The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [65]
The wheels wouldn't stand on edge, she decided, after her third attempt-and her fingers were shaking just a trifle, mind you, no more-when a hush fell upon the place.
The four from the sewers glanced up in the stillness to see bright helms pushing through the suddenly shrinking crowd, accompanied by bright breastplates with the flame and crossed golden swords of Adeln large and splendid upon them. In between were grizzled faces that wore rather unpleasant grins, two of them belonging to men even larger than Hawkril.
"Ah, behold! Loyal citizens of Adeln who've shown their love for our brave baron by bringing their weapons into town so they can join the soldiery!" the largest of the warriors said jovially, around a mustache as large and as greasy as a butcher's slab. "Up, lads, and bring the wench with you! It's four falcons, and the barracks to spend them in, you'll be seeing this night!"
Even as they heard the rattle of manacles in one of his hands, the Band of Four found themselves staring down the sharp length of a dirty dagger he held in the other.
The recruiters were very good at their jobs. Hawkril and Craer had blades to their throats in a trice, even before their leader was properly started into his speech, and the pommels of daggers poised above their ears to strike them senseless, just for good measure.
No such rough measures had been used yet, though. The recruiters obviously expected a little fun-and some coins offered as desperate bribes, as well as unfinished tankards, to swig-before dragging their prizes away.
The large mustache reeked of old, bad stew and spilled beer as it bent forward over the Lady of Jewels, and its owner leered down at her, peering at all the flesh he could see and sliding his dirty blade forward to make the slice that would either scar Embra for life or lay her bare down to the waist.
Hawkril groaned, deep in his throat, and she saw the recruiter behind him tense to strike, just as Sarasper made a sudden movement, and"You are here," Baron Silvertree said simply, "because you are my best warriors. Succeed at this little task, and you can both expect promotions and enough gold to buy splendid houses, or a stable of horses, or anything of that sort you fancy. You have my word on this."
The two burly armaragors kept as still as they could and carefully avoided looking at each other. The baron's word. They were Silvertree's best, and so they knew very well that they'd not live to see their promised rewards, one way or another. If it hadn't been for the cursed mages who ruled everything in Silvertree, they could simply fade from view after reaching Sirlptar. But then, if it wasn't for those same thrice-cursed mages, they'd not have this task in the first place. The spells just cast on them had set their bodies tingling-an endless thrumming that showed no signs of abating, so as to let them, for example, sleep.
"Daerentar Jalith and Lharondar Laernsar," the baron intoned grandly. "Two names that shall be heard in Silvertree often each day, as we await word of your success. You know the men all down the river to contact, should you need aid-and they know to expect you and to stint nothing in their efforts to make your venture a success."
Daerentar and Lharondar smiled their thanks in unison. Both recalled the cold menace in Spellmaster Ambelter's voice as he'd explained that the shielding spell they carried would do nothing to aid them and could be discharged only by an enemy wizard using a spell designed to shatter magic or by their touching the Lady Embra Silvertree directly. The black looks the Spellmaster had given the wizard Markoun had made it clear whose idea this magic was, but if the Baron, the other mage, and Markoun himself gave no sign of noticing that glare, neither