[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
creep back. Thereafter the gods were good and always sent me a guest before the
sound came too close. I learned to bandage those I drugged so that they would
last longer, and their deaths would satisfy the howling ones more fully."
The old man paused then, and shook his head queerly and made a vague,
reproachful, clucking noise with his tongue.
"But what troubles me now," he said, "is that they have become greedier, or
perhaps they have seen through my cunning. For they are less easy to satisfy, and
press at me closely and never go far away. Sometimes I wake in the night, hearing
them snuffing about, and feeling their muzzles at my throat. I must have more
men to fight them for me. I must. He" -- pointing at the stiff body of the guide --
"was nothing to them. They took no more notice of him than a dry bone. That
one" -- his finger wavered over to Fafhrd -- "is big and strong. He should hold
them back for a long time."
It was dark outside now, and the only light came from the guttering candle.
The Mouser glared at the old man where he sat perched on the stool like some
ungainly plucked foul. Then he looked to where Fafhrd lay, watched the great
chest rise and fall, saw the strong, pallid jaw jutting up over high wrappings. And
at that, a terrible anger and an unnerving, boundless irritation took hold of him
and he hurled himself upon the old man.
But at the instant he started his long dagger on the downward stroke the
sound gushed back. It seemed to overflow from some pit of darkness, and to
inundate the tower and plain so that the walls vibrated and dust puffed out from
the dead things hanging from the ceiling.
The Mouser stopped the blade a hand's breadth from the throat of the old
man, whose head, twisted back, jiggled in terror. For the return of the sound
forcibly set the question: Could anyone but the old man save Fafhrd now? The
Mouser wavered between alternatives, pushed the old man away, knelt by
Fafhrd's side, shook him, spoke to him. There was no response. Then he heard
the voice of the old man. It was shaky and half drowned by the sound, but it
carried an almost gloating note of confidence.
"Your friend's body is poised on the brink of life. If you handle it roughly it
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Click here to buy
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may overbalance. If you strip off the bandages he will only die the quicker. You
cannot help him." Then, reading the Mouser's question, "No, there is no
antidote." Then hastily, as if he feared to take away all hope, "But he will not be
defenseless against them. He is strong. His ghost may be strong, too. He may be
able to weary them out. If he lives until midnight he may return."
The Mouser turned and looked up at him. Again the old man seemed to read
something in the Mouser's merciless eyes, for he said, "My death by your hand
will not satisfy those who howl. If you kill me, you will not save your friend, but
doom him. Being cheated of my ghost, they will rend his utterly."
The wizened body trembled in an ecstasy of excitement and terror. The hands
fluttered. The head bobbled back and forth, as if with the palsy. It was hard to
read anything in that twitching, saucer-eyed face. The Mouser slowly got to his
feet.
"Perhaps not," said the Mouser. "Perhaps as you say, your death will doom
him." He spoke slowly and in a loud, measured tone. "Nevertheless, I shall take
the chance of killing you right now unless you suggest something better."
"Wait," said the old man, pushing at the Mouser's dagger and drawing a
pricked hand away. "Wait. There is a way you could help him. Somewhere out
there" -- he made a sweeping, upward gesture with his hand -- "your friend's
ghost is battling them. I have more of the drug left. I will give you some. Then you
can fight them side by side. Together you may defeat them. But you must be
quick. Look! Even now they are at him."
The old man pointed at Fafhrd. The bandage on the barbarian's left arm was
no longer unstained. There was a growing splotch of red on the left wrist -- the
very place where a hound might take hold. Watching it, the Mouser felt his
insides grow sick and cold. The old man was pushing something into his hand.
"Drink this. Drink this now," he was saying.
The Mouser looked down. It was a small glass vial. The deep purple of the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
creep back. Thereafter the gods were good and always sent me a guest before the
sound came too close. I learned to bandage those I drugged so that they would
last longer, and their deaths would satisfy the howling ones more fully."
The old man paused then, and shook his head queerly and made a vague,
reproachful, clucking noise with his tongue.
"But what troubles me now," he said, "is that they have become greedier, or
perhaps they have seen through my cunning. For they are less easy to satisfy, and
press at me closely and never go far away. Sometimes I wake in the night, hearing
them snuffing about, and feeling their muzzles at my throat. I must have more
men to fight them for me. I must. He" -- pointing at the stiff body of the guide --
"was nothing to them. They took no more notice of him than a dry bone. That
one" -- his finger wavered over to Fafhrd -- "is big and strong. He should hold
them back for a long time."
It was dark outside now, and the only light came from the guttering candle.
The Mouser glared at the old man where he sat perched on the stool like some
ungainly plucked foul. Then he looked to where Fafhrd lay, watched the great
chest rise and fall, saw the strong, pallid jaw jutting up over high wrappings. And
at that, a terrible anger and an unnerving, boundless irritation took hold of him
and he hurled himself upon the old man.
But at the instant he started his long dagger on the downward stroke the
sound gushed back. It seemed to overflow from some pit of darkness, and to
inundate the tower and plain so that the walls vibrated and dust puffed out from
the dead things hanging from the ceiling.
The Mouser stopped the blade a hand's breadth from the throat of the old
man, whose head, twisted back, jiggled in terror. For the return of the sound
forcibly set the question: Could anyone but the old man save Fafhrd now? The
Mouser wavered between alternatives, pushed the old man away, knelt by
Fafhrd's side, shook him, spoke to him. There was no response. Then he heard
the voice of the old man. It was shaky and half drowned by the sound, but it
carried an almost gloating note of confidence.
"Your friend's body is poised on the brink of life. If you handle it roughly it
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
D
r
r
P
P
m
m
Y
Y
e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
m
m
w
w
o
o
w
w
c
c
.
.
.
.
A
A
Y
Y
B
B
Y
Y
B
B
r r
may overbalance. If you strip off the bandages he will only die the quicker. You
cannot help him." Then, reading the Mouser's question, "No, there is no
antidote." Then hastily, as if he feared to take away all hope, "But he will not be
defenseless against them. He is strong. His ghost may be strong, too. He may be
able to weary them out. If he lives until midnight he may return."
The Mouser turned and looked up at him. Again the old man seemed to read
something in the Mouser's merciless eyes, for he said, "My death by your hand
will not satisfy those who howl. If you kill me, you will not save your friend, but
doom him. Being cheated of my ghost, they will rend his utterly."
The wizened body trembled in an ecstasy of excitement and terror. The hands
fluttered. The head bobbled back and forth, as if with the palsy. It was hard to
read anything in that twitching, saucer-eyed face. The Mouser slowly got to his
feet.
"Perhaps not," said the Mouser. "Perhaps as you say, your death will doom
him." He spoke slowly and in a loud, measured tone. "Nevertheless, I shall take
the chance of killing you right now unless you suggest something better."
"Wait," said the old man, pushing at the Mouser's dagger and drawing a
pricked hand away. "Wait. There is a way you could help him. Somewhere out
there" -- he made a sweeping, upward gesture with his hand -- "your friend's
ghost is battling them. I have more of the drug left. I will give you some. Then you
can fight them side by side. Together you may defeat them. But you must be
quick. Look! Even now they are at him."
The old man pointed at Fafhrd. The bandage on the barbarian's left arm was
no longer unstained. There was a growing splotch of red on the left wrist -- the
very place where a hound might take hold. Watching it, the Mouser felt his
insides grow sick and cold. The old man was pushing something into his hand.
"Drink this. Drink this now," he was saying.
The Mouser looked down. It was a small glass vial. The deep purple of the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]