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.Count Syzambry shifted restlessly in his padded chair.He had spent the whole day not merely outof bed, but at work, save for the short sleep that his surgeon urged upon him in the afternoon.Anafternoon nap, as if he were a child still in smallclothes!Perhaps he no longer needed that nap.Perhaps it was that which kept him awake now, growingmore restless and uneasy as the sun slipped below the mountain peaks.The sunset gilded some of thesnowcaps on the highest peaks, turned others crimson.The breeze had died with the coming of twilight,and the count felt as if the world were holding its breath in anticipation.Anticipation of what? He knew what he awaited, at least.Tonight Zylku should return from amongthe Pougoi.Perhaps he would even return with the truth about the state of the tribe.From the scouts who watched the royal camp, Syzambry had learned that at least some of thePougoi had turned their colors.They were led by a man who might be Aybas—and if Aybas had turnedtraitor, Syzambry could not think of a death hard enough for him!At least the turncoat Pougoi had no beasts or Star Brothers with them as far as the scouts couldjudge.There was no approaching the royal camp closely, by night or by day.The scouts who tried tohad never been seen again, save for one who was found gelded, disemboweled, and otherwise turnedinto a direful warning.After that, the scouts kept their distance, and much of what they brought back was rumors or, atbest, tales.One tale ran so far as to say that King Eloikas was dead.If so, should Syzambry offer peaceon terms of being named regent for Prince Urras?Syzambry looked at that notion now from one side, now from another, as color left the world andnight swallowed the camp save where watchfires sparked with saffron flames or crimson coals.It was fulldark by the time he judged it best to hold his tongue for now.When he knew his own strength, as well ashis foe's weakness, the time might be right for making nimble tongues do the work of sharp steel.Where was Zylku? The count would not know his own strength until he knew the state of thePougoi, and he would not know that until the man returned.Boots scraped rocky ground.Swords and spears clattered and clanged.The count's guards werealert.The count himself drew his sword and laid it across his knees as his servant opened the tent flaps.A dark shape emerged into the circle of the watch-fire: Zylku, looking much the same as he hadthree days ago, save for an unshaven countenance and a dark cloak thrown over his garments.Hestepped lightly toward the watchfire.The count leaped from his chair, raising his sword to the guard position.In the fire's light he saw thatthe agent's feet were bare.Bare—and bloody, as if he had run barefoot for days over sharp stones.Syzambry's breath hissed out in alarm.Otherwise, he would have called the sentries.They neededno calling, though.They had seen the same as their lord, and they stepped forward to do their duty.The first two guards to reach the agent gripped him gently by the arms, as they would have donewith a harmless madman.With the strength of ten men, Zylku gripped the guards' throats.With thestrength of twenty, he slammed their heads together.The crack of shattered skulls was loud enough toraise echoes.Then, for good measure, Zylku's fingers closed on the men's throats and crushed theirwindpipes.They were dead twice over when he flung them violently away from him, to crash into theircomrades.The guards' oath to their lord, and perhaps fear of his wrath, held them at their posts.They did not,however, again advance upon Zylku.As what had been a man ambled toward the fire, they ran hastily toform a wall of flesh and steel before their lord."Lift me up, you fools!" the count stormed.He hated any order that would remind others of his lackof stature, but he had no choice.All he could see before him was a line of jerkined backs and helmetedheads.Two of his servants lifted the chair.They staggered under its weight.Two guards ran back to jointhe servants.They were eager to be as far as they could contrive from Zylku.The four men together bore chair and count out of the tent and raised Syzambry until he could seeover the heads of his guards.He swallowed a cry of horror when he saw clearly, and his limbsresponded to an urge to leap in panic from his chair.The chair swayed, the men struggled to uphold it,the count clung desperately to both his dignity and the arms of the chair, and the guards tried to look in alldirections at once.Chaos threatened, but it did not quite prevail.The count settled back on the cushions and forcedhimself to stare at the sight before him.Zylku stood in the fire, whose flames leaped as high as his knees.They had already burned theboots from his feet, and now they were turning the flesh on his bones to charcoal.He seemed to feel nopain, though, but stood as if his feet had been in a warm bath, scented with healing herbs—The man's mouth opened and he spoke.Or at least words came forth.Count Syzambry did notcare to think about who in truth had put the words in Zylku's mouth."Count Syzambry [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]