Garrison heard one of the voices almost perfectly clearly now, however subdued. “... says that the only way to take the life of the Enchantress is for all of us to rush her. I will do as my Captain orders me; but, by the Queen Sorceress, I hope Moc’Dar is right.”
“Some of us may perish, Gol’Hoc, but she cannot magic us all at once. And whoever is the man accompanying her, he is likely not a sorcerer, merely mortal.”
“She is powerful, this Enchantress, or otherwise how did she survive the Mist of...” The last word faded off.
The sounds of boots softly crunching snow faded as well.
There were two questions Alan Garrison had to ask Swan, and immediately. His left hand pushed back her hood far enough that his lips almost touched her ear. “Did you use a language spell on me without asking me?” Garrison whispered emphatically.
“Yes. It seemed the best thing to do under the circumstances. I can lift it in an eyeblink, should you prefer, Al’An.”
Garrison was tempted to tell Swan just that, but being able to use the language here would be an asset while he was here, wherever here was. Garrison asked his second question. “Why do they talk about me as just mortal? Are you not mortal?”
“I would only die after the course of many human lifetimes. I am as human as you, but it is the magic which prolongs my life. I have never been truly sick, though I’ve had aches in my head or my belly. I feel other pain, hope someday to know the pain of child-bearing. I broke a toe once, but it healed within a day. Had I used my magic, the bone would have grown together instantly. The magic lets me cure myself—and others, too—for the reason that I told you. Most magic is only the acceleration of what would happen naturally. And I heal myself even if I am unaware of being ill. In that way, I am not mortal at all. Were someone or something to take my life—then I am as mortal as you, Al’An,” Swan whispered back, her lips beside his cheek.
Garrison was tempted to try the old movie routine, and ask her to pinch him so that he would wake up. Logical fallacies inherent to the idea aside, it never worked in the movies. And, if he were to awake and she were gone—The thought made him momentarily as cold as he had been before she magically wove the warm hooded cloak which he wore. Garrison started to speak, but Swan held a finger to her lips now, her eyes staring off in the direction the men belonging to the voices had taken. She turned to Garrison quickly. “I used the second-sight. They are Sword of Koth, those two. There should be thirteen or more of them. We must leave this place.”
Garrison started to agree with her, but stopped as he heard the soft beating of horse’s hooves. Swan heard it, too.
Swan stared toward the new sounds. A smile lit her face with a radiance beyond any he had seen there since coming to Creath.
Little girl-like, Swan whispered, “It is Erg’Ran, and Gar’Ath! Erg’Ran is the smartest man who ever lived, I think. And Gar’Ath the finest and bravest swordsman who ever lived. They have come to aid us, Al’An, to follow you, my Champion!” And she kissed Garrison on the cheek.
The smartest guy ever. The best swordsman ever. Under his breath, Garrison posed the rhetorical question he hoped no one would hear. “And these guys are gonna follow me?”
Swan crept past him, toward the sounds of hoof-beats. Garrison crept after her, to meet his troops...
Surrounded by trees and on the far side of the track from where the Sword of Koth were apparently positioned, the snow falling much more heavily now and muffling sound, Swan, Al’An, Erg’Ran and Gar’Ath were able to stand and talk freely for a few moments, with little fear of detection. Al’An offered his open right hand to Erg’Ran. The gesture was slightly different here, but Al’An’s meaning was unmistakable. “Alan Garrison, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States Department of Justice, USA, Earth.”
Erg’Ran took Al’An’s hand and held it. “I am Erg’Ran, Counselor to the Virgin Enchantress, Daughter Royal, Princess of Creath; Chief Scribe, the Company of Mir; acting Commander of the Host since the death of Ir’Ba, Commander General. You are the one, then, the Champion.”
Gar’Ath mimicked Al’An’s hand gesture. Erg’Ran released Al’An’s hand and Gar’Ath clasped it. “I am Gar’Ath, Champion! You can count my sword as yours, and my life.”
Al’An laughed, saying, “Look, guys. Just call me Alan, okay? Otherwise, I’m gonna start thinking you’re confusing me with Gene Autry’s horse.”
“I do not understand the reference, Champion. Forgive my ignorance,” Erg’Ran said.
Gar’Ath interjected, “I’d be more of a mind to debate this name over that after we take care of the bastards—forgive my slip of the tongue, Enchantress—the lads lying in wait for us.”
“Gar’Ath is right, Champion,” and Erg’Ran turned to face Swan. “Enchantress, although I do not wish to further jeopardize you, especially after almost losing you to the Mist of Oblivion, I must agree with our swordsman friend. If you are of a mind to use magic to aid us, we could fight them a few at a time.”
“My magical energy is sorely depleted, Erg’Ran, so I can do but little, hopefully enough. My sword arm is unaffected, however. What is the plan?”
“Champion will need a stout blade, Enchantress,” Gar’Ath suggested. Unsheathing his sword and turning toward Al’An, he offered, “Take mine. There’s no other like it in the Land, Champion!”
Swan was proud of Al’An as he answered. “I am not a swordsman, and I would not risk dishonoring such a blade, despite my best intentions. I have weapons in which I, also, hold great store. You’ve honored me, Gar’Ath.”
Gar’Ath resheathed, shrugged his shoulders, then asked, “So? How do we go about killing those nasty—uh—men?”
“We arrest them, then let a jury decide their fate,” Al’An informed them, as if such procedures were commonplace here.
“You propose, Champion,” Erg’Ran inquired, “that we should attempt to take captive Sword of Koth, alive?”
Al’An answered, “If they resist to the point where deadly force is justified, then that will be their choice, not ours.”
Gar’Ath seemed about to speak, but Swan noticed that he held his tongue. Such restraint was uncharacteristic of Gar’Ath, and extraordinarily wise at the moment.
They formed their plan, such as it was, that she would create a diversion, once the main body of the Sword of Koth was located. With eight or nine the most likely number to be dealt with, the Sword of Koth would send three of their number to hold the track more deeply in the wood, keeping the horses, as well. Meanwhile, the rest of their force would lie in wait to make an assault on what they should still assume were herself and her companion.
Maintaining the shadow spell was wearisome, depleting Swan’s magical energy to the point of physical exhaustion. She judged that, after releasing the spell, she should be able to cast something which would divert attention long enough to give herself and the others the element of surprise. After that, there would be nothing left of her magical energy.
Moving cautiously, without light, as soundlessly as they could, they set out. Horses tethered well away from the track (and hopefully out of harm’s way from the evil creatures of the wood), they clambered over the steadily heightening drifts at the boundary between wood and plain. At one point, where the mounds of snow were nearly to the height of her waist, Al’An gallantly swept her up into his powerful arms, carrying her. Al’An s touch stirred things within her which she had never experienced, making her feel at once embarrassed yet wonderfully happy, despite the grim purpose for their travel.
They exited the wood well over a hundred war-blades distant from the track, moving slowly, stealthily.
The second-sight—that was a skill, not magic—allowed her to see the positions taken by the Sword of Koth. There were five in all at the point where the track left the wood and met the plain. Erg’Ran had mentioned that Gar’Ath grievously wounded the Sword of Koth captain, one named Moc’Dar. One of the five held a battleaxe in his left hand, right arm heavily ban
daged. This would be Moc’Dar.
There were horses for none of the Sword of Koth save Moc’Dar, the beast perfectly still, lying beside Moc’Dar in the snow. The animal, to be so quiet and unmoving, would have to be a Rac’Ar’Kar, spell-changed by the Queen Sorceress to be perfectly obedient to the will of its master. There were few such animals, and that Moc’Dar had been given such a great gift by the Queen Sorceress spoke well of his success in battle and the esteem in which he was held.
Swan signaled halt, huddled with the three men who were her companions and whispered to them what she had seen with the second-sight.
Erg’Ran nodded. Gar’Ath rubbed his hands along his stockinged thighs, flexed his long fingers, then soundlessly drew his sword.
Erg’Ran, who had been using his axe as a staff to assist him in walking, set the weapon down and began to cock the prod of a crossbow.
Al’An nodded his understanding, drawing from beneath his cloak and the bomber jacket under it a small book covered in leather. But as he opened it, it proved to be no book at all. Pinned within it was a golden object emblazoned with the runes of his world, and other symbols as well. Al’An opened the pin clasp, removed the object from its cover, then pinned the object to his cloak, over his heart.
If this were some magical talisman to protect him in battle, Swan could not feel its energy. Attributing this to her temporarily weakened powers, she promised herself to ask Al’An about it later.
Al’An took first one, then another pistol from within his clothes.
Gar’Ath stared at these in amazement, as did Erg’Ran. Al’An smiled, raising his thumbs from the pistols and gesturing skyward. A battle ritual of Al’An’s world, perhaps.
They started moving again, closer and closer to the track. Ahead, Swan could make out the shadows she had spell summoned. Soon, Moc’Dar and his Sword of Koth would see the shadows for what they were, and Swan could release the spell, create her diversion. And, if her magical energy were sufficient, she had just the perfect distraction in mind...
Erg’Ran, crouched as low to the snow cover as he could while yet retaining hope of being able to stand unaided, waited. And, he wondered. The Champion was not what he had expected. To be sure, he’d had no definite idea in mind, but still. The Champion Al’An was tall, broad of shoulder, yes, but not particularly formidable seeming. The strange attire visible beneath his cloak when he’d unsheathed his weapons was unlike anything Erg’Ran had ever seen. What were those things covering the Champion’s legs, a type of heavy stocking?
And the weapons! Objects little over a span in length, with no visible blade. They were not magical, but technological. Such technology was unknown to him, so he tried to resist being critical out of ignorance. But what could these objects do?
Erg’Ran had the feeling that he would find out, and very soon. His crossbow ready, it was the Champion who would signal the attack.
Erg’Ran waited.
The shadows that Swan had spell-summoned vanished. There was movement from the hiding positions of the Sword of Koth. Where the shadows had seemed to walk an instant earlier the air pulsed, a vortex forming a few spans above the ground, rising higher and higher. From within the vortex a tongue of flame appeared, licking into the wood, vanishing with a crack like thunder. Swan’s diversion was spectacular to behold, however brief its duration. And it served its purpose. The five Sword of Koth, their Captain included, appeared momentarily hypnotized by the image.
A strange battle cry now echoed through the wood. The Champion rose from behind a snow-blanketed dead fallen Ka’B’Oo, shouting, “FBI! Federal Officer! Freeze! You are all under arrest!”
The mysterious objects called pistols were clenched in the Champion’s hands, pointed toward the Sword of Koth.
No one moved, neither Erg’Ran with his crossbow, Gar’Ath with longbow or sword, nor Swan.
The villainous Sword of Koth, including their Captain, Moc’Dar, remained motionless as well. Somehow, despite their features being wholly masked save for eyeslits, mouth and nostril holes, the enemy gave the appearance of being weirdly perplexed.
The Champion took a solitary step forward.
Moc’Dar bellowed the order, “Kill him!”
The enemy nearest the Champion, red glowing firesword in hand, lunged. The Champion Al’An spun toward his attacker, shouted, “Halt! Drop that weapon or I’ll fire!” The Champion backstepped as his attacker charged.
A tongue of flame, like that Erg’Ran witnessed in Swan’s diversion, spat from the front of the pistol. In the same instant, the Champions foeman was hurtled backward, sprawling to the ground, lifeblood spilling into the snow.
Erg’Ran touched his clenched fist to his forehead, invoking the courage of Mir.
Moc’Dar shouted, “Withdraw! Withdraw!” His great black mount rose from the snow beside him, and Moc’Dar, despite his injury, sprang into the saddle. The Roc’Ar’Kar leapt into stride, a hail of snow and dirt and rock thrown up in its hooves’ wake.
The three remaining Sword of Koth sprinted from their positions, making for the track. An arrow whistled from Gar’Ath’s longbow, piercing the throat of one of them. Erg’Ran brought the crossbow to his shoulder and fired, his bolt burrowing deep into the chest of still another. Swan, not to be outdone, stepped into the third enemy’s path, sword raised in challenge. “Hold villain, or show steel!” Swan cried.
The Sword of Koth unsheathed firesword from scabbard to test her steel.
The Champion, his cloak gone from his shoulders, angled toward the firesword-armed enemy. Would one of his pistols spit the deathflame again, Erg’Ran wondered?
But the Champion’s pistols were nowhere to be seen.
In the blinking of an eye, the Champion fell upon his enemy, the Champion’s body lunging toward its target in a manner strange, yet very impressive to behold. Both feet vaulted from the ground, then hammered against his foeman’s upper body. Firesword tumbling from black gauntleted hand, the Sword of Koth collapsed into the snow, but only for an instant. As he jumped to his feet, the Champion wheeled about in a half circle, one foot kicking the Sword of Koth in the ribs, then the other raising, kicking his opponent in the stomach, then in the chest, then the groin, each alternating blow hammering the Sword of Koth back and back. Springing fully into the air again, the Champion kicked his foeman square in the chest with both feet, simultaneously. The stunned Sword of Koth reeled, dropping like a felled tree beneath a final axe blow as the Champion’s left fist, then his right punched his foeman’s face.
As if in the same motion, the Champion Al’An fell to one knee beside the vanquished foeman, rolled him over onto his chest, then wrestled his hands behind him. Strange manacles emerged from beneath the Champion s even stranger garb, a leather doublet but unlike any Erg’Ran had seen. Clamping the manacles to the wrists of his fallen adversary, the Champion Al’An began reciting a litany, perhaps an invocation of thanks for triumph in battle, but strange to hear. “You have the right to remain silent,” it began.
Chapter Five
“Speak to me of this weapon which kills with the kiss of fire, Moc’Dar.”
On one knee before the Sorceress Queen, Mistress General of the Horde, his eyes lowered in her presence, Moc’Dar began, “It is terrible and wondrous, Mistress General. It is small, not much over a span in length. There is a magical summoning, perhaps to invoke the fire, Mistress General.”
“What words does my daughter’s new friend use, Moc’Dar?”
“Clearly, the word which was alone was the magical summoning, the other words a warning that the Sword of Koth who was about to attack should lay down his firesword, Mistress General.”
“The word, Moc’Dar,” Eran insisted, keeping her voice low and level and even, almost soothingly compassionate, patient.
“It sounded like he said ‘Halt,’ but that cannot be, Mistress General.”
“Perhaps, Moc’Dar, it was not magic at all, but an implement of technology. Kneel there while I explore the concept,” Er
an commanded. “The stone is cold and hard and rough, good for discipline.”
“Yes, Mistress General.”
Eran turned abruptly on her heel, skirts swirling round her ankles, leaving Moc’Dar to wait in discomfort. The place-shifting spell which Eran had used to travel from Barad’Il’Koth to Moc’Dar’s command post had wearied her, her magical energy not yet fully restored from summoning, then controlling the Mist of Oblivion. “Little over a span in length, a tongue of flame. Hmm,” she cooed. From her spell bag, placed on Moc’Dar’s map table when she arrived, Eran withdrew something little longer than a span’s length. It was hard to the touch as her fingers stroked across it. She raised it to view and turned to face Moc’Dar again.
“Was the wondrous and terrible weapon anything like this, Moc’Dar?”
He raised his gaze to hers, his eyes widening beneath his black leather mask. And he almost fell back as she pointed it at him. “Very—very much like that, Mistress General.”
“This is called a 1911A1, Moc’Dar. Do you want to see it spit fire, or do you wish to go on living in some lesser capacity than a human man? You have served me well, so I give you that choice. Choose carefully and wisely, Moc’Dar. But quickly.”
He paused, his body visibly trembling. At last, his voice subdued, he spoke. “Whatever is your will, Mistress General. That is my choice, only to serve your will.”
Eran pursed her lips. She could not decide this so easily. “As you know, Moc’Dar, I have plenty of horses, although I’m certain that you’d be an excellent mount. I must think. Stay on your knee. In fact, prostrate yourself there on the flagstones in obeisance to me while I ponder your fate.”
“Yes, Mistress General,” Moc’Dar responded, laying his body face down on the stone, arms outstretched to either side, not daring to look up. He looked quite ridiculous, and she liked that.
The Golden Shield of IBF Page 8
