Read Online Falconfar 03-Falconfar by Ed Greenwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ed Greenwood
Tags: Falconfar
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the buckle that rode on her left hip still bit into her. Familiar, reassuring; she reached for her crotch-cloth, with its long laces.
She had to get to Malragard. Malraun was gone—and that was one good thing for Falconfar, even if a worse wizard than he'd ever been was now striding the kingdoms in his body—but the man he'd been trying to slay, that any one of the six greatfangs might well have been about to devour, might yet live.
And that man, that bumbling Rod Everlar, was the last hope of Falconfar.
She believed that still, even if that belief had been something Lorontar had birthed in her, had nurtured into a fierce certainty over years of deft dream-weaving. Seeing Rod's face before her now, conjured up out of memory—mouth agape in astonishment, eyes full of that familiar, infuriating helplessness, as lost as a rabbit in her grasp—Taeauna found herself smiling.
Even when the armor-plate that always dug into her ribs did so again now, bringing the familiar raw pain as it sliced anew into the deep weal in her flank, she smiled.
She believed.
Oh, yes, she did. That helpless, bumbling idiot was the hope of Falconfar.
If she could keep him alive long enough to destroy Lorontar—for he was the only one who could, if anyone could—and become the Lord Archwizard in truth, that hope might just become something more.
Giving her—giving all Falconfar—a world free of wizards fell and mighty enough to be called Dooms, and all their hosts of lorn and Dark Helms and greatfangs. A place where veldukes like Darendarr Deldragon could rise to rule well, and the gruffly honest likes of Eldalar of Hollowtree and Tindror of Tarmoral could flourish in their smaller domains, and folk could enjoy seasons of peace and good harvests again.
"My thoughts," she told herself huskily, finding herself about to choke on fresh tears—she didn't have the Falcon-be-damned time for them, just now—"are like a bad ballad. A proper weepwailer."
She swung her heavy shoulder-plates over her head and into place, smacking herself across the face with at least two of their dangling buckles. As usual.
"Ow," she said. True Aumrarr suffer in silence, the saying went. A stupid saying, now that she thought about it. So was that more of Lorontar's meddling, or herself, freed of it?
She shrugged and set to work finding straps and buckles and mating them up properly. Being as there was no nimble-fingered maid or Stormar shieldguard to do that for her.
Malraun would probably have bedded them and then blasted them to ashes, if there had been.
Just as he would have served her, if she hadn't been useful as a lure for Rod Everlar, a handy lass in which to slake his lusts—and a thrall he could send into peril, or escape if need be into the mind of, just as Lorontar had done.
Now, that would have been utter doom, if Malraun and Lorontar had each found her mind a mite crowded with the other one there, and decided to fight it out inside her head.
She shuddered at a brief, vivid image of her head bursting on her shoulders like rotten fruit, drew on her gauntlets, shifted the hilts of her scabbarded blades and reached for her helm.
With all wizards out of her head for the moment—forever, if she could manage it, though that was more grim determination than anything she had any power to prevent—it was time to get back to work. She had to salvage all she could of Falconfar from all wizards. Which, right now, meant rescuing Rod Everlar.
She strode across the room, flung wide the door—and came to an abrupt halt. The room beyond was icily silent, and the men in it had swords drawn.
Two of them, whose tense shoulders were right in front of her, were the guards charged by Malraun to let no one approach the bedchamber. They were facing down five warriors; four expressionless bodyguards and their burly, glowering master—who was one of Malraun's army commanders. Korauth of Belamber, fearless but with a temper to match his flame-red hair, scowling brows
She had to get to Malragard. Malraun was gone—and that was one good thing for Falconfar, even if a worse wizard than he'd ever been was now striding the kingdoms in his body—but the man he'd been trying to slay, that any one of the six greatfangs might well have been about to devour, might yet live.
And that man, that bumbling Rod Everlar, was the last hope of Falconfar.
She believed that still, even if that belief had been something Lorontar had birthed in her, had nurtured into a fierce certainty over years of deft dream-weaving. Seeing Rod's face before her now, conjured up out of memory—mouth agape in astonishment, eyes full of that familiar, infuriating helplessness, as lost as a rabbit in her grasp—Taeauna found herself smiling.
Even when the armor-plate that always dug into her ribs did so again now, bringing the familiar raw pain as it sliced anew into the deep weal in her flank, she smiled.
She believed.
Oh, yes, she did. That helpless, bumbling idiot was the hope of Falconfar.
If she could keep him alive long enough to destroy Lorontar—for he was the only one who could, if anyone could—and become the Lord Archwizard in truth, that hope might just become something more.
Giving her—giving all Falconfar—a world free of wizards fell and mighty enough to be called Dooms, and all their hosts of lorn and Dark Helms and greatfangs. A place where veldukes like Darendarr Deldragon could rise to rule well, and the gruffly honest likes of Eldalar of Hollowtree and Tindror of Tarmoral could flourish in their smaller domains, and folk could enjoy seasons of peace and good harvests again.
"My thoughts," she told herself huskily, finding herself about to choke on fresh tears—she didn't have the Falcon-be-damned time for them, just now—"are like a bad ballad. A proper weepwailer."
She swung her heavy shoulder-plates over her head and into place, smacking herself across the face with at least two of their dangling buckles. As usual.
"Ow," she said. True Aumrarr suffer in silence, the saying went. A stupid saying, now that she thought about it. So was that more of Lorontar's meddling, or herself, freed of it?
She shrugged and set to work finding straps and buckles and mating them up properly. Being as there was no nimble-fingered maid or Stormar shieldguard to do that for her.
Malraun would probably have bedded them and then blasted them to ashes, if there had been.
Just as he would have served her, if she hadn't been useful as a lure for Rod Everlar, a handy lass in which to slake his lusts—and a thrall he could send into peril, or escape if need be into the mind of, just as Lorontar had done.
Now, that would have been utter doom, if Malraun and Lorontar had each found her mind a mite crowded with the other one there, and decided to fight it out inside her head.
She shuddered at a brief, vivid image of her head bursting on her shoulders like rotten fruit, drew on her gauntlets, shifted the hilts of her scabbarded blades and reached for her helm.
With all wizards out of her head for the moment—forever, if she could manage it, though that was more grim determination than anything she had any power to prevent—it was time to get back to work. She had to salvage all she could of Falconfar from all wizards. Which, right now, meant rescuing Rod Everlar.
She strode across the room, flung wide the door—and came to an abrupt halt. The room beyond was icily silent, and the men in it had swords drawn.
Two of them, whose tense shoulders were right in front of her, were the guards charged by Malraun to let no one approach the bedchamber. They were facing down five warriors; four expressionless bodyguards and their burly, glowering master—who was one of Malraun's army commanders. Korauth of Belamber, fearless but with a temper to match his flame-red hair, scowling brows
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