Blood River Down

by Lionel Fenn

  He lifted the bat for them to see.

  The Moglars and garks surged slightly forward.

  Through the slow-dancing pearls he could see Tag and Ivy held in the grip of four guards, Whale on the floor shaking his head from a stunning blow, and Vorden sneering at a gark that was eyeing his thighs hungrily. Red was by the door, eyes black but pinned by ropes about his neck and legs, and a Moglar standing by his muzzle with a four-bladed knife tickling his throat.

  I could, Gideon thought, wade in. After all, I do have the bat, and I could probably lay waste to a dozen or so of the Moglars and smash the wings and beaks of a few garks, free Ivy and Tag so they could help me fight my way to the door, where we could get Red and Whale, use Vorden for a diversion in the hall, and then retrace our steps back to the kitchen, where Bela will tell us another way to get out of here if he knows what's healthy for him.

  A gark sneezed, the points of its parrot-beak snapping together and causing sparks to flare into the air.

  A rough count, before the rescue of his friends, put the odds at something like thirty-nine to one, not counting the garks.

  He looked at the duck.

  "Don't look at me," she said. "I'm just a duck."

  Reluctantly, he lowered the bat and began to walk. The Moglars, grunting their approval of his good sense, made way for him. Ivy and Tag fell in behind, rubbing various parts of their somewhat bruised bodies; Whale, back on his feet, sighed and allowed Vorden to hold his arm to keep him upright; and Red, snorting and not purring, gave his captors a look that told them he'd be good, but he'd be damned if he was going to be treated like a dog. Glorian followed behind, demanding that somebody do something before they were all killed.

  Ivy suggested something Gideon didn't catch, but whatever it was, it shut Glorian up.

  The doors opened.

  Gideon revised the odds to seventy-three to one and followed the vanguard, which, he assumed, was going to take him to some miserable and dingy cell where he would spend the rest of his life developing the perfect offense for a team he would never play for again.

  On the way—and it seemed to him that they were, oddly, heading back up—Tuesday explained how she had come to be in her predicament. That she tried to whisper wasn't bad; that she kept her bill close to his ear and several times nearly nibbled it from his skull made him flinch.

  She had been drinking, she said, the night of the accident. Her agent had tried to arrange for a part in an historical epic in Spain, but the deal fell through when it was learned she had principles about appearing in nude scenes with Hannibal's elephants. Distraught, furious, self-righteous, and filled with self-pity, she went for a drive. As she approached the bridge she saw a curious glow over the water and thought she was about to be kidnapped by Martians, experimented on, and returned to her home a gibbering idiot. She lost control. The car smashed through the wooden railing. She screamed. The car landed in the water, and she landed on a hillside in the middle of nowhere she recognized.

  Naturally, she thought she was dead.

  Naturally, when she saw a herd of giant goats in the distance, she knew she was dead and in a peculiar sort of purgatory where she was doomed to be a goatmaid for all eternity.

  Then she saw a woman coming toward her from the east and a tall, red-bearded, blond-haired, Oriental-looking gentleman coming toward her from the west. She struggled to her feet. She considered her options and took a step toward the man. The man smiled at her, raised a hand, and the next thing she knew she was a duck.

  Then the man tripped, fell, rolled down the hill, and the woman—who was none other than Glorian herself—snatched her up and ran with her to a small village, where it was explained to her that the man's name was Wamchu, world domination was his game, and he needed an otherworldly duck's down to bring something called the Blood River over its banks.

  Quite naturally, she didn't believe a word of it until someone stepped on her foot and she realized she wasn't dead, and she wasn't still drunk, and she wasn't ever going to see her home again because she had somehow become an object of supremely flattering veneration. Without, she added smugly, ever once taking her clothes off.

  Then, she recalled with a shudder, nightmarish creatures rose out of the ground and attacked the village. In the middle of the fighting, a monstrous bird swooped down out of the air, plucked her from her perch in the backyard, and carried her off here, where she languished for god knows how long until Glorian was brought in to keep her happy, to feed her, and generally keep her from molting out of despair until she was needed for whatever ceremonies were to be performed in, she was sure, a revolting manner upon her duckhood.

  "Funny, isn't it," she said as the small army and its prisoners reached what Gideon surmised was the uppermost level and marched toward a pair of golden doors guarded by a quartet of really ugly dogs, "how you can be just driving along, drunk as a lord and minding your own business, and zap, out of the blue, you're a duck."

  "Yeah," he said. "Funny."

  "It makes you wonder, doesn't it."

  "About what?"

  "About the meaning of it all. Of life. Of fate. Of chance. Of coincidence."

  The ugly dogs saw the army, checked among themselves, and took off.

  "What it means is," Gideon said, "life is a bitch."

  "Well, I know that, but it makes you wonder, doesn't it."

  The doors opened.

  The army marched in.

  —|—

  They were placed in an antechamber whose walls were covered with tapestries depicting the same woodland landscape at different times of the year. There were three padded benches, not large enough for all of them, so Gideon sat on the floor against the back wall, Tuesday on his left, Red curled as best he could on his right. As he watched, Glorian huddled with Whale, no doubt planning a strategy for escape, while the others sat opposite them and scowled at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and him.

  He did not feel the slightest bit apologetic. After all, it wasn't his idea to attach an alternate world to his pantry, drag him through, and try to turn him into something he wasn't. If anyone should feel bad, it was Glorian. It was her world. Her impending disaster. Her duck.

  Well, not exactly her duck in the sense that it belonged to her feather and foot, having been raised from an egg and living on an ornamental pond on the back forty. The duck, if he were going to be honest, was his sister. That, he supposed, gave him some sort of obligation, though for the moment he couldn't think of what it might be other than getting her returned to her rightful state.

  Glorian rose, stretched, and walked to the door, tried the latch futilely, and sighed. Whale stretched out and fell asleep. Vorden whispered something in Ivy's ear, and Tag punched his shoulder.

  Gideon looked up when Glorian approached, stood there for a moment, then sat cross-legged in front of him. She was still lovely, despite the now soiled white gown and the tangles in her dark hair, and he remembered the hour in his living room, after he had driven off the black beast. It was, he thought, about the only peace he'd had since he'd started this thing.

  "I'm sorry," she said at last, her violet eyes downcast. "I shouldn't have hit you."

  Tuesday ruffled her feathers, but he put a restraining hand on her back until she calmed, snorted as only a duck can, and tucked her head under her wing to grab a few moments' sleep.

  "You're all right?" he said quietly.

  She nodded. "It was Wamchu, or rather, one of Wamchu's creatures that took me off that night. I didn't wake up for days, and then I was... here. Down here in the bordello." Her smile was quick and strained. "I thought I was going to die."

  "You didn't. You won't."

  "Are you so sure about that?"

  "No," he said honestly. "But then, what is there about this whole thing I can be sure of? Nothing. So while I'm sure I'm in a hell of a mess, I'm not sure yet I can't get out of it."

  Red purred in his sleep.

  She touched his knee with a hand.

  I
vy growled.

  "Gideon, I think we've had it. There's no way out of here that I know of. There are too many guards, too many weapons, too many places to get lost in, too many ways Wamchu can get us."

  "Is he here?"

  "Good grief, no. I suppose he's still back at Rayn."

  He shifted uneasily. "I don't understand. Why doesn't he just come here, take care of us, and do the Ceremony and be done with it?"

  "Because he's stupid."

  "I know that. But this just doesn't make sense."

  She smoothed a hand over her chest, toyed with the gold girdle that bunched her gown at the waist. "I heard things over the past couple of days. Something about his wives."

  "Wonderful people."

  "He's annoyed with them."

  "Furious would be more like it." At her look he smiled. "They told him I was from across a Bridge, and he refused to believe it. I guess he finally did. One of them tried to do us in with an earthquake. Another one sent some weird insects after us. That didn't work either."

  "Oh." She nodded. "Now I begin to see." She nodded again. "I knew there was something odd when he didn't show up right away. It isn't like him to leave things to the last minute."

  "Things like what?"

  She shrugged. "Things. Killing us, destroying the world."

  "Oh."

  She inched closer, knees touching now, and he could see the conflict in her eyes between enjoying some discomfort on the enemy's part and knowing that it would all end the same, anyway.

  "You going to tell me?"

  She laughed lightly, softly. "He and his wives don't really get along, you see. Whenever he tries to come up to the Middle Ground, they always want to go with him. He usually doesn't let them. I guess they won this time, but when they failed him, he wanted them to go back. They didn't want to. It's really lousy down there in the Lower Ground, you know. You think this place is bad? You should see what passes for flowers down there. You'd want to step on them, but you wouldn't want to lose a foot doing it, if you know what I mean."

  "The wives," he said.

  "Oh, right." She shifted again, her hand idly tracing over his thigh. "Well, I guess he had to persuade them to leave Rayn for home. They don't persuade easily. He reminded them of their failures. They reminded him who was boss. As I get it, he probably has a black eye."

  "I see."

  "But he'll still get here in time for the Ceremony."

  "I see."

  She gripped his hands then, tightly. "Gideon, what are you going to do?"

  "What?"

  "What's the plan?"

  "Me?"

  "We must get out of here, you know that. We have to take the duck and get out of here."

  "The duck has a name," the duck said, opening one dark eye.

  "How?" he said.

  "How?" Glorian echoed. "What do you mean, how?"

  "How," he said. "As in, by what means? Isn't that what you and Whale were talking about?"

  "For heaven's sake, no. He had the hiccoughs. I was trying to help him. Danger always does that to him when he doesn't eat properly."

  He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms over his chest, looked at the duck, looked at the lorra, looked at Ivy, who was unraveling one of the tapestries, and sighed.

  "You're the hero," she reminded him.

  "Yeah. Right."

  "Maybe you can talk Houte into letting me go. Then I can round up an army, come back, and storm the place. You can hold out in here until we break through and rescue you. Then you can take care of the Blood before it's too late."

  "You know something?" he said. "I've just found out why Tag is the way he is."

  She frowned, not sure if he was complimenting her or not, and decided he wasn't. Before she could slug him, however, there was a muffled commotion at the door.

  "And who is Houte, by the way? Houte Illklor?"

  "You know him?" she asked.

  "Only by reputation."

  The door opened at the sound of a gong.

  "Then get up, hero. He's here, and we're about to die."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Houte Illklor, First Lieutenant to the Wamchu and Guardian of Umbrel, stood on the threshold. He was dressed in a dizzying yet effective array of colorful hides, furs, and silks, which served to add a great deal of bulk to an already bulky man. His face, however, was unpleasantly cadaverous, and the long stringy hair that dangled from the sides of his concave skull added to the impression that someone had just disturbed him in his coffin.

  "Which one of you is the hero?" he demanded in an ordinary but commanding voice.

  Gideon stood up. Tuesday ducked behind him.

  Illklor, casting a disdainful glance at the others, who were pressed fearfully against the walls, strode confidently into the room, a group of garks and Moglars remaining outside amid a screen of scowling and wing stretching. Behind him, the man was dragging the bat, and before he reached Gideon his face was flushed with the effort.

  "What is this weapon?" Illklor said.

  "A bat."

  Illklor dropped it and shook his head. "Things certainly have changed since I left the surface." Another shake of his head. "A pitiful group you have assembled here, hero. Did you really believe you would be able to defy the might of Lu Wamchu and get away with it? Did you really believe you could stop the Blood from its destiny? Did you really think, deep down in that hero's heart of yours, that you could stem the tide of fate with a petrified bat?"

  The man put his hands on his hips and laughed, looked over his shoulder to encourage the Moglars and garks to laugh as well. And when the display of arrogance was done, he sniffed, took a foothcloth from his sleeve and blew his nose, replaced it with a flourish, and kicked the bat. Grimaced when the bat didn't move. Winced when a message reached the proper lobe. And shook his head again.

  "I understand," he said, "that you come from across a Bridge."

  Gideon nodded.

  "Amazing," he said. "I've always wanted to use one myself, but I just don't have the time. It isn't easy running a summer palace. Lord, you wouldn't believe the details I don't dare leave to others."

  "Try me," Gideon said, hoping that by stalling for time he could think of something to do.

  "No. But if I change my mind and don't have you killed, you must come to dinner sometime and tell me all about it."

  "Like hell."

  "Oh, that wasn't nice at all. But then"—he gave them a long sigh and sorrowful look—"Wamchu told me you had spunk."

  "He didn't like it."

  "As well he shouldn't. It bespeaks a certain lack of critical thinking, which otherwise might bring one safely out of a situation like this—which, I should add in case you've started to think of something, isn't going to help you one bit."

  Shit, Gideon thought, and stopped.

  Illklor looked to Glorian and smiled nastily. "None of this would have happened if you had married me, you know."

  "What?" Gideon said.

  "But of course, naturally, and didn't you know?"

  "Marry you?"

  "I've asked several times."

  "And every time," Glorian said, "I told you what you could do with the proposal, the marriage bed, the vows, the honeymoon, and that funny little bulby thing you keep in a suitcase under your chair."

  "That funny little bulby thing would have made you very happy, my dear," Illklor said.

  "You mean, all this is because she wouldn't marry you?" Gideon said.

  "Don't be stupid," Illklor told him. "What does raising the Blood from its banks have to do with my marrying Glorian?"

  "I don't know. That's what I asked you."

  "Why don't we just kill him?" Tag said suddenly. "Gideon can use the bat, I can use my bare hands, and Glorian can use her fists. We could kill him, rush the guards, get out, go to Rayn before Wamchu leaves, and kill him, too. Then we could—"

  "Tag, shut up," Gideon ordered.

  "Don't talk to my brother that way," Glorian said. "There's
something in what he says."

  "The something is suicide," Gideon told her.

  "Way to go," Ivy said approvingly. "I told you she was—"

  "You mind your own business," Glorian snapped. "When I want your opinion, I'll rattle your cage."

  "Ladies, please," Vorden said, palms raised in a gesture of peace.

  Illklor pulled on a string of hair impatiently, whirled around and shouted, "You will be quiet!" They were. "You will accept your miserable fates like the other peasants do. You will stop this—" He cut himself off, tilted his head slightly, and walked to Ivy.

  She had winked at him.

  He smiled.

  She toyed with the top button of her blouse.

  "Ivy," said Tag, aghast. "What are you doing?"

  Vorden drew himself up. "She is hysterical, sir," he said to Illklor. "I must ask that you refrain from taking undue advantage of her weakened condition."

  Ivy winked again.

  Illklor rolled his shoulders, adjusted his hides, furs, and silks, and took a step closer.

  Ivy saw what she thought was her reflection in his hair and had second thoughts; she rebuttoned the button.

  "Giddy," Tuesday hissed, "do something!"

  Illklor batted Tag aside and reached for Ivy's arm. She slapped the hand away; he laughed and grabbed it, pulling her away from the wall. She slapped his cheek; he slapped hers. She slapped again; so did he.

  "Hey," Gideon said, squirming at the heat taking fire in his chest.

  "Shut up," Glorian whispered. "She's distracting him so we can get away."

  Gideon pointed at the doorway. When she counted the waiting guards, she adjusted her roped girdle and decided that Ivy would do anything for a laugh.

  Illklor grabbed her by the throat; Ivy's face went red.

  "Wish I could blush like that," Glorian muttered.

  "Hey!" Gideon said while the guards at the door began their own peculiar brand of giggling.

  With a groan, Tag struggled up from the floor and was kicked back down. Whale and Vorden immediately reached for their weapons, remembered they didn't have any, and rushed Illklor from either side. With his free hand, the Umbrel guardian batted them aside as well.

  "Well, shit," said Tuesday, stretched her wings, and flew right at the man's head.