Part 29 (2/2)
”I am sure that steel in my hand will do much good,” the count said.
His voice rasped and croaked, but he still forced some authority into it. It was another gift that was returning, like being able to stand on his own feet.
”Much good,” the count repeated. ”Beginning with ending your babble.”
His hand gripped the sword. For a moment, the grip was firm. Then the weight of the sword jerked it from his fingers, nearly overbalancing him at the same time.
Syzambry's blade clattered to the floor. He did not dare meet Zylku's eyes. He would see triumph in them, and Zylku might see tears of rage in his.
”Steel in my hand will do much good when I can wield it as I once did,”
the count said. ”It seems that the time is not now.” He commanded himself to stare at Zylku. ”Summon your master and bid him prepare an answer. How long will I be lame and halt, unable to lead my men against my enemies?”
”A horse litter-” Zylku murmured.
”I said lead!” the count thundered. The strength of his voice surprised himself as well as those in the bedchamber. ”A horse litter is for women, babes, and others who must remain behind when battle is joined.
A leader rides or he does not deserve the name!”
”I will obey,” Zylku said. ”I will also ask certain folk I know who have arts other than those of common surgeons.”
”Indeed,” the count said. ”And what do you ask in return for this, as I doubt not you risk the wrath of your master?”
”Your silence about my asking, yours and your men's,” Zylku replied.
”Also, such reward as you consider fit should Ilearn anything that serves to restore your health. I will trust to your justice.”
”You may do that,” the count said. ”Only remember that my justice can mean a sharp sword for those who have deceived me.”
”Dead or alive, my Lord Count, I will not deceive you,” Zylku said. ”By anything you hold sacred, I will swear it.”
The count was not sure that he held anything sacred within his heart of hearts, save well-wielded steel. Steel that, the G.o.ds willing, he would one day soon be able to hold again. If Zylku brought that day more swiftly, he could name his own reward!
It was the sixth night of the journey, and if Marr knew one rock from another, it was the last night. Conan would be glad if Marr's knowledge proved true, even if it made the man prouder than ever.
The Cimmerian did not care to tarry long here; the place was too close to the Blasted Land for comfort. Even in the darkness, he could see that the trees had unnatural shapes. The bird sounds were few and furtive, the insects altogether silent. Nothing else was to be heard, not even the sigh of a night breeze.
All three travelers were walking catfooted, trying not to dislodge a single pebble or break the smallest twig. The Pougoi did not watch this land, Marr had said. The villagers themselves drove strangers away. Yet any place so close to the Blasted Land had its watchers, who were neither wizard nor human.
That was all the piper would say. Nothing that Conan dared do would move him to speak further. He would not even say if these watchers could be dangerous, although in that matter Conan needed no advice. He would reckon on the worst and advance steel in hand.
The piper was leading. Now he was bearing to the right, past a vast twisted oak tree that seemed to be lifted half off the ground by a dozen-roots thicker than a man's body. Enough moonlight crept through the clouds to show that fallen acorns lay about the base of the tree.
Among the acorns lay the skeleton of what might have been a wild boar, except that no boar ever had such splayed hooves or such a bulging skull...
Conan remembered the tales of the Blasted Land.
It came to be in a single night, when the Star Brothers' beast rode down from the sky in a giant stone. Fire and shards of the sky-stone cut a swathe across the land, wider than a man could ride in a single day. Within a year, the beasts and growing things returned, but they were horribly changed and misshapen.
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