The Orb And The Spectre (Book 2) by Martin Ash Page A

matter of less than two weeks ago. It is interesting to speculate on how much the spineless King might be willing to pay in ransom for his queen, were he to learn that she was alive, is it not?"
       "You have a fevered imagination, Ombo. It leads you wildly astray."
       Ombo walked up to her, yanked her from the table so that she stood before him. "I think not, Queen Issul."
       He walked her backwards, through an arched opening into his bedchamber. Before a wide four-poster bed he grasped the front of her shirt and the vest beneath and tore them effortlessly apart, thrust them back from her shoulders. His eyes bulged as he took in the sight of her naked breasts. "Remember, my Queen, your good friends below are relying upon you."
       He pushed her back to the bed. "Disrobe."
       "Ombo--"
       He cut her short, lifting her and tossing her back onto the bed. "Disrobe!"
       His great meaty hands were groping at his belt. He thrust his trousers down, his engorged manhood springing forth. Grasping it in one hand he stumbled onto the bed, extending himself above Issul.
       "Ombo, this is not the way it should be," said Issul, somehow bringing a gentle, coaxing tone to her voice. His great weight was suspended above her, his heat and sweat upon her as his free hand struggled to rip away her trousers.
       The tone of her voice was unexpected. He glanced down as she forced a nervous smile and lifted her hands to his coarse cheek. She stroked him. He grunted like a troubled beast. She rammed both her thumbs hard and deep into his eyes, twisting, gouging, ripping.
       Ombo reeled back with a throttled roar, blood and warm jelly spurting over his cheeks. Issul twisted from the bed, raced to the main chamber and seized a glaive from the rack. She ran back, lofting it high. Ombo was bawling, his hands to his ruined eyes, trying to sit. As he slid forward from the bed Issul swung downwards with the glaive and cleaved his head in two.
       Now she ran to the door, listened. She had seen Ombo's men about the keep, but none close to his apartments. Nonetheless she stood, shaking, the glaive poised to thrust should anyone enter through the door. The two deer-hounds watched her without interest. She recalled that Ombo had locked the door. There were no sounds from outisde. She gave herself a moment to take stock.
       Through the arch she could see Ombo, slumped in a mound. His bloody, broken head was on the floor, vast white buttocks high, arms awkwardly splayed. A flood of dark blood and soft grey stuff spoiled his valuable rug and bespattered the coverlet on his bed. Issul approached him and poked him with the tip of the glaive, hardly daring to believe he was dead. He didn’t stir. She set the glaive aside and wiped the horror from her thumbs and hands onto the coverlet. Then she stooped and took Ombo's keys from the trousers bunched about his knees.
       She looked about the chamber for a less cumbersome weapon. A slim sword was mounted on one wall. She took it down and tested it, found it double-edged and of decent quality, and light enough for single-handed play. She took Ombo's dagger from his belt, then returned to the door.
       No one had investigated Ombo's cries. He had bellowed loudly enough. But the walls were thick and the bedchamber somewhat isolated. It seemed he had not been heard.
       Carefully Issul unlocked the door and peered into the corridor outside. There was no one in sight. She crept stealthily back the way Ombo had brought her. At the head of a flight of stairs one of Ombo's men stood with his back to her, one shoulder propping the wall, a flask in his hand. Issul hesitated for a pulsebeat, then stepped up behind him as he tipped back his head to drink, and ran her sword through his back. She caught his flask before it could clatter upon the flags, stabbed him once through the heart for certainty, and moved on.
       Just beyond the foot of the stairs she heard muffled voices. Two men. No,