The Golden Shield of IBF

by Jerry Ahern; Sharon Ahern

  “I, as an individual, will fight.” Bre’Gaa drew his sword and raised it over his head. “Who among you stands with me?”

  From behind them, Garrison heard the Gle’Ur’Gya crew shouting and cheering. He heard the rattle of their steel. All that was missing was a trumpet fanfare.

  Garrison turned around to look at the crew. He caught sight of Gar’Ath, instead, sweeping Mitan into his arms for what started out to be an enthusiastic hug, one comrade to another. The hug turned into their bodies molding against one another and Gar’Ath crushing Mitan’s mouth beneath his, his hands hungrily grasping her body.

  Gar’Ath had evidently overcome his shyness. Either that, or Mitan’s courage and beauty had overcome it for him.

  Mitan curtsied, and without rising said, “Virgin Enchantress, Daughter Royal, Princess of Creath, may I present to you the Chieftain Bre’Gaa, Captain Commander of the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel Storm Raider.”

  “I am honored, Enchantress,” Bre’Gaa murmured, momentarily bowing his head. His left fist was clenched to the hilt of his sheathed sword; his right arm swept upward, its fist coming to rest over his heart.

  Swan held her skirts and made a low curtsy to the Gle’Ur’Gya commander. “It is I who am honored, Captain,” she declared, then raised her eyes to his. Like most Gle’Ur’Gya, his eyes were blue, but Swan found Bre’Gaa’s particularly piercing and quite beautiful. They were, she thought, also a little nervous. With two of his lieutenants, she had magically transferred him from the deck of his vastly larger vessel to the deck of her tiny flagship.

  Swan offered her hand. Bre’Gaa took it gently in his, lowered his eyes. “I suppose you know, lady, that I speak only for myself and my crew, and not the Gle’Ur’Gya as a people. That understood between us, I pledge my life and my sword to your service against the Queen Sorceress that I may take my revenge for the death of my uncle, Ag’Riig.”

  “I accept your pledge and am well-pleased by your wisdom and your courage, Captain.”

  Bre’Gaa relinquished her hand. Swan smiled. “May I present my uncle, Erg’Ran. He is brother to the Queen Sorceress and he is my most trusted advisor and oldest friend.” She nodded her head toward Erg’Ran. “He witnessed the great duel between your uncle and my grandfather.”

  “You took many lives of the Gle’Ur’Gya, Erg’Ran. You were an enemy then, but your courage is still spoken of among the Gle’Ur’Gya.” Bre’Gaa saluted Erg’Ran, fist again touching his chest over his heart.

  Erg’Ran responded, “Although I was outraged at the death of my father, I was impressed with the great honor of Ag’Riig and how he so decisively dealt with my father’s murderer. I shall forever be both impressed and grateful. I revere your uncle’s memory and will be honored to fight beside you, Captain Bre’Gaa.”

  “Al’An, you have met, Captain,” Swan told Bre’Gaa. “He is my Champion. He is, indeed, come from the other realm where he is a great warrior. He has proven himself in battle here, as well, fighting heroically against my mother’s magic.”

  “Al’An. Yes,” Bre’Gaa said, bowing curtly to Al’An as he came to stand beside her. “What is the meaning of the strange runes which adorn your burnished shield, Al’An?”

  Al’An responded, “As I have told you, in my own world I am an FBI agent. That is what these runes signify, Bre’Gaa.”

  “It is a fine shield. I have seen no finer.”

  Al’An nodded. Swan couldn’t have been prouder of what he said next. “May my shield gather but one-tenth the honor in battle that I know your sword will win for us against the Queen Sorceress.”

  Bre’Gaa cocked one of his black bushy eyebrows and very deliberately nodded his great head.

  * * *

  With the strong, steady wind Swan magically drew into their sails, the five little ships of her original armada, dwarfed beside the sixth vessel, continued on through the night across Woroc’Il’Lod. The Gle’Ur’Gya were gifted as seamen and could read the stars to guide their navigation. By late in the following day, Bre’Gaa had told them, they would reach the shore of Edge Land. The march on Barad’Il’Koth could then begin.

  Swan—wisely Garrison thought—had determined that if the captain and crew of the Storm Raider were to be their allies they should be trusted fully. With that as the operating principle, Swan had asked Bre’Gaa if she could once again magically transport him to the flagship for a conference. That he came alone, that he drank wine with them, was equally demonstrative of his trust in the alliance.

  Garrison and Swan, Erg’Ran with them, sat in the usual place, the blue white globes of light like captured stars illuminating the bow pulpit. In addition to Bre’Gaa, Mitan and Gar’Ath, all but inseparable since their kiss earlier that day, had been invited to join them.

  Erg’Ran was saying, “I have the strongest reasons to believe the Enchantress’s father still lives within the walls of Barad’Il’Koth. If I am correct in other matters, he will possess certain knowledge which will aid us in defeating the Queen Sorceress, my sister. And he may be able to provide direct aid to us, as only he can.”

  “What kind of help can he give us, Erg’Ran?” Garrison inquired.

  “I cannot say until I am certain. It is my hope that before we even consider a direct assault against Barad’Il’Koth, a small group of us should get inside and find the Enchantress’s father. If I am right, he has the power to confound Eran’s greatest magical strength, if indeed he will cooperate.”

  “So, a commando raid on the castle,” Garrison said, thinking aloud. “How do we get past the armies she’ll have surrounding the place, the guards within the castle itself, the magic of her witches, Eran’s own magic? And assuming we do, how do we get out again? I wouldn’t think that we could use magic to transport ourselves inside. Eran’s gotta have some defenses against that, right?”

  “Indeed, Champion,” Erg’Ran responded. “We cannot use magic alone to enter and leave, but the Enchantress may be able to use magic along with a deception of some sort.”

  “I’ve been thinking a great deal about just what you propose, Erg’Ran,” Swan announced. “I also feel that it is vital to our interests that I should find my father. And, of course, to fulfill the prophecy, I must. I hope that he still lives for many reasons.”

  Erg’Ran said nothing for a moment, merely stared at Garrison. Garrison asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “The time has come that I must reveal certain things to you, Champion.”

  “What certain things?”

  “First of all,” Erg’Ran began quite deliberately, “about your firespitters. They—”

  “What are firespitters?” Bre’Gaa interrupted.

  Garrison told him as best he could, “They are weapons which I possess. Like a bow, they fire a projectile, but not an arrow.” Garrison drew one of the SIG pistols from beneath his jacket, removed the magazine, then cycled the action to empty the chamber. He closed the slide rather than leaving it open, lest Bre’Gaa inadvertently activated the slide release and catch his beard or something. Then he handed the .45 to the Gle’Ur’Gya Captain Commander. “They fire very small pieces of a lead alloy—a type of soft metal—but at very high speeds. One or two of these small projectiles will drop an average man in his tracks. Even a person your size would be seriously injured or killed by anywhere from one to just a few of these.” Garrison handed over the loose round he’d taken from the chamber. “The front part there is the bullet. That’s the projectile.”

  “This is a marvelous thing, Al’An! May I try it?”

  “It’s quite noisy, so we’d best wait until tomorrow.”

  “Agreed.” Bre’Gaa handed back the pistol, fingering the cartridge in his enormous hand a moment longer, then returning it as well.

  “Firespitters are not unknown to Eran,” Erg’Ran said solemnly. “She may well have a spell which will render them inoperable just when you might need them most. You must not allow yourself to rely on them as your sole means of defense, for yourself alone or in your role as C
hampion to the Enchantress.”

  “Let’s get in a little swordplay on deck tomorrow, Champion. It might serve you well,” Gar’Ath suggested.

  “Fine.”

  “And, another thing that concerns you, Champion,” Erg’Ran began again.

  “Yeah?”

  “You must firmly resolve that, should something go wrong—”

  “Gosh! How could anything go wrong?” Garrison interrupted. He could hardly wait for more good news. First, his pistols might suddenly become inoperable because of a spell of evil magic. What now, he wondered?

  “In the event of your imminent, unavoidable capture by Eran’s forces or—the courage of Mir be with you—by Eran herself, you must die fighting or, failing that, take your own life. If you, because of your origin, should fall victim to her power, all would be lost. There would be no hope.”

  “Because I’m the Champion?”

  “That is only a part of it. I can say little more until we have entered Barad’Il’Koth and know what we must know, Champion.”

  “That’s just great! My guns might stop working at the drop of a hat and I’m supposed to do the dutch act.”

  “Dutch act?” Swan repeated, apparently unable to make the connection between the languages, despite the spell she’d cast.

  “It’s kind of old slang for suicide—taking your own life.” Garrison looked away from Swan and straight at Erg’Ran. “I wasn’t raised to do that kind of thing, Erg’Ran, so if there’s some compelling reason that I’ve got to, you’d better lay it on me and quick.”

  “I can promise you this, Champion. Barring the unforeseen, you will know all that you need to know before you might be required to slay yourself.”

  “This is supposed to be encouraging?”

  Mitan spoke. “I agree with the Champion, Erg’Ran. Telling a warrior to take his own life while still the chance exists to resist torture—”

  “Torture? How’d we get to torture all of a sudden?”

  Mitan went on unfazed. “Telling the Champion that he must slay himself while still there exists the chance to fight again is a very strange thing indeed, Erg’Ran. He deserves a reason!”

  Erg’Ran merely responded, “I would say more if I could, Mitan. I cannot. When I know, the Champion will also know.”

  The rationale behind Swan’s saying, “I would like to discuss a possible plan,” was obvious. She was attempting to defuse what might grow into an argument. Garrison let her do it. Erg’Ran’s judgment was something which Garrison had come to respect; now wasn’t the time to doubt it. “With the assistance of our new allies,” Swan went on, “I think that we have an even better chance at success. I’m assuming that my mother’s magical energy is not yet fully restored, and I hope that it will remain at less than full capacity until we have at least been able to reach Edge Land.

  “By that time,” Swan continued, “the Queen Sorceress should be wholly capable of attempting to foil our best efforts against her. She’ll quite possibly have troops awaiting us when we reach the coast. Even if my magic were somehow as strong as my mother’s, it would be impossible for me to combat a wide range of enemy activity all at once.

  “Thinking about that,” Swan said, smiling, “is what made me realize what our only chance might be to get us into Barad’Il’Koth. My mother will have vastly more troops standing ready to fight us than she would ordinarily require to easily defeat a force of our size, even augmented as it is by our new allies.” She nodded to Bre’Gaa. “She is counting on my magic, which I suppose is oddly complimentary, all things considered. If we can create a sufficient number of diversions to preoccupy her, cause her to use her magic, we have our greatest chance.”

  “You lost me a little,” Garrison admitted.

  Swan took his hand in both of hers. “You see, Al’An, aside from maintaining spells and the like, it is impossible to undertake more than one major magical activity at a time. Remember that magic is a natural phenomenon, whether used merely to accelerate a natural process or for something wholly unnatural. Think of it like walking, Al’An. One cannot walk and run simultaneously. One must do one or the other or something totally different entirely, but one cannot do both at once because true walking and true running are mutually exclusive, one precluding the other. Magic is not like thinking about two things at once; it is like doing two things at once, two things requiring almost total commitment.”

  “So, if we can keep her magic focused on something other than what we’re doing, we’re home free? That is, except for the Horde of Koth, the Sword of Koth, the Handmaidens of Koth and anybody else of Koth hanging around.”

  Swan laughed.

  Getting Swan to laugh had been Garrison’s intent, since there might be more than ample opportunity for little else but tears later on...

  Alan Garrison stood in the bow pulpit. The morning was fresh and cold. Temperatures on Woroc’Il’Lod the previous day had been deceptively mild, but normalized overnight to a point where Alan Garrison could better understand why this body of water was so commonly referred to as the icy sea. In the distance, what he’d at first thought might be the sails of more Gle’Ur’Gya vessels on the horizon became recognizable as icebergs.

  Garrison felt good, fit. After a simultaneously satisfying yet frustrating night—Swan had slept in his arms, but he’d respected her insistence that she remain a virgin—he’d awakened to an early morning practice session with Gar’Ath.

  Garrison was pleasantly surprised that his limited skills at swordsmanship had somehow improved. Or perhaps what Gar’Ath had taught him in their sessions at the summer palace had finally sunk in. He was not, nor never would be in the foreseeable future, remotely challenging to Gar’Ath, but Garrison felt confident enough with a blade that he could fight an average swordsman without being instantly killed or disarmed. Considering the ability level at which he’d first taken up the sword, he was vastly improved. At the conclusion of their session, he had asked Gar’Ath, “Is there a sword to be had that I could carry when we go against the Horde?” If a spell might be placed on his firespitters, rendering them inoperable or ineffective, a sword might come in handy.

  Gar’Ath had smiled; and, in answer to his request, Gar’Ath said, “You understand the basic techniques, if not their finer points. At this juncture, the best way—and the most potentially dangerous way—to learn the sword can be when your life is in the balance. If you keep your wits about you. Remember, Champion, that the overwhelming majority of persons against whom you might bring a sword to bear will be no better than you, albeit to a degree experienced in actual life-and-death combat. There is a small number of fine swordsmen, and a smaller number still of great ones. Against the rest, you could make a good account of yourself if you keep your wits about you. You’ll have a sword, Champion, a sword upon which you can wager your life if needs be.”

  They’d agreed to meet later on, which was rather silly, Garrison reflected. On a vessel the size of the armada’s flagship, it would have been impossible not to meet later on, and frequently.

  The wind was carrying their armada toward another armada, an armada of icebergs, the floating mountains of white in greater numbers than Garrison would have suspected usual or natural.

  Mitan passed near the bow pulpit, wearing her alluringly skimpy warrior’s garb and a heavy cape, the cape wide open, as if the cold didn’t bother her. “Mitan?”

  “Yes, Champion?”

  “Do you know enough about these waters to even hazard a guess as to whether or not icebergs in such numbers are normal?”

  She came to stand beside him at the rail. When Garrison glanced at Mitan, he could tell immediately that she was using the second-sight; he’d come to recognize the look on the faces of those who had it. “I have no grounding in data concerning this, Champion, but the icebergs do seem oddly abundant, don’t they?”

  “Swan’s mom, you think?”

  It took Mitan a second, but when she looked back at him there was recognition in her eyes. “I will find
out. Wait for me here, Champion.” And she was off, sprinting across the deck.

  “Killer icebergs. Wonderful,” Garrison mused aloud.

  By nightfall, if nothing popped up to slow them down, they would easily have made landfall. Of what would transpire after that Garrison was most uncertain. If Swan had a definite plan spelling out just what she intended as a diversion, she had not yet shared it with him. As far as he could understand magical theory, however, the broad outline of Swan’s plan seemed sound.

  Assuming that her mother’s magical powers could be temporarily written out of the scenario, there were still military units and ordinary guards to contend with in order to penetrate the keep at Barad’Il’Koth. If his firespitters—“Guns,” Garrison said aloud, chiding himself—could be relied upon, in and of themselves they would make tremendous equalizers. Their terror value alone against persons with what amounted to a late medieval European level of technology (at Garrison’s most generous estimate) would be almost incalculable. He found himself wishing that somehow he’d been able to bring a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun along with him to Creath. With one of those and a half-dozen spare magazines, he could have taken on the entire Sword of Koth single-handedly.

  There was another problem as well.

  He was not some sort of commando, only a cop. The FBI academy didn’t teach sentry removal techniques or any of the other requisite skills to penetrate an enemy stronghold. For that, Hostage Rescue or, if they were good enough, the local police SWAT Team got the call.

  On Creath, there was no using a cell phone to call for backup.

  Mitan rejoined him at the rail, and before either of them could speak, Gar’Ath was beside them as well. “I have that sword, Champion.

  “And I have asked Swan to transport herself or Erg’Ran to the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel and ask Bre’Gaa if he will consent to being transported to our ship in order that he may confer with us concerning the icebergs and whether or not such a great number of icebergs could be natural.”