The Archimage's Fourth Daughter

by Lyndon Hardy

  “Slow Eddie and a few others jumped at the chance. They were near Hollywood Boulevard, as you had told us.”

  “Chance? Chance for what?”

  “A new beginning, missy,” Slow Eddie said. He looked at the grounds of the compound. “Yes, it looks like this Fig fellow described things well. Listen to the birds singing. Smell the clean air. And the way your servant tells it, there are jobs here. Lodging and food.”

  “But what would you do?” Briana persisted.

  “Don’t care much what it is, so long as we are not judged by our pasts, only by what we might become. This thaumaturgy stuff sounds quite interesting.” He eyed one of the apprentices nearby. “We’re not as young as these sprouts, but, as I say, a new beginning none the less.”

  “I mean the battle,” Briana pointed down the road. “Everything could change.”

  “We can help with that, too.” Slow Eddie set on the ground a box from the shopping cart and started ripping open the cover.

  “Drones,” Fig explained. “Remember when Ashley was lecturing us about operations research. Said the most important thing on the battlefield is not the headcount ratio, but intelligence. Knowing where to strike. From where an enemy thrust might come. It’s a multiplier. It can amplify the effect of what we do many fold.”

  More of the homeless began emerging from the portal, each pushing a cart carrying his own newly acquired little machine. In only a few minutes, the air filled with their annoying whines.

  “No, not so close together,” Slow Eddie called out. “Each of us should take responsibility for a single sector. That way we can see everything going on.”

  “There’s more,” Fig said as the portal door continued to shut and then open again. Someone who obviously was not dressed in the tatters of Slow Eddie or one of his comrades emerged. He wore a long white surcoat cinched at the waist and emblazoned with a Maltese cross over what looked like chain mail. He carried a leather shield in one hand and a pack similar to Briana’s on his back.

  Briana blinked at what she saw. Where did someone like this come from? She examined him from head to toe. “The weaponry looks like it’s only for sham battles, not a real fight,” she said at last.

  “The seneschal can exchange what they have brought. There is an arsenal here.”

  Another warrior appeared and then another. Briana felt slightly dazed as more and more began to appear. “Where did you find them?” she asked.

  “The SCA,” Fig said. “Forty-two of them. If I had thought there was sufficient time, I probably could have recruited more.”

  “Forty-two! Fig, the counter. It must show a number smaller than that now. Even if we win, not all of them will be able to return.”

  “None of them are going back!” Fig said. “Like Slow Eddie and his pals, this is the life they want to lead. Not only on weekends and with play battles in which no one actually gets hurt. Many have dreamed about a place like Murdina for years. Now, for them, it will be real.” He looked at the line Jake was trying to assemble. “These guys can be the center. The apprentices can be on the flanks. Maybe the younger ones in a row behind.”

  Briana counted as the warriors emerged. When the last appeared, she expected the portal door to remain closed, but instead, she then heard from behind it a deep throaty roar. The entrance flew open again, and a burly man dressed in steel-studded black leather rolled out astride a two-wheeled beast of ebony and chrome. The back of his sleeveless jacket proclaimed ‘Hell’s Devils. Mess with us and you die.”

  Behind him, a woman smoking a cigar and similarly dressed emerged. A broad bladed knife without a sheath like a short machete was strapped to her thigh. Without a word, she climbed onto the bitch seat of the chopper in front of her and appraised the new surroundings with a steely glare.

  The portal closed again, but soon a second motorcycle came through, and then a third.

  As the procession continued, Fig explained. “Our cavalry. Before she got too hard to communicate with, Ashley said this Slammert probably has some horsemen he will use to attack on both sides. Try to encircle us from behind.”

  “How many bikes?” Briana asked.

  “I lost track,” Fig said. “I felt I was taking too much time. But the deal is the same — one-way tickets. They like the idea of miles of open road. No cops. No speed limits — well, at least until their gas tanks empty.”

  “They’re here!” Slow Eddie called out. “Over the next rise,”

  “Okay, let’s get things into order,” Fig said. “Slow Eddie, you guys back up a bit. Far enough not to be caught in the fighting, but sufficiently close to call out what you are seeing. Devils, fan out on the flanks. Get ready to engage their horses when they show up. The rest of you, go talk to the tall guy in the middle of the road.”

  The hubbub of conversation stopped. Everyone moved to their position. Briana wondered what she should do, but only for an instant. She slid away her pack, ran up to Jake, and stood at his left side. Fig scrambled after to guard her own left.

  The first of Slammert’s force appeared over the crest of the hill.

  Almost instinctively, Jake knew what he must do. “For Briana, Daughter of the Archimage,” he shouted.

  A lusty cheer came from almost every mouth. “For Briana, Daughter of the Archimage.”

  Briana firmly grasped the short sword she had strapped to her side in place of her dagger. She looked right to left. It was the same as she had imagined so many times as a young girl. Maybe this was not with thousands, but it was close enough. No, not close. Exactly. Exactly as she imagined it be. Exactly as it was in the sagas.

  She looked over her shoulder to the younger boys, some standing proudly at attention, others looking wide-eyed at the safety beckoning on the hillside. At the ends of their line, fear shown on the faces of most of the older ones — the journeymen. Several had stepped to the side to vomit out their guts. They were the ones who knew full well that this might be their last day to be alive.

  The Technology of Warfare

  THE HILLCREST was a little ways off, and Slammert’s march was like that of a snail. An hour passed before they drew near. They reacted immediately when they reached the peak. The horsemen dispersed to either side and began moving forward slowly, keeping pace with the men on foot.

  Briana watched the advance, giving her time to think. The lust for glory was all very well and good for those who battled. For them, this was the chance for fame and fortune… and for death. She looked at Jake on her right, his face shining with confidence, but the repeated grasping and releasing the hilt of his sword gave him away. On her left, Fig stood at tall as she had ever seen him, his mouth open and his tongue darted back and forth over dry lips.

  She was the one responsible for all of this, she thought. If only she had not let whatever good sense she had run off and hide — because of a little flattery. If she had not taken the portal to another world and been gone for so long.

  Yes, Slammert might have been able to concoct a reason for raising his army — a force of only one hundred or so men. A pitiful number. She shook her head. Had her father not been distracted by her unexplained absence — vanishing without a trace, what then would have transpired? With the full regard of the council and respect of all of those who ruled, this upstart petty baron would have been squashed like a roach under the wheel of an alchemist’s wagon.

  The approaching army stopped two dozen yards from where Briana and the others stood. Slammert grinned when he recognized her. “Ah, my bride,” he said.

  Briana made up her mind. Before anyone could stop her, she stepped forth. “Yes, I am a bit late,” she said. “But that has made the…” She stumbled for the words. They were hard to say. “Made my anticipation a little bit greater. I am here, my husband to be. There is no need for this posturing. Disband your followers. Let us return to your estate and plan for our wedding feast.”

  Slammert paused for a moment, at a loss for words. “It is not quite that easy,” he said
at last. “There is my… my reputation. It has been damaged.” His face contorted into a leering grin. “Yes, by all means, come to me, my sweet. We can consummate our joining here and now. Remove all of your clothing. It will be so wonderful for everyone to watch.”

  Briana steeled herself and took a first step forward.

  “I commanded you to remove your clothing,” Slammert yelled for everyone to hear.

  “I… I want you to help me,” Briana answered.

  Slammert frowned. He strode to the halfway mark between the two forces and extended his hand.

  It is the right thing to do. It is the right thing to do, Briana repeated to herself with each step forward. What she was about to endure would be over soon enough. Her father would be saved. Ashley would speak the counterspell. All that remained would be for her to recover from the shame.

  She extended her arm to his outreached hand and managed a small smile. Slammert tilted his head slightly to the side and started to tug her gently toward him.

  “Tell them,” Briana said. “Tell them first.”

  “What! Who?”

  “Your recruited minions. Tell them to disperse, to go home. They are no longer needed.” Briana tugged at a strand of her hair. “And sending heralds throughout the land announcing there is no longer any threat of war — that would be a nice touch, too.”

  Slammert’s brow furled. He did not let go of Briana’s hand.

  Then he kicked her legs from underneath her and pulled her to the ground. Briana tried to rise, but he slammed his foot on her back.

  “Put her somewhere safe,” he called back to his troops. “There is time enough for this after the roadblock to our progress has been removed.”

  Two of Slammert’s men sprang to attention, startled by the command. But before they had taken their first step, Fig burst from the defensive line, waved his sword over his head, and rushed forward.

  “Unhand the Queen,” he shouted. “Unhand the Queen of the Eight Universes. She will not be sullied by such as you.”

  “No, Fig! No!” Briana cried.

  Slammert withdrew his boot from her back. He studied Fig almost stumbling as he came forward. Then, when Fig got within range, he withdrew his own blade, bent slightly forward, and with a savage sweep slashed at an unprotected leg.

  Fig cried in pain and crumpled to the ground next to Briana. Blood began pulsing from the wound. “Not again!” Briana cried out. “Not again!”

  She struggled to her knees, grabbed at Fig and tried to pull him erect. As she did, she heard Jake shout, “For Briana. For the Daughter of the Archimage.”

  Jake rushed forward, and the centermost of the line on either side immediately followed. Slammert clamored back to his own troops and yelled. “Repulse them. Cut them down.”

  The charging men circled past Briana and Fig and tore into Slammert’s line. A loud clash filled the air, the impact of sword on shield. From both sides, Briana could hear the clop of galloping horses and then immediately afterwards the deep rumble of the bikes.

  Briana stood, pushed her hands under Fig’s arms, and began dragging him away from the fighting, back to the relative safety of Slow Eddie and the other homeless. As she did, several of the apprentices saw her retreat, dropped their blades, and began to run away.

  The blood kept coursing out of Fig’s leg, far more this time than a trickle. The cut was too deep, she realized. Many stitches were needed, and no one had thought to stash a chest of sweetbalm nearby — if there was any stockpiled anyway.

  She scanned the litter of discarded backpacks and packing boxes nearby. There, in the refuse — bungy cords! Coiled around Fig’s leg and stretched as far as possible, the flow of blood slowed but did not stop. He needed help now, or shortly he would bleed to death.

  Back to Earth, Briana concluded. Ashley could call an ambulance. She had done so from her home before. Or, if she had to, move the portal to a hospital entrance. There might be gawking as it appeared out of nowhere, but there was no time to ponder the impact of the sudden mixing of technologies now. Drones. Motorcycles. Murdina was already tainted. The Earth may as well be also.

  She struggled to pull Fig into the portal and propped him up on the far door — the one opening on Earth — where ever Ashley had placed it. Remembering how their little cadre had found Maurice’s message, she executed the same trick. She patted Fig’s pockets and withdrew his phone. Leaning close to the door, she dialed Ashley’s number.

  “Hello,” a weak voice came through the speaker.

  “Ashley, is that you?” Briana asked.

  “I… I don’t know,” Ashley responded. “I seem to be hearing something in my head, a voice. It’s growing louder. I don’t know.”

  “Have you broadcast the incantation?” Briana shouted into the mike.

  “No, not yet. I haven’t been able to get everything to work right. The voices. I can hardly type any more. It is too — ”

  “Listen!” Briana commanded. “Fig is at the portal door. He is hurt, hurt badly. Get him to help and then call me ba…” No that won’t work. When you have obtained some help for him, record a massage on Fig’s phone and hurl it against the door here on Murdina. I will listen to it when… when I get the time.”

  She ran back out of the portal and immediately was distracted by the buzz in the air. The drones were close together, hovering over the battle line. Looking at the control screen in Slow Eddie’s hand, she saw one of the cycles roar into a quartet of horsemen converging from the right. The mounts spooked and reared. Two dumped their riders and the others galloped away in panic, out of control.

  Briana raced down the line of the homeless, looking at all of their screens. On the left, the scene was the same. Slammert’s cavalry was being routed. The cyclists pursued, drawing abreast of retreating riders and… and firing guns at their startled adversaries! Drones. Motorcycles. And now, guns. Would Murdina ever be the same?

  She looked up from the consoles toward the upslope. Jake and those flanking him were winning. The center of the line bowed forward. They were forcing Slammert back. But on either side, the apprentices were starting to panic. Many were already down. The ends of the line were unraveling and falling apart.

  Could Jake and the others break through and start flanking movements of their own? Or would they have to fall back and protect their own rear instead? Briana could not tell. She yanked open the portal door. Fig was not there. Ashley must have dragged him out — but there was no phone on the floor.

  Move and Counter Move

  NORDO, THE leader of the Hell’s Devils, felt good. He looked over his shoulder at his buddies racing full bore over the rough ground, the drivers bent low over the handlebars, the women firing wildly over their mate’s backs at anything that moved. They had succeeded. Slammert’s cavalry was gone. They were returning to the central battle to find out what they should do next.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nordo saw three men robed in white spring to their feet and race to a wagon a distance behind Slammert’s line and far to one side. It was weighted down by a long barrel lying prone. One sprang up on the frame and began flailing a two-handed pump back and forth. In response, a frothy spray spewed out the rearmost end of the cylinder and soaked the ground.

  The two other men ran to the front of the wagon and thrust themselves into a pair of empty yokes. Straining against the load, they started the wagon moving perpendicular to the road, across the field of battle from left to right. As the caisson continued, it gathered speed while continuing to spray. Finally, it came to a halt as the hill fell sharply away and further progress would lead to a runaway down the slope.

  Nordo’s motorcycle roared into the wet ground but did not get far. A plume of fine sand flew into the air, and the bike toppled onto its side. A second cycle followed, and it also was halted by the barrier of grit. Whatever was in the tank broke rock down into sand. The bikes would not be able to cross.

  All of the riders jumped clear as their choppers
became useless. Nordo saw the trail of sand coming from the wagon, and he ran alongside its trail until he caught up with the robed men.

  “Mess with Hell’s Devils and you die,” he spat.

  The two who were yoked struggled to get free, but before they could, they were shot dead at point blank range. The third fled down the hillside as quickly as he could.

  On foot, the bikers continued onward toward the rear of Slammert’s line. As they approached, they fired at the backs of the men-at-arms. But only one or two fell. By now, most of the guns were empty, and Nordo’s buddies hesitated.

  “We’re in their rear,” Nordo called out. “They can’t fight in two directions at once. Come on, let’s get ‘em.” Following his lead, the gang continued forward. But as they did, a few of Slammert’s men disengaged from the line and turned to meet them.

  A shadow of doubt crept into Nordo’s mind. Yeah, this was supposed to be easy. They were behind the enemy, but an enemy with shields and long swords. All his guys had were bare hands and knives.

  PHOBOS, THE dervish, soared into the air. It seemed like eons since he had been last summoned. The wizard was second-rate, but hey, what the hell. It beat sitting around waiting for a real job. He surveyed the field before him. Two lines of humans dulling their blades against each other. Same-o. Same-o.

  But wait, here was something different. Little machines of metal making noises like a hive of agitated bees. And hovering, yes, hovering, staying in one spot. Four horizontal, whirling wings keeping them aloft.

  Phobos swooped back to the wizard to make sure. “‘Get them back to the ground,’ you said. And we are the guys to do it? “

  He looked up at his six broodmates flying in formation and awaiting the final word to attack. “I told you we don’t do the electrical stuff. Bolts of fire and such. You need bigger guys than us for that. Prettier to watch what they do, too.”

  “I have deduced the weakness,” the wizard said. “Dervishness is exactly what is called for.”