Trail Of The Torean (Book 2) by Ron Collins Page B

would probably take her for himself. But, alas, Lectodinian she was.
    “The slaves have been offered to Takril,” Cara said. “And the offer has been taken.”
    “That is the best news of the day.”
    The first part of the plan was simple—give Takril the bait made of slaves collected up in earlier raids, then, when the city opened to receive that gift, the orders would drive a wedge deep into the bowels of Takril’s defenses. Cara’s news said Takril had taken the bait, so Yorl could now focus on the mission’s second objective.
    “Have you heard anything of the Torean?” he asked.
    “No,” Cara said. “I came to see if you had.”
    “We should make plans as if he is already inside the city, then. If we’re wrong, we take the city now and deal with him when he arrives.”
    “I agree.”
    He smiled as if her acceptance meant something to him.
    “Are your mages prepared?” he asked.
    “Lectodinians are always prepared.”
    His smile widened.
    “Come then,” he said, brushing his way past her and heading toward the tent’s exit. “We have a mission to execute.”

Chapter 20

    Takril entered the chamber, walking with a hunched limp and wearing a black tunic that fell down over his thin waist and over baggy pants that were embroidered with golden thread. He stood no taller than Garrick’s chest. An array of gemstones glittered from his fingers, and a luminescent chain circled his waist. His sandals were clean and buffed.
    But the most distinctive part of Takril’s appearance was his face.
    His eyes were multi-toned, black and brown, with flashing elements of blue and gray that made it appear as if clouds were passing before them. A ruby stud was embedded in his left nostril, and his eyebrows were pierced with more rings than Garrick could count. A straight pin with an obsidian skull crossed one cheekbone, and his ears were matted with such a mix of jewelry as to make it impossible to determine detail.
    “Greetings,” Takril said in a nasally voice that made him sound old.
    Garrick stood.
    “Good day,” Darien said.
    “Have a seat,” Takril said, motioning them as he shuffled to the largest chair in the room. He carried a handful of dark pellets in one fist and, after sitting, popped one pellet into his mouth and chewed furiously.
    He spoke as quickly as he chewed.
    “You are here to carry Hersha Padiglio’s treasure back to him?”
    “That is correct,” Garrick replied. He removed the box from its pouch and pushed it across the table.
    Takril examined Garrick with birdlike precision, then turned to the box.
    “Ah, yes, wonderful,” he said in a distracted manner. “Do you have the rest of his payment?”
    “The viceroy said nothing of another payment,” Garrick said, glancing at Darien.
    But Darien’s face grew red with embarrassment, and he put a smaller box on the table. “Hersha asked that I keep it secret. I think he was worried that, being a mage, you might find it too tempting.”
    Garrick was too confused to be angry.
    Takril took the box from Darien, opened the lid, and pulled back the edge of a white cloth.
    It was a spider—a broach or clip of some sort.
    Takril smiled and held it up by a single leg.
    “Remarkable,” he muttered.
    He spoke a word of sorcery, and, with such abruptness that it nearly knocked Garrick cold, waved his hand over the broach. The spider was suddenly alive and wriggling. Takril popped it into his mouth and chewed once again. His face squeezed in rapturous ecstasy. His lips smacked with satisfaction.
    Then Takril’s gaze grew suddenly clear, and bore down on Garrick with an intensity that took him aback. His hunger surged forward in response to the gaze. He pictured the Koradictine mage he had killed in the woods. Could he do that here? Could he—
    Takril raised a hand and spoke another spell.
    The wizard was powerful and fast. Suddenly, Garrick could not move.
    He grunted, pushing against Takril’s constraints, but nothing happened. His hunger