The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [80]
The moon was sinking, but would shine brightly on the high battlements of Stornbridge Castle for some time yet. Occasional gentle breezes ghosted past the nervous Storn cortahars who kept watch there, but the starry sky had been clear since sunset, and bid fair to remain so.
Or had, at least, until a moment ago, when a drift of cloud as thick as river-mist had unaccountably formed above the moat, curling around itself with deceptive lassitude… and then suddenly flowed up the castle wall and flooded through the merlons, to drift among the warriors.
There were words of wary alarm, and a call through a turret window for a Serpent-priest-but before any robed figure could stride forth to deal with the mysterious mist or impart some sharp words to overly fearful cortahars, two figures appeared in the lee of the mist, seemingly born of nothingness, on a part of the battlements where the usual bored wallwatch sentries were absent thanks to the unusual gathering of fully armored defenders around the turret of Storn Tower.
"A snake'll be out to clear it soon," Craer murmured. "By then we must be right in their midst, or 'twill be farewell, surplus overdukes!"
The armaragor glanced over his shoulder. "The one from the gate-tower's seen us. He's… aye, he's on his way here-with his alarm-horn."
"That's unfriendly of him. He's alone?"
"Yes," Hawkril said. "Should I-?"
"No, we need him taken silently. His helm and tunic would be useful, too. Get down here."
The armaragor stooped, puzzled, as Craer laid himself on the flagstones and asked, "Did you bring that cloak the Coinmaster left behind? The one I pointed at?"
Hawkril snorted. "Of course. My mind may not follow yours down every devious twist and trail, but I trust you-the Three alone know why." He plucked a wadded bundle of cloth from behind his shield-strap, and shook it out to full length. "Here 'tis."
"Right. Draw your sword and lay it ready here." The procurer patted the flagstones just to his left. "Then keep hold of that cloak and lie down on top of me-and don't crush me, you great ox, or as I die groaning, I'll curse you to the doing something much worse. How close is our enthusiastically approaching guard?"
Hawkril glanced again. "Starting along the last run of battlements now."
"Good. Spread the cloak over us. I don't want him to see anything of me but my boots. Leave the talking to me, and don't act startled."
"You're the madman," the armaragor agreed amiably, lowering himself carefully onto his elbows and shaking the cloak out over them both.
"Ready?" Craer murmured from beneath him. "Shift your left arm a bit, so I can peer out under it. Yes."
A moment later, he gasped in a high, feminine-sounding voice, "Oh, yes! Oh, love me! More! More! Don't stop, my stallion! Oh, don't stop!"
Hawkril moved atop his friend as if they were lovers, hearing the nearby scrape of a cortahar's boot coming to an uncertain stop.
"Oh, yesss! More! Oh, give me more of you, you great-oh, ohhh, ohhh!n Craer cried, setting Hawkril to trembling with suppressed laughter.
"Graul!" the cortahar exclaimed, his voice a mix of disgust and wonder, and the overdukes heard the tip of a grounded sword grate on stone. "Who's that, Orsor, and where did you find her?"
Craer laid a finger across Hawkril's lips, reminding him to be silent. "Oh, my Horse!" he cried in apparent alarm, sounding so much like Embra playacting that Hawkril nearly collapsed into guffaws. "Someone's watching us! Oh, hurry! Uh! Hurry!"
He paused for a moment, and then added with a girlish giggle, "Unless he's one of your friends…"
"Forefather above," the cortahar growled, leaning closer. "Orsor, who is this wench?" He peered, leaning on his sword as if it was a walking stick, and then stiffened. " You're not Or-"
The rest of whatever he'd intended to say was drowned in gurgling-the only sound the Storn knight could