Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [92]
What did he really know about them at all?
Suddenly shaking worse than ever, Marlin snatched up his sword belt in feverish haste, wanting to be gone.
He fled from the room a breath later, and the death knight Targrael detached herself from the darkness of the wall and glided after him, unnoticed and as silently as she knew how.
Manshoon was smiling in the depths of both of their minds.
He was learning at last. Even if it was only to fear, young Lord Stormserpent was learning at last.
Manshoon made his Lady Dark Armor lurk silently, well in the wake of what his newly bold lordling had unleashed.
Ahead of her, two men whose bodies blazed blue stalked the dark streets of Suzail in menacing silence, keeping together.
Langral and Halonter of the Nine were quite capable at reading the will of the one commanding them, when they stood close and those thoughts were fierce—and young and fearful Marlin Stormserpent had wanted them to stay together.
Well enough; that suited both of them. They were busy finding Seszgar Huntcrown, and it was proving to be slow work.
Every few paces they came upon someone hurrying along who couldn’t outrun them, or who blundered out of a door or alley too preoccupied with something else to notice blue enshrouding flames in time to run.
“Have ye seen the noble Seszgar Huntcrown?” Relve would ask.
“Recently?” Treth would add, leaning forward to rumble that word.
Usually the answer was a stammered denial, sometimes of even knowing what Lord Huntcrown looked like. Less than helpful—but then, their orders had come from a noble, and nobles weren’t known for sparing underlings work or calling on overmuch thought when crafting orders in the first place.
No matter what answer Langral and Halonter got, they promptly slew the answerer if there were no nearby witnesses, or just stalked on in search of someone else if there were.
It was a good thing night hadn’t fallen all that long before. Questioning and butchering their way across Suzail might take most of the dark hours. They briefly entertained the notion of keeping count of how many killings would be necessary before they found Huntcrown, but hadn’t thought of it until after they’d slain six—or was it eight?—already. Suzailans died quickly these days.
In Targrael’s head, and managing to read the thoughts of the two men in flames faintly through endless and silently snarling blue fire, Manshoon smiled. He’d noticed the very same thing.
Belgryn Murenstur blinked. Well, there … ‘twasn’t every night you saw the likes of that. Wreathed in flames they were, from head to toe, two men with drawn swords, striding along the street as if they felt nothing at all.
“Ho, man!” the shorter one called—to him Belgryn realized. And blinked again, coming to a sudden halt in his rush to be home. In another two paces, he’d have walked right into them, flames and all.
“Have ye seen the noble Seszgar Huntcrown?”
“Recently?” the taller flaming one added, in a deeper voice. They were both smiling.
Were those swords in their hands wet? As in, with blood?
With a rush of relief, Belgryn realized he had. “Yes, yes, I just laid eyes on him, as it happens—and all he carouses with, too. They were going into the Bold Archer and were more than a bit merry.”
Something was happening in his head … as if he was being watched from the dark corners of his own mind. Yes, a dark, coldly smiling presence, Manshoon by name, that he promptly forgot all about.
He blinked again. The shorter man, wreathed in flames he didn’t seem to feel, was thrusting himself closer to Belgryn to ask another question.
“What is this Bold Archer? A tavern?”
“A club. Uh, four streets back, you can’t miss it—”
Belgryn was turning to point when he saw the swords come up.
“Ye will take us there,” the taller flaming man rumbled, still wearing his smile. “Now.”
“I—uh, I’m in some haste to be ho—,