Read Online The Doomfarers of Coramonde by Brian Daley - Free Book Online Page A

slay
even Chaffinch. One such is a thing all of metal in which men ride, driven by
some internal motive arrangement, mounting weapons like Van Duyn’s but far
larger. What he proposes is to conjure one of these machines here—and gods
know, the spell will be nearly as dangerous as the jeopardy in which we find
ourselves now. Yes, but it’s either that or die under Chaffinch’s flaming
breath.”
    Andre got up,
wiping fingers on thighs. He checked the sun’s declination and said, “Come with
me; it’s nigh time.”
    They set off
together, entering the once-respectable main hall to climb a winding,
spiderwebbed staircase and walk down a dusty corridor. They came to a musty
suite of rooms uppermost in the castle. There, a hasty sanctum had been set up.
    Van Duyn and
Gabrielle were already there, and when the other two entered, they both looked
strangely at the Prince, and Springbuck had the impression that they’d been
arguing.
    He perched on a
stool while Andre drew obscure diagrams on the floor over a pentagrammic
inscription and Gabrielle read in an inflectionless tongue from a codex of unguessable
origin.
    Van Duyn was
charging the braziers which were placed in each corner of the room; seeing the
Prince, he asked, “Well, boy, do you want to stay on with us? I intend to see
Yardiff Bey thrown down. I owe him that.”
    Springbuck
answered haughtily, not liking Van Duyn or his tone of address. “I will—accept
your aid in regaining my throne, if that is what you’re offering.”
    Gabrielle
laughed again, but this time the outlander was the butt of it and he colored
with fury.
    “Stupid brat!
The days of throne and crowns are over here! D’you think we’re toppling your
brainless brother just to replace him with you, you spineless coward?”
    Springbuck
restrained himself no longer. He lurched forward and grabbed a fistful of the
scholar’s shirt with his left hand, preparatory to striking him; but before he
could, the man seized his left wrist with surprising strength and in some
clever, rapid manner twisted it so that Surehand’s son was forced to his knees,
wrist painfully doubled over and in real danger of breaking. The Prince cried
aloud in shock.
    The
deCourteneys were both watching now. “You must be quiet,” Andre reproved. “We
dare weighty things here; we must concentrate to the fullest. Edward, please
take your place.”
    The outlander
unwillingly released the Prince, who locked eyes with him in mutual agreement
that the issue wasn’t settled and resisted the impulse to cut him down on the
spot. The scholar and the deCourteneys stepped to various prearranged locations
among the occult designs on the floor.
    Springbuck held
his throbbing wrist to his chest and flushed with shame. He was sure that he
had lost face among them irredeemably, and regretted most that Gabrielle had
seen it. Then his gaze met with hers, and he read a rare message there, a soft
and feminine one of sorrow that he had been hurt and worsted. He tried to fit
this with what he knew of her already and made his first dim start at
understanding the enigma that was Gabrielle deCourteney.
    “Your Grace,”
she said softly, “please stand there—yes, there in that circle of protection,
that any powers liberated here work no harm upon you.”
    He stepped into
it, a small circle picked out in dust that looked like crushed emerald. Flexing
his fingers, he decided that his wrist had not been badly sprained. Van Duyn,
white-faced, set the braziers to burning.
    Springbuck
noticed with curiosity the contrast between Andre and his sister: he with broad
torso, bowed legs and fat, jiggling belly and buttocks and she mystically
lovely. She posed unconsciously, weight on one firm leg, the firelight sending
ruby combers breaking across her hair. Springbuck felt a desire rising in him,
one he’d not wished to acknowledge.
    Old Van Duyn,
now, was an angular sort of fellow whose muscles had begun to show the slack of
age, but with considerable