Magic Kingdom for Sale—Sold! (31 page)

“Questor, tell the headman again that he must give his pledge to the throne. Tell him that he must give over to me as a show of good faith the G’home Gnomes he has taken so that they might serve me instead. Tell him he must do so immediately, that I have little time to waste on him, that I go next to the witch of the Deep Fell. Tell him not to challenge me.”

“High Lord!” Questor breathed in disbelief.

“Tell him!”

“But what if he challenges you and I cannot summon the magic?”

“Then we fry in the fire with the gnomes, damn it!” Ben’s face was flushed and angry.

“Caution, High Lord!” Abernathy warned suddenly, his muzzle shoving into view.

“The hell with being cautious!” Ben wheeled on him. “Bluff or no bluff, we have to try something … !”

Abernathy cut him short with a hiss of warning. “High Lord, I think he understands what you have both been saying!”

Ben froze. The headman was studying him, his yellow eyes suddenly cunning. He
had
understood everything; Ben knew it instantly. The troll gave a quick command to those behind him and they began to fan out about the little company.

“Use the magic, Questor,” Ben whispered.

The wizard’s face was gray with uncertainty. “High Lord, I do not know if I can!”

“If you don’t, we are in big trouble!” Ben kept his eyes fixed on Questor’s. “Use it!”

Questor hesitated, his tall, rainbow-colored form a statue against the fires and the night. Then abruptly he wheeled on the Crag Trolls, his arms lifting. The trolls shrieked. Questor’s arms windmilled, words poured forth from his throat and the air exploded with light.

It began to rain flowers.

They showered down from out of nowhere—roses, peonies, violets, lilies, daisies, chrysanthemums, orchids, daffodils and every other kind of flower under the sun. They descended on the little company and the Crag Trolls in buckets, tumbling off them and bouncing to the ground.

It was difficult to decide who was the most surprised. It was certain that everyone had expected something else— including Questor, who made a valiant effort to recover after his initial shock, arms lifting a second time as he tried again to engage the magic. He was far too slow. The Crag Trolls had already recovered. They launched themselves at the members of the little company somewhat in the manner of linebackers in a full blitz. They looked monstrous. Ben shouted in warning to the others. He saw the kobolds leap up, heard them hiss, heard Abernathy’s teeth snap, felt the gnomes Fillip and Sot grappling at him for protection, and smelled an instant’s mix of charred ash and smoke.

Then the Crag Trolls piled into him. He was hammered back—thrown from his feet with the force of the rush. His head struck the hard earth, and the air before him exploded instantly into blinding light. Then everything went dark.

He came awake a prisoner in Dante’s
Inferno
. He was chained to a post in the central holding pen, heavy bracelets and locks fastened to his wrists and ankles. He sat slumped against the post, the faces of dozens of furry gnomes peering
at him through a haze of smoke. His head throbbed and his body was bathed in sweat and grime. The stench of the kilns and waste pits filled the air and made him instantly nauseous. The fires burned all about, crimson light falling like a mantle across the valley rock.

Ben blinked and turned his head slowly. Questor and Abernathy were chained to posts close by, awake and whispering together guardedly. The kobolds were trussed hand and foot by chains and bound to iron rings fixed to spikes driven into the stone floor. Neither appeared conscious. Crag Trolls patrolled the perimeter of the compound, their misshapen forms little more than shadows drifting silently through the night.

“Are you awake, High Lord?”

“Are you unhurt, High Lord?”

Fillip and Sot edged forward out of the sea of faces peering at him. Ferret eyes regarded him solicitously, squinting. Ben wanted nothing so badly at that instant as to break free long enough to throttle them both. He felt like the prize exhibit at the zoo. He felt like a freak. Most of all, he felt like a failure. It was their fault that he felt like that. It was because of them that he was here in the first place. Damn it, all of this had happened because of them!

But that wasn’t true, and he knew it. He was here because it had been his choice to come, because this was where he had put himself.

“Are you all right, High Lord?” Fillip asked.

“Can you hear us, High Lord?” Sot asked.

Ben shoved his misplaced anger aside. “I can hear you. I’m all right. How long have I been unconscious?”

“Not long, High Lord,” Fillip said.

“Not more than a few minutes,” Sot said.

“They seized us all,” Fillip said.

“They threw us into this pen,” Sot said.

“No one escaped,” Fillip said.

“No one,” Sot echoed.

So tell me something I don’t know, Ben thought bitterly.
He glanced about the compound. They were caged by wire fences that were six foot high and barbed. The gates were of heavy wood lashed with chains. He tugged experimentally at the chains secured to his ankles and wrists. They were firmly locked and fixed in their rings. Escape was not going to be easy.

Escape? He laughed inwardly. What in the hell was he thinking about? How was he going to escape from this place?

“High Lord!” He turned at the sound of his name. Questor had discovered that he was awake. “Are you hurt, High Lord?”

He shook his head no. “How are you and Abernathy? And the kobolds?”

“Quite well, I think.” The owlish face was black with soot. “Bunion and Parsnip got the worst of it, I am afraid. They fought very hard for you. It took more than a dozen trolls to subdue them.”

The kobolds stirred in their chains, as if to substantiate the wizard’s claim. Ben glanced at them a moment, then turned again to Questor. “What will they do to us?” he asked.

Questor shook his head. “I really do not know. Nothing very pleasant, I would think.”

Ben could imagine. “Can you use the magic to free us?” he asked.

Questor shook his head once more. “The magic does not work when my hands are chained. It has no power when iron binds me.” He hesitated at moment, his long face twisting. “High Lord, I am sorry that I have failed you so badly. I tried to do as you asked—to invoke the magic to aid us. It simply would not respond. I … cannot seem to master it … as I would wish.” He stopped, his voice breaking.

“It’s not your fault,” Ben interjected quickly. “I’m the one who got us into this mess—not you.”

“But I am the court wizard!” Questor insisted vehemently. “I should have magic enough at my command to deal with a handful of trolls!”

“And I should have brains enough to do the same! But it would appear that this time we both came up a bit short, so let’s just forget it, Questor. Forget the whole business. Concentrate on finding a way out of this cattle yard!”

Questor Thews slumped back in dejection. He seemed broken by what had happened, no longer the confident guide that had brought Ben into the land. Even Abernathy made no response. Ben quit looking at them.

Fillip and Sot edged closer to where he was chained.

“I am thirsty,” Fillip said.

“I am hungry,” Sot said.

“How soon can we leave this place, High Lord?” Fillip asked.

“How soon?” Sot asked.

Ben stared at them in disbelief. How about the twelfth of never? How about next decade? Did they think that they were just going to walk out of here? He almost laughed. Apparently they did.

“Let me give it some thought,” he suggested and smiled bravely.

He turned away from them and stared out over the pen yard. He found himself wishing he had brought some sort of weapon with him from the old world. A bazooka, maybe? A small tank, perhaps? Bitterness welled up within him. That was the trouble with hindsight, of course—it gave you perfect vision when it was too late to be of any use. It had never occurred to him when he had decided to come into Landover that he would ever have need of a weapon. It had never occurred to him that he would ever find himself in this sort of predicament.

He wondered suddenly why the Paladin had failed to appear when the trolls had come at him. Ghost or not, the Paladin had always appeared before when he was threatened. He would have welcomed an appearance on this occasion as well. He mulled the question over in his mind for a moment before deciding that the only difference between this time and the others was that this time he had failed to think
about the medallion when threatened. But that seemed a tenuous link. After all, he had tried to summon the Paladin by willing his appearance when he was testing the medallion’s power, and absolutely nothing had happened.

He sagged back against the holding post. The throbbing was beginning to ease in his head. Hell wasn’t as bad as it had been five minutes ago. Before it had been intolerable; now it was almost bearable. He reflected momentarily on his life, dredging up all the bad things that had gone before to hold up in comparison to this. The comparison failed. He thought of Annie, and he wondered what she would say if she were alive to see him like this. Annie would probably have dealt with the situation much better than he; she had always been the more flexible, always the more resilient.

There were tears in his eyes. They had shared so much. She had been his one true friend. God, he wished he could see her just once more!

He brushed furtively at his eyes and straightened himself. He tried thinking of Miles, but all he could think about was Miles telling him “I told you so” over and over. He thought about his decision to come to Landover, to the fairy-tale Kingdom that couldn’t exist. He thought about the world he had left to come here, about all of the little amenities and irritations he would never experience again. He began to catalogue the wishes and dreams that he would never see fulfilled.

Then he realized what he was doing. He was giving up on himself. He was writing himself off as dead.

He was immediately ashamed. The iron-hard determination that had carried him through so many fights reasserted itself swiftly. There would be no quitting, he swore. He would win this fight, too.

He smiled bitterly. He just wished he knew how.

Two familiar ferretlike faces shoved into view once more.

“Have you had enough time to think about it yet, High Lord?” Fillip asked.

“Yes, have you decided when we will leave, High Lord?” Sot asked.

Ben sighed. “I’m working on it,” he assured them.

The hours slipped away. Midnight passed, and the Crag Trolls began to shuffle off to bed. A few stayed on duty to tend the kilns and watchfires, but the rest disappeared into their stone huts. Questor and Abernathy dropped off to sleep. Most of the G’home Gnomes joined them. Fillip and Sot curled up at his feet. Only the kobolds remained awake with Ben. They lay on their sides, unable to get to a sitting position, their narrow eyes fixed on him watchfully, their white teeth showing through those maddening grins. Ben smiled back at them once or twice. They were tough little creatures. He admired them and he regretted getting them into this mess. He regretted getting them all into this mess.

It was nearing morning when he felt a hand lightly touch his face. He had been dozing, and he came awake with a start. Mist and smoke hung like a pall across the valley floor. Shadows cast by the fires chased one another through the haze, red and black wraiths. There was a chill in the air; the fires burned low.

“Ben?”

He looked around and Willow was there. She was crouched directly behind him, huddled close to the chaining post. Slate and earth-colored clothing concealed her slim form and a hooded cloak shadowed her face and hair. He blinked in disbelief, thinking her a part of some half-remembered dream.

“Ben?” she repeated, and her sea-green eyes stared out at him from beneath the hood. “Are you all right?”

He nodded mechanically. She was real. “How did you find me?” he whispered.

“I followed you,” she answered, moving closer. Her face was inches from his own, the shadows drawn clear of her exquisite features. She was so impossibly beautiful. “I told you that I belonged to you, Ben. Did you not believe me?”

“It was not a question of believing you, Willow,” he tried to explain. “You cannot belong to me. No one can.”

She shook her head determinedly. “It was decided long ago that I should, Ben. Why is it that you cannot understand that?”

He felt a wave of helplessness wash through him. He remembered her naked in the waters of the Irrylyn; he remembered her changing into that gnarled tree within the pines. She excited and repelled him both, and he could not come to terms with the mix of feelings.

“Why are you here?” he asked in frustration.

“To set you free,” she answered at once. She slipped from beneath the cloak a ring of iron keys. “You should have asked my father for me, Ben. He would have given his permission if you had asked. But you did not ask, and because you did not, I was forced to leave anyway. Now I cannot go back again.”

“What do you mean, you can’t go back?”

She began working the keys into the locks of his chains, trying each in turn. “It is forbidden for any to leave the lake country without my father’s permission. The penalty is exile.”

“Exile? But you’re his daughter!”

“No longer, Ben.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come, damn it! You shouldn’t have left, if you knew that this would happen!”

Her gaze was steady. “I had no choice.”

The third key fitted and the chains fell away. Ben stared at the sylph in anger and frustration, and then in despair. She slipped from his side and moved to Questor, Abernathy, and the kobolds. One by one, she set them free. Daylight was beginning to lighten the eastern sky across the mountains. The trolls would be waking soon.

Willow slipped back to him. “We must go quickly, Ben.”

“How did you get in here without being seen?” he asked.

“There are none who can see the people of the lake country if they do not wish it, Ben. I slipped into the valley after
midnight and stole the keys from the watch. The gates stand open, the chain only draped through its rings. But we must leave at once; the deception will be discovered.”