Peter Morwood - Book of Years 04 by The War Lord

Author:The War Lord [Lord, The War]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-05-29T20:12:36+00:00

“Say that again; the last part, about Voord.” Aldric didn’t want to hear it, because that would mean it had to be true and wasn’t just another part of the foul fever-dreams that were troubling his sleep.

“What I said was, Voord has somehow become the Grand Warlord. And he’s the one who had us both arrested.” She looked over at him again, lying quite flat and still as if posing for the carven effigy on a tomb-lid. After the arrest, Kagh’ Ernvakh troopers had searched them both. They had found three small knives on Aldric: one strapped to his left wrist, a second down his boot and the last—a tiny push-dirk—hung from two loops at the back of his tunic collar. After that, they had taken away all outer garments made of fabric thick enough to hide a blade. For the first time in her memory Aldric was in total black, without the touches of white or silver or of polished metal which had been his—conscious or otherwise—nods in the direction of melodramatic dress. That somber uniformity of non-color, and the blow against his head, gave his face the bone-white pallor of someone two days dead.

Aldric closed his eyes again and this time not just through sickness, unless it was a sickness of the spirit. Without the life and movement granted by those eyes, his face became that of a corpse; it was an image and a premonition that made Kyrin shiver.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For coming here. For getting involved when you wanted me safe. I’m sorry for all of it. But I told you: where you go, I go. To the end of all things.”

The fetters clinked as Aldric moved his hand slightly, dismissing the matter. He smiled wanly up at the ceiling and shook his head, both sadly and with pride that anyone should think him worthy of such love, then lay quite still and shivered as that head-shake brought the nausea quivering back into his stomach.

“I know how much you want to hurt him, Commander, and I know how much he deserves to be hurt. But what I cannot understand is why you would do anything so dangerous as putting his sword in with him. Putting it into him would be—”

“Too quick, Tagen.”

Woydach Voord finished his breakfast, a syrup of white poppies in brandy and a piece of bread, then pushed the cup aside while his mouth twisted at the taste of the stuff on which he had been living for what felt like years. He looked enviously at Tagen’s mug of beer and at the fried blood-sausage on his plate. Voord’s nostrils twitched; there was thyme in it. All forbidden now, he thought. One more* reason not to stay here longer than I have to …

“Much too quick—although I appreciate the irony of it all. And I have another use for Talvalin. What do you think that he would do if he got loose, knowing who I am and what I’ve done to him

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