Crewel Lye (15 page)

And another turn! This was awkward as anything! Now all of the pursuer came into view, and I recognized it at last--the tarasque. Of course--Yin had warned me of it. Of all the creatures I might have encountered here, this was the one I least preferred, now that I grasped its nature. The tarasque was technically a dragon, but not a normal one, for it possessed certain non-reptilian attributes. Its head was that of an ant-lion, it had six ursine legs--we don't have what the Mundanes call bears in Xanth, but we do have their legs--a big spiked carapace, and an ugly reptilian tail. All in all, an ugly customer.

Once more we outdistanced it. But still we were in the confines of this maze, and the tarasque seemed tireless. Some of these big ones are boosted by magic, unfair as that may seem to their prey. If we ever got out into open forest, we could outrun it permanently--but we were stuck in this mess of channels.

And, of course, that was the point. The evil spell had been placed to summon the monster as the final wedge of a careful trap. Naturally, the bumpkin had marched right into it.

It was now apparent that the evil spells were not simply strewn along my predetermined path in random fashion. They were set where they would do the most harm. The odds against me were even worse than I had imagined.

I had no choice. I would have to risk a defensive spell. Maybe it would turn out wrong, but at least it was a chance.

But which spell? The white compass had converted a stone mountain to flesh; would the monster-banishing-spell relate any better? But I didn't know what would be better than the correct spell. I just had to hope that not all the spells would turn out to be mixed up.

So I grabbed for the white monster figurine as we moved along. “Invoke!” I cried as I held it in my hand.

It flashed. But the triple pounding of the monster's paws continued unabated behind us. Whatever the spell had done, it wasn't monster banishment.

My awareness enlarged as the white object faded from my hand. I knew we were in a maze-warren that might have only one exit, so that the tarasque could run down unwary prey at his leisure. That way the monster's slowness did not matter. Just as I had worn down Pook when I stalked him and herded him into an inescapable situation, so the tarasque would wear us down. Flight would not accomplish anything except tiring us out, and that was no good. It would be better to stand and fight while we were strong.

“Pick a good place to ambush the monster,” I told Pook. “We'll fight.” He wiggled an ear in acknowledgment.

One thing about tripping the evil spell--it meant we were still on course for the object, since the spells had been placed along that course. In fact--another light bulb sprouted momentarily above my head, brightening the whole region but not, alas, blinding the tarasque--that course was predestined. Yang knew where to place his spells because he knew where I was going to go, according to the prophecy. There really should be a law against such prophecies, I thought darkly. But this was actually good news for me. Since my route was predestined, I did not even need the finder-spell; I would get to the object regardless. In fact, I couldn't avoid it.

That also explained why Yang had tried to bribe me to quit. If he really believed I would fail, he had no need of bribery. But if my route was predestined, then I would find the object--unless I deliberately gave up the mission. It was not failure that stalked me, but success--assuming I could handle the hazards along the way. Presumably, if I got permanently killed, that would be the same as giving up, and the remainder of my predestined route would be voided.

Now why was all this obvious to me now, when it had been obscure before? Was I thinking better? And the answer was yes, I was thinking quite a bit better. I was more intelligent than I had been. That meant that I had invoked Magician Yin's spell of intelligence. It had been intended to counteract Yang's lurking spell of idiocy, but now had simply increased my normal level. I was a barbarian genius!

The irony was that genius is wasted on a barbarian. It doesn't take brains to swing a sword, it takes muscle. No really smart man would be a barbarian. Another counter-spell had been wasted.

Well, I was stuck with it. Could intelligence help me escape the monster? That was doubtful. Given a little time, I could devise a weapon from plucked foliage that would cause the tarasque to draw into his shell and be helpless--but I had no time. The smartest thing to do was to stay out of the monster's labyrinth; I would have realized that, had I invoked this spell before entering. So it wasn't much help to me at the moment. Nevertheless, being smart couldn't hurt.

Quickly I reviewed what I could recall about the tarasque. I had thought I had never heard of it, but I had merely forgotten. There turned out to be more information stored in the crannies of my brain than I had realized; bits and pieces of things I had heard elsewhere in my life and not remembered until this moment of heightened intelligence. The tarasque was a deadly monster, and not a stupid one. It preyed only on live, healthy creatures, so that it would not pick up any loathsome diseases or suffer indigestion. It avoided carrion and tainted meat. The classier predators were like that; griffins were notoriously finicky, for example.

There was my strategy of survival! I would try to kill the tarasque--but if I failed, I would pretend to be tainted. Then it would not eat me, and my talent in due course would restore me to full health. It was not the easiest way to get through, but it was feasible.

What, then, of Pook? He could not heal rapidly, or grow back lost limbs, or return from death. “Pook, if I lose, you take off immediately. You must escape while the tarasque is tending to me.”

He neighed in negation. “No, I will heal,” I assured him. “You need time to find your way out of the maze. I can give you that time.”

He snorted, disliking this, obviously believing that I was exaggerating my healing propensity, but he assented.

Suddenly he veered into a side pocket. This was just large enough to give us fighting room while protecting our sides and rear. If we could hold off the monster, this was the place to do it.

“But first let's give the tarasque a chance to pass us by,” I said. “We don't want to fight unless we have to.”

In a moment the monster shot past our alcove, screeched to a halt, backed up, and stared in. I realized that I should have struck at its midsection before it got its head oriented, now that I saw it clearly; the head had tusklike teeth and orange-glaring eyes and was framed by a tawny mane. Overall, the tarasque was as big as Pook--but the horse was constructed for running, while the monster was constructed for combat. Its bear-paws attached to hugely muscled legs, and their claws were stout.

I drew my sword as I dismounted and stood before Pook, facing the tarasque “I don't suppose we can settle this amicably?” I inquired of the monster. I really didn't expect any affirmation, but I wouldn't want it said that I had fought without reason. There are forms to be followed, after all.

For answer, the monster roared. The sound made the trees confining us shudder, their leaves curling. What power! An ogre could hardly do much better than that! I'm a husky barbarian, of course, so I don't properly understand fear, but that sound provided me with an inkling. The wind from the monster's exhalation blew back my hair and tore at the interlocking branches of the trees. The odor of it was not exactly sweet, either.

“I feel obliged to advise you that I am a primitive warrior type, excellent with my weapons,” I said. Too bad the monster's carapace was so sturdy; it would resist the blast of a pineapple. Otherwise I would have had an easy way out. “If you should choose to back off now, I will understand.”

The tarasque took a step forward. Its three left legs moved together, then its three right legs. It opened its mouth marvelously wide, so that I could readily perceive exactly how horrendous its jaws were. Those teeth were like a forest of spikes, some narrowing to points, some splitting into multiple cutting ridges, some serrated like the surface of a saw. There were ledges and valleys and sculptured contours that I was sure meshed neatly with their opposite numbers when those jaws came together; hapless indeed the creature on whom those jaws closed!

I tried once more, for courtesy requires three attempts at peaceful settlement. “There is one special thing you should know about me--”

The tarasque pounced, mouth gaped wide, another roar forming in the tonsil region.

Ah, well, I had tried. Now I fought, free of any reservations. I'm actually pretty good in that sort of circumstance. I swung my blade about with the legendary skill for which barbarians are justly famed. It blurred in an arc that passed through the gaping mouth and severed the tongue, a tonsil, and the forming roar. That cut the bite short; the jaws clapped together as my sword exited, and spurting blood overlapped those finely chiseled, clean white teeth.

“I did try to warn you, turtle-shell,” I said. “I am not your routine terrified, helpless prey; I am a swordsman. You will take severe injuries and perhaps die, if you persist in this quarrel.”

The tarasque's eyes blazed. That was, of course, the point to my discussion: to enrage the creature beyond the edge of reason. It is Standard Barbarian Artifice Number Three, verbal aggravation of subject. Some weak swordsmen with strong tongues do very well on the adventure circuit, I understand.

The monster nudged forward, swiping at me with a massive forepaw. I ducked back, and the swipe missed and caught the trunk of the tree to my right, gouging out four channels of bark. The tree shuddered and groaned woodenly, and sap dripped from the wounds. That from channel number 4 smelled very good.

But I had concerns of my own. I poked my point at the monster's left eye. The tarasque ducked back alertly, avoiding the thrust. My first strike had caught it by surprise, but now it was wary. Having one's tongue cut off tends to facilitate caution. So I struck down at its black nose and lopped off two whiskers.

That made the creature angry! The loss of those whiskers disfigured its puss, and it seemed the monster was vain about its appearance. The severed tongue and tonsil didn't show, but those whiskers did! The tarasque let out a blood-flecked scream and pounced at me. Of course I ducked down and jabbed the point of my sword up, seeking to cut the exposed throat. The monster spun aside just barely in time, lost its balance, and crashed against the clawed tree.

My advantage! I squeezed out on the other side and made a powerful two-handed chop at its side. All I hit was its heavily armored carapace. My blade bounced off with no injury to the tarasque, but with a numbing shock to my hands and arms. Ouch! I wouldn't do that again.

Now I was outside my alcove and afoot; I had no protection to sides or rear. I would be lost in a moment if I didn't do something.

The tarasque was bringing its head about. I jumped forward, grabbed the nearest spike, and hauled myself up on the dragon's carapace. I doubted that the monster's head could reach the middle of its armored back. “Ho, half-whisker!” I cried as I seated myself between spikes, bracing my boots against them. “What do you say now, stinksnoot?” Tastefully selected insults are naturally a key aspect of Artifice Number Three.

What the tarasque said was an unrepeatable roar of wrathy rage. It whipped its head about to snap at me, but couldn't reach me. I chopped at its furry ears with my sword, cutting off one of them. That made the monster angrier yet.

The tarasque tried to buck me off, but was too solid to accomplish much, and I was well braced. It tried to reach up a paw to swipe at me, but the six legs were designed for nether support of its solid mass, not for upward mobility, and this one never got close. It tried to bash my leg against a tree, but its own spikes extended well beyond my leg, so that all it did was poke a hole in the tree and get itself temporarily stuck in the wood. It tried to roll over, squashing me, but the spikes prevented it from rolling. Meanwhile, I constantly nicked those bits of flesh I could reach with the point of my sword, harrying the monster unmercifully.

Unfortunately, I could not do the tarasque serious harm from where I perched. Its carapace protected it from injury as effectively as it protected me from molestation. So we were hung up for the moment, locked in combat without being able to terminate it. Maybe this would become a kind of siege, with the one who lasted longest emerging the victor.

Alas, not so! The tarasque's long, serpentine tail whipped about and stung me on the back. That could touch me!

I tried to lop off the end of that-tail, but it flicked in and out so fast I couldn't catch it. In fact, I didn't even dare turn my head, for fear the tail would twitch out an eye or two. My light body armor was getting cut up, and stripes were appearing on my flesh. I had to get out of range of that tail!

But to do that, I had to get off the carapace--and that would render me vulnerable again to the rest of the monster. Was there some other way?

Yes, there was. I squirmed around and crawled backward, passing one spike after another, moving toward the tail. Naturally the flashing tip tore up my back considerably, but I pressed on until I was able to turn partway, shield my face with my free forearm, and poke my sword down at the base of the tail where it emerged from the carapace. I sawed away at that exposed flesh, trying to sever it from the body. My leverage wasn't good, but my blade was sharp, and soon I penetrated the thick hide to the tender flesh beneath.

The tarasque screamed and leaped, prodded by the sudden pain. That motion was so abrupt and vigorous that I somersaulted from my perch and rolled on the ground. Now I was in trouble!

The tarasque blinked, taking a moment to realize that I had been dislodged. Then it got its reflexes back in order and pounced. I had hung onto my sword; now I brought it up and stabbed it at the monster's snout. The point sank into the tender cheek. The head jerked back, coming off the blade, and blood gouted out.

I scrambled to my feet and backed toward the alcove.

The enraged monster sprang at me again, this time swiping with a forepaw. I parried the paw, and the blade sliced into it, cutting off a claw and its supporting pad, but the shock of the swipe dashed the sword from my hand. I was disarmed!