Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [180]
"Do you really think this boy-mage can defeat Shandril, after she has destroyed your best and most powerful?" Dargoth of the Purple said angrily.
"No," Naergoth Bladelord replied simply. "Another of our dragons pursues her right now."
"Another dracolich?" Dargoth said in angry astonishment. "We haven't many more sacred ones to lose!"
"True," Naergoth said, turning cold eyes upon him.
"This one went of its own will. I did not compel it or ask it to go to war-but I did not forbid it, either. One does not forbid Shargrailar anything."
Dargoth looked at him. "For the love of lost Sammaster! Shargrailar the Dark flies? Gods preserve us!" He sat back, shocked, shaking his head.
"They will hardly start doing that after all this time,"
Naergoth said to him dryly, reaching to extinguish the lamp. Darkness descended.
Suddenly they were in a place of fragrant vapors, pots, and knives. The warrior looked around and snorted. "A kitchen!" At his words, the cook, who stood with his back to them over a bloody cutting board, gave a start and whirled around, cleaver rising.
Thiszult smiled coldly at him. "So pleased to see us, Korvan?"
The sour-faced cook struggled to regain his composure; hatred, envy, fear, and exultation chased rapidly across his mean face. "Why, Thisz-"
"Hush. No names! How long ago did the wench leave?" Thiszult strode forward. "Which is the way out of here?"
"Outside, the back, that way. Or, in front: that way, right into the taproom, then left across it to the front door," Korvan said. "She and the boy-mage left but ten breaths back, if that, you may well be able to catch them if you-"
"Have horses. Where are the stables?"
"Around the side; that way. There's a good strong black, and a stouter but slower bay, down the end, and-"
"The cult thanks you, Korvan. You will receive an appropriate reward in time." Thiszult strode coldly out into the hallway with a snap of his dark cloak, the warrior at his heels. As the man went out, he drew his broad, stained sword and held it ready in his hand.
"Korvan," Lureene whispered as she came out of the open pantry, eyes dark with anger, "do you know those-those folk?"
The cook stared at her, white-faced, for a moment-and then he raised his cleaver again and went for her, determined. Lureene cast the tin of flour she held at his face and fled out the door, into the hall and then the taproom beyond. It was empty.
She ran across it, dodging between tables, and burst out the front door in time to see the dark-cloaked mage spur out of the inn yard like a vengeful whirlwind.
Before her, in the mud, Gorstag stood with his hands locked about the forearms of the warrior who had come with the mage. They stood straining against each other, the warrior's sword shaking in his grasp as he tried to force it' between them. Lureene ran as hard as she could toward them, sobbing for breath.
Behind her, the front door of The Rising Moon banged open again. Korvan. Her death. Lureene ran on, slipping and sliding desperately, knowing she had to warn Gorstag before Korvan's cleaver could reach him.
The two men were only ten paces away, now… now six, now three… Suddenly Gorstag slipped to one side arid pulled hard on the man's wrist instead of pushing against it, and the blade lunged forward-harmlessly past Gorstag's shoulder. He crashed into the man's chest and drove his fist as hard as he could into the man's throat.
Throat, neck, and man crumpled without a sound, and Gorstag turned in time to catch Lureene about the shoulders and spin her to a halt. "Love?" he asked, and Lureene pointed past him.
"Korvan!" she gasped. "He serves the cult! Look out!" As she spoke, the cook put on a last burst of speed and chopped at them as he came. Gorstag pushed Lureene hard to one side so that she staggered and nearly fell, and leaped away in the other. The cleaver found only empty air.
Korvan looked about, wildly, at both of them-too late, as fingers of iron took him by the neck from