The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [67]
The Risen King drew himself up to his full height, and took a step backwards without looking, up one step of the stair to his high seat, the better to be seen. "The Throne shall provide," he said loudly. "Stewards, make ready my Swords of the Castle, ready-armed for war. Bid them bring along a wagon of lances and a barrel of pitch. Let all be ready on the barge by sunfall."
There was a moment of shocked silence-and then the chamber erupted into a positive roar of excited, indignant, and incredulous talk.
Gods, was this Risen King to be a hothead forever wild-riding to the excitement of the moment? He dared to send his paltry bodyguard, or go with them! Who, then, would rule Aglirta while he was gone? Was this some trick of a baron, to gather in the king to a swift death by arrows in the woods upriver from Silvertree? How dare this clod of a farmer burst in with such a wild, obviously false tale! Was he hoping to capture the king and demand a ransom of Aglirta? Well, he'd get not a single copper wheel from this purse, no, nor-
"Tell me more of this beast," the king said more quietly, stepping down again to take the mud-covered man by the arm and guide him up the steps to the table by the throne where two stewards guarded decanters of wine and a platter of biscuits and cheeses. The roar of converse fell instantly to a ragged hush, as courtiers strained to hear every word exchanged by the king and the man from Garthrail.
"It's, ah, gray, Your Majesty," the weary envoy began, gratefully accepting a goblet steered into his hand. "And slow, with a hard shell on its body. Were it not for its claws-which are like a crab's, but as long as you or me with us laid down, y'see-you'd probably think it a great turtle come out of the river. It, ah, stumps along when it walks, like they do, and has a bare-skinned head like a river-snapper. It may turn aside to fight or dine, but goes right back to the line of its travel, and proceeds. Men with pitchforks tried to get it turned around, and did-but after it ate their forks and the hands of one who was too slow to let go, it went back to its old heading, as carefully as a matron at her knitting."
"And how," the old and impressively bearded steward Ranthalus asked severely, "do you know it was, as you put it, 'born of fell sorcery'?"
Ranthalus was the eldest of all the stewards of Flowfoam, and spoke first-on the strength of the paltry few spells he'd mastered, though none at court had actually seen him do anything more impressive than make all the torches in the throne room catch light at once, and soar their flames high or dim them to guttering in silent obedience to his will.
"It was the rocks," the man from Garthrail said simply, not knowing what title to give this scowling old man and so essaying none.
" 'The rocks'?" Ranthalus asked, quoting with a fastidiousness that was equal parts derision and irritation.
"Rocks, aye. The beast, y'see, walks through them. Through them, like they aren't but clouds or mist, be they stone barn walls or rocks of the field."
Ranthalus raised an incredulous brow-an action in which, across the crowded throne room, he was not unaccompanied. "A land crab, that walks as straight as a shot arrow up the Vale, eating men and cows, and strolls through stone. Man, have you been drinking?"
The reply was swift and firm. "Many a time, oldbeard, and much since we fought it-but there's nothing wrong with my eyes, nor with those in six villages I know of!"
"You fought it yourself? That is, man: 'twas solid, that you could feel?"
"Numbed my hands on my best fork when it broke the end off it," the man from Garthrail said. "And I dragged old Nurgar-dead or dying, by then-away from it after it snipped his leg off. Got his blood all over me. It's real, all right-no wizards' crowd-dazzle spell, if that's what you're after."
"May the Three strike you down, man, if you say false," Ranthalus began severely, "and the right royal justi-"
There came another commotion, even through the now-rising babble of the court, and the old