The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [66]
Another day beset by intrigues. And to think some stoneheads wanted to be king.
The throne room today was truly the heart of the anthill, with courtiers scurrying this way and that, cloth-of-gold finery swirling and glinting, and the scheming chatter risen to a ceaseless din that echoed back from the ceiling in its restless, urgent fervency. His stewards of the chamber had been on their feet since dawn, fending off men who tried to rush the throne like besiegers storming a breach-and they were still at it now, stiff collars quivering with the force of their indignation and insistent commands.
One at a time they let the yammerers come to him, and one after another he heard them out, a bleating flood of fawning, now menacing, now oh-so-unsubtly hinting faces and reeking scents and glittering finery.
"Surely, Your Exalted Majesty," the latest one was saying, a patronizing sneer creeping across his face as if he judged Risen Kings too blind to notice such little details, "you must see that the family Halidynor has the elder, better claim to Phelinndar! Onthalus Halidynor should be standing before you as the most loyal of your barons right now-and can be, by this time two days hence, if you but-"
There was some sort of commotion by the doors. Voices raised in anger, heads turning in annoyance, stewards converging.
A man who wore more mud than shimmerweave thrust aside a steward and snarled loudly, "I care not if these folk have been waiting three days and nights through! My news cannot wait! The king's ready arm is needed now!"
More stewards rushed to that spot, and there was more shoving. "Aglirta stands in peril!" the man shouted desperately, as high collars hid him from view and started thrusting him back to the doors. "A rescue! My King! A rescue!"
King Snowsar came to his feet in a bound, dismissing the smoothly sneering courtier in midword with a curt wave of his hand, and strode down the steps from the River Throne with one hand upraised. "Hold!" he bellowed.
Silence fell in the chamber. All eyes were fixed on him but those of his struggling stewards, as they sought to move a man who, it seemed, would soon need to be dragged away.
"My stewards," the king added quietly, "desist. Bring that man to me."
Outrage was born on dozens of faces, most of his stewards' among them. A few managed to keep their faces carefully impassive; Snowsar almost smiled as he watched others struggle to seem loyal and eager to serve-and fail miserably.
"Keep me not waiting," he prompted, as the stewards seemed to hesitate, almost as if conferring amongst themselves in a flurry of silent glances. "Many concerns press us; many good people stand here… waiting."
The stewards had, it seemed, been arranging themselves into a formal escort around the intruder, for they now turned to face the throne in unison and marched forward, impatiently pushing the crowd of curious courtiers aside.
The man in their midst was red from his struggles, and looked more weary than triumphant. "Speak, goodsir," the Risen King bade him, hands on hips as he stood at the foot of the steps. "The concerns of all Aglirtans are welcome here."
The man bobbed his head in acknowledgment, caught his breath, and said in a rush, "A fearsome beast is come to the realm, Your Majesty-the like of which no man has seen before. A crab-beast as large as a haywagon, that walks the land and devours cows where they stand! It rends and devours farmfolk and even armaragors who stand against it, but otherwise ignores all, and will not be turned aside from its journeying-straight upriver. 'Tis in old Phelinndar by now."
The man paused for breath, and the court erupted in derisive chatter. The mud-caked man glared around for a moment, shook his head at the open disbelief he saw on many faces, and added loudly, "I am sent from Garthrail. We've no tersept or lord, but I speak for all-and for the farmers of Aundlestone, Brethrithyn, and Klaendor. Silvertree has no baron for us to turn to, no one to defend us against this beast born