The Demon Lord by Peter Morwood

Author:Peter Morwood [Morwood, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy - General, Science Fiction, Fantasy Fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, Fantasy, English Science Fiction And Fantasy, Fantasy - Series, Historical, Fantasy - Historical, General, Fantasy Fiction; English
ISBN: 9780099489306
Google: ZRfeXxarX58C
Amazon: B0027PA5VA
Publisher: Arrow
Published: 1984-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

"I didn't know that," marvelled the demon queller. "Tell me, why do you mention his name?"

Shut up! SHUT UP! screamed Aldric inwardly. You don't live here! You come from Ternon! You don't know any of this!

"Because his mistress…" It appeared that a little of Aldric's desperate silent pleading had reached her at last, because she faltered momentarily; and when she continued it was with a flash of inspired brilliance. "I should have said that this is gossip from the last village we passed through. I wouldn't give it too much credence. Valden, wasn't it?"

"Valden, yes." Aldric could not understand why his voice was steady and not a tremulous croak. "Gossip or not, tell him about the Vreijek woman."

"Lord Crisen's mistress—he calls her a consort!—is supposedly a witch. They say she makes all manner of spells to entertain him. Or rather, they said, to give him… pleasure."

"They say… Who are 'they'?"

"Oh, everybody." Gueynor was adopting a brightness that grew more artificial with every second. "Absolutely all the people—"

Don't overdo it … "Are in terror of their opinions being overheard," Aldric interrupted crisply. "It's the sort of thing they would love to talk about, but dare not. Only the women—" he shot a warning glare at Gueynor—"can't keep from prattling to save their lives. Or anybody else's. There was a merchant who—"

"I heard about him." Marek's tone was disinterested now; he would hear nothing new from this pair. In which he was wrong, for had he not looked away from Aldric he might have seen the Alban's solitary pupil contract as it stared at him.

"Then," he purred silkily, "if you knew about him you must know why it happened." He knelt, settling his heels beneath him. "May I share your wine?" he asked.

Marek nodded hospitably, leaned forward and filled another bowl. It was casually lifted, apparently sipped, and just as casually set down again. Untasted. Aldric did not drink with those he distrusted.

Gold blazed briefly in the afternoon sunshine as his left hand came up to rub wearily at the back of his neck. "And if you know why it happened," he continued, "you must also know already what Gueynor had just told you." His gloved right hand made an elegant, eyecatching gesture towards the girl, and Marek's eyes were caught for maybe half a heartbeat, following it. "So why ask again?"

Abruptly there was steel jutting like a serpent's tongue from between the fingers of Aldric's clenched left fist, its glint a brutal contrast to the soft golden glow of the signet ring beside it as the small blade licked towards Marek's face.

"Aldric, No!" Gueynor's gasp was not loud, but it was sibilant with shock and carried all too well.

The punch-dirk stopped just underneath the Cernu-an's chin and made a warning upward jerk that stung him and drew blood. "Fool!" said Aldric. His voice, his face, his whole being had gone cold, bleak, deadly… and no one could be sure to whom he spoke. To Marek, for asking too much; to Gueynor,

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