[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Of course, Ragnor had broken her ankle, an act that was bound to slow down
even the quickest girl,
which was certainly what the red knight had intended.
"Bah." Soren made a dismissive gesture with his hand, and three servants ran
into one another, trying to decipher the cryptic command. "Bah," he growled
again, giving them his evilest eye. "Bah!"
With much bumbling and mumbling, the three sorted themselves out and
scattered. Fools. He was surrounded by fools, sans one, the captain of his
guard, the beast Ragnor. Where had the man gone?
And why? Humiliation was nothing new in Wydehaw's hall. 'Twas almost
guaranteed when Lavrans was a man's opponent. Ragnor had lost to the sorcerer
before without fleeing.
There was mischief in the man's disappearance. Soren felt it. He knew it, but
there was no proof, no clue that the man had done other than run off. But to
where? No word had come back of him. The men who had been hunting with Ragnor
that morn had reported finding boar sign and tracking the pig to its lair.
There the party had split up, each circling within sight of the others, ready
to cut off the swine should it try to escape, hounds yapping at their heels
and the hole in anticipation of the bloodshed to come. But there had been no
boar, only the scent of one to drive the dogs mad, and then there had been no
Ragnor.
Everyone had seen him, no one had seen him disappear, but neither he nor his
destrier were to be found.
Mischief, to be sure, but by whom, Soren wondered, and to what end ? There
were those in the woods who were wild and particularly fond of mischief, the
Quicken-tree, but they ever avoided the world of men, and they would find the
rancid Ragnor particularly offensive.
Soren looked through the gloom of the hall to the iron cresset where the
demoiselle had hung from her chains. Had it been magic? Mayhaps Lavrans's
spell had taken hold and even now Ragnor lay fast asleep in some secret grove.
And mayhaps the spell did hold time at bay, and his captain would not awaken
for a thousand years.
Now there was a thought worthy of his father's great bard, Nemeton, who had
dealt much with the wild ones. Nemeton, Soren thought.The Sanctuaryin the
bard's own language, a strange name for a murdering bastard.
Spells, bah. His father had believed in the power of the unseen, and what had
it gotten him besides a dead wife? Lavrans was no sorcerer except by design.
'Twas the reason Soren enjoyed him so, watching the man beguile everyone from
the king's sheriff to the lowliest scullery maid with no more than his wits.
All except Soren himself trembled in the black-cowled demon's presence.
Vivienne trembled out of lust, true, but still she trembled.
Soren would have trembled for the wizard, on his knees if need be or actually,
preferably on his knees if it would have gotten him into Lavrans's bed, but
all of his efforts had been futile. Yet he still held out hope, for there was
something in Dain's dark gaze, a near unconscious sensuality inherent in his
demeanor that beckoned and incited Soren in a way no other man's gaze ever
had. Dain Lavrans was not innocent of any pleasure. Soren knew that truth down
to his bones.
"Food or a man?" a woman asked.
"What?" He snapped out of his reverie and found his wife standing next to him
by the hearth.
Page 101
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Food or a man?" Lady Vivienne repeated with a bland smile. "Nothing else
brings that sappy, glazed look to your eyes, Soren."
Bitch.
"I've ordered meat pies made for the evening meal," he said.
"If 'twas Ragnor's meat 'twould be better for us. I'm afraid the Boar of Balor
is going to be sorely disappointed not to have anybody to torture."
Soren gave his wife a cool look. "Mayhaps I'll find someone to sacrifice
before he leaves."
Vivienne did naught but return the threat with a smile. "Let us take his
measure first, my love. Then we shall see who shall torture whom."
"Milord." A man came running up, breathless and pale, but moving under his own
power and a quick glance downward confirmed it still dry in the front of his
tunic. Noll had gained instant notoriety for surviving his mission to fetch
the sorcerer on the night of the storm, returning singed and unconscious,
struck down by a sizzling bolt of undiluted magic, a mighty bulwark overcome
by the ungodly powers of bewitchment (this last being his own interpretation
of events). He had become the hero of the scullery, with all its attendant
benefits with the kitchen maids, and now insisted on his duty as messenger to
the
Hart Tower.
"Milord, I looked ev'rywhere, both up and down, right into the thick of the
place, and she's not to be found."
"Who?" Vivienne asked, before Soren could fully absorb what the man had said.
"The demoiselle, lady. Neither she nor Lavrans is in the tower, or anywhere in
the castle." Noll paled even further under Lady Vivienne's darkening gaze. His
speech grew fainter, fading into a bare whisper of breath. "There is only old
Erlend in the Hart. Not even the hell hounds are about." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]