The Book of Kane (2 page)

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 a wolfpack 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 the stormblast , 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.

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 white snowcat 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 with Chectalos , 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.”

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.