The peaceful landscape before Marge now was reassuring by comparison. Both men were calling to her now, but she could not understand a word.
She shook her head. At last she called back, in a tremulous voice: “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re saying. What place is this?”
The men looked at her blankly, then shook their heads just as Marge had done, and conferred briefly between themselves. Presently they advanced, wading the narrowest neck of the small marsh, to where Marge stood. Feeling uncertain and confused—but not really frightened—she smiled at them tentatively and waited. They talked to her a little more, uselessly. Then each took her by one arm, not unkindly, and they marched her back across the marshy land and up toward the buildings. These were somewhat larger than Marge had thought at first sight.
The door to one of the smaller houses stood open. As Marge was brought in by her escort, a worn-looking woman in a long, plain dress rose from a wooden bench beside the smoky fireplace, putting down her knitting. Or was it sewing? Marge had trouble remembering which was which. Anyway it was work of some kind, cloth and a large ball of snarled-looking gray thread or yarn.
The two men and the woman all talked together now about Marge, and took turns questioning her. They had only the one language, and tried it repeatedly. It was no easier to understand when they spoke slowly and clearly, or repeated the same question several times in a loud voice. She did her part by running the same experiments with English.
From somewhere nearby, Marge thought it was from inside one of the large buildings, there came at intervals a loud, determined clanging, as of heavy hammerblows on metal. The people with Marge paid this no attention but went on debating about Marge. Marge got the impression from their gestures that the woman thought they had better take the problem to someone who was over there, where all the noise was coming from, while the two men thought this not advisable, at least not right now.
Eventually they thought to offer Marge a place to sit down, a wooden stool that like everything else in the little house looked homemade. She had a cousin who had lived in one of those crazy communes once and had told Marge all about it. This must be, somehow, something similar. Now the woman was bringing her a wooden bowl, complete with wooden spoon, containing a thick substance that looked like unrefined oatmeal.
Marge said yes, thank you, and tried some. For oatmeal, it wasn’t bad. Then the spoon rested idle in her hand for a while when she noticed two objects that were leaning against the roughly plastered wall just inside the open doorway. They were a short spear, and a shield of what looked like tough, thick leather. The spear’s metal point was the size of a man’s hand, its shaft was handcarved wood, straight and sturdy as a hoe handle. The shield was round, and bossed with metal decorations. But it was the functional look of both objects that impressed Marge.
Meanwhile the people who had been interviewing her had things to marvel at too. Her clothing, for one thing. They were not really surprised at the dirty rags her costume had become, but after she had given permission with a smile, they rummaged through her shoulder bag. One of the men held up the jeans against himself; evidently they were not considered women’s garb.
Presently the men put her things back in the bag and went out together, leaving Marge with her porridge and the woman for companionship. The woman, who had gone back to fussing with her tangled thread, watched Marge closely, smiling now and then. Once she offered Marge a chance to try the knitting or whatever it was; her guest’s helpless refusal came as a surprise.
Marge finished her porridge. Perhaps half an hour went by, with recurrent bursts of hammering from the other building. Men’s voices could now be heard also, growing progressively more excited. At last there came a prolonged cheer. Maybe, Marge thought sourly, they were watching football.
Actually she knew better. There wasn’t even an electric light in sight, or a radio, let alone a TV. And now the sun was getting ready to set.
The housewife crouched over her hearth, where a tiny fire was smoldering, and from the embers lighted a lamp of a kind Marge had never seen before, a clay bowl holding oil in which a mere shred of cloth floated for a wick. The smoky, flaring glow of it filled the little house unevenly.
Before the sun had gone completely, the two men who had found Marge on the hillside were back, their bulky figures darkening what light the open doorway still gave. And between them now was a third man, a little shorter than they. At first Marge could see him only in silhouette against the 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 voice was still quiet and steady, but he had rarely in his life been angrier than he was now; never mind that in the cooler portions of his mind he knew that his anger really ought to be directed at himself. “Will this little trip of mine, as you call it, ever bring our two pathways once more together?”
“You better hope and pray it doesn’t. Your bloodsucking ass is mud if ever we meet again.”
Before Talisman could find a retort to this preposterous rhetoric, the voice, the mental presence, of the Disgusting One were gone. To Talisman’s relief. If he could not get in the last word, at least he would no longer have to endure the gutter invective of… of…
Despite himself, the cooler portion of Talisman’s mind was already starting to assert control. If age did not prevent rage, at least experience helped to moderate it at times when rage was plainly useless. At bottom Talisman knew that what had happened to him was not really the old man’s fault. The quivering insults from the Disgusting One were a result of misdirected anger; a great enchantment kept the old man from properly identifying the proper target of his wrath… at bottom, Talisman knew all that. But still, right now, if the old man had been before him in the flesh, Talisman’s arms, the strength of ten men in each, would now be reaching out to crush that wattled throat…
And doubtless before he touched it he’d find himself in a worse situation than he was now. Against the powers of that ancient one, Talisman knew that he’d be sorely overmatched. Ah well. Time enough to consider that point when it arose in fact.
A thin path ran through the forest near the cave, and Talisman could hear men’s feet approaching now along the path. They moved lightly, with habitual quiet, yet not with the great caution of those thinking themselves in immediate danger. Two men, two breathing men, still too far away to have any idea that Talisman’s silent unbreathing presence waited for them here. Should he confront them when they appeared, or seek concealment? It wasn’t quite sunset, to shift to the form of mist or wolf or bat would be impossible, he’d have to slide behind a tree or bush. But no, he’d wait and face them. Let what was coming come.
The approaching feet were shod, in what sounded like soft leather. One of the men was half-singing, half-humming to himself, in what sounded to Talisman like some ancient dialect of French. There were subtle sounds to indicate that the two men had some burden slung between them, on a pole.
A very faint pat, as from the fall of thickening dead blood on a dry leaf.
They were bringing in a deer.
Talisman made himself ignore for the moment his hungry vision of fresh blood. He folded his arms and stood waiting calmly beside the path. The two huntsmen armed with bow and spear came into view, then came two steps farther into the little clearing before they saw Talisman, so still was he standing. There they halted in confused surprise. Not sure whether they ought to drop their burden or not, clearing the decks for action, they didn’t quite. One man gave his spear a little flourish, calling attention to its existence.
Talisman, arms folded, hands empty, looked at them broodingly.
“Who are you?” asked the man in front, shifting the weighted pole slightly on his shoulder, so that the dead deer hanging swayed. The dialect was hard for Talisman, but the meaning, in the context, plain enough.
“My name is Talisman.” He led the word through translation as best he could. “Who is your master?”
“King Comorr.”
“Ah.” Could the vampire have known fear, it might have touched him now. But as he began to think about the name, it began to explain things that had puzzled him till now. “You will bring me to him.”
The hunters exchanged glances. Then the one in front motioned for Talisman to precede them on the path.
FOURTEEN
In Simon’s private bath electric light was his to command, and he was using it to get ready for dinner and then performance. If his appearance was good, reasonably convincing, in the modern mirror flanked by bright incandescents, then the soft candlelight below could only add romance and conviction.
The outfit he was putting on represented less his Chicago costumer’s idea of how a medieval enchanter ought to look than what the costumer had readily available. There was a bulky jacket of blue and gray, what the man had called a doublet, worn open in front over an inner garment not too different from a modern turtleneck. There were pointy shoes much like those Gregory was wearing, tight hose, and another garment like a pair of bulkily padded swimming trunks, with an anachronistic but invisible zippered fly. All in all, Simon found the outfit reasonably comfortable, and probably as impressive as it had to be. He’d had the doublet fitted with some special pockets, useful for the special purposes of the conjurer. As a final touch, he now looped over his head the thick, brassy chain of a costume-jewelry medallion on which a lion and sword were shown in gold-colored relief. He thought that to a non-expert it would look classy enough to be convincing.
And now, before taking a last look at his image in the mirror, he reached out and switched off the bathroom lights. With just the light coming in from the bedroom, he thought he might be able to get a good idea of how he was going to look in the dim, soft illumination that would obtain in the great hall below.
Good enough, he thought. Quite good, in fact. Authentic.
His appearance was satisfactory, and yet for a little while he remained before the mirror. His reflected image was half silhouette against the brighter reflection of the lighted room behind him, as if he were standing in a doorway that led to the outside. He didn’t know just what he’d expected to discover about himself, to prove to himself, when he’d started out on this day’s journey into his own past. But certainly the day so far had been even stranger than he’d expected. First the series of visions, half-visions, hallucinations, whatever you might want to call them. And then, a blank of some three hours, including his arrival at the castle. He must have looked bad when he arrived, really out of it, so that someone had suggested he go up to his room and take a nap. It was probably fortunate that he’d agreed.
The soreness was almost completely gone from his throat muscles now. So nearly gone that he might have been imagining that, too. Hell, he must have been imagining it.
Simon rather surprised himself by the calm way he was now, after all that, getting ready to go on with the show. It was as if he knew
deep inside, basically, secretly, that all this strangeness was really nothing to be alarmed about. As if he’d really been expecting something of the kind to happen all along…
But now was not the time for introspection. Now was the time to go and put on a performance. Marge was ready, and he was too. One more check of the arrangements in his secret pockets, and Simon switched off his bedroom’s lights and stepped out into the hall.
He had no more than closed the door behind him when another opened, two rooms down the hall, and Vivian looked out. She was wrapped now in a bulky beach robe of startling white, and her head was swathed in a towel with which she rubbed her hair.
“There you are, Simon.” Vivian’s voice was bright, energetic, still totally in control. “I was hoping to catch you before you went downstairs. That’s a very handsome costume you’ve got there.”
“Thanks.”
Vivian took a step closer, a vaguely conspiratorial movement. Her eyes were innocent and eager; he’d seen them like that before; it might have been a warning to him now, if he’d been in the mood for heeding warnings. She asked: “I wonder if you could possibly spare me a moment before dinner? My brother’s busy, as usual, and there’s a bit of business to be taken care of. ”
“Sure.”
“Great. Also I must admit that I’ve been hoping to get a little time with you alone, to talk about magic. It intrigues me, it always has. But so far today has been just one interruption after another.”
“Of course. Any time.” Simon moved down the hall (lit only by torches now; daylight had altogether faded from the high, narrow windows) and followed Vivian into her room. Her suite, rather. It was a bedroom-bathroom-dressing room that made Simon’s guest quarters look small, and in a movie would certainly have required at least one maid to go with it. Simon wasn’t sure how these matters were usually managed in reality, but at the moment at least no servant was in evidence.
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