Juxtaposition aa-3

by Piers Anthony

  The plants got worse. Tree branches dropped down to bar their way, dangling poisonous-looking moss. Stile cut the moss away with his sword, clearing the path for the Lady and steeds. Ichor from the moss soon covered the blade, turning it gray-green. The stuff reeked with a pungent odor, almost like dragon's blood. Stile did not like this at all. Yet he had to keep hacking the encroaching growth away, afraid to let any of the party get caught.

  At last the sounds of pursuit diminished. The animal-heads had been foiled by this vicious jungle too.

  But the trees, bushes, and brambles had closed in behind, forming a virtually impenetrable barrier. Stile's sword was already stained and pitted trader the ichor, and holes were appearing in his clothing where drops had spattered. He didn't want to hack through any more of this!

  Clip blew a musical note. Stile dismounted, and the unicorn phased into the hawk and flew up. The sky was the one open route!

  The Lady Blue also dismounted and came to him. "Mayhap I can help thee," she offered. She laid her hands on his throat, and their healing power warmed skin and muscle deep inside. But the silence was not any constriction in his throat, but a cloud of nonsound that surrounded him. He could not be healed because he wasn't ill; the spell itself had to be abated, somehow.

  "Mayhap a potion?" the Lady mused, fishing in her purse. But none of the elixirs she had with her seemed promising, and she did not want to expend them uselessly. "Clip may find something," she said hopefully. "From the air, more can be seen."

  The jungle was not being idle, however. Plants were visibly growing toward them. This time they were ugly, jointed things, with great brown thorns hooked at each juncture. These things were structured to engage a retreating form, and not to disengage, and they looked as if they had hollow points. Bloodsuckers, surely. Stile brought out his knife and sawed оff the nearest thorn stem, severing it with difficulty; the fiber was like cable. By the time he completed the cut, several other tendrils were approaching his boots. He had to draw his sword again, hacking the fibers apart by brute force, clearing a circle around the Lady and horse. He had almost forgotten how formidable nature could be for those who lacked the convenience of magic. It was a reminder in perspective — not that that helped much at the moment.

  The hawk returned, changing into man-form. "There is a domicile ahead, and the land is clear around it," Clip reported. "An old man lives there, a hermit by his look; mayhap he will guide us out, can we but reach him. Or we can follow the curtain; it passes through that clearing. I have scouted the most direct approach to the curtain. I can not cross it, but if thou and the Lady and Hinblue can — the clearing is but a quarter mile from there."

  Stile squeezed Clip's arm in thanks. The unicorn had really come through for them! They could hack their way to the curtain, cross to Proton, hurry forward, and recross to recover breath. It would not be fun, but it should be feasible.

  They chopped through the undergrowth with renewed will. This time the plants were rigidly fan-shaped leaves on tough stems, the edges of the leaves as sharp as knives. They did not move to intercept people, but they were extraordinarily difficult to clear from the path because the stems were almost inaccessible behind the leaves. When Stile reached under to sever one stem, the leaves of another plant were in his way; if he sliced through anyway, he risked brushing the knife-edges along his wrist or forearm. Without magic to heal cuts, he found this nervous business, though he knew the Lady could help heal him. Progress was slow, and his sword arm grew tired.

  Clip stepped in, using the tip of his horn to reach past the leaves to break the stems. This enabled them to go faster, and soon they intersected the curtain.

  Stile could not even perform the simple curtain-crossing spell. The Lady did it for him and Hinblue — and suddenly the three of them were in Proton, on a barren plain, gasping for air. Clip changed to hawk-form and flew directly to their rendezvous in the clearing.

  They were able to walk on the bare sands, but breathing was labored, and Hinblue, as the Lady had feared, did not understand at all. The horse's nostrils flared, and she was skittish, squandering energy better saved for forward progress. Hinblue was a very fine mare, who could have been a prizewinner in Proton, but she had had no experience with this. The Lady led her, though the Lady herself was gasping.

  Stile heard, his own labored breathing — and realized what it meant. "I'm not silent any more — no magic in this frame!" he exclaimed.

  "But when thou returnest-" the Lady responded.

  When he crossed again, the spell would still be on him. He could not escape it this way, except by traveling in this frame back to the region of the Blue Demesnes, where he could cross to get the Lady's reserve spells. But no Proton dome was near, even if he wanted to risk entering one, the trip wasn't feasible.

  The horse was in increasing trouble. "My Lord, I must take her back," the Lady gasped. "She does not understand."

  Stile had handled a horse in these barrens before. He recognized the symptoms of the growing panic. "Take her across; maybe we're far enough."

  They willed themselves across at what seemed to be a clearing. It was — but also turned out to be no safe resting place. The ground writhed with sucker leaves that sought to fasten to the flesh of human or equine. Hinblue stamped her hooves, trampling down the suckers, but already some were fastening on the sides of the hooves, trying to drink from the hard surface. Stile tried to cut off the plants, but they were too low to the ground, making his blade ineffective.

  "We can not stay here," the Lady said, her feet moving in a dance of avoidance. "We must cross again."

  Stile agreed. The horse had recovered her wind. They crossed back to Proton and made a dash for the better clearing ahead. This time they made it.

  Now they were in sight of the hermit's hut. Clip rejoined them, remaining in hawk-form so as not to betray his nature before the watching hermit. They saw the old man's eyes peering from the dark window.

  "He sees us," the Lady said. "We shall need his help, for we cannot go through more of this jungle or through Proton."

  Stile could only nod. He didn't like this situation at all. Some honeymoon they were having!

  The Lady went up to talk to the hermit. But the old man slammed the rickety door and refused to answer her call.

  Stile began to get angry. The hawk made a warning cry, and Stile stayed back. Clip had caught on to something important, by his attitude.

  The Lady Blue gave it up. "Surely the hermit knows our predicament, but he will help us not," she said. The touch of a flush on her cheeks betrayed her irritation.

  The hawk spoke again, then flew to the ground and scratched a place bare. In that spot he gouged out a word: ORANGE.

  The Lady was first to catch on. "The Orange Adept! No wonder he is such a curmudgeon!"

  Stile signaled, pointing to himself and raising an eye-brow questioningly. He wanted to know whether the Orange Adept was aware of the identity of his visitors.

  Clip thought not. This was merely the way the Adept treated all strangers. Few Adepts cared what happened to those who intruded on their Demesnes, and those Adepts who did care, generally were malignant. Stile had encountered the syndrome before, but he did not like it any better with repetition.

  They walked to the far side of the clearing, while the beady eyes of Orange peered from the window of his hut. Here the curtain plunged into the thickest of the bramble tangles. Hinblue tried to trample them down, but they wrapped around her foreleg, making her squeal in pain as the thorns dug in. There was a snicker from the hut.

  Stile slashed at the mass with his sword, but no matter how many stems he severed, the mass held its form, like a pile of brush. It would be necessary to draw each severed stem out and set it in the clearing — and each stem seemed to interlink with others, so that the entire mass tended to come loose, falling about his bare arms and scratching. The hermit sniggered, enjoying this.

  After a time, scratched and sweaty and tired, they gave it up. They could n
ot get through this way. But meanwhile, the clearing had diminished; new plants were encroaching, and they looked just as ugly as the brambles. The Orange Adept's mode of magic evidently related to plants. Indeed, it must have been one of his creatures that silenced Stile. Now the old man was enjoying watching the flies struggle in the web.

  "Mayhap the other side of the curtain, again. " the Lady said. But at her words Hinblue's ears went back, her nostrils distended, and the whites showed around her eyes. She did not want to brave the oxygen-poor, polluted air of Proton again!

  Yet they couldn't remain here. By nightfall the advanc ing plants would leave them no opening, and they would have to fight for their lives while the Orange Adept laughed. Stile was furious with frustration, but unable to oppose this magic with his own.

  Still, he could act directly against the malignant Adept. He put his hand on his sword, facing the hut.

  "Nay, my love," the Lady cautioned. "There are worse plants than these, and surely they protect him. We must not approach him."

  She was right. Stile had to contain his rage.

  Clip flew up and away, searching for some way out. The lady calmed Hinblue. One thing about the Lady Blue — she did not lose her nerve in a crisis. She was in all respects an admirable woman, his ideal and his beloved. Before Stile let her suffer, he would charge the hut and menace the Adept with his sword, heedless of whatever plants might make their hideous presence known. But first he would wait for Clip, hoping the unicorn would be able to help.

  The sun descended inexorably, and the plants continued to close in. Some were like giant vines, with flowers that resembled the orifices of carnivorous worms. Transparent sap beaded in those throats, and drooled from the nether petals like saliva. The sword should stop these — but what would happen when darkness closed? Stile did not want to fight these plants at night.

  Clip returned. He landed behind the Lady, so that he could not be seen from the hut, and changed to man-form. “I may have found help," he reported, but he seemed dubious.

  "Out with it, 'corn," the Lady snapped.

  "I saw no way out of this garden of tortures; it is miles thick. So I searched for other creatures who might assist, but found only a lone-traveling troll."

  "A troll!" the Lady cried, distraught. "No help there!"

  She was tolerant of many creatures, but hated trolls, for a tribe of them had once tried to ravish her. Stile knew that his alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had had a bad altercation with trolls who had massacred his whole home village and been in turn massacred by him.

  "Yet this one seems different," Clip continued. "He travels by day, which is unusual; he was voluminously swathed in black cloth, so that no sunlight might touch him, but I knew his nature by his outline." He wrinkled his nose. "And by his smell." Trolls tended to have a dank-earth ambience.

  "Why should a troll travel by day?" the Lady asked, intrigued despite her revulsion. "They are horrors of the night, turning to stone in sunlight."

  "Precisely. So I inquired, expecting an insult. But he said he was in quest of the Blue Adept, to whom he owes a favor." Clip shrugged in seeming wonder.

  Stile looked askance at this. He had had no commerce with trolls!

  "That's what he said," Clip continued. "I was skeptical, fearing more mischief, but, mindful of thy plight, I investigated. 'What favor canst thine ilk do for the likes of the Adept?' I inquired politely. And quoth he, 'I am to bring him to a plant this night.' And quoth I, 'How can the Adept trust a monster like thee?' and quoth he, 'He spared me in my youth, and him I owe the favor of a life — mine or his. He may kill me if he wishes, or follow me to the plant. Only then will part of mine onus be acquitted.' And I said, 'He can not be reached at the moment,' and he said, 'Needs must I go to him now, for only tonight can the first part of my debt be abated,' and I said-"

  "Enough!" The lady cried in exasperation. "I know him now. That is the troll my Lord spared a score of years ago. Perhaps that one, of all his ilk, can be trusted. But how can he get here?"

  "I was just telling thee," the unicorn replied, hurt. "I said, 'How canst thou pass an impassable barrier of thorns?' and he said he was a troll, skilled at tunneling, like all his kind."

  "Tunneling!" the Lady exclaimed, her face illuminating.

  "It will take time, for rode is hard, but he promised to be here by midnight."

  By midnight. Could they hold out against the encroaching plants until then? They would have to!

  It was a mean, harrowing interim, but they held out. At the crack of midnight the ground shuddered and the grotesque head of the troll emerged into the wan moonlight, casting two shadows. The big eyes blinked. "The night is painfully bright," the creature complained.

  "This is Trool the troll," Clip introduced. "And this is the Blue Adept, who does not deign to address thee at this time. Lead him to thy plant."

  The troll sank back into the earth. Stile followed, finding a fresh tunnel large enough for hands and knees. The Lady came last. Clip shifted back to his natural form and stood with Hinblue, defending against the plants. If Stile did not recover his power and return in time to help them, only the unicorn would survive.

  The tunnel continued interminably, winding about to avoid the giant roots of trees and buried boulders. Stripped of his magic, Stile began to feel claustrophobic. If there were a cave-in, what spell could he make? But he had to trust the troll — the one his other self had spared, long before Stile came to Phaze. For this creature felt he had a debt to the Blue Adept, and Stile now held that office. He could try to explain the distinction between himself and his dead other self to the troll, but doubted this would matter. What use to inform Trool that he had come too late, that the one who had spared him was already gone? Better to let the troll discharge his debt and be free.

  At last they emerged beyond the Orange Adept's garden. Stile straightened up with relief. They continued on until the troll halted beside a nondescript bush. "This is the plant," Trool said. His voice was guttural and harsh, in the manner of his kind. What made it unusual was the fact that it was intelligible. He must have practiced hard on human speech.

  The Lady leaned forward to peer at the growth in the waning light of the blue moon. Her face was somewhat gaunt, and Stile knew she feared betrayal; certainly the troll's appearance was somewhat too providential. "This is the herb I need!" she exclaimed in gratified wonder. "It will cancel half the spell!"

  Half? What else was needed?

  "The touch of the horn of a unicorn," she said, understanding his thought.

  So he could not be cured until they returned to Clip. His magic would have to wait; he could not use it to facilitate things now.

  The Lady took the leaves she needed and thanked the troll a bit diffidently. Trool, perhaps unaware of the cause of her mixed feelings, shrugged and departed, his deed done. They started the trip back to the Orange Demesnes.

  It was no more pleasant traversing the tunnel the second time, but at least the route was familiar. Dawn was approaching as Stile finally felt the end and poked his head up through the surface of the ground — only to find it overgrown with vines. Were they too late?

  He wrestled his broadsword out and around and began slashing and sawing. The plants, attacked from below, capitulated quickly, and soon Stile and the Lady stood in their own little hacked-out clearing.

  He heard grunts and thumps in the direction of the hermit's hut. The yellow moon was now out, showing two equine figures backed against the hut wall, still fighting off the encroaching foliage. Perhaps the plants were less active at night, unable to grow as fast without sunlight; or maybe the Orange Adept was saving the finale for morning, when he could see better. At any rate, the end was not quite yet.

  Stile hacked a path across the writhing mass of vegetation, the Lady following and tidying things up with her knife. As the sun broke across the eastern horizon, they reached the equines.

  Hinblue was sweating and bleeding from numerous scratches, and was so tired she h
ardly seemed able to stay on her feet. Clip was better off, but obviously worn; his horn swung in short vicious arcs to intercept each reaching tendril. There was very little room left for the two of them; soon the press of plants and their own fatigue would overwhelm them.

  And the Orange Adept peered out of his window, grinning as if at an exhibition. This was his private arena, his personal entertainment, and he was enjoying it immensely. Stile experienced a flare of primal rage.

  Now it was the Lady's turn to act. "Take these leaves," she told Stile, giving him the branch she had taken from the troll's bush. "Clip — thy horn, please." The unicorn paused in his combat with the foliage. Guided by the Lady, he touched his horn to the leaves in Stile's hands.

  Stile felt something ease, as if he had been released from an ugly threat. He heard his own breathing. "I thank thee," he said.

  Then he did a double take. "Hey, I can speak!"

  "Do thou speak some suitable spell," the Lady suggested, nipping off a reaching tendril with her small knife.

  Quickly Stile summoned a general-purpose spell from his repertoire. "All save me, in stasis be," he sang.

  He had not taken time to coalesce his magic force with preliminary music, so the spell was not fully effective, but its impact was nevertheless considerable. The aggressive plants stopped advancing, and Stile's three companions stood stunned.

  Only the Orange Adept proved immune. His head swiveled to cover Stile. "What's this?" the man demanded querulously. "Foreign magic in my Demesnes?"

  Now Stile let out his long-accumulating wrath. "Oaf, didst know not against whom thou didst practice thy foul enchantment?"

  "I know not and care not, peasant!" Orange snapped, sneering.

  "Then learn, thou arrogant lout!" Stile cried. He took his harmonica, played a few savage bars to summon his power, then sang: "Let every single spellbound plant, against its master rave and rant!"

  Instantly there was chaos. The magic plants rotated on their stems, reorienting on the Orange Adept. Now the tendrils reached toward the hut, ignoring the visiting party.