasing stags, but hopefully more profitable. Your name, old blade?"
"Th-tharim, Lord Bloodblade," the guardsman