Read Online Wistril Compleat by Frank Tuttle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frank Tuttle
Tags: Science-Fiction, Fantasy
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spine, skull, and fore-limbs, now a garden
sculpture held together with wires of silver and skeins of
light.
"Incredible," said Kern. "How did you do the
shadows, Master?" he said. "And the reflections -- perfect, all of
it."
"Thank you," said Wistril. He squinted into
the sun. "They come."
Kern turned, and hooves sounded, and in an
instant the tip of a lance and a cloud of dust rose above the
distant road.
The lance-tip grew, sprouted a standard that
flapped and tangled too violently to be discerned, and was soon
joined by bobbing helmets, armored shoulders, and the rank after
rank of riders.
Sir Knobby sidled up beside Kern. Kern
whistled softly; the gargoyle stood a full foot taller than he had
an hour ago, his fangs gleamed like fresh-forged knives, and his
eyes were blood-red slits that guttered and glowed like feast-fire
embers.
"Hoot," said Sir Knobby, with a toothy
grin.
"Hoot indeed," said Kern.
The riders reached the rail-less causeway the
villagers dubbed the Wizard's Bridge and thundered across. Wistril
whispered a word, and his iron-shod staff appeared in his hand.
"Do you think they plan to stop, Master?"
asked Kern. Half the riders were across the Bridge now; the first
rank, four horses wide, was a long stone's throw from the open
gates. "Or at least slow to a gallop?"
"Stand firm," said Wistril. "Sir Knobby.
Yawn."
Sir Knobby grinned, tilted his head back, and
opened wide a mouth wet and red. Stark white fangs glistened in the
sun, and from the gargoyle's throat came a thunderous, horrible
growl that lifted the hair on Kern's neck and stopped the foremost
of the horses dead in their tracks.
Riders screamed and cursed. The standard --
which Kern could now clearly see as the one from Wistril's book --
dipped, twirled, and fell.
The men cursing and reigning their mounts
were soldiers -- hard-bitten, hard-ridden men who had the look of
too many days on the road and long nights on the ground about them.
Their clothes -- uniforms once, perhaps, but now a motley
assortment of rags and patches -- were filthy and unkempt; their
boots were badly worn, and, in most cases, mis-matched. Their
weapons, though were alarmingly bright; no rust sullied the
halberds, and the edges of every half-drawn sword gleamed sharp and
deadly.
Most of the soldiers stared wide-eyed at Sir
Knobby, but Kern saw more than one turn wary eyes his way. I
wonder, thought Kern, what Wistril's glamour-spell has made of
me?
Kern grinned, and saw no fewer than three
hands grope for their sword-hilts.
"What is this?" bellowed a voice, above the
din. "Who called a halt?"
Shouldering aside horse and soldier alike, a
rider forced his way to stand before Wistril.
Kern tensed, and he saw Sir Knobby do the
same. "Hoot," said the gargoyle softly, his tone laced with
disgust. Kern nodded.
This man's armor gleamed. His helmet was
polished, and though dusty from the road, it bore not a dent, not a
scratch. His boots were shined to a high gloss, his sword shone
like a mirror, his clothes were whole and well-fitted. Not that I
dislike a man with a tailor in his hire, thought Kern -- but here
is a man who'll throw scraps into the fire while his soldiers go
hungry.
"I am Wistril," said the wizard, and again
Kern heard echoes of sorcery in his voice. "Wistril, son of Agad,
Master of the House of Kauph." Wistril's fingers blurred, and his
staff elongated, unfurled, and became the just-fallen standard of
House Carthrop. "I could not bear to see the proud sigil of House
Carthrop sullied in the dirt, so I picked it up. In doing so, I
fear I have caused a small equestrian catastrophe. Will you accept
my apologies?"
Kern ogled. Wistril was smiling. Sir Knobby
frowned, and set half a dozen war-horses to whinnying and
shuffling.
The rider -- Lord So-and-So of House
Carthrop, Esquire, Kern decided -- stilled his mount, snarled
something fast and Oomish to his men, and looked down upon Wistril
with barely concealed contempt.
"I am Baron Carron, Master of
sculpture held together with wires of silver and skeins of
light.
"Incredible," said Kern. "How did you do the
shadows, Master?" he said. "And the reflections -- perfect, all of
it."
"Thank you," said Wistril. He squinted into
the sun. "They come."
Kern turned, and hooves sounded, and in an
instant the tip of a lance and a cloud of dust rose above the
distant road.
The lance-tip grew, sprouted a standard that
flapped and tangled too violently to be discerned, and was soon
joined by bobbing helmets, armored shoulders, and the rank after
rank of riders.
Sir Knobby sidled up beside Kern. Kern
whistled softly; the gargoyle stood a full foot taller than he had
an hour ago, his fangs gleamed like fresh-forged knives, and his
eyes were blood-red slits that guttered and glowed like feast-fire
embers.
"Hoot," said Sir Knobby, with a toothy
grin.
"Hoot indeed," said Kern.
The riders reached the rail-less causeway the
villagers dubbed the Wizard's Bridge and thundered across. Wistril
whispered a word, and his iron-shod staff appeared in his hand.
"Do you think they plan to stop, Master?"
asked Kern. Half the riders were across the Bridge now; the first
rank, four horses wide, was a long stone's throw from the open
gates. "Or at least slow to a gallop?"
"Stand firm," said Wistril. "Sir Knobby.
Yawn."
Sir Knobby grinned, tilted his head back, and
opened wide a mouth wet and red. Stark white fangs glistened in the
sun, and from the gargoyle's throat came a thunderous, horrible
growl that lifted the hair on Kern's neck and stopped the foremost
of the horses dead in their tracks.
Riders screamed and cursed. The standard --
which Kern could now clearly see as the one from Wistril's book --
dipped, twirled, and fell.
The men cursing and reigning their mounts
were soldiers -- hard-bitten, hard-ridden men who had the look of
too many days on the road and long nights on the ground about them.
Their clothes -- uniforms once, perhaps, but now a motley
assortment of rags and patches -- were filthy and unkempt; their
boots were badly worn, and, in most cases, mis-matched. Their
weapons, though were alarmingly bright; no rust sullied the
halberds, and the edges of every half-drawn sword gleamed sharp and
deadly.
Most of the soldiers stared wide-eyed at Sir
Knobby, but Kern saw more than one turn wary eyes his way. I
wonder, thought Kern, what Wistril's glamour-spell has made of
me?
Kern grinned, and saw no fewer than three
hands grope for their sword-hilts.
"What is this?" bellowed a voice, above the
din. "Who called a halt?"
Shouldering aside horse and soldier alike, a
rider forced his way to stand before Wistril.
Kern tensed, and he saw Sir Knobby do the
same. "Hoot," said the gargoyle softly, his tone laced with
disgust. Kern nodded.
This man's armor gleamed. His helmet was
polished, and though dusty from the road, it bore not a dent, not a
scratch. His boots were shined to a high gloss, his sword shone
like a mirror, his clothes were whole and well-fitted. Not that I
dislike a man with a tailor in his hire, thought Kern -- but here
is a man who'll throw scraps into the fire while his soldiers go
hungry.
"I am Wistril," said the wizard, and again
Kern heard echoes of sorcery in his voice. "Wistril, son of Agad,
Master of the House of Kauph." Wistril's fingers blurred, and his
staff elongated, unfurled, and became the just-fallen standard of
House Carthrop. "I could not bear to see the proud sigil of House
Carthrop sullied in the dirt, so I picked it up. In doing so, I
fear I have caused a small equestrian catastrophe. Will you accept
my apologies?"
Kern ogled. Wistril was smiling. Sir Knobby
frowned, and set half a dozen war-horses to whinnying and
shuffling.
The rider -- Lord So-and-So of House
Carthrop, Esquire, Kern decided -- stilled his mount, snarled
something fast and Oomish to his men, and looked down upon Wistril
with barely concealed contempt.
"I am Baron Carron, Master of
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