Lords of Destruction by James Silke, Frank Frazetta

narrow-eyed greed common to that
tribe of moneylenders. He was darkly handsome. Flowing chestnut hair, soft
charcoal-grey eyes, prominent nose and sensitive lips. He wore soft leather
jerkin, tights, boots and cloak, each item carrying its natural umber, sienna or
ochre hue. A crossbow was slung across his back, and his belt carried pouches,
two daggers and a quiver of steel bolts. The glint of their metal was slightly
less deadly than the expression on his face. His name was Jakar, and his only
living relative, his twin sister, had been the first to be murdered.
    The two riders flew past the stand of apple trees marking the halfway point
to Weaver, turned off the road taking a shortcut and dashed right and left
between the trees with twigs and leaves slashing chests and cheeks. Retaking the
road, they galloped on. Within the hour they reached Weaver.
    The sun sat high in the morning sky, shining down on the hill that formed the
village. Older women herded small groups of sheep in the clearing fronting the
wooden palisade wall. Beyond it, thick steam billowed from huge wooden dye vats
lined up on the rising tiers. There the Cytherian villagers moved about at their
various tasks of weaving and dying. Above the vats, the steam gathered into a
single spreading cloud, muting the deep earth-reds, rusts and siennas of the
freshly dyed cloth hung out to dry on the heights. The stench of urine and lime
was rich in the air.
    Brown John and Jakar slowed as they crossed the clearing, not wanting to
alarm their suspects if they were still in the village, and moved to the Forest
Gate. There they dismounted, and approached an old man sitting on the ground
with his back against the palisade wall. He was whittling on a piece of wood.
Marl, the gatekeeper.
    He looked up with a smile of recognition at the king and nodded, saying,
“Welcome, bukko. What brings you to Weaver on this fine day?”
    “Nothing good, Marl,” Brown John said flatly, and squatted facing him. “I’m
investigating these vile murders and heard that some suspicious-looking foreign
mercenaries were headed this way. You see them?”
    “Haven’t been no soldiers here, not today, leastways. I been sittin’ right
here the whole time, and bein’ as this is the only gate we leave open nowadays,
I’d seen ’em sure.”
    Brown John frowned, glanced at Jakar, and the young nobleman said, “Perhaps
they didn’t look like mercenaries?”
    Marl looked up, giving Jakar the same smile he gave the bukko. “Didn’t
see no strangers at all, lad, except for one, and he couldn’t a been no soldier.
Little bit of a man, and kind of emaciated.”
    “Is he here now?” asked the bukko.
    “Nope. Left a little while ago. Wanted to see that pretty gal you made into a
dancin’ girl. Was real set on it, he was. So, since she doesn’t live here
anymore, I sent him on his way.”
    “Robin Lakehair?” Jakar asked. His tone was low and cultured, and he spoke
without haste. But there was a tense concern in it. During the war with the
Kitzakks, Brown John had seen the young nobleman among those men who had
appointed themselves as Robin’s bodyguards, and ever since Jakar had started
helping him in the investigations, the bukko had observed him staring at
Robin whenever the opportunity presented itself.
    Marl, sensing the young man’s interest in Robin, chuckled knowingly and said,
“That’s the one, and I’d feel the same way about her, if I was as young as you.
Prettiest little thing I ever saw, and always was, ever since she was a mite.”
    “What was his interest in Robin?” Brown John asked briskly.
    “Adores her, that’s what his interest is. Worships the ground she walks on.
And he’s never laid eyes on her, or so he said. Came here all the way from Small
Tree, just to thank her for her part in getting the Dark One to defend the
forest, and save his tribe from the Kitzakk cages.”
    “A Kranik?”
    “Don’t think so. Every Kranik I ever saw