Obsidian Ridge - Jess Lebow [4]
The workers ignored the pudgy sorcerer, flying past him and out the open doors.
Three of Jallal's guards remained. They looked at each other, then at their fallen leader. Pello was struggling to get to his feet, the front of his robes covered in sanguine stains, his brother's dead body folded on the floor.
The Claw took one step, and all three guards turned and bolted. He made no motion to follow. They weren't the reason he was here.
Casually, the masked man crossed the wooden floor to loom over the sorcerer. Pello slipped in the pool of his brother's blood and fell flat onto his back.
His voice shook as he scrambled away. "What… what do you want?"
The masked figure lifted his arm, his bladed gauntlets reflecting the moon's glow.
Pello screamed, "No. Please no," and covered his face.
The Claw's right hand came down, grasping Pello Tasca by the arm and flipping him over onto his stomach. Producing a thin rope, he bound the fat man's hands behind his back. Then he turned his attention to the glass vats.
From a tiny pouch on his back, the Claw recovered two small globes of alchemist's fire and hurled them at the contraption. The fluid-filled orbs impacted and flashed, then exploded in a huge ball of flame.
He watched for a moment until the concentrated Elixir caught fire. It didn't take long. The sticky substance bubbled and spat, flames reaching high into the air.
Satisfied with his work, the Claw grabbed Pello Tasca by the back of his robes and dragged him from the slaughterhouse.
Chapter Two
Inside the palace at Klarsamryn, King Korox placed his hand on his cheek and sank down deeper into his throne. Spring had just arrived in Erlkazar. He'd only been king since his father had passed away the previous winter. Already he missed his duties as the head of the Crusaders, protecting the five baronies.
It had been a long morning and afternoon, as most of them were. The business of running the kingdom took all day, and so Korox had begun holding court after sunset, hoping it would discourage those with petty complaints. It hadn't quite worked out that way.
"I demand an explanation!" A thin, opulently dressed older woman stood before the king, shaking her long, craggy finger in his direction.
It was going to be another very long night at court.
"What is it this time, Lady Herrin?" asked the king, trying not to let the complete lack of interest he had in this matter seep into his voice.
"Are you mocking me, Korox?"
The King of Erlkazar sat up straight in his throne and then leaned forward to scowl at Whitman, his scribe-a stocky man who looked like someone who had been sincerely over-educated. The royally dressed courtier was busy recording every word of the conversation and didn't notice that the ruler of his country was staring down at him. Nor, apparently, had he noticed the merchant calling the king by his proper name. With a sigh, the king turned his attention back to the cranky merchant.
"The last time I checked," he said, a smirk rounding out the corners of his lips, "the proper way to address your king would be as 'my lord,' or 'your majesty,' or even simply as 'King.' Isn't that right, Scribe?"
Whitman looked up from his vellum and quill. "Uh, yes my lord. Those are all acceptable addresses."
King Korox scowled again.
This time Whitman realized his lapse in duty. "Oh, uh, yes." He looked up at the merchant, pushing his wire glasses down his nose and glaring over the rims. "Lady Herrin. I find myself in the awkward position of having to remind you, once again, that this is the seat of power of Erlkazar, and King Korox's personal audience chamber. Your disregard for protocol will not be tolerated."
The fusty merchant crossed her arms, lifted her nose in the air, and let out an almost imperceptible offended chuckle. Then, after a long moment of pouting, she uncrossed her arms and turned to face the king.
"My lord-" she started.
"That's much better," interrupted Korox.
Lady Herrin took a deep breath, visibly irritated. Then she started again. "My lord, I am here as a representative