The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [103]
Seething, Margathe drove the sword she was carrying into the floorboards beside her, where it quivered as she flung the poker in her other hand at Embra Silvertree. The poker cracked off the railing and struck down a hapless merchant below the stair, but the sound brought Embra's head around to see who her attacker had been-in time to receive a veritable flood of hurlings from the furious mistress of the Flagon. A flower-jug burst on the rail and sent its shards and water all over an already-reeling bladesman, a ewer of wash-water spun over the rail and drenched Embra with its icy contents as it literally spun across her breasts, and the next missile-a dirty boot left outside a door for cleaning-caught the Lady of Jewels full in the face.
As she staggered, dropping her table leg with a clatter, the other boot slammed into the side of Embra's head.
Bruised and furious, Embra went to her knees, snatched at Sarasper's belt with a hand that still trailed flame, and snarled harsh, thick words that rang back off the ceiling.
The surge of power that burst forth from her an instant later took the stair-rail and most of the stairs with it, hurling them against the wall of the stairwell with splintering force, and tumbling a sobbing Margathe the length of the passage she'd come in by. The roar of the magic was like a clap of thunder inside the inn; in its ringing wake, everyone in the stairwell came to a numbed and peering halt, all eyes turning to regard the furious woman on the stairs.
Embra Silvertree's hair was standing straight out from her head in all directions, and wisps of smoke were curling up from her hands and between her parted lips. She was looking just as dazed as the folk staring at her.
"Oh, dear," she said unsteadily, looking at the gape-mouthed corpses of two guards, transfixed to the wall by shards of the stair-rail. "I-it's never done that before."
In the sudden silence, her hands went to the empty pouches on her belt, fumbling there and finding nothing-and with a sucking sound and a wet plop, someone's severed hand unpeeled itself from where her blast had sent it, driven against the ceiling amid much sticky gore, and plunged to the floor far below.
Borthor's head jerked up. "What," he asked, in the tones of a man who'd rather be cursing, "was that?"
"We'd best get in there," Kether said in awed tones, as they peered at the inn and heard the shouting and crashing sounds slowly begin again. The Flagon had literally been shaking-right out to the stable-mud under their boots.
The two night guards exchanged grim looks. "You know we're fools, don't you?" Borthor growled, as they drew their swords and ran to the east door.
"I was trying not to think about that," Kether replied, as the door banged open and they shouldered through it, not slowing.
The door banged shut, leaving the innyard empty of all but moonlight.
For all of about three seconds.
"I thought they'd never leave," a tree by the fence-or rather, a dark shadow detaching itself from the forest giant's trunk-muttered.
"Umm," the other moving form replied, as they stepped together over the fence and into the innyard. The moonlight showed them to be two men who might have been naked, or might have been clothed-but whatever they were or weren't wearing, it was rippling and flowing as they came… and their heads offered the world only smooth pink surfaces where their faces should have been.
The Koglaur seemed almost to melt through the door, in uncanny silence. It closed behind them scant moments before a panting man rushed around the corner of the Flagon, ducked down behind some barrels where he could see the east door, and allowed himself a smile.
If the gods were still smiling, Weldrin Hathenbruck would need only to wait here to have his fortune delivered right into his hands.
The flood