Black wizards - Douglas Niles [57]
Pawldo discerned slight movement and realized that some of the men had moved to the bole of the tree, while several more remained below him. In utmost silence, the assassins spread out to close the net.
Clenching his teeth so he wouldn't cry out in fear, Pawldo wormed his way farther out on the limb. The tree's branches thinned above him – he would gain nothing by climbing. The men were below him, and between him and the trunk, so it seemed that out was the only way to go.
The branch narrowed as he moved and began to bend under his weight. Now he heard whispered commands in the depths of the tree. He swung his feet into space, tightly clasping the end of the bough, and felt it swing down under his weight. His feet touched a lower branch and he let go, trusting his sense of balance. Tumbling free, he barely grabbed the lower branch, but this one also sagged.
Suddenly he saw movement in the lane below him and remembered the sixth assassin, who had remained below with the horses. He saw a shadowy figure moving to meet him as he landed.
"Canthus!" he cried, dropping to the ground and sprawling headlong. The assassin loomed over him and then suddenly lurched to the side. Pawldo saw the form of the giant moorhound bearing the man to the ground. Canthus's long white fangs were buried in his shoulder.
"Let's go!" cried the halfling, jumping to his feet and running to the horses. The dog followed, leaving his victim moaning softly in a spreading pool of blood.
Pawldo darted among the nervously shuffling horses. "Hee-yah!" he shouted, slapping one of the steeds in the rump. He grabbed the stirrups of two more and yanked them sharply. Spooked, all six horses galloped down the lane and raced into the street, the halfling swinging wildly from one stirrup. Canthus raced behind, urging any stragglers ahead with sharp barks.
* * * * *
"Any more ideas?" asked Pontswain. For once, his voice was not laden with sarcasm. Tristan had tried to bend the bars on the window.
"I can't do anything about the lock without my tools," announced Daryth, turning from the door. "They took my picks and probes before they tossed us in here."
Tristan paced back and forth while the other two flopped onto the mattresses. The prince truly hated confinement – a thing he had never experienced before. The room seemed to grow smaller with every passing minute, and tension threatened to consume him. He felt that he might soon be driven to beat his brains out against the iron door in a quest for freedom. Forcefully, he suppressed the primitive urge. Faint starlight was visible through the window, and the tiny specks of light seemed to mock his plight.
"Do you think the High King is eager to hear your petition?" asked Pontswain. "He certainly has taken great pains to see that you waste no time getting to him."
Tristan whirled on the lord, but then halted. He didn't know if the man was baiting him or asking an honest question. Judging by the curious, slightly amused look on the man's face, Pontswain didn't know either.
"That's not too likely," said Daryth quietly.
"Why?" asked the prince.
"After an assassination attempt – two, if you count the sinking of our boat – they're not likely to haul you all the way to Callidyrr"
"If they want me dead, why didn't they kill me already?"
"Perhaps because they didn't dare do it in a public place," interjected Pontswain – "Remember the mood at the inn?"
Daryth nodded and stood, nearly tripping on the chain linking his manacles. Cursing, he pulled his hands apart – and stared in shock as one of the iron rings slipped over his hand to clink to the floor.
"How did you do that?" asked Tristan.
"I don't know." Daryth was obviously mystified. He tugged on the other hand, and it, too, slipped through the tight and rusty bond. He looked at Tristan as he threw the manacles to the bed. Suddenly he laughed.
"These gloves are from the sea castle!" he cried, holding up his hands. "I knew there was something special about them – they're magical!" He pulled one of