The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [75]
On one of these trips, he was going to get killed.
"I… see," Loushoond said at last, in the outer room. "And what would their restless swords harvest, in your view?"
"Heads," the tersept purred, "both royal and baronial."
"Baronial? How many?"
Glarsimber of Sart smiled and nodded. "As many as possible, of course."
The Lord of Loushoond frowned again. "And tersepts? How many of those?"
The Smiling Wolf shrugged. "A few. Not all. Some will be needed, to kneel before Aglirta's new king-His Majesty the Lion, Berias Loushoond."
The baron blinked in the gloom, and then, slowly, smiled.
"Sssss!" The priestess bending over the pool hissed out her scorn. "Not very subtle, is he?"
"Sssister," the priest reminded her with a slow smile of his own, as he stroked the heads of her snakes to make them bite down, and slid an arm around her shoulders to support her as she shuddered in ecstasy, "he doesn't have to be. This is, after all, Aglirta."
"Realm of fools," she murmured drowsily, as her head lolled back into venom-driven dreams. The priest smiled even more broadly and took over the spell, to guide the good Baron Lackwit of Loushoond through the rest of this meeting. It probably wouldn't take long; the Wolf of Sart had gloated so much in his life that he'd acquired the knack of doing it swiftly.
As swiftly, perhaps, as the Sacred Serpent would soon rise over Aglirta.
Gods above, Hawkril thought dazedly, as pain stabbed through him like blades of fire, but he must still be alive, to hurt this much.
He groaned before he could stop himself, and then cursed inwardly at his foolishness. That noise might just earn him swift and sharp death from someone nearby who'd thought him a corpse-that man with the third Dwaerindim, for one.
And just who, by the glory of the Three, could that man be?
The Three declined to answer. Hawkril smiled without mirth, tried to move… and discovered that he still had a left arm, at least, because he was leaning on it-and gods, did it hurt!
Slowly, wincing and clenching his teeth at the red blaze of agony that shot down to his fingertips, he moved the fingers of that hand, curling them, making a fist, and finally reaching out to plant them on the ground.
Rough straw and dirt. He was still in the wellhouse.
Ah, yes-the battlefield of their latest bard-pleasing victory. Sargh.
Hawkril fought next to open his eyes, fearing that he'd find himself gazing at the dung-smeared tines of a pitchfork, and the angry face of a Tarlarnastar farmer glaring down from the other end of it.
Instead, when he'd finally blinked the glimmerings of tears of pain away, he found himself looking around at stillness, lit by daylight coming in the open doorway by his left shoulder-and down through a splintered hole in the roof above. There was a sword-not his own-in the dirt by his hand; he took hold of it, hefted its comforting weight, and risked twisting around to look out the door.
The pain almost made the armaragor collapse on his face, weeping, but he settled for a roar of pain and a swift return to sitting in his tangle against the wall. The villagers were out there, all right, standing a good dozen wary paces back from the door-and his sudden appearance and grimace had made them draw back hastily, and exchange anxious murmurs.
Hawkril struggled to sit up, hampered by both his hurts and the diced, fly-swarming meat lying across his legs that had once been four or five swordsmen. More lay in a long, butcher's-floor heap off to his right. He tried to free one of his legs from under the wet, stinking heaviness, and couldn't.
Alarmed, he clawed at the carrion with both hands, almost whimpering in his urgency. Gods, to have his throat slit by villagers, after all this!
When he could sit up, and gasp properly, and look around again, Hawkril saw-Sarasper! The old healer was lying on his back, mouth agape and a fly crawling idly around his cheek; he looked very dead.
Graul. Graul and bebolt. Where was Craer? And the lass?
Was that-?