A Wizard In Chaos

by Christopher Stasheff

  "You wouldn't go away from them long enough," the sergeant explained. "The lieutenant who took the infantry platoon out found your trail a mile away, and was going to jump you at nightfall-but he realized you were about to join up with this Blue Company platoon, so he jumped you all."

  "Yes, why wait until you can attack one man alone, when you could assault a dozen?" Gar's nod was tight with irony. "I hope he isn't your shrewdest man."

  "He's an officer," the sergeant said simply, and left the rest unspoken-that wars would be a lot simpler, less bloody, and shorter, if they just left things up to the noncoms.

  "I suppose it's become a matter of honor now," Gar sighed. "Your captain feels he has to kill me, no matter what it takes-even if he has to kill the rest of my companions, or even the whole Blue Company."

  "I expect so," the sergeant agreed. "Captains don't tell us noncoms, though:"

  "No, of course not. By the way, did you see the steward?"

  "Yes. He was a lean man, about as tall as your master sergeant, black hair..."

  "Torgi." Gar nodded, then rose and turned to Cort. "Lieutenant, I hereby volunteer to give myself up."

  "We don't desert comrades," Cort said stiffly. "Don't be silly," Dirk added.

  "You stood by us; we'll stand by you." But Sergeant Otto was looking grim at the news that Gar had brought the attack down on them all.

  "Then let me offer an alternative," Gar said slowly. "Dirk and I will travel by ourselves. Now that we know they're after us, we'll make sure they never find us, and you and your men will be safe from attack."

  Otto shook his head. "The Hawks- are looking for our platoon now."

  "Then send this sergeant back with news that we're going on by ourselves. The Hawks will know there's no need to attack Blue Company soldiers then."

  "You're sergeants of the Blue Company now," Otto snapped. "We don't desert our own."

  "No, we don't," Cort said slowly, "but we can use your plan, with one slight change." He turned to Otto. "Sergeant, take the platoon back to headquarters. I'll go on with Dirk and Gar."

  "No, lieutenant!" Otto cried, and Gar said, "Really, lieutenant, it's not necessary."

  "But it is." Cort turned to look up at him, fists on hips. "It satisfies the Blue Company's honor, and it keeps the rest of the platoon safe. Besides, even if you're as good at stealth as you say, it's much easier to hide only three of us than the whole platoon."

  Gar stood, frowning down at him, thinking.

  "If, by some fluke, they do find us," Dirk said, "a third sword could be handy."

  "And a man who knows the territory could be even handier." Gar nodded slowly. "All right, lieutenant. We'll take you up on your offer."

  Sergeant Otto groaned.

  "Honor," in the chaos of a society dominated by warlords, turned out to have a very solid meaning. If a mercenary didn't fulfill a commission, no one else would hire him. If a captain didn't stand by his men, or the men stand by one another, the company would break up and dissolve.

  Gar and Dirk learned that much from Cort as they searched for a hiding place. They rode away from Quilichen, and if now and again Dirk turned and looked back when there was nothing to see but trees and leaves or, later, meadowland stretching away from hills, who could blame him? After all, he didn't do it so often that it might become irritating.

  They rode down a shallow stream until it ended in a pond fed by a dozen springs, then found a deer trail and followed it. Dirk brought out handfuls of grain and scattered it behind them, so that birds would flutter down and disturb their tracks while pecking for the seeds. Then, in the evening, the deer would cover even those traces as they came down to the water.

  They came to a shelf of shale and rode along it for a hundred feet, till it buried itself in the earth again. A little farther on, they found a stand of pines and rode through it; the slippery needles underfoot didn't hold tracks very well.

  So they went, taking advantage of every chance to hide their trail, riding at a canter when they could, a trot when the way was open, a walk when it wasn't, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the Hawk cavalry.

  In the middle of the afternoon, though, Gar suddenly reined in and sat, listening, for a minute. "What is it?" Cort asked.

  "Horses," Gar said. "That sergeant made quick time going back to camp. The rest of the platoon is out after us."°

  "They'll have a jolly time trying to follow, with all the ways we broke our trail," Dirk said, grinning.

  "They surely will," Cort agreed. "By the way, Gar, what did you do to anger the Boss of Loutre so?"

  "I didn't," Gar answered. "I doubt he even knows about it. But I tripped up his steward badly, when he was translating for the boss with a merchant I was guarding-mistranslating, I should say. He was trying to get the boss to pay more than the merchant was asking."

  "He would have pocketed the difference!" Cort exclaimed. "No wonder he wants to kill you-if you tell his boss about it, the boss will kill him!"

  "That does lend him some reason," Gar admitted. "Myself, I think he's just piqued at having someone catch him at his game."

  "But to hire a whole company to murder you! Where did the steward get that much money?"

  "That is an interesting question, isn't it?" Gar asked, with a hard little smile. "I think I'll ask his boss about that." He halted suddenly, losing his smile, cocking his head. "We'd better find shelter, quickly! The Hawks will find our trail after all!"

  "How do you know?" Cort asked, frowning. "Because I hear hounds! They've bought themselves dogs someplace! Ride!"

  Gar whipped his mount into a canter. Dirk followed with Cort right behind him, marveling at the big man's hearing.

  By nightfall, though, Cort could hear the hounds himself. Worse, they had come out of the woods into a flat plain, too dry for any life but grass and the multitude of living things that grazed. Cattle roamed here and there, sheep grazed by the roadside, but there were few people, and virtually nowhere to hide.

  "We have to find somewhere!" Cort said. "The horses can't keep going much longer."

  "I know," Gar said, thin-lipped, "and I keep looking for a haystack to hide in, but all I see is the hay without the stack!"

  The moon's first sliver bulged over the horizon, showing the silhouette of the hill before it.

  Gar stiffened, staring ahead. "What's that?"

  He knew darned well, Dirk thought. "Looks like one of those half-dome hills."

  "Stay away!" Cort reined in his horse, dread of the supernatural striking ten times stronger in the night. "The Fair Folk will kill us if they find us near their hill-or take us captive for twenty years, if they're feeling merciful!"

  "Old stories," Dirk said with scorn.

  "They're much more than stories!" Cort reddened with anger. "I talked with a gaffer myself who'd been in one of their hills! Gone in a young man, he had, and come out an old one, and couldn't remember more than one night among them!"

  "What was his name?" Dirk asked. "Rip Van Winkle?"

  "Wh ... ? No! His name was Katz!"

  Dirk frowned, unsure suddenly, but Gar said, "If those Hawks catch us, I'll be losing a great deal more than twenty years. I hope you two will have the sense to surrender, but I'm very much . afraid that you'll fight, and the Hawks will kill us a great deal more surely than your Fair Folk."

  "Well," Cort admitted, "they don't always kill trespassers. Sometimes they don't even take them captive, just toy with them for a bit, then let them go. They've even sent some peasants away with riches. You never can tell with the Fair Folk."

  "Then at least we'll have a chance on their hill," Dirk pointed out, "and if dread of it would have kept you away, it might keep the Hawks away, too, at least until morning."

  "And by dawn, our horses will be rested," Gar agreed. "I say it's a chance worth taking!"

  "What other chance do we have?" Cort sighed, and followed them as they galloped toward the hill.

  Halfway there, the baying of the hounds
suddenly grew louder. Turning, Cort could see they had come over the horizon and were there on the road behind, a blot in the moonlight. He turned back to the front, calling, "Faster!"

  They rode faster indeed. The horses ran flat out with their last spurt of energy, fleeing from the belling and barking behind them, though their breath came hard with exhaustion. The hounds .were far fresher-most of their afternoon had been spent at the walk, with their noses to the ground. They ran easily, and the horsemen behind them kept pace. Then they passed the hounds, riding for the trio whom they could see now, fifty men on horses, leaving the dogs to their peasant handlers.

  But the hill was close now, so close. Finally the companions' horses thudded up twenty feet on the hillside, and Gar reined in, leaping off his horse and drawing his sword. "Surrender, gentlemen! It's for me to die, not you!"

  "Sometimes you can be a real pain, you know?" Dirk sprang down and drew his sword, taking his stance back to back with Gar.

  Cort felt his death coming upon him, and was only sorry there would be no gleeman to see it and sing his saga to Violet. He dismounted and took station by his companions, sword and dagger drawn. "Let them come down!"

  They came up, though, with thundering hooves and yells of triumph, swords flashing in the air, swinging high for the death strokes.

  Then the earth groaned and shook. A glare of light split the night, throwing the companions' shadows long before them, and a vast, cavernous voice echoed all about them:

  "Who disturbs the home of the Fair Folk? Who dares come near the Hollow Hill with Cold Iron in hand?"

  CHAPTER 14

  The Hawks screamed, their horses reared and turned, and the enemy line boiled in confusion for a minute.

  Cort ached to turn and see, but held his eyes on the enemy. The Hawks did look, though, and froze. Lances of light sprang out, spearing Hawk soldiers, searing through their ranks like scythes. The Hawks screamed and fled.

  "Lasers!" Dirk stared at the carnage.

  The light rays pursued the Hawks relentlessly, but the voice called again, echoing with the hollowness of a tomb: "Let some escape, to tell the tale!"

  "Amplified," Dirk said.

  Gar nodded. "Digital reverb."

  The rays shifted downward to score the horses' hooves. In two minutes the whole squadron was gone, leaving half a dozen dead behind. The survivors galloped away, back down the road, as far from the Hollow Hill as they could get. Even the hounds turned tail and ran with fading howls of terror.

  Cort went limp. "Thank our lucky stars! Your gamble worked, Gar!"

  "Maybe not." Dirk glanced over his shoulder. "Take a look behind you."

  Slowly, dread rising like a giant in the night, Cort turned, to look, and cried out in terror.

  Gar turned, too, and stood staring.

  An oblong door in the side of the hill had opened like an eye, filled with glaring light. Tall men stood silhouetted against that glare. They were more than six feet in height, much more, almost as tall as Gar, and the weapons in their hands weren't swords.

  As the three comrades stared, the light dimmed to little more than the moonlight itself. Corn blinked, trying to see through dazzled eyes. He could make out other lights floating in midair, of a gentle brightness and delicate color, some rose, some lavender, some the shade of new straw.

  Beneath those lights came the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He gasped, amazed at their slenderness, their tallness, their delicate grace, their perfect straightness-and the equally perfect curvature of their figures. Their hair fell long and wild about their shoulders, some pale as new straw, some rich as red gold, some even perfectly white. Their skin, too, was pale, delicate as the petals of new rose blooms. Their eyes were huge, lustrous in the night; their cheekbones were high, their.lips full and wide. They wore the simplest of gowns of gauzy cloth, fabric that shimmered and clung as they moved, more becoming than any confection a boss's wife might weargowns 'that left rounded, soft arms bare in the moonlight, gowns that swept down to their ankles, revealing slender, graceful feet in gilded sandals, gowns that scooped low from their necks, to hint at voluptuous curves beneath. They were easily as tall as Dirk and Cort, perhaps taller.

  Cort caught his breath, feeling himself go weak. The men were much like the women, fair-haired and lean, with high cheekbones, large eyes that seemed to glow in the reflected light of the floating lamps, hollow cheeks, and long, straight-nosed faces. Their hair hung long, below their collars, and they were dressed in doublet and hose with cloaks of rich, heavy fabric. Each wore a baldric holding a rapier and a dagger, but the weapons sheened with the golden tone of bronze. In their hands, though, they held things like crossbow stocks, though strangely elongated, squarish and bulky.

  "These also bear weapons!" the sepulchral voice thundered. "Slay them, too!"

  But, "Hold!" one of the women cried, raising a hand. Bold and daring, she stepped toward Gar, swaying, and held up a hand to stroke his cheek. "This one is as tall as we, and taller! Could he be a son of the Fair Folk?"

  "With that black hair? Come, Maora!" one of the men said with scorn. His voice wasn't amplified.

  "Who knows what a changeling might grow into, Daripon?" Maora smiled languorously, and Cort could see Gar brace himself. "After all," she went on, "we have given our babes to Milesian women for no better reason than having such hair as his."

  "Or for having such ugliness," Daripon sneered. "Speak, intruder! Are you of the blood of the Fair Folk?"

  "No changeling would know that," Cort objected. "Silence, small man!"

  Blood boiled, and Cort laid a hand on his sword. The crossbow stocks swung toward him, and he froze, having seen what those light lances could do.

  Another of the women swung toward him, too, though-shorter than the others, no taller than Cort himself. Her eyes were even wilder than those of the other women, and her face was a dream of loveliness, with delicate brows arching over violet eyes, a retrousse nose, and full ruby lips that smiled lazily in a broad invitation. "Hold your fire, Lavere," she said, and placed a hand on Cort's sword.

  At her touch, he felt himself go weak, but the look in her eyes brought all his strength raging back, making the blood pound through his veins. How could he have ever counted Violet beautiful, when there was a face such as this in the world?

  Except, of course, that she wasn't really of his world ...

  "I shall keep this one," she said. "He might prove amusing."

  "Don't be a fool, Desiree!" Lavere said, reddening, and raised his rifle, sighting along the barrel. Cort yanked at his sword, but the woman's hand tightened on his, holding it still with amazing strength for one so delicate in appearance.

  "Hold!" the sepulchral voice snapped. "We need his blood for our pool!"

  Lavere froze, then ever so slowly, ever so reluctantly, lowered his weapon.

  "Do they speak of human sacrifice?" Cort demanded.

  "Only the kind that you would die for," Gar reassured him.

  Cort relaxed a little, for Desiree was a woman he would die for indeed. He looked back into her eyes...

  And was lost. He gazed into violet pools, felt all go dark about him save their glow, felt them envelop him, felt himself floating adrift in their coolness ...

  "Come back!" Gar commanded, and all at once the woman's eyes were only eyes, he was aware of her face around those eyes again, and saw the Fair Folk behind her amid their glowing lights-but all dimly; only she seemed bright.

  Dirk's voice came to him distantly: "There's some of this spell you can't break."

  "Yes," Gar agreed, "but that's entirely natural."

  "He has the weirding way!" exclaimed another man of the Fair Folk. "He must be of our blood!"

  "I can't be," Gar returned, "for I'm from a different world than yours. But I am a wizard, and so is my friend, though he's a wizard of another kind, from yet another world."

  "That's overstating the case," Dirk objected. "Not if you know the words for our weapons and voice," another Fair M
an said, thin-lipped. "All the more reason to slay them out of hand, Aldor," Lavere said bitterly, his gaze still on Cort.

  "No, Lavere," said Desiree, eyes all but devouring the lieutenant. "There is too much strange about them, too much we must learn of what they know. My lord duke, bring them in to question."

  "Yes, bring them in," the sepulchral voice commanded. "We can always slay them there."

  The Fair Folk men stepped downhill to surround the companions, weapons trained on them.

  "Our horses," Gar reminded.

  "Let them wander," Lavere replied. "If you are fortunate, they will still be near in the morning. If you are even more fortunate, you may come forth to join them."

  "Enter!" the sepulchral voice commanded, and the Fair Folk stood aside from the still-glowing doorway.

  Gar and Dirk hesitated, but Cort, gaze still rapt on his fairy, said, "You must always do what the Fair Folk command."

  "You must indeed," she agreed, her voice throaty. She lifted a hand to touch his cheek, and his own hand darted to catch hers, but the featherlight palm was already gone, leaving a print behind that seemed to burn with gentle fire.

  "I never argue with laser rifles," Dirk said. "Especially when they're pointed at me," Gar agreed. "All right, then. Thank you, Fair Folk. We'll be your guests for the night."

  "I just hope it's a short one," Dirk said, and followed Gar into the hill.

  Cort was almost unaware of their going; he only went with his fairy, by her side, gaze still joined with hers, the blood in his veins singing with hope and desire.

  Metal grated on metal. He whirled, hand on his sword, but only saw the door closing-though how strangely it closed! A huge, curved panel slid down from above while another slid upward from below, both flattening as they went until they met in a straight line with a metallic clash.

  The touch that stung his blood was light on his hand, and he turned to gaze into Desiree's face again. "There are many strange and wonderful things in this hill," she said, her eyes mischievous. "You must not draw your sword at each new encounter."