Stealers' Sky by Robert Lynn Asprin

Author:Robert Lynn Asprin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

WINDS OF FORTUNE

C.J. Cherryh

Clouds of steam. The horse stood still while Strat washed it down with rags and slopped water onto the stableyard dirt—a completely ordinary horse except the thumb-sized patch on its rump where there was simply—nothing. It angered Crit that Strat spent excessive time on the creature, but, unlike Critias, acting commandant of the Stepsons, Companion to the God—his partner Straton had no fear of the undead.

The horse had died under him—once. It had come back from Hell for him. It had rescued him from enemies. Straton returned that loyalty.

That small patch was the necessary flaw—in a creature Hell had given up. But it in no ways flawed courage, or faith.

Better than men, Strat thought. Better than the love of women, who had proven, overall, faithless.

Critias had saved his life multiple times, too; and Strat had returned that favor, such as he could—but Crit was Crit—the ultimate pragmatist. There was only one creature in all the world that a man could believe in to such an extent, and trust absolutely; it stood with eyes shut—enjoying the warmth of life—

After the cold of Hell.

It came to Strat that he had known too much of that cold himself—that if he had any hope for himself he had to shake free of such influences.

There had been, above all, a woman—a sorceress who haunted his dreams.

Be rid of her! Crit said.

But one’s dreams did not forget.

A quiet tread scuffed the dirt of the yard, stopped, at Strat’s back. He looked behind him, saw his partner standing there fists on hips, saw Crit frowning at him.

“You’re on duty,” Crit said. “Dammit, Ace—“

Strat thought back to the morning, recollected a promise—to spell Gayle at a problem uptown, night duty, when they were so damned short-handed. He dropped the sponge into the bucket and faced Crit with a shake of his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll get up there right now.”

Crit walked closer and blocked his path to anywhere. “Strat—”

—“I forgot, all right?”

Crit hit him on the shoulder, held that same shoulder, compelled an attention he did not want to give. “Forgot?”

“I said I forgot. I’m sorry.” He moved to break away, but Crit tightened his grip, jerked him around again for a look straight in the face.

He dropped his eyes. He had no idea why, only that Crit’s stare was unbearable—no matter that Crit had pulled him out of situations a sane man would not contemplate, no matter that he owed this man who was closer than a brother. That look on Crit’s face wanted more from him than he had left in him to give, more of his soul than he was going to have again in his life, and though he knew it—Crit had yet to accept that fact.

“That’s the bad shoulder,” Strat said, deliberately pitiful; and tried with a shake of his head simply to go his way, and not to fight with Crit.

But Crit slammed him around against the corner of the stable. “Where in hell is your head?”

Another man he would have taken into bare-handed combat.

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