Marsteel flushed. “I-yes, Lord Hezom, that is the heart of my news. We have and she has.”
“Good to hear,” Delbossan blurted. “I was fair worried over that. The lass-ah, from what young Florin said, she was… far from ready to taste adventure. If ye know what I mean.”
“Yes,” the war wizard said gravely, “I do know what you mean. The Lady Crownsilver is now in residence in Tessaril’s Tower, with several Wizards of War watching to see she remains there. Her father rides north to Eveningstar right now to reclaim her. I know not if he still intends to bring her here to you, Lord Hezom; when last we spoke with him, his temper was less than serene.”
Delbossan chuckled. “I’d love to hear that moot at Lord Winter’s tower. From safe hiding, of course. The Haunted Halls are probably the safest place in the realm for the Swords, about now.”
“I hardly think,” Marsteel said, “that it would be proper to eavesdrop on such a reunion, and in any event-”
“The Wizards of War are going to do it anyway,” Lord Hezom said. “I stand with Master Delbossan in this, Marsteeclass="underline" I’d like to listen in on that meeting, too. You can arrange that for both of us, can’t you?”
The war wizard flushed again, opening his mouth to snap a firm denial.
Then the voice of the herald from Espar, from right behind his ear, startled him: “Of course he can-and should, so the king’s Lord of Espar and the king’s Herald of Espar can best administer local Crown affairs. Lord Crownsilver’s conduct and state of mind are vital knowledge. Horsemaster Delbossan may as well hear things firsthand, too; after all, his will be the task of rushing a mounted escort across the realm if the need arises. Shall I speak to Vangey about it for you?”
War Wizard Elgaskur Marsteel’s face was a deep crimson, now, and his mouth was opening and closing like that of a gasping fish. He looked, in fact, distinctly ill-and as he instinctively stepped away down the stables so as to bring the faces of all three men into view, he was terribly afraid he’d find them all smirking at him. “ ‘Vangey’? Mystra and Azuth be with me,” he muttered to himself. “For if I displease Royal Magician Vangerdahast, I’ll need all the favor and protection of the both of you.”
“Bey!” Agannor roared, running full tilt down the passage. Ahead, the door was closing.
He ran hard, his boots pounding and his own breath roaring in his ears. “Don’t you die on me, you motherless bastard! Don’t you-”
The door was seven running strides away, then six, and not quite closed yet. He bent his free arm in front of him to bring that shoulder up, to crash into the door and drive it wide The door swung wide open, leaving him stumbling onward as he looked right into his own death.
His shout going wordless, Agannor Wildsilver sprang, his sword flashing.
Chapter 15
It is wise to remember always that no matter how grand our realms rise to be, how plentiful our coins, and how exalted our station, death is always so close to us that it can reach out a bony hand to our throat and drag us down in an instant. The trick is to fill our lives with splendid instants, so that when death does come, we’ll at least be enjoying ourselves.
Dhammaster Dauntinghorn
The Young Stag: Memoirs of the Splendid Years of One Noble published in the Year of the Behir
T he helmed, armored warrior standing just inside the door had a long sword in his hand, held low. He was ready to lunge up and under Agannor’s gorget, belt, or cod for a gutting thrust-and he had two fellows flanking him, the sharp points of their blades glittering.
As Agannor burst through the door, something large and dark smashed into the side of his head-a hurled crossbow, rattling as it crashed home and sent him reeling.
He’d barely begun that stagger when the first blade slid into his guts like an icicle, deep and very cold. Agannor grunted, waving his sword vainly.
The second blade sliced him like fire, riding up under his breastplate, and in. He sobbed as it lifted him off his feet-then somehow fell back and away and off it again, blind and breathless in his agony.
Agannor was dimly aware of falling back through the door and bouncing on stones, retching blood. His world exploded into roiling red mist, and he had no idea at all that the three warriors had snatched up the crossbow and fled, or that he was lying with his boots across the threshold, kicking wildly and feebly in his agony.
Horaundoon sat on the edge of his bed in the Tankard, sniffling through the part of the hargaunt that shaped his bulbous nose. Anger was burning dark and slow at the back of his mind to match the prickling sensation in the gorget hidden under more of the hargaunt-the prickling that told him that some busynose of a war wizard was still scrying him.
That scrutiny had latched onto him on his first lurching climb of the inn stairs, and hadn’t let up since.
He was so tempted to lash out with a spell that would snuff out the spy’s mind in an instant.
Yet he dared not. That sort of death would bring a mustering of war wizards, and draw the attention of Vangerdahast himself. Too many even for Horaundoon of the Crawling Doom to spellblast. In such a battle he might manage to slay many, but the inevitable death would be his own.
So here he sat, twiddling his thumbs and feigning weary boredom. With every breath he took, that attitude became less and less an act.
Stlarning war wizards.
Islif Lurelake ran like the wind, her armored coat clanging and clashing, with Florin and Pennae right at her heels. South down the cross-passage, to come at the crossbowmen from another way.
She skidded to a stop at the passage-moot, expecting to eat a volley of crossbow bolts when she turned the corner. Gasping for breath, she balanced herself-then ducked around the corner, just as quickly dancing back.
A crossbow cracked. Its bolt hummed past, shattering against one of the statues amid a burst of lightnings.
Their foes were ready and waiting.
She traded glances with Florin, trying to think what best to do next-and Pennae hissed in the forester’s ear: “Stand still and let me climb you.”
“Yes,” Florin replied, tensing.
Islif watched the thief swarm up Florin to his shoulders. Pennae crouched there for a moment, froglike, the passage ceiling close overhead-then launched herself forward in a great springing leap that sent Florin staggering back but hurled Pennae high across the passage-mouth, to strike the floor in a forward roll.
Two crossbow bolts sought her life. The first hummed past well in her wake, to crash into the old crossbow on its tripod-and send it toppling from its mount to clatter harmlessly on the floor.
The second missed her heels by a fingerwidth and raced on, collecting crackling lightnings as it passed between the statues. It shivered noisily against the bronzen doors, fragments pattering to the floor.
Pennae landed, rolled, and ran on into the darkness.
Islif and Florin were already moving, ducking around the corner again, trusting that not even the swiftest windlass-cranker could have wound up a crossbow to fire again, so soon after five shots. They were trusting their lives, of course, on the hope that there wasn’t a sixth crossbowman, or more.
They’d trusted well, it seemed.
No bolts came humming at them, and they could see no foe in the light of Islif’s bouncing lantern. The room beyond the rusty bars held no foes.
Panting from their sprint, they ducked through the bars-and almost hacked at Pennae, who burst through the open door from the southern slant passage.
“Where’d you-?” Islif gasped, waving her sword.
“The stone goblin. I tried to pick it up to be a shield, but-too heavy. Much too heavy,” Pennae gasped back. “Hoped to catch our attackers here.”
“Whoever they are, they’ll be waiting for us outside,” Florin said. “With their bows ready.”