Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [140]
At the garden door, the watching servant shivered. The magelord liked to hunt down and devour men who'd displeased him… and deal with women in other ways. She was sure he'd withdrawn from the intrigues of Hastarl to make his home here in far Dalniir at the edges of the realm because it offered him a countryside to hunt in. That peddler was doomed, and any woodcutters or hunters her master met with, too. She hoped he'd find none, and be a long, wearying time at his chase.
She sighed and went in to order the feast made ready… and then to the south wing to personally choose the maids who might die tonight. More than once she'd seen that bed and the carpet beneath it awash in blood and torn to shreds… sometimes with a gnawed foot or other remnant left tauntingly for the staff to find. She shuddered and prayed silently to whatever gods might be watching that Taraj Hurlymm would meet his own doom this night.
Folk would pray much harder to the gods, she thought to herself as she got up off her knees, if they gave proof that they listened to the fervent desires of mortals more often. Tonight, for instance.
She sighed. That peddler was doomed.
*****
The Calishite's fine silk shirt was soaked through with sweat; it stuck to him, dark and slick, as he puffed wearily up a slope, forced a way through bushes that clawed and tore at his finery, and hurried on, gasping for breath. The man wasn't in very fine form… and now, covered with sweat and grime and with his long mustache drooping with sweat and smudged with dust, the magelord liked his looks even less.
The man's appearance had been the reason Taraj had ordered this trader seized in the first place. That and the appeal of the exotic; merchants from as far away as Luthkant found Athalantar seldom and ventured out of Hastarl even more rarely. This exotic prey, however, didn't look to be able to provide him with much sport at all… already the trader was wobbling along in exhaustion, his breath coming in fast, sobbing gasps.
Skulking along a ridge not far behind the terrified man, Taraj decided he was becoming increasingly bored. Time to make his kill.
He bounded down into the brush, a sleek black panther feeling fast and deadly and alive! Exulting in his power, he leapt across a narrow, deep gully, his paws scrabbling in crumbling earth for one exciting moment on the far side before they gripped… and then he was safely across and into the thicket beyond.
Bursting out of cover atop a bank, he soared right over the Luthkantan, who howled in fear and snatched out a belt-knife, slashing uselessly at the air, well in his wake.
So that was the only fang the man had? Well, then… Taraj turned, sleek coat rippling, and rushed back at the man, dead leaves rustling as his racing paws hurled them aside.
The Calishite dodged, eyes wide and white with terror, slashed wildly at Taraj's nose-and then turned and ran.
Taraj gave him a throaty snarl and bounded after him. The man heard and spun around to prevent being hamstrung, that tiny blade gleaming again as he brandished it desperately. Taraj snarled and kept coming, not slowing… and the terrified man backed away.
After a few hurried, unseeing paces, of course, he stumbled on something underfoot, and fell hard on his behind. Taraj leapt at him, jaws opening wide for that first playful bite, but the man kicked out with frantic savagery-and the magelord felt sudden tearing pain. He snarled and recoiled, bounding away and then whirling back to face his victim.
Gods curse the man! The trader's boots had suddenly sprouted toe-daggers. Vicious little blades; one gleamed at him as the exhausted man stayed on his back, feet up-and the other was wet and dark with Taraj's blood.
The magelord snarled again and loped off into the nearest tall grass. Dragon at the gate! You couldn't even trust fat Calishite merchant traders to fight fair these days! Well, you'd never been able to, he admitted wryly as the panther's body fell away, flowing and changing again. A