A Logical Magician lm-1

by Robert Weinberg

  “Bandits moving up fast on our side,” said Cassandra, checking the rear view mirror. “And they don’t look friendly.”

  Jack stared out the back window. There was no mistaking the black limo creeping closer to them. The giant car cut through the night like a shark circling in on its prey. The rear passenger door was wide open. Balancing there, his drawn sword blazing with blue fire, stood Dietrich von Bern. The twin scars on his cheeks glowed blood red in the moonlight.

  “The Sword of Chaos,” muttered Simon. “It feeds on innocent souls.”

  “Shades of Michael Moorcock,” said Jack. His brow wrinkled with sudden inspiration. “Chaos? Light versus darkness, order versus chaos. That might be it.”

  “Hang on,” advised Cassandra. “I’m putting the pedal to the floor.”

  The Buick’s motor roared. The car surged forward, the acceleration knocking them back into the seats. Cassandra fought with the steering wheel, trying to keep the auto from skidding off the highway. Clinging to an armrest, Jack risked a look at their pursuers. He groaned in frustration.

  “No use,” he declared. “They’re closing the gap. We can’t outrun them.”

  A dozen yards separated the vehicles. Seconds later, it was five. Then, with a burst of power the Buick could not match, the trailing car pulled even. A gap less than six feet wide separated them.

  “Now,” bellowed Dietrich von Bern, his triumphant face only a few feet from Jack’s, “this game comes to a proper end!”

  Balanced in the limo’s doorway, one foot propped against the window to hold him steady, von Bern swung his huge sword with both hands. Metal shrieked against metal as the Huntsman’s blade bit into the reinforced steel roof of the Buick—and through it. Jack cursed in astonishment as the Chaos Sword passed within inches of his nose.

  Twisting the steering wheel with all her strength, Cassandra pulled the two cars apart, trying to wrench the sword from von Bern’s hands. But, reacting with inhuman speed, the German slid the blade free. It took him only a second to regain his balance. Laughing insanely, he raised the Chaos Sword over his head for a second attack.

  “There’s no escape,” cried Cassandra. “If he can’t reach you, he’ll change tactics and kill me instead. I can’t steer and avoid his sword. We’re finished.”

  “Maybe not,” said Jack, reaching into his coat pocket and grabbing his bag of insurance. “Roll down all the windows.”

  Unquestioning, Cassandra used the master control to do as she was told. Surprised, von Bern hesitated. “It’s too late to plead for your miserable life, worm,” he snarled.

  “Don’t hold your breath waiting,” answered Jack. He wasn’t concerned with the German.

  Through the limo’s open door, Jack could see the back of the driver’s head. “Charon,” he called, emptying the contents of the pouch into one hand. Jack held out a handful of silver coins. “Oboluses.”

  The ancient Greek ferryman’s head jerked around sharply, his red eyes flaring. Reacting to his motion, the limo swerved closer to the Buick. Startled, von Bern tumbled back into his car, the door slamming shut after him.

  “Oboluses,” repeated Jack, and with a laugh, tossed them over his shoulders and out the opposite window. The coins hit the pavement and disappeared into the night.

  Tires screamed and rubber burned as the Greek jammed on the huge limo’s brakes. Swerving back and forth across the highway, it skidded hundreds of yards before coming to a full stop. In seconds, darkness swallowed the car as if it never existed. The Huntsman’s shrieks of rage followed them a moment longer, then they too were gone.

  “I think you can slow up,” said Jack. “By the time Charon finds those coins, it will be daylight.”

  “Oboluses?” asked Simon.

  “I bought them from the numismatist in the Loop after our first encounter with von Bern. From your description of Charon’s personality, I suspected he couldn’t resist their lure.”

  “In my time,” said Cassandra, “the dead paid the ferryman a silver obolus for passage across the Styx.”

  “Four thousand years later,” said Jack, “he remained true to his nature. Luckily for us.”

  He glanced at the speedometer. They were cruising along at nearly seventy miles an hour. In the blackness, it felt like a hundred.

  “The danger’s past,” he said to the Amazon. “There’s no reason to drive this fast.”

  Cassandra shrugged, looking embarrassed. “It’s not my doing. The brakes refuse to work, and the car won’t slow down.”

  She raised her hands off the steering wheel. It remained fixed. “I’m no longer in control. The automobile is following someone else’s commands. Until we arrive wherever it’s taking us, we’re stuck inside. Unless you feel like jumping.”

  “No, thanks,” said Jack, watching the scenery fly by. This latest turn of events left him unmoved. He was starting to expect the unexpected. “I’m willing to wait for the car to run out of gas.”

  Folding his elbows behind his head, he stretched out on the back seat. “Besides, long car rides make me sleepy. I want to confer with Megan Ambrose about an idea that occurred to me during our fight with von Bern.”

  Yawning, he shut his eyes. “Wake me when we arrive,” he declared and drifted off to sleep.

  31

  Jack peered through heavy eyes at Simon. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Two hours,” said the changeling. “We drove through half of Illinois before we arrived here. Wherever here is.”

  Jack squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, trying to force the grogginess out of his system. Yawning, he turned his head and stared out the window. It was difficult in the moonlight to make out their surroundings. They appeared to be in the parking lot of an old service station. Not far from where they were stopped was a solitary gas pump. A sign over the front door of the office ten yards distant proclaimed dial this was “Fritz’s Fast Service.”

  “No idea where we are, huh?” he mumbled.

  “Not a clue,” said Simon. “The Buick pulled off the road and stopped moving fifteen minutes ago. We thought it best to stay inside the car. Nobody’s shown themselves yet. The place appears deserted. You learn anything important from Megan?”

  Jack shook his head glumly. “I couldn’t contact her. Not a nibble the whole time I was asleep. Hazel’s spell enabled me to remember my entire nap, but none of it involved Megan. Instead, I had this terrible nightmare about some gigantic shapeless monster chasing me.”

  He paused. “The words ‘Great Beast’ mean anything to you? April thought they might. She said something about sensing one in the neighborhood.”

  Simon turned brilliant green. His hair stood on end and his eyes burned bright red. Jack groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I gather these Great Beasts are bad news?”

  “Remember what I told you about the Old Ones—the ancient Gods that disappeared as mankind disbelieved them out of existence.” As he spoke, the changeling’s features slowly returned to normal. “Well, not all of humanity’s early gods looked like men. A goodly number of them were monsters. Primitive man worshipped the dragons that swallowed the sun, the serpent whose body encircled the earth, and many many others. They had frightful names like Tiamat and Fenris and Azreal.

  “With the advent of monotheism, most of those Great Beasts disappeared into limbo. But an equal number of them became part of Christian tradition. Revelations had a great red dragon and a seven-headed monster. There were dozens of others scattered throughout the Old and New Testaments. These monsters, incredibly powerful, monstrously evil, haunted the outermost darkness. They were never disbelieved into nothingness.

  “Happily, most of them are as stupid as they are strong. No one imagined them being intelligent. Even when summoned to the Earth, they cannot act without direction. That’s the good news. The bad news is that if April sensed one of the Great Beasts in the vicinity, Dietrich von Bern must be controlling it. And that’s very bad news.”
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br />   “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.”

  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.”