The Vacant Throne - Ed Greenwood [90]
The hand that slapped the knife from Belgur Maerbotham's hand came, he swore, right out of a dark tree trunk.
It all happened so fast. One moment he was ducking under a low branch and stepping to the left to avoid a shaft of moonlight on the trail, and the next he was struggling in the grasp of what seemed like a dozen strong arms-or were they tentacles?
He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, fingers jammed into his mouth and somehow growing larger in there! He was struggling just to gasp, and the horribly strong grip that had him trapped was tightening…
And that was when the knives slid into him, six or more, so velvet-soft and so utterly, utterly cold.
Belgur shivered, and tried to scream, or sob, or plead, or do something to stop the horrible wetness bubbling up inside so chokingly… he couldn't breathe… he couldn't breathe… and as the night suddenly seemed darker and the silence whirled up around him, Belgur Maerbotham stared up in horror at his slayer, now bending over him to make sure of the kill.
His last terrified thought was that the head caught in the cold moonlight above him had no face!
"Brigands are so bad these days," a voice murmured in the darkness, as the waters of a sucking bog closed over the little man's body. "Regrettably, another message to the Serpents goes undelivered."
"Gloat later," another voice purred, rising in tone as its owner's throat shifted in height and shape. "We're a long way from the Flagon now-and if we deliver them from the Serpents, they still have the Silvertree wolves to contend with. Hurry!"
The reply was a growl-as a great cat bounded into the air, flapped the wings it was still growing, and strained to reach the stars. The falcon that shot past it sighed loudly as it did so, a sound that was strangely human.
Yet somehow… different.
Embra yawned again, almost dipping her nose into the drinking-jack that the fat and bustling tapmaster had insisted on bringing her. Then she threw back her head, long and dirty hair swirling in a shining flood over her shoulders, and gasped, "Gods, but I'm tired! Someone show me the stairs to bed."
Half a candle ago, those words would have brought ribald and enthusiastic responses from a dozen men or more around the warm and roaring taproom… but it had grown very late-or early, if one took another view-and the stairs had seen more than a little stumbling use already. Other drinkers snored at their tables, or had slumped back in their chairs and begun the slow slide to the floor that might or might not awaken them. At least one booth was still occupied, because someone had just snapped distinctly in its unseen depths, "Whoever you're waiting for, Weldrin, they're not coming, so stop prowling."
The few tables still occupied by waking patrons tended to be those shared by pairs of furtively muttering merchants who'd long since finished and shoved aside their ale and river trout on hot toast to begin dealings best done with few ears around to hear. These twosomes were tucked into the farther, darkest corners of the cavernous room, far from the sleepy coals of the hearth and the lanterns hanging nearby.
The Four were seated almost under one of those lanterns, over the wreckage of a huge meal of mint-buttered boar and roast pheasant and a dozen sorts of fiery pickles. Three empty decanters and a hand-keg stood like weary sentinels amid the bowls and platters and longforks, and Embra wasn't the only one yawning.
"Lady, please. Stop that," Raulin snapped at her sleepily, clinging to a half-full tankard as if it could hold him up, as the Lady of Jewels threw back her head and yawned again.
"We'd best go up," Hawkril growled, looking at Sarasper. The old man was sitting silently over his tankard, fast asleep with his eyes open. The armaragor nudged him-and then had to grab for him wildly as the healer toppled over sideways, still sitting neatly. Even when large and desperate fingers closed around his elbow with bruising force, the old man never awakened.