go to war, who will maintain order in our own lands, against brigands, prowling monsters, drunkards and other malcontents, and even wild dogs?'
The king smiled softly. 'The lorn. They obey me, now.'
Several of the border knights ranged down the hall laughed, in disbelief or wonderment.
Lorn plunged down out of the darkened upper galleries of the throne hall, dived on those knights, and tore them apart bloodily, limb from limb.
Most of the nobles whirled and grabbed for their swords as the knights shouted and screamed, but froze and did no more than watch as the doomed men died.
The lords of Galath paled still more when more lorn descended out of the upper darkness to perch on the balconies above them, one for every noble.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the darkness of the highest galleries, a lorn perched on carved stone adornments like a statue, watching fellow lorn rend border knights of Galath far below.
Without warning, another lorn struck like an arrow out of the darkness, claws first, wrenching the perched lorn's head around with such swift violence that its neck broke in an echoing instant.
Another two lorn soared up from the gallery below as the dying lorn's body was snatched off its perch by the fatal strike, to take hold of the body and bear it across the throne hall, wings beating within inches of the ceiling, into the other gallery.
The lorn that had done murder did not relinquish its hold, and its razor-sharp claws had nigh-severed the head of its victim by the time it was dragged into the gallery across the hall, still clutching the head.
The head came off by the time the body landed, flopping bloodily down onto bird-dropping-littered stone. The murderer calmly wiped its claws clean on the body, and flew back to the perch where its victim had been. The other two lorn stood wary watch over the body, staring intently for any signs of movement or revival.
Thanks to the violent deaths of the knights and the attention given those passings, none of the men below noticed a thing of what befell above their heads.
'So passes Malraun's spy,' Amalrys spat, turning again to her master with those startlingly blue eyes ablaze.
Time for some taming. Again.
Arlaghaun took hold of a fistful of chain and dragged her back against his gray-clad breast, snaring her long blonde hair in his other hand and tugging down, to force her head up and back.
She gasped at the ceiling, arched back and trembling. The chains cut into her softest place, and her neck- manacle half strangled her, but she knew better than to hiss out her pain.
Especially when his thin lips were smiling, and coming down on hers so tenderly.
'Well done, my dearest apprentice,' the sharp-nosed wizard murmured. Then, his expression changing not a whit, he cruelly jerked the chain straight up, hard, sawing deep between her legs, heaving her right up off her feet.
When her bare feet returned to the floor, spots of blood dappled it between them, and they came not from where she'd been biting her lips to stifle a shriek. Those blue eyes pleaded with her master.
'Just remember you're my apprentice,' Arlaghaun whispered, his eyes like two blazing brown fires. 'Mine to show kindness to… and mine to destroy.'
'You're falling for her, Arlaghaun,' the darkly handsome wizard sneered, sinking back into his grand claw- footed chair with a weary sigh, and wiping the sweat from his face. Listening through ward-spells by means of a deep magic was draining; doing so while linked to two other minds-lorn minds, at that-was utterly exhausting. 'And thereby,' he added in satisfaction, 'building a bridge that will lead to your own doom.'
Malraun wiped his face again and lounged back in the chair, swinging his booted feet up, and smiled at the precious vial of the maiden's blood, harvested so daringly and so long ago, anticipating the chance she might become Arlaghaun's apprentice. The fire of his warding-spell raced swiftly around the vial, once, awakening answering glows in the great green tapestries that hung on the walls all around. Nodding in satisfaction, he reached deftly down behind his chair and slipped the vial back into its hiding place under the loose stone.
Only when Amalrys bled monthly, or from a wound, could he awaken his deep spell and 'hear,' albeit poorly, through her skin. Thanks to Arlaghaun's cruelty, his love of biting and hauling hard on chains in particular, Malraun the Matchless could listen to choice moments of converse fairly often. If fuzzily.
The lorn had been able to hear Arlaghaun speak through his human puppet rather better. Not the lorn he'd left perched so obviously for Arlaghaun to find and destroy, but the two better-hidden ones whose minds he'd been listening through.
The lorn he'd sent to hunt the Aumrarr and her mysterious companion, whom she might well have fetched from some magical otherwhere, and who just might be a minor Shaper, had not returned, and was either dead or in hiding, not daring to return to him. Either way, it had clearly failed.
It was now time for a more direct try, to snatch the man the Aumrarr was guiding, or see him and decide if he was worth no further attention, by using strong magic to burst into Bowrock himself.
Before Arlaghaun did, or all of Galath's sword-swinging armies.
The cold stone room had been dark and deserted for a very long time.
Yet not completely dark, and not completely deserted.
There was the oval of glowing magic on one wall, and there was the dust that lived.
The dust that was swirling together now, on the floor in front of that glimmering oval, to form the eyeless planes and curves of a human face, a face that rose up, as if on a building ocean wave, into the shape of a human head.
Fleetingly, before it collapsed back into drifting dust again, that head seemed to be watching the oval.
As the dust settled, it again moved into the outlines of a face, a visage of dust that rose at the forehead end just a little, this time, to regard the magic of the oval.
The oval in which colored shapes moved and talked, showing the young, sneeringly smiling King Devaer of Galath addressing the nobles of the realm in the gloomy throne hall of Galathgard.
Then the oval flashed, and the scene within it was of a tall, gray-clad, sharp-nosed man roughly dragging a nude, manacled woman to him by means of her chains, her very, very blue eyes staring up at him pleadingly.
It flashed again, to show a darkly handsome man in robes slipping a vial into a recess and replacing a stone atop it, then rising to fetch a wand and start to cast a teleport spell.
Quite suddenly, the face collapsed back into a smooth, moving heap of dust. Dust that flowed purposefully across the floor of the deserted room to swirl around a bright metal warrior's gauntlet lying on the floor. As the dust circled it, moving faster and faster until the faintest of hissings could be heard, motes of light blossomed here and there about the gauntlet, winking and glowing. They multiplied into a flickering, pulsing glow, and then, all at once, vanished.
The dust glided to a stop, lying motionless in a ring, as if exhausted.
Then, very slowly, it started to move again, drifting back across the room. Quickening as it returned to the floor in front of the oval, surging up into a heap as it reached where it had been before, a heap that reshaped itself once more into the watching face.
The oval stopped showing an empty chamber that the robed man with the wand had vanished from, flashed, and then displayed a dark stone passage that Dark Helms were running along, black blades drawn.
The dust settled down to watch.
'What say, Isk? Safe to go back to the Stormar ports yet?' the fat man rumbled. 'I miss the sea.'
'You miss painted lasses and easy thievery, you mean,' the bone-thin woman seated beside him on the wagon said tartly. 'And having a dozen-some waterlogged scows to escape on, when things, go bad.'
'Can't hide on a wagon,' the fat man growled, looking around at endless rolling hills and the few poor farms adorning them. 'Can't we sell this one?'
'We'd better, before the man we stole it from catches up to us. Then go north again.'
'North? But the sea's south of here!'
