Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [65]
"Fool! Let him go! I see death, and rivers of blood, and all your vile plans fallen to ruin! I see the shadow of the Great Ax that hovers over your head!"
"Great Ax hangs there amid my trophies," Lod laughed wildly. "Who's to wield it against me here?" He finished off another gallon of ale and refilled the jack with unsteady hands.
"How say you, starveling?" he called to O'Leary. "Do you tire of game? Do red-hot knives of pain loosen your tongue?"
"I'm fine," O'Leary said blurrily. "I like it here. It's restful."
"Let him go!" the voice snarled. "Let him go, cretinous monster!"
Lod shook his head in drunken stubbornness. "You see, little man, what a burden even greatness must bear. Day and night, waking and sleeping, that foul voice ever shrilling at my ear! Is enough to drive lesser man mad, eh?" He peered owlishly at O'Leary.
"I . . . don't hear . . . anything," O'Leary got out. "You've already . . . gone nuts, I guess . . ."
Lod laughed again, hiccupped. "No ghostly voice, this," he rumbled. "It issues from hideous lips as ever body nourished."
"That's . . . the first sign," O'Leary gasped. "Hearing voices . . ."
Lod grinned. "And you, little man—you draw comfort from the impertinence you hear pass unpunished. You guess you gain an ally, eh?" Lod's chuckle was not an encouraging sound. "Small help you'll have from that quarter," he cried. "But I've been discourteous! I've not made introductions! An oversight, believe me! But I'll soon set that aright." Lod reached to his throat, fumbled at the scarf, tore it free.
From the base of his bull-neck, a second head grew—a shrunken, wizened, hollow-cheeked copy of the first, with eyes like live coals.
"Behold my brother!" Lod mumbled; then he fell back in his chair, mouth open, eyes shut, and snored.
Chapter XI
For a long minute, there was silence. Lod's snores grew louder, deeper. He stirred, flung out an arm that knocked over the ale mug. Dark fluid gushed, splashed on the floor, then settled down to a steady drip. O'Leary watched, wide-eyed, as Lod's second head stirred, staring across at him. The lips worked.
"The . . . great brute . . . sleeps," it whispered shrilly. "The strong ale tugs at my mind also . . . but I will not heed it."
O'Leary stared. The spilled ale dropped. Lod snuffled, snorted in his sleep.
"Hearken, small one," the head hissed. "Will you do my bidding, if I help you now?"
O'Leary tried to speak; his tongue seemed paralyzed. It was too much effort. He felt himself slumping against the spikes. He knew they were cutting in, but the blessed relief of a moment's rest . . .
"Don't die now, fool!" the head whispered harshly. "I can free you—but first your word that you will do the task I set you!"
"What—what is it?" O'Leary tried to keep his mind on what the head was saying. He knew it was important, but a great pit of soft blackness was waiting, and if he just let go, he would sink down, down . . .
"Listen to me! Freedom! If you swear to serve me!"
The voice penetrated the fog. His chest hurt—how it hurt! Spikes were digging in as he slumped against them. Something sharp was cutting into his cheek, and another against his jaw.
He gasped and pulled himself off the daggers. The eyes in the shrunken head caught him, glaring.
" . . . now, fool! Catch at the chance Fortune throws in your path! Give me your word and I'll set you free!"
"What—what do you . . . want me to . . . do?" O'Leary managed.
"See the great ax on the wall yonder? It was written—ah, long and long ago—that by its keen edge the betrayer would meet his doom! Take it! Raise it high! Strike off his head!"
"His . . . head?"
"The murderer of his king and father has sworn to do the like by me," the head hissed. "He swore that none should witness his nuptial revels when he makes the Princess Adoranne his bride! The finest surgeons in the land will he summon, and under their knives I'll suffer living decapitation. He hates me, and he fears me. Me, who has suffered with