The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [106]
Raulin spun around above the old healer as something that howled blotted out the moonlight, and two borrowed daggers were ready in both trembling hands as he sprang to meet whatever it was, screaming his own terror aloud as he struck, and struck, and struck again-ere they crashed to the floor together.
The hurtling man was dead, his throat slit open and a dagger hilt-deep in his heart, almost before his face struck the floorboards.
"Where is she?" Hawkril Anharu roared, stalking along a passage. "What have you done with her?"
A guard looked him up and down contemptuously. "Lost your whore, warrior?"
The armaragor roared out his rage and struck, smashing aside the man's sword, breastplate, and all in a furious swordcut that sent the guard gasping to the floor, clutching at his bleeding chest and gasping in pain.
"Where is she?" Hawkril snarled into his face.
"We've better things to do, man," another guard snapped, as they advanced on him in careful unison, swordpoints lifting like the tails of serpents coiling to strike, "than keep track of bed-wenches, whether or not they know sorcery!"
Hawkril growled and strode to meet them, lifting his warsword almost eagerly.
One of the guards eyed it and flung up a hand to stop his fellows. "Who was she?" he snapped at the advancing armaragor.
"The Lady of Jewels," Hawkril replied grimly. "The Baroness Silvertree."
The guards fell back in shocked silence as he added bitingly, "I hope you'll have something creative ready when you try to excuse yourselves to the king."
"Warrior!" another voice snapped, from behind the guards. It was the tapmaster, and he lifted an arm to point through the archway that led into the taproom. "Let there be no more bloodletting! There's the one you seek."
Hawkril kept his warsword ready in front of him as he came around the corner.
The table the Four had shared earlier had been cleared-by the simple means of sweeping everything on it onto the floor. Embra Silvertree lay on it, asleep or senseless on her back with the bed-blanket spread over her… and no one else that he could see in the taproom.
Hawkril moved to stand over her, glaring all around. "How came she here?"
Tapmaster Nortreen waved at his men to keep back, and came into the room. His face was white and set as the armaragor looked up at him.
"Two men just came in," he said, swallowing, "by the front portal, and laid her as you see her."
Hawkril's blazing eyes narrowed. "You saw their faces?"
The tapmaster swallowed again. "They had no faces."
The armaragor merely nodded slowly, making no show of surprise.
Nortreen moved forward a little uncertainly, keeping his hands behind him. "Now, warrior, there has been quite enough blood spilled in my inn this night. I demand that you lay down your sword and go to your room."
Hawkril lifted one eyebrow, saying nothing.
"In my time," Nortreen Jhalanvyluk said in the deepest voice he could manage, "I was regarded as a great warrior. Men feared me up the Vale and down-and it has not been all that long since I retired here. If you expect to live longer, warrior, heed me. Lay down your sword."
Hawkril set his warsword on the table beside Embra, and said wearily, "I've no quarrel with you, tapmaster."
Nortreen stepped forward. "That is good. Is your lady wounded?"
The tapmaster laid a hand on the bed-blanket to lift it back-and the warsword flashed out like a striking serpent, cutting like fire across the knuckles of Nortreen's other hand.
The dagger the tapmaster had been bringing up to stab the sorceress clattered out of his sliced and dangling fingers… and Nortreen swayed above the body of the woman who'd caused so much trouble in his beloved Flagon.
Darkness was suddenly rushing up to claim him…
With the hand that wasn't holding his warsword again, Hawkril reached out and spun the body of the fainting tapmaster, to keep him from dealing the death with his falling weight that he'd failed to give with his fang.
As Nortreen crashed to the