Authors: John DeChancie
The turbaned man grasped the curving sword in both meaty hands and swished it about viciously.
“Does my master understand the full import of my words?"
Thorsby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes. Quite."
The turbaned apparition smiled. “Meanwhile, your every wish will be indulged. Does my master wish anything?"
“A drink."
The man held out his hand. A goblet full of purple liquid appeared on his palm. He extended his arm toward Thorsby.
“A drink for my master."
Thorsby took the goblet and drank. His eyes widened.
“Why, this is super. Super! I've never tasted wine like this. It's ... well, I can't believe it, but it's better than the other stuff!"
“Only a foretaste of what is yet to come. I bid thee, sit, O divine Caesar. Disport thyself!"
“Enough of the Caesar bit, please. Let's go back to sultan, or caliph, or shah, or something. All this spilling of guts is making me queasy."
“Your slightest whim is graven in stone, great and wonderful master!"
Thorsby lay back down on the divan. He drank, and marveled again at the taste of wine.
Then his face lapsed into a worried frown.
“Grosmond is going to be ever so pissed off at us,” he said to himself.
War Zone
Kwip flattened himself against the turf as more artillery shells fell in the vicinity of the clearing, not far away. He had been under fire once or twice before, but had never experienced the terror of these weapons. The explosions pierced his ears like crossbow bolts and the concussion was almost enough to knock him senseless.
Nevertheless he clung to consciousness until all was quiet once again.
When he thought it safe, he rose slowly. Now, to find the portal.
He was sure the magic doorway was very near. As best he could surmise, it lay directly across the clearing from where he had crouched in the underbrush, hiding from the lion—the lion which had never materialized. He had been walking straight back across the clearing when the bombardment started.
But the portal was nowhere in sight.
Was it possible that he could have got turned about widdershins? In that case, the portal would be directly across from where he was right now. But he could not be sure. No telling which way he had run.
The clearing was slightly oval, its border lacking distinguishable features. The shelling had put him in a dither; he was now completely disoriented. Perhaps if he crossed again—but he feared renewed shelling. He resolved, therefore, to keep to the wood, which offered some protection against the blasts.
Kwip drew his sword.
He made his way through the underbrush, keeping as close as possible to the edge of the clearing, yet still leaving a margin of safety. He ducked under low branches, pushed through tangles of vines and weeds. It seemed to be late spring here. The smell of wildflowers was in his nostrils, though he couldn't see any, not at the moment.
He tripped over an exposed root and stifled a curse. All was quiet; not even the birds had recovered their composure. No insects buzzed. He stopped, squatted, and peered out into the clearing. Lumps of raw, red clay had been thrown up by the explosions out of deep craters. He'd have to watch himself when and if he crossed again.
He moved on. At length he stopped again, now totally befuddled. Where was that confounded portal?
There came to his ears a strange whirring sound, and he could not for the life of him imagine what could be making it. He thought of a great metallic bird.
He was astonished when such a creature landed in the clearing. Well, “creature” it may have been, in a manner of speaking; it flew and had stubby wings and spindly legs or supports. It was made of some sort of metal, though a metal painted in stripes of brown and green. Yes, a strange thing to behold; but he was well aware that it was an infernal machine of some sort. It looked wickedly destructive, bristling with rods and other projections—armaments of some kind, he guessed.
The thing settled into the clearing, the
shush-shush
of its whirling blades strangely quiet. Its engines whined softly. Kwip had seen depictions of similar craft in books in the castle library. This specimen looked to be of a higher species. It was bulbous in parts, yet sleek and supple elsewhere. It had short wings, and the engines appeared capable of rotating from vertical to horizontal. He had never seen this particular craft depicted, but had seen its progenitors.
A hatch on the craft's side opened and metal men spilled out. Soldiers.
Kwip was astonished again. Were these human beings or mechanical men? They were completely encased in metal—dappled, like the craft, in a strange mix of brown and green hues—from helmet to shoes. Yet they did not clank and lurch about; they moved as men, with but a faint hissing noise accompanying their movements. Six of them fanned out from the craft to take up defensive positions in a circle about it. They swung their weapons back and forth warily, on guard. Kwip could only imagine the coldly efficient eyes which lay hidden behind the dark glass that fronted their helmets. If indeed they had eyes at all.
The defensive circle widened, each soldier advancing radially. One was coming directly at Kwip, who now felt himself on the prickly horns of a dilemma. If he retreated, it would be into unknown territory, one torn by war. If he moved toward the clearing and the portal, he would be discovered and possibly shot.
He gave thought to retreating a safe distance and waiting for the invading troop to reboard the craft and fly away. But there was risk in that course of action as well. What if this lot were engaged in reconnoitering? They might be scouting the area in search of a suitable site for a camp.
Unsettling thought, that. He'd never gain access to the portal. He would be stranded here, possibly forever.
No. Only one thing to do. Make a mad dash for it across the clearing, cutting eater-corner. They would no doubt fire at him, but Kwip prided himself on his fleetness of foot. He would at least have a sporting chance, he thought.
Suddenly, on the far side of the clearing, a sizzling bolt of fire erupted from one of the soldiers, emanating from the barrel of his arquebus, or whatever it was. The bolt hit the trees, sending flames skyward.
Kwip gulped. Perhaps he would not have a sporting chance after all.
Nevertheless, he was determined to make the attempt.
But in what direction should he run? What was his destination to be? He scanned the circuit of the clearing, to no avail. He could detect neither hide nor hair of the portal, that elusive doorway back to the castle and relative safety (if a lion did not devour him immediately upon his arrival!).
The soldier nearest him was still advancing, and the time was at hand for a decision. Kwip thought hard and furiously.
No, he'd have to retreat. If the portal had not vanished, it was probably directly behind the strange craft. In that case a mad dash would be foolish. Truth be told, without knowledge of the portal's exact whereabouts, a mad dash would be silly in any case.
He turned to beat a retreat and found himself on a narrow path, little more than a rabbit trail, that led away from the clearing. Creeping along on all fours, he followed it.
A voice—amplified by some means—barked behind him. Suddenly the heat of fire seared his back.
They were shooting at him! The trees bordering the clearing were in flames.
He got up and ran, wondering how he had been seen. But who knew with what wizardry these demons augmented their inhuman senses?
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a stone corridor. He skidded to a stop.
The portal! It had been here, behind him, all the while. At that moment he remembered running a short distance through woods before coming out into the clearing. Scatterbrained fool!
He sprinted back along the rabbit trail. As he did, he saw the soldier enter the woods and take aim at him. He made a wild dive for the opening.
He tumbled through the portal and back into the castle, ending up on his back on the flagstones. He jumped to his feet and ran to the nearest intersecting hallway and hid behind the corner.
He peeked out.
The soldier was framed in the portal, seeming to peer within, weapon at the ready. Then he walked off, only to appear again and shake his head. There was confusion in his manner. Apparently, to Kwip's great relief, the soldier—or this diabolical machine that took a soldier's form—could not perceive the portal.
Kwip was safe.
Something poked him in the back and he jumped and whirled about, sword raised and ready to strike.
“Put that thing down, you crazy fool!"
It was the woman of color, Deena Williams, and her sometime paramour, Barnaby Walsh. Kwip exhaled and sheathed his sword.
“Jumpy, ain't he?” Deena asked of Barnaby.
“You ought not surprise a man like that,” Kwip warned.
“Some trouble up ahead?” Barnaby asked.
Kwip looked toward the portal. The soldier walked by again, still oblivious to the phenomenon in front of him: a doorway to another world.
Kwip shook his head. “None now, but you don't want to go through that aspect."
“We been duckin’ in and out of aspects for the last couple hours,” Deena told him. “Hidin’ from all this garbage goin’ on."
Kwip nodded. “Which I've been doing as well.” He suddenly remembered his abandoned booty and looked wildly about.
Over Barnaby's shoulder he saw the glint of gold. He ran for it.
It was a gold drinking cup; as he picked it up he caught sight of a necklace lying on the stone not far way.
The stuff was scattered all over, kicked by dancers, nuzzled by lions, punted about by marching feet. Gods knew how wide an area it had been strewn over, all lying there, waiting for anyone to pick up.
Kwip began searching, dashing around frantically, scooping things up, hurrying to the next item. Another necklace, a sapphire ring ... a chalice ... a bracelet...
“Uh, is all this stuff yours?” Deena asked.
“Yes,” Kwip said over his shoulder.
The sound of a brass band grew near, and Kwip cursed. The commotion was returning in force after what must have been a momentary lull.
“You ought to stick with us,” Barnaby said. “We're going to find a nice aspect to hide out in."
“I must recover my valuables!” Kwip shouted as he ran to recover a diamond pendant. He was amazed that anything was left.
“You're nuts!” Deena yelled. “Let's get out of here,” she said to Barnaby.
“Right,” Barnaby said. Then he shouted at Kwip again. “You're absolutely sure?"
“Off with you!” Kwip shouted back. “I'll be all right!"
“Okay, good luck!"
The pair left Kwip to his valuables and his foolish greed.
Presently, two very large cats came prowling around the corner, a whiff of fresh meat in their bewhiskered nostrils.
Plain
His tent had a good view of the citadel. The fortress of Troas, well-built and lovely, its beetling walls formidably high, bestrode a hill overlooking the plain. On the north circuit, topless towers soared above the highest rampart. From the walls, from the towers, had come a lethal rain of arrows, spears, rocks, and boiling oil, with sacks of excrement thrown in for comic relief. It seemed the Dardanians had an endless supply of war materiel and that no siege, however long, would exhaust their stores.
For two long years now, the Arkadian armies had tried to breach those angled walls, to scale them, to undermine them. Frustrated eyes had long beheld those towers, and tired, defeated minds had imagined them ablaze, destroyed for all time, their rain of death ended.
But not yet. The siege went on endlessly, and so did the single-combat contests. Dauntless heroes from each side had locked in mortal combat, one on one. Victories had gone to both sides. In this respect the score was about even. But Dardanians were winning the siege, wearing down the Arkadian attackers. Arkadian supplies were low. There were only so many coastal towns to raid for food and other necessities.
It was not a true siege, because the Dardanian army still had access to the sea. Troas was still linked to supply lines, though those were growing more tenuous. The Arkadians had ceaselessly harassed supply ships, to some effect.
Two long years. Two agonizingly long years.
Trent lay on his recliner, drinking plundered Dardanian wine. He was not quite drunk but was getting there. He had given up hope of getting back to the castle and Sheila. He was stranded. There had been no communication from Inky, no message of any sort. Trent felt abandoned and alone.
And defeated. His strategies and tactics had for the most part not worked against the Dardanians. They were stronger than anyone had imagined, and devilishly resourceful to boot. Outnumbered, they had fought the Arkadians to a standstill. The towers of Troas still stood.
With some effort, he got up and went to the tent's entrance, held back a flap, and looked out. Nothing was happening on the front today. A fight had broken out in the camp of the Arkadians. Some squabble about who should inherit a dead trooper's armor. The sky was clear above the citadel, a few fast clouds scudding by. He looked to his left and gazed at the distant rocky heights of Mount Eta for a long moment, then brought his eyes back to the camp. Someone had just run someone through with a spear. A major brawl was breaking out.
The constant bickering disgusted Trent. He closed the flap, returned to his recliner and his wineskin.
He was at the end of his tether. Somehow he had to bring this farce to some sort of conclusion, get back to Arkadia and slip back through the portal (not far from Mykos), and hope the time-compression effect had been enough to render his two-year subjective absence into something objectively tolerable—say, a few months. Even at that, Sheila still might brain him with a potted palm.
If only he could bring himself to go back on his pledge not to work large-scale magic!
Such as, say, conjuring a small tactical nuke...