Haldar, at that very instant, was wheeling you to Eternity! I know you'll not think that because I laughed I did not pity him. Pity was half the reason of that laugh. I barely managed to wrestle it down—a bad omen, considering the bout I'd have to fight shortly.
The sick man wheezed, and there followed the sound of a dram administered. Hearing the sound was like having a key turned in the pit of the stomach, letting in dread. Haldar touched my shoulder to sign his readiness. We clasped hands over Defalk's chest, and Haldar began to whisper the spell. The breathing noise of the magnate suddenly grew spastic and harsh. The nurse said: "Your father! Look!" Her voice was crisp and alert, a sensuous tremor in it, as if the moment of passage were a physical pleasure to her. And I felt her voice as if it had slithered across me. My skin was unnaturally alive. I was feeling everyone in the room, as if they were moving through my nerves. I felt the quiver in the nurse's loins, and in Gladda's cry of "Father!" I felt the doubt mixed equally with hope. Everyone was gathering toward the bed murmuring. . . .
And then the room was absolutely soundless except for the dying man's breath. Nothing moved. So strong was the sense of the chamber's emptiness that I sat bolt-upright on the canopy, and got a bad shock to find everyone still there, frozen mute in postures of approach to the bed. Gladda faced us directly, but her face had stiffened in a look of heavenly appeal, and her eyes registered nothing. And then there was a sound outside the door. A progression of sounds. Footsteps.
Oddly, the steps seemed to scuff on stone, not carpet, and to echo in a cavern, not a corridor. The door of the chamber drifted open—inward, against the way it was hinged. A naked manlizard, six feet high and a yard wide, stalked in, shoulders swinging. Since it grasped a leather sack in one hand, it would be the Soul-taker, my opponent. I shuddered at the leverage in that cold, leathery frame. Its tail was short and massive, better than a third leg with its flexibility. The Taker would have tremendous stability in a tussle.
But when the Guide of Ghosts followed his servant into the room, I breathed a prayer of gratitude that it was only the henchman I had to fight. The Guide was a wild-haired barbarian. He had to stoop through the door—more than seven feet I'd put him. He wore a ragged and muddy kilt, and battle-sandals, also muddy, whose thongs wrapped his calves. He wore nothing else but a traveler's cape, under which his trunk bristled as hairy as an ape's. His eyes were black slots, his cheeks like glacier slopes, flat and cold. His mouth was a restless chasm deep in the brambles of his beard. All he carried was a staff, but its crook was a living serpent as thick as my arm.
The two of them stood looking up at us, pausing without surprise in their approach to the deathbed, waiting. I cleared my throat.
"Hail, Guide of Ghosts," I said. "We beg you to take us with you, alive, on your journey back down with the life of Shamblord Castertaster."
Slowly, the Guide said, "Come down." He had the voice to give those two words their ultimate expression. His tones seemed to fall endlessly—his speech echoed and fell away within him, and it drew you after it, into him. I jumped down onto legs that almost buckled under me, what with our long lying. Haldar handed Defalk down—he'd started to struggle when he heard our aim, and Haldar had stunned him with a blow to the neck. Haldar jumped down in his turn. We were in the midst of the watchers. Gladda still looked heavenward, the nurse hung poised nearest the bed like a hunting dog, the apothecaries exchanged an endless grave expression, the old couple wrung their hands, making paralyzed haste to their benefactor's side.
Alone among them, Shamblord was awake to us. His eyes moved with dismay from one to another of us, and real sweat shone on his face. He knew his moment, and was alive in it.
The giant stared at
The sick man wheezed, and there followed the sound of a dram administered. Hearing the sound was like having a key turned in the pit of the stomach, letting in dread. Haldar touched my shoulder to sign his readiness. We clasped hands over Defalk's chest, and Haldar began to whisper the spell. The breathing noise of the magnate suddenly grew spastic and harsh. The nurse said: "Your father! Look!" Her voice was crisp and alert, a sensuous tremor in it, as if the moment of passage were a physical pleasure to her. And I felt her voice as if it had slithered across me. My skin was unnaturally alive. I was feeling everyone in the room, as if they were moving through my nerves. I felt the quiver in the nurse's loins, and in Gladda's cry of "Father!" I felt the doubt mixed equally with hope. Everyone was gathering toward the bed murmuring. . . .
And then the room was absolutely soundless except for the dying man's breath. Nothing moved. So strong was the sense of the chamber's emptiness that I sat bolt-upright on the canopy, and got a bad shock to find everyone still there, frozen mute in postures of approach to the bed. Gladda faced us directly, but her face had stiffened in a look of heavenly appeal, and her eyes registered nothing. And then there was a sound outside the door. A progression of sounds. Footsteps.
Oddly, the steps seemed to scuff on stone, not carpet, and to echo in a cavern, not a corridor. The door of the chamber drifted open—inward, against the way it was hinged. A naked manlizard, six feet high and a yard wide, stalked in, shoulders swinging. Since it grasped a leather sack in one hand, it would be the Soul-taker, my opponent. I shuddered at the leverage in that cold, leathery frame. Its tail was short and massive, better than a third leg with its flexibility. The Taker would have tremendous stability in a tussle.
But when the Guide of Ghosts followed his servant into the room, I breathed a prayer of gratitude that it was only the henchman I had to fight. The Guide was a wild-haired barbarian. He had to stoop through the door—more than seven feet I'd put him. He wore a ragged and muddy kilt, and battle-sandals, also muddy, whose thongs wrapped his calves. He wore nothing else but a traveler's cape, under which his trunk bristled as hairy as an ape's. His eyes were black slots, his cheeks like glacier slopes, flat and cold. His mouth was a restless chasm deep in the brambles of his beard. All he carried was a staff, but its crook was a living serpent as thick as my arm.
The two of them stood looking up at us, pausing without surprise in their approach to the deathbed, waiting. I cleared my throat.
"Hail, Guide of Ghosts," I said. "We beg you to take us with you, alive, on your journey back down with the life of Shamblord Castertaster."
Slowly, the Guide said, "Come down." He had the voice to give those two words their ultimate expression. His tones seemed to fall endlessly—his speech echoed and fell away within him, and it drew you after it, into him. I jumped down onto legs that almost buckled under me, what with our long lying. Haldar handed Defalk down—he'd started to struggle when he heard our aim, and Haldar had stunned him with a blow to the neck. Haldar jumped down in his turn. We were in the midst of the watchers. Gladda still looked heavenward, the nurse hung poised nearest the bed like a hunting dog, the apothecaries exchanged an endless grave expression, the old couple wrung their hands, making paralyzed haste to their benefactor's side.
Alone among them, Shamblord was awake to us. His eyes moved with dismay from one to another of us, and real sweat shone on his face. He knew his moment, and was alive in it.
The giant stared at
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