Earthbow v.1 - Sample Extract 8
Earthbow V.1 - Sample Extract 8
(See previous entries!)
As Coris muttered the keep password to the door guard, Lord Sevris stumbled out of the hall, leaning heavily on two men. The stench of fresh-drawn blood and something worse followed the three. The “entertainment” must have begun. At the guard’s distracted nod, Coris slipped past them all and went looking for Captain Riptis to check in.
The captain gestured to the newly-vacated seat beside him. He muttered to the newcomer, “You missed a strange fight, Coris. Where have you been, anyway?” He studied the young man, stern appraisal on his creased face. Sweat on his bald head glimmered in the dim light.
Coris knew he could hide neither his flush nor rapid breaths, even with the lamp lit semi-darkness and the noise of a dozen conversations and half as many competing songs. “I arranged to meet a kitchen wench. She didn’t show. I, uh, waited for her. Just gave up.”
“Hmm.”
Doubt clouded Riptis’ eyes. Why so flustered if that was all? He should have insinuated he went to meet one of the few noblewomen traveling in the entourage-or a member of Sevris’ family. The women would have all left the room as soon as dinner was over.
Looking around nervously, Coris shrugged and added, “Well, not a kitchen wench.”
Riptis grinned. “Almost discovered by the husband? No. Don’t need to know more.” The captain’s eyes twinkled as he turned back to the keep-surcoted officer on his other side.
Coris tried to relax. However, the thrall named Lanis stood by one barred side door, his face white and hands clenched at his sides. That was the one that had spoken to him this afternoon, seeming so like a human lad that he had been hard-pressed to remind himself what he was looking at. Where was the other one? What had his word to Glisa gotten him into?
He followed the thrall’s gaze to the high table. A keep man-at-arms crouched by the werewright’s body. After a few minutes, the man got to his feet and placed a green-filled goblet on the edge of the table. Poisonous werewright blood.
Another man-at-arms balanced the hideous head on its owner’s chest, in preparation for lugging the remains of Cenoc’s guest from the room. Serving thralls were washing the table and floor. The second scullery thrall was doubtless off somewhere, being ‘prepared’.
The goblet on the table edge suggested what Cenoc had planned. Sickened, Coris reached for a fresh earthenware bottle and forced its beeswax seal loose. He couldn’t leave again with Riptis so suspicious about his earlier absence, and he despaired of getting drunk enough quickly enough to blur what was about to happen. As for helping either thrall-he snorted to himself-easier to fly.
Coris was glad of one thing. At least Glisa would be far away before it started.
Captain Riptis took it upon himself to recount the fight between the keep-master and the werewright. He took care to give Lord Sevris the verbal respect that few of his acquaintances seemed to feel for him, but he failed to hide that Sevris had been drunk and that the werewright was uncommonly skillful for one of a band of cutthroats.
Coris responded with a random string of nods, smiles, and expressions of disbelief but his thoughts rarely gave his eyes freedom to glance away from the remaining scullery thrall. No one seemed to have noticed him. Why didn’t he leave? Waiting for his mate or had he been commanded to stay?
He swore to himself as the kid gasped and then stumbled close to one of Sevris’ warriors, probably coming back from relieving himself. Following the boy’s gaze, Coris saw now what the thrall evidently had just seen-his friend and a guard were walking through the open side door across the way, the Young One thrall in chains.
Like watching paralyzed in a nightmare, Coris saw the unattended thrall slip a dagger from the keep guard’s belt. The werewright’s body was being carried out the door at the same moment-the owner of the dagger was probably distracted, watching it pass.
The newly-armed thrall turned toward his chained mate, as captive and guard approached the gap between tables in the center of the hall.
Coris swore, and scrambled to his feet. The chained thrall was dead on his feet but this other one might still be spared. He spun around the end of the side table. Riptis sputtered confused sounds behind him.
Another guard somewhere warned, “Thrall’s armed!”
Great. Like fire in a barn. No weapons, Coris warned himself. Things were already too volatile.
He lunged just as the thrall finally got a good grip on the knife and waved it at the taller guard holding the thrall’s chains. The tip of the blade was still yards from its intended target but that made little matter.
Avoiding the wild back swing of the knife, Coris wrapped both arms about the thrall and lifted him right off the floor, applying enough pressure with his arms to signal what had better happen and that immediately. The thrall’s lungs emptied in a whoosh of air, and the dagger clanged on the stone floor.
And there was Beroc, in striking range and unsheathing his weapon. His eyes glittering with anger, the man advanced toward them.
Before he could strike, Coris spoke in a conciliatory voice, but loud enough to be heard by the captain. “Enough, Beroc. He grabbed a dagger, and he dropped it. What harm could such a stripling do you?” Coris reached down with one hand, and picked up the dagger, handing it back to its embarrassed owner. He kept his other arm about the thrall’s body, swinging the Young One across himself so that it was as far away from Beroc as possible.
“Who put you in charge of the filth of the world, Coris?” Beroc’s voice was cold. “Some day, you will step too far-”
Lord Cenoc’s voice cut in, “Beroc! Get on with it. Coris, get rid of that thing!”
Coris smiled, indicating Cenoc with a nod of his head. “Until that day, I’ll do what our lord says and remove him.”
“Not what he meant!” Beroc growled to his back.
Gripping Lanis’ arm, Coris guided the weeping Young One to the main door. Before he was through it, a shriek pierced the room. Unwillingly, Coris stopped and turned.
Lanis pummeled his restraining arm with both small hands.
Beroc stood over the chained Young One, carefully wiping his sword before he sheathed it. Blood ran down the long cut on the thrall’s arm. Picking up the goblet gingerly, Beroc returned to the thrall and poured its contents down the length of the wound.
The dark green blood covered the fresh cut and flowed on to drip off the thrall’s fingertips. Shuddering, he cried out in terror.
Beroc gripped the chains and dragged the struggling thrall toward two pillars at the foot of the room near the main door. He yanked the thrall upright and looped a ring over a hook in one of the two columns, then untangled the second chain to do the same at the other pillar.
Coris turned, intent on taking the thrall in his keeping through the door, only to see Riptis’ gaze locked on him.
His task done, Beroc had wasted not a second before he walked over to their captain.
An icy knot forming in his innards, Coris whispered a warning to the Young One lad and pushed it through the door, barring it with the aid of the door guard. Then he walked as nonchalantly as he could toward the pair but with every muscle tensed, his wits sharp.
Riptis nodded impatiently at Beroc’s continued comments. Turning, he beckoned to Coris, his hard-bitten face stern. If Beroc had told Riptis about the little encounter in the scullery, his life would be worth less than a thrall’s once Glisa’s escape became known. How much had Beroc told him, by now?
“Coris. Beroc tells me that you prevented him from punishing that thrall a few moments ago. Beroc is a superior officer. Lord Cenoc would not approve of your insubordination.”
The chill Coris felt in the pit of his stomach was spreading, but he spoke calmly, his eyes on Riptis alone. “Captain, Lord Cenoc ordered me to remove the thrall.”
“Hmm. What do you say to that, Beroc? I heard the order myself.”
Coris felt the burning hatred in Beroc’s eyes but he pretended not to notice.
“Yes, he obeyed an order before it was given! Irrelevant. And, not what our lord meant by ‘get rid of’, Riptis. All three of us know it. The thing stole a weapon.”
“Yes. We’ll deal with that when we have the right equipment.”
“Equipment?” Beroc reached to the back of his belt and tugged out a stained arm sweatband, fitted with a buckle. “All we need is this to slow the bleeding, and someone willing to hold an arm still.”
Icy blue eyes scored Coris’ face, seeming to ask if he were up to the task. He schooled himself not to react. Leave it to Beroc to carry about the means for a formal dismemberment.
“This was not the first time this young whelp has interfered with my duties. He did so last week when a stable boy brought the wrong horse at Empsa Keep, and earlier today-”
Riptis broke in, “Is this what you call insubordination? I was at the stable, too, remember? I saw what happened. As for the thrall, we’ll do it properly. What if Cenoc meant execution rather than dismemberment or tossing him out of the hall? It can wait until he tells us. Keep your complaints to yourself, Beroc, or I will give you cause to complain!” The captain turned away and stalked back to his place at the table.
Coris started to follow him. As he passed Beroc, the knight spoke low, “Beware, Coris. Cross me one more time and the blow meant for ones like him will land on your own head.” Beroc pointed to the chained thrall. Without waiting for a response, the older knight went to his own place at the other side table.
***
Deep within the mountain chain that sundered Latimus from its nearest neighbor to the east was a chamber fashioned by Alphesis himself. An ancient prison for the Shadow it was, but the evil that dwelt within it was older still-enchanters of the Light who had turned to sorcery at the dawn of time. Long had they slept or seemed to. Even so, those who used the mountainway felt their malign presences sometimes, ever seeking to destroy that which went freely past whilst they must remain bound.
The stirring on this night would have filled the stoutest traveler with a consuming horror. A cry came forth from Latimus to one who dwelt here in the cavern, an ancient cry not heard in centuries.
The mind of Mexat stirred.
Those in the hall of Sevris felt the chill of his malevolence as he listened to his follower’s words.
Mexat smiled. There would be revenge. Alarz deserved no less for his obedience. But more than revenge. The time was at hand.
(See previous entries!)
As Coris muttered the keep password to the door guard, Lord Sevris stumbled out of the hall, leaning heavily on two men. The stench of fresh-drawn blood and something worse followed the three. The “entertainment” must have begun. At the guard’s distracted nod, Coris slipped past them all and went looking for Captain Riptis to check in.
The captain gestured to the newly-vacated seat beside him. He muttered to the newcomer, “You missed a strange fight, Coris. Where have you been, anyway?” He studied the young man, stern appraisal on his creased face. Sweat on his bald head glimmered in the dim light.
Coris knew he could hide neither his flush nor rapid breaths, even with the lamp lit semi-darkness and the noise of a dozen conversations and half as many competing songs. “I arranged to meet a kitchen wench. She didn’t show. I, uh, waited for her. Just gave up.”
“Hmm.”
Doubt clouded Riptis’ eyes. Why so flustered if that was all? He should have insinuated he went to meet one of the few noblewomen traveling in the entourage-or a member of Sevris’ family. The women would have all left the room as soon as dinner was over.
Looking around nervously, Coris shrugged and added, “Well, not a kitchen wench.”
Riptis grinned. “Almost discovered by the husband? No. Don’t need to know more.” The captain’s eyes twinkled as he turned back to the keep-surcoted officer on his other side.
Coris tried to relax. However, the thrall named Lanis stood by one barred side door, his face white and hands clenched at his sides. That was the one that had spoken to him this afternoon, seeming so like a human lad that he had been hard-pressed to remind himself what he was looking at. Where was the other one? What had his word to Glisa gotten him into?
He followed the thrall’s gaze to the high table. A keep man-at-arms crouched by the werewright’s body. After a few minutes, the man got to his feet and placed a green-filled goblet on the edge of the table. Poisonous werewright blood.
Another man-at-arms balanced the hideous head on its owner’s chest, in preparation for lugging the remains of Cenoc’s guest from the room. Serving thralls were washing the table and floor. The second scullery thrall was doubtless off somewhere, being ‘prepared’.
The goblet on the table edge suggested what Cenoc had planned. Sickened, Coris reached for a fresh earthenware bottle and forced its beeswax seal loose. He couldn’t leave again with Riptis so suspicious about his earlier absence, and he despaired of getting drunk enough quickly enough to blur what was about to happen. As for helping either thrall-he snorted to himself-easier to fly.
Coris was glad of one thing. At least Glisa would be far away before it started.
Captain Riptis took it upon himself to recount the fight between the keep-master and the werewright. He took care to give Lord Sevris the verbal respect that few of his acquaintances seemed to feel for him, but he failed to hide that Sevris had been drunk and that the werewright was uncommonly skillful for one of a band of cutthroats.
Coris responded with a random string of nods, smiles, and expressions of disbelief but his thoughts rarely gave his eyes freedom to glance away from the remaining scullery thrall. No one seemed to have noticed him. Why didn’t he leave? Waiting for his mate or had he been commanded to stay?
He swore to himself as the kid gasped and then stumbled close to one of Sevris’ warriors, probably coming back from relieving himself. Following the boy’s gaze, Coris saw now what the thrall evidently had just seen-his friend and a guard were walking through the open side door across the way, the Young One thrall in chains.
Like watching paralyzed in a nightmare, Coris saw the unattended thrall slip a dagger from the keep guard’s belt. The werewright’s body was being carried out the door at the same moment-the owner of the dagger was probably distracted, watching it pass.
The newly-armed thrall turned toward his chained mate, as captive and guard approached the gap between tables in the center of the hall.
Coris swore, and scrambled to his feet. The chained thrall was dead on his feet but this other one might still be spared. He spun around the end of the side table. Riptis sputtered confused sounds behind him.
Another guard somewhere warned, “Thrall’s armed!”
Great. Like fire in a barn. No weapons, Coris warned himself. Things were already too volatile.
He lunged just as the thrall finally got a good grip on the knife and waved it at the taller guard holding the thrall’s chains. The tip of the blade was still yards from its intended target but that made little matter.
Avoiding the wild back swing of the knife, Coris wrapped both arms about the thrall and lifted him right off the floor, applying enough pressure with his arms to signal what had better happen and that immediately. The thrall’s lungs emptied in a whoosh of air, and the dagger clanged on the stone floor.
And there was Beroc, in striking range and unsheathing his weapon. His eyes glittering with anger, the man advanced toward them.
Before he could strike, Coris spoke in a conciliatory voice, but loud enough to be heard by the captain. “Enough, Beroc. He grabbed a dagger, and he dropped it. What harm could such a stripling do you?” Coris reached down with one hand, and picked up the dagger, handing it back to its embarrassed owner. He kept his other arm about the thrall’s body, swinging the Young One across himself so that it was as far away from Beroc as possible.
“Who put you in charge of the filth of the world, Coris?” Beroc’s voice was cold. “Some day, you will step too far-”
Lord Cenoc’s voice cut in, “Beroc! Get on with it. Coris, get rid of that thing!”
Coris smiled, indicating Cenoc with a nod of his head. “Until that day, I’ll do what our lord says and remove him.”
“Not what he meant!” Beroc growled to his back.
Gripping Lanis’ arm, Coris guided the weeping Young One to the main door. Before he was through it, a shriek pierced the room. Unwillingly, Coris stopped and turned.
Lanis pummeled his restraining arm with both small hands.
Beroc stood over the chained Young One, carefully wiping his sword before he sheathed it. Blood ran down the long cut on the thrall’s arm. Picking up the goblet gingerly, Beroc returned to the thrall and poured its contents down the length of the wound.
The dark green blood covered the fresh cut and flowed on to drip off the thrall’s fingertips. Shuddering, he cried out in terror.
Beroc gripped the chains and dragged the struggling thrall toward two pillars at the foot of the room near the main door. He yanked the thrall upright and looped a ring over a hook in one of the two columns, then untangled the second chain to do the same at the other pillar.
Coris turned, intent on taking the thrall in his keeping through the door, only to see Riptis’ gaze locked on him.
His task done, Beroc had wasted not a second before he walked over to their captain.
An icy knot forming in his innards, Coris whispered a warning to the Young One lad and pushed it through the door, barring it with the aid of the door guard. Then he walked as nonchalantly as he could toward the pair but with every muscle tensed, his wits sharp.
Riptis nodded impatiently at Beroc’s continued comments. Turning, he beckoned to Coris, his hard-bitten face stern. If Beroc had told Riptis about the little encounter in the scullery, his life would be worth less than a thrall’s once Glisa’s escape became known. How much had Beroc told him, by now?
“Coris. Beroc tells me that you prevented him from punishing that thrall a few moments ago. Beroc is a superior officer. Lord Cenoc would not approve of your insubordination.”
The chill Coris felt in the pit of his stomach was spreading, but he spoke calmly, his eyes on Riptis alone. “Captain, Lord Cenoc ordered me to remove the thrall.”
“Hmm. What do you say to that, Beroc? I heard the order myself.”
Coris felt the burning hatred in Beroc’s eyes but he pretended not to notice.
“Yes, he obeyed an order before it was given! Irrelevant. And, not what our lord meant by ‘get rid of’, Riptis. All three of us know it. The thing stole a weapon.”
“Yes. We’ll deal with that when we have the right equipment.”
“Equipment?” Beroc reached to the back of his belt and tugged out a stained arm sweatband, fitted with a buckle. “All we need is this to slow the bleeding, and someone willing to hold an arm still.”
Icy blue eyes scored Coris’ face, seeming to ask if he were up to the task. He schooled himself not to react. Leave it to Beroc to carry about the means for a formal dismemberment.
“This was not the first time this young whelp has interfered with my duties. He did so last week when a stable boy brought the wrong horse at Empsa Keep, and earlier today-”
Riptis broke in, “Is this what you call insubordination? I was at the stable, too, remember? I saw what happened. As for the thrall, we’ll do it properly. What if Cenoc meant execution rather than dismemberment or tossing him out of the hall? It can wait until he tells us. Keep your complaints to yourself, Beroc, or I will give you cause to complain!” The captain turned away and stalked back to his place at the table.
Coris started to follow him. As he passed Beroc, the knight spoke low, “Beware, Coris. Cross me one more time and the blow meant for ones like him will land on your own head.” Beroc pointed to the chained thrall. Without waiting for a response, the older knight went to his own place at the other side table.
***
Deep within the mountain chain that sundered Latimus from its nearest neighbor to the east was a chamber fashioned by Alphesis himself. An ancient prison for the Shadow it was, but the evil that dwelt within it was older still-enchanters of the Light who had turned to sorcery at the dawn of time. Long had they slept or seemed to. Even so, those who used the mountainway felt their malign presences sometimes, ever seeking to destroy that which went freely past whilst they must remain bound.
The stirring on this night would have filled the stoutest traveler with a consuming horror. A cry came forth from Latimus to one who dwelt here in the cavern, an ancient cry not heard in centuries.
The mind of Mexat stirred.
Those in the hall of Sevris felt the chill of his malevolence as he listened to his follower’s words.
Mexat smiled. There would be revenge. Alarz deserved no less for his obedience. But more than revenge. The time was at hand.