The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [47]
Something hard-shelled and large-clawed that shuddered in silence for long moments as it gained bulk and solidity, before rousing itself to prowl forth and feed on these noisy victims-to-be…
10
To Kill a King
The end of a rope slithered down out of the night, brushing so close by Gurkyn Oblarram's face that the surly old warrior almost jumped back with a shout-and did dig steely fingers into the shoulder of the man beside him, and hiss like a startled rocksnake.
"Sargh, let go!" Mararr snarled under his breath fiercely, twisting free. "I'm no foe-or wasn't!"
"Pardon, by the Three, pardon," Gurkyn muttered hastily, watching the many short swords on Mararr's baldric sway and jostle in a dappling of moonlight. "Thought it was… a snake or something."
"Something it will be," Mararr Guldalmyn promised him in a harsh whisper, setting his boots against the wall and hauling himself an arm-length up the rope, "if it should happen again. Depend on that, O master of pots!"
Gurkyn gave him a deep growl, of the sort a hunting hillcat makes deep in its throat, but said no more. The armaragor who wore a small forest of short swords walked up the wall and into the darkness overhead with powerful, steady pulls on the rope. Gurkyn watched its end dance for a time, and then gave those around him a slow and sour survey. Lultus was far larger and heavier than one old and often drunk cook, and Gloun was even less of a climber. The other two, Peldrus and Tathil-no, Tathtorn, that was his name-Gurkyn barely knew. They'd come late to the baron's service, mere days before the sailing. Then, as now, they moved as one, not needing to speak or even gesture, seeming guided by the same thoughts. They'd prevented the boat from grating against the jetty, they'd held it while two sevens of men-Duthjack's blades now, every one-had clambered out…
and they'd made the moorings fast, their eyes never leaving the line of warriors slowly climbing the walls of Flowfoam, first with clawlike hands and then using the rope let down by the brave first few. Duthjack himself, his eyes large and dark with excitement, had already ascended, his personal bodyblades Calargh and Naor before and behind him. No alarm had risen as warrior after warrior had struggled up onto the wall, invading the royal isle unseen.
A good beginning, for a foray to kill a king. Too good, Gurkyn feared; how could they not have been noticed? This had been the castle of Baron Silvertree, infamous in the Vale for his cruelty-were there dozens of deathtraps ahead? Or watchers on the walls loading and aiming bows even now, awaiting only the ascent of the last intruding warrior, so as to have all gathered for easy slaying? Or was this Snowsar really so lax or overproud or powerless as to have no guards on the walls of Flowfoam?
Gurkyn shook his head. Sixteen men in all had crossed the cold waters of the Silverflow crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in Duthjack's stolen boat. Sixteen to hurl against the whelmed swords of a castle.
Not many. But then… what whelmed swords? Flowfoam seemed to sleep this night, with not even a torch to be seen on this side of the Isle, and no one walking the ramparts where desperate men had climbed, to crouch now, plotting together, like rats gathering at the same scrap of meat.
Aye. Just like hungry rats sharing a meal. Wherefore it was to be hoped that the meal was large enough for all, and would not become a battlefield for desperate men tearing at too meagre provender. Gurkyn stared thoughtfully off into the night, watching moonlight make the moving river into a bed of winking silver stars, and wondered what would go wrong-and if he'd see morning, or end his long and hard road choking in darkness with a sword through his guts.
The end of the rope fell into his view again, dancing wildly, and the dark mountain that was Lultus reached out a ponderous arm and touched Gurkyn's shoulder. The cook gave the shining river