The Golden Shield of IBF

by Jerry Ahern; Sharon Ahern

  When his eyes met hers, they hardened and he pushed himself away. “You rotten—”

  Eran laughed. “You gave me what I needed, Pe’Ter. Think of it this way: for a short while you were free of this place.”

  “Damn you!” Pe’Ter clambered out of the bed, staggered toward the window overlooking the courtyard below. He was staring at the shackles on his wrists. “How could you do that to me?”

  “As you told me, Pe’Ter, there is only one thing which I need from you, and you just gave it to me. Admit it! You enjoyed it.”

  Pe’Ter, his voice controlled, even, said to her, “That’s just the point, Eran. There’s only one thing you need from me, but I actually loved you that night. And despite what you are, I still love you.”

  “Then why must you resist giving me what I need, Pe’Ter?”

  “Loving you doesn’t mean I condone what you do, Eran. When you came to me, a million guys just like me were fighting a lunatic, a goosestepping madman, a dictator who didn’t care how many people he killed, who he stepped on. Like some cheap gangster, but with an army behind him. I don’t know how long it’s been, what’s happened back there, but I know one thing. If we haven’t knocked out the Axis by now, then we’re still fighting. Americans, Englishmen, Canadians, Free French, Aussies, Norwegians. It doesn’t matter. We’re still fighting and we’ll keep fighting. And you’re just the same as Hitler. You want everybody to bow down before you and you don’t care a hoot who you hurt or how many you kill. You don’t care about love or honor or human decency. You just care about Eran, and all the power you can get your dirty hands on.

  “But the people here are gonna stand up against you someday, too. Just a bunch of ordinary joes and janes, and they’ll come after you and keep fighting you until you and all you stand for is nothing! Nothing, hear me!? Nothing!”

  “Are you finished, Pe’Ter?”

  “Why don’t you kill me? Let’s see some of that power you’ve got, Eran. Come on! You can do it. Let me have it. Kill me.”

  “Never. If it’s true that you still love me, Pe’Ter, then I’ve found the perfect torture for you, haven’t I? Killing you would be merciful, and I don’t deal in mercy.”

  Pe’Ter turned his face away.

  Eran felt the power surging within her as it had not for longer than she wanted to remember. And she began to laugh, just considering all of the truly marvelous possibilities...

  “I have spells for whatever phenomenon that you might wish,” Swan told Al’An. Her eyes were not gazing at the man she loved, but at the disgusting stone creatures instead. “Whether it is heat or cold, couldn’t we use such a spell directly on the Tree Demons?”

  “I mean, I don’t know for certain, Swan, but if these things are at all analogous to what are commonly called motion sensors, where I come from, then changing their temperature would create the opposite effect from what we want. We want those yucky-looking little guys to be unaffected by temperature.

  “Now, if somehow they’re able to see through those stone eyes, my plan won’t work at all, regardless of heat or cold. But if they work like I hope that they do, we can fool them.”

  Swan, Al’An and the others stood within the passageway, well back from the sculptures. Bre’Gaa asked, “Do you believe that they will feel us as we cross before them rather than see us?”

  “Eran needs something that can be relied upon as an intruder defense, but doesn’t require constant monitoring,” Al’An answered. “If it were visual, even with magic, the problem would be the same as where I come from—either a human being somehow monitors what the statues see or there’s some machine to do it. You guys don’t use machines for most things, and I don’t see one guy or a group of guys looking out for what the little stone creatures have passing in front of their eyes. If that were the case, Eran would be just as well off cutting the cutsey crap and having live human guards instead of stone Tree Demons.

  “There’s got to be some sort of trigger which awakens the creatures from the spell. Visual, maybe. But, like I said, very doubtful. Could be smell, but even in a technology-based society, that would be quite complicated and not too reliable. Temperature is the best guess I can come up with,” Al’An concluded.

  “Then how shall we accomplish things in order to obfuscate the capability of the stone Tree Demons to sense temperature?” Erg’Ran asked.

  “Where I come from, again, the normal human body temperature is ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “What?” Gar’Ath asked.

  “How hot it is inside your body, or mine, or Mitan’s or Swan’s.”

  “Why would one care to know this, Champion?” Gar’Ath asked Al’An.

  “For medical reasons,” Al’An responded. “If the body is a little too hot or too cold, the body may sicken. Very hot or very cold and the body can die.”

  “I am familiar with this concept in the treatment of bodily ills, but we gauge the heat of the body differently. Be that as it may,” Erg’Ran went on, “I take it that you intend to prevent the air which surrounds our bodies from radiating the heat of our bodies.

  “Two ways of doing it,” Al’An declared. “Whichever one is most handily accomplished magically would suffice.”

  “And, Al’An, what are these two ways?” Swan asked him.

  “The first would be the more common technique, in my realm, at least. Each of us would need some kind of suit, a suit which completely covered the body from head to toe, and filtered our exhalations to cool them, either that or had its own self-contained breathing apparatus.”

  “What?” Gar’Ath asked.

  “Like a container that you draw the air from when you breath and another container which would capture the air you breathe out. That air will be heated by our body temperatures,” Al’An explained.

  “The other method?” Swan persisted. She understood Al’An’s words, and the basic idea behind them, but had no idea herself how she could magically fabricate what he described in such a manner that the suits would work. Swan hoped that his other alternative would be simpler.

  “The other way,” Al’An told them, but looking at her, “is to construct some sort of barrier which would seal around the stone Tree Demons, preventing them from sensing our body heat. It has to be a perfect seal, air tight. If they’re not alive, at the moment, they’re not breathing. If we seal them in something, we shouldn’t trigger a response.”

  This latter alternative Swan easily comprehended; and, almost before Al’An stopped speaking, she was recalling the spells and formulating the technique by which she could transform Al’An’s idea into reality.

  Using the second-sight, Mitan accurately gauged the dimensions of the stone Tree Demons. Garrison, familiar by now with spans, warblades and lancethrows as a system of measurement, learned a new term: thumbnail. The thumbnail was used analogously to the inch, although (judging by eye) a little less than three quarters of an inch in length. Each of the Tree Demons measured twenty-three thumbnails in height and thirteen thumbnails around the slightly potbellied midsections. For the sake of his own sanity, Alan Garrison tried to think of the disgusting looking little things as approximately sixteen and one-half inches tall, as opposed to twenty-three thumbnails.

  The dimensions determined, a by-now-familiar vortex appeared out of thin air and, spilling forth from within the vortex, as uniform in appearance as if rolling off an assembly line, were little coffin-shaped foot-and-one-half-long boxes, open on one side. They reminded Garrison of unnaturally dark green peanut shells, but split in half. Garrison touched one. It was neither hot nor cool, and felt unlike anything he had ever put his hands on. The material was similar to plastic—almost weightless, too—but somehow seemed organic. The darker green edges, where presumably the shells would contact the wall surface to which the Tree Demons were somehow affixed, were soft, pliable, conformed to Garrison’s fingertip as he touched them. When he took his finger away, the edges returned to their original shape.

  “I’d take
off my hat to you, if I were wearing a hat,” Garrison told Swan. “You are a genius, lovely lady. These edges are so that the little shells will exactly conform to the rough stone and give a perfect seal. Right? Marvelous!”

  “Thank you, Al’An.”

  “How do we get them over the little Tree Demon guys and how do we make them stick?”

  Swan smiled. “Do you recall, Al’An, what I did with your cigarette when you asked me concerning the formation of the twin moons?”

  “Yes,” Garrison told her, remembering quite clearly how she had transmuted his cigarette—curling smoke and all—into stone, levitated it, then encased it in more stone, then levitated it still higher. “You’re going to levitate these into position.”

  “Yes. But I cannot form stone around the shells, as you call them, even at the edges, since such magic generates a modest amount of heat, and heat would defeat the purpose of our enterprise. So, I will hold them in position with magical energy while we pass, then release the shells, levitate them to the other side of the chamber and back into the vortex within which they were formed.”

  “You’re good, Swan, really good,” Garrison informed her, as if she didn’t already know that. And, he was proud of her, like a father would thrill to the accomplishments of a child, or a husband would to the success of—Alan Garrison wanted Swan for his wife, very badly, he realized. If that meant never returning to his own world, so be it.

  “How can we aid you, Enchantress?” Bre’Gaa inquired, interrupting Garrison’s thoughts.

  “Merely be ready to cross the chamber when the last of the shells is in position, and be vigilant lest my magic should somehow fail and we would be forced to fight these terrible creatures, Captain. I have never attempted an endeavor quite like this with my magic.”

  “So it shall be, Enchantress,” Bre’Gaa declared.

  There were fifty-six of the horrific enchanted beasts. Gar’Ath had warned Garrison only moments before Swan had made the shells materialize from the air, “Should the Tree Demons come alive, they will attack instantly, swarming. Fighting them with a sword is no good, nor with any blade, unless they are being held at bay. Once they are upon you, you must tear them from your flesh, throttling the life from their bodies with your hands, stomping them to death with your feet, ripping them limb from limb. Even if a sword could be employed without risk of the blade sundering your flesh from your bones, in quarters such as these through which we must pass, there would be too great a risk of your blade rending the flesh of one of your companions.”

  With Gar’Ath s vivid admonition still in mind, Alan Garrison hoped that Swan’s plan would work and that her magic would not fail as she undertook what Garrison judged to be a “test flight” with one of the shells. The object moved slowly, easily upward, downward, side to side, then hovering. Garrison watched the concentration in Swan’s eyes, etched across her face.

  Gar’Ath and Mitan nocked arrows to their longbows. Bre’Gaa did the same. Garrison took the hint, drawing one of the SIG-Sauer .45s.

  Garrison felt Erg’Ran’s hand clasp to his shoulder. “It is wise to plan for any contingency,” the older man whispered. “The Enchantress will be attempting a complexity of magical use unlike any which I have ever witnessed. You must, even as you plan for the possibility that she might not succeed, have faith that she will.”

  “I do,” Garrison replied honestly.

  “I am ready to begin,” Swan announced.

  Garrison looked at Swan and made his best encouraging smile. Swan smiled back, then all expression left her face and Garrison readied himself. The first of the shells took flight.

  Garrison tracked the first shell over the sights of his pistol. As he did so, he discovered something in Swan’s character of which he had not been aware, but it endeared her to him even more. Rather than setting the first shell over the nearest of the stone Tree Demons, Swan tackled the farthest one first, so that each successive placement would be easier—even slightly—than the last.

  The dark green shell glided onward, along the length of the chamber, the chamber walls farther and farther apart because of the wedge shape. At last, the shell stopped, hovered, then advanced on the stone Tree Demon, its leading edge angling upward until, mere “thumbnails” from the icon, the shell had completely reoriented from horizontal to vertical. Very slowly now, the shell moved forward, raising slightly, lowering slightly, then closing over the stone Tree Demon.

  Garrison let out his breath.

  “One down, fifty-five to go,” Garrison rasped to Erg’Ran beside him. The next shell took flight in the same instant...

  “Fifty-five down, one to go,” the Champion called out softly. Erg’Ran held his breath. All had gone perfectly, and that was why he felt nervous.

  The last of the coverings sailed from where it hovered near the Enchantress and toward the closest of the ghastly figures. It upended, then settled over the statue. “Now, Champion, we shall discover whether or not your supposition was the correct one.”

  “Thanks for reminding me, Erg’Ran.” The Champion shifted the firespitter which had been in his right hand to his left hand, with his right hand drawing his sword. “We ready?”

  “I will be last,” Bre’Gaa announced.

  “And I with him,” Erg’Ran added.

  Gar’Ath and Mitan stepped from the passageway and into the chamber, nearly—but not quite— standing in front of the first of the stone Tree Demons. Mitan started to move, and Gar’Ath placed a hand on her arm. “Lest the Tree Demons should come to life, stay behind me.”

  “Yes, Gar’Ath,” Mitan answered softly.

  Gar’Ath took one step, then another, ignoring his own advice, his sword at the ready.

  The young swordsman stood before the first icon, stared at the shell covering. Nothing happened. He flashed his left hand back and forth in front of it. Nothing happened.

  Mitan walked up to Gar’Ath and kissed him. They started forward once again, walking quickly.

  “Champion! You will escort the Enchantress?” Erg’Ran suggested.

  “I’m on it,” the Champion responded, going to stand beside the Enchantress. Very slowly, her countenance still expressionless, the Enchantress began to walk out of the passageway and into the chamber.

  Erg’Ran lifted his axe from the ring at his belt. “Ready, Captain Bre’Gaa?”

  “Indeed, my learned ally.”

  Side by side, Erg’Ran and Bre’Gaa left the passageway and entered the wedge-shaped chamber, Bre’Gaa’s arrow quivered, his bow in his left hand, his great sword in his right. To a Gle’Ur’Gya, such a sword was not a great sword, Erg’Ran reflected, smiling at the thought, but merely a conventionally sized broadsword.

  Into the chamber, they passed the first of the icons, then the next and the next. The concentration necessary in order to keep in place the fifty-six shells, as the Champion referred to them, was beyond anything Erg’Ran would have considered magically possible for anyone—except his niece.

  The magical ability grew within Swan, deepened and broadened to a level surpassing anything which Erg’Ran had considered even conceivable without that special power of which he was certain Eran periodically availed herself. Could Eran still rely on it, however? Erg’Ran wondered.

  The Enchantress, her Champion and lover beside her, was at the midway point within the chamber. The Champion’s firespitter was still in one hand, sword in the other. Erg’Ran caught a glimpse of the Enchantress’s face. As before, her countenance bore no expression, but there was a barely discernible twitch near her right eye. “Hasten, Bre’Gaa!” Erg’Ran urged. In as loud a whisper as he dared, he called out to Gar’Ath and Mitan, “Be quick, young warriors! Be quick! Then be ready!”

  There was a story known throughout Creath, apocryphal almost certainly, of a young K’Ur’Mir lass who held back a torrent of water with but a finger. She lived in a humble coastal village, so the tale was told. A wall was erected generations before her time in order to hold back the high tides which pe
riodically arose when the twin moons crossed. Unbeknownst to the people of her village, the wall had developed a crack. The young lass spied the antique wall’s imperfection even as water began spilling through it. Unchecked, the water would widen the fissure and demolish the wall and let the tide wash across the village beyond. The lass stuck one finger into the breach, the lad with whom she had been playing going for help. Had she removed her finger from the chink in the wall, all beyond would have been destroyed.

  The concentration evident in Swan’s dear face could not help but remind Erg’Ran of the young maid in the old story. Only Swan’s mind held back destruction.

  Gar’Ath and Mitan reached the far side of the chamber, by the tall arched opening. Mitan would be second-sighting beyond it, looking for any evidence of more dangers. Gar’Ath had already sheathed his sword and readied his longbow.

  Erg’Ran licked his lips.

  “I don’t like this, learned ally,” Captain Bre’Gaa hissed through clenched teeth. “If your Enchantress’s concentration slips—”

  “It won’t.” Erg’Ran cut him off. “We will pass them, so that once we are clear of this place, the Enchantress will have none to concern her save for herself and the Champion.”

  “Aye, Erg’Ran.”

  In the next few strides, Erg’Ran and Bre’Gaa overtook and passed the Enchantress and her Champion, neared the archway on the chamber’s far side. Erg’Ran’s eyes alternated their gaze between the Enchantress’s face and the green shells which covered the stone Tree Demons. The twitch near Swan’s eye evidenced itself once more and Erg’Ran’s eyes flickered toward the chamber wall. Two of the shells moved almost imperceptibly.

  Erg’Ran quickened his pace, nearly running, Bre’Gaa striding beside him.

  They reached the tall archway. “Now, this is a proper height through which a Gle’Ur’Gya can pass without hunching his shoulders!”

  “I’m happy for you, Captain Bre’Gaa,” Erg’Ran replied dismissively, his eyes on the Enchantress.