Curse of the Shadowmage - Mark Anthony [58]
"It is not for us to question the actions of the gods," the priest said pompously.
"I've had enough of you and your foolish prattling, priest!" Elvar roared. He turned to a pair of soldiers. Take this charlatan and throw him out of my town. I am a disciple of Malar no longer."
The priest looked shocked as the mercenaries grabbed his arms and hauled him away. Elvar had converted to worship of the god Malar nearly a moon ago. By Beris's calculations, that actually made this one of Elvar's longer religious commitments. Most gods didn't last a tenday in the lord of Triel's chapel.
When Elvar continued to rant about how they were all doomed to die of hunger this winter, Beris decided this was not the best time for a stranger to beg for hospitality. He turned to tell the wanderer they might do better to wait until later, then stared in alarm. Leading his pale mare, the stranger approached Elvar. Beris made a grab for the man but was too late.
Elvar glared at the wanderer in annoyance. "What do you want?"
"I am hungry," the strange man said quietly.
"And I suppose you want me to feed you," Elvar said in disgust. He rested his chubby hands on his broad hips. "I suppose you think we should be happy to give a cretin like yourself food when we haven't enough to make it through the winter ourselves."
The wanderer gestured to the storehouse. "You have plenty of grain."
"Don't tell me what I have or don't have," Elvar snapped. He studied the wanderer. Suspicion gleamed in his beady eyes. "Tell me, beggar, where did one so wretched get such a fine horse?"
"She's mine."
"Liar," Elvar hissed. "I say you stole it." Beris pressed forward. "Excuse me, milord, but I think that the horse does belong to him. She seems to obey his-"
"Shut up!" Elvar commanded. "If I say he is a thief, then he is a thief." He gestured to a trio of mercenaries. "Lead the horse to my stable, then take this man and cut off his hands so everyone will know him for the thief he is." With that, Elvar waddled toward the large stone manor house in the center of the stockade.
Beris tried to protest, but the other soldiers pushed him roughly aside. Two grappled the wanderer, ruthlessly twisting his arms behind his back. Another grabbed the gray mare's reins. She let out a defiant whinny, rearing back on her hind legs. "Stop!" a commanding voice thundered. Everyone froze-the townspeople, the soldiers, even Lord Elvar-staring in amazement. An aura of power surrounded the wanderer, who now looked more like a king than a vagabond. The pale horse quieted and let out a soft nicker.
The wanderer fixed Elvar with his pale green gaze. "If there were no rats in your granary, would you have given me something to eat?"
Elvar licked his lips. "Of course," he lied hastily.
Reaching into a leather pouch at his belt, the wanderer produced a set of bone pipes. He lifted them to his lips and began to play. The throng stared in trancelike wonder. Beris had never before heard such music-mournful, vaguely threatening, yet so achingly beautiful he thought it would break his heart. As the man continued to play, a gasp rose from the crowd. From a dozen dim corners and shadowed alleyways emerged countless small, dark, lithe forms. Cats.
In moments there were a hundred of them, as black and silent as smoke. The wraithlike felines padded swiftly toward the granary, emerald eyes winking mysteriously, before disappearing through the open door. The hideous cacophony that followed nearly drowned out the piper's music. People clapped hands over their ears against the horrible din of squealing and yowling. Abruptly, the noise ceased. The dark cats streamed out of the granary now, each bearing a gray bundle in its mouth. As they passed the stunned Elvar, each of the cats dropped its grisly burden at the lord's feet. In moments there was a furry mound of dead rats heaped before the lord of Triel. The wanderer lowered his pipes; the strange music