"Another brick in the wall," said Jack stoically.
Leaning forward, he tapped Cassandra on the shoulder. "I'm tired of sitting and waiting for our mysterious host to arrive. I think it's time for us to find him."
"I agree," said Cassandra, opening the car door and stepping outside. "Patience is not one of my virtues."
Jack, Simon and Sylvester joined her. Seen in the moonlight, the dilapidated old service station didn't appear very threatening. By now, Jack knew that appearances could be deceiving. The office building and accompanying garage were completely dark. There were no lights anywhere.
Sylvester, quiet as a mouse since recovering from his paralysis, raised his head into the night air and sniffed deeply. "I should have guessed," said the familiar. "Dwarf."
Cassandra turned to the Buick and ran a hand along the gash in the roof made by the Huntsman's sword. She nodded slightly, as if mentally answering a question.
"The Little Men take great pride in their work," said the Amazon. "When they do a job, they do it right. Perhaps our vehicle carries a lifetime warranty."
"My thoughts exactly," said Sylvester. The cat paused for a second to lick its paws. "After sustaining major damage, the Buick was compelled to return here for repairs."
"Hold on," said Jack. "We're talking about a car, not somebody's pet. This isn't Lassie. It's a hunk of metal."
"In Norse legends didn't Thor's hammer, Mjolnir, return to his hand after he threw it?" asked Cassandra. "And in those swords-and-sorcery novels you enjoy so much, what about Elric's sword, Stormbringer? I recall it flying back to him more than once."
She laughed at Jack's astonished expression. "You're not the only one who reads that stuff, Jack. Lots of supernaturals keep up with the fantasy field. It's quite entertaining."
Cassandra winked. "I've even heard a few of us write it."
Before Jack could ask who in particular, Simon interrupted. "Quiet down. I think I hear someone coming."
By now, Jack's vision had adjusted to the moonlight. His eyes widened when he saw the figure pacing towards them. Walking in slow, measured steps, swaying from side to side, the being was as broad as he was tall. Five feet high and five feet wide, he resembled a gorilla with short stumpy legs, huge arms that dangled almost to the ground, and a thick bullet head perched directly on his immense shoulders without benefit of a neck. But no gorilla in the world wore a bushy black beard and long curled mustache. Nor did any ape hum the tune to the Don McLean song "American Pie" as he walked.
The dwarf, for he could be nothing else, stopped short when he spotted the four of them clustered by the Buick. He was dressed in a loose-fitting brown uniform with the namepatch "Fritz" sewn over one pocket.
"A greasemonkey," Simon whispered to Jack. Seeing his friend's confused expression, the changeling hurried to explain. "When the dwarfs came to this country, most of them drifted into the automotive repair field. They have a strange bond with cars. Notice the grease stains on his hands and face. That's how they gained the nickname."
"We're closed," the dwarf announced in a surprisingly mild voice. Jack had expected a tone deeper than a coal mine. "There's a 24-hour service station two miles down the road."
"We passed it on the trip here," said Cassandra pleasantly. "Our car refused to stop. It was determined to return to this particular location. A matter of a guarantee, I suspect."
"Hmm," said the dwarf and stepped closer. He stared at each of them for a second. "Three of the fey folk and a mortal?"
He focused on Jack's face, then shook his head as if amazed. "And him wearing rose-colored contact lenses. An odd grouping, I should think. Not that it's any of my business."
Reaching out, he touched the Buick's hood. His grease-stained fingers, the size of small sausages, gently caressed the metal. "My work, of course. Three summers ago, I rebuilt this car from scratch. The owner, an old schoolteacher who lived down the road, wanted a warranty in writing. I gave her a lifetime one covering all major repairs."
His gaze traveled across the auto until it rested on the huge rent in the roof. "That definitely qualifies," he declared, frowning so hard that his bushy black eyebrows almost covered his eyes.
"A college prank with buzzsaws?" he ventured.
"Try the Chaos Sword wielded by Dietrich von Bern," replied Jack. "What happened to the schoolteacher?"
"I heard she died," said the dwarf. "Never gave much thought again to the car. Glad it wasn't junked for scrap. I put a lot of work into the old wreck. You did say Dietrich von Bern?"
"Right," said Jack, catching the note of distaste in the dwarf's voice. "Also called the Master of the Gabble Ratchets, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, and assorted other less honorable titles. You know him?"
The dwarf spat on the ground. "I am Fritz Grondark, of the family Grondark, of the Olden Folk who mankind calls dwarfs. Two hundred years ago, Dietrich von Bern approached my people about a special sword he wanted forged. Strictly neutral in the war between good and evil, we accepted his commission on the condition that the weapon be used only in battle. The Olden Folk wanted, even indirectly, no innocent blood on their hands. Von Bern readily agreed to our terms. We should have known better."
"The Huntsman didn't keep his end of the bargain," said Cassandra, a knowing expression on her face.
"Aye," growled the dwarf. "The German betrayed us. He bathed the steel in the blood of the weak and the poor, the sick and the lame, the young and the defenseless. 'The Sword of Chaos,' men named the blade. And cursed the fools who made it."
Face twisted with anger, the dwarf gnashed together square yellow teeth. "Worse yet, the Huntsman never paid his bill. He was not only a liar, but a cheat!"
"Dwarfs are notoriously sensitive about debts," whispered Simon in Jack's ear. "Grondark could prove a useful addition to our party."
"My thoughts exactly," muttered Jack to the changeling.
The dwarf ran his thick fingers over the cut metal. "I can taste the blade's poison sinking into the steel," he declared, grimacing. "This wound requires immediate attention."
He stroked the Buick on the side, like a man petting a dog. "To the garage with you," he said, his voice gentle and caring. "Fritz Grondark honors his promises."
The Buick's engine coughed to life. Headlights flicked on. Gears shifted into drive. The emergency brake popped. Slowly but steadily, the unmanned auto drove off towards the rear of the old service station.
"Nothing to worry about," said Grondark. "It remembers where to go. My repair bays are in the back of the garage."
The dwarf squinted at Jack. "I gather you're the leader of this party. What's your quarrel with the Huntsman?"
"It's a long story," said Jack. "One that might interest you if you're willing to listen. There's a chance for money to be made. Maybe even offer a bold dwarf the possibility to collect on a long outstanding bill."
Grondark smiled. "When money talks, dwarfs listen. Come with me to my workshop. We can wet our whistles with some cold beer. And discuss these matters further."
Chapter 32
THEY SPENT THE rest of the night and most of the next morning at Fritz Grondark's garage. Cassandra, Simon and Sylvester slept, having skipped resting for long hours, while Jack remained awake and watched the dwarf work on the Buick. Much of that time, Jack related his adventures over the past few days.
The greasemonkey listened attentively, interrupting frequently to clarify specific points. The mention of the Universal Charge Card brought a gleam to his eye. He grunted in disgust at the Huntsman's treachery at the mathematics building. Cassandra's battle with the trolls had him grinning. Dwarfs and trolls, Jack discovered, were mortal enemies. But, more than anything else, the dwarf was fascinated by Jack's musings on the symbolism of cold iron.
"Of all the fey folk, only my people mined and forged cold iron," declared the dwarf as he pounded the Buick's roof with an immense hammer. "As neutrals in the eternal war between good and evil, we were not affected by the power of the star metal. Thus
, given to us was the task of creating the great swords of power."
The dwarf smiled as if recalling far-off days. "In our great caverns beneath the mountains, my brothers and I wrought the steel and etched the runes, bringing life to those blades. Even their names were magic—Durandel, Joyeuse, Excalibur. Those were exciting times, Jack Collins, exciting times."
"I understand," said Jack, captivated by Grondark's tale. "But what is the real secret of steel, of cold iron? Swords made from it killed dragons," continued Jack, trying to find an answer. "Peasant folk hung iron horseshoes over their doors to keep out demons. In Roman days, iron coffin nails provided protection against evil spirits. Magicians often used circles of magnetized iron to imprison ghosts. Yet, in modern times, Dietrich von Bern wields a steel sword. And the Border Redcaps use guns loaded with steel-jacketed slugs. What happened?"
"Perhaps," offered Grondark, smoothing out the steel, "it became too common? In ancient limes, only the mightiest warriors carried weapons of iron. Oftentimes, charms contained bits of iron, not gold."
"Too common," repeated Jack, his mind whirling. His thoughts from earlier in the evening came rushing back. "Good versus evil, order versus chaos. Symbols and specifics."
"What are you muttering?" asked Grondark.
"You mentioned the great swords of power," said Jack, leaping from one idea to another. "Why were all the famous weapons swords? Why not spears? Or axes?"
"There were a few of those," said Grondark, frowning, "but not many. Magic swords were always the weapon of choice. Heroes preferred them two or three to one over other killing devices. They loved their swords. Oftentimes, the damned fools insisted on being buried with them. As if grave robbers wouldn't dig them up a week later for the booty. At least Roland tried to destroy Durandel. Not that it did him much good. We built swords to last."
Like all the supernaturals, Grondark exhibited a tendency to rattle on if given the chance. Ordinarily, Jack would have found his meanderings fascinating, but not at the moment.
"Why swords?" Jack asked again, trying to steer the dwarf back in the right direction.
"They combine fire and iron," declared Grondark dramatically. "Swords are forged. They are fire and iron, united. A strong blade is the marriage between the two greatest forces of order."
Seeing the sudden look of comprehension on Jack's face, he asked, "Is that the secret. Jack Collins?"
"Yes," said Jack, the truth bursting within him. "Yes, that is the secret, Grondark."
"Then would you please explain it to me," said the dwarf, "because I have no idea what you are talking about."
"The important word is order," said Jack, slipping into his teaching mode. "Most superstitions are grounded in a fear of the unknown, of chaos. Primitive man was frightened by many things he did not understand, so he personified them—gave them form and substance. Which is how the first supernatural beings came into existence. They were creatures of the fear, the disorder, that surrounded and threatened early mankind.
"Then came the first major step in human progress. The taming of fire. Using it, man was no longer afraid of the dark. The night was still threatening, but it was not overwhelming. Fire was symbolic of the triumph of order over chaos, civilization over anarchy."
"What about cold iron?" asked the dwarf.
"Order over disorder, law over chaos," declared Jack. "That's the symbolism I was searching for. The conquest of fire led to the mastery of metal. Again, mankind used cold iron, used steel to transform society from the chaotic to the orderly. Iron weapons, iron horseshoes, iron nails brought order to the world. It drove out chaos.
"By definition, most supernatural beings, especially those of evil, were creations of chaos. Even the faeries, like Simon and his relatives, were considered mischief makers, trouble bringers. They were symbolic of disorder. That was why iron hurt them as well as the dragons, the monsters, the bogies. Order triumphed over chaos. That's the key."
"The key to what?" asked Cassandra, wandering into the garage, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "What's got you so excited, Jack?"
Swiftly, Jack outlined his theory to the Amazon. She remained silent until he finished.
"Not bad," she said. "But, if that's the case, why doesn't cold iron hurt Dietrich von Bern still? He's definitely a creature of chaos. As are the Border Redcaps."
"Because iron ceased to be symbolic of order a long time ago," said Jack. "The same applies to fire. Once, they both worked as forces of good in the world. Fire destroyed the worst evils; iron weapons killed terrible monsters. But Fritz hit the nail on the head when he said they became too common. Iron and steel were used not only for good, but for evil. Innocents as well as villains were burned to death by fire. Good people as well as bad were put to the sword. Each crime, each outrage, lessened their powers. Humanity no longer thought of cold iron being used only for righteous deeds. Once mankind realized that steel was neither good nor evil, but merely an extension of the user's desires, it lost all power as a symbol."
Jack shrugged his shoulders. "Guns don't kill people, as we've been told again and again. People kill people. Cold iron doesn't defeat evil because it no longer is symbolic of the triumph of order over chaos. In modern times, cold iron serves both law and chaos."
"Then nothing can defeat the Wild Huntsman," said Cassandra, her face ashen. "Nothing in this modern world is symbolic of the supremacy of order over chaos."
Jack smiled. He felt almost lightheaded, as revelation after revelation filled his consciousness. Unexplained mysteries suddenly made perfect sense.
"That's not true," he said cheerfully. "There are lots of things that fill the bill these days. We're surrounded by things that bring order to a chaotic universe. You merely have to change the way you're thinking. Von Bern is powerful and he has powerful allies. But I have a few surprises for our German friend."
Jack laughed out loud. "Everything fits together like a jigsaw puzzle. Order versus chaos. The Wild Huntsman has a Sword of Chaos, a Great Beast, and the Border Redcaps. That's a pretty awesome force. But we have logic on our side."
Jack was glowing with energy. "And, let me tell you, in the entire universe, nothing is more powerful than logic. Nothing at all."
Chapter 33
"YOU WANT TO go where?" asked Simon, late that afternoon.
"Back to campus," said Jack. "Tonight."
"That's what I thought you said," declared the changeling. "At least, now I know I'm not going crazy. You are."
Jack laughed. He and his friends sat clustered around Witch Hazel's tiny kitchen table. The addition of Fritz Grondark made conditions even more crowded than before. But, somehow they all fit in the front room of the mobile home.
"I'm tired of being chased, Simon," said Jack. "Ever since Merlin and Megan were kidnapped, I've been on the run. Von Bern and the Border Redcaps have kept me off balance so I can't interfere with their devilish scheme. Well, the time has come to stop running and start fighting."
"That's my type of talk," said Cassandra.
Fritz Grondark grunted in agreement. The dwarf, who had followed them back to the trailer camp in a massive tow truck, carried an immense monkey wrench hooked to his belt. Fritz made no secret of the fact he intended to use it on the skulls of any Border Redcaps, distant relatives of trolls, he encountered.
"The other day," Jack continued, "Hazel remarked that perhaps science and sorcery are actually the same but we're just too ignorant to realize it. There's a great deal of truth in what she said. I know how to defeat Von Bern and the Border Redcaps. But the equipment I need is at the college."
"Can't we buy the stuff?" asked Simon. "Or build it?"
"If we had the time," replied Jack. "But we don't. Tomorrow evening is Beltane. Trust me, Simon, raiding the college laboratories is our only chance to obtain the proper tools."
"For what?" asked Hazel. "You still haven't told us what weapons you intend to use against the Huntsman."
"Light defeats darkness," said Jack, smiling. "Order defe
ats chaos."
"Water washes mud," said Simon. "Which is about as clear as you've been lately. What does it matter, anyway? We still don't know where to find the German and his prisoners."
"Oh," said Jack. "I forgot to tell you. Right before von Bern attacked us on the highway, I figured out where he's holding the women captive."
For a moment, no one said anything. Then, the trailer rocked with the collective shout, "WHAT?!"
"Sorry," said Jack. Actually, he wasn't the least bit ashamed. After all the half-told stories, hints, and unexplained remarks made by the supernaturals, it felt pretty good to catch them completely by surprise.
"Once I combined all the clues, the location was obvious. January told us that the Huntsman bragged that his prisoners were beneath the feet of the police. That implied an underground hideaway. Megan mentioned a huge chamber, so I knew it couldn't be the basement of a warehouse. All of the kidnappings took place in the Loop and nowhere else, so it seemed logical to assume there was a reason for that. It was then that I remembered that when Merlin was kidnaped, no one saw his captors leave the building. Combining the two facts, it was obvious that they hadn't."
"Huh" said Simon. "Where did they go, then? Underneath?"
"Exactly," said Jack. "The Border Redcaps carried Megan and her father to the basement of the tower and then below it. As they did with all the women they captured."
He drew in a deep breath. "I phoned the main library information center an hour ago and had them do a quick search for me. Each and every one of the Loop buildings where a disappearance took place was once connected to the old underground tunnel transportation network beneath the Loop. That's where von Bern's hideout is located."
"The same tunnels that flooded a few years back?" said Hazel. "The ones used in the 1920's to bring goods into the Loop from the railroad yards?"
"That's them," said Jack. "The tunnels are all but forgotten now, but at the turn of the century they were considered an engineering marvel. The dirt excavated in their construction was used as landfill on Lake Michigan and became the site of the Field Museum."
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