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secrets were protected by spells. Jonker's penetrating look had made the
swordsman uneasy.
Attention turned to a bit of byplay between Jarno and the serving girl, who
was trying to sit on the big man's lap.
"Go perch your pretty bottom elsewhere, Suni!" he growled unhappily. "A man's
got his limits!"
"Ho, Jarno's getting old!" jibed one of the farmers.
"No, just sensible," Jarno denied angrily. "My wife's niece is staying with me
while my wife's birthing, and she's an ardent and demanding piece. She would
knot my head if I came home with no desire for her!" He gave the girl a shove.
"Go perch on the swordsman, wench! He's a handsome stag, and with ardor to
spare!"
Suni turned to study Basdon. "So he is," she giggled.
Basdon had paid her little heed before, but as she came toward him he looked
her over. She was a shapely lass with a face of carefree prettiness rather
than beauty. He put down his wine and opened his arms to her as she sat down
on his lap.
She stroked his stubbled cheek, then kissed him on the mouth with the full
lack of restraint of a healthy-
minded woman. His thought of Belissa was only a brief, hurting flick across
his brain, quickly crowded out by the lush wench in his arms, though his eyes
burned sorely.
"Ho, the swordsman will content you!" guffawed Jarno approvingly. "He'll
content her only for as long as it takes," observed another. "Suni's no babe
to be soothed through the night by a milkless pacifier."
The girl worked her skirt out from under her, and Basdon's exploring hands
found much to approve in her structural details. Suddenly he lifted her onto
the table, as the farmers hastily rescued their cups and the flagon, and
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climbed up with her.
She made a lively match of it, constantly wriggling and straining against him
while she moaned and giggled into his mouth. Basdon was through all too
quickly for her pleasure. But as he stood up and adjusted his clothes one of
the younger graingrowers moved quickly to take his place with the girl. The
others shouted their approval and three of them began casting lots for the
next turn.
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Basdon sat down and recovered his cup from the floor and refilled it. Belissa
was strong in his mind now, depressing him bitterly. She had been so different
from this lusty lass Suni . . . so damnably different.
Jarno touched him on the shoulder. "Watching this discomfits me," he said,
flicking a thumb toward the pair on the table. "I must depart for home in
haste. But remember you have a friend in this valley, swordsman, if you pass
this way again."
"That I will, Jarno," said Basdon. They touched each other's foreheads, and
the big graingrower hurried out the door.
Moodily he watched the sporting on the table while he nursed his wine.
Presently Jonker told him supper was prepared, and guided him to a table in a
quieter corner of the room. The graingrowers soon departed, shouting goodbyes
to him and promises of future visits to Suni. The girl also found reason to
leave the room.
In the quiet, Jonker came to have wine with his guest.
"Not often in these unsettled times does a man of arms find comradeship among
tillers of the soil," he remarked. "I'm pleased to see it happen. It reminds
me of calmer days."
"Perhaps those days are returning," said Basdon.
Jonker shook his head. "All that is finished. The god-warriors will return,
more numerous, time and again, until finally they will come to stay. Here and
everywhere. They are the wave of the future."
"I think not," Basdon countered. "The god-warriors are . . . are afflicted
with a soreness of the mind.
Some will die of this affliction, and others will heal. That is the way with
sicknesses, is it not?"
"With most sicknesses, yes. Not this one." Jonker gulped his wine while
staring at Basdon. "Swordsman, you cannot judge the full course of this
affliction upon the world by the course it has taken in you. And you must see
that, while you seem to be a special case, your recovery is not complete."
Basdon tensed, prepared to come to his feet with sword in hand. But the
innkeeper made no move other than to lift his cup. Although he had so much as
said he recognized Basdon as a god-warrior . . .
Jonker said softly, "The age of the magical arts draws to a close, swordsman.
This earth now faces an age of superstition, of religion, as the leaders of
the god-warriors are beginning to call it. This will endure nigh twenty
thousand years before The Art begins its slow recovery."
"You speak as one who knows," Basdon commented tightly.
"I was not always an innkeeper, swordsman. Nor were countrymen always
encouraged to regard my abilities as a matter for laughter. Yes, I speak as
one who knows."
"Then why don't you use your knowledge?" Basdon demanded. "If you have The
Art, employ it against the . . . the enemy."
Jonker shrugged. "That would be futile. We must be overwhelmed. The earth is
not the only world, swordsman. It is one among many. The starry sky is filled
with worlds, and the powers of magic span the gulfs between. Only of late
those powers have turned to darkness to necromancy on a scale that makes our
own black-spellers seem prankish children by comparison. That is the power
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behind the god-
warriors, swordsman, the power of universal necromancy! We are all but
helpless in the face of such strength."
Basdon was shaping a question when the innkeeper signaled him to silence, and
Basdon saw that Suni was re-entering the room. "I will go see to your bed,
swordsman," said Jonker, rising. He went out, and
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after a moment Suni came over and took the chair he had vacated. She regarded
the swordsman with large blue eyes that were still interested, but now a
trifle sleepy.
"You are a hasty man, Basdon," she murmured. "If you are equally swift with
your sword, your enemies must die with merciful suddenness."
"My apologies," he replied. "I have traveled far and seldom meet such
hospitality as you offered, so I
fear I was inconsiderate . . ."
"You can make amends," she giggled. "I was wondering: Is it the dust of the
roads that reddens your eyes?"
"Perhaps so," he replied, blinking rapidly now that his attention had been
called to the ever-present but slight burning in his eyes.
"Basdon . . . Basdon the Bloodshot!" she laughed.
He flinched. Why did everyone hit upon that naming for him, even on the
briefest acquaintance? It was irritating.
"It's but a trivial imperfection," the girl said hastily, seeing his
annoyance, "and the only one I
noticed . . . other than your haste, of course."
He smiled. "The haste, if not the redness of eye, can be considered cured."
Jonker returned. "Your room is ready, swordsman. I believe you will find the
bed comfortable and . . ."
he glanced at Suni " . . . large. But if the day has not left you too
exhausted, perhaps you would honor me with an hour of conversation in my
private quarters?"
Basdon nodded, smiled at Suni, and followed the innkeeper from the room. They
passed along a dark hallway and down some stairs, the flickering lamp carried
by Jonker revealing little more than the walls and the dusty night-light
fixtures, which had not glowed since their operational spell had failed
shortly before the god-warrior raiding began.
Having realized Jonker was more than he seemed, Basdon was not surprised to
see subtle indications in the man's quarters that The Art was far from dead
here. There was a general cleanliness in the appearance of the furnishings.
The light from the lamp, which Jonker placed on a central table, seemed
amplified by the brightness of the walls. A sense of ease that could not be
attributed to the wine, the girl, and the good supper came over the swordsman
as soon as they entered. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]