The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [133]
The throne looked very much as it had the last time he'd seen it. There were fewer tapestries around the walls than he remembered, though, and those that were left were little better that dust-cloaked rags. Time gnaws at all, it does. The pillars were the features of most importance to him, anyway; they'd hide his preparations.
The man called Velvetfoot worked swiftly, stringing a cord here and a hook there, using liberal handfuls of ithraba sap from his belt-sack. When he was done, he stood where he'd planned to, in the lee of the largest pillar, and carefully coated the points of his five flingstars with sleepsar. The venom was as swift-drying as it was expensive, and harmless when it got that way, but he knew he'd not have long to wait.
Time to draw only two breaths, as it turned out. The Four came through the expected doorway quickly, moving with more speed than care along a familiar route, Craer in the lead and Hawkril a pace behind. Velvetfoot waited; Embra Silvertree had to fall first.
There. Her face pale in the gloom, scarcely touched by the small lamp glimmering in the armaragor's hand. Velvetfoot measured his distance carefully, wrung out his arm one last time, took up a flingstar with practiced care, and threw.
He dipped and scooped up the next flingstar without waiting for the result. The old man could be ignored, his spells too slow to do harm, but the arm-
Gods, but they were fast! Hawkril was charging already; they must have seen his arm swinging! Velvetfoot pulled on the cord that hung beside him, and threw his second star as hard as he could-not at the sprinting armaragor, but at the small man in leathers darting to one side.
The net came down in a dark and silent cloud, its weights keeping it from drifting, but the warrior's sword was held high, and he was coming fast indeed; he might even be able to burst through…
The second flingstar missed the procurer. Velvetfoot caught up two more and backed away from the pillar in case Craer dodged to come up behind it. Embra was reeling, her cheek sliced open by the star. She'd torn it away, but was-falling. So where was the old man?
The net enfolded the armaragor and his sword, but he kept coming, roaring curses and hacking. The sap would keep it around him, in a clinging shroud, so as long as a certain Velvetfoot kept clear-
Craer came leaping at him out of the darkness, but Velvetfoot had time for two clear throws. The first was struck aside with a deft dagger-but that left the procurer open for the second, and he was staggering face-first to the floor by the time he reached where Velvetfoot had been.
By then Velvetfoot was dodging forward, past the raging armaragor, to scoop up the last flingstar. 'Twould be hard to stab the heavily armored warrior with it, so-
Something slapped him hard across his face, something large and strong and possessed of fur that wrapped around his head, smelling faintly spicy. The most expensive "deadly shadow" for hire in all Sirlptar had just time to wonder what it might be before the longfangs almost lazily wrenched his head around… and off.
The lithe, headless body in leathers hopped forward like a grotesque frog, limbs spasming, and blundered into the end of the net, falling on it and providing enough of a drag on it that Hawkril's raging strength and sharp blade managed to cut a way free. For the next few frantic breaths the armaragor cursed and sawed and thrashed-until at last he was free, and staring wildly around in the gloom that was not quite utter darkness, but not enough for him to see anything useful.
The longfangs found the spilled lamp and struck sparks over it with a flingstar that their foe wouldn't be needing again; when the oil flared,