The Warslayer

by Edghill, Rosemary

  She mascaraed her pale lashes and slathered on the kohl, and finished up with a liberal application of blood-red MAC lipstick. When she was done, the masklike face of Vixen the Slayer stared back at her from the mirror, yellow eyes gleaming out of Goth-black rings. She sighed, and reached for Gordon, resting her chin on his head. The big blue elephant had traveled everywhere with her since she was six and attending her first out-of-town gymnastics competition. At least he was a familiar face in a town full of strangers.

  And a room full of strangers as well: her dressing-room was filled with an ever-growing collection of licensed Vixen tie-ins. The eighteen-inch stuffed Vixen doll—the full set of action figures (including the very rare Lilith Kane, the Duchess of Darkness)—the Franklin Mint limited edition sword and stake (of genuine English rowan!)—the cups and mugs and keychains and T-shirts and caps blazoned with the show's logo and her picture. She would have stopped collecting them long ago, but people kept giving them to her. When she'd started, it had all been fun.

  But now . . .

  This is not fun. I have had fun, and this is not it.

  She cuddled Gordon harder and picked up the copy of the script that was on the corner of the table. She was in Hollywood, California, to tape an MTV special en persona as Vixen the Slayer. Christina (her personal publicist, and, as far as Glory was concerned, personal devil) had set it up, as she set everything up, usually without consulting Glory. Still, Glory knew just what Christina would have said: Hey, Vix, easy money. Show up, do some shtick, a few back-flips, everybody's happy.

  Everybody but Vixen the Slayer, scourge of the soundstages.

  She dropped the script unread. What did a bunch of cues and stage directions matter? They wanted Vixen. That's what they'd get.

  Except that Vixen the Slayer would have cut their idiot heads off by now, and I'd be safe in a nice warm jail cell.

  Although she was too sensible to think that would be really appealing. And trying to outface the cameras in jeans and a T-shirt certainly wasn't. If she was going to be Vixen, it was time to get dressed.

  Her costume was laid out neatly on the couch: a fantasy in black leather along vaguely Elizabethan lines . . . assuming, of course, that the Elizabethans had been into serious bondage. The main part of the Vixen costume actually came in two pieces. There was the black-leather corset (it looked as if it laced, but that was an illusion; the laces were elastic, crossing over an inset panel of stretchable scarlet brocade that allowed her to breathe and move in the thing, and entry was actually accomplished through a set of concealed speed-release clasps on the sides) with the flared mock-pannier fabric-gathers over the hips, and then below that, the puffy leather slashed-look faux Elizabethan slops, or shorts (hotpants, really, and back in the day an item of strictly male attire), because their costume designer had seen The Six Wives of Henry VIII one too many times. Thank God the costume designer hadn't been let to keep the ruff—not after the dress rehearsal, anyway. Once she had the rest of it on she could wrestle with her elbow-length handless gloves at leisure—double bracers, really, upper and lower arm, leather and studded, with another of those idiotic slashed poofy things in the middle. Had the costume designer thought her elbows were going to get cold? Or be the focus of intense perverse lust among the males of cable TV? At least the neckline of the costume—what there was of it—made sense from a ratings standpoint, if not from a martial one. Add the sword, and the stakes sheathed along the outsides of her thigh-high leather boots (there was a spike-heeled pair for the publicity stills and the odd shot of her sitting down in the show, but thank God cooler heads had prevailed when it came to the boots she actually had to move in), and she was a sound technician's nightmare.

  She squirmed into her costume with the ease of long practice. She'd just pulled one boot into place and was reaching for the other when there was a knock on the door.

  Oh, Christ all bloody mighty!

  Glory wriggled quickly into the second boot and staggered to her feet. Christina never knocked, and it was too early for them to want her in front of the cameras. Something's hit the fan, she told herself wisely, and opened the door in a rattle and creak of leather armor.

  When she registered what was waiting for her, her mind went blank. She stared.

  There were three androgynous entities standing in the doorway. The tallest of them didn't even come up to the top of her shoulder. They looked kind of like Classic Trek aliens—the weird, meddling, superpowerful kind—or maybe like really, really tall Munchkins. They were all wearing stiff shiny long-sleeved floor-length embroidered robes in virulent candy-colors—turquoise, green, and pink—and the one in front, whose receding hairline dipped into a killer widow's peak, was carrying a long stave with a glowing purple crystal on the top.

  When it became obvious to both of them that she wasn't going to say anything, the staveholder spoke.

  "We have come seeking Vixen the Slayer," he said.

  After the last six weeks, she answered as easily to one name as the other. "Yeah, sure," Glory drawled in her hard-learned American accent, tossing her long red hair back over her shoulders and stepping back. She'd thought she was doing a solo act today, but it looked like she'd been wrong. Just like Christina not to give her all the gory details. Well, from their rig-outs, these guys looked like pros. They'd manage.

  She turned back to the dressing table, reaching for her script again. If it involved strange men in pink dresses, she'd better actually read it.

  "We have journeyed far from the plains of Serenthodial, through many perils, seeking you, O great warrior," the staveholder continued, stepping into the room. His companions followed, shutting the door behind them. "I am Belegir, and these are my co-Mages, Englor and Helevrin. We follow Cinnas the Warkiller, and I pray that we are not too late to seek aid for the Allimir."

  "What the fu— heck is the Allimir?" Glory demanded, dropping her script.

  "We are," the little one in the green robe—Englor—piped. Suddenly Glory had a terrible suspicion that this little delegation wasn't intending to appear on MTV at any time in the immediate future, and when she saw what Englor was holding, she was sure of it.

  I will get somebody for this. I don't know who, but I do know that it will be very painful for them when I do.

  "Look, I really love meeting fans," Glory lied, "but—" But how the hell did you get back here dressed like that without anyone stopping you? I thought Yanks were all paranoid.

  Short as he was—even in a silly pink robe and wearing mascara—there was something enormously dignified about Belegir and his two companions, and weary as she was, Glory couldn't bring herself to step on that. Besides, in some sense she owed Belegir and the others: it wasn't as if millions of viewers had been sucked in by her acting ability. If the show hadn't attracted followers and a fandom, if people like these hadn't liked the show, none of this fame and fortune would have happened.

  Take that how you like.

  And anyway, how could it hurt her to be nice? This couldn't go on for more than a few minutes. When they were ready for her in front of the cameras, Christina would certainly appear to drag her out there and send this lot packing. And Christina had a ruthless streak to which Glory could only aspire.

  "Okay. What can I do for you?" she asked, carefully stifling a sigh. If I find out this is one of Barry's practical jokes, my mate Bazza's a dead man.

  Belegir drew himself up proudly.

  "A terrible power has been unleashed in the land of Erchanen. Long was it prisoned upon the peaks of Grey Arlinn, until foul mischance freed it once more. Now it stalks the plains of Serenthodial, and Great Drathil is no more than an abode of shadows. We are a simple gentle people, without the arts of war, and we knew that only the greatest warrior who ever lived could help our people in their hour of greatest need. You are she."

  Great grammar, Vixen thought automatically, though the rest had gone on far too long. "Terrible power"? "Foul mischance"? "Greatest warrior"? Oh, no, mate. You've come to the wrong a
ddress. I get PAID for acting out other peoples' fantasies. . . .

  From surfing the Net, she knew there was a bumper crop of Vixen fan-fiction out there, most of it centering on unlikely encounters between her and Romy, but some of it indistinguishable from one of the show's storylines. And from the chat-rooms, she knew that there were people who took the show's slogan—Live the Legend!—far too much to heart. She'd seen the homemade props and costumes herself, and a lot of them were better than the real thing—or what passed for real in front of the cameras.

  But how could she really blame them? She'd felt the allure of doing just that herself. It was just luck that made her one of the few who could turn her playgames into a living.

  "I'm really sorry," she said to Belegir as gently as she could. "I'd like to come to your . . ." Convention? Asylum? She abandoned her search for le mot juste. "But I'm afraid I don't have any free days this year. If you want to write to the Publicity Department at Full Earth, I reckon Barry could . . ."

  She stopped.

  The little man was crying. He did not argue or beg. The look on his face was one of utter despair. Englor was weeping as well, and Helevrin's face was set in a stony mask.

  "You're really serious, aren't you?" Glory said helplessly. Though the situation was implausibly weird, she found that she was upset for these people rather than irritated by them. She couldn't believe that such an open display of grief was faked.

  But if it was not . . .

  Deep inside her, a tiny spark of warning woke to life. That these three were honestly sincere was something she did not doubt for a moment—but what they were showing her was the utter sincerity of madness. Glory had been famous for six months, long enough to know the dark side of it: the obsessed, the stalkers, the people dazzled by the bright images on their movie or television screen into believing those images were real people who could see them back. So much belief could twist people in ways they never would have chosen for themselves: twist them and change them into weapons pointed at the celebrities they worshipped. These three truly believed that they needed Vixen the Slayer, but all she had to give them was Glory McArdle. When they realized the difference—when they realized there was a difference, things were going to get . . . ugly.

  "I'm not what you need," she said, very quietly. I couldn't even medal at the Games. I'm a too-tall Phys Ed teacher who got lucky! "It's not like I— You shouldn't believe everything you see on television. I mean— You've got the wrong person. I'm an actress. Not even all that good an actress, I reckon. Romy's better. She plays Lilith, and . . ." Cut the grizzling, Glor.

  "You were our last hope," Belegir said, his voice choked with hopelessness. "We have sought through all the worlds, gone to each hero—kings, barbarians, warrior-maids, and doomed princes. Always the answer is the same: they are too busy, they will come later. But there is no later for us, Slayer! We are dying now!"

  "And so we came here. This is not a world for heroes—but we did our research," Englor said despairingly. He thrust the book he carried toward her.

  Glory looked down at the well-worn paperback copy of Vixen the Slayer: The Unofficial Journeys by Greg Cox. She'd spied it a moment ago and thought it meant they were fans, but if they were, they weren't the same kind of fans she'd been meeting all summer. Not by a long chalk.

  "Your life imitates art," Englor added with forlorn dignity. Mascara made grainy tracks down his face as well. "We have read it." Then he sobbed outright, and Helevrin enfolded him in her arms. The turquoise-clad woman glared accusingly at Glory as she comforted her comrade, and in that instant Glory understood completely how love could turn to hate.

  "We will go," Belegir said with quiet dignity.

  Oh, God, yes. Just open the door and go.

  The intensity of her fear made her feel angry and ashamed. How could they do this to her? What right did they have to do this to her? Being Vixen was a part, a role, a really expensive game. It wasn't life!

  She clenched her hands at her sides and concentrated on what she was going to say to Christina when she got her hands on the lazy little tart—and flinched back as Belegir raised his staff. It was of some straight fine-grained wood, silvery with exposure and handling, and banded and capped in shining copper. Strange symbols graven in fine spidery lines seemed to dance over its surface, and the strange violet jewel on its end glowed with cool radiance.

  "Neddhelorn, Hambrellorn, Gathrond Megnas!" Belegir chanted in a deep impressive voice. He thumped the staff on the floor as he did, and with each blow the purple crystal glowed brighter.

  "Hey, Vixy? C'mon, you're up next." Christina's voice, calling through the door. There was a rattle as she tried the knob.

  The door was locked. Glory hadn't locked it.

  "—Lergethil, Gwainirdel, Algoth-Angras!"

  "Yo! Vixen!" The knob rattled again.

  Glory lunged for the door, forgetting she was spooked by the weirdos, forgetting to be afraid that one of the "Allimir" might be armed with more than the strength of his convictions. Christina could set things right. Everything would be fine.

  Just as her hand touched the doorknob, there was a loud pop, a flash, and a wave of intense scent like burned perfume. Glory screamed and flinched in shock, but an instant later she realized she wasn't hurt—yet. She grabbed the knob tightly and jerked at it as hard as she could, willing the door to open, to let her escape.

  The knob slipped from her hands, pulling and twisting until she lost her grip. The door fell free, hinges first. Could she have torn it loose in her momentary panic? She blinked. It hadn't made a "bang" as it hit the floor. Christina hadn't screamed.

  And for a very good reason, so it seemed. Christina wasn't there, and neither was the hall outside her dressing room.

  A wave of cold, damp, forest-y air rolled into the room, and through the now-open doorway, Glory could see trees—a birch forest that stretched into the infinite distance. She could hear the rustle of the branches as the wind passed through them, and watch the flicker of sunlight. The forest floor was covered with bright yellow leaves that began sharply as her doorway ended. As Glory stared in wonder, the leaves rustled and disgorged a chipmunk. It dashed up to her feet before realizing where it was, then turned and dived back into the leaves again.

  "God's teeth!" she gasped, and just-too-late remembered it was a line from the show. Vixen's favorite oath.

  She turned back into her dressing room, still blinking away afterspots from the flash that had somehow put this outside her door. When her vision cleared, she saw all three of the short guys were still standing in the middle of her dressing room, staring at each other in confusion.

  "This wasn't supposed to happen," Belegir gasped. The purple crystal on his staff was slagged and melted, like the remains of an old-time flashbulb.

  "It has happened," said Helevrin. "The magic went awry and took that which it ought not have. But she hasn't agreed to help us. We have to send her back."

  "How?" Belegir cried in anguish. "This is the forest of Duirondel—beyond it lies Serenthodial the Golden—home! The stave's power is expended, and the rest returns to Erchane's embrace." He let go of the staff. It hit the tatty green linoleum floor in pieces, crumbling into a line of dust as Glory watched in relieved disbelief.

  This is real. They were telling the truth. This is all real, or . . . or I'm going to break Bazza's jaw, is what.

  "We'll have to get more," Englor piped up bravely. From the way the other two looked at him, Glory got the impression that getting more magic wasn't going to be all that easy.

  She felt a pang of relief so strong it was almost painful. These people weren't nutters. She knew what special effects could do, and they couldn't drop a Hollywood dressing room into the middle of a birch forest that looked and smelled and felt like a birch forest, even for a goof. The forest was a real forest.

  But that meant a delegation of wizards really had come to her for help.

  "I reckon that I— I just— I'm glad this is all . . . " She leaned
against the doorway, fighting a wave of dizziness born of shock. "What did you think I could do?"

  "We did not know," Helevrin said simply. "All we know is that only a hero can save us."

  If she didn't sit down soon, she was going to fall over and probably squash a couple of her guests. Glory staggered over to the couch and collapsed, breathing as deeply as she could under the circumstances. Gordon tumbled from his perch and she clutched the stuffed elephant reflexively to her chest.

  This is wackier than all of last season's scripts put together.

  "What will we do? What will we do?" Englor was actually wringing his hands in panic.

  "We must . . . we must ask her to come with us. As our guest. We will consult the Oracle of Erchane to see why this has happened and how best to return the Slayer to her own place," Belegir said.

  "Just like that?" Glory heard herself say.

  The fact that she always got into some kind of trouble because of it had never kept Glory from speaking her mind. Today, the unreality of the whole situation made shooting off her mouth even easier. This was all so real that her mind insisted it couldn't be happening.

  All three of the Allimir turned to look at her.

  "I mean, you asked for my help, and now you've got me here, and you're just going to turn around and let me go?"

  "The Allimir," said Helevrin stiffly, "are people of honor. Your presence is an accident. You have not offered to aid us. We have no claim on you."

  If that's their idea of begging for help, no wonder everyone else turned them down.

  "Look, I— I reckon you've really got the wrong person. There isn't anything I can do about whatever it is. But I can come and take a dekko, maybe give you some advice, hey? No promises." This is SUCH a stupid idea. God's teeth, gel, doesn't your mouth ever get tired of writing checks your body can't cash?