by Rick Cook
Mick was having a drink in the pilot’s bar. It was the one place in the Wizards’ Keep where he felt really comfortable-as long as Karin and the members of her squadron weren’t around.
Drinking by myself again, he thought. I gotta cut this out. It wasn’t as bad as Vegas. He wasn’t drinking as much and it was brown ale rather than whiskey-which apparently didn’t exist here-but he’d still rather be doing other things. Part of it was that he felt like a rat and he didn’t know how to apologize, or even if the apology would be accepted if he could find a way to make it. He’d have to get Karin alone and try sometime soon, but she was avoiding him and staying down in the pilots’ quarters.
He took another swig of ale as someone came over to join him. Looking up he saw it was one of the squadron leaders from the air wing.
"Join you?"
Gilligan waved him to a seat.
"The wing was out practicing today," said the man, whose name, Gilligan remembered, was Martinus or something like that.
Gilligan nodded "I was watching from the war room."
"What did you think?"
"Still needs a little work."
They say you’ve done operations like this before," Martinus said.
"Something like."
This complicated?"
"Pretty much."
"How do you keep it straight?"
Gilligan considered. Although the dragon riders were skilled fliers and sometimes fought in wing or multi-wing strength they apparently seldom coordinated more than a squadron attack at once. More, the idea of closely coordinating forces which were out of sight of each other was completely alien to them.
"Practice is part of it, of course," Gilligan said, "but scheduling is more of it. One of the things we’ve found is that scheduling is a force multiplier. It lets us put maximum effort on the target at the right times."
The other looked interested and said nothing.
"So the first thing we do is draft an ATO, that’s an air tasking order, that coordinates the entire operation. That comes down from the very top with basic assignments, timetable and such. Then each lower echelon fleshes it out so it all works together."
"Could you draft this-ATO-for this operation?" Martinus asked.
Traditional role for grounded pilots, he thought to himself, pushing paper.
"Sure, but it’d take time. Normally we’ve got software to help us." Off in the corner a tall blond woman in a wizard’s robe was listening intently. Mick vaguely recognized her as someone he’d seen hanging around with Bal-Simba.
"Basically it’s a matter of deciding what you want to do when and working backwards."
"It sounds complicated."
"Used to take a whole room full of staff officers to do it. Now we have specialized software, but before that we used to do it on spreadsheets." The other nodded. "It would take something the size of a sheet to write all of this down."
"No, it’s a piece of software, a program. But you don’t have those here do you?" He thought for a minute. "You know, I’ll bet Jerry and his friends could turn one out in no time."
"The Mighty are all busy at their own tasks," the other grunted.
"Forgive me, My Lords." Mick turned and saw the blond woman had joined them. "I could not help overhearing and I think perhaps we can convince the wizards to give you what you want." She turned toward Mick. "You are the Great Gilligan, are you not?"
It took Mick a second to recognize how his rank had transmuted. "That’s major. Actually I’m retired. Call me Mick."
The woman waved it off as if it were of no moment. "Very well, Mick I am Arianne, Bal-Simba’s assistant. I wonder if perhaps you could help me."
TWENTY-THREE
ENTER THE DWARVES
Arianne growled in frustration and tossed her pen aside.
Trouble?" Bal-Simba asked mildly, looking up from his own work.
This plan of Gilligan’s makes my head hurt."
"And mine as well," the big wizard agreed. "
"Tis said that simple plans work best. But here we must have complexity if we are to attain our goal." He gestured at the glowing letters. "So:"
This is far more complex than anything we have ever attempted and it must all work perfectly."
Bal-Simba nodded. "Complex indeed. But then we face a situation of unprecedented complexity. Indeed, I cannot see how matters could become more complicated." He was about to go on, but Brian came dashing into the room. Then he remembered his lessons, pulled himself up short, squared his shoulders and pulled his tunic straight.
"Excuse me, My Lord, but the seneschal says there are a hundred dwarves here to see you."
Arianne cocked an eyebrow at the big wizard, who shook his head and rose from his seat. "Foretelling the future was never my strong point," he said, and sighed.
Either Brian had understated the case or Wulfram miscounted. There were actually 128 dwarves waiting in the great hall of the Wizards’ Keep. All adult males, since women and children never left the dwarven holds. All of them armored in knee-length bymies of chain or heavy leather, all of them wearing steel caps and all of them with their traditional dwarfish battle axes strapped to their backs. Since their round shields of iron-rimmed oak were slung over the axes and since the axes were tied fast to their baldrics by peace bonds, it was obvious this was not a war party. Just what it was, Bal-Simba and the other wizards weren’t sure. Dwarves seldom left their delvings and never in human memory had so many been seen at the Wizards’ Keep.
As Bal-Simba entered the hall behind Wulfram the dwarves arrayed themselves in parallel lines with an older dwarf at their head. From his position and stance, Bal-Simba took him to be their leader, a notion confirmed by the circlet of red gold fitted around his steel cap.
"I am Tosig Longbeard, King of the dwarves," the head dwarf proclaimed as soon as the wizard gestured for him to speak "Here to reclaim my rightful property." Bal-Simba looked blank. "Property, Your Majesty?"
"The sword Blind Fury, the greatest treasure of my tribe."
"Ah," the giant wizard said softly. This was beginning to make sense.
"My idiot kinsman stole it from our treasury. We have traced him here. Now give me the sword-and while you’re about it you can turn over my kinsman for punishment as well."
"I am afraid neither is here," Bal-Simba said. "They were here but they have departed."
From the way the news left Tosig Longbeard unmoved, Bal-Simba suspected he already knew that neither the sword nor the dwarf were at the Wizards’ Keep.
"Where?" he demanded, gimlet-eyed. "Where did they go?"
"The dungeons beneath the City of Night. Your kinsman-Glandurg?-wished to accompany our folk on a hazardous mission there."
"A quest, eh? For what treasure?"
"No treasure, just great danger and a mighty foe."
Bal-Simba didn’t need a mind reading spell to see Tosig didn’t believe that. Not even his moronic nephew would go charging into someone else’s dungeon unless there was treasure involved. The fact that the humans denied it only meant they didn’t intend to share if they could avoid it. To the dwarf long that was perfectly reasonable, but it only made him more determined to get part of the loot.
"We will follow him, then."
"That may be a trifle difficult," Bal-Simba said mildly. "The lord of the dungeons has closed the path to any who try to enter. Not even dwarfish magic may force the way, I fear." For a moment wizard and dwarf regarded each other.
"Well?" Tosig Longbeard said finally.
"I beg Your Majesty’s pardon?"
"Well what’s the rest of it? You wouldn’t tell me that for no reason and you obviously don’t expect me to pay for that information. So you want something. What?"
Bal-Simba didn’t even try to disabuse him of the notion they were bargaining. The dwarf wouldn’t have believed him, and besides:
"No bargain, but I do have a suggestion. Soon we shall attempt a stratagem to force our way into the dungeons. If you would care to
accompany us, we would be glad for your help. Meanwhile, please stay with us in the Wizards’ Keep as our guests."
There was silence again while the king considered. "Very well," he said at last.
"If you do not delay too long we will combine our forces to breach this fortress and recover our property." will have the seneschal prepare accommodations."
"We will camp amongst the trees across the river," Tosig Longbeard said. "This whole place stinks of dragons." With that he turned and marched between the ranks of his followers and out of the hall.
"A hundred dwarves," Bal-Simba murmured once the last mailed warrior had followed his king out of the hall. "And the Sparrow thought he had trouble with only one."
"A hundred and a score and eight," Arianne corrected. "Do you think they will be much help?"
Bal-Simba sighed. "I told you I fared poorly at predicting the future, Lady. I only know they will do less damage to our cause if they go with us rather than preceding us on their own and stirring up the Enemy." He eyed the door where the dwarves had passed out "Probably," he added.
TWENTY-FOUR
OPERATION WINTER STORM
Although not bound to their tunnels, the dwarves were uncomfortable away from them. Clearly Tosig’s men would rather be back at their shafts and forges than preparing to battle an unknown enemy half a world away. Still, dwarves are stoic by nature and none has ever faulted them for lack of courage.
There was snow in the wood, piled up under the trees, and a skin of ice lay on all the ponds and streams. The dwarves didn’t seem to notice as they bustled about, felling trees and digging into the frozen soil to make crude dugouts. Before the sun completed its short journey to the horizon, a section of the wood had taken on the appearance of a semi-permanent and none-too-uncomfortable camp. Tosig Longbeard was standing in front of a camp fire, overseeing the last of the work and warming himself when Durgrim, captain of the dwarven guard and his military second-in-command, approached him.
"We are almost done with the sleeping holes," Durgrim told his king. "Another day-tenth and the last of them will be done and the evening meal will be ready." Tosig Longbeard grunted assent. Durgrim paused, judging the king’s temper.
"Your Majesty," he said slowly, "I have been thinking about this, and the place on the Southern Continent where we are bound."
"Speak your mind," invited the dwarf long in a tone that suggested his lieutenant had better be careful about what he said.
"Even before mortals started using it, the place had an evil reputation," the other dwarf told him. "I am sure human occupation has not improved it."
"Unsurprising if it were so. You have an alternative to propose?"
Durgrim paused again, obviously gathering his courage. "Your majesty, can we not simply bargain with this enemy, buy the sword back?"
Tosig Longbeard glared at him. "Do you think I’m simple? I’ve tried that already. Whatever this creature is, it will not treat with us at all. Besides," he continued, the anger leaving his voice, "even if he would deal the price would undoubtedly be too high."
The dwarf long scowled back into the fire. "No, there is no help for it. With or without the mortals we must penetrate this place to recover the sword." Being dwarves and with dwarves’ careful sense of property rights-not to mention their greed for treasure-it never occurred to either of them to simply leave the sword in the Enemy’s hands.
Charlie brought the Colt around in a wide, easy turn. He lined up on the white expanse between the rows of leafless trees and settled to the snowy earth lightly as thistledown. The big biplane rolled perhaps a hundred feet across the field before it stopped.
Malus stood at the edge of the field, blowing on his hands to warm them. As the plane rolled to a stop he crunched across the snow to meet Charlie.
"Still feels a little funny on the controls," Charlie told the tubby little wizard as soon as he stepped down from the door. "I don’t think you’ve got the center of lift quite right over the wings yet."
"I can adjust the spell again," Malus said.
"No, it’ll fry fine the way it is. If it ain’t too broke, then don’t go fixing it, that’s my motto."
"Is there aught else then?"
"Yeah, one thing. The propeller. It doesn’t rotate." Malus spread his hands. "It is not necessary that it should spin. Magic now moves your craft through the air."
Charlie looked at him. "Just do me a favor. Make it spin."
Gilligan was in the "war room," going over the details of the air operation and the scheduling software with Jerry when Bal-Simba entered.
"Merry meet, My Lord. How goes the plan?"
"Well enough, I guess," Gilligan said with a sigh.
"What is worrying you?"
"You mean in general? Nearly everything." He grinned. "That’s part of my job."
"Specifically, then."
"Well-" He hesitated. "Has it occurred to you that this might be another trap? That the whole purpose of this thing might be to lure as many of us as it can into those caves so it can snap us up?"
Bal-Simba’s smile had no warmth. "Constantly. It is our greatest fear. Yet we have little choice. We must strike soon and with all our strength or this thing will overwhelm us. We have taken what precautions we can, but this still remains the best course of action." He looked at Mick. "Is there aught else?" Mick sighed. "Charlie. He isn’t a programmer, he isn’t a magician and I don’t think he’s ever really flown in a combat environment before. He’s going to have a lot to do up there. Do you think he’ll be able to handle it all?" Jerry looked at Mick and smiled. "Taj and I have rigged up a custom user interface to help him."
It was getting colder. Except for occasional spots like the hot springs or the lava tunnels, the caves had never been really warm but now they were getting more and more frigid. Wiz could see his breath in puffs before his face and he hugged his cloak tighter about him to try to keep out the frigid chill. He tried not to think how hungry he was. Since their discovery that they were cut off, the group had been on "halt rations" that had grown steadily skimpier. Glandurg was not eating at all and Wiz suspected that half of Danny’s ration was going to June.
They were even short on monsters. It had been nearly two days since the last attack. Wiz wondered if that meant they were headed in the wrong direction, but the new Moira seeker was pointing resolutely the same way.
Wiz went around the corner and came face to face with a cloaked, hooded figure. He drew back and Malkin’s rapier sprang free before they realized they were seeing a reflection. Motioning Malkin to stay on guard, Wiz advanced, staff ready, toward the mirror. As he drew closer he saw it was no mirror. Instead there was a rough reflective coating on the rocky wall of the tunnel. Wiz touched the glistening surface. "Ice," he called back to the others. "Ice under a volcano."
"Perhaps our enemy likes it cold," Danny suggested as the group came close. Malkin arched an eyebrow. "Makes it easier to keep the zombies fresh, no doubt." Wiz drew his hand under his cloak to warm it. "Or maybe it just makes things more uncomfortable for us." He looked around "Well, let’s get going. They say exercise helps keep you warm."
There was more ice as they went along. Here it glistened as a thin film on the rocky walls, there it made a treacherous coating over the floor of the tunnel. Occasionally there would be a solid vein of ice, filling a crack in the stone like some strange glistening mineral. Now the air was so cold the adventurers could see their breath before them.
Glandurg seemed unfazed, but the others kept then-cloaks wrapped tight around them. Still the cold seemed to steal through to sap their very strength and leave them weak and shivering.
Nor did the tunnel cooperate. It seemed as though every few steps they had to crawl over a pile of frozen debris or climb a slope so steep they must go on all fours or squeeze between unrelenting walls of rock. Places with level footing were few and far between. Even without the ice and cold it would have been difficult. With them it was exhausting. They saw and heard nothing for th
e rest of the day, save the occasional drip, drip, drip of not-quite-frozen water. Still, their senses were alert and straining and that added to their fatigue. Malkin was on watch, staring out into the dark, thiefs senses alert. She neither turned nor moved as Danny came up behind her, but he knew she sensed he was there.
"Anything?"
She didn’t turn, only shook her head slightly.
With a slight scrape he slid in beside her.
"How do you stay warm like that?"
Malkin flicked a bit of a smile. "I don’t."
"I can’t sleep," Danny said softly.
Malkin nodded, but said nothing.
"Malkin," he said at last, "do you think we’re going to be able .to rescue Moira?"
"That’s what we’re here for. That and to settle some scores with this thing." Danny gathered his courage. "Yeah, but do you think we’re going to be able to do it?"
"Are you so sure she wants to be rescued?" Malkin asked slowly.
"Of course Moira wants to be rescued."
"Moira herself might, but this thing has only Moira’s body. The will is the Enemy’s. I am not sure it will turn her loose that easily. The Enemy went through a great deal of trouble to get her. He obviously had some purpose."
"Yeah. Bait."
Malkin nodded, eyes never leaving the corridor. "Perhaps that too. But I think Moira, or Moira’s body, plays a greater role in the Enemy’s plans than mere bait."
"What are you getting at?"
"That we may not be able to rescue her. But I do not think we can afford to leave her here."
"Jesus," Danny breathed. "That’s awful! Have you talked to Wiz about this?"
"He has problems enough and this is one he isn’t going to think clearly upon." She turned to face him. "But we must think upon it, and decide what we’re to do, should it come to that."
She turned her head to face down the dark passage and neither said anything for several minutes.
"That’s a hell of a choice," Danny said at last.
"Hard choices must still be made."
"And you think we:"