Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Now that John had come to realize the imbalance in the fighting potential of the two sides, in a strange way, he was disappointed. Had he been looking forward to a cataclysm unseen for centuries, a clash between medieval titans? No time for soul searching at the moment.

  For now, his only decision was when to unleash his army on this bloodless rabble, a choice, given the pathetic "army" down below, he could make at his leisure.

  Until now, ready to use whatever "magical" tricks he could invent to psych up the Stil-de-grain army for the coming battle, John saw that the situation had been altered. Facing, not an army, but a rabble, he must take a different ethical position. No longer any doubt that the victory would be his, John's moral duty was to be a moderating force, as any man of conscience strives to minimize the shedding of innocent blood.

  Now that he'd seen the enemy, observed for himself their unnatural look -- to say nothing of the bizarre way they were rooting up the plain -- John had come to feel ... almost sorry for them. Clearly, they were as trapped into playing the part of destroyer as John had been forced into his role as Mage.

  Where was this diabolic Auro? This devil-king of Mages!? At home, no doubt, pulling (from a safe distance) the puppet strings of his suffering people.

  The scouting party returning to the army, following a late lunch, John called for a private meeting with Etexin.

  First, there was some preliminary discussion of the muscularity of the enemy, the Head saying the men of Azare had the reputation of being even stronger than those of Malachite. On the other hand, neither John nor the Head had seen the foe perform any feats of strength. If anything, the slowness of the foreigner's movements argued for weakness. John's speculation was that the total darkness in which the enemy lived had sapped whatever innate force they might once have had, both John and Etexin feeling that the fighting prowess of the individual Azare "soldier" could be discounted.

  They talked about tactics, John suggesting that the Head simply show his forces to the ragtag civilians in the valley, in this way overawing them as a means to affect their surrender, Etexin fighting that idea (as much as his cringing ways would allow) until John -- having doubts himself about just how "terrifying" the sight of the Stil-de-grain army would be -- stopped arguing for a non-lethal show of strength.

  After that, the only sticking point was John's plan to be "nice" to the adversary by killing as few of them as possible.

  "But, great Mage, they are the enemy!" pleaded the Army Head.

  "I'm not arguing that we risk our troops in any way. Just that we defeat these people with as little loss of life as possible." From the shocked look on Etexin's face, saving enemy life was a prospect that failed to "compute."

  John finally compromised; the army Head promising to spare a fleeing foe.

  After that came John's late afternoon message of encouragement to the troops, carried to them by their officers.

  And a good night's sleep for all.

  Well before up-light the following morning, John was dressed in his Wizard regalia, he mood matching the usual drizzling rain and fog of dawn. An inglorious beginning to an inglorious day.

  A quick staff meeting and the army of Stil-de-grain was mustered, the troops headed out to the beat of muffled drums, John -- with Platinia and Golden behind him -- joining the Army Head in the vanguard.

  A thousand, quiet yards and Etexin halted the troops back of the low range of hills that formed this side of the "enemy's valley."

  From their position front and center, John and the Head slipped forward to lie on their bellies below the crest of a sheltering rise of ground. Peeking over the ridge, John saw that the enemy had continued to "eat" its destructive way across the valley floor. Up as early as the troops of Stil-de-grain, the "white" forces were back to their dreary, monomaniacal task of uprooting everything along their line of "march."

  Seeing no military change, Etexin moved back to take charge of the army, John staying at the ridge line as forward observer.

  Other than an occasional, distant scrape of hoes against rock, the valley was as quiet as the pristine day of this world's creation. The people below him did not march to trumpet or to drum. They didn't even speak.

  To right and left, the slowly undulating line of stooped, white civilians passed beyond John's line of sight. This army of "worker ants" had to come to an end somewhere, though, Etexin assuring John at that morning's staff meeting that the population of Azare was as limited as the size of the band.

  In position at last, the massed forces of Stil-de-grain ... waited. Waited for the last trace of morning mist to leave the valley floor.

  Then, it was time!

  From his position as observer, John signaled to Etexin at John's back.

  Behind John, Etexin held up one hand, that readiness sign passed silently along the Stil-de-grain front, soldiers drawing their swords quietly, bracing their spears under their arms, shields up.

  On the army's flanks, archers prepared to rain death from the heights; had arrows notched to strings.

  Though it hardly seemed necessary, the mangonels were positioned to cover a possible retreat.

  Everyone ready, a sharp command from Etexin brought a penetrating blast from oliphants and trombas! Wild drumming on the tabors followed, the drummers catching each other's beat to pound the cadence of attack!

  With a mighty shout, the pride of Stil-de-grain spilled over the ridge and down the hill, making the deafening roar of water plunging through a newly broken dam! An irresistible wave, shoulder to shoulder, rank on rank, file following file.

  Still in his position at the hill's crest, John jumped up to see that the enemy in the valley had stopped digging, the "ghost people" straightening to look up at the army topped the hill. Not blind, then.

  The surprise was that the riffraff, under imminent attack, did not do what John had expected -- run. Instead ... they ... waited. Waited with a dead calm, hoes in hand, scythes up. Waited in place to offer what feeble resistance they could to the Stil-de-grain juggernaut. The night before, John had argued against this massive charge because he thought all that would be needed to panic the enemy was a sudden show of force. Given the enemy's reaction to a full, frontal assault, however, Etexin had been right to resist that ploy.

  John could hear the twang of bowstrings now, see chalky bodies fall as flight arrows from the ridge line found their marks.

  Meanwhile, the soldier-torrent continued to surge pass John to either side, as rank upon rank of infantry rolled over the ridge, the foremost lines flowing out on the plain below. If anything, John was surprised to see how orderly the army was, except for "rebel yells," no blood lust in their eyes.

  The front ranks closing ground over the flat by this time, the moment came when, with a shout, the troops broke, first into a controlled trot, then into a disciplined run.

  A clash! The foremost rank of the army falling upon the white civilians.

  Swords flashed, spears pierced chests, heavy shields crushed milky bodies to the ground.

  This time, what John had expected to happen ... did. In no more than a minute of combat, the army sliced through the enemy's line along a wide front, leaving in its wake a blood reddened relic of what used to be human. Swept through to turn, to regroup for the next change, this time rolling sharply to the right to strike another segment of the foe's ragged line.

  Again, a few minutes of gleaming swordplay against hoe handles and the army flooded through another huge gap in the splattered, albumen line.

  Wheeled. Formed up.

  It was then, at the far edges of the enemy's line, that John saw a change. The Whites were ... bunching ... that effect caused by the foe to either side coming to the support of their people in the center. Until now looking like a long, white rubber band, stretched thin, the foreigners were thickening as their line contracted toward the center. But slowly, as the foe did ... everything. They fought slowly, died slowly, brought forward more people to support the gaping hole in their center ... slowly
.

  Again, the Stil-de-grain army charged, the foe not so much fighting back as clinging to the troops, hanging on them. As for the dreaded white beasts, they were as sluggish as the people, dogs chewing feebly at the troops' heels, ponies pawing and trying to bite with their stubby teeth.

  The soldiers broke through again, once more leaving a jagged hole clotted with enemy dead, here and there among the fallen enemy, a downed solider.

  And still the white civilians came, closing on the center from both sides.

  For the first time, John felt a ripple of fear along his spine. While Stil-de-grain's army was winning the battles, the troops could lose the war. Ironically, John was seeing battle tactics worked against his forces that he'd planned to use himself. The reason he'd had "citizen soldiers" drafted into the Stil-de-grain army was to be able to use overwhelming numbers of inductees to turn the tide of battle against the smaller, professional army of Malachite. Now ... that tactic was being used against him. This was not to be a war of total victory, but of attrition, a war that, given the seemingly inexhaustible supply of enemy personnel, John's forces were doomed to lose.

  Another regrouping of the troops was underway, this time with Heads shouting at the exhausted soldiers, officers beating laggards, the army slowly pulling together for another charge. For yet another, pyrrhic victory.

  Something had to be done, but what? "You see what's happening!?" John called to Etexin, the cacophony of the battle rising from the plain coming exclusively from the hoarse yelling of the Stil-de-grain troopers, the din making it difficult for John to be heard even though Etexin was standing five feet away. For his part, the Head had been commanding his regiments from the heights, using signal flags and trombas.

  "They can't stand the pressure for much longer!" Etexin yelled back.

  "Them or us?" The Head glanced over at John, Etexin's face as bloodless as the skin of the enemy.

  "Perhaps a retreat ....!?" the Army Head called.

  Withdrawal would save what was left of the army. Nor, as slowly as the enemy moved, would there be any pursuit of the fleeing troops. But how "running away to win the war another day" would lead to ultimate victory, John couldn't see. True, giving the troops a rest would mean they would be more effective killing machines at some later date. It was just that against those numbers, it made no difference.

  Could a retreat buy time for John to counter with his own draftees ....? No. His civilians would never fight like that.

  Defeat loomed before John's eyes, failure something John had never taken passively. His mind was awhirl. There had to be something he could do! There was always some way out of any difficulty. He would not be vanquished! John had never lost a prize he'd set out to achieve!

  John could feel the blood surge through his veins, his head throb. A cold anger was building in him. Defeat. He would not accept defeat!

  Before John realized it, he was shouting at the troops below! He couldn't stand by and see his men dragged down!

  Magic! That was what was being used against him. No one with an undrugged mind met death as bravely as the enemy. Magic! Satanic power!

  Glancing to the side, looking to the Head for a solution, John saw that Platinia had come forward to gaze at John with her peculiar stare.

  At that, John felt his anger change from cold to raging hot! For Platinia! He must win to save Platinia!

  Abruptly, as in a seizure, John jerked up the Crystal, clutching it tight in his hands, showing it to the troops below, trying to inspire them.

  Frantically, he rubbed the disk, felt the static build, the tingle matching his rising hatred of the enemy.

  John willed his troops to win! He willed the enemy to ... die!

  Suddenly, from the Crystal, a flash of golden light leaped toward the plain, light that ... struck down numbers of the foe.

  Force! Brute power! John felt it build within him. A paroxysm of killing fury he could call down on anyone he liked!

  Seeming to grow to majestic heights, extending his right arm, pointing with the outstretched fingers of his hand, John directed xanthic fire to sweep from his fingertips, jagged streams of burnished terror lashing the enemy to the ground.

  Continuing to direct the power with his hand, John swept the auric blaze up and down the line of enemy, the foe ... withering like new scythed wheat ... falling where they stood, the shattering force of the blast tearing them apart.

  Dropping the Crystal, with his other hand, John sprayed electric flame on the white forces to the other side, blasting them apart along the entire line, as far as he could see.

  Then, as if released from a spell, what was left of the enemy ... turned ... were ... running, stumbling back across the devastation they had caused, floundering away across the loose, bare ground. Men, women, children.

  The maniacal frenzy still upon him, John rubbed the crystal frantically to summon even greater power, as the god-like force build again, stretched out both hands to blast the retreating foe with seething bolts, withering them to blackness as they tried to run!

  Until ... abruptly ... his power had been ... drained.

  The electric virulence within the Crystal had been spent.

  Enraged, John howled with a fury he had never known! Seethed with a single thought: to rend all who had dared to thwart his will! He must explode them; grind the bloody fragments of their bodies into the earth!

  From the edges of his raving mind, John heard ... cheering; paeans of joy drifting up to him from the ranks below. Nearer, he was bombarded with the hurrahs of the officer corps crowding around him on the hill.

  Dimly, John realize he had won. That Platinia was ... safe at last. That Stil-de-grain was saved.

  The red coals of hatred ... cooled. He could ... see again. Feel again.

  Know that the Head and his junior officers were pounding him on the back. Were joyous! Reverential to him! Falling to their knees before him!

  He was himself. Himself and yet so much more than he had ever been because of the god-like power he'd caused to be unleashed.

  Able to think once more, John began to realize just how he'd used that magic force. And used it. And used it again. In the end, to shatter a fleeing enemy. Hurled it against ... women. .... Children. ... He'd cut them to pieces as they tried to get away.

  Sobered by the reality of what he'd done, John wondered dimly how it could have happened? How could he have ... slaughtered ... children ... who were running for their lives? Children whose only "sin" was enslavement by demonic power.

  In his mind's eye, John saw, again, the children ... blasted to the ground, exploded from within, body pieces blackened, shriveled ....

  Surrounding him, John heard the shouts of victory.

  Within his soul, knew the desperation ... of defeat.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 22

  Returning with the army, John was more automaton than man. He no longer heard the sounds of marching men. He did not smell the burgeoning dust of the road. He did not hear the moans and screams of the Stil-de-grain wounded as they jounced along in "ambulance carts."

  He ate without tasting, slept without resting.

  In spite of the fawning attention of those around him, he was alone.

  Alone with self-loathing.

  Days passed. How many, he didn't know. He walked with the army, grunted answers to occasional questions.

  It was only gradually that he began to realize that the unnatural acts he'd committed could have happened only in this unnatural world. Here, forces were at work that changed him, altered his perceptions, controlled his actions. He came to see that, in such a place, it was irrational to hold himself solely responsible for his actions. The only way that blame could be ascribed to him alone would be to choose to remain in this demon-haunted world a single day longer than he must!

  As for the Crystal -- itself, a lawless mind -- its failed power had been restored. John could feel the Crystal "calling to him," pulsing there, below his throat.

  So it was
that, as the army neared Hero castle -- the "porthole" home -- John left the troops, taking the track to the mountain stronghold. Just John and his immediate party.

  Etexin and the Stil-de-grain forces continued the march to Xanthin, the army Head already formulating plans for the relief of Carotene, a task that (though the Head didn't know it) must be accomplished without John's barbaric magic.

  John -- if there was any way to do it -- was going home.

  The members of John's party were now at supper, the first meal they'd had since their arrival at the castle that afternoon: John, the Weird, Platinia, and Golden.

  Around John in the gray, high-ceilinged room were the familiar clerestory windows, buff tapestries, cooking pit with its assorted kettles.

  At home here as much as anywhere in this "realm," the only jarring note was Chryses' absence.

  The castle slaveys were there to serve. The older ones only, the younger women Yarro had captured, still gone.

  To tell the truth, so preoccupied was John with his "exit" problem that he hardly noticed the room or its people. The only question that mattered? Would the static electric power of the Weird's Crystal, aided by what John could generate with Melcor's yellow pendant, be enough to take him home?

  He didn't know. But was going to find out.

  Down-light coming shortly, they were finishing a mixed-meat stew, fruit, and wine.

  With no appetite, thought fragments drifted through John's mind.

  Odd how castle slaveys had continued to live their lives, as if the place still had a master.

  Like Chryses, they probably had no place to go.

  In such ways are the palaces of kings the property of servants as well as potentates.

  John's glance falling on his companions, he turned his thoughts to how he could provide for them should he be successful in returning to his own world.

  Since the citadel "ran itself," John decided he would install Platinia as the head of Hero castle, the girl able to give what few orders the slaveys needed to keep the bastion in good order. With her quiet, retiring, fearful ways, he thought the girl would like hiding here. The Weird could stay also, mumbling and Crystal gazing to her heart's content.