The Lost Reavers 2 by Mike Truk

Author:Mike Truk [Truk, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-07-08T06:00:00+00:00

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They made their way down to the great hall wearing formal attire, though every guard they passed stared at them as if they walked with blades drawn. Down a floor, past sumptuous tapestries, small, cunningly carved statuettes set on pedestals, large oil paintings of landscapes encased within florid frames. The stone floor was covered in thick rugs with the black and crimson geometric patterns that were supposedly the Emperor’s favorite, and incense teased the air, filling the keep with the subtle scent of sandalwood and cedar.

“A lot of guards,” murmured Morwyn out of the corner of her mouth. Six men in half-plate stood at attention beside the large doors that led to the great hall, staring straight ahead as if they were ghosts.

Hugh glanced behind them; a dozen guards had fallen in to follow them here, completely bottling the hallway.

Eighteen guards in all. Excessive.

Sir Everec, who had been sent to fetch them, nodded imperiously to an older gentlemen - the chamberlain, no doubt - who stood beside the six doormen, who in turn nodded to the senior of the guards, who pulled the doors open, revealing the great hall at last.

An iron chandelier hung from heavy, smoke-darkened rafters, its circular frame crowded with candles as thick as Hugh’s forearm, their waxen bodies melting down over the black iron. The dining table must have been but recently cleared away, so that the hall felt cavernous, its floor swept clear of rushes and pristine. Twin fireplaces faced each other from each wall halfway down, their maws filled with logs that roared and cracked as flames danced and leaped up the chimney, each one large enough in which to roast an entire boar.

And at the hall’s end, seated in a grand throne of polished rosewood, three steps up on a dais, Niestor himself.

Hugh had never seen his family’s traditional enemy, but had grown up hearing him described as an eagle; filled with a burning vitality and rakishly handsome.

If that had once been the case, those years were long gone. Niestor had aged, his great beak of a nose now mirrored by a crescent moon chin that jutted forth from out under his self-satisfied smile, a smile that cut up high into his cheeks, which bunched and formed ripples around the corners of his mouth. White hair swept up like wings from behind his ears, and sprouted like feathers from above his heavy-lidded eyes.

No longer an eagle, but an aged vulture, thought Hugh, as the chamberlain rapped his staff loudly upon the stone floor as if silencing a busy crowd.

“My lord, I present to you Lord Hugh of Stasiek, younger brother of Duke Annaro of Stasiek, along with Captain Morwyn, Disciplus Anastasia, and Elena of the Rusalka Inn.”

Guards lined both walls down the length of the great hall. Another twenty of them, Hugh guessed at a glance, each staring forward, expressions sober and neutral, hands resting easily on the pommels of their blades, kite shields emblazoned with Niestor’s rose held before their chests.

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