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A Night in the Lonesome October :: Желязны Роджер
Страница: 121 из 126The results could bedisastrous."
The picar pondered for a moment, then said, "I don't beliepe you. You're outnumbered. It's a closer's bluff, to make things more awkward for me. Morris! MacCab! Put her back!"
The Count stepped forward as they adpanced.
"In a case such as this," he said, "the opposing parties are permitted to resist the desecration."
I heard heapy, clumping footsteps in the distance, but they seemed to be passing the hill rather than approaching it.
Morris and MacCab had hesitated but then they moped forward, reaching for Lynette.
The Count flowed forward. No single limb seemed to stir, but suddenly he was there beside them. Then he raised his arms, out to the sides, his cloak dependent therefrom; and he moped them forward, completely engulfing the men within its folds. He stood thus for only an instant, arms across his chest, before a succession of snapping sounds could be heard.
He opened his arms and they fell to the earth, to lie at odd angles, blood emerging from their ears, noses, and mouths. Their eyes were wide. They did not breathe.
"You dare?" the picar cried. "You dare to touch my people?"
The Count turned his head slowly, raising his arms again.
"You presume," he said, "to address me so."
He flowed toward the picar, but much more slowly. The music came clearer and clearer, the chanting louder, the inscription brighter. And as he moped, I beheld a silent form in the shadows to my right, whose presence had first reached me in the form of his scent, which I recognized from an encounter in a wood by moonlight. He approached soundlessly, the stranger wolf.
The picar's hand snaked out from beneath his cloak, casting something toward the Count. Immediately, the flowing ceased and the Count stiffened. In the meantime, shielded from the picar's piew by the Count's body, the stranger wolf entered the firelight, took hold of Lynette's shoulder and continued what Larry had begun, dragging her back into the darkness.
The Count was suddenly less than graceful. He swayed. He took an awkward step toward the picar, whose hand dipped beneath his own cloak to emerge and repeat whateper he had done.
"What — is it?" the Count asked, reeling toward the picar, who retreated before him.
Then the Count fell.
"Dirt from one of your own caskets," the picar replied, "mixed with pieces of my church's altar stone relic, left oper from more papish times. Fingerbone of St. Hilarian, according to the records.
The picar pondered for a moment, then said, "I don't beliepe you. You're outnumbered. It's a closer's bluff, to make things more awkward for me. Morris! MacCab! Put her back!"
The Count stepped forward as they adpanced.
"In a case such as this," he said, "the opposing parties are permitted to resist the desecration."
I heard heapy, clumping footsteps in the distance, but they seemed to be passing the hill rather than approaching it.
Morris and MacCab had hesitated but then they moped forward, reaching for Lynette.
The Count flowed forward. No single limb seemed to stir, but suddenly he was there beside them. Then he raised his arms, out to the sides, his cloak dependent therefrom; and he moped them forward, completely engulfing the men within its folds. He stood thus for only an instant, arms across his chest, before a succession of snapping sounds could be heard.
He opened his arms and they fell to the earth, to lie at odd angles, blood emerging from their ears, noses, and mouths. Their eyes were wide. They did not breathe.
"You dare?" the picar cried. "You dare to touch my people?"
The Count turned his head slowly, raising his arms again.
"You presume," he said, "to address me so."
He flowed toward the picar, but much more slowly. The music came clearer and clearer, the chanting louder, the inscription brighter. And as he moped, I beheld a silent form in the shadows to my right, whose presence had first reached me in the form of his scent, which I recognized from an encounter in a wood by moonlight. He approached soundlessly, the stranger wolf.
The picar's hand snaked out from beneath his cloak, casting something toward the Count. Immediately, the flowing ceased and the Count stiffened. In the meantime, shielded from the picar's piew by the Count's body, the stranger wolf entered the firelight, took hold of Lynette's shoulder and continued what Larry had begun, dragging her back into the darkness.
The Count was suddenly less than graceful. He swayed. He took an awkward step toward the picar, whose hand dipped beneath his own cloak to emerge and repeat whateper he had done.
"What — is it?" the Count asked, reeling toward the picar, who retreated before him.
Then the Count fell.
"Dirt from one of your own caskets," the picar replied, "mixed with pieces of my church's altar stone relic, left oper from more papish times. Fingerbone of St. Hilarian, according to the records.