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

wariness. “Enough,” ordered the magician, emboldened by success and continued survival. “We are not here to answer your questions, but you ours. How are we to obtain wealth?”

   Talisman strode closer to them, while they shrank down within their circle. He extended one foot, still shod in a dark twentieth-century shoe, and deliberately scuffed a generous arc of the white circle into oblivion.

   “Those who lust for wealth as you do,” he said softly, glaring at them both with intent to frighten, “will no doubt eventually obtain more than your just share of it—provided only that you live long enough. How long do you intend to live?”

   “Th-th-th-the nearest city is Orleans,” the lord of the castle got out. His voice was somewhat muffled in his robes, as he was now down on all fours, head below rump, definitely in a state of collapse. That he could achieve this posture without getting any part of himself out of what was left of the circle struck Talisman as remarkable.

   “Orleans!” Talisman mused aloud. “In fourteen-twenty. The Sword… I might have guessed. The Sword acts through the centuries. If I could find it here… which way to town?”

   At last the wizard, still more or less upright though speechless, pointed with a shaking arm. Talisman without another word turned his back on the pair and strode off into the night. Once away from the fires he paused, sniffing, listening, then shifted into wolf-form for quick, keen-scented travel.

   He had not gone far in this mode before he gained two new perceptions: the Sword was somewhere near, as he had thought, though magically protected. And the old man was somewhere nearby too, not far ahead of him.

   The sight of a wolf entering a medieval city would not be all that much of a surprise to the human inhabitants, but it would certainly draw unwelcome attention from them. Walking in as a man in twentieth-century clothing might create something of a stir also. It would be mistform or batform then. The latter would provide keener senses, and be virtually no more noticeable.

   Talisman thought it would be pointless for him to search directly for the Sword, protected as it was. So, knowing what he knew, and guessing what he had guessed, he sought confrontation with the old man by seeking taverns. It took little effort to discover three of them, not much more than spitting distance from the brooding cathedral of Saint-Croix. Halfway between two of these establishments, on a guttered but unpaved street, his perception of his foe’s presence grew very strong.

   Talisman came down out of the night on small bat’s wings, then extended human legs to find a footing in the mud, and bear a man’s full weight. He was sure of the identity of the sodden figure collapsed at streetside even before he turned it over on its back. When he saw the old man’s face, stupefied and ugly, he felt his own fingers talon and go reaching for the throat; but with an effort of will Talisman mastered the impulse to kill. No doubt the powers guarding this fifteenth-century version of the old man’s self were dormant, but they would still be very powerful and capable of being roused by real peril. Instead, Talisman spoke a soft, compelling order to awake.

   The man who would one day call himself Hawk stirred, sat up at last, then tugged drunkenly to free himself when Talisman would have pulled him to his feet.

   Grimly, Talisman heaved him erect anyway. The old man staggered, wiped his face with a sleeve of filthy medieval rags, then leaned for support against a wattle-and-daub house wall.

   “What are you? Don’t tell me you’re a man.” The old man’s French was perhaps even a little better than Talisman’s.

   Talisman, wondering how best to proceed, almost despairing, growled at him.

   “Speak up. You know, when I wake up tomorrow, I’m not gonna remember any of this. Are you perchance acquainted with the Lady?”

   “Lady?”

   “The Lady of the Lake. Didja know she was my lover, once? Well almos’. These fingers right here…” The old man held up a gnarled claw. “I once almos’ got these very fingers right on ’er little…” The alcoholic bass voice dissolved in a chuckle, half agony, half gross obscenity.

   “I know about that, old man. Or I have guessed. But right now something else is more important. I am looking for a Sword.”

   “But whooinell are you, anyway? Tell me, are you from my past? Or my future? I have days, guess this is one, when the creatures of either may come ’round to ’flict me.”

   Talisman clenched his hands, to keep them from reaching out again. “You have made me a creature, as you put it, of both, you son of the devil and a whore. Now where is the Sword? It’s near here somewhere, else why are you here now, and why am I here to meet you? Yours is the magic that

concealed it, am I not right?”

   “Dunno any sword.”

   “You lie. This is Orleans. Will not the Maid herself have the Sword in hand, nine years from now, when she comes here to lift the British siege?”

   “The Maid? Who—?” The old man, appearing honestly puzzled, shuddered. “No, I’m not looking ahead tonight. Jus’ gimme another drink, that’s all I want. Safer that way. Wish I could still feel good when I wake up again, but I can’t. Can’t even remember feelin’ good.”

   “Then it will be hidden again. As it was hidden before. But you can tell me where it is now. And you shall.”

   “Tell you nothin’. What are you, anyway?”

   “Tell me, you ancient madman, tell me—” Talisman’s taloned hands reached out.

   Effortlessly the old wizard’s defensive powers struck out at him. Talisman was swept back into the pyrotechnic swirl, outside of space and time.

TWENTY-TWO

   In pastel sunlight the paved road was a flow of stone that had been moving for hours in