Earthbow V.1 - Sample Extract 4
Earthbow V.1 - Sample Extract 4
Please begin at the beginning! Extracts 1, 2 & 3 are below!
Cenoc mused that his host sat on his cushions as though they were filled with nails. A week’s warning that this outpost would be the next stop of his inspection tour should have been enough time for Sevris to prepare. But the actual presence of his fabled self, the only victor ever over the Pannian sorcerers, the savior of Latimus, tended to make the sternest of his keep-masters apprehensive. He found the repeated scenario both amusing and frustrating.
Obviously seeking for a topic pleasing to his lordship, Sevris commented, “Lord Cenoc, I was ... perplexed when you ordered us to capture one of their party. But now, to bring a werewright up here? To speak with one of them?”
“I told you that a thought occurred to me with his capture. I’ve learned to think ahead, to make every situation pay. One of the reasons I rule Latimus, while you command this derelict keep.” Noting the wince, he continued, “Your man with werewright blood in the wound. Faring well?
“As well as possible given the hour delay before the remedy could be applied.”
“My sympathies. Those leaves-what did you call them?” Cenoc settled back on the red velvet cushions and looked across the low round tile-inlaid table at his host. Both had changed from their hunting attire as soon as they arrived back at the keep. The satins and velvets were stained now past hope. Probably best burnt.
Sevris had replaced his satin hunting tunic with even more sumptuous, long-sleeved floor-length robes of green, then added chains and cuffs of precious bronze. In the near-lethal heat of midsummer, Cenoc could only marvel at his host’s obeisance to proper attire. He, as was his custom, had changed to the same rust-colored tunic and mail which he wore into battle, but without the surcote. The only clothing in which he truly felt comfortable.
“Our herbalist calls it werebane-”
“Which is the only cure?”
“Yes, my lord.” A drop of sweat dangled briefly from the bottom edge of his mustache, then trickled across Sevris’ lips to join its fellows in his trimmed gray beard.
Sevris might be of the old nobility, but no one would ever have known it. Cenoc’s eyes traveled from the keep-master’s dissolute face, to his pale skin and slight paunch. How long had it been since Sevris had had to deal with anything of more importance than the empire crop’s yield? The season’s looked to be a good one. His shares across this province as Lord of Latimus would go far toward wages and supplies for his surviving armies.
Sevris’ eyes were locked just below the level of his own gaze, as he awaited a response. Cenoc let him wait.
Peace! Peace made a man soft... Indeed, it had made this whole southern province soft: keeps in disrepair, ill watch kept, bands of werewright cut-throats, this room - richly decorated with tapestries and ancient banners of Sevris’ ancestors. He glanced down. Even the stone floor was covered with a thick fleece-like cloth... decadent, wasteful... and unmilitary.
His gaze returned to the keep-master’s apprehensive face. A small-hearted man, with no skill of command, no foresight. Here was one who wouldn’t threaten his hold on Latimus.
Cenoc smiled unpleasantly and noted that Sevris shivered.
“Tell me more of this werebane, Sevris.”
Half-listening while the man talked, Cenoc pursued his own line of reasoning. That same lack of imagination also meant that he might be getting less out of this shire than he should be. This was rich agricultural land, with the perfect climate to support empire shrubs. The tax records didn’t reflect that. Sevris neither knew how nor where to squeeze the last drop out of an opportunity. Or he was stealing from the coffers. Perhaps, he should be replaced... Cenoc tucked the possibility away for later consideration. He noted with satisfaction that Sevris seemed to guess his thoughts. So much the better. That might wring some usefulness out of him yet.
“How do you expect to make the capture of a werewright pay? They’re best dead, before they can call the spirits of the Shadow to their aid. You’ve made a dangerous prisoner, my lord.”
“He shall find that his captor is more dangerous still. But first, I’m parched.” Cenoc paused in reaching for the wine bottle. “Do you fear the Shadow sorcerers, Sevris? They’ve been dead for thousands of years. I never thought you a superstitious man.”
“Me? Oh, no. Of course not. But sometimes, ignorant warriors can be superstitious...” Sevris’ voice trailed off. He was doubtless remembering too late Cenoc’s own past as a common warrior in the old king’s guard.
Cenoc surveyed himself through Sevris’ eyes. Gray-haired now, but finally the Lord of Latimus, he still possessed the bearing of a fighting man. And the skills. Born of low degree, he had spent decades training his every expression and word. His face had long since acquired the arrogance, and his voice the quiet forcefulness, of command.
But one of his favorite weapons worked best at table or during close inspection -- a cold grimness in his gray eyes. Right now, he mixed in more than a hint of disapproval.
With servants banned from the room, Sevris himself reached forward to refill Cenoc’s goblet and, after a moment’s hesitation, his own. Returning to a safer topic, he asked, “But what do you hope to gain by keeping him alive and ordering him brought up here?”
“Sometimes, one must spread one’s nets wide to make a catch. ...Ah, here he is now.” Cenoc turned to the bound prisoner and his personal guards who stood in the doorway. “Seat him here.” He gestured to the patch of floor across the table from their cushions. “Palis, stay just outside the door. Dismissed.”
Cenoc gazed curiously at his prisoner. The creature still had its black cloak on with its hood in place. It was slightly smaller than a man, shorter at least, though the folds of the cape’s dull material curved over what seemed dense muscle. All that could be seen of the werewright’s features was the fanged wedge-shaped mouth, twisted into a permanent toothy grin... like the hideous, vacant smile of a skull.
Why had no one ever exterminated these creatures? Werewrights had dwelt in these south marches and in other lands of Narenta, some said, since the Elder race first appeared in the ancient past. ...Indeed, they were said to be Elders themselves, but of hideous aspect, the product of Wenos Zex’s own deep sorcery.
Wenos Zex. Shadow overlord. Cenoc snorted in contempt: Fairy tales. These southerners would have learned about the reality of true evil, if he’d ever allowed some of the Pannians to slip through.
He quietly drew his sword and leaned across the round table. The werewright tensed as the blade approached. Idiot. Would I go to all this trouble, just to kill you? Cenoc caught the front of the black hood with his sword point and flipped it back.
Beside him, Sevris reached for the decanter again, with a trembling hand.
Something seemed to look through the slitted dark red eyes under the protruding V-shaped brow. As hardened as Cenoc was by years of battle and secret murder, the creature’s gaze briefly caught him off guard.
Nonsense! The thing was merely glaring.
The reptilian werewright hissed in amusement at his reaction. But Cenoc regained his composure at once. He turned to Sevris, and away from the prisoner’s gaze. “Now you will see first-hand what I spoke of earlier.”
Cenoc turned back and placed the point of the sword against the prisoner’s yellow-scaled throat. “What reason can you give me for sparing you?” Cenoc’s steely eyes narrowed. “How will your life benefit me?”
The prisoner considered the question only for a moment, then answered in the repulsively-silken voice of his race, “You should keep me alive for the information with which I was entrusted. You rule all the land of the Elder in Latimus. Would you like a wider kingdom and power over other lands?”
Ah, this was more like it! Without turning from the werewright, Cenoc spoke, “You see, Sevris. Sometimes you hardly need to spread the net at all and the fish swims in. Speak on, werewright. First, your name.”
Please begin at the beginning! Extracts 1, 2 & 3 are below!
Cenoc mused that his host sat on his cushions as though they were filled with nails. A week’s warning that this outpost would be the next stop of his inspection tour should have been enough time for Sevris to prepare. But the actual presence of his fabled self, the only victor ever over the Pannian sorcerers, the savior of Latimus, tended to make the sternest of his keep-masters apprehensive. He found the repeated scenario both amusing and frustrating.
Obviously seeking for a topic pleasing to his lordship, Sevris commented, “Lord Cenoc, I was ... perplexed when you ordered us to capture one of their party. But now, to bring a werewright up here? To speak with one of them?”
“I told you that a thought occurred to me with his capture. I’ve learned to think ahead, to make every situation pay. One of the reasons I rule Latimus, while you command this derelict keep.” Noting the wince, he continued, “Your man with werewright blood in the wound. Faring well?
“As well as possible given the hour delay before the remedy could be applied.”
“My sympathies. Those leaves-what did you call them?” Cenoc settled back on the red velvet cushions and looked across the low round tile-inlaid table at his host. Both had changed from their hunting attire as soon as they arrived back at the keep. The satins and velvets were stained now past hope. Probably best burnt.
Sevris had replaced his satin hunting tunic with even more sumptuous, long-sleeved floor-length robes of green, then added chains and cuffs of precious bronze. In the near-lethal heat of midsummer, Cenoc could only marvel at his host’s obeisance to proper attire. He, as was his custom, had changed to the same rust-colored tunic and mail which he wore into battle, but without the surcote. The only clothing in which he truly felt comfortable.
“Our herbalist calls it werebane-”
“Which is the only cure?”
“Yes, my lord.” A drop of sweat dangled briefly from the bottom edge of his mustache, then trickled across Sevris’ lips to join its fellows in his trimmed gray beard.
Sevris might be of the old nobility, but no one would ever have known it. Cenoc’s eyes traveled from the keep-master’s dissolute face, to his pale skin and slight paunch. How long had it been since Sevris had had to deal with anything of more importance than the empire crop’s yield? The season’s looked to be a good one. His shares across this province as Lord of Latimus would go far toward wages and supplies for his surviving armies.
Sevris’ eyes were locked just below the level of his own gaze, as he awaited a response. Cenoc let him wait.
Peace! Peace made a man soft... Indeed, it had made this whole southern province soft: keeps in disrepair, ill watch kept, bands of werewright cut-throats, this room - richly decorated with tapestries and ancient banners of Sevris’ ancestors. He glanced down. Even the stone floor was covered with a thick fleece-like cloth... decadent, wasteful... and unmilitary.
His gaze returned to the keep-master’s apprehensive face. A small-hearted man, with no skill of command, no foresight. Here was one who wouldn’t threaten his hold on Latimus.
Cenoc smiled unpleasantly and noted that Sevris shivered.
“Tell me more of this werebane, Sevris.”
Half-listening while the man talked, Cenoc pursued his own line of reasoning. That same lack of imagination also meant that he might be getting less out of this shire than he should be. This was rich agricultural land, with the perfect climate to support empire shrubs. The tax records didn’t reflect that. Sevris neither knew how nor where to squeeze the last drop out of an opportunity. Or he was stealing from the coffers. Perhaps, he should be replaced... Cenoc tucked the possibility away for later consideration. He noted with satisfaction that Sevris seemed to guess his thoughts. So much the better. That might wring some usefulness out of him yet.
“How do you expect to make the capture of a werewright pay? They’re best dead, before they can call the spirits of the Shadow to their aid. You’ve made a dangerous prisoner, my lord.”
“He shall find that his captor is more dangerous still. But first, I’m parched.” Cenoc paused in reaching for the wine bottle. “Do you fear the Shadow sorcerers, Sevris? They’ve been dead for thousands of years. I never thought you a superstitious man.”
“Me? Oh, no. Of course not. But sometimes, ignorant warriors can be superstitious...” Sevris’ voice trailed off. He was doubtless remembering too late Cenoc’s own past as a common warrior in the old king’s guard.
Cenoc surveyed himself through Sevris’ eyes. Gray-haired now, but finally the Lord of Latimus, he still possessed the bearing of a fighting man. And the skills. Born of low degree, he had spent decades training his every expression and word. His face had long since acquired the arrogance, and his voice the quiet forcefulness, of command.
But one of his favorite weapons worked best at table or during close inspection -- a cold grimness in his gray eyes. Right now, he mixed in more than a hint of disapproval.
With servants banned from the room, Sevris himself reached forward to refill Cenoc’s goblet and, after a moment’s hesitation, his own. Returning to a safer topic, he asked, “But what do you hope to gain by keeping him alive and ordering him brought up here?”
“Sometimes, one must spread one’s nets wide to make a catch. ...Ah, here he is now.” Cenoc turned to the bound prisoner and his personal guards who stood in the doorway. “Seat him here.” He gestured to the patch of floor across the table from their cushions. “Palis, stay just outside the door. Dismissed.”
Cenoc gazed curiously at his prisoner. The creature still had its black cloak on with its hood in place. It was slightly smaller than a man, shorter at least, though the folds of the cape’s dull material curved over what seemed dense muscle. All that could be seen of the werewright’s features was the fanged wedge-shaped mouth, twisted into a permanent toothy grin... like the hideous, vacant smile of a skull.
Why had no one ever exterminated these creatures? Werewrights had dwelt in these south marches and in other lands of Narenta, some said, since the Elder race first appeared in the ancient past. ...Indeed, they were said to be Elders themselves, but of hideous aspect, the product of Wenos Zex’s own deep sorcery.
Wenos Zex. Shadow overlord. Cenoc snorted in contempt: Fairy tales. These southerners would have learned about the reality of true evil, if he’d ever allowed some of the Pannians to slip through.
He quietly drew his sword and leaned across the round table. The werewright tensed as the blade approached. Idiot. Would I go to all this trouble, just to kill you? Cenoc caught the front of the black hood with his sword point and flipped it back.
Beside him, Sevris reached for the decanter again, with a trembling hand.
Something seemed to look through the slitted dark red eyes under the protruding V-shaped brow. As hardened as Cenoc was by years of battle and secret murder, the creature’s gaze briefly caught him off guard.
Nonsense! The thing was merely glaring.
The reptilian werewright hissed in amusement at his reaction. But Cenoc regained his composure at once. He turned to Sevris, and away from the prisoner’s gaze. “Now you will see first-hand what I spoke of earlier.”
Cenoc turned back and placed the point of the sword against the prisoner’s yellow-scaled throat. “What reason can you give me for sparing you?” Cenoc’s steely eyes narrowed. “How will your life benefit me?”
The prisoner considered the question only for a moment, then answered in the repulsively-silken voice of his race, “You should keep me alive for the information with which I was entrusted. You rule all the land of the Elder in Latimus. Would you like a wider kingdom and power over other lands?”
Ah, this was more like it! Without turning from the werewright, Cenoc spoke, “You see, Sevris. Sometimes you hardly need to spread the net at all and the fish swims in. Speak on, werewright. First, your name.”