There
was a moment of stunned silence and then the men broke into a mayhem of joyful
whoops of celebration. Kren sat stock still, dumbfounded. There had not been a
King of Men, he knew, since Worthin fell before the fires of Drang. That one
should have taken over the ancient and powerful city of the Morgs … it implied
vast changes.
“Looks
like we come into our own, boys!”
“Our
time is here!”
“We
rise!”
“Sorry,
Kren, it seems your folks been knocked off the throne at last.”
“Son
of a dying breed, our friend there!”
Koppa
looked startled and leapt to his feet, raising his hands for silence.
“Gentlemen!
Gentlemen! I think you have the wrong idea! King Taryn …”
The
inn door suddenly banged open. There were Mr. Ventil and Mazzak, the burly
bondsman, cudgel in hand. They shuffled off to either side, however, and the
Hetman himself stepped through. He stopped, cold grey eyes raking the room. The
cheering crowd went silent.
Kren
looked at him uneasily. The old man had apparently rushed over when he’d heard
the news, for he lacked the customary hat and cloak that he usually wore in
public. Without them, his ancient balding head was all too skull-like, his body
thin and frail. But there was command in his step, and he held his head high as
he advanced upon the stranger.
“Yes,
young man?” The Hetman’s voice was firm, even threatening. “What were you
telling these men about ‘King Taryn’? I’d like to hear it, too.” He held out a
claw-like hand as if demanding an answer. “I am Balanus Thane, the Hetman of
Far Reach. And you are?”
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