“Worse than that. They will bite, but their goal is to sink their teeth in so deeply,” Mitan recounted, a shiver visible as she spoke, “that they cannot be torn free without the victim ripping away a large piece of his own flesh. They eat anything living, but are especially fond of human flesh.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Garrison said, shaking his head. “And, if I get this right, when we walk past them, they’ll come alive and attack us?”
“Yes, Champion,” Gar’Ath nodded gravely.
“Anybody have any brilliant ideas?” Garrison looked at Mitan, then at Gar’Ath. Neither of them seemed ready to volunteer. “Okay, we can’t go in a different direction without walking into troops. We can’t magically transport ourselves past here, I imagine, because if there was a remote chance that Swan’s mom would somehow sense us entering the castle, using magic to transport ourselves within the castle would probably be a dead giveaway, right?” Garrison looked at Mitan.
“Correct, Champion.” Mitan nodded.
“If we make too much of a racket fighting these ugly little guys, we’ll alert some of Eran’s troops—probably. Right?”
Gar’Ath answered, “That is true, Champion.”
Mentally, Garrison stepped back from the problem. The petrified Tree Demons were being used like motion sensors in an Earth-style alarm system. “That’s it!”
“What is it?” Gar’Ath asked him.
“Question, Mitan?”
“Yes, Champion?”
“Could Swan use magic which didn’t involve place shifting, just natural magic, the low-energy kind, without a great risk of alerting her mother?”
Mitan seemed to ponder Garrison’s question before responding. At last, she told him, “There must be magic in use throughout the entirety of Barad’Il’Koth. There are witches here, who are magic users, of course, and she would have guarding spells in place, other types of magic in constant use. No, I don’t think that the Queen Sorceress would sense a reasonable amount of natural magic. Otherwise, she would be constantly interrupted by the magic all around her.”
Garrison still had to work out whether the answer was heat or cold...
Her skirts bunched in white knuckled fists, Eran ran along the passageway toward the closed chamber door at its far end. Her magic had almost been fully restored when the naval maneuvers along the coast of Edge Land began, but, in a very short time, between whisking entire units of Sword of Koth from one point to another and second-sighting six separate ships, it had become sorely depleted once again. It was obvious that this was her daughter’s plan, to exhaust her magical energy. It was working.
“Damn her I will!” Eran screamed. The masked Sword of Koth was barely able to drop to one knee and bow his head as she streaked past him.
Normally, the shackles and her spells were sufficient to secure the chamber’s occupant, but she could take no chances with her daughter’s followers afoot. Eran stopped at the doorway and willed the door to open, ran through and kicked the door closed behind her.
“You’re upset again, Eran.”
“This is your last chance, Pe’Ter! I have had enough of your insolence!”
“What are you going to do? Kill me? Turn me into something vile and disgusting? Oops! I forgot. You already did that, when you decided that there was only one thing you needed from me.”
“I want an answer, not philosophy, Pe’Ter!”
“I’d give you an answer the way you deserve to hear it, but you’d think it was an invitation.”
Eran thrust her right hand toward him and willed him to be seized with pain throughout his entire body.
Pe’Ter had been standing beside the solitary window when she entered the room and confronted him. Now, he writhed beside the window, collapsing to all fours, then rolling across the floor in agony.
Eran cleared the spell. Breathless, Pe’Ter looked up at her from the floor, whispered, “You are afraid, aren’t you, Eran?”
“You will be, Pe’Ter. You will be.” Eran had done what she was about to do only once before in order to force Pe’Ter to cooperate, bend his iron will to her own needs. But it pained her to do it, making her recall feelings she did not wish to remember that she had ever had. And it was particularly dangerous at this juncture, because she would consume all of her remaining magical energy in order to achieve the result which she so desperately needed...
Peter Goodman fingered his pack of Luckies, his eyes focusing on the green on the package. “You think she’ll come?”
“She’ll come, lieutenant.”
Goodman stared at the cigarettes. “Ya know, my mother used to tell me that smoking cigarettes would kill me, Dave. My dad used to call ’em coffin nails. He smoked Fatimas till the day he died.”
“Look, lieutenant. The way I figure it, if some damn Nazi shell don’t fall on us or GI food don’t poison our guts out, we got life by the tail. I ain’t even seen my littlest kid, ’cept them box Brownie Kodaks Betty sends me in her letters. And I got the garage waitin’ for me. I’m gonna live to be a hundred. And I’ll still be smokin’.”
Goodman offered Dave Spaulding a Lucky and he took it.
“You really think she’ll come, Dave?”
“I really think she’ll come, Pete.”
Peter Goodman sipped at his wine, shrugged his shoulders. All his life, he’d heard about how terrific French wines were. Evidently, whoever had started those rumors had never drunk wine in this village. “This wine is the pits.”
“Man, I tell ya’. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of real American whiskey, lieutenant!”
“You’ve been reading my mind again, Dave.”
“A good platoon sergeant’s s’posed to read his platoon leader’s mind, sir.”
“So that’s the reason we got off Omaha Beach alive, huh? Glad you told me, Dave. And here I figured the Germans were just lousy shots last June.”
Dave Spaulding laughed.
Peter Goodman swallowed some more of his wine. With the three-day pass, everybody else in Second Battalion C Company had hit the road for Paris. Spaulding, for all his tough talk, was a quiet family man with a wife and two more kids besides the little one, all living in a little house right next door to his repair shop in New Jersey.
When all the guys hot-footed it to Paris, Spaulding—who was also Goodman’s best friend in this part of the world—confided to him, “I’m not goin’ to no Paris, Pete. See, lieutenant, it’s like this. I ain’t been near no woman in so long, I’m afraid I’d do somethin’ damn stupid runnin’ loose in Paris and all. These French ma’amselles wanna make every GI feel like he liberated Paris all on his own. Know what I mean, lieutenant?”
“Hell, we didn’t liberate Paris anyway. It was Ernest Hemingway who led the first troops in. Remember?”
“Yeah! How’d’ya like that guy! A damn reporter leadin’ the army into the city like that! What a crazy thing to do, huh, lieutenant? Beatin’ all them big-shot officers to the punch like that. Gosh! He’s gonna have some swell stories to tell.”
“He already tells some swell stories, that Hemingway guy. So, what you gonna do with three days if you’re not going to Paris?”
Spaulding figured that if he went to Paris he’d be too weak-willed not to cheat on his wife, and cheating on his wife would be wrong. There she was, working in a defense plant, raising three kids and writing him letters all the time about how she missed him and everything.
Spaulding wasn’t going to go to Paris, no matter what.
There was no wife or sweetheart waiting back home for Peter Goodman, but he stayed behind anyway near the little village fifty kilometers outside of Paris, just to keep his friend company.
But a curious thing happened this night. He and Spaulding were tooling down the dirt road into the village in their borrowed Jeep—just like they had planned—when both of them spotted a bright flash of light from just inside the treeline in the woods, just to the north.
After exchanging a couple of worried looks, they stashed the Jeep
by the side of the road. Dave had rigged the Jeep’s battery cables so that he could pull the positive one and drop it in his pocket. That way, whenever they parked the Jeep, they didn’t have to worry about a downed German aviator or even an ordinary car thief stealing it. Back in England, before the invasion, the Brits were taking the rotors out of their cars for the same reason, but it was rumored that German pilots were carrying spare rotors that would work in the most commonly encountered English automobiles.
Goodman and Spaulding crossed the road and started into the woods. Spaulding clutched the Rock-Ola Ml Carbine (lighter and handier than his own Garand) which he perennially borrowed from Peter Goodman, Goodman his genuine Colt 1911A1 .45. Armed but hardly ready, they entered the woods.
“If that’s some sorta Kraut signal flare, lieutenant, then—”
“Yeah, I know. We could be looking at a paratroop regiment crawlin’ up our butts in five minutes. Just keep your eyes peeled, Dave.”
The night was particularly dark, only a few stars peeking out from behind the overcast and no visible moon at all. Goodman had his anglehead flashlight stuffed in his field jacket pocket, but wasn’t about to turn it on and reveal his position, just in case there were Germans in the woods and one of them was looking for a target.
But when they reached the spot where they’d seen the flash of light, they found nothing. Goodman ordered Dave Spaulding, “You circle around to the right. I’ll cut around left. Meet ya back here. Be careful.”
“My middle name, lieutenant.”
Goodman only nodded, but racked the slide of his .45 just in case.
After a solid, scary fifteen minutes stumbling on broken branches and sidestepping deadfalls in the darkness, Goodman and his sergeant returned to the road.
That was the first time Peter Goodman saw Eran. Eran was striking, the green of her eyes visible despite the darkness, as if they shone with a light from within. Her hair—it was past waist length—was blacker than the night surrounding her. Her skin was perfect, almost luminescent. She was dressed rather oddly, Goodman thought at the time, her clothes looking more from some style of hundreds of years ago instead of 1944.
She was standing beside their Jeep, looking at it as if she’d never seen something with an internal combustion engine before.
“Parlez vous English, ma’amselle?” Dave Spaulding sang out.
She just looked back at them, saying nothing at all. Goodman tried a significant amount of his paltry French, asking her name, what she was doing on the road after dark, if she were in trouble. For several moments, she said absolutely nothing in response.
Goodman finally said, “Je ne comprens pas Francais tres bon,” which he was sure that he hadn’t said quite right. He followed that up with, “Do-you-speak-any-English?”
She was totally silent.
“I don’t think this little cupcake speaks no English, lieutenant. And your French must be worse than we thought.”
“She could have been injured during the Nazi occupation, maybe deaf or something. Maybe she’s just afraid, Dave.”
“She’s a looker though, ain’t she, sir?”
“Yeah, she’s a looker.” And he looked at her, asking one more time, “Do-you-speak-English?”
“Yes, I do. Who are you?”
Goodman was totally lost. “Look, lady, I gotta ask who you are! Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“My name is Eran, and I am looking at this.” She gestured toward the Jeep.
“No, I mean, I can see that. How’d you get here?”
“I was looking for something. I think I found it.”
The conversation went like that for some time, Peter Goodman unable to take his eyes off her, Eran looking prettier by the minute. But he got no information.
When pressed for a last name, Eran told him that it was “something-Mir” that he didn’t quite catch, but he assumed was French.
“I’m First Lieutenant Peter Goodman, United States Army. This is Staff Sergeant Dave Spaulding.”
“Pe’Ter. I like that name.”
“Thank you.”
Peter Goodman knew procedures, and he should have hunted down the Provost Marshall or found some MPs at least. She didn’t have any ID, he assumed, and she didn’t even offer an explanation for being on the road at night. Maybe her bicycle broke down or something. He didn’t put her under arrest. He made her an offer, instead. “Need a ride to the village, miss?”
“I would like a ride to the village. Have you a horse nearby, Pe’Ter?”
Goodman laughed. “No, but the Jeep works fine. Get in.”
Spaulding chuckled under his breath, “Pe’Ter! Well, la-de-da.”
“See to that battery, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir!”
Spaulding popped the hood, replaced the cable and they were on their way. It was a short drive to the village, but Goodman had time to ask, “What was that light out in the woods?”
“I saw it, too.”
“How did you learn to speak English so well?”
“I was always very interested in translating things from one language into another.”
“So, you’re just good with languages, huh?”
“Yes, good with languages.”
Goodman couldn’t help asking the next question. “Can I see you later? I mean, I know we just met five minutes ago, but—”
“Where will you be later?”
“The inn down there in the village. Have a glass of wine with me, Eran?”
“Yes.” When she smiled at Goodman, his heart melted. They dropped her near the village fountain and she disappeared into the shadows between two buildings and Goodman and Spaulding found a table at the inn.
Goodman’s thoughts returned to the present. “You think she’s coming?”
“She’ll be here, lieutenant. Relax, already.”
Peter Goodman looked down at his hands, his fingers beating a tattoo on the table top.
“Yo! Here she is, lieutenant! Snazzy!”
Peter Goodman nearly fell out of his chair. “Holy smoke!” There were maybe a dozen GIs at the inn that night and, if eyes could really pop out of their sockets, there would have been two dozen funny looking marbles rolling across the floor.
“I shoulda gone to Paris!”
“Down, boy. Down. Remember New Jersey.”
Peter Goodman stood up and walked across the room, at least three other guys—two sergeants and a major—doing the same thing. But Eran walked right past everyone else and stopped just in front of Goodman. “Pe’Ter.”
“Eran. You are beautiful.”
“You are beautiful.”
Goodman swallowed hard and licked his lips, which didn’t help because his tongue was dry. “Uh, we’ve—we’ve got a table. It’s over there.” Goodman pointed toward the table with fingers which felt thick and stiff.
“Will your friend the sergeant be with us all night?”
“What?”
“I wasn’t sure of the customs.”
“What?”
“I want to be alone with you.”
“You—all right.” Goodman ushered her back to the table, made eye-contact with Dave Spaulding and announced, “You’ll see to bringing that Jeep back for me sometime tomorrow then, sergeant. I’ll be spending the—I’ll stay in the village tonight.”
Dave Spaulding’s grin went from ear to ear. “Yes, sir! Very good, sir! With the lieutenant’s permission, then, sir! I will take my leave, sir!”
“Very good, sergeant. That’ll be all.”
“Yes, sir!” Spaulding grabbed his steel pot off the table, put it on and saluted. Goodman returned the salute. As Spaulding walked past him, Goodman heard him mutter, “Lucky son-of-a-gun!”
“May I sit down, Pe’Ter?”
“Oh! Yeah!” Goodman stopped just standing beside the table and pulled out a chair for her, helped her into it, then sat down opposite her. He already had a glass for her and poured wine into it, nearly spilling the dark green bottle as he
reached across the table.
Eran was dressed totally differently, in a white blouse kind of off one shoulder, a simple dark blue skirt and a shawl around her shoulders which partially covered her bare arms. “It’s kind of chilly tonight. You must be warm-blooded,” Goodman said lamely.
Eran smiled at him. “You are the man that I want. Can we drink wine later?”
Goodman didn’t know what to say.
Eran spoke again. “Is there someplace that we can go?”
“Uh—”
“If that is what you want, of course, Pe’Ter.”
Goodman blurted out, “Look, I think you’re the swellest looking girl I’ve ever seen in my life. But we just met.”
“Then, let’s drink wine first. And then can we go someplace to be together?”
Goodman heard himself saying, “Yes.”
They each drank a glass of wine and Goodman left the table for a few moments, found the innkeeper and paid her twenty dollars US over the cost of a room and threw in two packs of American cigarettes.
When he went back to the table, a major was drifting toward it and Eran, but vectored off. “I got us a room.”
“A room is what we need?”
“Yes. I mean, if you still want—”
“You are very sweet, Pe’Ter.” Eran started to stand up and Peter Goodman got her chair, then ushered her from the table to the stairs just outside. “This way?”
“Yes, Eran.”
Eran started up the stairs, Goodman right behind her. They had room number five. The lock worked—sort of—and they went inside, Goodman lighting the oil lamp beside the doorway before closing the door. Heavy bombardment drapes were hung over the window.
The bed looked clean. Peter Goodman looked around for a place to put his helmet, then started to unbuckle his pistol belt.
When Goodman turned to look at Eran, Eran stood naked before him, but there hadn’t been time for her to undress. “How did you do that?”
“Magic,” she smiled...
Eran screamed, “Pe’Ter! More! More! Fill me!” Pe’Ter’s body thrust against her, within her, then rested over her, still lying between her thighs, his heartbeat strong against her breast.
The Golden Shield of IBF Page 31
