But damn it all, damn it, Kelvin had been stupid! Going back to that monster-lair to save that-- that poacher! No one with any sense would have done that! No one but an idiotic hero!
“Maybe,” John said, “we can get help from the squarears. They do want us out of this frame.”
“If they'll let a hunter be destroyed, they'll let a fool be destroyed.” Immediately he regretted the application. Kelvin was at times a fool, but he was also his brother.
“I'm afraid I agree with you,” John said. “But if we just start back through the swamp, we'll be caught by the froogears. Then it will be the same as before.”
“Will it, Father?” Kian wished there were some other way.
“It will have to be.”
Kian scuffed at the floor of the chamber with his toe. “Father, do you think they'd rescue us all over again?”
“I don't think we can count on it.”
“Neither do I. Why should they have patience with fools?”
“Why indeed!” John exclaimed with an ironic laugh.
“If only Kelvin had left us with something. He took the levitation belt and the Mouvar weapon. What have we got to fight with?”
“One pair of magic gauntlets and our swords. Plus our wits,” John said.
“Lot of good they'll do.”
“I'm not so certain. That fruit the froogears rolled in here-- do you suppose that grows nearby?”
“Suppose it does? It'd knock us out if we breathed the scent from it.”
“Yet the froogears handled it.”
“Maybe they're immune. Maybe it just doesn't affect them, Father.”
“Hmmm. Possibly. I'm not saying we could use it, just thinking of possibilities.”
“The gauntlets, do you suppose they can lead us through the swamp to the island?”
“Possibly. Just barely possibly. They have a wonderful sense of direction, you remember.”
“But only the one pair.”
“I'll tell you what.” John Knight stripped off the right gauntlet and handed it to him. “I'll wear the left and you the right. That way we'll both be protected to some extent.”
“Thank you, Father.” Kian put on the gauntlet. Though his father's hand was larger than his, the soft dragonskin contracted and made a perfect fit. Had his hand been larger, it would have stretched, magically.
John shrugged. “Why should I let my son be in avoidable danger?”
That was rhetorical, but it made Kian feel warm. He knew that Kelvin was the hero, the son borne of the woman John truly loved, and sometimes he doubted John's feelings for the son of the evil queen. Kian flexed and unflexed his right hand with the gauntlet. He drew his sword, made some experimental slashes at the air, and returned it smoothly to his scabbard. How, he wondered, would his right-handed father handle his sword?
John Knight was already adjusting his scabbard on his right side. He drew the sword left-handed, swished it expertly, twirled it, and resheathed it. The glove made any hand dextrous!
Kian nodded appreciatively. “That's better than I believe Kelvin could do.”
“I'm not so certain. He fought most of the war in Rud with just the left gauntlet. Remember?”
Kian remembered. Lying on the ground in the swirling dust kicked up by the war-horses. His right gauntleted hand locked with Kelvin's left. The two gauntlets wrestling for their wearers, moving their fingers and wrists, pulling their arms and bodies along. It had been a draw. It had been the first indication he had had of the full extent of the power of the gauntlets.
“I'm ready, Father.”
“Yes, I thought you would be.”
With that they turned their backs on the chamber, and its transporter and all of Kian's waiting dreams. Together they left the cave and walked step by step, never faltering, to the greenish swamp and its incalculable dangers.
There were many, many steps, and many, many wearying days ahead.
*
Bloorg, the squarear chieftain, scratched his straw-colored hair on his blocky pate and indicated to Grool, his second in command, the crystal. In the crystal were two tired, hungry, insect-bitten roundears, slogging their way through hip-deep greenish water. The roundear known as John Knight suddenly grabbed a serpent in its left hand and flung it far. Kian, the younger roundear, congratulated him.
“Should we let the chimaera have them?” Grool asked. “They are innocent, and intended no harm.”
Bloorg shrugged. “Innocent is as innocent does. They are also stupid.”
“Stupid. Yes, by our standards. Still-- “
“Still they have chosen. They could have gone their way.”
“But the other one chose first. If he had not gone back-- “
“Yes, as the hunter says, he was very stupid.”
“But can we just leave them? Let our cousins the froogears take them again for tribute?”
“It is our ethics not to destroy or allow to be destroyed the purely innocent. Yet once made wise-- “
“No longer innocent!” Grool sighed, fluttering her triangular eyelashes above her blue and squarish eyes. “It is an old, old truth, as old as our civilization. They should have learned.”
“But it bothers you?”
“Yes, I don't think they intend other than a rescue.”
“Unaided? Hardly that.”
“Then they are doomed.”
“Assuredly. As certainly as the other and the hunter in the chimaera's larder.”
“A shame.”
“Isn't it.”
Bloorg made a magical gesture with entwined fingers and the crystal flickered and went blank.
*
The chimaera was digging in Mervania's garden. It had a nice assortment of herbs growing for use as condiments. Onlics tossed their purple heads in the breeze blowing over the island, their bulbs waiting below ground.
“I don't know why you bother with this!” Mertin grumbled. What he really meant was that he was not all that enamored with the flavor of onlics, chilards, and musills.
Grumpus’ head suddenly snapped upward, and its mouth opened. At the same time the chimaera sting elevated. A bolt of blue sparked from the tip and into the sky above. Sizzling, smoking, still on fire, a foolish swampbird fell into Grumpus’ waiting maw. Grumpus crunched, chewed, and swallowed. The chimaera's abdomen unbent and its sting lowered.
“Now, Mertie, you know you like the stew I make,” Mervania chided her headmate. “None of us refuses it. Even Grumpus likes it.”
“Ain't fittin’,” Mertin said. “We, a superior species, eating like our foodstuffs!”
“Nonsense.” She patted the dirt lovingly over the bones she had brought from the pantry. Good fungus would grow up out of those eyesockets. It always seemed appropriate that they be buried here. “You know you're just saying that. Fitting and not-fitting has nothing to do with it.”
“Groowth,” Grumpus agreed, licking singed feathers from his mouth.
“Our kind always used to eat ‘em raw, Grumpus. But Mervania had to take up with baking and frying and stewing and pickling.”
“Oh, I'm so glad you reminded me!” she exclaimed. “I need some dilber seed. I've decided on pickling that young hero. His arms and legs are so nice and slim.”
“Bah!” said Mertin. “Me and Grumpus would just as soon-- “
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said impatiently. “You've made your point dozens of times.”
“Well, it's still true. We would rather eat them au naturel.”
“Speaking of the heroic roundear, I wonder what he and his lardermate are up to.” Having decided, instantly she reached out with her thoughts. The thoughts she encountered surprised and excited her. “Oh my! Oh, my!”
“What is it?” Mertin asked. “Sneakiness?”
“I'm afraid so. They actually conspire to fight. At least the roundear thinks they do. The pearear's thoughts are impervious, as a pearear's always are.”
“Shame to disappoint them,” Mertin said.
�
�Oh, we won't, we won't, Mertin.”
“Roast it, Mervania, must you always play with our food!”
“Yes, Mertie. After I do, its taste is delectable!”
CHAPTER 10
Sticky, Sticky
This war was getting to be what St. Helens had once called a bummer, and it hadn't even started. He was just now leaving the border between Hermandy and Kance. Behind him was a file of Hermandy troops. Ahead were forests and lakes and streams almost to the twin capitals. Why didn't he feel great, being a general?
Because this was not a war he liked. Hermandy reminded him too vividly of a country and dictator that had made history on Earth. King Rowforth, if that thing in the palace of Kelvinia were truly he, had really put him in a bind.
“Gee, this is exciting!” Phillip said. Practically in the important general's ear.
“Excitement doesn't start until the arrows fly,” remarked young Lomax. “That's what they told me, at least.”
“You're right, Charles, only this time it'll be terror. The first time in battle always is. And the tenth time, only you learn not to show it.”
St. Helens thought he'd put it right, but the boy was frowning, first at the young man, and then at St. Helens. “Oh, I know it's not a chess game, St. Helens. Real blood will get shed. But gee, just to be leading an army at last!”
“You're not leading it, I am.”
“Yes, you're the witch this time.”
“Don't say that!” Brat! he thought. “I've seen all the witches I ever want to see. Your Melbah was enough witch to last me for a greatly extended lifetime!”
For a moment there was silence from the boy. Good!
Then he popped up again. “St. Helens, you do know that we'll be fighting against a witch?”
“WHAT?” He was momentarily dumbfounded. The dictator had spoken of troops and of two brat rulers, but not a witch. He might have known. And here he was without gauntlets or levitation belt!
“Helbah. A Melbah look-alike.”
St. Helens allowed himself a groan. “I suppose she creates floods and fires and earthquakes. Probably throws fireballs as well.”
“I haven't heard that she does. But she might. It's what witches do. Melbah didn't like her.”
“That's something,” St. Helens conceded. Any witch that Melbah hadn't liked couldn't be all bad. Or could she? Maybe one more powerful than Melbah? Melbah, after all, hadn't invaded this other witch's territory.
“I've heard she stops troops cold,” Lomax spoke up. “Confuses them with illusions. What's called benign magic.”
“Why haven't I heard about it? I'm supposed to be leading this outfit! Even if Bitner didn't tell me, you'd have thought I'd have heard!”
“You never asked,” Phillip explained. “And you wouldn't have talked to Melbah even when she was in her guise as General Ashcroft.”
St. Helens bit his lip. “This one a general, too?”
“She might be. Melbah never talked about her enemy, and as you know I had few friends.”
“I can believe anyone cared for by a witch and manipulated the way you were had few friends,” Lomax said. It was a camaraderie he had developed. “St. Helens was your friend, wasn't he?”
“Yes. He was my first real friend.”
St. Helens felt uncomfortable. The boy had had playmates, he knew, and as he had grown tired of them the witch had disposed of them like outworn toys. Was the lad still subject to such tantrums? He doubted it, and yet Phillip remained a puzzle. He'd better hope that he didn't attach himself to Melbah's rival.
“I was wondering about those brats,” Phillip mused. “Hermandy's king mentioned them and I've heard them mentioned before. Young, aren't they?”
“They are,” Lomax said. “Rumor is that the witch keeps them that way.”
So she was more powerful! Great! Just what the commanding general needed to hear!
Glumly, General Sean “St. Helens” Reilly resumed his tight lips. He rode on with all the silence he could muster, importantly leading a dictator's brutally trained and brutal troops plus the best mercenary soldiers money could buy.
*
This was certainly getting to be tiring, General Morton Crumb thought. They were now outdistancing trees and horse droppings, but moving far slower than was natural. Every horse-stride forward carried them only half a stride's distance. It was like moving underwater. Yet the trees and the hills and the silent farm buildings moved slowly, slowly by as they rode the deserted road. They were after all making progress.
“Her magic may be weakening,” Captain Abileey said. “Witches too get tired.”
“I've heard that,” Mor said. Unhappily he was recalling the unequal battle in Deadman's Pass in what was formerly Aratex. That old witch hadn't gotten tired until she'd raised flood, wind, earthquake, and fire. Could this one tire from doing far less?
Captain Plink drew abreast of them. Turning his head, watching the captain's horse, Mor had the impression that the swiftly moving hooves were, though a blur of motion, moving slowly. Something about time-slowing, a trick that was said to be in some witches’ repertoire.
“I think we'll get there in a month, General,” Captain Plink observed. “We're slow but not stopped.”
“Right.” Nor would a complete stoppage have bothered him more. If the witch was just playing with them, what would she do when she got mad?
“General Crumb, sir, this may be a little out of place, but why don't we stop and forage the farms? At the rate we're going we will be out of rations long before we're done.”
Mor sighed. True enough. This was after all an invasion. It wasn't stealing, though that was what it felt like.
He called a halt. Watching the horses’ legs he saw them drift down to the ground. All were halted in what seemed a normal amount of time, though just how much time he was taking to think he could not actually say. His stomach growled as he gave orders to pillage the closer farms.
“Six men to a farm. Eggs, milk, a chicuck or two. Take nothing but food, no more than necessary, and no liberties with the women. Be quick!”
The soldiers ran off at top speed, drifting on their mounts, as Mor saw it. He shook his head, knowing that even this was taking longer than normal. A roasted chicuck would put a smile in his belly. There had to be something that would help him feel decent. An end to the war might, though he would have had to have been a mercenary to feel that it was right.
How had he gotten into this in the first place? It must have been magic tampering at the Kelvinia audience. Something in the wine that made him receptive to orders he couldn't justify, and made him even a bit eager to fight. King Rufurt using magic? But it was not Rufurt, he felt certain. Rufurt, the rightful king, must have been slain or had something else happen to him. He had known, he did know, but he felt helpless.
“General! General Crumb, sir.”
“Yes?” Mor didn't stand on ceremonies with enlisted men.
“We can't get near the buildings, sir. The air holds us back. Neither we nor our horses can enter the driveways.”
“Magic again,” Abileey observed. “If we run out of rations before she runs out of magic, we'll have to return home.”
“I'm certain that's what she's counting on,” Mor said. Since he really wanted to return he should have felt elated.
Why did he feel certain that this time the witch's tactics were not sufficient to stop them?
*
The charging cavalry had long vanished. Lester, searching in vain for some evidence that an enemy had really been there, was forced to consider implications. Arrows, crossbow bolts, and spears were lying spent, beyond an area where there never had been an enemy force.
He gave orders that the various projectiles be recovered. His men fetched them. Thus went the day that could hardly be termed a fighting day.
That night Captain Barnes walked over to him at the camp fire. He saluted smartly as a Throod-trained mercenary naturally would. Les had to think what he was supposed to do, and finally
remembered and returned the salute.
“At ease, Captain. What's on your mind?”
“Magic, sir.”
“Mine too.”
“If every time we encounter the enemy, the enemy turns out to be unreal-- “
“We'll end up with no weapons other than swords.”
“Yes, sir. But suppose we encounter the enemy and the enemy is real? Suppose they have real arrows and crossbow bolts and spears; suppose ours have been lost to the phantoms? I mean, if real ones come right after the phantoms, and we don't know the difference?”
“Good point, Captain. Pass the order, no one to fire as much as one arrow until we determine that our attackers are real.”
“Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.”
Later that night Lester was trying to sleep and was thinking that one of the mercenaries really should be in charge. The long, mournful howls of wolotes came from all around, chilling human blood with their canine songs. He drew his sword and stepped from his tent, intent on nothing. Outside he blinked in the firelight and breathed a deep breath of cool night air. The wolotes must be in the woods just past the fire.
Suddenly there was a great, gray shadow, with glowing red eyes, leaping at his throat!
He raised the sword and struck, all in one motion.
The animal was gone. In its place, completely in uniform, was a large Kance soldier. Before Lester could recover, the enemy had a sword to his throat and a shield protecting his vitals from a dying commander's retaliation.
Les thought of Jon. His eyes saw starlight and drops of oil on the sword blade. The enemy had only to shove the sword. Les’ blood would gush out over the blade and arm and against the armor of the man. His breath would go WHOOSH, and he would fall and everything would turn black.
The soldier smiled, wickedly. A light of triumph sprang up in his eyes, and then--
As suddenly as he had come, he vanished.
Les stood alone in his tent opening. He swallowed, and swallowed again.
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