Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [67]
In the chair, the great body, still fountaining blood, rose unsteadily to its feet.
"Now I am master," the tiny head croaked.
Then the body toppled—dead.
O'Leary groped to the table, feeling blackness closing in; he found the ale jug with his hands, tilted it, drank, then leaned on the table and waited while the cool liquid burned away the fog. There was food here—a feast fit for a giant. He sank down on a stool, picked up a roast pigeon, fell to, oblivious of the immense body lying at his feet in a spreading pool of tar-black blood.
After eating, O'Leary pulled off his shirt and examined his wounds. He was cut, slashed, scraped in fifty places. None of the cuts were deep, but he'd look like a schoolgirl's embroidery project when the doctors finished stitching him up. Using a little of the ale, he cleaned the slashes, wincing at the sting. He wiped away the drying blood, then tore strips from Lod's voluminous scarf to bind up the worst cuts.
He went to the door—there was no sound from outside. Was Crusher or another of Lod's bulky bodyguard standing by, awaiting a summons? He needed a weapon. There were plenty of them on the wall, but all were broken—war trophies, taken from fallen enemies, Lod had boasted. The ax was too big to be handy, but it would have to do—and maybe its bloody condition would impress the locals. He hefted it, got it across his shoulder, flung the door open. There was no one in sight in the dark tunnel.
The rough-hewn passage led upward at a slant, angled around a massive reinforced concrete footing, ended at a crude doorway hacked in the ceramic tile cellar wall, covered over by an un-tanned hide of some scaly animal. O'Leary thrust it aside, emerged into a gloomy basement crowded with vast air-conditioner and furnace units festooned with aluminum-wrapped duct work, piping, and heavy electrical cables. At one side, a 50 kw diesel generator chugged patiently—the source of the remaining electric power in the hotel, O'Leary deduced.
He crossed the wide room, went up stairs and came out into the kitchens, foul with a faint odor of rotted food. Windows at the far side showed the gray light of early dawn. They were sealed shut, he saw. Still, there was no point in venturing out into the frequented area of the building. His mission now was merely escape, and return to the capital as quickly as his pet dragon could canter. Nicodaeus had been clever, tricking him into setting off on a wild goose chase while he completed his plans for seizure of the kingdom undisturbed. Lod had said that the plotter planned to dispose of Adoranne. If he had hurt her—
Time to think about that later. O'Leary swung the ax at the window. Glass burst outward. He knocked free the jagged shards remaining in the frame, stepped up on a table, ducked through to a wide stone sill and jumped down to the untrimmed turf six feet below. So far, so good. Now, where was his mount? He gave a low whistle. There was an answering hiss from beyond the nearest clump of trees, only dimly visible through the early-morning fog. O'Leary set off in that direction and saw the stir of a tall body among the trunks. A mighty figure stalked forth to meet him, looking bigger than ever through the mist.
"That's the boy, right on the job," O'Leary called in a low voice. He trotted forward to meet the tremendous beast as it advanced, emitting a rumble like a dormant volcano stirring to life. O'Leary admired the play of the massive thigh muscles under the greenish hide, the great column of the neck, the jaws—
Jaws? He didn't remember a head the size of a Volkswagen, opening like a vast power shovel to reveal multiple rows of gleaming ivory daggers, nor did he recall