Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [133]
Algorind easily caught the knife on the hilt of his own and sent the man’s wild blow out wide. He reversed the direction of the swing and brought the hilt of his knife in hard against the man’s nose. Bone shattered, and bright blood spilled down over his worn leather jerkin.
The man came on again, swinging wildly now, all discipline gone. Algorind easily stopped and sidestepped the blows. With a sense of something like regret, he swiftly ended the battle with a stroke across the man’s oft-exposed throat.
He stood for a moment over the body of the man, to murmur a prayer for a soul gone astray, a worthy opponent fallen to his own weakness.
Algorind cleaned his sword on a handful of straw that covered a bin of last summer’s carrots and slid the weapon back into his sheath. His knife he kept in hand, and he took the torch from the wall holder into which it had been thrust. He had been caught unaware by treachery once this day, and that was all he intended to yield.
At the top of the stairs, he snubbed out the torch, tossed it into the alley, and retraced his steps to the street. To his great relief, his horse was where he left it. He untied Icewind’s reins and pondered what next to do.
It seemed likely to him that the woman Bronwyn and her dwarf comrade were somehow behind this. He would immediately report this information to Sir Gareth and leave the matter in his hands.
The knight was in his office, going over a ledger and wearing an expression of martyred resolve. He looked up when Algormd announced himself, and his gray brows rose in question.
Algorind told him what had occurred. The knight considered this for several moments, then reached for parchment and quill. “Go to the barracks and clean yourself up. We will bring this matter to the First Lord himself.”
In moments they left the Halls of Justice, bound for the First Lord’s palace. It was an easy matter for Sir Gareth to gain an audience with Lord Piergeiron. When he and Algorind rode to the gates of the lavish palace, they were met by uniformed guards and taken at once into the First Lord’s presence.
Once again, Algorind found himself discomfited by the unseemly splendor around him. The palace was an elaborate structure built entirely of rare white marble, crowned with a score or more of turreted towers and much elaborately carved stonework. The inside was even more lavish. A fountain played in the center of the great hall, and marble statues of heroes, gods, and goddesses encircled the room. Tapestries of incredibly fine detail and brilliant color hung in lavish profusion. The courtiers were richly dressed in silks and jewels-even the servants wore finery appropriate to a young knight’s investiture.
They were led up a broad, sweeping stairway, down a succession of halls to the tower that Piergeiron claimed as his own. Here, at least, Algorind found himself in familiar surroundings. The First Lord’s study was simple, almost austere. The walls were bare but for a single tapestry. The only luxury was a profusion of books, and the only comfort a small fire on the grate.
Piergeiron rose to greet them both, with bluff good nature and a comrade’s firm handclasp. “Welcome, brothers! You have been much in my thoughts. How goes the preparation for battle?”
“Well, my lord,” Sir Gareth said. He nodded his thanks when Piergeiron indicated a seat, and waited until all were seated before speaking again.
“Paladins from all over the northland are gathering for the assault on Thornhold. In another tenday, perhaps two, our numbers will be sufficient for the march north.”
“That is good news,” the paladin lord agreed. “The sooner the fortress is back in the hands of your good order, the safer will be the High Road for all who travel it.”
Sir Gareth inclined his head to acknowledge this praise. “There is other news, my lord, that is not so pleasant to hear. This woman we spoke of. She had been up to mischief since last we met.”