Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [140]
As for Haramos bin Grue, he attempted to flee along with the Count, only to find himself shoved roughly back into the bloody pandemonium that had enveloped the hall. As his guard kept them separated, Beckwith had just enough time to shout a passing farewell before ducking to safety.
“Not a sorcerer, Haramos? You lied to me about that. Could it be that you lied also about how my son died?”
“No, sire—believe me, I told the truth!” Despite the fact that he was unarmed save for a pair of small concealed knives, the merchant resisted the soldiers. But it was hard to fight with someone when there was a foot of sharp blade and six feet of wooden shaft between you and your opponent. Such was the advantage of the steel-tipped pike.
“That is the murderer, down there! That uncouth, uncivilized southerner. And he is no sorcerer, by his own word! Though I admit to being fooled by the sorceral devices he carries with him.”
“You are right about one thing.” Beckwith paused as he crouched to pass beneath the low overhang of the escape portal. His guard fought to keep a curious great white away from their Count. “Someone here is being fooled. I wish I had the time to sort it out.” He hurried into the concealed passageway. One by one, his soldiers tried to follow him. Many succeeded. Others lost limbs and, in a couple of cases, their heads to the rampaging shark.
Falling back, bin Grue pressed himself against the wall and began to make his way toward the nearest exit, edging steadily away from the royal dais. Before him was being played out an unparalleled spectacle of remorseless carnage. He had nearly reached the door when he made the mistake of bolting. The rapid movement caught the attention of one of the marauding great whites. When he turned, the merchant did not scream in fear but instead cursed violently. His end, therefore, was in keeping with his nature all his life, a reflection of internal toughness and perpetual ire. It made no difference to the shark, which bit him in half.
Out on the floor of the reception hall there were now eight great whites circling slowly in search of additional prey. The once grand chamber had taken on the aspect of an abattoir, with blood, guts, and body parts scattered everywhere. The last live soldier had fled.
Sloshing through the shallow lake of unwillingly vented bodily fluids, Ehomba advanced on his still imprisoned friends. Simna followed, hugging as close to his tall friend as possible without actually slipping into his clothing. He had seen how fast the floating sharks could move and had no intention of separating himself from their procreator even for an instant. Soulless black eyes tracked his movements, but the sharks did not attack. A number had settled to the floor and were feeding, gulping down whole chunks of soldier, uniform and all.
“You are a very canny man.” With a free hand the herdsman rubbed his sore face and shoulders. “As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I intend to pay you back for your canniness.”
“Hoy, bruther, I had to make it look real, didn’t I? I needed to distract them from what I was doing behind your back. Any sleight of hand needs a good diversion to be effective.” He grinned. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever pick up on what I was trying to do.”
“I admit you had me concerned at first. What finally revealed your true intentions was the degree of your pleading. I think I understand you well enough to know that you would go down fighting before you would grovel.”
“Depends on the circumstances,” the swordsman replied without hesitation. “If the need arose, I could grovel with the best of them.” He nodded in the direction of the throne. “But not because of a lie, and never in front of a fat toad like bin Grue.” His tone was harsh. “I saw him go down. He won’t be putting anybody in a cage ever again.”
Ehomba replied somberly. “Not all the methods a man perfects to protect himself work all the time. That is one thing about sharks: They cannot be reasoned with, distracted,