Cant looked the woman he called Atha up and down.
“I see you are no longer cursed,” he said.
“I’m not. But he had to dangle me off a cliff before it was finished.”
“Long story,” Oliver said. “I think I know the way to your Kingdom now.”
“You’ve read all the signs?”
“I think so. Do you see the plume of smoke in the distance?”
“A great beast was felled there just moments ago.”
“It was. That’s our destination.”
“Pallas,” Minerva said, for clarification.
“All roads lead there.”
“Of course,” Cant said. “There would be a great palace. A monstrous cathedral, even, but hid with magics. I am glad the augurs have revealed the truth, Osraic. I knew all along you were the correct choice.”
Minerva rolled her eyes.
“Yes of course you did.”
“Now, where is that fool with the horses?” Cant asked.
“Which fool is that?” Minnie asked. “We know so many.”
“Ah, here he comes.”
Coming up from behind them, looking entirely ridiculous, was Wilson atop a horse. He was still dressed in full camo gear, which just didn’t help. But, he had three other horses with him.
“Look what I found!” he said.
“Where?” Oliver asked.
“Where did I find horses in the middle of the city? Not sure. The big guy asked me to hunt some down, so I did. Four Horse Tavern, of course. They were right out front.”
“Of course they were. But I meant where have you been?”
“Getting horses, like I said.”
“What about the whole middle part, where you disappeared?”
“Look, I’m just along for the ride, same as the rest of you. Now, we have horses, an empty city, and a place to go. How about if we get going, and figure out the rest later?”
Osraic the apprentice sorcerer was evidently no better at horseback riding than Oliver himself was, as neither of them were having a grand time of it once the animal got moving. That the horse seemed to require no instructions certainly helped, but Oliver still felt like he was going to fall off at any moment. He thought Orson the superspy probably knew more about horseback riding than either of them did, but had no idea how to access that skill.
Minerva, meanwhile, looked like she was born on a horse.
“Are you ready for this?” she asked, riding beside him. They were in something between a trot and a full gallop, and every stride caused parts of his body to bounce incorrectly somehow.
“What do you mean? We’ve been trying to get there all night. Sure I’m ready.”
“There are forces that don’t want you to reach the Kingdom. You must have realized that by now. Remember the greathawk in the Ailing Mountains? The creature’s attack was directed at you.”
“How can you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Bounce back and forth like that. The Ailing mountain range is from a story. So was the greathawk. I made it all up. You’re talking about it like we actually experienced that.”
“Does it matter? I think we’re well past the point where parsing any of this makes a difference. It doesn’t change what we’re about to face.”
“And what’s that?”
“As I said, there are forces that don’t want you to reach the Kingdom. The closer we get, the more robust that resistance will be.”
“I’m ready.”
“Good. We’ll need your magic. Sorcerer.” She flashed a great smile, and then urged her horse ahead, to run beside Cant in the lead.
“She’s right, you know,” Wilson said, from behind. He was doing even worse than Oliver with his horse, apparently not even having a fictional version of himself to draw experience from. “All this craziness has been about you from the start. Something doesn’t want you to reach Pallas.”
“You’ve been telling me to just roll with it from the moment we left the apartment. Before that, even. That’s my plan.”
“That only gets you so far.”
The distance from the apartment to the center of town was maybe three miles over land, with a couple of turns. It was two miles by air, just about, and could also be measured in subway stops, which was six. Oliver didn’t know how it measured in horse, but after a decent distance traveled he was ready to declare that it was a lot further than he thought it was going to be. The blisters beginning to form on his hindquarters concurred.
The first attack on their party took place sometime after the halfway point. It came from the air, but it wasn’t a greathawk, or any other variety of epic fantasy beast: it was an alien.
The thing crashed down atop an SUV in the middle of the street, and not gently. This happened in front of Cant, in the lead. His horse went bonkers, reared up and nearly threw her rider.
Cant was still busy getting his mount under control when the alien opened its mouth and roared, which by Oliver’s prior experience with these things meant they would be seeing more aliens shortly.
Minerva—or Atha, in this particular moment—acted as if this attack had been coordinated well in advance. Already, she’d pulled the enchanted bow from her hair and commanded it to full size. Her horse, also undeterred, continued in a full charge straight at the alien, so Atha had little trouble loosing a couple of arrows.
The shots struck true, right into the mouth and at the back of the throat. It wasn’t a mortal blow—arrows were poor substitutes for pulse blasts—but it was a serious wound. She reined her horse just out of reach of the creature’s attack radius, and circled round. Her eyes weren’t on the thing in front any more. She was looking skyward.
Cant was off his horse by then, and ready with his sword.
“We can’t afford to be bogged down with the likes of this,” Atha told him.
“I’ll make it quick.”
“Sorcerer!” she shouted. “Keep moving! The skies will only get busier from here!”
The horse’s accelerator was apparently located in the hindquarters, a thing Oliver discovered accidentally—or perhaps knew instinctively. He gave a tap back there on both sides, with his heels, and they were suddenly going at a speed with which he was far less comfortable. Wilson, who had been doing very well in not vanishing this time around, was close behind. He was a jangly, uncoordinated mess, clinging to his mount like a drowning man to driftwood. Oliver imagined he looked much the same.
As they passed, he heard Cant shout, “Have at it, monster!” and the alien shriek in reply. It would have been a good battle to witness, but the time to spectate was over.
I think I’d better figure out how to be a sorcerer soon, he thought, as the horse rounded the corner on the other side of the battle scene.
The corner he took led to the part of the city most of the residents called the hub. This was due to a faint resemblance it bore, on maps, to the center of a wheel, although in truth this was an exceedingly generous comparison. In order to see the convergence of the roadways, one had to ignore a lot of streets that didn’t actually meet in the middle.
The dead-center portion was taken up by a roundabout, which was the only sane solution to the traffic mayhem that would otherwise have been caused by the roadway convergence. By all rights, the grassy circular lawn at the core should have had a statue of someone important. Someone on horseback, maybe, looking determined about one thing or another. It would have been impractical, but nobody expected practicality from a spot like that. Instead, there was something akin to an obelisk there, with street names on it and arrows pointing in all the correct directions.
It should have been useful, because enormous signposts that are readable from multiple angles ought to be useful. But people driving around this particular signpost, were far too busy watching the traffic and trying not to ram into someone to look to their left for directional assistance. The signs would have made sense, perhaps, in an era when people drove slowly, in carriages, without in-vehicle GPS
at their disposal.
It was a shame nobody did spend time looking at the signs, because some years back—on April Fool’s Day—the city added new directions: arrows pointing up at odd angles with the names of planets on them. The directions were only correct a couple of days out of the year, but since no one noticed, no one complained. And, nobody bothered to take the signs back down again.
Ollie was thinking about those incorrect directions when he reached the hub. He wondered if the aliens, at least, thought it was funny.
“Pallas is up there,” Wilson said, pulling up beside him.
“I know where it is.”
The hub was at the bottom of a hill. Three streets, on the other side of the roundabout, went up that hill at different angles. The middle one was a road called Cub Street. Nobody ever called it that; they called it Club Street. It was a long straight road that ended at a dead-end created by the interstate, and all the way down that road was a succession of night clubs, plus a bowling alley, an upscale billiards hall, and more than one twenty-four hour dining establishment.
Oliver had never been down Club Street at any time of day, but knew of it almost by way of osmosis, as if—like everyone else in the city—he absorbed facts about this place just by breathing the air and drinking the water.
M Pallas was at the end of that strip. This was something he also just sort of knew, somehow, although he didn’t need to. There were enough billboards around the hub that provided plenty in the way of detailed directions.
Oliver stopped his horse at the grassy part, and checked back the way they’d come.
“They’re on their way,” Wilson said.
“Yeah.”
“We should keep moving. You heard what she said.”
“Yeah. Seems quiet, though, doesn’t it?”
“Sure. The city’s abandoned and we’re in the middle of the loudest part of the city and there isn’t anyone here but us. It’s very weird, Oliver. Please don’t tell me you’re about to reach for the it’s quiet: too quiet cliché, I don’t think we have time for that.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I just want to turn around and go back to my apartment. What happens if I don’t go to the club? Do you know?”
“I think we’ll just wake up tomorrow and talk about going to Pallas all over again. And it’ll be like this again. Only even more difficult.”
“Why is that?” Ollie asked.
“Why would it be more difficult?”
“Why would we keep trying to get to Pallas? I didn’t want to go in the first place. You guys talked me into it.”
“Because every story has an ending, Oliver. You have to find yours.”
“What if I don’t want it to end?”
Wilson sighed, and for a second went from camouflaged soldier-of-fortune on horseback to exasperated creative writing mentor. It was nice to see that version of Wilson, however briefly.
“Depends on what you mean. There’s the unfinished manuscript, which is literally a thing the writer failed to come up with an ending for. Then there’s the ending that isn’t an ending. Either it circles back on the beginning again, or otherwise hints that the hard-earned ending isn’t an ending at all: it’s a fake-out. Those never work out.”
“But it’s an ending.”
“Sure, but it’s a cheat. It’s better than the unfinished manuscript, I’ll say that. And it might be better than an anticlimactic ending. Look, endings are tough, no way around it. I understand your hesitation. But we have to get there.”
“All right. What if I don’t like how it ends?”
“Then come up with a better one,” Wilson said with a smile. “It’s not that complicated. Now come on, I hear something above us and I’m not interested in seeing what that something is. Are you?”
“Not really.”
Ollie nudged his horse, who was grazing on the definitely-not-meant-for-grazing grass in the center.
“Head for the smoke, girl,” he said to the horse, who he decided was probably a girl without any way of really knowing. The smoke in question was coming from the other side of the crest of the hill. It was the wreckage of the helicopter, and it was hidden from view, as was the rest of Club Street.
If he were imagining this as Cant did, as the entrance to a separate kingdom that was obscured until now, the crest of the hill would be the gateway. All the sights and sounds of the clubs were protected by the natural rise, ensconced in something akin to a bowl valley.
Oliver was unprepared for what was on the other side.
The final pathway to the Kingdom of Cant’s Benja Codex was a neon spectacle of garish, rapid-flash lights, a brazen dare for the seizure-prone. It was about how Oliver imagined Vegas probably looked, only more garish. It was singularly uninviting.
The most interesting thing about it was that Oliver could see it at all.
“They have power here,” Wilson said. “How about that.”
“Maybe only parts of the city were blacked out,” Oliver said.
“Or maybe it’s magic.”
“Sure, why not?”
The helicopter had come down right onto of Club Street, near the top of the hill, still some distance from the clubs. They headed towards it because there wasn’t anywhere else to head: it was in the way.
“What happened there?” Wilson asked.
A shot rang out, and the ground ahead of them kicked up some fragments. They brought the mounts to a halt.
“That’s Koestler. He was trying to get away with a formula that came out of secret government experiments, to sell it on the black market for a lot of money.”
“Oh. Well, he’s shooting at us.”
“I noticed.”
“Come no closer!” Koestler yelled.
“Do you have a gun?” Wilson asked Oliver.
“I did, but I lost it.”
“What was this, one of those cold-war spy things?”
“Yeah.” He rode forward a few yards; he was just out of range of the handgun he last saw Koestler with. If the man had a rifle, it was too close, but they were in range of a rifle from a lot further back, and Koestler was a good shot. Oliver figured he didn’t have one.
“Koestler!” he shouted. “We just have to get through. You can keep Lot Forty-Two if you want it.”
Koestler fired again. Wherever the bullet landed, it wasn’t in the ground, Oliver, or Oliver’s horse. A warning shot, then.
“You think I would believe this? After you downed my helicopter?”
“I didn’t do that.”
Wilson rode up next to Oliver.
“What was the endgame of his story, anyway?” he asked.
“I didn’t have one.”
“That sounds about right.”
“If I was not brought down by your hand, then whose?” Koestler asked.
As if cued to do so—and perhaps they were—several balls of light flew over their heads. They were silent, but bright. Oliver felt certain he’d had just been scanned.
They continued past the wrecked helicopter and along Club Street, coming to a stop midway down.
“Dunno who they are,” Oliver said. “Why don’t you ask them?”
“What are those things?” Koestler asked.
“Those are alien drones. The actual aliens are big scary-looking bugs. They also fly. I think you’ll see one of them in a minute or two, if you want to just hang on.”
There was silence from Koestler for a while, and then: “Do you think I am an idiot?”
“No, of course not. You just ended up in the wrong story.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Look, Koestler, we don’t have a lot of time. In a minute those drones are going to rally some aliens to this location, and I’m going to need to be on the other side of them before that happens or it’s gonna be a really long night. I’m not armed, and neither is my friend here. At least let us come closer.”
“All right,” Koestler said, after a moment. “But know that I fully expect treachery from you and am
prepared to answer it.”
“Of course.”
Oliver started riding forward, then noticed Wilson lagging.
“You’re sure he won’t shoot?” Wilson asked.
“I’m not a hundred percent, but yeah, I’m pretty sure. You thinking of vanishing again?”
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I don’t think I can.”
“Then come on.”
It was thirty yards to reach the crash. The acrid smoke got more intense with each step, leading Oliver to wonder how Koestler even saw well enough to recognize him from any distance.
When they got within a few feet, Oliver dismounted and let the horse wander back out of the smoke. Any travel past this point would have to be on foot, because the mount had no way to get around the crash.
Ollie put his hands up.
“Where are you, Koestler?” he asked.
“I am here,” the Russian said, from a spot near the cockpit, on the left.
Koestler was pinned under the wreckage. In one hand was his Smith & Wesson, and in the other the tin containing Lot 42.
Oliver crouched down to get a better look.
“How bad is it?”
“My left leg is bent in ways it should not be. I don’t appear to be suffering any internal concerns, but I also cannot free myself. Tell me what they really are.”
Oliver gestured Wilson over. Wilson was reluctant to do anything other than watch, but came.
“I told you, they’re aliens,” Oliver said.
“There’s no such thing. Your government is using advanced technologies…”
“It’s not us, I’m telling you.” To Wilson, he said, “When I lift this, you pull him free.”
Lifting the edge of the chassis that was pinning Koestler took some work, and the use of a stick. Oliver found a metal one lying free of the wreckage—it was a piece of a strut or something—which gave him the necessary leverage to move the pile about an inch. This was enough to free Koestler.
It didn’t really make the Russian any happier, as extricating his leg hurt a great deal.
“Now tell me,” he rasped. “What is really going on?”
“He was supposed to get away, wasn’t he?” Wilson asked. “Originally.”
Unfiction Page 26