The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [1]
That burden was a large, stout man in rich garments, frozen in a pose as stiff and rigid as stone save for his furious eyes-eyes that darted this way and that, seeking to see all as one does who knows he will soon have very little to look upon at all. An armaragor of great size and thews carried the straight, immobile man, with the legs-steadying aid of a slightly smaller, older warrior who strode along with the easy authority of one born to command.
Hawkril Anharu was a gentle giant of a man, unless one crossed blades with him in battle. He carried their captive as lightly as if the man weighed nothing, and had to stoop and turn his broad shoulders at an angle to pass through the narrow door of the cell. He resembled an amiable bull in armor more than anything else.
The formerly raven-dark hair of the older armored man behind Hawkril was going gray and white now, but Ezendor Blackgult-once infamous across Asmarand as "the Baron Blackgult," a dashing warcaptain, decadent noble, and seducer of ladies high and low-was still handsome… and every bit as alert, as they moved through the dungeons, as Craer at the front of the band.
A radiance far paler than the torchlight flickered about their captive's head-the light of magic, lancing forth from a molded stone carried in the palm of a tall, slender woman who walked at the rear of the group. Above a slight frown, her eyes were also fixed upon her captive.
Embra Silvertree had once been best known as "the Lady of Jewels" for her elaborately decorated gowns, but she much preferred the simple leather breeches, warriors' boots, and open silk shirt she was wearing now. Her long, dark hair swirled untamed down her back as if it was a half-cloak, and men best knew her now in Aglirta as the most powerful sorceress in the land.
Like the others who walked with her, she was an Overduke of Aglirta-and like them, she was carrying out a distasteful but necessary duty this day. Her gaze never left their dark-robed captive as Hawkril swung the frozen-limbed man upright-boots uppermost-as if he weighed no more than the petals of a flower.
Craer and the Baron Blackgult deftly plucked and fitted dangling manacles, the slender procurer trying the smaller key Thannaso had surrendered to him in each cuff. They locked and unlocked flawlessly, and with a nod to the baron, Craer fitted them to the arms of their captive, then accepted Blackgult's cupped hands to boost him to where the procurer could reach higher manacles, and so secure their captive upside down to the great wheel on the cell wall.
A tremor ran through those limbs as they were secured-gods, but the man must be part dragon, to struggle so in the thrall of Dwaer-magic! – and Embra let out a sigh of pain. Hawkril gave her a quick glance as he stepped back from the chained man, but she gave him a reassuring smile through the ribbons of sweat now running freely down her face.
"I'm ready," the shorter, darker woman murmured at Embra's elbow, and the sorceress gasped and nodded, gesturing to her to proceed. Tshamarra Talasorn smoothly cast a spell, stepping forward at the end of her weaving to hold her spread hands on either side of the chained man's head-just outside the flickering aura of Embra's Dwaer-spun magic.
That light promptly faded and Died-only to be replaced by a brighter, more golden radiance flooding from Tshamarra's fingers.
"Spare your trouble," the chained man said, more wearily than bitterly. "I'm not going to try anything-not with a Dwaer-Stone that can blast me to spatters, or cook my mind like spittle sizzling into a