by Ed Greenwood
“That was less than natural,” Hawkril growled. The Four exchanged glances, and in grim unison they drew their weapons.
“Have you noticed, any of you,” Craer asked bitterly, “that the work of heroes is never finished?”
“Until death finishes everything for them,” the old healer told him quietly. “I wonder how many barons’ spies are waiting for us to leave this room right now?”
The king nodded grimly and undid the lacings of the pouch at his hip. “Lady Embra, I have gathered here what you’ll need to cast a spell that carries you all away together, against that very peril.”
“Your Majesty is too thoughtful,” Embra murmured, not raising her eyes.
Kelgrael Snowsar sighed. “You, too, Embra Silvertree? Have I no friends in all the Vale?”
“I did not mean that,” the sorceress said quickly, lifting pleading eyes to meet his gaze. “I hope you never have cause to doubt us, Lord of Aglirta.”
“The name is Kelgrael,” the king said quietly. “And I hope, in time to come, to name you all Lords and Ladies of Aglirta. I desire this almost as much as I desire the gods to keep an Aglirta safe and standing for all of us to enjoy, as we grow old.”
“Sounds like a childrens’ fireside tale to me,” the armaragor rumbled, and the king nodded grimly.
“Aye,” he said, as he slapped purses heavy with shifting coins into their palms, “I fear it does. Go and write me a brighter one to stand with it.”
The VACANT THRONE
The Adventures of
the Band of Four continue in
The old minstrel shook his head. “ ‘Tis hard to believe, lad,” he said, “even for such as us. Legends come to life—four vagabond adventurers, one of them the Lady of Jewels with her spells swirling around her like fire, rousing the Lost King back to us.”
Flaeros Delcamper nodded, “I know, but it did befall just as I’ve said! I stood in the throne room on Flow-foam Isle and saw the barons kneel to the Risen King!”
His voice was rising, he knew, but Flaeros cared not. He was home in Ragalar, in the tankard-hung back room of The Old Lion, and the man across the table had been house minstrel to the Delcampers for near a century, and tutor to Flaeros since he’d been a boy.
Old Baergin smiled and shook his head again in disbelief, even though all Darsar had heard by now that the King had returned to Aglirta, and a shining future of peace and prosperity could well be opening up.
The hands that had guided the fumbling fingers of Flaeros on their first tentative pluckings at harp-strings set down their tankard, and their owner asked softly, “So what of these famous Four now, lad? What was the last you saw of them?”
Flaeros took a generous swig from his own tankard and replied happily, “the Risen King summoned them for a private audience, just before I left the Isle, and then sent them forth on a mysterious errand!”
Baergin nodded again, glanced once over his shoulder at the folk in the Lion who’d drifted closer, and asked with the wry beginnings of a smile, “And have you begun your ballad about it all?”
“Not yet,” Flaeros told him, a little embarrassed.
Baergin lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and said in a grim whisper, “That’s a pity. I’d have like to hear it.”
He rose in a smooth, unburried surge—and in the arm at his side, ready to thrust forward, gleaned the long, wicked length of a drawn dagger.
It flashed down, and almost by accident the astonished Flaeros struck it aside with his tankard.
His longtime mentor stabbed again, viciously, and Flaeros flung himself desperately sideways in his seat, kicking out at Baergin’s knees and cursing in dismay.
The bright steel fang bit into the paneled wall a few fingerwidths away from the young bard’s ear, and Flaeros dashed the dregs of his tankard into Baergin’s face as the old minstrel tugged his blade free.
Baergin spat out beer and slashed blindly, but the young bard was whirling away, headed for the door.
And waiting trouble.
Even before Baergin shouted, “To me!” from behind him, Flaeros was twisting aside from the greasy leather stormshields that hung in front of the door—as a grim-faced armaragor burst through them, sword drawn.
There was another battle-knight behind the first, and both of them wore full armor, without any sigil on their breastplates. Some of the patrons of the Lion had their swords out now, too, and were advancing on Flaeros with warily intent faces. From the far end of the manypillared taproom came the glint of more armor, and the bobbing helms of more armaragors.
Gods, he was going to die.
Something flashed past the young bard’s eyes, caressing his shoulder with the lightest of touches as it hurled past, to ring and clang to the floor past the nose of a farmer cowering low over his tankard. Flaeros turned with a snarl in time to see Baergin drawing another dagger, and then whirled again to the only way still open to him: the stairs.
He pounded up the creaking treads into the darkness of the Lion’s rental rooms, and shouts arose in the room below as the armaragors charged after him.
Panting now, Flaeros leaped up the next flight of stairs, heard with momentary satisfaction the crash of the foremost armaragor running straight into the edge of a door flung open by a bewildered renter, and raced like the wind along the low-ceilinged top floor of the Lion. There was a back stair down the outside wall, and if he could only just…
The young bard flung up the latchpeg, and—
Found himself staring into the wolfish grins of three—no, five—armaragors who were mounting the last flight of the stairs, their well-used swords drawn.
Flaeros gaped at them in despair, and then in desperation swung himself around the top step, onto a little balcony. The next house over had a balcony of its own, and its rail was close. A dozen feet away, perhaps.
Or more. Flaeros stared at the gap between the two balconies as feet pounded up behind him, and wondered if it would hurt more to smash down onto dung-slick cobbles, or take a few swords through his guts …
An armaragor shouted in exultation right behind him, and Flaeros snarled a desperate curse and sprang up onto the rail, gathering himself—
As the young bard’s despairing cry echoed around the stableyard of the Lion, a cowled figure strode out onto a balcony high above the swarming armaragors, looked down, and hissed in anticipation.
The hand that closed on a balcony rail for support as the observer leaned out to see the fate of Flaeros Delcamper was gray and covered with scales.
“Ed Greenwood is a master of fantasy adventure world-building. His magic and wizardry are wondrous to all!”
—Margaret Weis, New York Times bestselling author
THE KINGLESS LAND
Aglirta is known as the Kingless Land, a once prosperous and peaceful river valley under the protection of a noble sovereign, now fallen into lawlessness and tyranny. The only hope for peace lies in the restoration of the Sleeping King, hut he has been ensorcelled.
THE BAND OF FOUR
A warrior, a thief, and a healer must turn their backs on their ordinary lives and join with the sorceress known as the Lady of Jewel’s in a last-ditch attempt to awaken the Sleeping King and restore him to his rightful throne.
“A new series, a new land, and a band of adventurers we can root for—it’s got everything a fantasy fan could ask for and more. Much more.”
—SF Site
