The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [5]
Water slapped his face again, jolting Hawkril out of his memories of warm dripping lamb. If he'd dared to speak at all, he'd have dared the procurer swimming at his elbow to justify stealing a gown-a lady's gown, sargh and bebolt it!-again.
But they were close in under the grim gray walls now, and he dared not say a word. The icy breeze ghosting past could well be carrying the ears of a listening wizard. A mage whose boredom would die swiftly in the glee of slaughtering two outlaws daring to intrude on the island that was Castle Silvertree.
Why, oh why, did he let Longfingers talk him into such madnesses? They'd agreed to get in, steal a gown or whatever else of substantial worth they could easily carry off that didn't look magical, and get out without tarrying to explore or get greedy.
Castle Silvertree occupied an entire island in the Silverflow… or at least its walls enclosed the isle. Walls that now towered up into the night like a black hand raised against them-a black gauntlet waiting to close down and crush what it grasped.
It was well known that a forested garden grew at the heart of the island, between the palace wherein dwelt the Lady Embra Silvertree-the tall, beautiful, never-seen Lady of Jewels-at its downstream end, and a dock and fortress, the true Castle Silvertree, at the "prow," or eastern end. Walls as steep and crenellated as any bold baron's linked them, rising from the rocky roots of the isle like a huge shield to wall out unwanted intruders. Two desperate outlaws from the ruin of Ezendor Blackgult's army, for instance.
The Golden Griffon badge they'd been so proud to wear would now mean their deaths-and a ruthless man somewhere on the island ahead seemed a few swift battles away from claiming the kingdom Blackgult had fallen short of, with the baronies of Brostos, Maerlin, and Ornentar bowing to his writ and wishes. A greater snake than anything the Silverflow might hold.
The river rippled again, carrying away most of Hawkril's deep growl of anger.
Craer had led the way, striking out from shore the moment full night was down and the river mists had risen, hopefully cloaking them from any watchers on the frowning battlements. Their only hope of reaching the isle without tiring was to swim for the dock and let the river carry them down the length of the fortified island, to the rough outcropping in the otherwise sheer castle walls, where a jetty had been torn away at the orders of Faerod Silvertree-to keep unwanted visitors far from his daughter.
Their only hope of even reaching the castle alive was to get to it before the moon rose and transformed the river into a sheet of rippling silver. Even a yawning guard could hardly miss two heads moving steadily nearer.
Tarry, old moon… for once…
"Close, now," Craer gasped, so quietly that Hawkril only just caught the words. As their fingertips brushed wet and slimy stone at about the same time, the procurer added in an almost soundless breath, "Seems like we've been in this bebolten river all night!"
He shivered like a swift-wriggling eel as he clawed himself up the broken face of rock, a dark and glistening shadow in front of Hawkril's nose. They both wore carry-sacks and bore their weapons lashed into goose-greased scabbards… and they were both cold, wet, and having second thoughts about this bold-ah, by the Three, call it true and call it "foolish"-plan.
"Ready?" Craer asked in Hawkril's ear, as the armaragor clambered up onto a rock shelf beside him and tugged off one boot to let far too much river water spill out.
"No, but if we meet a guard, I can always drown him," the swordmaster muttered, carefully working his boot back on. They both wore their light fighting-leathers without the battle padding that, when wet, would have made it too heavy to climb in. At least the walls here were rough set and easy to scale. No doubt the Lords Silvertree,