Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [153]
“Open up in there!” came an eerie voice as shrill as the wind.
The guard cast a swift glance across the street. The feeble light still burned in the prison, there were no shadows at all to be seen in the windows.
“Hullo! Hullo!” cried the voice. This was followed by a battering and banging on the door that seemed likely to stave it in.
The guard was not overburdened with imagination, but then neither was he overburdened with intelligence. Having summoned the Prince of Devils to mind, so to speak, the guard found, like many conjurers, that it was difficult to banish him. That this gentleman might have arrived to claim his soul seemed not unlikely, having been told by a mother he only dimly recalled that this was undoubtedly going to be his fate. Rising to his feet, he peered out the window in an attempt to see the visitor, but could make out nothing but an indistinct shadow.
“Answer the door!” the guard shouted at the old woman, having some vague idea that the Prince might not be particular about whose soul he claimed. But the old woman’s attention was fixed solely upon the stew, for she heard neither shout nor door.
“Is anybody home?” came the voice, and the rattling increased.
At this, hope glimmered within the guard. Shrinking back from the window so that he couldn’t be seen, he judged it likely that the unwanted visitor would go away. To insure this, he made several signs to the old woman, indicating she was to go on about her work undisturbed.
Unfortunately, this frantic hand-waving did what all the shouting in the village could not have done—it caught the old woman’s attention. Seeing the guard pointing at the door, she nodded and, with shuffling gait, walked over and opened it.
A blast of chill wind, a flurry of rain, a stinging spray of sleet, and a huge furry figure all burst into the room simultaneously. Only one of these nocturnal visitors was permitted to stay however. Turning around, the furry figure put his shoulder against the door and, with the old woman’s help, slammed it shut upon the icy intruders.
“Almin’s death,” swore a sepulchral voice, slightly muffled by frost-rimed fur, “I might have perished out there on that doorstoop! And here I’ve come for you ’specially.”
At this confirmation of his fears, though he had expected something more fiery with tails and horns, the guard could only stammer incoherently until the figure removed its hat and hurled it upon the floor with another oath.
This was matched by an oath from the guard. “Simkin,” he muttered, sinking back down in his chair in weak-kneed relief.
“So this is the thanks I get, after nearly perishing of the cold to bring you a bit of cheer,” said Simkin with a sniff, tossing an aleskin upon the table in front of the guard.
“What’s that?” the man demanded suspiciously.
“A little something from dear old Blachloch,” said the young man, with a casual wave of his hand as he went to stand near the fire. “Sharing in the captured spoils, commendation for job well done, a toast drunk to rape, pillage, and plunder, and all that sort of thing.”
The guard’s face lit up. “Well, that’s fine, that is,” he said, eyeing the aleskin greedily and rubbing his hands. A sudden thought occurred to him. His eyes narrowing, he turned around. “Here, now,” he said surlily, glancing at Simkin who was, it seemed, taking an uncommon interest in the stew. “You can’t stay. I’m on guard duty and I’m not to be bothered.”
“Believe me, dear chap, I wouldn’t stay here for all the pet monkeys in Zith-el.” Simkin sniffed and, grabbing the bit of orange silk from the air, put it to his nose. “I assure you, the smell of onion and unbathed lout hold no attraction for me. I am an errand boy, that is all, and I will remain here long enough to warm myself or until I pass out from the odor, whichever comes first. As for your guard duty”—he cast a disdainful glance out the window—“it’s a complete waste of time, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t, but you