The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [82]
There were two reasons why the hard-eyed, raven-bearded man in purple was riding along the muddy back roads of the Vale. The first was that Bodemmon Sarr disliked wasteful, needless spellcastings. Magic should be a deft sword, not a castle-shattering bludgeon. Though magic seldom sped from his elegantly gloved fingertips, and few things disturbed the easy smile he customarily wore above his pointed, curled beard and between his glossy gold earrings, he never hesitated to strike when spells were needed.
The second was that Bodemmon Sarr liked to ride. Few dared challenge or impede him for long, or lived to attempt such folly more than once; he traversed Aglirta as if he owned every tree and hedge of it, wending his way among rolling fields and green forests at his own pace, taking what he fancied and changing what he desired to change.
Hulking bodyguards in the best battle-plate armor-black and adorned with his symbol, the spread amber wings of the sunset hawk-rode in pairs before and behind him, and his ever-nervous apprentice, a cook, and two serving wenches who were kept busy assisting with Bodemmon Sarr's meals, bathing, dressing, and bedsport rode astride four of a tethered string of ten pack-mules, between the second pair of bodyguards and the rear guard of four identically equipped warriors.
From time to time the man who knew himself to be the most capable wizard in all the Vale-whatever that upstart Tharlorn might claim-drew on a pair of crimson gloves from his saddle-prow, and spoke the word that made a hunting hawk issue forth from one of them. It had been years since he'd uttered the word that made a javelin spring from the palm of the other; these blasted barons had hunted the Vale boar until there were almost none left. Bodemmon Sarr was almost at the point of yielding to his growing desire to hunt a new quarry as he rode: barons of Aglirta.
Even they had fallen on hard times of late, he reflected, his easy smile never changing. In many places, he'd have to settle for hunting tersepts.
In the interests of greater sport, he'd probably have to hunt this self-styled Risen King ere long-but in the meantime, there was entertainment to be had in participating in the various scrabbling conspiracies that had become the life of Aglirta in the wake of the falls of Blackgult and of Silvertree, the war of wizards at the ruin of Indraevyn and the nightwyrm attacks on Sirlptar, the return of King Kelgrael Snowsar, and the rise-one of many such risings, down the years-of those foolish enough to worship the Serpent.
Ah, but the Vale was fairly aflame with whispered offers, covert knifings, and dark speculations-wherefore he was riding quite openly to a certain inn, to meet with some crudely disguised conspirators even now engaged in whelming an army to seize Cardassa or cow its baron into joining them in a bid to seize the River Throne. Others might want to rule from Flowfoam for the power or their own delusions of royal fame and glory, but Bodemmon Sarr wanted to help an endless succession of ambitious ladies onto that throne, purely for the amusement their loving-and inevitable treacheries against him-would bring.
Boredom. Anything to banish the empty dullness of his days. The wizard in purple sighed and glanced back at Glarth. Receiving his apprentice's usual too-quick, uncertain smile, the mightiest mage in Aglirta looked away and sighed again, more heavily this time.
By the Three Who Watched Over All, life was becoming a gray, empt-
Ahead, a guard shouted a warning and turned in his saddle to give his master an urgent signal.
Bodemmon Sarr leaned forward in interest. That circle of the man's hand, always granting that he hadn't been so fatally stupid as to use the wrong gesture or seek to amuse himself by exaggeration or deceit, meant "monster."
A dangerous or, at the least, an unfamiliar and threatening beast. Hmm. The mightiest mage in all Aglirta made the signal that told his men to move aside, and spurred his charger