The Vaeden Quest by Evelyn J. Steward (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📖

WARSHAAREE
LIQUID FIRE Book One
-------

The Vaeden Quest

"Understand me Rarsht, they are not to be touched."
Rarsht eyed the man before him through narrow slits, the rest of his head swathed in the full headress of his tribe. He countered, "Lord. Why deal with slime?"
"Do not cross me in this Rarsht. I need their Chest. Cross me and you and your thugs will keep your counsel - in the tomb."
"They offer little," Rarsht snorted derisively.
"Enough for rich linings for our Chest for the next battle, money to pay allies who can be used to advantage," spat Gruvod leaping out of his seat and towards Rarsht, his arm raised to strike.
"Show me that advantage worth this kind of alliance," goaded the thin mean faced man.
"What need have I to give reasons to such as you? Remember who is Prime Lord here!" Gruvod shrieked at the upstart mercenary who had the temerity to argue with him..
A swift hand streaked to the side of a belt. Rarsht quickly backed away. A deft side step, and the thin silver blade missed his ear by the merest fraction. He felt the wind of it fan his face,
"This time I let it pass," hissed the Prime Lord. "Soon my people will be well established in the East, I will no longer need you to smooth the way. Now! Get outside the door, listen and wait until they leave. Then I will tell you what I want done. Is that understood?"
It was an order given in such an icy tone that Rarsht knew he had gone too far this time. He was not yet ready and, he was alone. He had pushed Gruvod a little too near the edge and the ground was his. Better to wait, Rarsht thought. I have only to swallow this treatment a while longer.
Rarsht withdrew and settled himself on the other side of the entrance. The doorway behind him led to the feeding alcove where stood a weary looking serving girl. He leant indolently against the upright, still fuming at Gruvod's complaisance in his dealings with the Water Lords. Drawing his knife, he started paring his blackened fingernails when the girl accidentally knocked a mug from the shelf. A little startled, she gazed steadily at the seedy individual. Rarsht looked back at the girl with little interest, he had his pick of court concubines, and yet . . .!
His black piercing eyes looked her up and down, she seemed pretty underneath that grime. After all, the Court Ladies were far away and he was a man of great lust. Perhaps after he had satisfied Gruvod he would get her cleaned up, then he could satisfy himself.
Perhaps he might just have done that had it not been for the look she gave him at that precise moment when his vitals were being stirred by his thoughts. A look so cold, so hard that he felt his balls freezing with the intensity of it.
A look he suddenly recognised.
She almost had him fooled! This was one woman he dare not mess with, and then in his mind he added the word . . . yet!


Chapter 1.

The Pact.

Night had fallen upon the land and on the pale yellow chalk-stone walls of the temporary residence of the Upland King, Gruvod. On this night, all three of Vaeden's moons were still well below the horizon and the sky was black, blacker than the deepest cavern. No winged creature hung upon the balmy night air, tangy and salt laden suffused with the thick scents of rich honeyed blossoms from pani bushes that grew near the residence. No beast lowed in it's stall, no man walked upon the ground. The soughing of a soft breeze was the only sound that broke the silence on this rugged southern coast of the main Continent.
A faint light glimmered shyly from one of the ground floor rooms of the edifice, as if it were afraid to show any glow that might penetrate the dark outside. A light so dim, that it could barely be seen more than two or three paces past the portal. Inside, barely discerned in that faint glimmer, three men sat at one end of a table. One of them was Gruvod.
After a morning bending Rarsht to his will, he had spent the rest of the day in a pensive mood, until the arrival of his visitors. Lately, since his last conquest, he had made time for more serious thoughts. Not just scheming. That to Gruvod was second nature and required very little thought.
Whilst he was warring, ideas had to be squeezed in between practicalities, between castigation, between lasciviousness. He could now afford the luxury of devoting a great deal of time to his campaigns, his strategies. Who to conquer next and when, but right then, what to do about the impending visit. It was clever of him, he thought, to have kept to his temporary abode since the end of the last campaign. This Enkampment had just the right sense of regality for a simple king and its' slightly shabby appearance lent credence to the air of poverty he wished to convey.
That afternoon he had spent time in contemplation of his present havel, now he secretly wished for a tant again. Certainly this was no fit structure for the future residence of the Upland Overlord, but he had an idea of just where his new Kardah would be built when time permitted. To the west and away from the erupters. It should last a millennium. He had recently learnt that word from the East. The speech in the East was different; unusual. Strange, he thought, how much I am learning from the East lately.
I need a large city home, he mused, possibly Hellider Parsht, where tributes can be brought regularly and all will know that I am King. I am strong, I fought bravely, I rule wisely, all will love and respect me. They will seek my guidance in all matters - or they will feel my sword!
His sword stood at the end of a long line of cruel sadistic lesser lordlings who took great pleasure in extracting every ounce of pain that their various skills could produce, as Gruvod's ministers. Gruvod's was the will, their's was the doing.
The hour of darkness came. Gruvod played host.
As three men sat close together at one end of a very rough hewn oblong table, they talked in low tones. The furniture, such as it was, had been placed close to a stone fire-pit in which a little kindling lay, flames bravely trying to stay alight. The room was only twenty paces by fifteen, tiny by most tribal leaders standards, and the furnishings were sparse. On one side the wall stretched from the floor to high up in the roof, meeting the rafters of a high vaulted ceiling. Not the most usual design for a tant-home in this part of the Semonder Tantlands.
Along the wall opposite the fire-pit were first and second story ledges which led to the sleeping quarters and resting rooms of the tant-homers. Niches set within the supporting pillars were convenient spy holes. Rarsht preferred concealment within a niche but had been enjoined to wait outside the lower doorway and he was not about to rile Gruvod any further this day.
On the limestone walls hung a few tattered grimy banners, their colours long since faded, relinquished by various tribal allies who had times past thrown in their lot with the Semondar Shak, boosting his armies and peoples by many, many thousands. These remnants were covered by a grey sticky melange made by the net builders that existed in the rafters, spiny little creatures with a serious bite.
The room was dingy. Light from two tallow candles that were placed one at each end of the table, threw great shadows on this cold stone edifice that constituted the demagogue's temporary abode.
The other two men were brothers and from an element totally hostile to Gruvod. As softstone is to hardmiche, these brothers were the opposite to the Upland King in both looks and demeanour.
Gruvod sat slurping water-weakened liquer, his eyes reflecting an induced glaze that gave little away. He took in all that was before him. The Water Lords' manner, their dress, and most of all, their intentions.
The first man was tall and slim. His strangely aquiline features went against the piscine world in which he normally existed. The pale glow highlighted the sallow skin that shone with a green opalescence, complemented by long dark golden hair, slicked back and held at the nape of his neck by a lustre-seed clasp.
This was a young man, though not boyish in any way and exquisitely dressed in opulent clothes that were regal but not flamboyant. A man who sat tall and straight in the uncomfortable wooden seat, his long fingers gently playing around the rim of a silver metal cup of liquer. A confident man with great poise and bearing, not the type of man to be treated roughly observed Gruvod.
His companion however, was a much younger version of himself and yet there were subtle differences. This man's skin was richer in texture and his body held more weight. The robes this man wore were almost gaudy beneath the drab outer cloak which kept his richness from prying eyes. It was imperative to disguise wealth here in the Uplands.
This man was impervious. His whole personage was draped in an indolent fashion as he leant back in the seat., his crossed legs propped up on the end of the table. Having partaken of several proffered goblets of liquer, he had a tendency to garrulousness. His companion had had to caution him to silence many times already that evening.
Gruvod sat hunched over the table, his elbows supporting the large mug of distilled liquer from which he slurped noisily. His red bulbous face showed signs of over indulgence of many kinds. Current Overlord of a large part of the Uplands, he was sure of his position as ruler of the fierce people of this land. Physically he was much shorter than the other two. His apparel, whilst giving the appearance of some wealth, was worn and less ornate than the garb of the two Princes.
Here the three sat for some time talking in soft tones mostly with Gruvod giving an occasional guffaw and thumping his