The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [37]
Sarasper's voice was more tired than patient as he growled, "I'm neither mad nor minstrel-witted. I can tell you only that I speak of truth, not empty legend. I suppose you think the Serpent in the Shadows is just another pretty tale, too?"
"Some evil mage now worshiped by dabblers in poison and the like?" Hawkril rumbled.
"A wizard-," the old healer and the sorceress began, together. They fell silent and looked at each other. Sarasper gestured like a courtier to Embra, indicating she should continue. She gave him a narrow-eyed look and then nodded and said softly, "A wizard who had a hand in the enchanting of the Stones but went mad, or was mad, and murdered several rival mages to strengthen the enchantments he was placing on a Dwaer. When his deeds were discovered, the other mages of the Shaping confronted him. He fled into serpent form to try to fight his way free of their spells-and they imprisoned him in a serpent shape. He wears it still."
"He's still alive, too?" the armaragor asked, voice heavy with disbelief.
"Swordmaster," the healer asked in return, "is there anything in all Darsar you believe in, beyond that sword in your hand and the next meal heading for your belly? Or is it all coins and wenches, better armor and a good bed to sleep in?"
"Old man," Hawkril Anharu replied, fixing Sarasper with a level eye, "I often think all Darsar would be a better world to dwell in if more folk concerned themselves with such things and less about following gods and raising kingdoms and slaughtering their neighbors. Oh, yes-and dreaming clever dreams, too."
Armaragors with guttering torches held high cast towering shadows on the stone walls. Wordlessly they led the cloaked and cowled figures up secret stairs into a room dark with tapestries, somewhere high in the castle of Baron Ornentar.
A shimmering occurred in the air as each visitor parted tapestries and stepped within. Most of them knew it as a shielding against spying magics, and welcomed its small reassurance. If the barony of Ornentar was to escape the yoke of Silvertree, Baron Eldagh was at least taking basic precautions against Faerod's Dark Three.
None of the visitors was particularly surprised to see magical wands in the hands of the hooded figure who stood behind the baron or armaragors seated on either side of him with loaded crossbows in their laps and swords naked and ready on benches before them… but then, none of the visitors had themselves come unprepared. Dark deeds-and plotting them-demand desperate measures. Doubtless armaragors stood ready behind every tapestry around the room: armaragors who served the desperate man who sat facing them all.
They all knew him, at least by face and repute. The Baron Ornentar was a fat, stone-faced man. His dark, lidded eyes were both cold and sinister. A man who thought himself subtle but was no more so than a descending ax-once one realized he was ruled always by his hunger for power.
His visitors did not recognize the wizard with the wands behind the baron, but had taken care that any mage traveling out of Silvertree would be observed, and any spying magic blocked. Whoever this masked stranger was, he was no tool of Faerod. His was probably the backbone that had made the baron bold enough to take this open step against Silvertree.
More visitors were arriving: tall and broad-shouldered warriors, the faint rattle of armor beneath their cloaks, and heavy war swords at their sides. There were even a few more sly and slight men; procurers, perhaps.
"The count is complete," the baron said at last. "Let the full guard be mounted." Tapestries swirled as armaragors behind them gave salutes and left for their posts. "Be seated, if you will, and unmask," the master of Ornentar added. "We are all here, I think, for the same reason, and need know no strife within these walls."
The same whispered word had indeed brought all of these visitors to Ornentar