It is known as the Silent House.The Silvertree Stronghold is more than just an ancestral estate for a dynasty of warlords known for their wizardly powers and political cunning - it is their otherworldly protector.But with the protection that has allowed them to overcome both rivals and inhuman ravagers (such as the dreaded faceless) has come a curse that leads to a corruption of the soul that forever binds one's power to the stronghold itself in a prison of magic and madness.Now two daring treasure hunters hope to profit by unlocking the secrets of its past and harvesting the powers of its bounty...but unbeknownst to them an observer watches their every move and waits to make his presence known from the halls of eternity.The Silent House is a Chronicle of Aglirta, the multigenerational tale of a powerful and feared wizardly dynasty. At the publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied.
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July 01, 2005
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Excerpt from The Silent House by Ed Greenwood
Born 112 Sirl Reckoning, Died 156 SR First Baron of Silvertree to Be Made Lord Overbaron of Aglirta and How the Realm Turned Against Him
The Rise of the Raven
The fight is swift and furious. Blades skirl and clang on all sides as the panting men, stumbling with pain and weariness in their splendid but battered armor, hack and slash, too crowded in the churned mud of the hollow to back clear and fence with any care for the fate of their blades. Now all chases are ended, all proud taunts hurled, and it is slay or be slain.
The black-haired, wild-bearded man with the handsome face, his cheekbones as high and his eyes as large and dark as many a beauteous lady of the realm, has led the charge into the hollow, under thick, thorny tangles that forced all the combatants to abandon their horses, to this last dancing-place of death. The dark, gloomy trees press in close around the lurching, gasping men, and more than one of them thinks fleetingly of what prowling beasts must be slinking closer, drawn by the clangor of battle, fully intending to soon feed ... .
Fleetingly is all the time anyone dare give for any thought but the fray, or--
"Ravengar!" one of his knights gasps at the black-bearded man. A dying man's desperate, futile pleading, a last despairing sob as the blade that's taking his life bursts out dark and wet from between the curved plates of his spurred and fluted armor, spraying lifeblood before it.
Baron Ravengar Silvertree, beset in the thick of the fray by bull-necked, heavy-armored giants snarlingly seeking his life with ringing two-handed blows of their reaping swords, hears and whirls, leaping high to bring his own sweeping blade over the steel of a foe and into the man's face, its tip biting deep into hawk-nosed helm. He heeds this slayingnot, his gaze bent upon the dying Sorvren, who's been a true knight and a good friend, and rage sets his eyes afire.
Sorvren's fading, dulling gaze fixes upon that fire and goes down into the Great Darkness, clinging to it, lips weakly struggling to form a smile--and Ravengar Silvertree glares into the grin of Sorvren's slayer, revealed behind the slumping knight, and springs to meet the man. As he leaps, he whirls both of his blades back behind himself to stave off the blows of the foes he's just burst out of, leaving his breast and face unprotected.