“So, we can’t go back.”
“It will be a day or longer for my magical energy to be sufficiently renewed. Bringing the two of us to Creath consumed more magic than when I alone left Creath to go to your world. And, anyway, I need you to be my Champion, to fight beside me with the Company of Mir against the Horde of Koth and my mother’s evil magic. That will take some time.”
“Look,” Garrison began. “I have—” Before saying another word to Swan, it dawned on him to question himself concerning what he really did have in his world, assuming again that he really wasn’t dead or dreaming and actually had been brought to Creath. He had a job, one that he was good at (usually, at least), an important job that gave him a great deal of satisfaction, but not the job he wanted. Ever since high school, he’d been aching to get fantasy or science fiction published and he had never gotten anything finished to the point where he could even hope for a form rejection letter. Garrison had boxes of unwritten stories and novels, always jumping from one idea to the next.
The rest of his life wasn’t that much more goal oriented, so far. At the insistence of his parents, after college he got a law degree. But Alan Garrison had no interest at all in being an attorney. The FBI was head-hunting healthy guys with law degrees and the next thing Garrison knew, he was a recruit under the hot sun at Quantico.
He could have used some of that hot sun in this place; Garrison’s entire body was shaking now, shivering in his unlined bomber jacket with nothing but a shoulder holster, a T-shirt and his body armor underneath. Instead of asking Swan to find some way to take him back to his world, Alan Garrison bit the bullet and asked, “Is all of Creath cold like this?”
“In the winter season, yes, this part of Creath, all of the inhabited part, is cold. But it is hot in the summer, hot like Atlanta.”
“Is there someplace we can go, something we could do to escape the cold?”
Swan’s brow knitted with thought for a moment. “I don’t have sufficient magical energy yet to cast a place-shifting spell. And my castle has ceased to exist because of the Mist of Oblivion. But—”
Swan’s hands appeared from beneath her cape. She stepped toward him, so close now that their bodies almost touched, her cape falling fully open. She raised her hands to the cowl of her hood, then swept them back and down along her sides to her cape’s hem, crouching so low that she was almost kneeling.
Swan rose to her full height. Her fingers seemed to vibrate slightly as she tented them together. Swan raised her clasped hands toward him, over him. He felt her hands touch at the crown of his head, move back and down along the sides of his head, his neck, along his shoulders, starting down along his arms, mimicking how she had swept her hands over her own body.
A cape began to enshroud Alan Garrison, from a deeply cowled hood over his head to the hem at his ankles. And warmth spread through him. “Thank you,” Garrison told her.
“It is a very manly greatcape, not trimmed with fur like mine, Al’An. It looks well on you. Would you like a different color other than brown?”
“Brown’s fine,” Alan Garrison reassured her. He decided that he could try to help Swan with this champion thing that she wanted him to do, for a day or so at least, until her magic was strong enough to send him back. Or he could think of an excuse to stay for a while longer...
It was nearly full darkness. The light from the twin moons would not penetrate the low, dense overcast this night. But the whiteness of the fresh snow helped to diffuse the light from the magical globe which the Enchantress had given to him. Erg’Ran could see quite well enough to keep to the trail. In daylight, the globe seemed like an ordinary ball of heavy glass, but as night fell, it began to glow, stronger the darker the night became.
Erg’Ran slowed his dark brown mare’s pace along the once well-used road leading toward the Castle of the Virgin Enchantress, reined back so that Gar’Ath’s mount would come abreast of him.
Erg’Ran had to see the devastation for himself. He had to know for certain that the Mist of Oblivion had totally consumed the massive structure where Swan had lived alone for so long, in willing exile from her mother’s residence at Barad’Il’Koth.
As he drew guidance from the globe’s light, so did Erg’Ran draw faith from it, faith that somehow the Virgin Enchantress still lived. If she did not, how could her magic still power the globe which lit their way?
Gar’Ath drew up beside him. “Is there something wrong, old friend?” Gar’Ath tossed back the hood of his cloak, his dark hair falling free of the hood and across his shoulders. In the globe’s light through the more heavily falling snow, Erg’Ran could see the younger man’s face quite clearly. The smile seemed forced, but genuine; considering the circumstances this night, it was the only sort of smile that could be possible.
“We are near to leaving the wood, and from the boundary we should be able to confirm whether or not the Mist of Oblivion accomplished the Queen Sorceress’s foul work. If I know the workings of her evil heart, there will be a scouting party of the Horde—at the very least—lying in wait lest we should hear of the castle’s destruction and go in search of the Virgin Enchantress.”
“Then we fall right into their plan, old friend. Yet, there’s no choice, I think. I am with you that we must know the Virgin Enchantress’s fate. And, if the castle is, indeed, vanished from the universe, she may still live.”
“We cannot give up hope, Gar’Ath.”
“My soul and my sword are with you, as always, old friend, however we end.”
“I know that, lad. I rely on them both.”
“Should I scout ahead, do you think then, Erg’Ran? One man will be less noticed than seven, I’d wager. If I come up from the far side of the plateau and stay near the rock walls, I’ll have a better chance of seeing any of the Horde before they should see me. They are predictable, these bastard foemen we fight. They will expect us to come from the wood.”
“Take no chances, if you do go ahead, Gar’Ath. Your plan seems a good one. But we cannot afford to lose you, tonight or ever if we are to take the fight to Barad’Il’Koth.” And Erg’Ran touched his clenched fist to his forehead, invoking the courage of Mir at the thought of the evil stronghold of the Queen Sorceress.
“If I ride around to the far side, you and the others should be only a short while behind me when I get there.”
“We will be there, lad.”
“I’ll be waiting then!” Gar’Ath’s eyes were younger, stronger. He would not need the globe’s light to guide him through the wood.
Gar’Ath’s mount veered off the path and into the darkness.
Erg’Ran called after him hoarsely, “Not through the wood, lad! Not at night!”
But, Gar’Ath was gone, either out of earshot or choosing to ignore the warning. Since the Horde of Koth swept through the wood, all living things that remained were creatures of darkness. They might not have the courage to attack a company of seven men, or even six; but one man who strayed from the path might be too tempting for the foul beasts to resist. Erg’Ran touched his clenched fist to his forehead once again, asking the courage of Mir to be with Gar’Ath.
Swan made light appear from her left hand, to guide them through the swirling gloom: her right hand lay in the crook of Al’An’s elbow. His right hand grasped one of his weapons. The wind blew more strongly and the snow fell more rapidly than before. The snow piled up in ever deeper drifts the nearer they approached to the boundary with the wood.
Once there, she would search for the track that had been the road, the track over which she had lately ridden to the millers hut on her strongly built little white horse. The gentle creature was devoured, of course, when the Mist of Oblivion enveloped the castle and all within it.
Upon reaching the wood, Al’An and she could spend the rest of the night with some protection from the cold and wind and snow. By morning, her magic would be stronger, adequate at least to cast a place-shifting spell that would bring them to the encampment behind the Falls of Mir. And ad
equate to get them out of there quickly if need be. There was a strong chance that the encampment had already been attacked, or that Erg’Ran, learning of Swan’s mother’s use of the Mist of Oblivion, had wisely decided to break camp and go deeper into hiding. She would gamble on finding her compatriots in the Company of Mir, but only when she was strong enough should her worst fears prove out.
It was probable that her magical energy was sufficiently restored to place-shift them at this very moment. Yet if she did so, her magic would be too depleted to whisk them away again to safety should the encampment have been overrun, occupied by the Horde of Koth. That she could not risk.
She would wait.
Al’An, ready for danger as best he could be and telling her, “I have a very good reading knowledge of swords, but have never used one. You keep the sword,” held one of his pistols ready still. When she had asked if it were a laser pistol, he told her, “Hardly. Aren’t any laser pistols for real yet. This is the next best thing, a SIG P-220 .45 loaded with Federal Hydra-Shoks. Rest easy.” He had winked his eye; it was most charming. Swan hoped that he would do so again.
Swan did not wish to dishearten him, but a mechanical device could be bewitched much more easily than a sword, which was all but impossible to be cast upon, even by means of magic as powerful as her mother’s. Swan mentioned nothing at all of that to Al’An for the moment.
“Once we’re in the forest, what next, Swan?”
“I must locate the track which leads to the miller’s hut, Al’An.”
“We’re going to stay at this miller’s hut place, then?”
“It is too far to travel on foot, and too dangerous a journey at night,” she informed him. “I have more than enough magic to make a warm fire for us, and you needn’t know how to fight with a sword to use my sword to get us more wood that might be lying about.”
“Sounds like a good plan, except for one thing.” Al’An laughed. Swan liked the sound. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Neither do I. What is breakfast?”
“The first meal of the day.”
“Oh.”
“And, I didn’t eat any lunch. And, on my body at least, if my wristwatch isn’t screwed up, it’s after nine. I’m hungry. Can your magic make us anything to eat?”
Now, Swan laughed. Men were always hungry, at least as far as she was able to discern. She would ask him about the “wristwatch” word later, unless her language spell provided her with its meaning. As to food, she told him, “I make food appear for myself whenever I am hungry. I have the magical energy to make enough for two.”
“Considering how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, any chance that magic of yours can rustle up seconds?”
Swan had no idea what he was talking about specifically, but assumed that he was concerned with the quantity of the food that she could provide. “There will be plenty, Al’An.”
As they’d walked, she’d been thinking, trying to fathom what to do after the immediate needs of shelter and reuniting with the Company of Mir were attended to. Despite her mother’s vastly stronger magical abilities, magic was still magic. To summon, then direct, then dispel the Mist of Oblivion, her mother had used an inconceivable amount of magical energy. And, because of this, her mother’s power would be drastically depleted for at least a day, likely longer. Much of this potentially valuable time was already lost. More would be lost while they rested for the night—and she produced food to fill Al’An s empty stomach.
But there would still be some space of time left in which she might be able to do something which would later prove useful against her mother.
The question was, what?
They were as near to the boundary as she needed to be to find the track, and the nearer they approached the deeper were the drifts of snow. Swan told Al’An that and they began searching for the track...
Lurking on the crest of a knoll in the darkness of the wood, the blackness of his cloak obscured by the whiteness of the snow fallen over it—he had remained all but motionless for a considerable time—Moc’Dar at last spied not only one item to capture his attention, but two.
There was movement in the deep snowdrifts along the boundary of the wood, two figures, one so tall that it had to be male, and the other, considerably less broad at the shoulder and a head shorter, almost certainly a tall female.
There was a development of interest along the track, as well.
From the hand of the figure which Moc’Dar presumed to be a woman, there emanated a light, blue-white, illuminating the couple’s steps. A similar light shone from the rutted, drifted track, approaching nearer and nearer.
Moc’Dar rasped to his Yeoman Spellbreaker, “Use your pitiful magic to second-sight me what is behind the light moving along the track.”
“I am not good at the second-sight, my Captain. I have had very little training in its use.”
Moc’Dar wished his face could have been visible to the Yeoman Spellbreaker huddled in the snow beside him. But, Moc’Dar was fully uniformed, his features hidden beneath the skintight leather battle mask of the Sword of Koth. “Try very hard, boy, as if your life were to depend upon the outcome,” Moc’Dar urged him, laughing grimly.
“I, uh—I see riders ahorse. Five, my Captain.”
“Very good, Yeoman. And, how are they armed?”
There was a pause, a long one, then, “Each has sword and dagger. One has a ball-headed mace. There is a great sword lashed to the saddle of one of the men. I see a poleaxe. There is a crossbow and there is a longbow with two quivers of arrows.”
“And how are the horses?”
“Strong seeming, fresh enough.”
Moc’Dar was fairly pleased. “Now, to the couple there moving along the boundary. See the face of the shorter one for me and tell me what manner of object is ahand to the taller figure. A weapon or what?”
“Yes, my Captain. I will try.”
To try was never good enough, because in trying one accepted the potential for failure as being on a par with the potential for success. Moc’Dar would kill this Yeoman Spellbreaker, perhaps. For the moment, there were more pressing matters and he would reserve his judgment.
“The Queen Sorceress protect me!”
“What makes you take the name of the Mistress General of the Horde in vain, boy!?”
The Yeoman Spellbreaker’s voice trembled as he replied, “I saw her once, once only, but I could take my oath that when the wind shifted the cowl of her hood for a moment that I second-sighted the Virgin Enchantress, Daughter Royal, my Captain!”
Moc’Dar said nothing. If the boy was right, the boy would live. If not, the boy would die. So far, the boy seemed to be doing well enough that he might, indeed, survive the moment.
“The man with her, Yeoman. Second-sight me what you can tell of him. Before, I asked if a weapon is in his hand.”
Moc’Dar waited.
The young Yeoman Spellbreaker began to speak, his hushed tones barely audible over the keening of the wind. “If it is a weapon, my Captain, it is unlike any that I have seen. It is some strange device. I know not what.”
“What do you see of the man holding it?”
“He is tall, like you, my Captain. Beneath his great cape, I thought that I glimpsed odd raiment covering his legs. He moves powerfully through the snowdrifts. The woman with him holds tightly to his elbow.”
If the Virgin Enchantress had not been consumed by the Mist of Oblivion, what was she doing so long afterward—a full day—tramping about near the boundary of the wood with a strange man beside her? This man, Moc’Dar mused, might prove very interesting to question.
With Moc’Dar, not counting the Yeoman Spellbreaker who was borrowed from an ordinary unit within the Horde, were twelve from the Sword of Koth, more than enough men to handle five from the Company of Mir (doubtlessly the origin of the five riders approaching along the track). But the presence of the Virgin Enchantress, with her very powerful magic, altered the equation considerably.
Did he
dare attack, or should he follow his orders to the rune and only observe?
The Queen Sorceress, when personally charging him with this foray, had not said to avoid engagement, only that his purpose was to closely watch the plain where lately the castle of the Virgin Enchantress had been.
If he could strike quickly, Moc’Dar reasoned, he could capture alive at least one, likely two from the Company of Mir. Should his own methods of persuasion fail somehow to loosen the captives’ tongues, the Queen Sorceress’s ministrations would not fail. Success here could lead to the speedy and permanent obliteration of the Company of Mir. If he did not act, it was inevitable that the Virgin Enchantress and her enigmatic companion would join with the five riders—perhaps this was a planned rendezvous—and all hope of seizing a prisoner for interrogation would be gone.
Moc’Dar’s decision was made.
In a future time, Moc’Dar mused, there would be some magical spell much like the second-sight, but one which would enable a commander to talk with those who served under him while they were positioned for battle, a way in which whispered words might travel through the very air.
For now, however, there was the Action Cord. Carefully, disturbing as little as possible the snow camouflaging him, Moc’Dar unwound the black cord from the spike he’d driven into the snowy ground when he’d first taken his position. Moc’Dar tugged on the Action Cord, a series of long and short pulses, the Action Cord Code that each new recruit to the Queen’s Sword of Koth had to commit to memory within a single night or suffer a hideous death the next morning. Moc’Dar applauded the skillful use of subtle incentives to bring out the best in a man.
The message he sent read, “This is Moc’Dar. Every second Sword of Koth joins me beneath the Ka’B’Oo tree at the edge of the boundary near the track. Move with silence and stealth. No fireswords. Enemy forces nearby. Ends.” Moc’Dar relashed the Action Cord to its stake.
The Golden Shield of IBF Page 6
