Karate Masters vs the Invaders From Outer Space

by Barbara Hambly

  “No,” whispered Antryg, his face aghast in the reflection of Joanna’s flashlight. It was clearly something he’d never encountered before, in all his years of traversing the Void.

  Joanna wondered suddenly if his old master, the evil Suraklin, had known that there were worlds where this was needed…

  Wally’s mouth quirked. “Well,” he said bitterly. The dazzling handsomeness – the Johnny Depp cheekbones and Jimmy Dean eyes – were subtly changed by the look behind those eyes: desperation, grief, self-loathing at having run from a burden he couldn’t bear. “Good for you.”

  “But if you just walked off and left Cousin Cherry in charge of the Scepter,” said Joanna matter-of-factly – because Antryg, for once in his life, was speechless, “—how come she’s coming after you?”

  “It’s got to be the smallholders.” The young man’s voice sank to barely a whisper. “It’s got to be the marchers – the ones who actually rule the villages, who actually protect the lands from jemylath. Cherianth – House Kamog – they’re… They’re strong, but they’re not good people. They think they’re entitled… Well, they ruled the Lowlands for a dozen generations, and their war with the Highland Houses and the Sea-Lords just about tore the realm apart, before my grandfather suppressed them and united all the smallholders and the march-lords to drive back the jemylath, and let the people re-claim a lot of the land.”

  His brows pulled down over the bridge of his nose, and he spoke slowly, memories he could barely bring himself to face. “The Kamogs have always taken the best – of the land, of the water, of the trade, of the food. They have enough of the King-blood, the god-blood, in them to be able to withstand the jemylath, and to make successors from their flesh. They said the people owed them obedience, and they’ll go to war for it, rather than use their forces to protect the lands from horror. I think the march-lords and the smallholders – I think Hesayn, my… my friend – rose against Cherianth and the Kamogs and have probably started looking for me, to… to give me back the Scepter. To return it to the rightful blood-line. To bring me home. And that’s why Cherianth wants to make sure she finds me first.”

  Antryg said softly, “Ah.”

  “I don’t want to go back.” Maybe he said the words in his own tongue – left behind years ago in his own world. Maybe it was just some effect of the spell of understanding that Antryg had long ago laid on her. But Joanna felt for a moment, behind his words, the dread of what waited for him there: the searing fatigue of having strength drained from his flesh, day after day; the endless, wary wranglings of innumerable councils; the burning focus of spells she couldn’t understand and the mental and physical exhaustion from which not even sleep could provide refuge.

  Then from up the tunnel Daryl yelled, “What the fuck is that?”

  Antryg stretched out his hand and no light appeared in his palm; he scooped up his sword and got to his feet in a single smooth movement. “Do your people have explosives?”

  “Fireballs. And meppeth.”

  The word translated into Joanna’s mind as animal auxiliaries, and she asked, as they dashed up the tunnel, “How big?”

  Her question was answered a second later as they emerged into the circular room on the tower’s ground-floor, and four of the score of blue baboon-like things lunged at them, backed by two of the human warriors in dark leather body-armor re-enforced with plate. Antryg, the only one armed, used a jab and an almost surgical slash to disable two of the meppeth, then ducked back into the tunnel as three crossbow bolts flashed past Joanna’s head. In the room beyond she had a confused glimpse of a scrimmage around the door that led to the metal stairs to the upper floor. Three of the meppeth had Angel, and Ed stepped in and broke one of the newly-sharpened training-swords on the nearest creature’s neck-guard. Then there was a shattering roar from the shotgun, the whapping of crossbows, and Angel, her borrowed shirt in rags, leaped from her fallen captors, tripped as one of the things seized her, and was scooped up by Spacecookie (of all people) who bore her to the stairway door in his arms.

  At almost the same moment Joanna heard Wally gasp, “Give me the sword,” and turning her head, saw him pull loose one of his golden medallions and press it into Antryg’s hand. “Osnar,” he gasped. “The mage who helped me… he’ll be with Hesayn…”

  He caught up Antryg’s blade and dashed into the open room as warriors and meppeth converged on the door to the upper floor.

  One of the first things he did on his way was stab – very neatly (They must have some form of sword training back on Krypton, Joanna thought) – the nearest of the human warriors through the neck-chinks of his armor. The man, though clearly not dead, was no longer in any shape to either fight or keep Joanna from grabbing his sword from him. Her intent had been to guard Wally’s back, but three warriors and two meppeth turned from the general fray and charged at her, and not being the stuff of which heroines were made, Joanna retreated into the tunnel again, slammed the door and threw the dead-bolt. (And I hope to Jesus one of those things didn’t sneak in here behind my back…)

  “Antryg?”

  No answer.

  “Antryg!”

  She found her flashlight, switched it on, and saw him sitting in the doorway of the dungeon, crooked hands folded tight around Wally’s gold medallion, head bowed and eyes closed.

  Calling for re-enforcements…

  His breath was harsh with emotion.

  They use the power of deaths to open Gates…

  The door jerked under violent impact, but the Marine Corps made its defenses stout. Even when the points of a dozen cross-bow bolts punched a quarter-inch out of the re-enforced composition surface like a pincushion, the door itself didn’t give. A moment later, smoke began to roll from beneath it. Somewhere in the room beyond Joanna heard the roar of the shotgun again, and kiai-yells she recognized as Ed, Daryl, and Lee, plus assorted curses and the yowling screeches of the meppeth.

  Then the din increased, a confusion of noises and what sounded like battle-cries, and over it all a woman’s voice shouting “Arion! Arion!”

  The door was blazing hot and flames began to lick through it. Joanna hefted her sword – twice the weight of a katana and straight-bladed – and threw a glance back at Antryg, still lost in his summoning…

  “Joanna!” yelled Bill Podmore’s voice. “It’s us!”

  The noise in the chamber beyond had quieted down, so Joanna wrapped her hand in one of the bandages from her first-aid kit and with gingerly speed threw the deadbolt back. Bill kicked the door in, and Joanna saw past him a scene of serious carnage.

  Six meppeth lay dead, riddled with arrows, within a dozen feet of the tunnel door. Three warriors lay among them, including the one from whom she’d snatched her sword. He was dead now, his face still hidden by the molded leather mask that fronted his helmet. Blood made a sticky puddle under his head and throat. She wondered if he’d been bleeding to death even as she’d grabbed his weapon away from him. She couldn’t remember.

  Ross Ventura lay dead beside the door that led out to the colonnade. He’d been shot through with four crossbow bolts. Several more leather-armored warriors – and about a dozen other meppeth – had evidently been killed near the door to the upstairs, shot in the back with gray-feathered arrows, not crossbow bolts. Eight more warriors – still masked, but disarmed – sat facing the wall, their hands clasped behind their necks, watched by two guards whom Joanna assumed to be the re-enforcements Antryg had summoned: one man, one woman, both armored in red leather and iron plating, both masked.

  Bill’s face, sweat-streaked, was also spattered with blood. There was blood, too, on his Hawaiian shirt and hands, and the bandage someone had put over his gashed arm had come loose. He carried one of the enemy swords, and his face was grimly quiet. He’d seen worse. Beside him, Daryl – likewise blood-splattered – looked ill with shock.

  Angel and Selena were hugging each other and sobbing quietly. Spacecookie was throwing up in a corner.

  The remaining stude
nts, and Dana Kim, clustered together in front of a small phalanx of the red-armored warriors, whose leader had removed her mask to reveal a severe, rather strong-featured face framed in buzz-cut hair so baby-blonde as to be nearly invisible. She was looking in the direction of the tunnel door as Joanna and Antryg emerged. At her sign, two of her guards flanked them, and escorted them back to their comrades.

  No meppeth, Joanna noticed, seemed to have survived. Programmed like war-dogs, to fight to the death? A wave of anger went through her, for that innocent unrewarded ferocity, and Antryg put an arm around her shoulders. She glanced up at his face and saw that he, too, had seen worse.

  Every one of the dojo party – Shane included – turned to Antryg. You negotiate with these guys... Shane looked almost pleading. He had clearly had enough.

  Maybe he’d had enough when Ross was killed.

  Antryg gave Joanna’s shoulder a quick pat, then left her, and went to stand before the red-armored commander.

  “How many people did you sacrifice in order to open a gate in the Void?” His velvety voice was quiet, but Joanna heard the anger that burned beneath it. At himself, at her, at the fact that their rescue had cost unknown lives.

  “Five,” returned the woman calmly. “They were volunteers.”

  “That makes no difference.”

  “It makes a difference to those who’ve seen their parents, or husbands, or children taken by Nemlyth and the dust-mages who serve the House Kamog.” She regarded him with eyes like black coffee. When she turned her head, Joanna saw the stripe of an old burn-scar down the right side of her jaw. Flecks of white, as if she’d been spattered with acid, marked her temple on that side. “To those who fight in order to bring the true prince – the legitimate blood-line – back to our realm. It was you who summoned us, wizard.”

  He looked aside, unable to bear the accusation.

  In a quieter voice, she added, “And for that we thank you. We have been searching for two years.”

  She held out her hand, and Antryg put into it the gold chain, and the pierced gold medallion that Wally had given to him. Her mouth tightened for a moment in pain as she touched it; then she closed it tight in her palm.

  “It is something which we would have done, in any case.”

  “Thank you.” His voice was barely audible. More steadily, he added, “I – and my companions – are deep in your debt.”

  A small man of about Antryg’s age, robed in black and crimson and his long, curly brown beard faintly streaked with gray, stepped forward from among the warriors and reverently grasped the medallion. “Is Prince Arion here, then, Lady Hesayn? This is indeed the token my master Osnar gave him when he fled…”

  Hesayn swept the group before her with her glance. Joanna saw her eyes meet Wally’s, and for a long moment they stood looking at one another. Then she, like Antryg, looked aside and said softly, “I do not see him, Pharnon, no.”

  “He disappeared,” provided Joanna helpfully. “He gave that medallion to Antryg before the Kamog troops showed up, and said he’d found a way out of this place – I don’t know what it was.”

  The bearded wizard’s face fell, and he pressed the medallion between his soft, white hands. “Shall we continue the search, Lady? Without the medallion he’ll be even harder to trace. Perhaps—” He turned to Antryg, “—my lord wizard will assist? Osnar and the others can shift this enclave back to the zone of power, if we contact them. We might—”

  “She’s lying.” Wally stepped from among the little gang of iaido students, Antryg’s sword bloody in his hand, in his torn shirt and gold neck-chains and sweat-streaked fair hair looking every inch a prince (or a porn star). “Joanna, I thank you. Lord Antryg—”

  He extended the sword to him, and Antryg took it quietly.

  Then Wally – Prince Arion – went to stand before Hesayn, and their eyes met again. “I’m ready to come back,” he said softly. “Enough people have died through my cowardice, and more will die. And there really is no way to flee. I’m sorry.”

  Turning, he faced Bill, and Dana, and the hysterically shivering Selena Rider. “There’s no way I can make amends to you, for the loss of your friends. For putting you all in such danger. I didn’t know this would happen. I didn’t know the arm of Nemlyth had grown so long, or the power of the House Kamog so great. Please…”

  He looked back at Hesayn, and the scarlet-clothed wizard beside her. “Please, do what you can. Hesayn…” He stretched out his hand to her. “Forgive me, if you can.”

  She extended her fingers to touch his. “I’ll be with you,” she promised softly. “You won’t be alone. I’m glad you’re coming home. Pharnon—” She moved her head, to address the mage at her elbow.

  The bearded man nodded, and beckoned from the ranks of the warriors two others who were clearly, also, mages. One carried a satchel, from which she began to take glass tubes and what looked like a set of convex mirrors. To Antryg, Pharnon said, “We would appreciate your assistance, my lord. It’s a difficult spell, particularly since we’ll first have to shift the enclave back into the zone of power…”

  For a long moment Antryg stood, looking around him at the blood on the floor and walls, the dead meppeth and men – and women, too, the shape of their breasts and hips barely discernible under the leathern armor. Ross Ventura’s body sprawled by the doorway where he’d been shot. His fellow students, clustered and staring at him with shocked, uncertain eyes, seeing this gangly amiable hippie, in his love-beads and rhinestone earrings, as something wholly unsuspected…

  Antryg raised a hand, Wait… to them and to Hesayn and her wizards. Then he took Joanna by the shoulders and led her back toward the entrance of the tunnel. When they were out of earshot of the others he asked her, very softly, “My dear, do you want to remember any of this, or not?”

  Joanna stared up at him, aghast. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’re going to alter everyone’s memories. Veil them. There’s nothing that can be done – for Ross, for Rob… no more than for any of the dead here who served these Kamog people…”

  “Can you do that?” For a horrified moment she recalled the days when first she’d known him, when she hadn’t known what he was capable of, or whether what she saw or felt was illusion…

  “Not myself, no. Any more than I can create an enclave like this one, or shift it back and forth from zones of magic to zones of emptiness. Just as well, really,” he added after a moment. “There are things I would probably try to remove from my own memory… and that’s never a good idea for a mage.”

  Nights returned to her, when she’d wake to find him sitting in his workroom staring out the window into the dark of the hills. Other nights, when he’d waken her crying out in dreams, when he’d cling to her in frantic desperation.

  Her anger faded, but she said, “It isn’t right. Just to… to forget them. I didn’t know either Ross or Rob, but they had families, friends…”

  The wizard nodded. “Would it help,” he asked, “if those friends knew that Ross was shot in a stupid fracas with alien warriors? That Rob was torn apart by abominations from the Void? Would knowing that give them comfort?”

  “I don’t know.” She knew it would give her no comfort, were she to lose her father, or her friend Ruth, or others she knew…

  “And I suspect,” Antryg went on gently, “that the reason Pharnon and his colleagues are taking the trouble to veil the memories of those present is to keep this Nemlyth and his dust-mages – who seem to be as skilled as my old master Suraklin was, or more so, in manipulating the Void – from tracing Prince Arion’s friends in his exile, and capturing them to use against him.”

  And when Joanna stared at him in shock – in spite of Shane’s earlier suggestion this possibility hadn’t even crossed her mind – he added, “When veil-mirror spells are used, the mind of the subject will sometimes fill in a story of events – rather like persistence of vision bridging the still frames of a motion-picture film into the illusion of actual motion
, if I understand what you’ve told me about it. What Selena will remember about her parting from Ross – what Bill will recall of why Rob Tarvell didn’t come home from the desert with him – may not involve their deaths. They’ll simply be… gone.”

  He laid his bandaged hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know if that will be better or worse, my dear. For you, or for them. I’m sorry.” And after a long silence he added bitterly, “As a wizard, I find myself saying that a lot.”

  “So I’ll come up with an explanation in my own mind what happened out here?”

  “You may. Or it may simply be a blank. It will for most of them.”

  “And would you tell me?”

  He moved his head slightly: No. “I’d simply pretend it was a blank for me, too. Because I’d know it was what you chose.”

  “But you’d remember.”

  A haunted look – a glimmer of horrors Joanna could not imagine – passed like a momentary shadow across his gray eyes. “I always remember.”

  Do all wizards wake up screaming in the dark?

  She put her hand on his wrist, and repeated what Hesayn had said to her fugitive prince: “I’ll be with you. You won’t be alone.”

  *

  Antryg took her into the dungeon, sat her down in a corner with her flashlight, and drew a complex double-circle around her with the colored chalks that he carried in his pockets. (Most of their mutual laundry bore streaks and smudges of accidental pinks and greens). “This won’t take long,” he promised, and left Joanna to disturbing visions of what might happen if the evil Nemlyth and his dust-mages (What the hell IS a dust-mage?) showed up and carried off the whole company in the Fortress – warriors, wizards, Prince Arion and Commander Hesayn, cast and crew – and nobody ever came back for her…

  How long should I wait?

  What if Nemlyth and the dust-mages open a gate in the Void to drag everyone away and abominations show up here, as they did in the cars…?

  What ARE we going to do about the cars anyway…?

  No wonder Antryg has nightmares…