The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [0]
Band of Four 01 - The
Kingless Land
Scanned by Highroller.
Proofed by an anonymous proofer.
A Proofpack release.
Ebook version 1.0
All we can boast about
All we hold proud
Comes to us drenched in blood:
The spilled lives of those who won it
For us all. Revere them.
Forget not their names.
In time of need,
Over the flames of fires,
We call to them
To come again.
For no land ever has heroes enough.
Especially not this one.
____________________
Whisper-chant of Kurgrimmon, Master Bard of Aglirta,
in the elder days, when there was a King
Prologue
The tavern sighed again.
Flaeros frowned across the warm room. Jacks of burnished copper hung on a forest of stout pillars flashed fireflicker back at him. Long-whiskered men hefted pipes and tankards unconcernedly, as if none heard the mournful wail but a would-be bard visiting from oversea.
He covered his darting glances with a sip of wine. A shiver trailed cold fingers down his back as the wailing ghosted past to his left. Peering that way, he caught the eye of a lion-maned old man two tables away: an eye that was keen, hawk-gold-and amused.
"You'll get used to it," the man told him, scratching his nose with a thoughtful thumb. "Truly."
Flaeros Delcamper drew in a deep breath. Arching his brow in a failing attempt to look unconcerned, he asked as quietly as possible, "Is-is it a haunting, then?"
The old man chuckled. "Came in the back door, did you? From over the wave?"
Flaeros flushed. "From Ragalar," he said shortly, "for the Moot. Landed at dusk, on the Storm Bird."
Bristling brows rose. "Costs a pearl or two for that swift a passage." Flaeros found himself measured, that golden gaze flicking up and down like a thrusting sword. He squirmed, suddenly more uncomfortable under scrutiny than he'd been since childhood.
Those golden eyes saw a man excited, young, and with a little too much wine aboard. From a prosperous Ragalan house, by his garb, eyes bright with all the wonders of the world on his first venture away from stern, gray Ragalar. Lilting voice, plenty of coins-a romantic, dreaming of being a master bard, probably sped hence with the blessings of parents beginning to think hopes of their youngling becoming anything were but wispy dreams.
Nettled by that knowing gaze, Flaeros opened his mouth to say something rude-but the moaning died as the old man glided soundlessly to a seat beside him.
"What you heard is why this house is less crowded than most, with the Moot coming down swift upon us." Old lips curved in a wry smile. "Sirl folk come here to avoid being jostled by the ballad-hungry… or just to spare their ears."
The severe wine matron who'd begun ignoring the beckonings of the youngest Delcamper appeared like a silent shadow to set down a generous platter of hot herbed woodwings tarts and a decanter of decidedly finer vintage than Flaeros had yet tasted. He turned to look at her in surprise, only to find a tapestry rippling back into place in her wake-an instant too late for him to miss the flashing smile she gave the old man over her shoulder. Who was he?
By then, the dry old voice was telling Flaeros that he was sitting in the Sighing Gargoyle. When breezes blew just so through the sculpted stone ears and many-fanged mouth of the archmount gargoyle out front, a sigh arose that was loud and lifelike.
Flaeros nodded and then stiffened at a warm touch against his hand. The old man had pushed the heated platter his way. He looked up warily as the delicious smell of heartgaer and roast woodwings rose around him.
"Eat," the old man said simply. "You have to give the wine something to work on, down below. Maershee's tarts are as good as you'll taste in all Sirlptar."
Flaeros was suddenly so hungry that his mouth filled with juices. He bit into a tart like a starving man and found it as good as it smelled.
Hot gravy was running off his chin, and the old man was grinning at him. The youngest Delcamper suddenly found that he didn't care. He grinned back, and the old man promptly pressed another tart into his hand.