The Golden Shield of IBF

by Jerry Ahern; Sharon Ahern

  In the next eyeblink, Swan announced, “He is a creature with the face of, of—” She searched for the word. “A pig! But he has great teeth protruding from his face like horns.”

  “Tusks?”

  Swan thought for a moment. “Tusks, yes. Curved teeth made of horn. He is returning the mask to his face. He is dressed in black cape and grey doublet and grey hose. He wears no baldric, but a belt, his sword and another weapon at his sides. He carries a leather bag slung to his shoulder. Is this the man you seek?” Swan saw him clearly in a distant passageway within the structure. And she did not like what she saw.

  “Can you see where he is?”

  This would be hard to describe to Al’An. “He moves toward the stairway where earlier today I and talked with Alicia and Gardner and Brenda, half-cat, half-woman.”

  “Take me there,” Al’An commanded.

  Swan was not used to being commanded. But, somehow, under the circumstances she did not mind it. Al’An broke into a run, Swan flinging back her greatcape, gathering up her skirts and running with him. Al’An let her pass him, so that she could lead him, she realized, to the stairway, to his quarry. She could still see the evil man with her second-sight. As she and Al’An ran, she told Al’An, “He carries something that looks like a rock. It is in his right hand. There are many square shaped ridges on it and there is a small handle and a ring through which his middle finger is passed, Al’An.”

  “That’s a fragmentation grenade!”

  Al’An took something from beneath his bomber jacket. A weapon? He folded it open, pushed a button, then began to speak to it as if it were alive. Perhaps it was a magical advisor. She had seen many people speak with such objects since she had arrived here. “This is Garrison. Gimme Wisnewski, quick.” Al’An paused. Then, “Wisnewski, I think we’ve got him. And he may have a grenade. Be ready. I’m on the south end of the main building, proceeding west along a corridor. I’m keeping the line open.”

  “This way, Al’An!” Swan turned the corner of the passageway through which they had run, raising her skirts higher now as she started down the stairs.

  “Is this the stairway that you saw?”

  “He is two levels below us, moving toward the entranceway to the great hall through which all who come here must pass.”

  “He’s heading for registration on the main floor. Don’t move on him yet, but be ready. He’s wearing a pig mask with tusks, got a sword, a bag that’s probably got the device in it. And he may have a gun on his sword belt. Black cape, grey thing like a sportcoat Christopher Columbus could have worn, grey tights,” Al’An told his magical advisor.

  “Your enemy quickens his pace, Al’An.”

  “If he detonates a fragmentation grenade in the main lobby, Brownwood could kill dozens of people. You stay back well behind me by the stairs. Don’t get anywhere near me. I mean it, Swan!”

  When they reached the level one above where the evil one trod, Swan fell back, letting Al’An stride past her. But she would not let him battle his evil foeman alone. Magically breaking the peace bond which secured her sword, she ran down the stairs, in Al’An’s footsteps.

  Al’An was a fast runner, and a good jumper, Swan observed. He was bounding down the stairs three at a time, then leapt the final five treads, breaking into a long-strided run. She could hear him still as, once more, he spoke with his magical advisor. “I see Brownwood heading for the doors. It’s a grenade. Wait for him outside. Move! Move. Move now, Wisnewski! I’ll be right behind him coming fast!”

  As she ran, Swan tried picturing in her mind what a bomb must be like. This “grenade” thing must be some sort of bomb, as well. It would be an explosion, an eruption of great force and energy, like—

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Swan could see both Al’An and his black-caped foeman. The evil one was walking determinedly past a small group of people. Brenda, the half-cat, half-female, stood among them.

  Brenda called to the evil one. “Hey, Wilton! Where you been?” Brenda reached out to him. He shrugged away. She stepped toward him. He pushed her to the floor.

  The young man Swan had earlier seen—the one dressed as a courtier—jumped toward the evil one, fists clenched and ready.

  Al’An shouted, “No! Don’t touch him!”

  Al’An’s magical advisor fell from his hand. In its stead was an object such as she had seen earlier worn by a passerby on the stairs. Gardner had told her that it was a laser pistol, and explained its use. But Alicia had told her that a laser pistol was not a real weapon, only a toy. Al’An needed a real weapon, a sword, and Swan was about to make hers appear magically in his hand, but things began to happen too quickly.

  The courtier threw a punch and missed, then smashed his body against the evil one. The evil one stumbled back, raised the hand which held the grenade and cried aloud, “I’ll blow up everybody!”

  Al’An did not use his laser pistol weapon, but instead hurtled himself against his foeman, Al’An’s upper body colliding with the evil one’s chest, both Al’An and the evil one falling to the floor. Al’An grappled with the evil one, Al’An’s knee hammering against the evil one’s face and chest, Al’An’s hands struggling to pry the grenade thing from his foe man’s grasp.

  Swan ran forward to join the fray, brandishing her blade in the air above her head. “Give way! Give way!” Swan commanded, the crowd of people in the great hall splitting asunder before her.

  Swan stopped, a few spans from where Al’An and his foeman writhed in combat, her sword clasped in both hands beside her right shoulder, its blade readied to arc downward and cut the life from Al’An’s foeman.

  Something happened.

  Swan had experienced the phenomenon only once before, when she was but a girl. Powerless to act because there was no time, her mother refusing to act a moment earlier, Swan witnessed a horse and its rider attempting to outrun an avalanche on the far side of a valley in the high mountain snows. The feeling was as if time itself slowed, moving only imperceptibly forward, allowing the incident which was occurring to be viewed in the most minute detail.

  The grenade rolled from the evil one’s grasp. The flat thing attached to it like a handle, which she had seen earlier with her second-sight, sprang away from the grenade.

  Swan saw Al’An’s eyes, wide with horror. She heard a solitary scream. It was Alicia’s voice, Swan thought. Around the evil one’s finger was the ring which had been attached to the grenade as she’d second-sighted him.

  Somehow, Swan knew that this combination of circumstances was very bad.

  Al’ An shouted, “Get to cover! Everybody!” Al’An pushed to his feet. His foeman grasped Al’An’s right foot. Al’An shook free, kicking his foeman in the side of the face.

  Al’An lunged toward the grenade, looking toward Swan for an eyeblink. And their gazes met. In Al’An’s beautiful brown eyes, Swan saw two things revealed, that somehow Al’An cared for her more deeply than anyone had ever cared for her, and that he knew that he was about to die.

  The grenade thing was a bomb.

  The spell that she had happened upon before the attack by her mother’s forces, a spell to be used against the power of a volcano, to turn it back against itself—Swan recalled it now, shrieking the words as she cast it. It was untried by her. What if it did not work?

  She sheathed her sword.

  In the same breath as the first spell, Swan began to recite the incantation which had brought her here, but totally backwards, sound for sound, rune for rune.

  Swan’s arms stretched out, hands grasping for the powerful magic she had felt in the air around her here since she first arrived. The magical energy pulsed through her limbs, spiraling into the very core of her body.

  Swan walked the few spans separating her from Al’An, her palms pressed together between her breasts, the magical energy filling her, one with her.

  Swan dropped to her knees beside Al’An, his body tented over the grenade, shielding all from its deadliness at the sacrifice of his own
life. In truth, Al’An was a brave and noble champion, the Champion foretold in the Prophecies of Mir. The deadly little bomb was about to make its evil felt, unless her untried spell succeeded. She could not risk Al’An’s life if it failed.

  Magical energy flowed from Swan’s hands as she turned them open, her arms folding around Al’An’s upper body, drawing his head to her breast.

  The energy crackled and arced, coursed wildly through their bodies. Her very being shuddered with its force.

  There was a roar, not from the bomb, but a roar of thunder, cracking, tearing through the magical fabric of the universe.

  In the same eyeblink that the grenade exploded, so did the energy which flowed from within Swan and Al’An, a light glowing whiter than the brightest sunlight, enveloping them. The liquid darkness came again, then was gone. A snowflake touched Swan’s cheek, another settled in Al’An’s eyelashes. He stared up at her in silence, his head still clutched to her bosom. Another snowflake landed on the tip of her nose and Al’An brushed it away with his hand...

  Eran, Sorceress Queen of Creath, Mistress General of the Horde of Koth, shrieked with a pain she had not known since childbirth. She stood. The gem-encrusted goblet from which an instant earlier she’d sipped red wine flew from her ring-festooned fingers, hurtling across the banquet table, skipping over the flagstones of the Great Hall of Koth.

  Her lover for the night, obedient enough to retain human form if he kept his manners, dragged himself stuporously to his feet, reaching for the sword at his hip. “My Queen? What is...” Eran wondered fleetingly if he were at a loss for words or merely too intoxicated to complete a thought.

  “The Virgin Enchantress lives, and she’s brought someone with her. Curse her! Curse them both!”

  Eran knotted her fingers into her lover’s hair, pulling his face down to hers, kissing him violently on the mouth. Blood trickled from his lips. Eran tossed back her hair, howling with rage and delight, knowing that for her both feelings always were and always would be one in the same.

  Chapter Four

  Erg’Ran gave heed to the advice proffered him in the millers cottage by the Virgin Enchantress, that he must look to options other than Swans magic for the survival of the Company of Mir. Pursuant to the dire warnings that Swan’s spell would no longer confound the Horde of Koth in their search should the Queen Sorceress make good her death threat, Erg’Ran threw himself into directing the building of additional fortifications behind the Falls of Mir, consulting maps to preplan escape routes and rendezvous points in the event their encampment had to be abandoned. In the midst of these endeavors, and sooner than the time allotted by Swan’s mother’s ultimatum, an arrow was brought to Erg’Ran in his tent. The message wrapped to the arrow shaft detailed an eyewitness account of the Mist of Oblivion appearing near the castle residence of the Virgin Enchantress, how the Mist of Oblivion was seen to consume the castle and all within and vanish. Erg’Ran collapsed to his knees and wept. He felt the hand of Gar’Ath, mightiest warrior in the Company, clasp his shoulder.

  Erg’Ran raised himself to his foot and peg, the tears still flowing from his eyes. Through the open tent flap, he felt the cold wind blowing from the precipice over which the falls cascaded for the last several hours. Somehow, it was colder to him now.

  Struggling against the emotion engulfing him, Erg’Ran blurted out his words in staccato phrases. “The Virgin Enchant—Enchantress may not be—be dead, may have esca—escaped, may have escaped and—and if she did we need to find her immediately before her mother’s—her mother’s minions find her. To horse, Gar’Ath, with five—five others and I will go—go, also.” Snorting back his tears, or at least attempting to do so, Erg’Ran’s eyes scanned across the assembled Captains of the Company. “We must assume—” Erg’Ran cleared his throat. “We must abandon the encampment at once except for a small, highly—highly mobile unit which can escape—escape at an instant’s notice when, if the Horde arrives. We will meet—meet by the old summer palace, within three days. We must assume—assume—that—Swan is—that Swan is dead.”

  Erg’Ran sank forward over his maps, head aching, his throat so tight that he could barely breathe, heart hammering within his chest. He wanted to say that he would somehow, no matter the cost, avenge himself on Eran, the Queen Enchantress, kill her and obliterate her hideous evil from Creath. And, if Swan were dead, whatever price he must pay, he would exact revenge. Erg’Ran wished to say all of that, but could not utter even a solitary word. He could only weep and touch his fist to his forehead, invoking the courage of Mir...

  Alan Garrison stood up, brushing the snow from his Levi jeans. “We’re dead, right?” Maybe Swan was an angel; if looks were the benchmark for angelic nature, she was that benchmark personified.

  On two sides of the barren expanse on which Garrison stood were high, snow-splotched walls of granite, mountains coursing upward to vanish within the low, heavy overcast. Behind him, the plain stretched for what seemed an interminable distance, disappearing past the horizon. Ahead of him lay a deep wood, snow accumulating heavily at its boundary, within the wood an assortment of trees both familiar and strange, unlike anything he had ever seen.

  “We are not dead, Al’An.”

  “Where are we, Swan?”

  “Creath.”

  “Where is Creath?”

  Swan did not answer him, merely stood there, wrapped within her cape, its hood so obscuring her face that he could not read her expression.

  The snow felt like snow, the air smelled like air. Garrison rationalized a scenario. Somehow, when the explosion came, he was knocked out, near death (unless he was really dead). The bright light had been the same light people talked about in near-death experiences. If he wasn’t dead, then they had been kidnapped while unconscious, drugged perhaps, abandoned here for some obscure reason. One of his .45s was still in its shoulder holster, the other in the waistband of his pants, where he’d placed it when he tackled William Brownwood. From their heft, the pistols were still loaded. He could check them in greater detail in a little while. His third pistol and his knives were where they belonged.

  Garrison reached for his cell phone. “Where’s my cell phone?”

  “Cell phone?”

  “The thing I was talking into,” Garrison rephrased.

  “Your magical advisor? You flung your magical advisor to the floor as you joined battle with your foeman there in the great hall through which all who entered passed.”

  “No matter. In the mountains like this, we’re probably nowhere near a cell, anyway. So, tell me what’s up.”

  Swan’s right arm emerged from beneath her cape and she gestured toward the cloudy sky. “That is up. Are you well, Al’An? Was your head injured?”

  “No, I knew which way up was, Swan. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then, you were testing me?”

  “No, that’s not it. What I meant to say was that I wanted you to tell me where we are and what’s happened, if you know.”

  “Of course I know,” Swan answered defensively, moving closer beside him. He could see her face quite clearly now beneath the folds of her hood. There was nothing but honesty there, honesty and loveliness. “You were about to be killed by the grenade bomb.” Garrison let her English usage slide. “I summoned all of the magical energy that I could, while reciting backwards the incantation which brought me to your world from mine originally. At the same time that the grenade bomb was about to release its energy, and perhaps kill you, I brought us here. And there is probably no reason to be afraid for Alicia and Gardner and Brenda the half-cat, half-female. Before my mother’s minions attacked and the Mist of Oblivion was summoned to devour my castle and all life within it, I chanced upon a spell useful in combating the energy force of a volcano. I thought that it was a clever spell and committed it to memory. I cast that spell over the grenade bomb. In the moment that my magic took us from the great hall through which all who entered passed, the grenade bomb exploded. I am certain that the spell worke
d. But, I could not be sure beforehand, which is why I brought us here at that moment.”

  Garrison frisked his pockets, found his cigarettes and his lighter. This was nuts. He placed a cigarette between his lips. His hands shook with the cold and the lighter didn’t work the first time. As he made to roll the striking wheel again, his cigarette lit itself and he heard Swan laugh. “That is the easiest kind of magic. The energy is all around us; I merely direct it.”

  Slowly, Garrison said, “This is Creath.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “And this magic of yours can bring us back to Atlanta?”

  “Not now,” Swan responded, shaking her head. “You see, Al’An, magic is measured by quality and quantity. It is something which can be temporarily exhausted and then must renew itself.”

  “You just lit my cigarette with magic,” Garrison insisted, amazed that he said such a thing.

  Swan smiled indulgently. “If you run for only a short distance, do you have trouble breathing afterward?”

  “No. Even though I’m smoking, I don’t do it very often and I take health and fitness very—What’s running have to do with magic?”

  “If you run very rapidly over a great distance, your breathing does not immediately return to the way that it was before you began to run.”

  “Obviously. So what?”

  Swan smiled, triumphantly this time, as if she’d just taught him the meaning behind Einstein’s theory of relativity. “That’s how magic works, Al’An. The harder the magic, the longer it takes for the magic to return to the way it was before it was used. Just like running long and fast. But even after running long and fast, it is usually possible to take a few steps, and sometimes it is better to walk while breathing becomes normal again. Giving fire to the end of your cigarette, or anything like that is just a tiny step and simple to do, requiring virtually no energy at all.”