The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [27]
"I… crave pardon, Lord," Ingryl Ambelter mumbled, reading a certain look in the eyes of his employer. "The Lady Embra's sorceries-"
"Are mightier and more numerous than you expected," Baron Faerod cut in, his voice like the edge of a slow and deliberate sword blade. "She is my daughter, gentle mages. I expect your best efforts and that these strivings include, shall we say, rather more precision."
He lifted his eyebrows in the tense silence and added silkily, "Your magics will protect every hair on her head, gentle mages, and every inch of the skin she's so eager to display to passing swordsmen-won't they?"
They gave him only silence in reply. Baron Silvertree inclined his head and in like silence looked from one sweating face to the next until each mage, however reluctantly, had given him a nod of acquiescence. Then he turned his gaze again to the scene from afar hovering by the ceiling, ignoring the almost-audible mutterings and sidelong looks the three mages gave him as they retired to their corners again, to work more spells.
One of those three customarily spake but little and-as is the way in too many lands-was often forgotten and ignored in the rush and prattle of his more vocal fellows. His name was Klamantle Beirldoun, and for what seemed like sweating hours he'd been working a mighty magic unbeknownst to his fellow wizards and to the baron: a curse upon the Lady of Jewels. If her magic was the real problem here-for without it, how long could two vagabond Blackgult warriors last against the sorcery of Silvertree?-then let her magic be shattered until such time as she knelt to her father in heart and in limbs once more. If such a day ever came… which he doubted much. Until then, let the curse ride her: each time she worked a spell, the magic would steal some vitality from her, leaving her enfeebled and at the last but a walking skeleton, clinging to life only so long as she worked no magic.
Klamantle smiled a slow and soft smile and breathed the final word of the incantation in a whisper. Let it be done. Ah, yes, let it be done. Often forgotten, indeed.
"Silvertree seems not the safest place in Aglirta," Delvin of the Many Harps murmured to his companion, eyeing the dark forest around them. Night dew glistened in the fashionably curled brown hair that brushed the bard's slender shoulders as he spoke, darting wary glances at the night around.
Arching branches overhung the road where the two men stood, plunging everything into a gloom deep enough to hide prowling bears and nightcats or any number of dagger-wielding outlaws. Hastening down to Sirlptar on the night-cloaked roads of Silvertree seemed a far less sensible idea than it had yesternoon, in the full light of the beating sun.
"I am coming to think there are no safe places in Aglirta, anymore," Helgrym Castlecloaks replied quietly. Night dew glistened in the gray and white hairs of his short beard as he stopped to listen, his hand on the knife at his belt. "Hold!" He laid his other hand on Delvin's arm, and the two bards grew still together. There had been a sound…
There it was again: the rasp of armor. A full-armed warrior was somewhere near and moving nearer. No, several warriors…
Helgrym had seen war before. He drew his younger companion to the side of the road and crouched in a ditch that smelled strongly of rotting leaves. "Be very quiet," he breathed into Delvin's ear, and pointed.
Coming from the trees on the river side of the road were a band of warriors-hastening in grim determination and dripping from a recent swim. As they crossed the road, many with weapons drawn, there was much buckling and adjusting of armor. Spiked gauntlets and crested helms gleaming… Armor of the finest make, adorned with the arms of Silvertree. Wherever these armaragors were bound, they were in a hurry-a hurry to slay.
The Lady of Jewels clambered up a slippery ridge of moss-covered stones and found herself gasping for breath again. She clung to the nearest