A Man Betrayed Read Online Free PDF

checked
his own path There would be a short time when he would be in danger, too. Such
a drawing as he would perform required great concentration, and so_ he might
need some extra guidance for his horse.
    He looked to his
flank. Crope was there; sitting miserably on a huge warhorse, hood pulled
forward for concealment, not warmth. Baralis knew his servant was hating every
minute of this journey. He was shy of people, a natural wariness springing from
the way he was usually treated by them. People were afraid of him when alone or
in small groups. Once they had a safe number, however, they began to despise
him. Even on this trip, the taunting had begun. They called him "the
stupid giant" and "scar features." Baralis would have enjoyed
burning the skin from their cowardly backs-no one demeaned anything of his-but
now was not the time to use indiscreet force.
    Now was the time
for discreet force. He beckoned Crope forth and the huge man drew close.
Baralis motioned to his reins and his servant took them. Not a word was said,
not a question asked. They were at the rear with only the packhorses to tell of
what transpired.
    Once confident
that Crope was in charge of his mount, Baralis felt safe to work his drawing.
His sight found Maybor and then dropped lower to the man's horse: a beautiful
stallion in its prime.
    Baralis reached
deep within himself. The power, so familiar, yet so intoxicating, flared up to
meet him. He felt a wave of nausea followed by the unbearable sense of loss as
he forsook himself and entered the beast. The sour tang of horse sweat met his
nostrils. Gone at last was the chill of the wind. He knew only warmth.
    Pulsing,
all-enclosing warmth. Through hair and skin and fat, through muscle and grizzle
and bone. Speed was of the essence: danger awaited those who lingered too long
in a beast. Quickly he bypassed the belly and all its beguiling intricacies. Up
toward the core. He felt the mighty press of the lungs and fought against their
powerful suction. The heart beckoned him forth, using its rhythm as a lure. The
rest of the body danced to its beat.
    Bounded by muscle,
snarled with tubes, terrifying in its strength: the heart.
    He fell into the
pulse of its contractions, became one with the ebb and the flow. Into the
hollow he went. A frightening rush of blood and pressure rose to meet him.
Through the caverns he traveled, along the channels he sped, until he
eventually reached the last. The beginning of the cycle. He found what he came
for: a stretch of sinew as tough as old leather, yet thinner, so much thinner,
than silk. The valve. He reached out, encircling it with his will. And then
rent forth.
    Back he snapped
like a sapling in a gale. It was so cold and pale, and finally so dark. He
tasted the bitter residue of sorcery in his mouth, and then he knew no more.
    Maybor was well
satisfied with the way things were progressing. He was at the head of eight
score of men, counting the attendants, and if he did say so himself, their
loyalty-bar only two-was unquestioningly with him.
    He saw the respect
in the men's eyes and noted their deference to him in all matters. It was just
how it should be; after all, he did hold superior rank. He noticed the way the
men admired everything from his judgment to his fineness of dress. Not for him
a dull traveler's gray. No. He was a great lord and it was fitting that he look
the part at all times. Who could guess when they might chance upon someone in
this white wilderness whom he might need to impress?
    Traveling had
definite drawbacks, though. The wind was a devil, and he was quite sure it was
blowing the very hair from his scalp. He'd awoken on several mornings to find
hair on his pillow. The thought of going bald terrified Maybor, and deciding
that it was indeed the fault of the wind, he had taken to wearing a large,
furry bearskin hat as protection. At first he had been a little worried about
how he might look to his men in such a girlish thing as a hat. But now