Thorn

by Fred Saberhagen

  A few weeks later, when autumn was well under way—it was an extremely lovely autumn in Italy, as I recall—a message at last reached me from King Matthias. The royal blessing was pronounced upon our union—rather perfunctorily, I thought, at no great length and with no special warmth. Then to business. I was to join the king and his army in Bosnia as soon as I could possibly do so, and that was that. Reading between the lines of this missive, I felt sure that the campaign was not going as well as had been hoped. In fact it seemed likely to me that a military disaster of some magnitude might have been in the making when the king wrote; fine considerations of peace and harmony in the officer corps no longer prevented his using another good field commander.

  Well, I was ready. A honeymoon idyll in flowered idleness now and again was enjoyable, but I was basically a soldier. I made immediate plans for my departure for the distant front on the morning after the letter arrived; and, following a terse hint in the king’s message, for Helen’s departure from Pisa on the same day as mine. She would go back to Florence, where she would remain under Medici care. Eventually she would be sent under escort with some traders to Buda, there to remain till I should be free to join her.

  On what was to have been the morning when this planned temporary separation began, I was awakened by a servant crying that something was amiss. Helen was already gone, though not with any Medici escort. On the pillow beside mine, my own bare dagger had been laid, its point aimed at my head.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thorn in his timeless mode of horror had no choice but to watch the centimeter-by-centimeter progress of the wavefront of the blast as it rose toward him along the steering column. The shockwave of it was so intense that it distorted vision like thick glass. He could watch it coming, but he could not get away in time; not even he could move that fast. Nor were his extranormal powers able to dissolve his solid flesh to mist quickly enough to allow him to avoid the onrushing pain and shock. He could think, and, thinking, doubted that the blast was going to end his life; it was too artificial a thing to be able to do that. He would survive, though with what injuries he did not know. Yes, he would survive.

  As for Mary … if he could not save himself, it was even more hopeless that in these first microseconds of the expanding bomb blast he should be able to do anything for her. He had not even time to move his eyes for a last look at her, much less reach out an arm in even the feeblest gesture of protection.

  The only thing that he could do, he did: willed himself to change into a form intangible. He did this with all possible speed, yet the change did not even begin until his feet and the lower portions of his legs had already been engulfed by the blast-wave. A fraction of a microsecond after his eyes reported the immersion of his feet, his vampire’s nerves already had brought the pain of the fire and force enveloping them to eat at his brain like acid.

  The dissolution of his solid shape began to ease the pain, though not before it had risen as far as his lower torso. Something hard and mechanical, yes, the steering column itself, came spearing, raping its way right through his melting abdomen, reaching for his fading spine. His last clear sight of the blast through solid human eyes showed him the walnut-grained instrument panel exploding with an awful velocity toward his face. It is not real wood, he had the time to think. It cannot kill me even if I am not fast enough to get away. But he was gone before the panel struck.

  Ten yards outside the vehicle, the blast-wave already past, and the first surge of secondary flame beginning, Thorn gathered his mist-shape back into that of man. He reformed his body as quickly as he could, despite the renewed pain brought by the recreated nerves, and the consciousness of real injury done to his feet and legs. In solid shape he could see more clearly, and act with greater force.

  When his vision cleared, the roof of the Blazer was completely gone, as was the hood, with new fire blooming where they had been. Some portion of the explosion directed downward had lifted the front of the heavy vehicle clear of the ground, and it was now in the process of falling back. Debris still sang like shrapnel through the air around Thorn’s ears.

  Before the blasted wreck had fallen back again on its four burning tires, Thorn leaped toward it. His motion began on two feet and ended on four, beside the wreck; instantly a second bound on wolf-fast legs bore him, armoured in thick fur, straight through the flames where doors and windows had once been.

  Mary was no longer there. Her mortal form, or what was left of it, had been blown clear of the vehicle on its far side.

  A wolf’s teeth closed on her hair, and on what was left of the collar of her shirt. She was dragged away from the fire, to a distance where its flames were no longer hot enough to burn.

  One of Mary’s arms was gone, off at the shoulder. Both of her legs were twisted, lying at wrong angles like those of some great discarded doll. Still her eyes were open, and alive. They were blankly blue, familiar eyes in a blasted face from which most of the lower jaw had been ripped away. In man-form again now, Thorn crouched over her. He must have looked half-dead himself, with his clothing blown to rags and his skin covered with the black residue of the explosion. But though his nervous system still rang with pain he could tell now that his own injuries were minor, a result of organic matter in his own clothing impacting his body under the force of the blast: the leather in his shoes, the cotton in some of his clothing. His wounds would quickly heal.

  But Mary.

  It was obvious from the first look at her that she was not going to survive.

  Unless … there was one desperate chance to take.

  Thorn closed his eyes, and willed the double fang-growth in his own upper jaw. Then he crouched lower over the girl, bending till his lips touched her charred flesh. In a moment he had tasted of her living blood. Then, kneeling erect again, he ripped open the burnt remnants of his own garments at the chest, and with one taloned fingernail nicked his own blackened skin. Then he lifted the girl like a nursling babe toward his wound.

  He tried, tried desperately, to give Mary his own vampire’s blood to drink. With her jaw gone, her own blood drowning her, it was impossible.

  She never drank the blood that might have given her a chance for a transformed life. Yet still it took long minutes for her death to be complete.

  * * *

  “Who’s it from, Bill?” Judy Southerland followed the back of Bill Bird’s blue shirt through the sunlight of highland New Mexico, along the pine-needle path that led from her cabin, past the schoolroom-studio where Bill taught and worked at sculpture, to the lodge that housed the school director’s office.

  Bill turned his head back briefly. He wasn’t handsome, not by Judy’s standards anyway, but very nice. “He said he was your brother-in-law. But then he said to be sure not to scare you, that the family’s all okay.”

  “I see. Thanks.” But Judy was sure she would have felt it had there been something serious wrong with Mom or Dad or Kate or Johnny; she felt things like that, even at a distance, and always had. There had been a bad dream last night, she suddenly remembered. She frowned, but the content of the dream escaped her now.

  Brown-haired, sturdy, never in her young life a runaway, she walked wearing jeans and plaid shirt into the director’s office. The outer room was otherwise unoccupied at the moment, maybe so she could take what sounded like an important call in privacy. The walls here, as in most of the other camp buildings, were of thick logs, the interior surfaces cut flat, heavily and neatly chinked. After that the walls had been sealed with a glossy finish through which the wood shone yellow. With walls like these it was possible for life indoors to be as civilized, as cultured, as anyone might wish, even amid mountains verging on wilderness. The fanciest interior furnishings did not look out of place. Fritz Scholder prints hung here in the office, along with the obligatory Navajo rugs.

  Judy picked up the phone, meanwhile smiling reassuringly at Bill, who had remained hovering just in the doorway. “Hello,” she said. Outside the screened window, open on this warm lat
e spring afternoon, tall pines waved in a breeze.

  “Judy? This is Joe. Kate and everybody here are all okay, it’s nothing like that.”

  “So Bill said.”

  “But there’s something I still thought I ought to talk to you about.”

  Judy glanced at her watch. Mid-afternoon in Chicago, one time zone away. Joe must be calling during his duty hours at the station; for him to do that, it must be something important indeed. She knew now who it was about; the feeling, though not the manifest content, of last night’s nightmare came back in full force. She felt no surprise; as if, on some interior level, she had already known. “I didn’t think it was the family, Joe.”

  “You see,” said Joe’s voice through the long distance buzz, “I got a call just a little while ago from the Phoenix police. A vehicle was blown up with a bomb out there in the desert last night, and at least one person killed.”

  He can’t be dead, I would have known at once if he were dead. “I follow you.”

  “They were trying to trace the man who had rented this vehicle. He had also occupied a certain hotel room out there, from which room a long distance call was made to me here in Chicago. Judy, I think you know which man I’m talking about.”

  “Suppose I do.” Bill was still hanging in the doorway; no doubt courtesy was urging him to leave, but something he saw in Judy’s face was evidently compelling him to hang around. As soon as the call was over he would offer to try to be of help.

  “Don’t be defensive, Judy, I’m trying to help.”

  “I know you are, Joe.”

  “Have you seen him, since you’ve been out there? Have you heard anything from him? It could be very important.”

  It certainly could, to me. “Why? Are the Phoenix police after him?”

  “Not in that sense. At least I don’t know that they are. They’re naturally trying to find out where he is, after his car blew up, and a young woman who must have been sitting in it was killed. There could be some possible connection with that Seabright murder and kidnapping case out there a few months ago. You’ve heard of that.”

  “I’ve heard of that. And about What’s-his-name Seabright’s missing painting just the other day. They haven’t found the aircraft yet. But I haven’t heard from the man you’re talking about.”

  “Good. I didn’t have any reason to think you might have, just a hunch. For your sake, Judy, I just don’t want you to get involved in any way.”

  “I see.” Why was she so angry? Joe meant well.

  “Now if he does contact you, for any reason, will you please for God’s sake just give me a call?”

  “I suppose I could do that.” She could hear her own voice still chilly and upset. She was really angry with herself, Judy supposed, because she had almost missed completely being aware of how much trouble he was in. Might he be badly hurt? She couldn’t tell. Once before when he was hurt, to the point of death, she had been able to help. Now … the contact between them had evidently faded, without her being aware of it

  Phoenix. But at the moment she had no feeling for where he was.

  Bill still fidgeted in the doorway, watching her. Good. Maybe she would need some help from someone. She smiled at him.

  Joe’s voice said: “I didn’t tell Kate I was going to call you on this. And of course I didn’t tell your folks.”

  “Of course.” Judy’s parents and brother had no idea of the truth shared by Joe and Kate—that vampires existed, and that Judy had had one as a lover.

  “I just thought it was my duty to make sure that you don’t get involved in this. You being out there in the same part of the country and all.”

  “Oh, damn it, Joe!” Judy never swore. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to drive a stake through his heart if I get the chance?” Only after the words were out did she remember Billy listening. But Billy would take them as metaphor of some kind; odd, how easy it was for some kinds of truth to remain hidden.

  “Judy, Goddam, Judy.” Joe on the other hand tended to swear a fair amount. The phone now made his anger tiny. “I’m just trying to look out for your own best—”

  “It seems to me that he once let himself get involved in some pretty serious trouble that we were having.”

  For a few moments the long-distance buzz had the line to itself. Joe’s voice when it came back was decently troubled. “I know, we owe him a lot. After what he did for Kate and me, I’ll stick my neck out. But how do we know what he’s involved in? I’m just trying to get you to stay clear, kid, for your own good. This other young lady who was blown up and killed in his car was probably on good terms with him too, and—”

  “Thank you.” Judy got the two words out in an acceptable voice, and then quickly hung up the phone. She hoped Joe heard them and really appreciated that she understood and was grateful for his desire to help. Joe really did mean well. It was just that right now Judy was too mad to talk to him any longer.

  Billy was still in the doorway, with concern for Judy’s troubles written all over him. She smiled at him again. She didn’t want to involve anyone else in anything dangerous. But she would, if necessary.

  Her hand still on the cradled phone, Judy closed her eyes. Feeling guilt, and love, she tried for contact. As soon as she really tried, it came. The man called Thorn was still alive, she was completely sure of that. Somewhere to the west and south of her, at some considerable distance.

  She thought that he was now asleep. But even in the sunny log room she trembled. She was frightened at her perception of his pain and rage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The servant whose howls had wakened me was a weepy old woman, her past scarred, as I now suppose, with tragedy of one kind or another that must have driven her half mad. She was diligent about the house, but given at times to supernatural fantasies. Her cries continued in the middle distance as I sat there in my bed, I know not for how long, looking at that dagger on the pillow and fatalistically pondering its meaning. I did not require the noise of the ancient seeress to convince me of disaster.

  The only logical conclusion I was able to reach regarding the dagger was that Helen had considered killing me with it before she fled—already, somehow, I had no doubt that she was gone—but had then for whatever reason decided against my murder. Still, she wished me to realize that the topic had been under consideration, and she had left the dagger so aimed to symbolize the fact.

  Besides this vaguely humiliating and cryptic communication, no message from my departing wife could be discovered. As matters turned out, the old woman was screaming for no more occult reason than having been told of her mistress’s defection by one of the grooms. This unusually unintelligent lad, while about his morning chores an hour or two earlier, had chanced to see Helen leaving. He reportedly belatedly how she had ridden off into the predawn mists on her white palfrey, a thin roll of clothing with a few other belongings tied up behind her sidesaddle, and accompanied by a cloaked male figure astride another horse.

  The lackwit groom stuttered and stammered this story again to me, adding that it had never occurred to him to raise an alarm when he saw this. It meant nothing to him, he asserted, that his mistress should have decided to go for an early morning ride. Herein he was mistaken; it meant in fact that I paused to slit his nose for him before I took to the road myself in a frantic effort to pick up my lady’s trail.

  It turned out that there was no trail, at least none that I could find. In a state of rage that grew ever colder and more pure, I rode at a good speed for an hour along the road that led in the opposite direction from Florence, but caught no sight of the one I sought. Nor would any of the folk I questioned in passing admit to having seen Helen ride that way with her secret lover, with that faceless, unidentifiable figure in the groom’s stammered story, a man who would be glad to settle for losing part of his nose when I caught up with him.

  As for what I meant to do to Helen … I do not remember making any specific plan of vengeance then. But it was well for her that morning that
I could not find her.

  Of course I might well be pursuing in the wrong direction, and after an hour I turned round. It then naturally took me another hour to get back to our Pisan cottage. I had sent some of the servants I considered most trustworthy to scour the neighborhood in other directions, and these were back before me. They trembled when they announced that they had nothing helpful to report. Their fear was wasted, for when I looked at them I believed that they had really tried.

  What was I to do? Missing spouse or not, honor and wisdom alike forbade me to postpone by so much as half a day the start of my long trek to Bosnia. The king’s orders had been explicit, and the urgency of his need apparent in them.

  I did what little packing I had to do, and concluded the business of closing down the small household. In all this I was surrounded by servants who moved in a desperate, counterproductive hurry. My servants in my homeland had sometimes tended to be that way also. Whenever I glanced at these folk or spoke to them they dropped what they were carrying, or shook so that their fingers could not tie a knot. Matters were not helped by the gurgling moans, drifting in from the stables, of the groom with the runny nose. Once or twice I was on the point of going out to quiet him.

  A quick inventory disclosed that Helen had left behind the greater part of her new wardrobe, including items I had bought to please her, as well as the lavish gifts of the Medici. I directed that the servants should share these out among themselves, which acted as a tonic to their morale. As far as I was able to determine, my fugitive wife had taken with her no money, or very little; and no jewelry or gold of any particular value. There was no telling, of course, what contribution of wealth her mysterious escort might have brought to the escape.