Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (spiritual books to read TXT) 📗

voice was still quiet and steady, but he had rarely in his life been angrier than he was now; never mind that in the cooler portions of his mind he knew that his anger really ought to be directed at himself. “Will this little trip of mine, as you call it, ever bring our two pathways once more together?”

   “You better hope and pray it doesn’t. Your bloodsucking ass is mud if ever we meet again.”

   Before Talisman could find a retort to this preposterous rhetoric, the voice, the mental presence, of the Disgusting One were gone. To Talisman’s relief. If he could not get in the last word, at least he would no longer have to endure the gutter invective of… of…

   Despite himself, the cooler portion of Talisman’s mind was already starting to assert control. If age did not prevent rage, at least experience helped to moderate it at times when rage was plainly useless. At bottom Talisman knew that what had happened to him was not really the old man’s fault. The quivering insults from the Disgusting One were a result of misdirected anger; a great enchantment kept the old man from properly identifying the proper target of his wrath… at bottom, Talisman knew all that. But still, right now, if the old man had been before him in the flesh, Talisman’s arms, the strength of ten men in each, would now be reaching out to crush that wattled throat…

   And doubtless before he touched it he’d find himself in a worse situation than he was now. Against the powers of that ancient one, Talisman knew that he’d be sorely overmatched. Ah well. Time enough to consider that point when it arose in fact.

   A thin path ran through the forest near the cave, and Talisman could hear men’s feet approaching now along the path. They moved lightly, with habitual quiet, yet not with the great caution of those thinking themselves in immediate danger. Two men, two breathing men, still too far away to have any idea that Talisman’s silent unbreathing presence waited for them here. Should he confront them when they appeared, or seek concealment? It wasn’t quite sunset, to shift to the form of mist or wolf or bat would be impossible, he’d have to slide behind a tree or bush. But no, he’d wait and face them. Let what was coming come.

   The approaching feet were shod, in what sounded like soft leather. One of the men was half-singing, half-humming to himself, in what sounded to Talisman like some ancient dialect of French. There were subtle sounds to indicate that the two men had some burden slung between them, on a pole.

   A very faint pat, as from the fall of thickening dead blood on a dry leaf.

   They were bringing in a deer.

   Talisman made himself ignore for the moment his hungry vision of fresh blood. He folded his arms and stood waiting calmly beside the path. The two huntsmen armed with bow and spear came into view, then came two steps farther into the little clearing before they saw Talisman, so still was he standing. There they halted in confused surprise. Not sure whether they ought to drop their burden or not, clearing the decks for action, they didn’t quite. One man gave his spear a little flourish, calling attention to its existence.

   Talisman, arms folded, hands empty, looked at them broodingly.

   “Who are you?” asked the man in front, shifting the weighted pole slightly on his shoulder, so that the dead deer hanging swayed. The dialect was hard for Talisman, but the meaning, in the context, plain enough.

   “My name is Talisman.” He led the word through translation as best he could. “Who is your master?”

   “King Comorr.”

   “Ah.” Could the vampire have known fear, it might have touched him now. But as he began to think about the name, it began to explain things that had puzzled him till now. “You will bring me to him.”

   The hunters exchanged glances. Then the one in front motioned for Talisman to precede them on the path.

FOURTEEN

    In Simon’s private bath electric light was his to command, and he was using it to get ready for dinner and then performance. If his appearance was good, reasonably convincing, in the modern mirror flanked by bright incandescents, then the soft candlelight below could only add romance and conviction.

   The outfit he was putting on represented less his Chicago costumer’s idea of how a medieval enchanter ought to look than what the costumer had readily available. There was a bulky jacket of blue and gray, what the man had called a doublet, worn open in front over an inner garment not too different from a modern turtleneck. There were pointy shoes much like those Gregory was wearing, tight hose, and another garment like a pair of bulkily padded swimming trunks, with an anachronistic but invisible zippered fly. All in all, Simon found the outfit reasonably comfortable, and probably as impressive as it had to be. He’d had the doublet fitted with some special pockets, useful for the special purposes of the conjurer. As a final touch, he now looped over his head the thick, brassy chain of a costume-jewelry medallion on which a lion and sword were shown in gold-colored relief. He thought that to a non-expert it would look classy enough to be convincing.

   And now, before taking a last look at his image in the mirror, he reached out and switched off the bathroom lights. With just the light coming in from the bedroom, he thought he might be able to get a good idea of how he was going to look in the dim, soft illumination that would obtain in the great hall below.

   Good enough, he thought. Quite good, in fact. Authentic.

   His appearance was satisfactory, and yet for a little while he remained before the mirror. His reflected image was half silhouette against the brighter reflection of the