The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [6]
"Well, that's it: he's doomed now, the fool," Craer told himself in silent sarcasm, as he wiped his fingertips on the stone walls until he judged them dry enough and reached up to find his first fingerholds.
The palace was somewhere on the far side of the island, with a Silvertree riverboat-according to local gossip, the home of restless Silvertree soldiery set there to intercept attempts by enemies of the baron to use his ferry-anchored not far off its walls.
Hopefully no one and nothing dwelt or guarded the walls just here, where the pavilion and jetty had been torn down, and two desperate men were now making their way up. "Desperate, or just foolish," Craer grunted, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until he heard Hawkril answer from below.
"Master it, Longfingers: you're desperate. I'm just foolish, look you?"
Craer grinned into the darkness and climbed on without answering. The going was easy-too easy, old instincts were shrieking at him-and they were almost at the crenellations that topped the wall already. He'd heard and seen no sign of sentries, but…
Straining to make no sound, and to hear even the slight whistle of sliced air a stealthily swung weapon might make, the procurer hauled himself up onto smooth stone strewn with bird droppings-a thankful sign of neglect-between two merlons. The wall was thick and showed not the slightest signs of weathering, here at its top. Not the slightest signs…
The hair rose on the back of his neck. A frowning Craer unlaced the ties on two of his daggers. Then, swallowing, he crawled forward to make room for Hawkril. The armaragor was patting his leg impatiently, wanting to get clear of the danger of a killing fall back down to the cold, waiting river.
A simple, railless walkway ran along the inside of the walls for as far as the lastalan's eyes could see in either direction, without stair or tower or platform to break its run. It seemed deserted, silent trees standing in thick ranks right in front of them. The walkway was perhaps the height of three men aboveground. It didn't seem to bear any traps or pitfalls but was in truth largely lost in darkness.
Some spells give off a faint, high singing, an endless keening of aroused magic… but there was no such sound here. The trees had been trimmed to keep ambitious boughs from reaching out to overhang the walkway. Craer looked up and down the deserted curve of the wall, frowning, but could see nothing amiss. Behind him, he could feel more than hear Hawkril's heavy breathing on his shoulder. Something was wrong…
He reached back and tapped the armaragor's arm deliberately, twice-the Blackgultan signal to wait silently until bidden otherwise-and then eased himself forward, keeping low and inching with infinite care, looking for a tripwire that might bring death out of that close and dark foliage. He found nothing.
Unlacing the cords that secured his needle-thin whip-blade shortsword, Craer thrust it out before him and waved it around. Its blade was black and dull finished, but the grease that might keep it from rusting glistened in the first light of the rising moon. Nothing happened, even when he touched the walkway and pressed down hard. Then he sighed, shrugged, and stepped forward and down, knowing this was going to be a mistake.
It was, but Hawkril had joined him before something brushed Craer's leg. He spun away, and felt leather tear. Looking down, he stared at a humanlike arm that had sprouted out of the stones to clutch at him. Another was reaching for Hawkril-and a third!
"'Ware!" he snarled, shoving the armaragor away from him. His skin crawled as he saw a forest of fingertips growing out of the stones, now. "Jump!" he hissed. "We've got to get gone before-"
Cruel stone fingers clutched them from all sides.
"Horns!" Hawkril swore,