The unicorn ran on, considering. After a time he blew a new note. "Could." The notes were not really words, but pitch and inflection conveyed definite meaning, and Stile could usually interpret them when he put his mind to it.
"Thou hast a fourth form?" he asked, surprised. "I thought three was the limit, and only one or two for some."
Now came a proud blast. This was no ordinary unicorn; the Stallion could master a fourth form, if he chose.
"That's great!" Stile exclaimed. "Couldst thou work it up in time for tonight? I know it takes a considerable act of discipline to implement a new form, and there is so little time-"
The Stallion was not foolishly optimistic. Any form was a challenge the first time, and a fourth one was special. But he thought he could manage it.
They discussed it as the miles and leagues rushed by. It developed that some forms were easier than others. Difficulty varied according to the necessary specialization and the change of size. Thus a unicorn could convert to a massive bear fairly readily, because the size was about the same. A man-form was harder, because the mass was less and because of the necessary specialization of the hands and voice. A man-form that could not tie a knot in string would not be very good, and one who could not talk would be worse. These things had to be done properly, or were not worth doing at all. Neysa's firefly-form was a greater achievement than Clip's hawk-form, because the fly was only a fraction of the mass. Neysa weighed about 850 pounds in her natural form, about 85 in her girl-form, and less than 85-hundredths of an ounce in firefly-form. It would be more than twice as hard for the Herd Stallion to get down to that size.
"But such size would be beyond suspicion," Stile remarked. "No one would believe that a beast as noble as thou couldst hide in a form so small." That accented the magnitude of the challenge, rather than the insignificance of the form.
Then there was the problem of flying, the unicorn explained in concerned notes. Flying was a specialization that had to be mastered by tedious practice, after the physical form had been achieved. The Stallion had learned it for his dragon-form, but would have to start all over for an insect-form, since insects employed a different mode of flight. That could take days.
"Oh, I did not mean thou must fly," Stile said. "It is the insignificance I am after, that none may suspect thee. Thou couldst go from dragon to roach, for that."
Roach! the Stallion blasted, affronted. Never!
But Stile was struck by something else. Dragon — roach. His poem: the one he had used to win the Tourney in Proton. Had this provided him with a prophetic key?
Now he thought back, discovering parallels. He had referred to Gabriel's horn — but there was also the unicorn's horn. Clip's horn had precipitated this venture. He had also referred to trying to cheat fate; but he had won his biggest bet because of cheating by another Citizen. How far did this go?
How far, indeed! The first four lines of that poem had matched his recent experience, deliberately. Then the key word: silence. And he had been struck by the silence-spell. Then love; and he had become betrothed to Sheen. That was not love, precisely, but related; she certainly wanted and deserved love.
In fact, those key words aligned beautifully with his experience — almost like a prediction of the Oracle. Yet the words had become the random product of the Game Computer. No magic there! So it must be coincidence. It was possible to make seeming sense of almost anything, as those two poems had shown. Still -
Why not? Stile decided to go for it. "That is one form no goblin would suspect. The nether passages must be overrun with roaches. What Herd Stallion would go to the enormous effort to achieve so lowly a form? It is beneath consideration — therefore the safest of all forms for the accomplishment of such a hazardous mission."
"Urn," the Stallion blew, heeding the logic but not the aesthetics.
"Actually, some roaches are quite elegant," Stile commented innocently. "When I was a serf in Proton, I had to deliver a horse to the dome of a Citizen who specialized in exotic creatures. He had a roach farm with some quite beautiful specimens. I remember some deep red ones, huge and sleek-surely the royalty of roaches. And others were frilly, like butterflies, only without wings-"
"Enough!" the unicorn snorted. He veered to a tight copse of trees and slowed. When he stopped inside, Stile was glad to dismount; they had been traveling for hours, and he was cramped and hungry and suffered the urgent calls of nature.
There was a convenient nut tree in the copse — unicorns generally had good taste about such things — so Stile could eat without using magic. There was also a small spring. This was really an oasis, probably known to every wild creature. There was a real advantage of traveling with such an animal — not only protection, but also the convenience of familiarity with the terrain. Stile had now traveled with three unicorns — Neysa, Clip, and the Herd Stallion — and this aspect was the same with each one. Stile had always liked horses; he knew he would always like unicorns better.
He had dreamed for more than fifteen years of becoming a Citizen of Proton, perhaps setting up his own racing stable. Now he was a Citizen — and all he really wanted was to stay here in Phaze, on any basis. He liked magic — not merely his ability to perform it, but more importantly, the very framework in which magic existed. He liked the verdant hills, the little streams, the various features of this irregular landscape. He liked the whole sweet outdoors, with its fresh air and unpredictable weather and feeling of freedom. Oh, there were horrors here — but even so, it was a better world than Proton. Three centuries of unrestricted development and narrow exploitation had destroyed the environment of Proton, so that comfort now existed only within the force-field domes. Stile liked civilization, but, after encountering Phaze, he feared it was at too great a price.
Stile became aware of a warm sensation on the left side of his face. Oh, yes — his spell to trace the sender of the message that had brought him Sheen was still in operation. Old spells never died, and faded away only slowly — which inertia was fortunate, since any given spell was effective only once. The warmth was faint, indicating that he was far from the source, but at least he could still trace it down. He would do so the moment Clip was safe.
He heard a musical groan, as of someone stepping on an accordion. The Stallion writhed, shimmered — and shrank to a gross, many-legged lump of flesh.
A spell leaped to Stile's lips. But he choked it back, realizing that this was not a magic attack. It was the Stallion's effort to master a new form.
Stile ambled over, peering down at the grotesque caricature of a roach. "Now that is the ugliest insect I've ever seen," he remarked. "But certainly the biggest." Indeed, it was almost the size of a man.
The monstrous bug waved its feelers, thrashed its legs about, and blew a furious peep from the miniature horn on its snout. Then it swelled rapidly into Stallion-form again, snorting fire from the effort.
"Oh, it's thou!" Stile exclaimed innocently. "I was about to step on it."
The Stallion glared and gave a snort that singed the hairs of Stile's arms. Then he tried again. This time he got the size right, but not the shape. He became a miniature unicorn. "I'm afraid that won't do," Stile said around a mouthful of nuts. "The goblins know that's not a normal 'corn size."
The Stallion re-formed, pawing the ground. Obviously he was putting forth terrific effort; his hooves were beginning to glow red, and wisps of smoke rose from his ears.
A third time he tried. This time he got it right — normal-sized roach, with a silvery body and golden head. The bug took one step — and exploded back into the Stallion. He just had not been able to hold it for more than two seconds.
"Maybe you'd better let it rest a while," Stile suggested. "Give your system time to acclimatize to the notion. We're not at the goblin demesnes yet."
The Stallion played an affirmative chord. Stile conjured ten pounds of fine oats for the equine repast, then stood abashed. He should not have used his magic here. But it seemed no one had been paying attention; ma
ybe that was not the kind of spell the enemy was looking for. In due course he remounted, and they were off again. The strength of this unicorn was amazing; having run for hours and struggled to master a difficult new form, he was, after this brief respite, galloping at unreduced speed. Neysa and Clip were good unicorns, but neither could have maintained this velocity so long.
By nightfall the grim White Mountains were near. The Stallion had been moving toward them at a slant, northwest, circling the demesnes of the ogres. No need for any ogre trouble, this trip! Actually, Stile had settled with the ogres, establishing that he was not their enemy, but ogres were not too bright and there could still be trouble.
Now the sun was dropping below the horizon. The Stallion galloped along west, parallel to the mountain range, then stopped. Stile saw the guiding star to their north, showing them to the entrance to the goblins' somber nether world.
But the region was guarded. Goblins patrolled the cliff-like fringe of the mountain range. How could they get in?
Stile had the answer to that. He was larger than a goblin, but close enough so that some stooping in the dark should enable him to pass. He scraped up handfuls of dirt and rubbed it over his face and arms, then removed his clothing and coated his bare body too. Goblins wore little clothing; Stile's Proton underpants sufficed for a costume. Goblin feet and hands, however, were far larger than his own, while their limbs were shorter. Stile experimented and finally fashioned a framework for each foot from small branches and dirt, making his extremities seem goblin-sized. He did the same for his head. Magic would have been much easier for disguising himself, either physically or by means of illusion, but he did not dare use that here. He was facile with his hands and knew how to improvise; his head was actually expanded by a gross turban fashioned from his former clothing.
"Grotesque," the Herd Stallion said, eyeing Stile in man-form. "The human shape is ugly enough to begin with, but thou hast improved on it."
"Just do thine own shape-change," Stile said. "And keep it stable."
"I can but try," the Stallion said grimly. He shifted back to 'corn-form, gathered himself, and phased down to bug-form. This roach was not handsome, but it did seem to be stable. Stile watched it take a step, moving all its legs on one side, followed by those on the other side. The thing trembled and started to expand, then got hold of itself and squeezed back into bug shape. It seemed it would hold.
Stile put down his open hand. The roach hesitated, then crawled on, moving clumsily. It evidently took special coordination to handle six legs, and it was hard for the Stallion to do this while hanging on to this awkward little size. Perhaps it was like juggling six balls in the air while walking a tightrope. As it happened, Stile had done such tricks in the past — but it had taken him time to master them. "Just don't lose control and convert to equine form on my head," Stile murmured as he set the roach on the framework he had wound there. "Don't drop anything, either."
The roach, catching the reference to droppings, began to shake with laughter. It expanded to triple roach size, emitted several little sparks, wrestled with itself, and recovered control. Stile decided not to make any more jokes.
The darkness was almost complete now. Stile nerved himself and walked forward, following the flash of light projected on the ground by his little guiding star. He hunched down as well as he could, making himself humpbacked and shorter. Stile was an experienced mimic, and this was another Game talent that served him in good stead now. He walked like a goblin, swung his arms like a goblin, and glared about like a goblin. Almost, he began to hate the world the way a goblin would.
The dark hole of the cave entrance loomed close. Stile shuffled boldly toward it. But a goblin guard challenged him. "Where the hell art thou going, dirtface?"
For an instant Stile's heart paused. But he had to assume that goblins normally insulted each other, and that the guard did not realize that Stile's face really was concealed by dirt. "What the hell business is it of thine, stink-rump?" he demanded in the grating tone of a goblin, and pushed on. He felt the Stallion-roach quaking with suppressed mirth again, enjoying the exchange.
Apparently it had been the right answer. The guard did not stop him. Stile followed his little star into the cave.
Goblins were coming and going, but none of these challenged him. Stile walked downward, through narrow apertures, along the faces of subterranean cliffs, and across dark chasm cracks. The star made it easy, unerringly guiding him through the labyrinth. What might have taken him hours to figure out only took minutes. He wondered passingly how this worked; more than mere energy was involved when magic provided him with specialized information. Amazingly soon he came to a deep nether passage barred by solid stalactitic columns.
The star moved on to illumine what was beyond. It was a horse.
No — not a horse. A dehorned unicorn, so grimed that his natural color hardly showed, standing with head hanging, bedraggled, evidently lacking the will to live but unable to die. Clip!
Stile heard a tiny accordion-note snort near his ear. The roach was seething. No unicorn should be treated like this!
Half a dozen armed goblins guarded the unicorn. Four were leaning against the wall; one was drinking a swig of something foul, and the sixth was entertaining himself by pricking Clip with the point of his spear. The forlorn unicorn hardly even winced; he seemed beyond the point of resistance and did not make a good subject for teasing. Blood streaked his once-glossy blue coat from prior cuts, and his mane was limp and tangled. Flies swarmed, yet his tail hardly twitched to flick them off.
Stile heard the roach on his head breathing hard, with accordion-chord wheezes. The Herd Stallion suffered no one to treat a member of his herd this way, and was in danger of exploding again. "Nay, Stallion," Stile whispered. "Thou must hold form until thou dost get inside. Neither I nor any of thine other forms can pass these bars mechanically; they are too strong and tight. Go inside, warn Clip, then take action against the guards before they strike."
The Stallion blew a low note of agreement. Stile put his hand to his head, and the roach climbed on it. Stile set the roach on the floor in the comer near the bars.
"Hey — who art thou, rockhead?" a goblin guard cried.
Uh-oh. He had to distract attention from the roach, lest a goblin spot it and idly step on it. The Herd Stallion was vulnerable in that form, and could not shift quickly enough to counter an abruptly descending foot.
"I just wanta see the creep," Stile said. "I heard you got a horsehead in here without a horn."
"That's none of thy business," the goblin snapped. "No unauthorized idiots allowed. That specifically means thee."
The roach was now crawling uncertainly along the wall. Obviously it wasn't used to clinging to vertical surfaces, but didn't want to get stepped on. Progress was slow, so Stile had to stall longer.
"Oh, I do have business here, mucksnoot," Stile said, and of course that was the truth. "I have come to.take the 'corn away."
"Thou art crazy, manface! We have orders to 'kill this brute as soon as our armies finish massing and the enemy Adept be trapped. He's not going anywhere."
So they weren't going to let Clip live, regardless of Stile's response. And they expected to trap Stile himself. This was a straight kidnap-hostage-murder plot. No honor among goblins!
The roach, overhearing the dastardly scheme, lost its footing and fell to the floor with a loud-seeming click and whoosh of accordion-breath. Stile was afraid it would attract attention. It lay on its back, six legs waving, trying to recover its footing. Oh, no!
"Thou art not up on the latest, foulfoot," Stile said sneeringly. "You guards will be executed before the hostage is." This, too, he intended literally.
His certainty daunted the goblin. Apparently such betrayals did happen in the nether realms. "Aw, whatcha know about it, gnarltoes?" the goblin blustered.
The roach had finally struggled to right-side-up position, with tiny musical grants. Any goblin who paid attention would immediately catch on
that this was no ordinary vermin! Stile had to keep talking.
"I know a lot about it, mandrakenose. That 'corn's the steed of an Adept, isn't it?"
"Sure, smarty, and that's why he ain't dead yet. To keep that Adept off our backs till he's out of the picture. We got Adepts of our own, but they don't like to tangle with each other, so we're keeping this one clear this way. The fool likes animals. We're just doing our job here; no reason to wipe us out." He looked at Stile uncertainly. "Is there?"
The roach had finally reached Clip. Stile relaxed. Just a few more seconds, and it would be all right. "How about what that other Adept thinks? Once he knows thy part, he'll come for thee — and what other Adept would breathe a spell to help thee?"
But as he spoke, Stile saw Clip lift a forefoot, eying the roach. He was about to crash it, not realizing its identity.
"Clip!" Stile called. "No!"
Then things happened one on top of another. All six goblin guards whirled, scrambled, and looked up, depending on their starting positions, to orient on the hornless unicorn. The magic roach let out a chord and scuttled away from Clip's poised hoof. Clip's head jerked about, his ears rotating to cover Stile.
"It's a trick!" the goblin nearest Stile cried. "This creep's been bugging me about the hostage. Kill him!"
It wasn't clear whether he referred to Clip or to Stile. It hardly mattered. The alarm had been sounded.
Two goblins thrust their spears at Clip. One stomped at the roach. The one nearest Stile poked his spear through the bars to skewer Stile. The remaining two set up a scream for help.
Clip suddenly animated, swinging his horn about to skewer a goblin. But he had no horn, only the truncated stump. The goblin was merely brushed aside by Clip's nose and struck out with a horny fist.
The roach skittered out of the way and began to expand like a demon amulet that had been invoked. Stile dodged the spear.
In moments the Herd Stallion stood within the prison chamber, stomping his hooves, snorting fire. His horn was not truncated. It blurred as it lunged at one goblin, then at a second and a third, before any could flee. Three goblins were lifted into the air, skewered simultaneously on that terrible spike.
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