Seahorse in the Sky

CHAPTER NINE

THE KNIGHT—if such he was—seemed to be in a very sorry condition. He wore only breast armour, which might have been made of bronze, and some kind of leather trousers and jerkin. If he had had a helmet, or vizor, he had lost it; and his steed—if any—was nowhere in sight.

His face, at first glance a curious blend of mongol and negro, had bloodstains upon it. His trousers and the patch of jerkin below his breast armour were ominously wet and red. Clearly, he was suffering from multiple wounds. But he was still strong enough to carry a kind of sword in his right hand.

The small group on the steps of the hotel were temporarily frozen into immobility. The knight lurched on towards them. His eyes were wide and staring, but he seemed to be aware of nothing in his immediate vicinity, being, perhaps, preoccupied by things that none but he could see.

Even as he sat, frozen, waiting, Grahame’s mind was operating at lightning speed. Everything seemed to be reduced to slow motion, so that he was able to register the most minute details of the knight’s appearance. He saw the holes punctured in the leather clothing, the bruises, the fragments of soil and grass that clung to clothing, armour and face. He fancied he could see the blood pulsing out of hidden wounds—even that he could hear the beating of the man’s tortured heart.

The knight staggered on towards the hotel. At every third or fourth step he struck—or tried to strike—at an invisible enemy.

Presently, after half a century or ten seconds, Grahame pulled himself together, got up and walked towards the strange being.

Suddenly, his presence was noted. The knight stopped moving and swayed drunkenly upon his feet.

With a tremendous effort, he managed to focus upon Russell. What he saw, evidently, did nothing to inspire confidence. He tried to lift his sword, almost fell over, and tried hard again. He couldn’t make it.

With a muffled curse, he stabbed the point of the sword against the road and leaned on his weapon as on a crutch.

He coughed painfully, then spat at Russell. Then, with a supreme effort of will, he managed to raise the sword.

“Avaunt,” he said thickly, apparently in excellent English. “Begone, demon, hobgoblin, sprite, devil, warlock, spirit of evil. In the name of the white queen and the black, I command you. Return to the dark earth whence you came.”

Russell did not move. Idiotically, he could think of only one thing to say: “Peace.”

“Peace!” roared the warrior dreadfully. “Peace! You would mock me in my weakness! Then die, wretched one, knowing that Absu mes Marur is hard put, otherwise the blade would not grace thee.”

The knight lunged. Russell stepped to one side. Even if he had not moved, the attack would never have been completed. For the stranger had evidently used up his last reserves of energy. Without a sound he fell flat on his face.

Russell turned him over very gently. Drained of colour, the man’s face was almost white. It seemed pathetically young.