"Karl Edward Wagner - Reflections for the Winter of My Soul" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wagner Karl Edward)

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Reflections for the Winter of My Soul
Karl Edward Wagner




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 frozen land of Marsarovj had 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!"