Read Online Death Angel's Shadow by Karl Edward Wagner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karl Edward Wagner
Tags: Fiction.Dark Fantasy/Supernatural, Collection.Single Author, Short Stories & Novellas, Fiction.Fantasy
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reflection-
Reflections for the winter of my soul.
The minstrel's voice echoed into silence; his fingers stilled the strings of his lute. Quietly be left the hall to the two seated before the fire. In the far comer of the room, a few half-asleep servants rolled dice.
"Where'd you get him?" broke in Kane.
Breenanin shifted in her chair. The minstrel's song had lulled her into an almost trance-like state. "He came to us last summer. Came up from the southlands, I suppose--he never said anything about his past. Sort of wandered about the court in Carrasahl for a while, then attached himself to Father's patronage. We were glad to got him--others offered him more money than we could. He talks occasionally of some far away places he's been, and most of his songs no one can understand. Guess he's just wandering about the world as his fancy suits him.
"Must be nice to go somewhere new. In Carrasahl we don't get to travel much. Can't handle an estate from somewhere far off, Father always says, and travel's dangerous for anyone to risk. Once we went to Enseljos to see Winston's coronation, though."
They talked of various matters for a while--long periods of mutual silence between their spots of conversation. At length Kane looked over and saw that she slept. He was reluctant to disturb her, but at the same time he knew she should not be left alone in the great hall with death abroad in the night. So he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the wide stairs to her room on the balcony across that end of the hall.
She stirred in her sleep, but did not awaken. A half-smile was on her thin lips, and her fine teeth were white against her pale skin. She was soft and warm in her fur robe. Kane felt an emotion stir within him as he carried her that he had not experienced in long years. It might have been love, but then he could not remember.
Returning to the hall, he sat before the fire again. But the spell had been broken. Now he felt strangely restless, sick of brooding over dead memories in the firelight. After another cup of ale, Kane arose, fastened on his sword, and announced to the few remaining servants that he would walk around to see how things went with the others.
The hallways were long and dark, their silence only faintly broken by Kane's soft tread. He walked the cold stones slowly, hand near swordhilt and keen eyes searching every shadow. There was an almost tangible aura of fear abroad in the torchlit corridors, and death crouched invisibly in each spot of darkness. The spirits of those horribly murdered danced about him, laughing and gibbering in his ears, pointing derisive fingers at the lone man who in his conceit thought to avert their hideous fate. The numbing cold of the winter soaked through the stones along with the blackness of its night. The feeble torches were useless in dispelling either its cold or its gloom.
Faint winds from nowhere, damp ghost breath, played upon the hairs of Kane's neck. Sudden scurrying sounds haunted his steps, causing him to whirl about and stare along the corridor through which he had just passed--then reel about once more as the wraith-like movements teased him. There was nothing to be seen. Even when Kane stopped long minutes to listen, or walked back again over the same stones. Nothing even for his eyes to discover. He realized his nerves were getting the better of him, and fought to control himself--for he knew he must not become dull and insensitive on this haunted night. Because sometime a shadow might hold a less intangible menace.
He stopped suddenly, looking everywhere about him with painful concentration. Then he bent over quickly and touched a finger to the spot, knowing even as he did it that the smear was fresh blood. He strained his eyes against the uneven torchlight. Normal vision would perhaps have missed it, but Kane could see the faint trickle of blood trailing along the stones. Sword in hand, he followed the shining path--every sense strained to alert him of
Reflections for the winter of my soul.
The minstrel's voice echoed into silence; his fingers stilled the strings of his lute. Quietly be left the hall to the two seated before the fire. In the far comer of the room, a few half-asleep servants rolled dice.
"Where'd you get him?" broke in Kane.
Breenanin shifted in her chair. The minstrel's song had lulled her into an almost trance-like state. "He came to us last summer. Came up from the southlands, I suppose--he never said anything about his past. Sort of wandered about the court in Carrasahl for a while, then attached himself to Father's patronage. We were glad to got him--others offered him more money than we could. He talks occasionally of some far away places he's been, and most of his songs no one can understand. Guess he's just wandering about the world as his fancy suits him.
"Must be nice to go somewhere new. In Carrasahl we don't get to travel much. Can't handle an estate from somewhere far off, Father always says, and travel's dangerous for anyone to risk. Once we went to Enseljos to see Winston's coronation, though."
They talked of various matters for a while--long periods of mutual silence between their spots of conversation. At length Kane looked over and saw that she slept. He was reluctant to disturb her, but at the same time he knew she should not be left alone in the great hall with death abroad in the night. So he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the wide stairs to her room on the balcony across that end of the hall.
She stirred in her sleep, but did not awaken. A half-smile was on her thin lips, and her fine teeth were white against her pale skin. She was soft and warm in her fur robe. Kane felt an emotion stir within him as he carried her that he had not experienced in long years. It might have been love, but then he could not remember.
Returning to the hall, he sat before the fire again. But the spell had been broken. Now he felt strangely restless, sick of brooding over dead memories in the firelight. After another cup of ale, Kane arose, fastened on his sword, and announced to the few remaining servants that he would walk around to see how things went with the others.
The hallways were long and dark, their silence only faintly broken by Kane's soft tread. He walked the cold stones slowly, hand near swordhilt and keen eyes searching every shadow. There was an almost tangible aura of fear abroad in the torchlit corridors, and death crouched invisibly in each spot of darkness. The spirits of those horribly murdered danced about him, laughing and gibbering in his ears, pointing derisive fingers at the lone man who in his conceit thought to avert their hideous fate. The numbing cold of the winter soaked through the stones along with the blackness of its night. The feeble torches were useless in dispelling either its cold or its gloom.
Faint winds from nowhere, damp ghost breath, played upon the hairs of Kane's neck. Sudden scurrying sounds haunted his steps, causing him to whirl about and stare along the corridor through which he had just passed--then reel about once more as the wraith-like movements teased him. There was nothing to be seen. Even when Kane stopped long minutes to listen, or walked back again over the same stones. Nothing even for his eyes to discover. He realized his nerves were getting the better of him, and fought to control himself--for he knew he must not become dull and insensitive on this haunted night. Because sometime a shadow might hold a less intangible menace.
He stopped suddenly, looking everywhere about him with painful concentration. Then he bent over quickly and touched a finger to the spot, knowing even as he did it that the smear was fresh blood. He strained his eyes against the uneven torchlight. Normal vision would perhaps have missed it, but Kane could see the faint trickle of blood trailing along the stones. Sword in hand, he followed the shining path--every sense strained to alert him of
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