The guns of avalon (1972) — the chronicles of amber (2) — roger zelazny
I stood there on the beach and said, "Good-by, Butterfly," and the ship slowly turned, then headed out toward deep water. It would make it back into port at the lighthouse of Cabra, I knew, for that place lay near to Shadow.
Turning away, I regarded the black line of trees near at hand, knowing that a long walk lay ahead of me. I moved in that direction, making the necessary adjustments as I advanced. A pre-dawn chill lay upon the silent forest, and this was good.
I was perhaps fifty pounds underweight and still occasionally experienced double vision, but I was improving. I had escaped the dungeons of Amber and recuperated somewhat, with the assistance of mad Dworkin and drunken Jopin, in that order. Now I had to find me a place, a place resembling another place — one which no longer existed. I located the path. I took it.
After a time, I stopped at a hollow tree that had to be there. I reached inside and drew forth my silvered blade and strapped it to my waist. It mattered not that it had been somewhere in Amber. It was here now, for the wood that I walked was in Shadow.
I continued for several hours, the unseen sun somewhere behind my left shoulder. Then I rested awhile, then moved on. It was good to see the leaves and the rocks and the dead tree trunks, the live ones, the grass, the dark earth. It was good to smell all the little smells of life, and to hear its buzzing/humming/chirping sounds. Gods! How I treasured my eyes! Having them back again after nearly four years of blackness was a thing for which I lacked words. And to be walking free…
I went on, my tattered cloak flapping in the morning breeze. I must have looked over fifty years old, my face creased, my form sparse, lean. Who would have known me for what I was?
As I walked, walked in Shadow, moved toward a place, I did not reach that place. It must be that I had grown somewhat soft. Here is what happened —
I came upon seven men by the side of the road, and six of them were dead, lying in various stages of red dismemberment. The seventh was in a semi-reclined position, his back against the mossy bole of an ancient oak. He held his blade across his lap and there was a large wet wound in his right side, from which the blood still flowed. He wore no armor, though some of the others did. His gray eyes were open, though glassy. His knuckles were skinned and his breathing was slow. From beneath shaggy brows, he watched the crows eat out the eyes of the dead. He did not seem to see me.
I raised my cowl and lowered my head to hide my face. I moved nearer.
I knew him, or someone very like him, once. His blade twitched and the point rose as I advanced.
"I'm a friend," I said. "Would you like a drink of water?" He hesitated a moment, then nodded.
"Yes." I opened my canteen and passed it to him. He drank and coughed, drank some more.
"Sir, I thank you," he said as he passed it back. "I only regret it were not stronger. Damn this cut!"
"I've some of that, too. If you're sure you can handle it."
He held out his hand and I unstoppered a small flask and gave it to him. He must have coughed for twenty seconds after a slug of that stuff Jopin drinks.
Then the left side of his mouth smiled and he winked lightly.
"Much better," he said. "Mind if I pour a drop of this onto my side? I hate to waste good whisky, but -"
"Use it all, if you have to. On second thought, though, your hand looks shaky. Maybe I'd better do the pouring."
He nodded, and I opened his leather jacket and with my dagger cut away at his shirt until I had exposed the wound.