The Golden Shield of IBF

by Jerry Ahern; Sharon Ahern

  “Raise your eyes so that I may look into them.”

  Hesitantly, obviously terrified, Moc’Dar obeyed.

  “My power is without limit, Moc’Dar. Soon, my power will be all of the power in the universe. The punishment I made for you has sufficiently terrified my other officers. Perhaps, I can further instill fear and wonderment by demonstrating that I do not only punish with the greatest severity, but likewise show the greatest munificence.” With those words passed from her lips, Eran took a step closer to him, drew her cloak forward in her fingertips and swathed its folds around Moc’Dar.

  As she did so, her flesh touched his.

  “I return to you your former shape and strength and visage, the power of speech and rational thought, the courage with which you were once imbued. I return to you all that you once were, Moc’Dar.”

  Eran opened her cloak, flinging it back. Naked before her knelt Moc’Dar the man. “Speak, Moc’Dar, but choose your words wisely.”

  “Queen Sorceress, Mistress General, I am yours to command.”

  Eran smiled. Moc’Dar had always had a way with words. “You will uniform yourself at once; I will facilitate that.” With a thought and a wave of her right hand, Moc’Dar was dressed as a Captain, his black leather mask totally obscuring his face except for his eyes and mouth and the holes for his nostrils. With her left hand, she made fine weapons—firesword, dagger, crossbow and quiver of bolts—appear.

  “You will lead the Sword of Koth to the chamber where I keep Pe’Ter. You will find my daughter and perhaps several others there, or they will have just departed. If they have departed, you will pursue them. You will find them. You will kill all who may be accompanying my daughter except for the old fool Erg’Ran and another whom you will recognize because he is not of Creath. You will bring Erg’Ran, the other realm male and my daughter to me, if at all possible. I wish to deal with them personally. However, should you find my daughter in the embrace of the other realm male, you are to kill them both by whatever means necessary and as quickly as possible. Do not indulge yourself and risk my wrath.

  “If my daughter attempts to use magic against you and no other viable alternative presents itself in order that you may serve my will, even if she is not with the other realm male, you must somehow kill her. I cannot overemphasize the importance of your understanding this quite clearly, Moc’Dar. As much as I wish the pleasure of my daughter’s destruction for myself, at any cost Swan must be prevented from accomplishing her purposes.

  “Six of my most gifted Handmaidens will accompany you and your men. The entire Sword of Koth and, indeed, the Horde in all its numbers will be at your disposal for the sake of this mission’s successful resolution. If you fail, your only recourse will be to take your own life. What I did to you the last time would be merciful by comparison to the punishment I should mete out if you fail me again.”

  Moc’Dar said nothing, merely lowered his eyes.

  Eran made her spell bag appear from the air around her, and from within it drew the pistol which Pe’Ter had carried before she had brought him to Creath. Moc’Dar visibly recoiled just seeing it.

  Eran spoke in the Old Tongue, a summoning to alter the universal bonds within the natural elements which burned and caused the projectile to spew forth toward its target. She looked at Moc’Dar and told him, “That which was consumed in flame behind the projectiles within this firespitter and all others in Creath will burn no longer. No firespitter in Creath will function. If a firespitter is pointed at you, Moc’Dar?”

  “Yes, Mistress General?”

  “Laugh.”

  Eran saw a gleam in Moc’Dar’s eyes...

  Garrison’s face and hands itched, as did his neck, The dozens of bites he’d received and the gouges where chunks of flesh were torn from his body were healing so rapidly that the process was almost beyond his powers of belief.

  Swan walked beside him through the upsloping passageway, seeming not only depleted in magical energy but so exhausted that she could barely move. Likely, Swan still possessed adequate magic to heal wounds, or for something as silly as lighting his cigarette were there time to smoke one, but the more spectacular magic which might be required to get them out of a tight spot would not be available for some time. Somehow, the only word that Alan Garrison knew in the language spoken by Swan’s people was perfectly appropriate: g’urg.

  Nagging at the back of his mind was the unpleasant thought that, if they survived, getting out of Barad’Il’Koth would be a lot tougher than getting in. And he was worried that his pistol shots with the Seecamp had not attracted any response. The keep was a very large structure indeed, but hardly so enormous that the reports from the .32 hadn’t been heard by somebody. The two drunken Ra’U’Ba whom Mitan and Gar’Ath had killed quite possibly had the time to communicate telepathically with other Ra’U’Ba.

  One way or the other, Garrison was certain that their presence in the keep was known, and that a trap would be awaiting them.

  As they neared the end of the passageway and were about to reconnoiter the area beyond, he heard the sound of running feet behind them. Mitan spun around, drawing back her bow. “I can’t see anyone yet!”

  Bre’Gaa, brandishing his sword, declared, “I’ll look ahead,” then ran toward the end of the passageway.

  Garrison drew both SIG .45s.

  In the next instant, Garrison spied two black-uniformed soldiers, then two more, then more and more, coming into view round the nearest bend in the passageway, less than a hundred yards behind them.

  “Ordinary Horde of Koth,” Erg’Ran labeled them. “They’ll kill us just as dead as their elite brethren in the Sword of Koth. Come on!”

  Somehow, the immediate danger seemed to reinvigorate Swan. When she broke into a dead run toward the end of the passage, it was as if the exhaustion which she had evidenced only moments earlier had completely fled. Garrison hung back in order to support Mitan as she loosed an arrow, dropping one of the Horde of Koth troopers with a solid hit to the chest. Mitan was already nocking another arrow, a third arrow clenched in her teeth.

  Garrison stabbed both pistols toward the still charging enemy and fired—or, tried to. The hammers rose and fell, but neither pistol discharged a round. “Aw, shit!” Accepted procedures for hangfires not withstanding, Garrison thrust one pistol into his belt, freeing his left hand to rack the slide of the pistol in his right. A fresh round chambered, Garrison touched the trigger. “Shit!”

  Mitan loosed another arrow. A third soldier went down.

  Garrison told himself that maybe the only ammunition which had been magically rendered useless was the ammunition Swan had produced for him magically in the first place. Garrison pulled the .32 from its Pocket Natural holster. Pointing the little pistol in the direction of the enemy, he pulled the trigger. There was no sound except for a loud click.

  “Shit! Shit! All right! Run for it, Mitan!” Garrison grabbed Mitan’s shoulder the instant an arrow flew from her bow. “Come on!”

  Mitan took his advice, sprinting toward the end of the passageway, Garrison at her heels, holstering his now useless ordnance as he ran.

  Bre’Gaa was shouting, “A high-ceilinged chamber and a staircase beyond. A small force of Horde of Koth is coming down the staircase.”

  Swan had stopped beside Bre’Gaa and Gar’Ath at the end of the passageway. Erg’Ran told her, “I’ll stay behind and hold off the Horde behind us. I’m too slow afoot with this cursed peg leg.”

  “Yeah, and you’d die, too,” Garrison told him. “We all go or we all stay, right?”

  Everyone nodded or grunted agreement. Swan said, “I would never leave you to die. You were always my dearest friend, and you are my uncle. Without your wise counsel, if we were to succeed, we would still fail.”

  Was long-windedness in times of emergency a family trait? Garrison wondered. Swan was beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, forthright, courageous and loving. “So, who’s perfect?” Alan Garrison almost said aloud. Instead, he urged
, “Can we get going here?”

  “To the staircase!” Swan commanded.

  Mitan hung back with Erg’Ran, Garrison handing off his Golden Shield of IBF to the older man. “Carry this for me, please, for a while? I never learned how to fight using a shield and it might come in handy for you.”

  Erg’Ran started to reply, but Garrison had no time to listen. Swan charged toward the staircase, sword in hand, a cry on her lips. “Death to the Horde!”

  Garrison was right beside her, his sword drawn, Gar’Ath and Bre’Gaa outdistancing them, reaching the base of the staircase, then running up.

  Garrison paused for an eyeblink. Swords flashed, steel clanged. This was just like something out of a movie. If he’d squeezed his eyes tightly, Garrison could have almost convinced himself that Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone were battling to the death, with cold steel in the brisket as the price of defeat.

  Without realizing it, Garrison was in motion, running up the stairs, Swan beside him, sword arcing over his head as he shouted, “Death to the Horde!”

  In the next eyeblink, Garrison was locked in mortal combat with two black-uniformed ugly guys with mean faces and big swords. The one to Garrison’s left—tall, broad in the chest—brought his blade around in a sweeping arc on level with Garrison’s throat. Garrison ducked, backstepped and nearly fell down the stairs. But the blade missed him.

  The Horde of Koth soldier to Garrison’s right—shorter and wiry seeming—lunged with his sword.

  Despite the fact that Garrison had little experience with a blade actually in his hand, he had a considerable reading knowledge of swords, sufficient for him to realize that the Horde of Koth issue sword was not designed for cut and thrust, but for cutting alone. The curve of the blade made accurate thrusting difficult for all but the most gifted of swordsmen, and only as a setup where the opponent was enticed into an open position. Garrison’s sword, on the other hand, was made for both cutting and thrusting.

  Alan Garrison thrust with his sword as he dodged the thrust aimed against him. The tip of Garrison’s blade glanced off a link of mail.

  “Try again,” Garrison encouraged himself. Sidestepping along the stair tread, Garrison thrust for his opponent’s hip, where there was no armor. Garrison missed the hip, but stabbed through the left cheek of his opponent’s rear end.

  There was a terrible cry of pain. The shorter Horde of Koth trooper fell forward and slid down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

  The other of the two, the tall one who had first attacked him, came at Garrison again. With his sword in both hands, the enemy soldier ran down the stairs at a diagonal, blade smashing downward as he charged.

  Garrison remembered something that Gar’Ath had taught him. Hilt clenched in both hands, Garrison brought his sword back over his left shoulder, stepping rearward with his right foot and flexing his outstretched left leg at the precise moment that his opponent’s blade crashed downward. Parrying the edge of the tall soldier’s blade with the flat of his own, Garrison took another step forward, letting his opponent overextend his balance as their blades slipped apart. It wasn’t the right procedure, Garrison knew, but as he moved he pulled his blade across his opponent’s right thigh in a deep drawcut.

  The tall soldier staggered. Garrison flicked his blade up, cleaving counterclockwise with it toward the man’s neck, drawing back on the blade as it struck flesh. Garrison opened the Horde of Koth trooper’s throat from earlobe to adam’s apple. Blood sprayed everywhere.

  Bre’Gaa was hurriedly scrounging arrows and crossbow bolts from the dead on the stairs. Mitan was firing her longbow, Erg’Ran his crossbow. Their arrows and bolts only ephemerally stemmed the tide of Horde of Koth troops surging in the passageway. But Alan Garrison allowed himself one instant.

  He looked at his sword.

  Garrison took no pride in the blood which stained its blade, but rather in its strength and that he had used it to fight for his convictions against that which he perceived as evil. What Garrison felt was that link between a man or woman and a weapon, so often misconstrued by the misinformed as bloodlust, which was, in reality, a part of the very essence of being human, inextricably interwoven with honor, pride and the will to persevere.

  Swan, her sword bloodied as well, leaned against the staircase wall. “We’ll need to hold them back while Erg’Ran and one or two others with a bow reach the height of the staircase.”

  “I know,” Garrison agreed.

  “We have to get the Enchantress out of reach of the Horde if she’s to have any hope of finding out whether her father lives or not,” Gar’Ath announced, his breathing still coming hard.

  Garrison suggested, “Why don’t you and Erg’Ran take the stairs along with Swan, Gar’Ath. We can alternate fire and maneuver elements.” He’d originally heard the terms in a war movie, then looked them up. “You guys go up and cover us as we move to your position. We leapfrog it.”

  Swan asked, “What about frogs?”

  “It means when one group moves, the other stays put, and so on. That way, we’ve always got some protection with your bows, Erg’Ran won’t have to run for it any faster than he can manage, and Bre’Gaa and Mitan can cover you with their bows while you guys move up. If you bump into troops as you progress along the stairs, Gar’Ath, then you and Swan can brace them with your swords while Erg’Ran can still provide some cover for us. Sounds like a plan, huh?”

  “Aye, Champion. It does, indeed.”

  “These arrows are shorter than my own,” Mitan said, having just reached the stairs and taking well over a dozen arrows from Bre’Gaa’s hands. “They’ll be a little less powerful on target.”

  “Like .38s out of a .357 Mag,” Garrison observed. When Bre’Gaa, Swan, and Mitan all looked at him oddly, Garrison just said, “Never mind, guys. I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “Good fletching,” Mitan said to no one in particular.

  Garrison asked, “Good what-ing?”

  “Never mind,” Mitan smiled wickedly. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

  Bre’Gaa launched an arrow, then another and still another toward the mouth of the passageway. “We should be on our way,” he announced.

  “Bre’Gaa. Mitan. You guys are with me,” Garrison informed them. “We hold back the bad guys.”

  “Come, Erg’Ran,” Swan urged. Gar’Ath was already taking the stairs three at a time in a run. “Be careful, Al’An—all of you!” Swan called after her.

  Bre’Gaa handed out more arrows to Mitan, both of them nocking arrows to their bows and waiting for the next Horde of Koth target to show itself coming out of the passageway. Garrison picked up one of the swords lying on the stairs. The Horde of Koth swords were heavy, almost the heft of a Civil War cavalry saber. “Do these guys fight a lot from horseback, Mitan?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Their tactics, hanging back like that, waiting to charge in a group. And the heavy swords they carry. It all smacks of cavalry.”

  Garrison looked up the stairs, actually taking note of them for the first time. The staircase extended straight upward to an almost dizzying height, matching the elevation of the chamber. There was, presumably, a landing or some corridor or another, leading to more stairs. Swan, Erg’Ran and Gar’Ath were almost in position to provide covering fire for Garrison, Mitan and Bre’Gaa.

  “Mitan?”

  “Yes, Champion?”

  “Why don’t you run up about halfway along the height of the staircase and you can help to keep us covered. As soon as you’re in position, give us a shout and Bre’Gaa and I’ll start up.”

  “I will, Champion, but first a short volley, I think.”

  “Good idea.” Garrison, a sword in each hand, waited while Bre’Gaa and Mitan each fired two arrows, just as reminders to the Horde troopers in the passageway that if they stuck out a head, they’d wind up dead.

  As the second arrow left Mitan’s bow, she turned and raced up the stairs. “A pretty one, that,” Bre’Gaa of
fered.

  “She is indeed,” Garrison answered. “Nice girl, too.”

  “Your Enchantress. She is exquisite. You must meet my wife, sometime, Al’An. There is nothing like a Gle’Ur’Gya female. Her fur is soft. When we are in each other’s arms, and her mane falls over my face, the feeling is indescribable.”

  “You sound like a happy man,” Garrison said honestly, his eyes on the mouth of the passageway.

  “I’d be the happier if I saw her the more, truth to tell. A mariner’s life is wearisome at times. When these Horde of Koth emerge,” Bre’Gaa said, changing the subject without missing a beat, “I say let them come. We kill a few here on the stairs, then run while Mitan covers us and the others cover us from the top of the stairs. If we can get the enemy into the open, our arrows and bolts should slay many of them.”

  Garrison couldn’t truthfully say, “I like it,” but he could say, “That’s a sound idea, Bre’Gaa.”

  As of yet, there’d been no evidence that the Horde troopers who would be charging toward them at any moment had longbows or crossbows available to them. Had there been enemy archers in any number, the situation would have been radically altered for the worse.

  “By the way, Al’An?” Bre’Gaa unstrung his bow, slipped it under a pair of slots built into his quiver, and he drew his sword.

  “Yes, Bre’Gaa?”

  “In the event that I should die—”

  “Hey, man! Don’t talk like that!” Garrison interrupted.

  “In the event that I die in combat against our foemen, or some other fatal event should befall me, I would crave two boons from you.”

  “Boons? Oh! Boons. Yeah. What?”

  “I would ask that, as is the custom of the Gle’Ur’Gya, I should be buried with a sword, and a good one. After all, a dead Gle doesn’t really need that much of a sword, so certainly no noble gesture such as placing your sword or Gar’Ath’s with me. An enemy sword, even one of these disappointing things the Horde uses, will suffice. But see to it that it’s sharp and of decent steel. Among the Gle’Ur’Gya, a warrior is only buried with his personal sword should he have no warrior son or warrior daughter to whom the blade can be passed. I have both, and my son and my daughter can fight over who gets the blade.