The Fourth Book Of Lost Swords : Farslayer's Story (Saberhagen's Lost Swords 4) by Fred Saberhagen (ereader iphone .TXT) 📕

      From an inner pocket of his clothing he drew out the demon’s life, caught and trapped in leather by some tricks of wizardry that were as far, or farther, beyond him as the healing skills of the physician. But to use the thing that Wood had given him was simple enough. Stroking the little wallet with his fingers, Chilperic muttered the short formula of summoning.

      Then he waited, standing with his eyes almost closed, for the unspeakable presence to approach once more and establish itself inside his room.

      He waited, but nothing happened.

      The summoning was finished. He was sure that he had done it properly. Time stretched on, one breath after another, and still the demon did not appear.

      Presently Tigris, her healing chores evidently completed for the time being, tapped at his door and came in as silently as she had done before, closing the door immediately behind her. When she saw Chilperic standing with the leather wallet in his hand, she had no need to ask what he was doing.

      With Tigris watching him expressionlessly, Chilperic frowned, and rubbed again at his leather wallet, and once more uttered the proper words. He took great care to get the incantation right, rounding each syllable of it distinctly.

      But still there came no response from Rabisu. Something was definitely wrong.

      Fortunately for himself, Chilperic was not a man who panicked easily. To the best of his quite limited ability, he scanned the air and earth and water around him, seeking evidence of the demon’s presence, or of any interfering magic. He could find neither.

      “I sense no opposition,” murmured Tigris, who was evidently doing the same thing, at a level of skill doubtless much higher than his.

      Chilperic sighed and nodded. So, he thought to himself, what game was this? Perhaps the creature had been called away by some direct command from Wood. Chilperic thought that unlikely, but what other explanation could there be?

      In a little while Tigris, having made no comment, left him, saying that she wanted to look in again on her patient. Chilperic was still sitting alone in his room, wondering when to try the summoning again, unable to think of anything else to try, when a servant came to his door bearing a message from Hissarlik.

      “My master’s compliments, sir, and would you care to attend him in the great hall? Some men have arrived, claiming to be mercenaries looking for employment, and the Tyrant Hissarlik would like to consult with you on how best to deal with them.”

* * *

      Descending to what was optimistically called the great hall, Chilperic found lamps being lighted against the gathering dusk. Hissarlik was established in a tall chair that evidently served him as a seat of state. Two men, both strangers to Chilperic, were facing the clan chief. One of these visitors, a powerful-looking brute, was standing almost at attention, while the other, taller and much leaner, had seated himself on a table with one foot on the floor, a disrespectful position to say the least. Signs of the military profession were much in evidence in the dress and attitude of both.

      The taller stranger stood up from the table when Chilperic entered, and in a moment had introduced himself as Captain Koszalin, commander, as he said, of his own free and honorable company of adventurers. Koszalin was youthful, certainly well under thirty years of age; lean, almost emaciated, with a haggard look as if perhaps he did not sleep well. His stocky comrade was his sergeant.

      With Chilperic now standing at the Tyrant’s right hand and giving the newcomers a stern look, Hissarlik was ready to speak out boldly from his tall chair.

      He addressed Koszalin. “Well then, fellow, what use do you think you can be to us here?”

      Chilperic got the impression that the youthful captain was totally unimpressed by this other youth who claimed hereditary power. But Koszalin, who appeared now to be making an effort to be pleasant, scratched his uncombed head and addressed the Tyrant.

      “Why, sir, it’s like this. I hear that you’re on no great terms of friendship with those people across the water, the ones who call themselves Malolo.” When Koszalin shifted his glance to Chilperic, his voice, perhaps unconsciously, grew more respectful. “Nor are you, sir, I suppose.”

      Chilperic was gradually becoming certain that these were a couple of the same mercenary scoundrels who had been hanging around the Malolo manor intermittently when he had visited there. He had had only the briefest contact with any of them then, but now he could not help wondering whether some of them might recognize him. He would have to make sure of that as soon as possible.

      “Ah,” said Hissarlik to the captain. “So you’ve had some contact with the Malolo, have you?”

      “Damned unfriendly contact.” The commander of the honorable company, wiry muscles working in a hairy forearm, scratched his head again; Chilperic wondered if he was going to have to ask Tigris for a minor spell to repel boarders. Koszalin went on: “Well sir, I’ll tell you the exact truth. Their new chief over there, name of Bonar, said that he wanted to hire myself and my men, and then he refused to pay us. Reneged on a deal, he did. Promised pearls and then wouldn’t give us nothing. We can’t make our living on deals like that. I’ve got thirty men in my company to look after, men who look up to me like I was their father. You, sir, being a real chief yourself, will understand that kind of responsibility.” The last remark was ostensibly addressed to Hissarlik, but with the words the speaker’s eyes turned briefly to Chilperic to include him.

      Chilperic supposed it was time he took an active part in the questioning. “When was this reneging, as you call it?”

      “That’s what anyone would call it, sir. It was just a couple of days ago. So, my men and I have decided to see if we can find a better reception on this