Free Book 1 - A Shadow of All Night Falling by Glen Cook Page B

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    The Lower Armories were far beneath the roots of Ravenkrak. They were, with the exception of the Deep Dungeons, the deepest chambers of the fortress. It was there the Storm Kings practiced their sorceries. There their most potent theurgies lay hidden. There, also, lay the treasures of Ravenkrak, the gems and monies that paid spies, bought traitors, hired assassins, and purchased arms. There too, perfectly protected, lay the Horn of the Star Rider. The Storm Kings had tamed it only to the point where it would provide food, clothing, occasional gold, and firewood. It hadn't become the keystone of power they had hoped.
    They were dank places, the Lower Armories, filthy, smelling of old mold, dark and haunted by rats and spiders. Moisture oozed down the ancient walls, slime made the floor treacherous. The ceilings remained lost in shadow. Unlike the homely, lived in atmosphere of the upper fortress, those deep warrens smelled of something Saltimbanco believed vaguely unholy.
    This was his first venture into those deep places. Slipping repeatedly in his futile effort to match Turran's pace, he plunged into a dreadful mood wherein he foresaw evil at every turn. He expected a sudden and ignominious end. He did, however, survive the journey, which ultimately led to a dimly lighted room. The cleanliness of the place was to him as water to a thirsty man. He marveled only a moment at the strange blue lighting and the weird thaumaturgical devices ranged about the walls. These Storm Kings had been called sorcerers: here he saw the proof.
    They took seats at a round table surrounded by seven chairs, waited silently. No one questioned Turran. He would speak when the time came.
    Brock arrived a few minutes later. His eyes widened when he saw Saltimbanco. "What's he doing here?"
    "Nepanthe's eating cabbage now: mutton's bad for her complexion," Valther replied, as if that explained everything. It did, except to Saltimbanco and the woman.
    "Oh!"
    Time passed. Turran grew impatient. His fingers drummed the tabletop. Brock and Valther began fidgeting. Saltimbanco, as he often did in waiting situations, began snoring.
    There was a nervous shuffling beyond the door.
    "Well?" Turan snapped, irritated. Then, "Oh, it's you," less gruffly. "Come in, Blackfang. Where is he?"
    The sergeant entered warily, as if walking on coals. He was awed and frightened and vainly trying to conceal it. "Sir, Jerrad has left the castle. A bear hunt. He may not return this week."
    "This month, likely!" Turran grumbled. "I wish he'd tell somebody when he leaves. Thank you, Sergeant. You can go."
    Blackfang bowed, took a last awed look at the chamber, made his retreat.
    "Nepanthe, will you waken your friend?"
    Fingernail in the ribs! Bane of pleasantly dreaming men since the dawn of time. Curses heartfelt and black, also an ancient custom. Saltimbanco erupted into reality.
    "Ridyeh sent a message," Turran told them, scowling. "He says our friend bin Yousif turned up in Iwa Skolovda ten days ago. There were several killings afterwards. He vanished, reappeared in Prost Kamenets, and there were more murders there. Later, he was seen at the Red Hart Inn in Itaskia, where he passed out gold like it was water. How he managed to come by it so quick is something I'd like to know. Then he disappeared. There were another dozen murders that night. And every victim, in Iwa Skolovda, Prost Kamenets, and Itaskia, was one of Valther's spies."
    "What?" Valther jumped up, enraged. "How?..."
    "I don't know," Turran growled. "He must've gotten a list. I'll figure it out if I have to put everybody in the castle to the question."
    "I do keep records," Valther murmured. "Who's where."
    "Oh? That's not very bright, is it? You're supposed to be the spy... What the hell did you think you were doing?"
    Valther ignored his brother's ire. "Why would he be desperate to keep us from backtracking him? He's out free."
    "Simple," said Nepanthe. "He's not. He's covering someone else. Whoever got him