Seg the Bowman Read Free

defend themselves—”
    “Seg the Horkandur!” Now Milsi really looked annoyed. “A woman is perfectly capable of taking on and beating a craggy idiot of a man any day—”
    “Some women, some men, and some days,” said Seg. He spoke gently.
    “Your point admits of further extension to its basic parameters,” said Kalu, twitching up his tail hand but pausing to speak before he drank. “All the same, I am of the same opinion as Seg.”
    “Good, Kalu. I wonder if we will receive the usual tiresome contrariness from Strom Ornol?”
    “Here,” said Fregeff, with an indicatory jerk of his flail that did not stir the bronzen links, “he comes now.”
    A strom, although a little below the middle of the table of precedence, was still a rank of the higher nobility. Stroms were folk of consequence. This Strom Ornol never forgot that fact, and made sure that those around him were not forgetful, either.
    The catman moved a few paces away, a small and apparently meaningless movement; but Seg was well aware that the sorcerer by that gesture was indicating that he wished to take no part in the inevitable quarrel Strom Ornol would bring with him. Fregeff, as an Adept of San Destinakon, was quite capable of taking care of himself in unpleasant circumstances, and it seemed that here and now the onrush of a pack of maddened toilcas was not an occurrence to make him worry overmuch. Let, he seemed to be saying, let you lesser mortals decide for the best for yourselves.
    Strom Ornol, pale-faced as always, high of temper, a blot in the eyes of others beside Seg, came striding up in his usual furious temper.
    “What is all this blathering? Toilcas? Who says so?”
    Seg had really just about had enough of this insufferable young dandy. He knew that Ornol, as a younger son, had been kicked out by his noble father. He’d been into mischief from the day he could toddle, more than likely. Because he was a lord, Ornol had assumed that he was in command of the expedition.
    Seg had acquiesced in that. It went down well or ill with the other members; but only now and again had they shown open revolt. After all, they were equal members in the treasure hunting party.
    “Well? Am I to receive no answer?”
    Ornol fidgeted with the hilt of his rapier. The matching left-hand dagger swung over his right hip. This fashion of using rapier and main gauche was still new in the island of Pandahem, although well established in other parts of Kregen. Now Ornol glared about, his face with its pallid sheen of sweat working as though he had constipation.
    “I saw one,” said the Lady Milsi.
    Seg said, very quickly: “Yes, pantor, that is correct.’”
    He glanced at Milsi. She returned his look, and then glanced away. She sometimes forgot that one addressed lords properly, and here in Pandahem called them pantor, lord.
    Kalu spoke up. “Well, strom. We have taken some treasure out of the mountain and are still here and alive. Unless you intend to return we may begin our return journey in all honor.”
    “Return? Into that hellhole?”
    “That’s settled, then,” said Seg. He made it brisk. “Let us pack up and move out.”
    “I shall give the orders,” started Strom Ornol.
    Fregeff called in his hissing catman way: “Evil approaches.”
    Everybody jumped.
    The Fristle sorcerer had powers, that was undeniable. If he said evil was on the way — evil was on the way.
    They all looked about, and hands gripped onto sword hilts, and Seg slid his great bow off his shoulder.
    “There!” yelped a Gon guard, and in the same instant they all saw the apparition floating in over the tops of the trees.
    A throne-like chair hung unsupported in thin air. Its outlines were not clearly defined; it shimmered with power drawn from a source far beyond the confines of the normal. Seg blinked. He could make out the throne and the trailing silks that did not blow in the wind of the chair’s passage, he could see the chavonth pelts and ling furs scattered luxuriously