Karl Edward Wagner - Kane 06 - The Book Of Kane

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The Book of Kane

Karl Edward Wagner

CONTENTS

REFLECTIONS FOR THE WINTER OF

MY SOUL

MISERICORDE

THE OTHER ONE

SING A LAST SONG OF VALDESE

RAVEN’S EYRIE

REFLECTIONS FOR THE WINTER OF MY SOUL

Since it was obvious that the man was dying, the crowd of watchers had split apart, leaving only the

curious or those fascinated by the presence of death. Certainly no man could live with so ghastly a

wound; the wonder was that the mangled servant had survived as long as he had.

Outside, the blizzard gathered howling force with each minute—a fury of white crystalline coldness

whose blasts penetrated the thick stone walls, raced through dark hallways and billowed the heavy

tapestries. Its coldness forced entrance deep within the castle, into this crowded room where an attentive

circle of eyes stared down at the thing that gasped futilely in its pool of spreading crimson.

He was one of the baron’s servants, a very minor member of the household, whose usual task bad been

to care for the stables. The blizzard had come with the nightfall, storming suddenly out of the west as the

sun was dying. When its first stinging gusts had hit, the court had been filled with scurrying servants,

struggling to secure the animals and material within the outbuildings. One man had stayed behind the rest

to complete some errand—none remembered what. His scream of terror had almost gone unheard by

the last of those stumbling back to the castle gate. But several men had staggered through the near

darkness and blinding winds to the darker figure lying in whirling white. They had borne his mangled body

into the castle with panic-sped steps, for no man had seen that which had attacked the human with such

savage suddenness and vanished again into the blizzard.

The victim lay close to the fire, partially lifted from the stone floor by an improvised pillow of rags. His

eyes gaped blankly in stark horror, and scarlet bubbles broke occasionally from his stack lips. Relentless

fangs had shredded the flesh about his throat and chest, foiled in their attempt to sever the carotids only

by the heavy fur cloak and the intervention of a protecting arm. This much could be determined from

scrutiny of the dying man, whose silence had been unbroken since that one shriek of mortal terror.

Several had pointed out that the servant probably could not speak even should he come out of shock, for

the awful wreckage of his throat would make speech most unlikely.

There seemed to be no end to the flow of blood that streamed through the rough bandages to glisten on

the stones. The one who usually tended only to injury to livestock had been called to help—the baron’s

physician and astrologer could not be found, assuming he would have bothered. The horse surgeon knew

it was hopeless of course, but for appearances he made a few half-hearted attempts to forestall imminent

death.

The servant uttered one great, wet cough that merged with a final spasm. The horse surgeon considered

the limp wrist, critically pried up one eyelid, and shrugged. “Well, he’s dead,” he proclaimed needlessly.

There was disappointment among the watchers, who had hoped to learn from the victim of his assailant’s

nature. Over them lay a clammy atmosphere of gnawing fear, and several argued louder than necessary,

asserting that a wolf, or several wolves, possibly a snow cat had been the killer. Some had darker

suspicions as well, for this frozenlandofMarsarovjhad its legends.

A sudden hideous movement halted their slow withdrawal! The corpse had lurched upward from the

slippery stones! Supporting itself with its arms, it sat half-upright and glared at them with wide and

sightless eyes. Red slobbering lips fought to form words.

“Death!I see him! Out of the storm he comes for us all!” blubbered that thing which should not speak.

“Death comes! A man! A man not man!Death for all!”

The corpse toppled hollowly back upon the stones, now silent.

“He must not have been quite dead,” offered the surgeon finally, but not even he believed that.

I. The Rider in the Storm

Kane at last was forced to admit to himself that he was totally lost, that for the past hour he had been

without any sense of direction whatsoever. He kicked his plodding horse onward, cursing the fate that

had set him abroad in this frozen wasteland during what seemed to be the worst blizzard in his long

memory. The shaggy steed was close to floundering with exhaustion, for even its rugged north-bred

endurance had been overtaxed by the days of flight which had left them lost in this fantastic ice storm.

Two impressions filled Kane’s weary mind. One was a sensation of unbearable, soul crushing

cold—cold accumulated during the days of travel through the wintered land and now multiplied by this

needled wind of ice. The chill sought for him through the thick folds of heavy fur that surrounded him, and

Kane knew that when he stopped moving, he would quickly freeze to death.

The second impression was one of awful necessity to outdistance his pursuers. They had dogged his trail

relentlessly for the long, cold days, penetrating every trick this master of deception had employed to hide

the signs of his progress. But then with the last powers of the priests of Sataki, his pursuers had little

chance of missing a trail that no human eye could discover.

SincenoonKane had often been able to catch sight of them, so close had they gained on him. Knowing

that they would almost inevitably overtake him by nightfall, he had welcomed the sudden blizzard when it

had come. Although he doubted if even this could cover his tracks from the ken of those grim hunters, he

hoped to gain invaluable time—possibly to recover his lead over them. But the storm had become a

screaming nightmare of white in which Kane had lost his way completely, and now frozen death joined

with those others who sought to bring down the ice-encrusted man who slumped forward in his saddle.

Many days behind him and to the southeast lay the independent principality of Rader, once thenorthmost

province of the old Serranthonian Empire, but now broken away in the collapse of the Empire which had

followed the extinction of the line of Halbros-Serrantho. Rader had become a frontier backwater after

the dynastic wars had destroyed the strength and wealth of the central states and had created a band of

desolation cutting Rader off from the civilization to the south. Law had been lost in the imperial

disintegration and never restored. In obedience to ancient principle, brute power shaped chaos into a

more orderly framework, and Rader had been ruled for the past century (when it was ruled at all) by a

variety of warlords. It had been a motley succession, for the land was of little value or importance. Thus

its rulers had usually been petty and relativelyunambitious men—old nobility, adventurers, robber barons,

and the like.

Until some few days before, Rader had been ruled by the hated exile OrtedAk-Ceddi, onetime bandit

leader turned Prophet of Sataki. Under his fanatical command, the dark cult of Sataki had exploded from

obscurity into a crimson wave of terror that had overwhelmed the forestlandofShapelifar to the south and

had very nearly broken forth to hurl its legions upon the southern kingdoms. But his power had at last

been smashed, and Orted had fled the ruins of his Dark Crusade with only a few of his most loyal

followers. Safe in the obscurity of this northern backwater, Orted had seized control of Rader with the

last remnant of his former strength and had settled down to ponder the tangled riddles of fortune and

power.

To Rader had come Kane in the night. As the mercenary general of the Prophet’s cavalry, Kane had

both been creator of the fighting arm of the Dark Crusade as well as the cause of its ultimate failure.

Treachery on Kane’s part had first sundered the Sword of Sataki, butOrted’s final insane double-cross

had brought on disaster for them both. Orted had escaped the ensuing slaughter of his followers, but

Kane was trapped by the victorious army ofJarvo . To avoid capture by his enemies he had entered that

unhallowed interdimensional corridor cursed by ancients as the Lair of Yslsl. The torments he

encountered withinYslsl’s cosmic web of soulless horror were such that it might have been better to have

accepted the mere physical torture and death from those he had thus escaped.

But Kane at length accomplished that which no other man could have done. He emerged at the one

other place on this world where the Lair of Yslsl impinged. It took him over a year to recover from the

ordeal he suffered therein, but when he did recover he set out to kill the man who had driven him within

the crawling passages of that elder world nightmare. The trail to Rader had taken him from one end of the

known world to the other—a trail that twisted, forked, vanished, and reappeared again. But he followed

it with a singleness of purpose unfamiliar even to Kane.

And almost four years after the massacre of the Satakis at Ingoldi, OrtedAk-Ceddi found himself alone

in his chambers confronting Kane. The brief, vicious struggle ended most satisfactorily for Kane, who

was able to present Orted with a curious gem-like crystal derived from the venom of the now extinct

tomb worm of Carsultyal. Embedded in his flesh, the paralyzing venom seeped throughOrted’s writhing

form and silently commenced an ineluctable disintegration of every nerve in his body, working from the

tiniest to the largest cords. Kane was forced to cut short his enjoyment of the fantastic contortions of

Orted’s death throes, when the Prophet’s guards finally broke into the chamber.

He had vaulted through the hidden passage by which he had gained entrance toOrted’s private

chambers—the Prophet had not been able to learn all the secrets of his sanctuary—and fled the city

before any organized search could be formed. Since that night Kane had been pushing steadily into the

northern wastes. But his pursuers were the last ofOrted’s fanatics, and Kane knew that only death would

halt their relentless pursuit of the slayer of their Prophet. Their fanaticism coupled with the few sorcerous

devices left to their dying cult had brought them within sight of their quarry after hard days of searching.

And then the blizzard had given Kane respite.

His horse stumbled over some buried obstruction and half-fell to its knees. Kane fought to hold his

saddle, noticing the crackle of ice encrusted on his cloak. Gritting teeth he lurched from his mount and

helped the exhausted beast erect. The agony of forcing his nearly frozen limbs into action racked his

powerful frame, and he swayed on his benumbed feet, clutching the neck of his gasping horse for

support.

“Easy, boy,” he murmured through his ice-hung beard. “Let you rest just a minute.” But only a minute, he

told himself, and stamped his frozen boots, wearily brushing off the crust of ice that enclosed his body. A

bed of snow beckoned him to its softness, but he hurled aside its temptation. He would not accept defeat

this easily. He had cheated death time beyond comprehension, and if he lost here in the storm, his

adversary must take him not gracefully, but struggling blindly onward past the extremes of his power.

That this frozen elemental fury should be his doom infuriated Kane, and he glared defiantly into the

scouring wind. Frustration. His enemy now was utterly intangible—a cosmic entity that heedlessly had

engulfed him—whose massive presence now tore at him, smothered his life fire. In no way could he even

force his destroyer to take notice of his existence.

Yet it was no ordinary storm, of this Kane was certain. It was too sudden, too violent to be natural;

Kane had never encountered anything its equal even on several excursions much farther to the north. It

was a witch storm perhaps, for its abrupt ferocity hinted at sorcery. But why any sorcerous power should

summon such a blizzard in this wasteland, he could not begin to guess. Surely the Satakis had not evoked

it, for it had cheated them of their prey.

The horse whinnied fearfully, and Kane decided he had rested as long as he dared. As he remounted, his

steed started in fright. Kane sought to soothe the beast, thinking at first he had somehow startled it in

mounting. But the horse was genuinely alarmed, he quickly noted—its nostrils flared and eyes widened in

fright. Soon Kane too sensed a presence, an awareness of alien scrutiny. He gave the horse his head, and

the animal bolted forward recklessly through the storm. For a tense interval Kane felt the sensation of

pursuit, of some entity reaching for him with awful hunger; then the feeling slacked off.

As soon as he felt clear he slowed his mount’s headlong flight to a safer pace. “What in the name of

Temro was that!” he muttered. At first he had thought his pursuers had blundered upon him, but the

horse’s reaction and his own sensations dispelled that impression. He had seen nothing, heard

nothing—for the howling storm had effectively blotted out and muffled both vision and sound. Yet Kane

and his horse had both definitely sensed the presence of something, and Kane knew better than to doubt

such extrasensory evidence. The strange workings of his inner mind were not unfamiliar to him, unnatural

talents utilized and strengthened throughout his amazing career. And Kane was certain that some form of

horrible death had been very close to him in the storm.

Now be strained his senses against the blizzard, while the horse plodded dismally through the rising

drifts, his sudden surge of energy dissipated. For a long time there was nothing, until Kane seemed to

hear a wild howling that was not of the wind. He inhaled carefully, drawing the frozen air deep into his

lungs. Faintly he began to catch the scent of wolf on thestormwind . The horse too caught the scent, and

he snorted fitfully.

Suddenly Kane halted. The howling had become more pronounced and seemed to come from many

throats. To his keen nostrils came the unmistakable sour scent of damp wolf fur. Somewhere ahead of

him—distance was impossible to gauge in the storm—lurked a large pack of wolves. Kane was puzzled

once more. From their cries the pack was full in hunt—but it seemed impossible that awolfpack would be

foraging in such a raging blizzard. Perhaps the limits of starvation had driven them abroad, he mused. In

that case it was damned lucky that he was downwind.

But this advantage might vanish with a shift of wind and Kane turned his mount away from the invincible

pack, putting the wind to his back. Might as well back-track, he thought grimly. With no more sense of

direction than he now had, any course was as well as another or as pointless. As he forged onward

through the drifts the howling was drowned out in the greater voice of the storm. Just as it was swallowed

up altogether, Kane thought he could also hear mingled in the cries of horses and men. But the sounds

were too faint for any hope of clarity, and Kane was too exhausted to pursue the fantasies of his

tormented senses.

The horse plodded on and on, stumbling more frequently now, but refusing to fall. Kane doubted if the

beast would be able to rise once it slid down again—doubted if he would be able to remount if it could

regain its feet. Time and distance had no meaning. He was utterly adrift from the world of time and space;

there was only himself and the horse caught up in the rushing blizzard. Whether he moved or only the

wind moved, Kane could not tell. Nor could he distinguish whether the bits of white moved through the

darkness, or flecks of blackness through a sea of white. Now his entire body was growing altogether

numb. Soon he would be unable to feel the horse on which he rode, and then there would only be Kane,

bobbing helplessly, hopelessly in this maelstrom of ice.

This was infinity.

Abruptly something clawed at Kane’s face. He reeled and lashed out at it drunkenly. His frozen hand

encountered a tree branch. Several more whipped at him, as the horse painfully slipped its way between

several trees.

Kane forced himself out of stupor, gathering together the final dregs of his remarkable strength. If the

horse had blundered into a forest there was hope yet. It seemed unlikely, for there had been no body of

trees in sight before the storm had hit—but how could he know how far the horse had carried him. The

wind’s roar became muted, and its force was broken by the trees, causing the snow to fall slowly, sifting

through the branches. The blackness of night became settled, and in this darkness Kane’s eyes could

penetrate—although another man would still be relatively blind.

It was indeed a forest—or at least the grove of trees extended as far as Kane could discover. From the

shelter it provided from thestormblast , it seemed likely that this was at any rate a considerable wooded

area. Kane urged his faltering mount deeper into the woods. If he could reach a place far enough within

to break most of the storm’s force, he might build a sort of shelter and possibly get a fire going.

He caught the smell of wood smoke on the wind and pulled up. Had his hunters also found the trees, he

wondered—or perhaps he had come upon someone else in this wilderness. He followed the smoke

hopefully. Should it be the fire of strangers, he would share it one way or another. If he found the

Satakis… Well, he had been hunted long enough. Kane loosened his sword from its ice bound scabbard.

At least the cold iron would then find warmth. They would not expect an attack, and maybe with

surprise, and if his strength had not been fatally drained by the storm…

Visions of carnage passed through his mind, as Kane followed the scent of smoke through the sentinel

trees. The ground seemed to rise now, he thought. Revitalized with the tangible before him, hope for

shelter and lust to kill, Kane encouraged his horse. The rugged steed was due to collapse at any step, but

it too sensed salvation and forced itself beyond endurance.

The trees thinned and then broke into a clearing. As he came through the last of their number, Kane

caught sight of several small outbuildings clustered about a walled stone manor house or small castle. The

structures loomed darkly against the snow-filled night skies, their silhouette perforated with specks of

light from curtained windows. Desperately Kane forced his mount to this unknown castle here in the

frozen wastes. Let it be inhabited by demons and he cared not—so long as be found warmth. He

shouted hoarsely as he reached the gate. In sudden despair he realized that no gatekeeper would be at

his post on such a night, and that no one within the castle manor could hear him above the storm—should

they be awake. In his condition he could never climb over the wall. In white fury Kane pounded on the

gate with his great sword. To his amazement the gate swung ajar—it had been left unlocked!

Not bothering to puzzle over this good fortune, Kane pushed aside the gate enough to pass through. The

horses hooves clattered hollowly across the courtyard, as Kane shouted wildly, striving to awaken

someone within. Just as he reached the manor’s main doorway, the animal stumbled and fell, pitching the

rider upon the stones. Kane twisted clumsily, too benumbed for his usual lightning reflexes to serve him.

He fell heavily before the door, rolling against it.

With his last strength he battered the iron studded oak with his swordhilt. He looked back weakly to the

gate through which he had entered. Just before blackness overcame him, he seemed to see something

white creeping through that open doorway.

II. Things Found in the Storm

Something white stood blurred in Kane’s recovering consciousness. With an effort he forced awareness

into his mind, his eyes to focus.

Her eyes widened in startled fright as Kane’s baleful gaze suddenly gripped her, but she recovered

quickly and said to cover her embarrassment, “Here—try to drink this.”

Kane accepted the cup she held to his lips in silent appreciation, even in his condition savoring the

excellent brandy. Warmth flowed from the cognac as fully as from the crackling fire they had laid him by.

So the people of the manor had heard his call after all, he mused, and quickly he took note of his

surroundings.

He was in a small, stone room, furnished by a few benches, some chairs and a heavy table drawn near

the large fire that blazed against one wall. An antechamber, he surmised, from its plainness—probably

where the porter and stewards kept attendance on the main door. Kane’s ice-crusted cloak had been

removed, and a heavy fur rug was thrown about him. Two servants supported him in a half supine

position before the fire; several others and a very sleepy maid milled about the room and doorway.

Holding the cup to his lips was a tousled girl of elfish beauty. From her magnificent robe of whitesnowcat

and the emerald set ring on her delicate hand, Kane knew her to be a lady of high estate. A mane of pate

blond tresses framed a perfect face from which a pair of wide, grey eyes shone. Together with a pointed

chin and straight, finely chiseled nose, she presented the picture of a somewhat whimsical pixie—a mouth

made for quick smiles now set in concern. Her age might be from late teens to early twenties.

“Well, Breenanin, what have you found!” A bear of a man swept into the room, a huge fur robe hastily

gathered about him. “Who is it that comes calling on a night fit only for ice phantoms and destroys the

sleep of honest folk!” he blustered good-naturedly.

“Hush, Father!” whipped Breenanin. “He’s injured and nearly frozen!”

“Eh?” muttered the lord of the castle curiously, and he made a vaguely sympathetic noise to mollify his

daughter.

Kane shrugged off the servants’ hands and drew himself to his feet, reeling momentarily in pain and

dizziness before he straightened. He met his host’s curious gaze and announced formally, “Forgive this ill

timed and unannounced intrusion. I’ve been wandering through this waste for several days when the

storm caught me, and I had about given out before I happened on this castle. My horse fell in your court,

and I was unconscious until a moment ago. Had your servants not found me, I would have frozen solid

by morning.”

“In the court, you say?” said the other in puzzlement. “How the hell did you make it past the gate?”

“It was unlocked when I tried it,” returned Kane. “Most fortunate that someone neglected it.”

“Maybe so, but that kind of carelessness can get you murdered in bed.Gregig ! Can’t you remember

your duties just because we get a little snow!”

The porter looked most unhappy. “Milord, I distinctly remember locking the gate when the storm hit. I

can’t understand it.”

“Mmm!” intoned his master. “Well, is it locked now?”

“Yes, milord!” the porter said hurriedly; then uneasily, “It was locked when I checked it—after finding

the stranger.”

“At least even a near snowman has more sense than some fat porters.”

“The wind must have shut it—for I didn’t,” Kane broke in.

He received a suspicious stare from his host. “That isn’t possible,” he stated. Then he shrugged.

“Perhaps the fall shook up your memory a bit. Not uncommon, I suppose.”

Kane remained silent.

“Well, anyway you’re inside. Welcome to my somewhat chilly manor! I am Baron Troylin of Carrasahl,

and the underfed cupbearer there is my daughter, Breenanin. You are welcome to my hospitality until this

blizzard lets up and you feel like moving on. We’re always glad for some company from the outside

world here—breaks the monotony.” He laughed, “The way that blizzard’s carrying on, it looks like we’re

all going to be snowbound for some while.”

Kane bowed. “You are most gracious. I am deeply thankful for your hospitality,” he said formally,

speaking the Carrasahli with little difficulty. He watched his company cautiously. “My name is Kane.”

There was no reaction, so he went on. “My profession is fighting, but at present I am without a position. I

was heading toward Enseljos to see if Winston could use my services in his border war withChectalos ,

but I strayed off course trying to save some miles from the usual trails. When the storm caught me, I was

very well on my way to being lost.”

Troylin showed no signs of disbelieving Kane, although Kane doubted if he was as simple as his tough

and easy manner seemed to indicate. The baron was scrutinizing his guest carefully, trying to form an idea

of what the storm had brought him.

Kane was a huge man—not much over six feet, but massively built. From an immense barrel of a chest

set atop pillar-like legs, Kane’s mighty arms hung like great corded tree limbs. His hands were of great

size and strength—a strangler’s hands, thought Troylin. The man must indeed be powerful, and probably

could handle that sword well too. He seemed to be left-handed, as far as the baron could tell. His hair

was red and of moderate length; the beard short as well. His features were somewhat coarse and even a

bit foreboding, with a fresh scar on one check that seemed to be fading.

It was his eyes that bothered Troylin. He had noticed them from the first. It was to be expected, for

Kane’s eyes were the eyes of Death! They were blue eyes, but eyes that glowed with their own light. In

those cold blue gems blazed the fires of blood madness, of the lust to kill and destroy. They poured forth

infinite hatred of life and promised violent ruin to those who sought to meet them. Troylin caught an image

of that powerful body striding over a battlefield, killer’s eyes blazing and red sword dealing carnage to all

before it.

The baron hastily avoided those eyes and repressed a shudder. Vaul! What manner of man was this

creature! Still, he was a mercenary, a hired killer. Such men were seldom tender poets. And from his

bearing, Kane obviously was no common ruffian. His manners and speech indicated a man of culture,

possibly of breeding. Sons of the best gentry, bastard or lawful, often took to a military career for fortune

or for love of adventure. Kane certainly was impressive enough to have been a high ranking officer, and

the rings and fine weapons indicated wealth at some time. His age was strangely difficult to guess. He

didn’t look physically over thirty, but somehow his bearing made him appear much older.

Troylin decided he would keep entertained untangling the mysteries of his strange guest for the next

several days. Probably have some real tales to tell too. A change from that minstrel anyway. Just a few

precautions until he was more certain about the man.

“Father! Are you just going to stand there like a stuffed bear!”

Troylin snapped alert. “Ah—yes! Started to doze, I’m afraid. Well, Kane, as I say, welcome. The

servants will show you to a room—plenty here, we’re sort of under-populated at the moment. Just

wintering away from the civilized world for the rest.” It occurred to him that Kane had no business still

being able to stand after his ordeal, and he realized again the fantastic strength the man must have. “Right!

So I hope you’ll be recovering from it all by tomorrow.” He turned and strode away.

Hugging the fur about himself, Kane followed the servants. It was all he could do to walk and his sight

blurred repeatedly, but he didn’t wish to show weakness. At least his hosts didn’t guess the extent of his

plight. With luck he could hole up here from the Satakis—and maybe the blizzard had finished them.

“Damn lucky we found you,” Offered one servant, as he opened the door to Kane’s chamber. “No one

was on duty, you know. Fallen asleep with that storm blowing.”

“Oh,” muttered Kane, too exhausted to feel much interest. “How’d you let me in then?”

“It was the lady, you know. She’d been having trouble sleeping, heard it, and run down, woke the

porter,Ing and me.”

“Surprised she could hear me even, with the wind.” Kane gratefully collapsed onto the bed.

“Oh, it wasn’t you she heard,” replied the servant, stepping through the door. “It was your horse

screaming, you know. Poor thing was pure mad from fear! Something sure had that horse frightened near

to death—but there wasn’t a thing in the courtyard we could see.”

III. Prisoners of the Storm

Kane immediately fell into a trance-like sleep, as his tormented body sought to heal the ravages of days

of flight. Occasionally its serenity was shattered by some fitful dream of past adventure or by needles of

pain from frostbitten flesh, but not even this could rouse him. At one time he seemed to hear again that

eldritch howling of wolves, and in the midst of their cacophony two burning red eyes swam into his

fevered vision—inhuman eyes that seared him with savage and abominable hunger.

At length consciousness returned to Kane, and with it came the realization that something hovered near

his side. Snapping into instant awareness, Kane hurled himself to one side. His corded arm whipped

upward and be grasped a shock of white hair, as his other hand came up with the dirk he had strapped

to his side.

“Wait! Mercy!” croaked his terrified victim, and Kane halted the disemboweling thrust just short of its

mark. He grasped the beard of a stern and elderly face that projected on a thin neck from dark,

impressive robes. The robes flopped in extreme agitation, and a pair of scrawny hands clawed in panic at

Kane’s grip. Kane released the old man, but retained his knife watchfully.

“By the Seven Eyes of Lord Thro’ellet!” choked the elder, massaging his bearded visage. “Damn near

rip off my face and slit my gullet, you did! Vicious killer, that’s what! A mad dog! What has my good

baron taken in?”

“Who the hell are you?” Kane growled.

“I’d warned him about strangers! The stars tell plainly that these are deadly days for us all—but he

won’t listen! Brings in a demon from the storm and expects me to concern myself with him. I warn you,

you low born spawn of a viper! I don’t intend to let this near murder go forgotten!’’

“Why were you in here?” snarled Kane dangerously.

The elder looked alarmed once more. He judged the distance to the door, decided it was too far, and

collected himself. “I am Lystric, Baron Troylin’s personal physician and astrologer. You’ve been snoring

away here better than an entire day now, and the baron told me to took in on you.” He glared darkly at

Kane. “As if a frolic in the storm would bother an ice phantom! I try to examine your injuries, and you

half kill me for my concern! Fine gesture! Nice mannered guest! Troylin should have slaughtered you in

your sleep!”

“That’s been tried before,” returned Kane, swinging to his feet. “Count yourself lucky that I recognized

you as a harmless old lecher before I spilled your insides out. But as you have seen, I’m quite all right

now.”

Lystric reddened in anger. “Damn you! I warn you that my wisdom holds secrets that could blast you to

ashes, should I see fit to unleash them! Maybe I will! This is no time for Troylin to bring murdering

strangers into his hold! There is death in the stars! I have seen it!”

Kane regained his temper with painful effort. “Would you care to examine me now?” he asked

innocently.

“Damn your insolent hide!” shrieked Lystric and stamped toward the door, a stately exit which he ruined

by glancing behind in apprehension. Halting at the door he glowered back. “The baron directed me to

ask you to dine with him shortly, should I find you not too weak to stir!”

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TheBookofKaneKarlEdwardWagnerCONTENTS REFLECTIONSFORTHEWINTEROFMYSOUL MISERICORDE THEOTHERONE SINGALASTSONGOFVALDESE RAVEN’SEYRIE REFLECTIONSFORTHEWINTEROFMYSOULSinceitwasobviousthatthemanwasdying,thecrowdofwatchershadsplitapart,leavingonlythecuriousorthosefascinatedbythepresenceofdeath.Ce...

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Karl Edward Wagner - Kane 06 - The Book Of Kane.pdf

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Karl Edward Wagner - Kane 06 - The Book Of Kane

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