Wagner Karl Edward - Sing a Last Song of Valdese.pdf - Kane - Karl Wagner - darmonek

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Sing A Last Song Of Valdese

Karl Edward Wagner

The Girl Beneath the Oak

"Reverence! Hold up a moment!" The burly priest drew rein in a swirl of autumn

leaves. Calloused fingers touched the plain hilt of the sword strapped to his

saddle as his cowled head bent in the direction of her call.

Raven-black hair twining in the autumn wind, the girl stepped out from the

gnarled oaks that shouldered the mountain trail. Bright black eyes smiled up

at him from her wide-browed, strong-boned face. Her mouth was wide as well,

and smiled.

"You ride fast this evening reverence."

"Because the shadows grow deeper, and I have a good way to ride to reach the

inn ahead." His voice was impatient.

"There's an inn not more than a mile from here." She swayed closer, and he saw

how her full figure swelled against her long-skirted dress.

The priest followed her gesture. Just ahead the trail forked, the left winding

alongside the mountain river the right cutting along the base of the ridge.

While the river road bore signs of regular travel, the other trail showed an

aspect of disuse. Toward this the girl was pointing.

"That trail leads toward Rader," he told her, shifting in his saddle. "My

business is in Carrasahl.

"Besides," he added "I was told the inn near the fork of the road had long

been abandoned. Few have cause to travel to Rader since the wool fair was

shifted south to Enseljos."

"The old inn has lately been reopened."

"That may be. But my path lies to Carrasahl."

She pouted. "I was hoping you might carry me with you to the inn yonder."

"Climb up and I'll take you to the inn on the Carrasahl road."

"But my path lies to Rader."

The priest shrugged thick shoulders beneath his cassock. "Then you'd best be

going."

"But reverence," her voice pleaded. "It will be dark long before I reach the

inn, and I'm afraid to walk this trail at night. Won't you take me there on

your horse? It won't take you far from your way, and you can lodge the night

there just as well."

Shadows were lengthening, merging into dusk along the foot of the ridges. The

declining sun shed only a dusty rubrous haze across the hilltops, highlighting

tall hardwoods already fired by autumn's touch. Streaked with mist, the

valleys beyond were swallowed in twilight.

Night was fast overtaking him, the rider saw. He recalled the warnings of

villagers miles behind, who for his blessing had given him food and sour wine.

They had answered his questions concerning the road ahead, then warned him to

keep to the trail if night caught him and on no account make camp by himself.

The priest had not been certain whether they warned him of robbers or some

darker threat.

His horse stamped impatiently.

"I could make it worth your while to ride out of your way."

About to ride off, he glanced back down at her. Her smile was impish. Hidden

by the cowl, his face could not be read.

She touched the ties of her embroidered bodice. "I would see that you had a

most pleasant stay at Vald's Cove Inn, reverence." There was witchery in her

voice. The bodice loosened, parted across her breasts.

"Though I can't see your face, I can see there's a man beneath that priest's

cassock. Would you like to enjoy a mountain flower tonight? You'll remember

her sweetness when you grow old in some musty temple."

Her breasts were firm and well shaped. Against their whiteness the tan flesh

of her nipples matched the color of the swirling oak leaves.

Whatever his interest in her, the priest carried gold beneath his robe. The

girl's eagerness to draw him onto a little-frequented trail aroused deep

suspicion.

"The lure of wanton flesh is nothing to a priest of Thoem," he intoned,

"Then bugger yourself!" she spat, and lunged with a shrill scream for his

horse's face. Sharp claws raked blood across his nose.

Already nervous, the horse screamed and reared. Caught by surprise, the priest

lost his stirrups. Cassock flapping about his limbs, he scrambled for balance,

then was thrown from the terrified mount. He fell heavily, somehow landing

half on his feet, and cursed as his ankle turned under him.

The rearing horse bolted down the trail, took the right fork toward Rader, and

disappeared. With mocking laughter, the girl ran after.

Limping badly, the priest stumbled after her, cursing with blasphemous

invective. But the darkness quickly swallowed the flash of her white legs,

though her laughter taunted him invisibly still.

The Inn by the Side of the Road

The lights of the inn were smoky yellow through the thick, leaded panes. The

night winds caught the smoke and smell of horses, drove it down the road to

Rader, so that the priest came upon the inn all at once.

He noted the many horses tethered in the outlying stables. There were a number

of travellers at the inn tonight, and it seemed less likely that the girl

meant to lead him into a trap. Or had her confederates lain in wait along the

trail, probably they were content to steal his horse and gear. The priest

swore angrily, decided he had been too suspicious.

His ankle stabbed with pain, but at least it bore his weight. His boots had

probably prevented worse injury. He damned the voluminous grey cassock as it

flapped about his trousered legs. It was slitted front and back from ankle to

midthigh, and while that enabled him to straddle a horse, he blamed the clumsy

garment for his fall.

The two-storey square log structure was a welcome sight. The autumn night grew

chill; mist flowed like waves across the ridges. A night spent in the open

would be uncomfortable at best. Worse, he bad been warned of danger, and his

sword was strapped to his saddle somewhere in the darkened hills.

A sign hung over the door: Vald's Cove Inn. The carving seemed of recent work,

the priest noted as he climbed up to the door. The latch was not out, though

the hour was not late, Hearing voices within, he knocked loudly.

He was about to knock a third time, when the door was opened. Light and voices

and the smell of warmth spilled out into the night.

A narrow, beardless face frowned out at him from the half-open doorway.

"Who... what do you want... reverence?" His voice was thin and nervous, and he

spoke in half-whisper.

"Food and lodging," the priest tumbled impatiently. "This is an inn, I

believe."

"I'm sorry. There's no more room. You'll have to go elsewhere." He made to

close the door.

The priest's huge fist checked him. "Are you a fool? Where is the innkeeper?"

he demanded, suspicious at the man's show of anxious confusion.

"I'm master here," the other snapped in annoyance. "I'm sorry, reverence. I've

no more room, and you'll have to--"

"Look, damn you!" The priest's bulk shouldered onto the threshold. "My horse

threw me, and I've hobbled for miles already to get here. Now I'll have food

and lodging if it's no more than floor space near the fire!"

The skeletal innkeeper did not quail before the bigger man. His narrow jaw

clamped in anger; he clenched his black-gloved hands.

"What is this, man?" demanded a voice from within. "Do I hear you denying

lodging to a brother servant of Thoem! What manner of innkeeper are you?"

The innkeeper started, then cringed effusively. "Forgive me, eminence. I only

meant that my accommodations were not sufficient for one of his reverence's--"

"Let him in, you idiot! Turn away a priest of Thoem, would you! I see it's

true how sadly you mountain folk have fallen in your respect for the true god!

Let him in, do you hear?"

The priest pushed past the suddenly solicitous innkeeper. "Thank you,

eminence. The manners of these folk are pitiable."

There were several people in the common room of the inn. Seated alone at one

of several small tables was a tall, thin man whose scarlet cassock identified

him as an abbot in the priesthood of Thoem. Like the priest, his face was

hidden by the cowled garment. He waved to the other man with a finely groomed,

blue-veined hand.

"Come join me by the fire and have some wine," he invited. "I see you're

limping somewhat. Did I hear you say your horse threw you? That's bad luck.

Our host must send his servants out to find it. Are you badly hurt?"

"Thoem saved me from serious harm, eminence, though I'd rather not walk

another mile on it tonight."

"I'm certain. More wine, innkeeper! And hurry with that roast! Would you

starve your guests? Sit down here, please. Have we met? I am Passlo, on my way

in the service of Thoem to take charge of the abbey at Rader."

"A pleasure to meet you, Eminent Passlo." The priest touched hands as he

seated himself. "I am Callistratis, journeying in the service of Thoem to

Carrasahl. I've heard the abbey at Rader has fallen to the Dualists in these

evil times."

The abbot scowled. "Certain rumors have reached us in the South. Word that

there are certain rebel priests in the northern provinces who would contend

that Thoem and Vaul are but dual expressions of the same deity. No doubt these

heretics consider it prudent to align themselves with the god of these

northern barbarians, now that the empire drifts into civil war."

The priest poured wine and drank hunched forward so that his lips were hidden

in the shadow of his cowl. "I have heard such attempts to vindicate the

Dualist heresy. It may be that our errands are the same, Eminent Passlo."

"Well, Revered Callistratis, that doesn't surprise me. I'd sensed immediately

that there was a presence about you that argued for more than the simple

priest. But I'll not intrude further on one whose mission requires that he

travel incognito. But tell me, though, how would you deal with the Dualists?"

"By the prescribed formula for any heresy. They should all suffer impalement,

their bodies left for night beasts and carrion birds."

The abbot clapped him on the shoulder. "Splendid, Revered Callistratis! We are

of one accord! It pleases me to know that those who believe unswervingly in

Thoem's sacred precepts have not all passed from the priesthood! I foresee a

pleasant evening of theological discussion."

"Come, revered gentlemen, don't judge too harshly. After all, there is

precedent for Dualism in the history of your priesthood."

A short, stocky gentleman with a fine grey beard looked gravely at the

priests. He straightened from the fire where he had stooped to light his pipe.

A silver medallion embossed with a university seal depended from a chain about

his thick neck.

"Precedent?" the abbot snapped.

The short man nodded through a puff of smoke. "Yes. I refer to the dogma

formalized under the reign of King Halbros I that Thro'ellet and Tloluvin are

but dual identities of the evil principle. No one in the days of the monarchy

considered such doctrine heretical, although ancient beliefs plainly ascribe

separate identities to these demonlords."

The abbot paused to consider. "An interesting point," he conceded grudgingly,

"although the manifold embodiments of evil are certainly acknowledged by our

doctrine. Nonetheless, your argument does not hold in this instance, for there

is but one true cosmic principle of good, whom true believers worship as

Thoem. May I inquire, sir...?"

The grey-bearded gentleman blew smoke in a flourish. "I am Claesna, of the

Imperial University at Chrosanthe. Your proposal of theological debate caught

my ear, eminence. The prospect of intelligent discussion promises salvation

from what I had previously feared would be a dull evening in a back-woods

tavern. May I join you?"

"Claesna?" The abbot's tone was surprise. "Yes, I've beard a great deal of

you, sit. Please join us! Why does a scholar of your high renown pass through

these dismal mountains?"

Claesna smiled acknowledgment. "I'm headed for Rader myself, actually. I've

heard of certain inscriptions on what are said to be prehuman ruins near

there. If so, I'd like to copy them for study and comparison with others that

I've seen."

"So it's true that you plan to supplement Nentali's Interpretation of Elder

Glyphics?" suggested the grey-cowled priest.

Claesna lifted a bushy eyebrow. "Supplant, not supplement, Revered

Callistratis. Well, I see you are an extraordinarily well-informed man

yourself. This does promise to be an illuminating evening."

"Oh, please, learned gentlemen," mimicked a sneering voice from the corner.

"Don't bore us all to death with such learned discussions."

"Shut up, Hef!" A gruff voice cut him off. "You'll find a neater death than

boredom when we get to Rader!"

The other made an obscene reply. An open fist slapped on flesh, then sounded

the clash of chains, subdued cursing.

"Ranvyas, you son of a pox-eaten whore, you busted that tooth half out of my

head. Takes guts for a pissant bounty hunter like you to bust a man all

chained up."

"You had an even chance before the chains went on, Hef," growled Ranvyas. "And

you won't need that tooth once I get you to Rader."

"We'll see, Ranvyas. Oh, we'll see, won't we? There was other smart bastards

all set to count their bounty money, but ain't one of them lived to touch a

coin of it."

Claesna indicated the two men in the near corner. One was a tall,

lantern-jawed swordsman with iron-grey hair who wore the green tunic of a

ranger. The other, his prisoner, was a wiry man with pinched face and stained

yellow heard, whose blue eyes seemed startlingly innocent for one weighed down

with wrist and leg irons.

"That's Mad Hef over there, whose black fame ought to be known even to you,

revered sirs. Looks harmless enough, though I doubt all the prayers of your

priesthood could cleanse his soul of the deeds he's committed here in the

mountains. They were talking about it before you came in. The ranger finally

tracked him to the cave where he laired, and if he succeeds where so many

other brave men have failed, the public executioner at Rader is due for a

strenuous afternoon."

From the rooms above came the echoing moan of a woman in agony.

The priest started from his chair, then halted half-crouched when none of the

room's other occupants seemed to pay heed.

Again the cry of pain ripped through the panelled hallway above, down the

narrow log stairway. A door slammed at the foot of the stairs, muffled the

outcry.

Two other travellers exchanged glances. One, grotesquely fat, shrugged and

continued to devour an apple pastry. His smaller companion shuddered and

buried his chinless face in his hands.

"Pray Thoem, make her stop!" he moaned.

The fat man wiped his slobbery lips and reached for another pastry. "Drink

more wine, Dordron. Good for the nerves."

Passlo's hand pulled at the priest's arm. "Don't be alarmed, Revered

Callistratis. The merchant's young wife is giving birth upstairs. No one

thought to mention it. As you see, the father is untroubled. Only his brother

seems a bit shaken."

"The fat blob is a half-wit!" sneered Claesna. "I judge his mind is rotten

with pox. I pity his wife, poor child. If our host hadn't sent a serving girl

to stay with her, these swine would certainly have left her to labor alone."

"The mystery of birth," quoted the abbot, "where pain is joyful duty."

Now the innkeeper moved among them, setting before each guest a wooden

trencher and loaf of black bread. Behind him walked a swarthy, bristle-bearded

dwarf, the first servant the priest had noted in the inn. His squat, powerful

arms carried a great platter of roast meat, which be presented to each guest

that he might serve himself as he desired. The fat merchant growled

impatiently when the dwarf halted first before the abbot and his two table

companions.

"Please, Jarcos!" his brother begged. "Don't offend these revered sirs!"

Hef giggled. "Don't eat it all now! Save a nice hefty bone for poor toothless

Hef!"

From overhead the screams, distant through the thick boards, sounded now at

closer intervals.

The innkeeper smiled nervously and wrung his black-gloved hands. "I'll bring

out more wine, Bodger," he told the dwarf. "Bring out your mandolin and play

for them."

The dwarf grinned and scuttled into the back rooms. He cavorted out again in a

moment, wearing a flop-brim bat with a feather and carrying a black-stained

mandolin. His strangely pointed fingers struck the strings like dagger tips,

and he began to caper about the room, singing comic ballads in a bullfrog

voice.

The moans from upstairs continued monotonously, and soon the travellers forgot

to listen to them, or to notice when they ceased.

III

"Do You Know the Song of Valdese?"

"Then, just as the hunter spun around at the sound, the werewolf leaped down

from the roof of his cabin! He clawed for the silver dagger at his belt, but

the sheath was empty! Too late he remembered the old man's warning! And as he

died, he saw that the beast at his throat had the sun-colored eyes of his

wife!"

Claesna leaned back against his chair and blew smoke at the listeners circled

about the fire.

"Bravo!" squealed Jarcos, the fat merchant. "Oh, that was go, good! Do you

mean that the werewolf was really his wife, then?"

Claesna did not deign to reply, instead nodded acceptance of the others'

applause.

Wagner Karl Edward - Sing a Last Song of Valdese.pdf

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