Dominion by Fred Saberhagen (best motivational novels txt) 📕

dying of the light outside, and then he came closer, into lamplight. He had a fair beard and mustache, and a large nose, and blue eyes that were hard to meet. He was dressed somewhat more richly than the other two men, and at his side was belted a sword in an ornate leather scabbard. The other two deferred to him, that was plain, and the woman of the house made a sort of curtsey at his entrance. Marge didn’t know what to do, and so sat still.

   The short man spoke to Marge, at first in the same language that the other folk had tried. His voice was light and clear, as if he could be a singer if he tried. When there was no response, he experimented with another tongue, that Marge thought might be French, and after that a third one, Latin-sounding. Was it the same the two men in the dungeon had spoken? Marge couldn’t be sure.

   At last the man of importance shook his head, and turned away, issuing orders to other men who had come up to stand in front of the house. Then the whole group of them moved away. Presently two young women came to the house, both robed in white as if for ceremony. With smiles and gestures they conducted Marge through the dusk to a larger building, set a little apart from the rest of the settlement.

   Marge found herself in a lamplit hall, big enough to dance in, rows of posts set in the floor supporting beams with thatch above. A dozen other women were present, mostly young and all similarly dressed. As if, she realized, this were a convent of some kind. She supposed such places still existed. Obviously they did here. There were no crosses anywhere, nothing that she could recognize as a religious symbol.

   Nunnery, sorority, whatever. Marge was too tired to care. The women showed her where the outhouse was, and went there with her. Yippee, just like summer camp. Then they gave her some water with a little wine mixed in, and some soup in another wooden bowl, and a piece of crude dark bread. And finally, when she’d begun to think they’d never ask, a straw pallet in a small back room. She had a roommate, who lay down in white robes on another pallet at Marge’s side, and promptly went to sleep.

   Marge collapsed on straw, utterly exhausted. She ought to try to think things through…

THIRTEEN

   “What do you dream, vampire? Bad dreams ever keep you from getting any rest?”

   Talisman stirred, groaned. He did not yet open his eyes, sensing muted daylight, dangerous daylight, in the air around him. He could stand some of it but not if it should grow direct and strong. Where was he? He remembered the rebuilt dungeon, the explosion of magical force. It had picked him up and dropped him somewhere else. He was immune to fear, his quick attempt at flight had been a coldly calculated effort at survival. But the flight had evidently not been an unqualified success.

   “Vampire, vampire.” The old man’s voice, from somewhere, nagged him. “I knew one like you once. No way you could scare him, either, but you could drive him mad. Matter of fact I did. He kept dreaming of poisoned blood, you see, cold and green. I was the one who fixed him up with nightmares, after he once bothered a little girl I liked… every day, in his trance, this dream about a girl would come to him. But when he tried to do his filthy trick and bite her throat—chilled emerald wine, that’s what he got, hahaa.”

   It was certainly the old man’s voice, though it was not speaking English now. It was speaking—what? Something very old, certainly, halfway familiar to Talisman though unheard for centuries. He stirred, forcing himself out of an incipient daylight trance, opened his eyes. He had to see where he was. The sun was low in the sky, behind some trees, and he saw and felt with relief that it was going down not up. That ought to boost his chances for immediate survival here—wherever here was.

   He was lying right on the ground in the mouth of a shallow cave, a very different cave from the one in which the castle’s secret tunnel ended. In getting to his feet, he stirred up rattling old leaves and straw, last year’s debris dropped here by the wind. It was summer still, or summer again, to judge by the forest growth before the cave. The look of the flora and the smell of the air suggested strongly that he was in England.

   The disembodied voice in his ear spoke English now. “You’re in the land of cold green blood, bloodsucker. Still want to play with the big boys? See what happens when you do?”

   “Bah.” Talisman got out of the cave, where he had room enough to stand erect. He brushed himself off. “Is it your custom to play with boys, ancient one? Is it possible that you are sometimes able to frighten children?” He took a breath, to sniff the air again. Yes, England, at some early age. Interesting.

   “You wanted to stop me travelling, didn’t you, vampire? Well, I got where I was going anyway. I hope you enjoy your little trip. Hard to say how long it’s going to last. You’ll meet some interesting people along the way, though.”

   “I see now that I was mistaken about you, old man. I did you far too much honor, and debased myself by doing so. You are a clever peasant, nothing more.”

   “How can you debase a snake’s belly? Babble on, bloodsucker. I don’t give a damn if you can be scared or not—but I do hear they make some splintery stakes back there where you are now. They don’t have any trouble at all believing in vampires, by the way.”

   “Tell me, you ancient peasant, ancient fool.” Talisman’s