Read Online Hounds of God by Judith Tarr - Free Book Online Page B

daughters.’”
    “‘The whole lifetime of Adam was nine hundred
and thirty years; then,’” said the monk, “‘then he died.’”
    “So he did,” Alf said. “And by that
reckoning, my King has a while yet to live before he is proved immortal.”
    “You mock the word of God.”
    “No,” Alf said softly. “That, I do not.
Nor am I mad or possessed or begotten of demons. No more than is my lord. If he
has ruled long, has he not also ruled well? Has any man suffered? Has any woman
wept or child died because Gwydion wears Rhiyana’s crown?”
    “The flesh is dust and ashes, its comfort a lie. Only
the soul can live.”
    “As no doubt it lives in Languedoc, its housing
ravaged with war and starvation.”
    The monk drew himself up. His face was white, his cheekbones
blotched with scarlet. “Your very existence is a corruption of all it
touches.”
    Alf contemplated him, head tilted a little to one side. “You
do not think,” he said. “You only hate. You, who profess to serve
the God of love. Enemy though you be, I find I pity you.”
    The flare of hate struck Nikki blind. Sightless, walled in
soundlessness, he clutched at air, wood, firm flesh sheathed in vair. He could
not see, could not hear, could not—
    oOo
    Alun tensed. The air wavered; the children’s faces
blurred. Something reached. Darkness visible. Hate that groped, seeking, black
and crimson, wolf-jaws wide to seize, to rend, to devour.
    Liahan!
    She lay still. Her eyes were open, fixed.
    He called on all his power. Somewhere, faint and far, voices
cried out to him. No, Alun. This is too
strong for you. Alun!
    It had Liahan. His lovely laughing lady with flowers in her
hair. It had her; it gripped her.
    He struck with every ounce of his strength. The
wolf-darkness wavered, startled, turning at bay.
    He laughed, for he had marked it, a long searing-bright
wound. Again he struck.
    The enemy sprang.
    oOo
    Anna saw Alun leap erect over the cradle. His shape blurred
and darkened. And yet he laughed, light and strong and free. The darkness
swelled like smoke; coiled about him; hurled him down.
    Behind Anna, Thea cried out, a harsh inhuman sound, raw with
rage.
    Anna wheeled. The lady stood by the bed, swaying. Anna
caught her. “Thea, don’t, Alf said not—”
    Anna gripped fur around a slash of teeth, white hound, mad
eyes, no Thea left at all. Grimly she clung. The darkness swooped, wolf-jawed,
hell-eyed. The light whirled away.

7.
    Nikki could see. He must.
    They were all staring. Alf, closest, whose cloak Nikki
clutched—Alf sat bolt upright, white as death. “No,” he
whispered. “Oh, no.”
    Fiercely Nikki shook him. He could not turn prophet now. The
monk’s eyes were avid. The Legate watched with deadly fascination.
    With infinite slowness Alf rose. He was lost utterly in
horror only he could see. “Sweet merciful God—
    “Alun!”
    Not he alone cried out. Gwydion aloud, Nikephoros in
silence: a great howl of anguish.
    Nikki’s hands were full of fur, the cloak empty,
people gaping. He saw none of it. He saw only darkness and light, and Gwydion’s
face. It wore no expression at all.
    And the King was gone, the solar erupting in a babble of
voices.
    Nikki’s mind was one great bruise, all the patterns
torn and scattered. He made the babble stop—willed it, commanded it. So
many eyes. And he could not vanish into air. He did not know how.
    With a last wild glance, he spun about and bolted.
    Someone pounded after. Father Jehan, miter tucked under his
arm, stiff robes hauled up to his knees.
    Behind Nikki’s eyes, a small mad creature was
snickering. That great frame had never been made for racing, least of all in
full pontificals.
    Nikki whipped around a corner. His lungs had begun to ache.
His feet beat out a grim refrain. Too
late—too late—too late.
    Alun was gone. Anna was gone. Thea was gone. The children
were gone. Dead, gone, dead, gone, dead—
    A sob ripped itself from him. He flung himself forward.
    oOo
    It was very