Juxtaposition aa-3

by Piers Anthony

Now Stile was prepared to place the first wad of explosive. But as he returned his awareness to his invisible body, he discovered that Sheen was already attending to it. She had mined two wedges and was on the third. But the goblins were all about, digging their trenches and organizing themselves for the battle.

  Stile had always thought of goblins as occurring in undisciplined hordes; these were highly disciplined. They were supervised by sergeants and commissioned officers, their insignia of rank painted or tattooed on their arms.

  Despite his indetectability, Stile was nervous. There were too many goblins, and they were poking around too many places; at any time, one of them could make a chance discovery of the plastic explosive. He needed to distract the goblins' attention right now, before the cyborgs and animalheads went into action, lest his game be lost at the outset.

  "Goblin leader," he murmured.

  He stood beside a command tent. An ugly goblin with an authoritative air was surveying the field with binoculars. "I trust it not," the goblin murmured. "They be too quiet."

  "Perhaps I can help thee," Stile said.

  The goblin glanced quickly at him, showing no surprise. "I had thought to see thee ere now, Adept," he said. "I be Grossnose, commander of this expedition."

  Stile could appreciate the derivation of the name; the goblin's nose was unusually large, and shaped like a many-eyed potato. But physical appearance had little to do with competence. Stile found himself liking this creature, for no better reason than that he must have risen to power in much the way Stile himself had, overcoming the liability of appearance to make his place in his society. "I compliment thy expertise," Stile said. "I had thought thy forces to be intercepted by our ogre detachment."

  "We force-marched around the ogres," Grossnose said. "They be not our enemy."

  "I prefer not to be thine enemy, either."

  "Then hear our terms for peace: leave the Phazite in place, and thy party will be granted safe passage elsewhere."

  "Declined," Stile said. "But if thy troops depart in peace, we will not hinder them."

  "Now understand this, Adept. If fight we must, we shall be forced to seek the source of thy power. We shall make a thrust for the book. We have held off so far only that it be not destroyed. The book may be more valuable than that entire ball of Phazite, and it were a shame to put it into hazard. But this forbearance makes mischief; already the Adepts be quarreling as to who shall possess that book. I prefer to leave it in thy hands, as thou art least corruptible by power. But I can not allow that demon ball to cross to Proton-frame; that be the end."

  "The end of the present order, mayhap," Stile said. "For Citizens and Adepts. They will have to share power more equitably in the new order. Other creatures will have proportionately more power, including thine own kind. Dost thou really oppose that?"

  "Nay," the goblin admitted with surprising candor. "But I do serve the present order."

  This was an honest, clever, incorruptible commander, the worst kind to oppose. "I regret what will come to pass," Stile said. "If we meet again after this is over, I would like to converse with thee again. But this next hour we are enemies."

  "Aye. Go about thy business, Adept. Thou dost know what be in the making."

  Stile knew. It was the irony of war that slaughter and destruction came about when both sides preferred peace. He faded out, and found himself back with Sheen.

  "We have to move fast," he said. "They are going to go after the book."

  Indeed, a troop of goblins were already charging the hill, lasers blazing. But they were met by the animalheads, who sprang from ambush and grappled with the goblins before the latter's modern weapons could be brought into play against this close-range opponent. The goblins' inexperience with such weapons cost the enemy dearly now; the animalheads were wresting them from the goblins and using them themselves.

  Simultaneously the cyborgs commenced action — and their weapons were completely modern. Some had stunners, some gas jets, some lasers, and some projectile hurlers, and they knew how to use them. The battle was on.

  Stile and Sheen moved hastily along their projected channel, placing the remaining explosive. Their hour was passing, and the plastic would detonate at its assigned moment regardless of their proximity. It was funny stuff, gray-white and slightly tacky to the touch, like modeling clay; it could be torn into fragments of any size, shaped as desired, and it would adhere to whatever it was pressed against. They fitted it into the chinks of stones like mortar, and on the undersurfaces of wooden beams. The goblins should not notice the plastic unless warned about its nature.

  The sounds of the battle behind became louder. Stile looked back — and saw a squadron of winged dragons coming from the south. The cyborgs fired bazookas at them. Their aim was excellent — but after the first few dragons went down in flames, the others took evasive action. They dived down close to the ground and strafed the cyborgs with their flaming breath. The goblins who had been engaging the cyborgs screamed; that strafing was hurting them, while the metal bodies of the machine-men withstood the heat better. The dragons might as well have been the cyborgs' allies.

  "Keep moving," Sheen cautioned Stile. Indeed, he had become distracted by the action, forgetting his own important role. He hurried to place more plastic.

  But haste made waste. They ran out of plastic and time before the job was done; several barriers remained. They had had enough of each, and had wasted part of both. "We must move," Sheen warned. "In ten minutes the plastic detonates, with or without us."

  "Better head back for the ball," Stile said. "I want to be ready just before the plastic goes off, so we can start the ball rolling right at the moment of goblin disorganization."

  They began running back toward the Phazite. New contingents of goblins were arriving from the north; they were swarming all over. Stile saw that the enemy was winning the battle of the hill; both animalheads and cyborgs were being contained and decimated. The goblins were absorbing huge losses, but prevailing because of their greater numbers and overall organization. A new force was advancing toward the Phazite. They would overrun the site before Stile could return.

  "Conjure us there!" he cried.

  "Can't," Sheen snapped. "The enemy Adepts have focused their full attention on this place, blocking off new magic. They're learning how to impede the potent book spells by acting together. This is the final squeeze, Stile."

  "Then send my image there; that's an existing spell."

  Suddenly his image was in the chamber. There were the Brown Adept and the troll, holding laser rifles clumsily, trying to oppose the advancing goblins. The remaining golems stood about awkwardly; their hands were not coordinated enough to handle modern weapons, and their wooden minds not clever enough to grasp this rapidly changing situation.

  "That's no good," Stile said. "You can't stop a hundred vicious goblins by yourselves."

  They looked at him, startled. "We feared for thee!" Brown exclaimed.

  "Fear for thyself; they will be upon thee before I can return in the flesh. They want the book, and we must keep it away from them at any cost." Stile pondered a moment. "Trool — canst thou take Brown and the book into the tunnel and shield them with thine invisibility?"

  Trool faded out. In a moment Brown faded out too. "Aye," his voice came. "But it is not safe in the tunnel, Adept; goblins are coming from the far end. We have blocked them off for the moment, but-"

  "Canst thou fly with her to safety?" Stile cut in. Time was so short! "It need be but for a few minutes, until the explosive we have set goes off. Then will the enemy Adepts' attention be distracted, and we can use the spells of the book to protect ourselves."

  "I will try," Trool's voice came. From several feet up, Brown cried, "Hey, this is fun!" Then they were out a ceiling aperture and away.

  The goblins burst in, caving in the mound walls with pikes. They spied Stile and charged him — but their points had no effect on his image. On inspiration, he pretended that he could be hurt, and dodged about t
o avoid the thrusts, so as to distract them as long as possible. He didn't want them working on the Phazite ball, now vulnerable.

  The golems were still standing awkwardly. Stile realized that they needed to be told what to do. "Protect yourselves!" he cried. "Golems, fight the goblins!"

  Now the golems acted. They were neither smart nor swift, but they were as tough as wooden planks. The goblins swarmed over each golem and were hurled back violently. Yes, it was after all possible to make a decent fight of it!

  Abruptly he was back with Sheen, at the base of the hill. The two of them were running through the battlefield, and it was grim. Goblins and animalheads lay dead and dying. This was where the animalheads had been fated to lose half their number, he realized. Some cyborgs were here too, their metal lying twisted and smoking; Stile saw one with its metal skull cracked open, the human brain exposed and shriveled. The odor of carnage was strong.

  "We must find help," Sheen said, "to clean out the goblins and get the ball rolling."

  "I wish we could save these creatures in pain," Stile said.

  "We can't do it now. Once the ball crosses, we can."

  Stile knew it was true. They had to move the ball first. Now only seconds remained before the plastic detonated.

  They found a bearhead just recovering consciousness. Stile put his hand on the creature's shoulder, breaking the invisibility-spell for this one individual. "We need thee," Stile said. "Follow us."

  "Aye, Blue," the bearhead agreed dizzily.

  Sheen found a cyborg in the process of self-repair; it had lost a foot, but was affixing the foot of a dead cyborg in its place. Sheen introduced herself similarly. The four hurried on.

  As they reached the crest of the hill, they smelled smoke. Something was burning in the mound. "The golems!" Sheen said grimly.

  Stile winced. He knew the wooden golems were not truly alive, but surely they hurt when they burned. The goblins had used a devastating weapon, and the Brown Adept would be mortified.

  They charged the mound, staring into its broken chamber. In the smoke of the golem bonfire, the goblins were trying to push the ball back into the spiral tube. The ball was shaking, starting to rock. Soon they would get it moving.

  The four burst into the chamber. The goblins cried out and scattered as they saw the bearhead and cyborg, but rallied in a moment and drew their weapons. Stile and Sheen, invisible to them, knocked the pistols from the goblins' hands. Unable to fathom this new menace, the goblins nevertheless fought bravely, overwhelming their opposition, both visible and invisible, by force of numbers.

  Then the plastic explosive detonated. The barrier wedges blew up, raining fiery pieces on the heads of the goblin army. The goblins in the mound disengaged and dashed out to see what new danger threatened. There was general disorganization.

  "Now we roll it!" Stile cried. The four of them, joined by a charred but surviving golem, picked up the scattered limbs of golems and their tools and started levering the ball forward. They were more disciplined and purposeful than the goblins had been, and the ball was poised for this direction, but it was so massive they had just as much trouble budging it. "We need better levers!" Stile gasped. But he knew of none within range — and now they heard the goblins charging up the spiral tunnel. There was no time for a search.

  A hawk flew into the chamber. "Clip!" Stile exclaimed. "What art thou doing here?"

  The unicorn changed to man-form. "I knew thou wouldst foul it up by thyself, Adept," he said. "Mere men always do. So I brought some friends to bail thee out."

  Now a bee, a hummingbird, and a blue heron flew in, changing to three more unicorns. The third had an iridescent mane. "Belle!" Stile said, recognizing her.

  "She was wandering toward the battle," Clip said diffidently. "I could not leave her to such danger, and she does feel she owes thee, Adept, for the manner in which she was used to-"

  "Yes, of course!" Stile agreed. "The four of you-help us push this ball down the hill!"

  Clip shifted to equine form and played musical directions on his sax-horn. He was answered by a violin, tuba, and ringing-bell tune of agreement. The four put their horns carefully down into the crevice between ball and floor; then, musically coordinated, they levered up and forward.

  Just like that, the ball moved. The unicorns repeated the process, working it over the dirt and rabble and outside. It was a slow, difficult task, but they worked well and kept the ball crunching forward.

  Goblins burst in from the spiral tunnel. Stile, Sheen, and the bearhead, the cyborg, and the remaining golem turned to face them, protecting the unicorns' flanks. The goblins, seeing only three motley opponents, charged — and discovered the hard way that there were five. In this cramped, littered space, it was a fair match.

  Then the ball nudged over the brink and started rolling down the slope in the direction Stile had dictated. The unicorns, their task done, turned to face the goblins — who suddenly lost their eagerness to fight, seeing the odds shift so substantially.

  "Mount!" Stile cried, trusting the unicorns to cooperate. "Follow that ball!" And he leaped onto the nearest steed — who happened to be Belle. She spooked, never before having borne a rider, but heard Clip's musical clarification and immediately settled down. Sheen took the golem and mounted Clip, and the bearhead and cyborg mounted the remaining two. They charged down the slope.

  For an instant Stile was daunted by the improbability of it all: a man, a cyborg, a robot, an animalhead, and a wooden golem, all riding unicorns through a battlefield strewn with goblins and dragons, pursuing an invaluable ball of power-rock that rolled along a channel cleared by plastic explosive. What a mishmash!

  Mishmash? No — this was juxtaposition. The complete mergence of magic and science. He should enjoy it while it lasted, for it would not last long. Already he thought he felt the influence of the Platinum Flute weakening, as the strength of the Foreordained became exhausted.

  Belle was a fine steed, running smoothly and swiftly, her lovely mane like silk in his grasp. But of course she was smooth; she had won the Unolympics dance event! "Belle, I thank thee for this service," he breathed, knowing she heard him despite the rush of air and booming of the passage of the Phazite ball, for her left ear rotated toward him. "I will try to do thee some return favor, when I can." And she made a faint bell-melody in response.

  Meanwhile, the ball was gathering velocity. It crunched down the hill, leaving its smooth, small channel. Where bodies were in the way, they too were flattened. The Phazite was ponderous and inexorable, crushing everything in its path. The live goblins, seeing its onrush, scattered out of its way in alarm. This was the sensible thing to do.

  The four unicorns galloped after it, losing headway as the ball rolled down the steepest section of the slope. All the goblins were watching it now, seeing its passage through the erstwhile barriers. For them, this progress was disaster.

  But Stile knew the war was not over. Several barriers remained in place, and the slope reversed farther to the north. Stile's big gamble was with the giants and the route. If he had judged all aspects correctly, he would win — but at this moment he was in severe doubt.

  The ball encountered the standing barrier wedges and blew them apart. They had not diverted it perceptibly, and seemed not to have slowed it, but Stile knew crucial impetus had been lost. Would the ball carry far enough?

  Now the terrain was gently rolling, largely clear of trees. Stile had planned this carefully on the map. The ball sailed up the slope, and down, and onward. It was right on target. But it was slowing, as it had to, for the incidental resistance of the miles was cumulative.

  The Proton-frame terrain, unobtrusive so far because of its barrenness, suddenly became prominent in the form of a cluster of force-field domes. The isolated estates of Citizens, perhaps occupied at the moment, perhaps not. There was a peculiar appeal to such technology set in such an absolutely barren environment, a nugget of complete wealth in complete poverty, like a diamond in sand.

  S
trange that he should see it this way, Stile thought — then realized that it was in fact the perspective of his other self, to whom the entire frame of Proton was a novelty, much as the frame of Phaze was to Stile. What was commonplace to Stile was a miraculous new discovery to Blue.

  The ball was rolling toward a linked trio of small domes. The connecting tubes arched high, leaving sufficient clearance below to pass the Phazite-but the ball eschewed that obvious passage to crash right into the westernmost dome. The dome disappeared as its force-field generator was taken out, leaving the serfs gasping in expectation of the sudden decompression. But there was the Phaze atmosphere, here in the juxtaposition; they discovered to their surprise that they could breathe quite well outside. It was every bit as real as the ball, of course.

  One serf ran blindly out in front of Stile's steed; Belle tried to swerve, but the serf's erratic course made avoidance uncertain. "Serf — turf!" Stile sang, willing the message. He wanted the man to be removed to a safe spot, suitable turf. Nothing happened, and he realized that Sheen's repressive enchantment against Adept spells remained in force. Fortunately Belle managed to miss the man, and they galloped on past the domes. Just as well the magic hadn't worked; the enemy Adepts would be casting spells furiously now, trying to sidetrack the Phazite, to conjure imposing barriers or trenches in its path, and Sheen's counterspell was the only protection against this.

  It was not hard to keep up with the ball now as it slowly lost velocity. Had Stile started it at a different angle, it could have proceeded down a long valley and maintained speed. But he had elected to go the more difficult, surprising route, gambling the fate of the frames on his hunch. The giants should be arriving soon, and the other thing — he would not say, lest it be overheard.

  The slope changed, and the ball slowed more definitely. This was the beginning of the rise he knew would balk it. No goblins were in evidence; he had at least been successful in fooling them. Probably there was a huge concentration at the other route and many barriers, pits, and various obstructive things. If the giants arrived in time, there would be no trouble.