Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  Have to make do with what was at hand.

  He marked the progress of what he assumed was Charon, worked out what direction he would come from when he made it to the top, and slipped down on the hillside several yards distant. Richard lay flat in the clumps of grass, holding absolutely still, trying to listen in spite of the wind howl . . .

  Until something dropped like an anvil across the back of his neck.

  He tried to twist out of it, but the weight pressed him harder into the ground, almost to the snapping point for his bones. A thick-soled hiking boot was just within his view, wet, with bits of grass sticking to it, very effectively pinning him in place. His sword was plucked from his hand, his shield taken and tossed aside, and he anticipated the blow that would kill him to come next. Instead, he heard an incredulous, exasperated voice:

  "Jesus Palomino, what does it take to snuff a bastard like you?"

  The boot lifted, and he rolled quick to his feet. Charon had the sword in one hand and the Grail in the other, and stared at Richard with two healthy eyes. The damage he'd taken years back in their last confrontation was healed, but he was thin and wasted. His gray skin clung tight to his skull; his hands verged on the skeletal. He didn't look strong enough to stand much less fight, but Richard had felt preternatural strength holding him down.

  "Or are you one of the guardians of this place?" Charon asked, cocking his head and squinting.

  Richard made no reply. This was new. The man had ever been so sure of himself.

  "What are you? Hm? You gotta answer, like it or not. Them's the rules. Who are you?" His eyes were fever bright, restless. "I said answer me!"

  "Richard d'Orleans." Richard had intended to remain silent just to nettle him, but Charon's words drew the name out all the same. What the hell . . . ?

  Charon snorted, not believing. "Yeah, right. Big fat hairy deal. Your goddess can't scare me that way. I know better. Whatever you are, you just hold still while I—"

  He swung the blade faster than the lightning; it chopped deep into Richard's chest, and he fell with a grunt.

  "—kill you. Again."

  * * *

  "What's happened?" Philip demanded. He strove to keep his voice under control, but it was bloody hard. Richard had been standing, eyes shut, and suddenly dropped like a stone. Philip had instinctively started toward him, but Iona sharply told him to stay in place.

  "Otherside attack," Iona said. Her eyes were also shut.

  "He's bleeding, dammit!" Philip stared, aghast at the flow. Dear God, it was pulsing out of him. There was too much of it. They'd never get him to a hospital in time.

  "He'll be all right," she murmured.

  But he could not believe her. Philip was now all too aware of what a precious necessity blood was to Richard. Tough as the man might be, he couldn't survive such a massive loss.

  "Stay where you are!" Iona ordered an instant before he began to move.

  He hesitated, fuming and fearful, and glanced across the fire at Michael.

  "Chill out, Dad," said the boy. His eyes were also shut. "Call it a learning curve."

  * * *

  Richard hadn't even tried to dodge. Charon's words had utterly frozen him in place. He felt the heavy blow as a distant thing, seeming only to knock the breath from him and no more, but his blood gushed onto the grass. No real pain, though. It could be like that for dying men. He was ready to die, but to depart without finishing Charon? No, couldn't allow that. But how to fight a man who could control with his voice alone?

  Oh. Of course. That'd be easy enough. Cut his throat so he can't speak. Now . . . how to get up and do it?

  He pushed feebly against the earth; his limbs refused to cooperate. Mortal wounds were just too good at shutting things down.

  But only for a mortal body. He wasn't sure how much of himself was on this Side, but knew his solid self was in a snowy clearing on the other Side of . . . of . . . fine. He'd only needed reminding. That was his Reality. Whatever happened to him here would echo there, but only if he allowed it. Charon wasn't the only one with influence.

  Oh, damn. Now it began to hurt. The more real this Side became to him the more . . .

  Shut it out, then. The sword doesn't really exist so it never caused any damage.

  Easier thought of than carried out, especially when all his senses told him different, but he did his best. It helped to remember Iona's face, imagining her standing before the fire, arms raised. She was real, this wasn't. This was Otherside, a place of gods and demons, of spirits and forces. He was just a tourist.

  The blood began to reverse back into Richard, his wound knitting at atypical speed, even for him. One just had to know to work with the rules of the place. He wasn't used to it, but could adjust. By the time he was on his feet again, he had another sword in hand, identical to the other.

  Charon had moved off, apparently seeking a certain spot in the long oval that formed the summit of the tor. Richard thought he might be looking for the hidden opening that led inside the tor itself, though why he'd want to was beyond reckoning. They'd each taken that path once. Richard had barely survived. He'd often wondered how Charon had escaped from the shattered and crumbling earth, and if he was worried about guardians, there were the Hounds. Annwyn's cold pets resided in that secret place. He would think the Grail would protect him, and well it might. Richard did not know. The hounds could also be loose and flying in the storm; this was their season to hunt.

  Softly, softly, he eased forward, though it was unlikely anything could be heard with the stormy row above.

  Yet Charon was aware of him and turned. He laughed once, shaking his head, then looked at the sky. "Sweetheart-honey-baby, don't you know when to quit?"

  Apparently he still thought Richard was some kind of simulacrum fashioned by the Goddess. Richard went into his guard position, sword at an angle, his other arm up to fend off blows.

  "I said hold still." Charon glared, and Richard froze.

  He couldn't help himself. He only has as much power as I give to him.

  "That's better . . ." The sword in Charon's hand changed, metal shifted into wood, a sharp, barbed point formed on one end. When the transformation finished, Charon rammed the newly-made spear square into Richard's chest.

  Tried, to, anyway. This time Richard ducked clear. Very fast.

  "Oh, that's cool, you finally figured—whoa!" His turn to duck, as Richard waded in.

  Sword against spear, reach against power and speed. Their pass was over in seconds, neither achieving an advantage.

  "Sweet," said Charon, puffing. "Just try not to have too much fun."

  Richard feinted quick to the right, cut left and across, and felt his blade slam hard into the wood staff of the spear. The impact went up his arm as it had a thousand times and more for him, from those summers sweating his youth away hacking at a practice post to his days of manhood fighting and killing to keep his king on the throne. Charon barely got his guard up in time to avoid losing his head.

  Richard circled him, kept him turning, most of his focus on Charon, another part mindful of the storm and the creatures caught in its chaos. If any of them managed to break free and descend . . . best not to think about that lest it happen. Using his speed he got in under Charon's guard, knocking the spear to the side and hacking down decisively with the blade. It passed through air, not flesh, and he had to spin with the momentum to maintain his balance.

  "Oh, very fancy move, I'm sure," said Charon. He looked more out of breath than he should have been for the effort made. Perhaps all that was needed was to wear him down. "But you're playing out of your league."

  Richard went for a layered attack combination, swift, clean, but battering with its force. Charon barely kept up, unable to counter until the last second, when he managed to bang the dull end of the spear into Richard's shoulder. There was just enough force behind it to make him pause.

  "You're not so bad for a puppet." Charon squinted, cocking his head. "Unless you're . . ."

&
nbsp; Richard mirrored the head tilt. "The real deal? Wake up and smell the coffee."

  Charon was baffled a moment. Good. "Oh, no. Nononono. No way."

  Oh, yes, you bastard.

  "Dickie-boy? That really you?"

  No reply seemed required.

  "Well, I'll be damned."

  That's the idea.

  Hastily, Charon shoved the Grail into his overcoat pocket and brought the spear to bear in both hands for a proper defense. The cut in it smoothed over, and the wood turned ebony dark. It likely was indeed ebony. More difficult to break. No matter. Richard's real target was soft enough.

  Another pass, longer in duration, and Charon had to retreat to make use of the spear's length. It was too unwieldy for this kind of combat. Charon changed the spear back to a sword, something from a later time that was lighter and swifter than Richard's weapon, designed for stabbing as well as hacking. He knew how to use it, too.

  Another pass. Richard felt like he was fighting his own distorted image. Neither made contact, neither advanced or retreated.

  Charon grinned, pulling the Grail out once more and clutching it close to his chest. His face looked less skull-like than a moment ago. He was using it in some way to replenish himself even if he couldn't see the effect except by inference. Charon's form was filling out, getting stronger. Better shut that down before he got too robust.

  Richard's own blade became lighter, turning into one he'd used in a much later century. Their fighting styles changed to suit the weapons and their next pass was considerably faster. Each took a nick, and each healed.

  "Uh-oh. Looks like we're too evenly matched, Lance old boy. That won't last, though." Charon brought the Grail up, holding it before him. His form lit, briefly, white fire that turned an unhealthy green and seemed to sink into his flesh. When the glow faded he looked completely restored and far too happy about it.

  At his feet, in a rough ten-foot circle, the grass had turned bone white, each blade desiccated and needle thin. Even the ground looked dead.

  Richard held off from another attack, wary, alert.

  He didn't see it. He felt it. Like an invisible wall smashing him all over. It slammed him right off his feet and seemed to fall on him to hold him in place.

  Laughter. Not good. Charon loomed close. Without delay he put his sword point over Richard's heart and pushed.

  That hurt. A lot. The breath rushed from him too fast to form a scream and refused to return.

  Charon grinned, eyes dancing. "Face it, Dickie-boy, in this place my fu is better than your fu."

  Pushed. Charon slammed downward until the hilt was against Richard's chest. The razoring blade stabbed through flesh, splintered bone . . . piercing through his body into the soil of the tor.

  The earth screamed for him.

  * * *

  Philip, palms to his ears, bent almost double against the onslaught of noise. It was the insane shriek of a factory whistle, but much louder and strangely organic, as though from a living throat, not a machine, and it took the starch right out of his legs. He staggered, but struggled to stay in place. Richard had somehow recovered from that terrible wounding and gotten up—eyes still closed, dammit—but was now fallen again and worse off than before. He lay spread-eagled, obviously in great pain and unable to move.

  Neither Iona nor Michael had budged, though they'd recoiled at the sound. What did they see?

  He shut his eyes, but perceived only the dim red flicker of the firelight playing on his lids. Why was he here? He wasn't doing any of them a damned bit of good. He looked again to Iona. Despite the cold, her face was sheened with sweat, almost glowing from it. Her outspread arms shook as though barely supporting a great weight.

  "Iona! Help him!" he bellowed.

  She didn't seem to hear.

  Michael's face also shone in the firelight, silver and gold with his fair hair and dark skin. Philip called to him, but got no response. His every instinct told him something had gone wrong, and he felt desperately ill-equipped to deal with it. Iona had only told him he was to "be there," whatever that meant. Here where he stood or "there," as in whatever place Richard had gone?

  This time Iona snapped no objection when Philip darted over to check on him. He was bleeding out again, a fearful and clearly fatal chest wound but no sign of what caused it. His eyes were still fast shut, and he struggled desperately to breathe, blood bubbling from his lips and nose. Oh, God—another attack like the one that had taken Sabra?

  Philip lay a hand on Richard's forehead—so cold, corpse cold. "Richard!"

  His friend flinched at the touch and groaned. "Where are you?" he whispered.

  "Right here, dammit. Open your eyes!"

  "They are op . . . Philip?"

  He sounded so lost. Philip shook Richard. "Wake up!"

  The shrieking rose and grew louder. A strange icy wind slapped Philip's face; it stank of destruction and rot, the stench filling his lungs, treacle-thick. He gagged and fell back, but this was no time to give in to trivialities.

  Then a wholesome cloud of sage and sweetgrass smoke enveloped him, so dense his eyes watered. It fought the death-stink, though he could still smell that. He dragged out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes, then held it to his nose to filter the air. How could a man think with this going on?

  "Richard?" He groped with his free hand, but encountered—what the hell?—wet grass? Not snow? He scrubbed his eyes again and blinked at the impossibility, trying to take in the change around him. The earthy howling was the same, even louder, but the fire in the circle of trees had quite vanished along with Iona and Michael. He knelt on open ground, a bleak wind tearing at his clothes and there lay Richard . . .

  Oh, no . . .

  * * *

  Richard fought off the physical shock and tried to rise, but the angles were wrong, and the more he struggled the greater the screaming from below. He paused, remembering his real body was elsewhere. The pain eased, but he was still stuck fast, his blood pouring out. For a moment he thought he heard Bourland's voice, distant and harsh, calling to him and tried to respond.

  Where was Charon?

  "Richard!" Bourland again, sounding scared. He had every right.

  He called back, but could hardly hear himself. Charon had stolen all the air.

  A dark shape began to tentatively emerge on his right. Charon again? But it was taller, less certain in its movements.

  "Philip?" He could only mouth the name, but a name had power. Philip—over here!

  The shape came closer, seemed to suddenly kneel, feeling its way on the ground.

  Philip! Thinking of him made him more real on this Side, though what it would do to the man's sanity . . .

  And he was there. Most of him. Staring around, dumbfounded.

  Then horrified, when his gaze fell on Richard.

  Richard gestured weakly at the thing pinning him to the earth, pleading, hoping Bourland would understand.

  "You're not really here," he said. His form wavered. Richard could see through him to the red clouds above. "Neither of us . . . we can't be."

  Take it out! Richard's gaze pressed hard upon his friend. He struggled and managed to mouth the words. He knew the sword was not real; he should have been able to will it away on his own, but the agony and terror were too distracting. He needed help.

  Bourland hesitated, then visibly made up his mind. His ghostly hands solidified, grasped the hilt, and pulled in one awful effort. The shrieking din ceased. Substantiality traveled up Bourland's arms, finally encompassing his body. He was now fully on this Side, white-faced and frightened. "My God, if I've killed you . . ."

  "I'll be fine," Richard gasped. But to make a lie of it, he heeled over and began coughing. It's a damned nasty business to drown in one's own blood.

  Bourland stared as Richard grimaced and groaned through a difficult healing. "But you've been run though!"

  "The rules . . . are different . . . here." It was slower going this time. The pain didn't leave him as it should have
. He felt as weak as when recovering from that bridge fall, less able to concentrate. "Where's Charon?"

  "No sign of him."

  That couldn't be good, but there was no going after him for the moment. Richard tried willing his lost blood back into himself again. God, but it was hard to think, to visualize. The longer he was here, the more real this Side became to him, and the more damage he could suffer. "The others?"

  "In the clearing by the fire, standing with their eyes shut the same as you. Only you fell . . ."

  "Remember that place. It's our anchor. If things get strange, picture Michael and Iona, picture that place in your mind and go toward it."

  "If they get strange . . . ?"

  Richard missed the rest, if any, doubling over again.

  * * *

  "Whups," yelped Sharon, as the serpent god made a sudden move in a direction opposite to where they'd been traveling. Fortunately the walls formed by his body were somewhat flexible. She was bruised, nothing broken. She maneuvered over to the opening. The light was brighter, flickering, and the air that beat against her face was an uneasy mix of ozone and rotting meat.

  They were in the midst of churning clouds, lightning flowered everywhere. One tremendous bolt shot from side to side of her measureless horizon, and this time there was noise. The boom thrummed right through the god's body and hers. He shifted. Sharon pushed back in time, getting her hands clear from being crushed. Her long narrow window sealed up, shutting her in the dark again.

  She still felt the thunder or whatever was out there. In here it wasn't loud so much as deep, and the vibration very unpleasant, like a boom box set on maximum. Too loud to hear, you only felt it. Putting her hands over her ears helped. Kukulcan didn't seem to like it either, for he made a lot more moves than before, and she pitched from one point of her sphere to the other.

  What was going on out there that would so agitate a god?

  * * *

  The blast of sound knocked Charon completely off his feet. He somehow kept hold of the Grail, pulling himself in tight like a tumbler, protecting it from seeking hands with his body. No one and nothing tried to make a grab, though he felt something buffeting him around like a soccer ball.