Irene flushed again, inordinately thrilled.
“King Omen is really a fine young man,” Queen Iris remarked to no one in general.
Dor felt cold. The Queen’s favor was not lightly gained; she had extremely strict and selfish notions of propriety, and these were focused largely on her daughter. Queen Iris had evidently concluded that King Omen was a suitable match for Irene. Of course the final opinion was King Trent’s; if he decided on King Omen, Dor was lost.
But King Trent had always supported Dor before.
Suddenly a huge fat man burst upon them. His eyes rounded with amazement as he spied the visitors in the dungeon and the pie tree.
Then he drew his sword. He charged upon King Omen.
Irene screamed as the man passed near her father. Then the Mundane turned into a purple toad, his sword clattering to the floor. King Trent had transformed him.
“Who was that?” Dor asked, his startlement subsiding raggedly.
“The mute eunuch guard,” King Omen said, picking up the fallen sword. “We bear him no love.” He considered the toad speculatively. It was covered with green warts. “Yes, your magic is impressive! Will he remain that way?”
“Until I transform him again,” King Trent said. “Or until he leaves the region of magic. Then, I believe, he will slowly revert to his normal state. But that process may take months and be uncomfortable and awkward, if someone does not take him for a monster and kill him before it is complete.”
“A fitting punishment,” King Omen said. “Let him begin it.” He urged the toad on out of the magic aisle by pricking it with the point of the sword.
“Now let’s consider prospects,” King Trent said. “We have achieved a significant breakthrough here, regaining our magic. But very soon the usurper’s picked private troops, comprised largely of Avar mercenaries, will lay siege to us here, and we have no magic that will stop a flight of arrows. We are certain that the general populace will rally gladly to King Omen, once they realize he is alive; but most of the people are outside the castle, and we are in danger of being wiped out before that realization prevails. We must plan our strategy carefully.”
“I must advise you that the magic associated with me is in a fairly narrow aisle,” Amolde said. “It extends perhaps fifteen paces forward, and half that distance back, but only two to either side. Therefore the Queen’s illusion will be limited to that ambience, and any person outside it will be immune.”
“But a lot can be done within the aisle,” Dor said. “When Irene and I lagged outside the aisle, we reappeared-but the rest of you remained invisible to us. We weren’t immune to the illusion, just outside it. So the Queen can keep us all from the perception of the Mundanes. That’s a considerable asset.”
“True.” the centaur agreed. “But now that they know about our magic, we cannot prevent them from firing their arrows into this region in a saturation pattern that is bound to wipe us out. I have already had experience with this tactic.” He rubbed his flank ruefully. The healing had continued nicely, but he still walked slightly stiffly.
“We must take cover, of course,” King Trent agreed. “There is now plenty of rubble to shield us from arrows. But we cannot afford to remain confined here. The problem will be the elimination of the enemy forces.”’
“Maybe we can lure them in here and ambush them,” King Omen suggested. “We now have two swords, and I am impressed with the ogre’s strength.”
“No good,” Grundy said. He had reappeared during their feast on the pies and now took a small pie for himself. “The Avar commander is a tough, experienced son of a blizzard who knows you have magic. He is heating a cauldron of oil. Soon he’ll pour it down the dungeon steps. Anyone hiding here, with or without magic, win be fried in oil.”
“Impossible to fill this chamber with oil,” Queen Iris said. “It would all leak out.”
“But it will cover the whole floor first,” Grundy said. “You’ll all get hotfeet.”
Dor looked down at his sandals nervously. He did not like the notion of splashing through a puddle of boiling oil.
Trent considered. “And an ambush waits outside the dungeon?”
“Sure thing,” Grundy agreed. “You don’t think they let you sit here and gorge on pies just because they like you, do you?”
“Turn us all into birds, father,” Irene suggested. “We’ll fly out before they know it.”
“Two problems, daughter,” King Trent said. “You will have trouble when you fly outside the magic aisle. I’m not sure how you will function, but probably poorly, as you won’t be able to change back, yet the magic will be gone. Also, I cannot transform myself.”
“Oh-I forgot.” She was chagrined, since the rescue of her father had been her whole purpose.
“We have to get you safely out of here, sir,” Dor said. “The Land of Xanth needs you.”
“I have every present intention of returning,” King Trent said with a smile. “I am now merely pondering mechanisms. I can deal with the Avars readily enough, provided I can get close enough to them with my magic power intact. That means I shall have to remain with Magician Amolde.”
“And with me,” Queen Iris said. “To keep you invisible. And the ogre, to open doors.”
“And me,” Irene said loyally.
“You I want safely out of the way,” her father said.
There was a bubbling noise. “The oil!” Grundy cried. “We’ve got to move!”
Smash went into action. He started bashing out a new channel.
They became invisible. But Dor had a mental picture of where each person was; King Trent, Amolde, and the Queen were near the ogre, ready to follow in his new tunnel and avoid the spilling on. But Irene and the golem were on the far side of the chamber. The oil was already flowing between them and the ogre. They would be trapped-and as the centaur moved away, they would become visible and vulnerable, even if they avoided oil.
Dor ran across to pick up a fragment of rubble. He tossed it into the flowing oil. He grabbed more chunks and tossed them, forming a dam. But it wasn’t enough; he wasn’t sure Irene could make it through.
Then the pieces started flying into place at double the rate he was throwing them. Someone else was helping. Dor could not tell who, or communicate directly; he simply continued tossing stones, damming off the hot oil. Soon it formed a reluctant pool. Dor filled in the crevices of the dam with sand, and the way was clear. The oil ploy had been abated, and Irene could cross to safety.
Now a troop of guards charged down the steps, swords drawn.
They wore heavy boots, evidently to protect them from the oil they thought would be distracting their quarry. It should have been a neat double trap. They didn’t know the quarry had departed.
Still, the Avars could use their bows to fire arrows up the new tunnel, doing much harm. Dor leaped across to guard the tunnel entrance, trusting that the others had by now safely passed through it.
An invisible guardian could hold them off long enough, perhaps.
Then he saw his own arms. The magic aisle had left him vulnerable!
The soldiers spied him in the torchlight. They whirled to attack him.
Another sword flashed beside him. King Omen! He was the other person who had helped dam the hot oil!
No words were exchanged. They both knew what had to be done; they had to guard this entrance from intrusion by the enemy until King Trent could handle his task.
The ogre’s new passage was too narrow to allow them to fight effectively while standing inside, and the dungeon chamber was too broad; soldiers could stand against the far wall, out of sword range, and fire their arrows down the length of the tunnel. So Dor and Omen moved out into the chamber, standing back to back near the wilting pie tree, and dominated the entire chamber with their two swords. Dor hoped King Omen knew how to use his weapon.
The Avars, no cowards, came at them enthusiastically. They were of a wild Turk nomad tribe, according to Amolde’s secondhand information, dissatisfied with
their more settled recent ways, and these mercenaries were the wildest of the bunch. Their swords were long, single-edged, and curved, made for vigorous slashing, in contrast with Dor’s straight double-edged sword. Here in the somewhat confined region of the dungeon, the advantage lay with the defenders.
Omen cut great arcs with his curved blade, keeping the ruffians at bay, and Dor stabbed and cut, severing an Avar’s hand before the soldiers teamed respect. Dor’s sword was not magic now; he had to do it all himself. But he had been taught the rudiments of swordplay, and these now served him well.
Several bats shot out of the tunnel and flew over the heads of the Avars, who mostly ignored them. One bat, as if resentful of this neglect, hovered in the face of the Avar leader, who sliced at it with his sword. The bat gave up and angled out of the chamber.
But swordplay was tiring business, and Dor was not in shape for it. His arm soon felt leaden. Omen, too, was in a poor way, because of his long imprisonment. The Avars, aware of this, pressed in harder; they knew they would soon have the victory.
One charged Dor, blade swinging down irresistibly. Dor tried to step aside and counter, but slipped on blood or oil and lost his footing; the blade sliced into his left hip. Dor fell helplessly headlong.
“Omen!” he cried. “Flee into the tunnel! I can no longer guard your back!”
“Xnt zqd gtqs!” Omen exclaimed, whirling.
The Avars, seeing their chance, charged. Omen’s blade flashed in another circle, for the moment daunting them, while Dor fought off the pain of his wound and floundered for his lost sword. His questing fingers only encountered something mushy; a spoiled chocolate pie from the dead pie tree.
Two Avars stepped in, one countering King Omen while the other ducked low to slice at Omen’s legs. Dor hefted the pie and smashed it into the Avar’s face. It was a perfect shot; the man dropped to his knees, pawing at his mud-filled eyes, while the stink of rotten pie filled the chamber.
King Omen, granted this reprieve, dispatched the remaining Avar.
But already another was charging, and Dor had no other pie within reach. Omen hurled his sword at the bold enemy, skewering him, then bent to take hold of Dor and haul him back to the tunnel.
“This is crazy!” Dor cried. Despite the peril of their situation, he noticed that Omen, too, had been wounded; a slash on his left shoulder was dripping bright blood, and it was mixing with the gore from Dor’s own wound. “Save yourself!”
Then the Avars were closing for the final assault, knowing they faced two unarmed and injured men, taking time to aim their cuts.
Even if Omen got them to the tunnel, he would be doomed. He had been a fool to try to save Dor-but Dor found himself rather liking the man.
Suddenly a dragon shot out of the tunnel, wings unfurling as it entered the dungeon chamber. It snorted fire and hovered in the air, raising gleaming talons, seeking prey. The Avars fell back, amazed and terrified. One made a desperate slash at the monster-and the sword passed right through the dragon’s wing without resistance or damage.
Illusion, of course! The magic had returned, and now the Queen was fighting in her spectacular fashion. But the moment the Avars realized that the dragon had no substance, it worked the opposite way. The Avar, discovering that he could not even touch the dragon, screamed and fled the chamber. He was far more afraid of a spiritual menace than of a physical one.
King Omen, too, stared at the dragon. “Where did that come from?” he demanded. “I don’t believe in dragons!”
Dor smiled. “It’s an illusion,” he explained. They were able to converse again, because of the ambience of magic. “Queen Iris is quite an artist in her fashion; she can generate completely credible images, with smell and sound and sometimes touch. No one in all the history of Xanth has ever been able to do it better.”
The dragon spun to face them. “Why, thank you, Dor,” it said, dissolving into a wash of color that drifted after the departing Avars.
Now Irene appeared, as the Avars scrambled to escape the dragon. “Oh, you’re hurt!” she cried. Dor wasn’t sure whether she was addressing him or Omen.
“King Omen saved my life,” he said.
“You were the only one with sense enough to dam off the oil to save the girl,” Omen replied. “Could I do less than help?”
“Thanks,” Dor said, finding himself liking this bold young King more than ever. Rival he might be, but he was a good man. They shook hands. Dor didn’t know whether this was a Mundane custom, but King Trent had evidently explained Xanth ways.
“Now our blood has mingled; we are blood brothers,” Omen said gravely.
Irene and Iris were tearing up lengths of cloth from somewhere, fashioning bandages. Irene got to Omen first, leaving Dor for her mother. “I suspect I underestimated you, Dor,” the Queen murmured as she worked efficiently on his wound, cleaning and bandaging it after applying some of the plant healing extract. “But then, I also underestimated your father.”
“My father?” Dor asked, bewildered.
“That was a long time ago, before I met Trent,” she said. “None of your business now. But he did have mettle in the crunch, and so do you.”
Dor appreciated her compliment, but regretted that her modification of attitude had come too late. Irene had focused on King Omen.
He tried to stop himself from glancing across to where Irene was working on the Mundane King, but could not help himself.
The Queen caught the glance. “You love her,” she said. “You did not before, but you do now. That’s nice.”
Was she taunting him? “But you endorse King Omen,” Dor said, his emotion warring within himself.
“No. Omen is a fine young man, but not right for Irene, nor she for him. I support your suit, Dor; I always did.”
“But you said-“
She smiled sadly. “Never in her life did my daughter do what I wished her to. Sometimes subtlety is necessary.”
Dor stared at her. He tried to speak, but the thoughts stumbled over themselves before reaching his tongue. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
“Let’s get you on your feet,” the Queen said, helping him up. Dot found that he could stand, though he felt dizzy; the wound was not as critical as it had seemed, and already was magically healing.
King Trent appeared. “You did good work, men. Thanks to your diversion, I was able to get close to the majority of the Avar soldiers. I turned them into bats.”
So that was the origin of the bats Dor had seen! One bat had tried to warn the remaining Avars, without success.
“But the Avars are not the only enemies,” King Omen said. “We need to weed out the other collaborators, lest assassins remain among us.”
“Magic will help there,” Ying Trent said. “Iris and Dor will see to it.”
“We will?” Dor asked, surprised.
“Of course,” the Queen said. “Can you walk?”
“I don’t know,” Dor said. His feelings about Irene’s mother had just been severely shaken up, and it would take some time for them to settle into a new pattern. He stepped forward experimentally, and she gripped his arm and steadied him. He half wished it were Irene lending him support.
The Avars, however, had discovered that the dragon did not follow beyond the dungeon. They were not yet aware that their backup contingent had been eliminated. Now they charged back into the chamber.
“They’re catching on to the illusion,” Grundy said. “We’d better get out of here.”
True enough. The Avars were stopping just outside the magic aisle and nocking arrows to strings. They had found the way to fight magic.
Smash went back into action. He ripped a boulder out of the foundation and hurled it at the Avars. His strength existed only within the aisle, but the boulder, once hurled, was just as effective beyond it as the arrows were within it. The troops dived out of the way.
The party moved back up the tunnel, Dor limping. Dragons flew ahead and behind, a ferocious honor guard.
/> In due course they reached the main hall of Castle Ocna. A number of the castle personnel were there, huddled nervously at one end.
The Avars had spread out and used other routes, and now were ranged all around the hall. The castle staff were afraid of the Avars, and did not yet know King Omen lived. Thus the castle remained in King Oary’s power despite King Omen’s release.
“The ogre and I will guard King Omen,’ King Trent said. “Irene, grow a cherry tree; you and the golem win be in charge of defensive artillery. Magician Centaur, if you please, stand in the center of the hall and turn rapidly in place several times as soon as I give the signal. Iris and Dor, your powers reach farther than mine; you will rout out the lurking Avars.”
“You see, I know how my husband’s mind works,” Queen Iris murmured. “He’s a genius at tactics.”
“But the Avars are beyond the magic aisle!” Dor protested. “And they know about your illusions. They’re pretty smart, in their fashion. We can’t fool them much longer.”
“We don’t need to,” Iris said. “All you have to do is have any stones in the magic aisle call out the position of any lurking Avars. The rest of us will take it from there.”
“Ready, Irene?” Trent inquired.
Irene’s tree had grown rapidly, and now had a number of bright red cherries ripening. “Ready, father,” she said grimly.
Dor was glad King Trent was a good tactician, for he, Dor, had only the haziest notion what was developing. When Amolde turned, it might bring some Avars within the magic aisle, but most would remain outside. How could those others be stopped before they used their bows?
“Now it gets nervy,” King Trent said. “Be ready, ogre. King Omen, it’s your show.”
King Omen mounted a dais in the center of the hall. He was pale from loss of blood, and carried his left arm awkwardly, but still radiated an aura of Kingliness. Irene picked several of the ripe cherries, giving some to Grundy, who stood beside a pile of them. Smash lifted a solid wooden post to his shoulder.
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