Free Shadow of All Night Falling by Glen Cook Page B

guttering torch-flames moved. Hundreds held their breaths, anticipating dreadful news. Birdman hadn’t left his cotes for months.
    The spell broke when a child wailed in fright. The exorcism complete, voices surged and rose like the rush of incoming tides. Birdman staggered the last few steps to the head table.
    “Sir!” that ancient stick-figure of a man croaked, “Sir!” and again, “Sir!”
    Turran, who had a deep affection for the old fellow, checked his impatience, initiated a friendly inquisition. “Now, then, Birdman,” (no one remembered his real name anymore), “what’s this? How come so much activity in a man your age?”
    Birdman instantly forgot his mission, began arguing his haleness. His greatest fear was forced retirement.
    “Your report, Birdman,” Turran kept reminding. “The reason for all this excitement?”
    The old man banished his fears long enough to say, “Your brother, sir. A message from your brother.”
    “Which one? Which one?”
    “Why, the Lord Ridyeh, of course, sir. To be sure, yes, Ridyeh.”
    “And what does my brother say?”
    “Oh! Why, of course, that’s why I’m all the way up here in the Great Hall, isn’t it? Uhn... oh? Yes!” He searched his rumpled, unchanged-for-a-week clothing. “Aha! And here he is, here the little devil be.” Chortling, he clawed a crumpled, dirty piece of parchment from deep within his greasy tunic.
    Turran accepted the ragged bit graciously, bade the old man to sit and sup a mug of wine, then leaned back and read by torchlight.
    His face became a battlefield of emotion. His dark eyes radiated displeasure, unhappiness. His long, drooping mustachios seemed alive in the light dancing on his visage. Anger came and went, and something akin to sadness. H is nostrils flared, relaxed, flared as he read and reread. At length, having convinced himself of its verity, he crushed the parchment in his fist, rose.
    As if unaware of the hundreds of questioning eyes, he turned to his companions. “Valther, Nepanthe, come with me. You, too, fat man.” He wheeled on the soldier he had been arm-wrestling. “Blackfang, find my brothers. Send them to the Lower Armories.”
    He strode toward the main exit like a king, ignoring the humming speculation of the Great Hall. His companions were hard-pressed to match his pace.
    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