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moment like a live thing, then fell slowly, but with gather-
ing speed back into the abyss from which it had come.
Holroyd stared after it. He shook his head, puzzled; and
then, just in time, he saw the figure on the little ledge fifty
feet below him and to his left. He ducked as a second arrow
split the air where his head had been. He half staggered
back. But that one swift glimpse of his attacker had shown
a tall, gauntly built young woman.
Once the first shock was over, Holroyd's alarm faded. He
peered cautiously over the stonework, and saw that the
woman was clinging precariously to some dark roots that
wormed their way out of the perpendicular wall. The bow
that had twanged at him so viciously was slung now over a
bony shoulder. There was a belt around her waist with a
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r r
sheathed sword hanging from it. As he watched, her fingers
groped for new leverage, and so tense was the action, so
great her danger, that Holroyd instinctively tightened his
muscles and pulled with her.
He called, 'Who are you? What do you want?'
His answer was the raucous scrambling noise and the
gulp of labored breathing as the woman clawed foot by
foot toward him. Holroyd felt suddenly isolated. He had an
uneasy sense of aloneness, of one man against a whole
strange world. The city across that darkly writhing bay
seemed remote in space and alien. Involuntarily, he
glanced back toward the palace. He could see only flashes
of it through the green profusion of garden, a long, low,
white building. Nowhere was there a sign of movement. Not
a sound issued from it, not a quiver of life. Like an old and
lifeless relic from forgotten ages, it stood there high above a
restless sea. Old and dead. And only he and this woman
who had tried to kill him were real and alive.
He saw that the woman was resting, one arm entwining a
thick root. She looked up; and her face, tilted toward him
no more than sixteen feet away, looked so horrible that
Holroyd shrank. The woman called to him in a harsh
voice:
'Don't mind my appearance. I'm ill from my long climb.
And please, you must accept my apologies. I didn't recog-
nize you. I thought I had been discovered by a guard.'
Holroyd half smiled. The physically immortal Ptath need
not worry about arrows. The problem was to find out why
this assassin wanted to kill Prince Ineznio, and why she
thought an apology would make any difference. He
watched her as she labored toward him. At ten feet she was
a dirty, ragged, wretched-looking creature. Her straggly
hair was mud-caked, her gray shorts and blouse were
splotched with grime from the rocks and the spray from the
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foaming waters beneath her. The overall effect was of
somebody at the end of physical strength. Holroyd frowned.
What was he going to do about her? He couldn't take the
risk of her firing at him again. Ptath's body might be in-
vulnerable, but he did feel pain. As the woman reached the
ledge just below the stone wall, he said quietly:
'Better drop the bow and arrows and the sword down the
cliff. I can't let you come up with them. For your own sake
do it quick and I'll give you a hand up.'
The woman shook her head. Her voice blazed with
passion as she answered: 'I won't give up the sword. I'd
rather jump off the cliff than fall alive into the hands of the
palace police. I'll give you the bow and arrows. That way
you can keep me at a distance. But the sword I keep.'
He couldn't argue with such intensity. He took the
shakily extended bow and arrows and after a minute of
straining, jerked the young woman up beside him. No
animal could have been faster than she, or more cunning.
She started to collapse toward the stone walk. But the
action was a ruse that covered the drawing of her sword,
the instant lunge of her body toward him.
Holroyd leaped back, and in his surprise dropped the bow
and quiver of arrows. She snatched them as she leaped after
him, flung them over her shoulder back toward the cliff.
They fell out of sight into the abyss. And then she was
upon him. Her bony body twisted as she thrust her weapon.
The lunge missed as Holroyd whipped aside. He had firmer
control of his feet now. But, astonishingly, she was quicker
than he. She hurled herself past his clutching fingers with
utter abandon. Even then she would have missed except
that, at that moment. Holroyd became aware of a startling
fact. Her sword was made of varnished wood. Wood!
The realization that even such a weapon was not made of
metal slowed him. The point of the stave caught him on the
right breast. The pain was insignificant. It was instinct, not
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purpose, that made Holroyd snatch at the blade. He caught
it halfway from the hilt and with a single jerk tore it from
her fingers. He grew aware that the woman was staring
wildly at the weapon. She mumbled:
'The magic stave it doesn't harm you.'
'The what!' said Holroyd. Then he realized what she
meant. The sword blade tingled in his fingers. It was alive [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]