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

one very well used to swords. When the executioner lunged at him with cleaver raised, the Sword flicked once only, with invisible speed. The cleaver clanged on the pavement, the mask of old Littlewood beside it, the creature who had borne them obliterated. There followed a mighty roaring from down the hidden passageway, and Talisman turned to look in that direction over his raised point.

   Nimue screamed and screamed again, echoing the hoarse offstage voice of her Master. From their places at her side, Gregory and Arnaud both leaped at Talisman; he twisted round, thrust once, thrust once again. Nimue screamed; and the old man, a long wooden staff come from nowhere into his hands, strode toward her. “Your last command is spent,” he said.

   The moonlight was clear, but Marge thought that lightning had shattered roof and sky together, to bring the castle down around her head.

* * *

    It was one thing for men to yell at each other with determination that now they were going to break in. It was quite something else, Joe had been able to observe, when you got down to the nitty-gritty of dealing with inch-thick steel bars in a gate as high as the twelve-foot stone wall it pierced. Bold decision promptly degenerated into something like slow farce. With only one good arm Joe couldn’t be of much direct help. At last Charley Snider managed to climb over the gate, from a start on two bowed and burly backs. In the effort Charley burst seams in his coat, and one in his pants, but nobody was laughing. Once he was over and down, sure enough, there was a way for him to unbolt the great gate from inside. Cars started rolling in.

   The screams had been terrible, but they had stopped while Charley was atop the gate. Now pocket lights were being flashed at the many doors of the closed garage, and around the darkened lawn and courtyard of the immense and silent main building. No light showed in any window.

   “Watch out, swimming pool. Don’t step in that.”

   Joe saw the bottom in a flashlight beam: weed grown, cracked, dry for what had probably been decades. On the other side of the pool, French doors led into the ground floor of the main building. The doors were closed, and, as it soon proved, locked.

   “Go ahead.”

   Glass tinkled, a single small pane. The doors were readily enough opened.

   The voices of the men first to go in reported nothing but more emptiness, and long disuse.

   Joe was still out in the courtyard when his eye was caught by a slight movement in a dark moon-shadow some yards away. He looked again, carefully, making sure.

   “I’ll stand by out here,” he volunteered then. “Man the radios. My arm’s starting to give me hell.”

   No one argued with this. They were all busy being active cops, getting into the building, searching aggressively for the screaming victim, or victims—there had seemed to be more than one voice in agony.

   Joe, left alone, walked warily past the cars with their radios buzzing alertly. He moved close to the shadowed corner. Talisman was standing there, carrying some kind of bundle in his arms. When Joe got close enough he saw it was the limp body of a young woman.

   “The searchers will not find much, Joseph. I wanted to reassure you that things have turned out—much better than they might have. The world is as safe as can be expected.” There was no hint of mockery in Talisman’s voice.

   “If you say so. What about her?”

   “She goes with me, for tonight. You have my word she will be safe. But I must strengthen the merciful forgetting she has been blessed with by one more powerful than I. One whose art makes a semblance of neglect and abandonment around us now. I have seen marvels tonight, Joseph—yet I myself have some little skill in helping people toward forgetfulness.”

   He glanced down at the young woman, who stirred, looked up at him. Then like a child she closed her eyes again.

   “Who is she?”

   “Marge Hilbert. But you will probably never hear her name again. I have told you, Joe, she will be safe.”

   “Where’s Falcon? I mean the man who—”

   “I know who you mean, Joseph. You will not find him. He will soon sleep again, in some retreat of his own devising. Which I myself would not try to find, even if I thought I could succeed. He will sleep, I think, until the founts of magic are recharged. A new day of the earth had dawned. The Sword is with him.”

   “Wait…”

   But Talisman and the woman were gone.

THE END

About The Author

Fred Saberhagen is widely published in many areas of speculative fiction. He is best known for his Berserker, Swords, and Dracula series. Less known is his foray into mythology with Books of the Gods. In addition Fred wrote a number of non-series fantasy and science fiction novels and a great number of short stories. For more information on Fred visit his website at www.fredsaberhagen.com