Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [12]
He gestured to a huge, misshapen heap before him, covered with a rough cloth the color of old blood. At his signal, a trio of thieves leaped forward to pull back the cloth, revealing a pile of ebony armor. Next to it was a stack of long swords as dark and polished as onyx.
"With these weapons, we will crush the wretched clerics and seize the tome that points the way to the Hammer of Tyr-and the riches Bane is said to have buried with that relic. Clad yourselves in this armor and take up these swords, thieves of Phlan, and I promise you, you will fight as you never have before!"
The thieves eyed Slayer hesitantly. He had been second-in-command of the thieves' guild for no more than three moons, and many were still wary of him.
Slayer watched them scornfully. "Now!" he thundered, drawing himself up to his full seven feet. The soot-covered rafters shook with the force of his voice, and his dark eyes blazed with menace. Clad all in black leather, he was a commanding figure.
The resistance of the thieves broke. Swiftly they pressed forward, grabbing breastplates as smooth as beetle carapaces and swords as sleek as adders. Most of them were at a loss as to how to don the armor, and they stared at the weapons in confusion. Thieves were usually creatures of stealth and trickery, not warriors.
"We're cutthroats, Slayer, not bone-brained fighters!" a voice sneered over the din. "Or did you forget that, just as you and your foul mistress have forgotten so many of our other traditions?"
Slayer turned his dark gaze toward a wiry man with a shaved head and an eye lost in a mass of scar tissue. Kankorlin. He had been loyal to Bercan, the guildmaster Sirana had murdered three months before. Kankorlin had been whispering against Sirana ever since she seized command of the guild. Now he had finally summoned the courage to speak out.
"I for one won't wear this junk!" Kankorlin tossed down a breastplate in disgust and turned to the assembled thieves. "We can't lumber up to the temple in these. Fine targets we'll make for the spells of those idiot clerics."
Murmurs of agreement drifted through the hall.
"Is that so, Kankorlin?" Slayer replied, his voice as smooth as oil. "Well, if you don't care to wear the armor, you certainly don't have to."
Kankorlin smiled at his easy victory. However, his pleasure was short-lived.
With an idle flick of his black-gloved hand, Slayer sent an inky sphere of magic hurtling toward Kankorlin. It struck the wiry thief directly in the chest. There was a sizzling sound and a smell of burning flesh as the thief was propelled backward and crushed against a granite wall. The other thieves stared in shock as the remnants of Kankorlin's body slid to the floor, still smoking.
"Who else prefers not to don the armor?" Slayer inquired.
Three hundred thieves less one scrambled to strap on the onyx breastplates.
With a flourish, Slayer raised his own suit of black armor in one hand. Fiery sparks sped from his fingertips to engulf the ebony armor. In the blink of an eye the suit magically melded to his body. The metal conformed tightly to his muscles, fitting him like a second skin.
As the thieves strapped on the black armor, they noted the slippery, greasy quality of the metal. As the form-fitting metal covered each wearer from neck to ankle, a subtle transformation took place. Each thief suddenly became a little bulkier, more muscular. Faces grew harder and coarser; brutish gleams ignited in every pair of eyes. Slayer stroked his well-oiled beard, most pleased. Sirana's enchanted armor seemed to be everything she had promised it would be.
Suddenly the torches dimmed as a chill gust of wind coursed through the hall. Slayer sensed Sirana's shadow minions approaching. His mistress must have finished her incantations in her nearby spellcasting chamber.
The torches guttered and died, plunging the hall into darkness. The sound of wings echoed like heartbeats. Suddenly nine pairs of feral red eyes appeared in