Free Farslayer's Story by Fred Saberhagen Page A

faint distaste. The lady took a dozen strides in thoughtful silence before she added: “The village leader back there gave me the impression that he thought something strange had been going on in the clan’s stronghold for some time, at least a month.”
    “Something strange?”
    “He really said nothing specific on the subject. But that was the impression I received.”
    Zoltan pondered this news in concerned silence. “I wonder where everyone is?” the lady remarked suddenly in a different voice.
    Indeed, the crude road which the two travelers were following had remained completely empty of other traffic, and this fact now began to take on an ominous aspect in Zoltan’s eyes. At each turn, as the rutted track wound back and forth through fields and forest, he kept expecting to encounter a farmer’s cart, a peddler, a goatherd, someone. But there was never anyone else in sight.
    “Have all the farmers fled their lands? It should be time for planting.”
    Yambu shook her head. “Not a good sign.”
    In due time, and without ever meeting anyone, the two travelers came upon the house, which stood less than an hour’s walk from the lakeside village where they had spent the night. The hill, upon which the Malolo clan had chosen to build their manor, had long ago been denuded of trees, leaving only a myriad of ancient stumps. Within a low wall, the stone and timber of the house were dark, and the grounds around the house long uncared for and eroded. Even in the clear light of day, the whole establishment had a forbidding aspect to Zoltan.
    Still no other people were in sight. And everything was silent except for the lowing of cattle, which seemed to be coming from outbuildings in the rear. The animals sounded as if they were in need of being milked.
    The front entrance of the manor was protected by a small drawbridge, let down over a long-dry moat. The outer end of the drawbridge, now resting on the earth, had crushed a new spring growth of weeds beneath it. From this fact Zoltan deduced that the bridge must commonly be kept raised at least as much as it was lowered. Evidently the long-standing feud sometimes included direct assaults upon the strongholds of the chief participants.
    However that might be, no one had bothered to raise the bridge today. Trudging on across its weathered timbers, the two travelers found themselves immediately before the manor’s great front door. Still they had not been challenged, or even observed as far as they could tell. They had seen no one since leaving the vicinity of the village. This absence of human activity caused them to once more exchange puzzled glances.
    Then Zoltan shrugged, raised his sword hilt, and rapped firmly, loudly, three times on the door.
    For a time, a period of time that became noticeably extended, there was no answer.
    He was just about to knock again, and louder still, when at last a small peephole, heavily protected by iron grillwork, opened near the middle of the door. “Who is it?” a crabbed and cracking tenor demanded from within.
    “Two pilgrims,” the lady on the doorstep answered, putting authority and volume into her voice. “The Lady Yambu and her attendant. We bring certain information that the chief of the Malolo clan should be glad to hear.”
    There followed a protracted and suspicious silence. Zoltan supposed that the speaker inside—he could not be sure from the voice whether it was a man or a woman was probably using the peephole to inspect the two on the doorstep.
    “You can give me the information,” the voice said next, adopting now a different but still peculiar tone, somewhere between wheedling and mindless threat.
    Yambu glared at the wooden barrier. “I do not conduct conversations through a door.” This time no one would have doubted that a queen was speaking.
    Response from inside was immediate, in the form of a tentative rattling, as of a heavy doorbar in its sockets. Then came a brief silence as of hesitation, or perhaps a