A Prayer for Dead Kings and Other Tales Read Free

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    “Seek the signs of Barrend’s Bane,” the woman called from below.
    Those who know it will kill for this mark.
    “The lore we seek will be found or we do not return, by Arsanc’s
orders.”
    As the woman’s voice echoed, Scúrhand saw a sudden darkness twist
through Morghan where he watched.
    Those who claim it lay claim to the power of kings.
    Then the mage saw the warrior fall.
    With a groaning crunch, the lattice of the ceiling gave way
beneath Morghan’s weight, the first arrows from below nocked and fired wild
past him before he even hit the ground. Without a thought, Scúrhand launched
himself into the air, cloak clutched tight and spread behind him as he soared
silently to the apex of the arched ceiling. There was room in plenty to fly, the
library huge, four passageways wending out of it where the great stairs ended
their twisting path down.
    The figures below didn’t notice him, understandably distracted as
Morghan landed with sword in hand and proceeded to carve his way through them.
Scúrhand saw three down already, the rest pressing, but the warrior moved with
a speed and grace that belied his size.
    Then all at once, a pulse of white light wrapped Morghan like a
shroud. The warrior’s battle-scarred voice was choked off with a sudden finality.
Rigid, he stood locked in a stillness that captured all the fury of his
suddenly silenced attack. His eyes were dark between the line of his steel helm
and the carefully trimmed beard. His blade was gripped tight, well-muscled arms
locked in the midst of a backhand blow, held unwavering where he was frozen
fast.
    Scúrhand alighted on a section of shelf he hoped was sturdy
enough to hold him. He saw the red-haired woman step up, hands still twisted in
the complex gesture of the incantation that had taken Morghan out, another
spell already on her lips that Scúrhand didn’t want to wait to see the effect
of.
    “Stand down or die consumed by arcane fire!” he called with what
he hoped was suitable bravado. He saw reflexive movement below, bows drawn and
arrows nocked with a common bead on his heart, but he was already airborne
again. He extended one fist, the plain copper ring there spouting flame to wrap
his hand. He saw uncertainty in the eyes of those closest to him, fire flowing
up his arm to the shoulder now. Where it billowed around him, the black cape
gave him the imposing tone he hoped for, enough to hopefully hide the fact that
the ring presented less threat to the foes scattering below him than if he’d
simply fallen on them.
    It was a relic claimed when he and Morghan first met, happenstance
travelers who found themselves fighting at each other’s backs when a cache of
unguarded gold they had pursued independently on the frontier turned out to be
less unguarded than was publicized. The ring’s power was defensive, its dweomer
swallowing the heat of mundane flame and eldritch fire alike, but its
presentation proved almost as effective at keeping him out of the thick of
combat as any blade might prove within it. Since that day he and Morghan met,
the thick of combat was a place Scúrhand preferred to leave for the warrior
whenever humanly possible.
    On the floor below, the red-haired woman took a step toward him,
and in her bright gaze, Scúrhand saw suddenly the youth she was trying hard to
hide.
    “If you wish to parley, say your piece,” she said in the Imperial
tongue. A tone of authority in the words but no strength in her voice to back
it up, barely an apprentice’s age by her look. Her accent marked her as Norgyr
even if her ruddy features suggested Vanyr or the Kelist Isles. The guards with
her all bore the pale hair and blue eyes of the north where they watched him
coldly.
    Scúrhand responded in the Norgyr tongue as a hopeful token of
concord. “My partner and I mean no trouble nor harm. On the contrary, depending
on your business here, we may find ourselves in a position of mutual benefit.”
    “Your partner has a unique way of