Dominion

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.