Corbenic Read Online Free PDF Page B

was an annoying throb, a knocking in his temples and throat. Cal groaned and rolled over, dragging the coarse blanket over his head. But the pain wouldn’t let him go. He lay there, awake, eyes tightly closed. For a moment he thought he was at home, tense in the bed, listening for the old noises downstairs, but then he remembered and let his body relax. Though the room seemed oddly cold.
    He had come up to bed straight after the meal, had said a shame-faced good night to Bron and the dark-haired man had nodded bitterly. “Good-bye Cal. It will be a long journey, as I feared.”
    He remembered the osprey’s yellow eyes, round and fierce. It was as if they had expected something great of him, as if he had failed them. But he’d drunk too much—he must have done. Because spears didn’t bleed and there was no light in the world like that which had scorched from the battered, golden cup. It had been some normal thing, people carrying dishes, and he’d seen it all wrong.
    He shivered. He’d heard her going on about things like this. Maybe it was schizophrenia, psychosis, one of those terrible words he’d looked up in the reference library that hot endless weekend she’d been in the hospital. He knew it was in his blood, in him. Maybe this was the start of it.
    Terrified, he sat up. Ignoring the headache he groped in the dimness for the marble bedside lamp with its ornate tassels, but he couldn’t find it, so he pulled the blankets aside and slid out of bed. The floor felt oddly rough under his bare feet. He padded across and drew the curtains. Then he turned, and stared in amazement. Where was the room? The beautiful, glossy magazine furnishings? What was happening to him?
    He saw a small stark cell, the walls plain and gray, with vast black stars in places where whole lumps of plaster had cracked and fallen off. On the rough planks of the floor old straw was scattered, and there were bones in it, gnawed and yellow.
    Cal sidestepped in disgust. “God,” he whispered.
    His rucksack was propped against the door. The ceiling was high, green and dripping with damp. The curtains were rags and the bed a simple wooden frame with a gray mattress and the filthiest blanket he had ever seen lying crumpled on it. And it was bitterly cold.
    He turned fast, as something spoke behind him, but the window was cracked and only the wind whispered in its corner, high-pitched in the green ivy. Cal put his hands up slowly to the vibrating pane. Outside, through the flapping leaves, was the garden. Wet, dripping, overgrown. A waste land.
    Instantly he turned, grabbed his clothes, and struggled into them frantically. He had to get out! Either this was a madhouse, or it was him. He didn’t want to talk to Bron, or the big man, or any of them. He just had to get back into the real world.
    And then he saw the sword. He froze, one arm in his shirt. In the silence his heart thudded. It was a narrow blade, and it looked wickedly sharp. Small crystals of ice glinted on its edge. It had been thrust through the pillow and into the wooden headboard, hard. Just above where his head must have been.
    Suddenly weak, Cal sat on the bed. Finally, warily, he reached out and took hold of the corded handle of the weapon. It fitted his hand perfectly, and he felt the icy metal slowly warm against his fingers. He pulled, then again, hard, and the sword came out.
    It was a beautiful thing. The pommel and guard were of steel, chased with intricate patterns and small red garnets, and down the blade a ripplework of beaten metal reflected his face with cold precision. He touched the cutting edge carefully, his breath clouding the steel.
    There was a stiff piece of parchment on the pillow; the sword had pinned it there. He picked it up reluctantly and read: My parting gift to you. Take it. It will serve you as you have served me. Go with God. It was signed, in a jagged scrawl: Bron.
    Cal sat silent. He had no idea what to