Read Online Witches of Kregen by Alan Burt Akers - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Burt Akers
Tags: Fiction
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for you. Be warned! Vallia is no place for you.”
With that, about I turned and walked off. And this time, by Zair, I walked a trifle faster.
They did not follow. Some way down the back trail I could still hear their voices raised in argument. Once I was well away I just picked up the hem of the brown robe and ran — ran like a zorca pursued by a leem.
Chapter seven
Inch — and squishes...
When I walked into the great hall of the palace of Makolo, situated on a cliff overlooking Makanriel, the capital city of the kovnate province of the Black Mountains, they had just finished the evening meal. I was followed by a great crowd of retainers and guards and servants, all amazed and agog that the Emperor of Vallia had arrived.
The sweet and luscious smell of squishes hung in the hall.
I sighed.
I knew what to expect when I walked into the small room at the back of the hall where folk would retire after the meal to drink wine and talk and relax after the day’s exertions.
I was not disappointed.
Squishes are, indeed, flavorsome morsels on the tongue, tiny fruits that melt and create incredible delights on their way. The dish had probably been squish pie, I guessed, and I felt the old juices starting up in my mouth. I’d flown hard and long on the stolen fluttrell, and poor old Salvation had perforce been left with master Urban the Unguent. The new fluttrell was a fine flyer, with a wicked eye, so I’d called him Salvation the Second.
Maisie had been restored to her mother Minvila amid many tears and protestations of gratitude. I’d been able to press a little gold into her unwilling hand. Good folk, cruelly brought down by the evil times that had fallen on their province, they would, I felt sure, welcome a return to more settled and prosperous days when at last the Emperor of Vallia liberated the whole island.
So, now, here I was, in the palace of Makolo in Makanriel in the Black Mountains.
The colors of the Black Mountains, Black and Purple, shone from tapestry and streamer. The schturval, the emblem of the province, emblazoned in panoply about the hall and the retiring room, was an axe. At one time this axe had been of a common variety, double-bitted and not particularly well-crafted as to haft. Now that axe was of the Saxon pattern, small of head, long of haft and with that cunning curve and recurve to the wood that transferred such power and accuracy into the blow.
I noticed, too, in the banded sleeves of the men and the draperies of the walls, that the black and purple did not meet but were separated by two narrow lines of yellow enclosing a narrow line of red. I smiled. That was also new.
The sweet smell of squishes remained strong as I entered the room. There was even a scrap of pie crust on the floor and a pretty young serving girl was in the act of sweeping it up with a brush and dustpan. She was neatly dressed in a yellow tunic, her sleeves bearing the schturval, and in her combed hair a glitter showed where she wore a vimshu, a kind of small tiara set with brilliants much favored even by girls who were not considered vain.
She missed her sweep with the brush, for her head was cocked up and to the side and she was looking over at the far corner of the room. She might have seen that sight many and many a time, and yet I could well understand her bright interest and amusement.
In the corner — where I spotted another scrap of squish piecrust — I could see a man. He was inordinately tall and thin. He wore a scarlet tunic and a golden belt. His long yellow hair was tightly wound into a red bandage-cap somewhat like a turban. He was a strange and powerful figure, well, enough.
The trouble was, he was standing on his head.
I could feel my harsh old lips stretching into the broadest of smiles.
He saw me.
Now I give him his due. He did not fall over.
To one side stood another fellow almost as tall wearing a proper decent Vallian evening robe of midnight blue. To him I said:
“Tell me, Brince, how
With that, about I turned and walked off. And this time, by Zair, I walked a trifle faster.
They did not follow. Some way down the back trail I could still hear their voices raised in argument. Once I was well away I just picked up the hem of the brown robe and ran — ran like a zorca pursued by a leem.
Chapter seven
Inch — and squishes...
When I walked into the great hall of the palace of Makolo, situated on a cliff overlooking Makanriel, the capital city of the kovnate province of the Black Mountains, they had just finished the evening meal. I was followed by a great crowd of retainers and guards and servants, all amazed and agog that the Emperor of Vallia had arrived.
The sweet and luscious smell of squishes hung in the hall.
I sighed.
I knew what to expect when I walked into the small room at the back of the hall where folk would retire after the meal to drink wine and talk and relax after the day’s exertions.
I was not disappointed.
Squishes are, indeed, flavorsome morsels on the tongue, tiny fruits that melt and create incredible delights on their way. The dish had probably been squish pie, I guessed, and I felt the old juices starting up in my mouth. I’d flown hard and long on the stolen fluttrell, and poor old Salvation had perforce been left with master Urban the Unguent. The new fluttrell was a fine flyer, with a wicked eye, so I’d called him Salvation the Second.
Maisie had been restored to her mother Minvila amid many tears and protestations of gratitude. I’d been able to press a little gold into her unwilling hand. Good folk, cruelly brought down by the evil times that had fallen on their province, they would, I felt sure, welcome a return to more settled and prosperous days when at last the Emperor of Vallia liberated the whole island.
So, now, here I was, in the palace of Makolo in Makanriel in the Black Mountains.
The colors of the Black Mountains, Black and Purple, shone from tapestry and streamer. The schturval, the emblem of the province, emblazoned in panoply about the hall and the retiring room, was an axe. At one time this axe had been of a common variety, double-bitted and not particularly well-crafted as to haft. Now that axe was of the Saxon pattern, small of head, long of haft and with that cunning curve and recurve to the wood that transferred such power and accuracy into the blow.
I noticed, too, in the banded sleeves of the men and the draperies of the walls, that the black and purple did not meet but were separated by two narrow lines of yellow enclosing a narrow line of red. I smiled. That was also new.
The sweet smell of squishes remained strong as I entered the room. There was even a scrap of pie crust on the floor and a pretty young serving girl was in the act of sweeping it up with a brush and dustpan. She was neatly dressed in a yellow tunic, her sleeves bearing the schturval, and in her combed hair a glitter showed where she wore a vimshu, a kind of small tiara set with brilliants much favored even by girls who were not considered vain.
She missed her sweep with the brush, for her head was cocked up and to the side and she was looking over at the far corner of the room. She might have seen that sight many and many a time, and yet I could well understand her bright interest and amusement.
In the corner — where I spotted another scrap of squish piecrust — I could see a man. He was inordinately tall and thin. He wore a scarlet tunic and a golden belt. His long yellow hair was tightly wound into a red bandage-cap somewhat like a turban. He was a strange and powerful figure, well, enough.
The trouble was, he was standing on his head.
I could feel my harsh old lips stretching into the broadest of smiles.
He saw me.
Now I give him his due. He did not fall over.
To one side stood another fellow almost as tall wearing a proper decent Vallian evening robe of midnight blue. To him I said:
“Tell me, Brince, how
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