Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [5]
"Let us hope no such frantic summons is needed,' the seneschal said grimly. "If it is, there'll no doubt be a death behind it." He clapped his hand on the boldshield's armored shoulder. "My thanks, whatever lies ahead. When you're gone, IT1 send Janrath on a fast horse for the wizards."
"By sheer coincidence," Ergluth told the ceiling casually, "we should be riding along the same strech of road, at just about that time, watching for arrows from the trees, brigands… that sort of thing."
"Sort of thing, indeed," Renglar agreed, and went to the door. "Thanks again."
The boldshield shrugged, and demonstrated that it was his turn to clap a comrade on the shoulder "Whenever you need folk hacked to the ground, just call on the Purple Dragons We also do parades, stand around beside doors looking menacing, and trample crops into the fields, given the slightest encouragement."'
"So I've heard," Renglar said. "How are you at replacing slain young lords? Or dragging folk who killed them behind your horses at a fast gallop for a mile or so? My Athlan should not lie in ashes now. He should have served Cormyr until he was as old as you and me."
"I hear you," Ergluth muttered. "If the spellhurlers miss somehow, call me back in for a few more glasses of wine and we'll turn Firefall Keep and everyone in it upside down and inside out for you.
He went out into the passage. The two veterans stood looking at each other for a breath or two, not smiling or speaking. Then the boldshield raised a hand in salute and went back down the stairs. The guards fell in before and behind him, as an escort of honor. When the seneschal beard the thuds of their boot heels joining those of his guest, he closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed heavily.
Athlan, gone forever. His fingers tightened suddenly around the glass in his hand-and it sang and shattered, spilling in shards between bis fingers.
The seneschal watched the slivers bounce, dark with his blood. He set his jaw. Not bothering to stop the bleeding yet, he crossed the room to a certain closet door, and spoke to it.
"You heard? Janrath has orders not to hurry, you've got four days, mayhap five, before Ergluth gets a letter written and delivered to Laspeera. I need you to investigate everything the war wizards cant-or daren't. Do you agree?"
"Aye," said a muffled voice inside the closet.
The seneschal smiled grimly. "Good," he replied, and went back across the room to find a cloth to wind around his cut fingers. It took longer than he'd expected.
When he was done, he frowned and looked up, wine decanter in hand. "Well, you can come forth now Arkyn-unless you like spending the night in a closet"
There was no reply. The seneschal's eyebrows rose, and then drew down into a darker frown. "Arkyn" he called sternly. "Wake! Rouse!"
He went to the closet and pulled the door wide. The gruff jest he'd drawn breath to bark became a gasp of horror… The decanter found the floor, shattering in a thousand skittering shards.
The Harper agent was standing in his accustomed place in the closet, among the weather cloaks, but he wasn't wearing his usual grin.
Arkyn Hornblade was headless, encrusted with his own dried blood. Renglars gaze traveled down the dirty brown trails to find the Harper's staring, severed head. It had been set neatly down between his boots.
"Gods!" the old seneschal gasped hoarsely.
The headless Harper moved, lunging forward for one heart-stopping moment before toppling to the floor. He landed with a heavy thud-but no blood flowed. Arkyn had been dead for hours.
The seneschal swallowed, spun around to strike the call-gong on the wall by the door-and froze.
A moment later he pivoted again, grabbing for the knife at his belt. If Arkyn had died so long ago, who'd answered from inside the closet?
Nothing moved. The dead Harper lay sprawled the carpet, and silence hung heavy in the room. The seneschal spat out an oath and kicked open another