Swordmage by Richard Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

forward and dropped his spear on the floor. “I will speak,” he growled. “I am Buurthar.”
    “I see you, Buurthar,” Mhurren replied. “You have set down your spear. Speak.”
    Buurthar nodded and spoke briefly, explaining how another warrior’s young sons had shirked their shepherding duties, resulting in the loss of two of his own sheep. “I say that Gaalsh must give me two of his sheep since his lazy sons were careless of mine. Gaalsh says that the missing sheep were likely taken by a red tiger, and so he owes me nothing. What is your judgment, Chief?”
    Mhurren had to judge over quarrels just like this every day. If a strong chief didn’t, one of the ores in the quarrel would just kill the other, and the brothers or sons of the dead warrior would kill in return, and before long the hold would run red with the blood of the feuding ores. Gaalsh, the other warrior, wasn’t at Bloodskull Keep, so Mhurren decided against him. “Hear my word, all of you! Until someone finds some sign of this tiger, Gaalsh must give two of his sheep to Buurthar. Now, pick up your spear and go.”
    The veteran retrieved his spear, grinning in vindication. Mhurren doubted that any tiger had made off with the missing sheep, but he did not want to accuse a warrior who was not in front of him of stealing the other’s livestock. He heard two more quarrels between his warriors. Then Huwurth and his followers returned to the great hall.
    Before them strode a tall human in armor of ebon plate, his face hidden beneath a black helm that was fitted with gilded ram’s horns curling from the sides. A single servant in a tunic and cloak of dark gray followed, a human woman who wore her reddish hair cut short in a warrior’s manner. She had a light mask of black across her eyes, but her face was otherwise bare. Six Vaasan knights in fine black mail guarded them.
    Mhurren motioned with his hand, and the ores before his throne shuffled out of the way, making space for the humans to approach him. The Vaasan lord was confident enough; he strode through the ranks of ore warriors filling the room as if
    he couldn’t care less that he’d just put fifty spears at his back should Mhurren decide to have him killed. The black knight halted a few feet before the throne and reached up to remove his helm. Beneath his helmet the man had pale skin, hair of iron gray, and a clean-shaven face. His eyes were a deep, bloody crimson.
    “You are Warchief Mhurren?” the man asked in passable Orcish.
    “I am Mhurren. Who are you, Vaasan, and what do you want with the Bloody Skulls?”
    “I am Kardhel Terov, an fellthane of the Warlock Knights. And I am here to offer you power, Warchief—the power to make yourself the king of all Thar. Every tribe in this land will call you master and do as you bid them.”
    “We are already the strongest tribe in Thar!” Tangar the priest shouted angrily. “Who dares to make war against us? No one, human!”
    Fanaticism was occasionally useful, Mhurren reflected. The cleric saved him the trouble of raising his own voice. He held up his hand to restrain the priest from speaking further, since he did not really want to provoke a fight with the Vaasans without at least finding out why they were here.
    “Power? What power?” Mhurren sneered.
    “I can deliver to you the Burning Daggers, the Skullsmashers, and the Red Claws,” Terov said. “They will call you lord, pay you tribute, and march as you command. I can arm your warriors with a thousand hauberks of good steel mail. I can give you ten Warlock Knights to wield their battle magic in your service. And I have control over a number of strong monsters from the high mountains—manticores, giants, chimeras, even a young dragon or two. They will be yours to command. Tell me, Warchief Mhurren, what would you do with an army such as that?”
    Mhurren laughed harshly. “Raze Glister, smash Hulburg and Phlan, lay Thentia and Melvaunt under tribute … and if you give us warships