The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [104]
One merchant made the mistake of extending a hand to clutch at a dark-clad, passing shoulder. "Hoy," he began, "that's my bed-bl-"
The blade that took his life was no thicker than a knitting needle; it burst in and out of his eye like lightning. After the merchant's body crashed onto its face and spilled a ribbon of blood across the boards, no one else moved in the passage as the two men in dark leathers passed among them.
Vandur and Kethgan did not smile at the quivering statues they stepped around; the capturers had long ago set aside thrills and enjoyments while working. Coldly alert, they moved forward with all thought bent on a single purpose. They had a contract to fulfill.
Abruptly men were shouting and striking at each other with their swords again, down below. Steel rang again and men moved, the tapmaster striding forward with angry gestures to send his guards against the bladesmen and frantic merchants entangled at the bottom of the stair. Margathe came staggering grimly back out of the passage, her face marked, battered, and covered with someone else's blood.
The armaragor in breeches still stood on the stair, holding it with the sweeping point of his great warsword-and behind him, the sorceress in boots was visibly wavering in her thoughts.
Without figurines and other gewgaws, she had no magic left-yet she dared not leave Hawkril to fight alone! On the other hand, what good could she be to him?
Embra almost growled aloud as she mounted the steps swiftly. If she could get back to their rooms quickly, and retur-
"You!" The howl from below was as loud and furious as before, though the bruised and swelling face of its owner looked more toadlike than earlier. Margathe was pointing up at her as if Embra was some evil affront to the gods, and-
She had no warning of the bed-blanket descending over her head at all, only a sudden whirling nightmare of hard-booted darkness and enthusiastic bodies taking her bruisingly down onto the worn wooden steps.
Embra struggled to roll over and rise, hearing Margathe's shouts of approval through the reeking cloth-but what felt like a fist came out of nowhere to put an end to all struggles, and she was falling into darkness, cruel applause and all fading behind her…
The removal of the sorceress swept away the fears and misgivings of many angry men, and the stairwell was suddenly a furious battlefield once more, with guards slashing down roused guests, women screaming, and the air full of hurled oddments. Yelling, sword-waving men in various states of undress streamed into the central chamber from all directions, and swept like a tide over the bladesmen and the armaragor on the lower steps of the stair.
The screams rose in deafening unison when something huge and serpentine burst through the archway from the taproom, carrying benches and curtains before it. Scales shone as it reared up, flat golden eyes glaring from a dozen heads, and let as many fanged jaws yawn open almost lazily.
Men staggered back in fear-and as the serpent-thing glided forward and crashed down, heads darting here and there to bite and slay, the passages emptied in screaming terror. Men there were, however, who did not die in the mage-slayer's first strike, as it quested around the room that still thrummed with magic-and they raced forward to stab and hack frantically, plying their blades with such fervor that no less than five heads hung limp and bloody when the shimmer-scaled serpent reared up again.
White to the lips, Tapmaster Nortreen stood his ground, paunch quivering. He'd not quite believed the bards who claimed the upland Vale still held horrors such as this… but he believed now, and he had an inn to defend.
Golden eyes glared down at