[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
demons.
But she was slain, cut down by a brother's sword, and soldiers turned the
box's powers against their own kind. The snow-haired woman whispered praise,
and her voice became the croak of ravens feasting on dead flesh.
Weeping now, the Earl beheld a headland scabbed with dirtied drifts of ice. A
ragged band of survivors set fire to stacked logs, while other men chipped
through the resulting slush with swords and shovels.
They hoped to release a weather mage believed to be trapped inside, for legend
held his powers might subdue the horrors which blighted the land. But where
the sorcerer had been, they discovered bones wrapped loosely in a bundle of
rags. Exhausted from their labor, the men aban-doned the place in despair; and
through a rift in the ice, a quavering whistle echoed across the lonely face
of the sea. The snow-haired woman laughed. And the Earl saw his civilization
plunge into a well of darkness, all for the murder of a Morbrith boy in the
sanctuary tower at midsummer.
"No! Koridan's Fires, no!"
With his throat still raw from screaming, the Earl opened his eyes. Daylight
spilled brightly through the casement. The seer crouched trembling in the
sun-light, his white head
familiary rumpled. No bloodied corpse marred the floor.
The Earl buried his face in his hands.
He had only dreamed the boy's death.
But the Llondel's prescient images left a deep and lingering warning of
danger. Preoccupied, the Earl did not notice the rich blue robes of the men
who arrived in the doorway until after the Archpriest had addressed him.
"My Lord, it is unavoidable. You must be tried for heresy."
The Earl swore tiredly and leaned back against the wall. He did not
immediately respond. The seer watched him in naked alarm, but said nothing.
The priest mistook his silence for regret. "Perhaps you may not burn for the
crime. Your men claim the knife which killed the Llondian demon is your
Lordship's. If you can prove you dealt the death blow, you may be judged more
leniently."
From the doorway, the healer broke in with vindictive sat-isfaction. "Jaric
has escaped. He stole your horse."
"Don't pursue him," the Earl said quickly. He stared down at the floor, stung
to a flurry of thought. Jaric must not be stopped. He added in a hoarse
whisper, "The horse was a gift." The Earl did not resist as the priests drew
him to his feet and placed fetters on his wrists. His own dilemma seemed of
small importance beside the warning of the Llondel's death image. For it
appeared the fate of Morbrith rested on the shoul-ders of a small sickly
apprentice whose sole talent was pen-manship.
"Kor protect him," muttered the seer, and the priests, mis-interpreting, bowed
their heads in earnest prayer for the man they had taken into custody.
Gaire's Main
The gale set loose by Anskiere's stormfalcon raged across the southwest
latitudes and finally spent itself, leaving skies whipped with cirrus and air
scoured clean by rain. Emien woke in the pinnace to a cold fair morning.
Bruised after days of battling maddened elements, he raised himself from the
Page 43
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
floorboards.
Bilgewater dripped from his sleeves as he stretched and rubbed salt-crusted
eyes. The pinnace wallowed through the troughs, her helm lashed and her
oarsmen sprawled in exhausted slumber across their benches; but the craft's
other two occupants seemed strangely unaffected by fatigue. Hearvin and
Tathagres sat near the stern, involved in conversation.
Emien gripped the gunwale. Seasoned fisherman though he was, his palms had
blistered at the oar;
waterlogged skin had since split into sores. Yet the boy noticed no sting,
obsessed as he was with his desire for vengeance. Of those on board only
Tathagres hated Anskiere as he did. She had promised the
Stormwarden's demise, and for that the boy had sworn an oath no fisherman's
son would betray. Though weary and starved, his first thought was for his
mistress.
Emien stood cautiously. Dehydration had left him light-headed, and the roll of
the pinnace made movement without a handhold impossible. Unsatisfied with the
boat's perfor-mance, he ran a critical eye over the canvas set since the storm
relented. The mainsheet needed easing, and the headsail drove the
bow down because the halyard was too slack. Instinctively, Emien started to
adjust lines.
The sound of raised voices carried clearly from the stern as he worked.
Hearvin and Tathagres openly argued, and Emien paused to listen.
"... Failed to accomplish your purpose," Hearvin said bluntly. He sat as he
always did, straight as chiseled wood against the curve of the swells.
Tathagres responded inaudibly but her gesture bespoke an-noyance.
"What else have you achieved?" Hearvin jabbed a hand into the wet folds of his
cloak. "Your liege expected the release of the frostwargs and a Stormwarden on
Cliffhaven who would subvert the
Kielmark's sovereignty. Thus far you have deliv-ered two dead sorcerers, a
smashed war fleet, and a boy you would have lost had I not intervened."
Absently Emien reached for the mainsheet. Although a gust masked Tathagres'
reply, her expression became haughtily an-gry.
Hearvin stiffened, no longer impassive. "And I say you've meddled enough!"
This time Tathagres' voice cut cleanly across the white hiss of spray. "Do you
challenge me? How dare you! You fear the Stormwarden, that much is evident.
And you speak of the Kielmark as more than a mortal man, which proves your [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl ocenkijessi.opx.pl
demons.
But she was slain, cut down by a brother's sword, and soldiers turned the
box's powers against their own kind. The snow-haired woman whispered praise,
and her voice became the croak of ravens feasting on dead flesh.
Weeping now, the Earl beheld a headland scabbed with dirtied drifts of ice. A
ragged band of survivors set fire to stacked logs, while other men chipped
through the resulting slush with swords and shovels.
They hoped to release a weather mage believed to be trapped inside, for legend
held his powers might subdue the horrors which blighted the land. But where
the sorcerer had been, they discovered bones wrapped loosely in a bundle of
rags. Exhausted from their labor, the men aban-doned the place in despair; and
through a rift in the ice, a quavering whistle echoed across the lonely face
of the sea. The snow-haired woman laughed. And the Earl saw his civilization
plunge into a well of darkness, all for the murder of a Morbrith boy in the
sanctuary tower at midsummer.
"No! Koridan's Fires, no!"
With his throat still raw from screaming, the Earl opened his eyes. Daylight
spilled brightly through the casement. The seer crouched trembling in the
sun-light, his white head
familiary rumpled. No bloodied corpse marred the floor.
The Earl buried his face in his hands.
He had only dreamed the boy's death.
But the Llondel's prescient images left a deep and lingering warning of
danger. Preoccupied, the Earl did not notice the rich blue robes of the men
who arrived in the doorway until after the Archpriest had addressed him.
"My Lord, it is unavoidable. You must be tried for heresy."
The Earl swore tiredly and leaned back against the wall. He did not
immediately respond. The seer watched him in naked alarm, but said nothing.
The priest mistook his silence for regret. "Perhaps you may not burn for the
crime. Your men claim the knife which killed the Llondian demon is your
Lordship's. If you can prove you dealt the death blow, you may be judged more
leniently."
From the doorway, the healer broke in with vindictive sat-isfaction. "Jaric
has escaped. He stole your horse."
"Don't pursue him," the Earl said quickly. He stared down at the floor, stung
to a flurry of thought. Jaric must not be stopped. He added in a hoarse
whisper, "The horse was a gift." The Earl did not resist as the priests drew
him to his feet and placed fetters on his wrists. His own dilemma seemed of
small importance beside the warning of the Llondel's death image. For it
appeared the fate of Morbrith rested on the shoul-ders of a small sickly
apprentice whose sole talent was pen-manship.
"Kor protect him," muttered the seer, and the priests, mis-interpreting, bowed
their heads in earnest prayer for the man they had taken into custody.
Gaire's Main
The gale set loose by Anskiere's stormfalcon raged across the southwest
latitudes and finally spent itself, leaving skies whipped with cirrus and air
scoured clean by rain. Emien woke in the pinnace to a cold fair morning.
Bruised after days of battling maddened elements, he raised himself from the
Page 43
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
floorboards.
Bilgewater dripped from his sleeves as he stretched and rubbed salt-crusted
eyes. The pinnace wallowed through the troughs, her helm lashed and her
oarsmen sprawled in exhausted slumber across their benches; but the craft's
other two occupants seemed strangely unaffected by fatigue. Hearvin and
Tathagres sat near the stern, involved in conversation.
Emien gripped the gunwale. Seasoned fisherman though he was, his palms had
blistered at the oar;
waterlogged skin had since split into sores. Yet the boy noticed no sting,
obsessed as he was with his desire for vengeance. Of those on board only
Tathagres hated Anskiere as he did. She had promised the
Stormwarden's demise, and for that the boy had sworn an oath no fisherman's
son would betray. Though weary and starved, his first thought was for his
mistress.
Emien stood cautiously. Dehydration had left him light-headed, and the roll of
the pinnace made movement without a handhold impossible. Unsatisfied with the
boat's perfor-mance, he ran a critical eye over the canvas set since the storm
relented. The mainsheet needed easing, and the headsail drove the
bow down because the halyard was too slack. Instinctively, Emien started to
adjust lines.
The sound of raised voices carried clearly from the stern as he worked.
Hearvin and Tathagres openly argued, and Emien paused to listen.
"... Failed to accomplish your purpose," Hearvin said bluntly. He sat as he
always did, straight as chiseled wood against the curve of the swells.
Tathagres responded inaudibly but her gesture bespoke an-noyance.
"What else have you achieved?" Hearvin jabbed a hand into the wet folds of his
cloak. "Your liege expected the release of the frostwargs and a Stormwarden on
Cliffhaven who would subvert the
Kielmark's sovereignty. Thus far you have deliv-ered two dead sorcerers, a
smashed war fleet, and a boy you would have lost had I not intervened."
Absently Emien reached for the mainsheet. Although a gust masked Tathagres'
reply, her expression became haughtily an-gry.
Hearvin stiffened, no longer impassive. "And I say you've meddled enough!"
This time Tathagres' voice cut cleanly across the white hiss of spray. "Do you
challenge me? How dare you! You fear the Stormwarden, that much is evident.
And you speak of the Kielmark as more than a mortal man, which proves your [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]