A Man Betrayed Read Free

north wind
has suddenly frozen your tongues? Or is it that you are beginning to regret your
glib words?"
    Grift could see
that Bodger was about to reply, and although his every instinct willed him to
remain silent, he knew that if he didn't speak up now, Bodger would get himself
into even worse trouble. "My friend here is young, Lord Baralis, and he
partook of a little too much ale at breakfast. He meant nothing by his remark.
A jest, no more."
    The king's
chancellor reflected a moment before replying. A gloved hand rubbed idly at his
chin. "Youth is a poor excuse for stupidity; ale is an even poorer
one." Grift opened his mouth to speak, but Baralis forestalled him with a
sudden gesture of the gloved hand. "Nay, man, protest no more. Let the
matter rest here, with you in my debt." He met the eyes of both guards,
allowing his meaning time to be fully comprehended. Satisfied, he rode forward,
his black cloak spread out over the dock of his mare.
    So even the camp
attendants were gossiping about him! Still, there was solace to be gained in
the fact that both of the sniveling dolts were now beholden to him. Baralis had
long since learned the value of having people around who were indebted to him.
It was a more valuable coinage than gold in a locked chest. One could never
tell when one might need to call upon the services of men such as those. After
all, guards usually guarded something of value.
    Oh, but it was
cold. Baralis felt chilled to his very soul. He longed for the warmth of his
chambers and the comfort of his own fire. It was his hands that suffered the
worst. Even now, clad in fur-lined gloves, the wind still cut through to the
bone. His weak, deformed hands, so beautiful in youth; were now ruined by his
own ambition. The scarred and scant flesh was no match for the wind.
    Snow two hands
deep covered their path. It shifted with crafty precision with every bluster of
air. As a result, the way was treacherous. The foreguard had already lost one
horse to lameness. The unfortunate creature had misstepped by only an arm's
length, but it was enough for it to find itself in a deep gully masquerading as
a benign stretch of snow. They had slaughtered the gelding where it fell.
    They were now only
a week away from Bren. Yesterday they had crossed the River Emm. There was not
a man in the party who hadn't sighed in relief upon traversing the mighty
river. Not only was it a great danger in itself, but more importantly, it
marked the end of Halcus territory. The company had thought themselves lucky to
have successfully traveled through the lands of the enemy for ten days yet
remain undetected and unchallenged. Baralis knew differently.
    The idea of using
his contacts with the Halcus to sabotage the party and slaughter Maybor had
been tempting. There was nothing Baralis wanted more than the death of the vain
and swaggering lord. It was just too risky, though. A raid on their party could
easily get out of hand. He, himself, might be endangered. No, it was better not
to chance his own safety. There were other less hazardous ways to rid himself
of Maybor.
    The lord of the
Eastlands had to be eliminated: it was a fact beyond questioning. Baralis would
not tolerate any interference with his plans in Bren. The betrothal
negotiations would take subtlety and cunning-two qualities that Maybor was
sadly lacking in. More than that, the man was a threat: not just a physical threat-though
Baralis did not doubt that his own assassination was never far from the great
lord's thoughts but also a threat to the whole betrothal. Maybor had wanted his
daughter to marry Prince Kylock. His failure to secure such a union had
embittered him against the new choice for bride.
    Baralis scanned
the column of men, searching. Near the front, astride a magnificent stallion,
he spied the object of his thoughts. Extravagantly robed in scarlet and silver
was the lord himself. Even the way Maybor sat his horse told of his
over-bloated sense of self-importance. Baralis'