The Golden Shield of IBF

by Jerry Ahern; Sharon Ahern

  “Which leads me to the second boon I would seek.”

  “Which is?”

  ‘Well, someone needs to return the sword to my family. I think that it should be you. And at the same time, you can relate in exacting detail how I perished so valiantly.”

  “Don’t die, okay?” Garrison requested.

  “I will endeavor to honor your wish to the best of my ability, Al’An—trust to that!” And Bre’Gaa laughed.

  Garrison’s eyes narrowed. The Horde of Koth unit which had been bottled up in the passage was, hesitantly, venturing into the chamber. In the next eyeblink, the inevitable happened.

  The Horde of Koth, swords raised, bloody curses on their lips, charged. Garrison’s stomach suddenly felt like he’d eaten spoiled chili and his palms sweated and he was exhaling more than he inhaled, or so it seemed to him.

  “There’s a trick, Al’An. Make the enemy think that you are insane for combat and desire their blood on your sword with every fiber of your being! The more you make them fear you, the less time you’ll have to fear them.”

  “Thanks for the advice, pal.”

  “Take it for what it’s worth,” Bre’Gaa told him.

  The Horde unit came in a dead run. Garrison counted thirty soldiers before he stopped counting and started shouting, “Come on, you chickenshits! Let’s see how tough you really are! Your mothers sew dirty socks! Your sisters wear men’s underwear and have to shave their upper lips! Come on, you wimps!” Garrison looked at Bre’Gaa. “That’s the kind of thing I should be saying?”

  “The very words I would have used, Al’An. Yes! Such epithets will strike terror into their hearts and fine hone the steel of your resolve.”

  Garrison didn’t waste his energy waving his sword. There’d be plenty of opportunity for exercise in another moment or so...

  Swan wished that she had studied archery, but she had not. She wished that her magical energy would return more quickly, but it would not. Midway along the staircase, Mitan readied her bow. Flanking Swan, Erg’Ran’s crossbow was cocked, a bolt readied to fly from the slot. Gar’Ath’s longbow was drawn, an arrow nocked, two more arrows clenched in his teeth.

  “You should not fire until Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa run up the stairs. There would be danger to them if you fire prematurely. They are drawing the Horde out, toward them, so that there will be nothing behind which the Horde can hide and thus evade your missiles. Be patient.”

  “It was Mir who said that one should not loose one’s bolt prior to confirming that the whites of the enemies’ eyes were readily visible,” Erg’Ran reminded them.

  “The wisdom and courage of Mir will inspire us,” Gar’Ath agreed.

  Swan’s eyes gazed at her heroic Al’An. His courage—standing there, fearlessly, a sword in each hand, hurling curses at vastly superior numbers of the enemy—filled her soul with love and pride beyond any measure, flushed her cheeks with desire. “My Champion,” Swan sighed, and she sniffed back a tear of happiness.

  An eyeblink later, she sucked in her breath from fear. The Horde was upon Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa. Al’An hacked and stabbed with his sword, parrying enemy swords with the flat of his own, making a fine account of himself. Under the pressure from Al’An and Bre’Gaa, the first rank of the Horde fell back. From beside her, Swan heard Gar’Ath remark, “He learned well, your Champion, for true he did, Enchantress!”

  She glanced at Gar’Ath, smiled her thanks, then looked back down the length of the staircase. Al’An and Bre’Gaa feigned another onslaught against the Horde’s front rank. Al’An flung the enemy sword from his left hand, impaling one of the Horde through the throat. Then Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa turned and vaulted up the stairs, taking the treads three at a time.

  “Now! Open fire!” Swan commanded.

  Gar’Ath and Erg’Ran let fly. Mitan launched her first arrow, then a second and a third; arrows from both positions filled the air over the staircase.

  As Al’An and Captain Bre’Gaa reached Mitan’s position, Bre’Gaa handed his sword to Al’An, shouted something Swan could not hear. In the next eyeblink, Bre’Gaa had his bow strung and an arrow nocked. He fired.

  Bodies of dead Horde of Koth littered the stairs. Those few who managed to escape the rain of arrows and crossbow bolts charged Mitan, Al’An and Bre’Gaa. Al’An stepped down a few treads, met the first foeman and ran him through. One of the Horde soldiers cleaved downward with his wickedly curving blade, Al’An intercepting his foeman’s steel by crossing the flats of his sword and that of Captain Bre’Gaa.

  Bre’Gaa shouted something and Al’An sidestepped, drawing his foeman off balance. Captain Bre’Gaa fired an arrow, impaling Al’An’s foeman through the left eye.

  Those few men of the Horde who had ventured past the hail of arrows and bolts now fell back, escaping down the staircase. In the same eyeblink, Al’An, Captain Bre’Gaa and Mitan began to run up the staircase as rapidly as they could.

  “Hold fire!” Swan ordered.

  Swan looked away from the stairwell and second-sighted along the wide hallway and to the staircase beyond. She needed to see beyond the confines of line of sight, and she could not employ a guarding spell because Barad’Il’Koth might already be under a guarding spell of her mother’s making. She could not see through walls, but there was the spell which she had used to enhance the second-sight, and thus see around corners. It was the means by which she had enabled herself to search the passages and halls of the magnificent place in Atlanta for the evildoer whom Al’An had sought to foil.

  As Swan considered it now, she experienced a remarkable epiphany. In the other realm, her magical abilities had returned to her much more quickly than she’d had any right to think that they would. And borderline magic, which was neither natural nor unnatural, but an unnatural utilization of the natural, had been quite simple in the other realm, vastly moreso than it was in Creath.

  There was a sudden queasiness in her stomach, and she looked back, along the staircase. Al’An was coming. “No!” Swan hissed through her teeth. Was it the other realm which held the real magical power, and had her mother somehow captured this power and returned with it to Creath? Was this the secret behind her mother’s unparalleled magical abilities?

  And, Swan asked herself, was the very nearness of Al’An the cause for her own continually heightening magical power? Throughout nearly all of the wind summoning, Al’An had been touching her. Al’An had kissed her—quite a lot, and she felt her cheeks redden at the thought—before she had summoned the storm with which they’d combated the ice dragons.

  Al’An reached the head of the staircase. “Al’An?”

  “Yes, Swan,” he responded, out of breath.

  “Hold my hand?”

  Al’An smiled, took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. Then, he took her right hand in his left and merely looked into her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “I need to try something.” Swan hoped that she would fail, knew that she would not. She second- sighted, without the use of any spell, and she was able to see to the end of the hall, up the much narrower staircase which wound ever upward toward the tower, along a passageway there past many great doors and to a doorway at that passageways very end. “My father is behind that door, I think.”

  “What door, Swan?”

  “The door which I second-sighted.” Swan took her hand free of Al’An’s hand and the second-sight drew in on itself, almost imperceptibly. In a few eyeblinks, she could no longer see beyond the hall. Swan looked at Erg’Ran. “He is the magic for me, and one like him for my mother?”

  Erg’Ran said nothing, merely nodded gravely.

  “You are certain, Erg’Ran?”

  “I am almost certain, Enchantress. There is only one way to know about the source of your mother’s power; that lies before us. And there is only one way to know the answer to that other question which so vexes you. That answer lies within you, Enchantress, and your Champion.”

  “What are you guys tal
king about?” Al’An asked.

  Swan did not answer, only swayed slightly in her mannish boots, nodded her head very slowly, all hope of lasting happiness gone...

  They moved rapidly—as rapidly as they could considering Erg’Ran’s peg leg—across the high-ceilinged hall. They kept watch that the force of the Horde of Koth might be in pursuit. Swan clung to Garrison’s hand, sometimes holding his hand in both of her hands. As they climbed the corkscrew shaped winding staircase toward the tower, Swan asked him, “Would you put your arm around me, Al’An? And don’t let go?”

  “Alright.” At the back of his mind, Alan Garrison felt that something had changed, but he didn’t know what or why.

  The staircase wound upwards within what, for lack of a better term, Garrison mentally labeled a chimney, the various levels through which they passed accessible by passages veering off from the staircase. The effect was much like that of riding an elevator, passing one floor after another while ascending to the penthouse.

  About halfway up the staircase, Swan remarked, “I am second-sighting the doorway leading into my father’s chamber. There is one Sword of Koth guard visible, but there are so many other doorways along that passage that I fear more Sword of Koth will lie in ambush for us.”

  “What are their fireswords like?” Garrison asked her, tangentially redirecting the subject.

  “The swords are enchanted, Al’An. When they are drawn in combat, they glow red hot, even white hot. Such steel as they are made from and enhanced by the spells placed upon them, they will cleave through any sword which is not, itself, magical. Your sword belonged to a K’Ur’Mir of great skill and valor, and was made by Gar’Ath’s father. Gar’Ath’s father was not K’Ur’Mir, but he had magical abilities as concerned the weaving of metals into fine steel. A Sword of Koth firesword will be neither more nor less deadly against your sword than any other. But be careful.”

  “I always try to be careful. But, of what?”

  “The Gle’Ur’Gya use no magic, so Captain Bre’Gaa’s sword could be broken by a firesword wielded properly. He knows this, of course. I offered magical protection for his sword, but Captain Bre’Gaa refused. And the swords of the ordinary Horde of Koth are also vulnerable. Likewise, they too would be broken by a firesword. Your mechanical daggers—”

  “Benchmade automatic folders,” Garrison corrected her. “You made them magical, I know.”

  “Exactly, Al’An,” Swan said.

  At last, they reached the height of the staircase, Erg’Ran bringing up the rear, Mitan with him, the sounds of Erg’Ran’s labored breathing mingled with what could only have been a sigh of relief. Another few yards and there was a right angle bend in the passageway. Beyond that lay violent trouble.

  Her voice little over a whisper, Swan asked Garrison, “Will you kiss me, Al’An? Will you kiss me harder and longer than you have ever kissed me? Will you do that now? For me?”

  Garrison looked into her eyes. He wanted to ask Swan, “Why?” But he didn’t. Instead, Garrison curled his left arm around Swan’s waist, drawing her close against him. Her head cocked back, mouth offered to him, eyes wide. Garrison lowered his lips to hers; and when their lips touched, his body tensed with the need for her, desire he had never known existed. Her hands caressed his face, his throat, her body molding against his own. He let go of her, turned away for an instant, to get himself under control. “Are we gonna make it, Swan?”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean you and me. We’ll make it out of here, or die trying. I mean after that, you and me?”

  “There is more to ‘you and me’ than might be readily apparent, Al’An.”

  Garrison told her honestly, “I don’t care. I love you.”

  “And I love you, Al’An. Shall we go to meet our fate, then?”

  Garrison turned back to look at her. “There’s an apropos line about that in one of the songs in Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance. I’ll tell you about it, sometime. Remind me.” It was better, Garrison thought, not to mention that the line alluded to considerable trepidation concerning just exactly what that “fate” might be.

  His sword was already drawn.

  Garrison started walking.

  This was a Hogan’s Alley, Garrison told himself, but with swords instead of guns, and the targets fought back.

  “I second-sight one Sword of Koth. He waits nervously near the end of the passageway,” Swan whispered. Mitan and Gar’Ath nodded. Bre’Gaa and Erg’Ran seemed emotionless.

  They rounded the right angle bend in the passageway, weapons ready.

  When the Sword of Koth guard looked their way, he drew his sword, turned toward them, brandishing the weapon. It had already begun to glow red hot. That he sounded no alarm, issued no verbal challenge was clear evidence that they were walking into a trap, Garrison deduced. The logical question, he knew, was why were they doing this? The bitter answer was that they had no choice.

  “Lay down your weapon!” Garrison advised the solitary Sword of Koth. “Put it down and you won’t be hurt.”

  As Garrison had known that he would, the Sword of Koth ignored the warning.

  Garrison inhaled, then exhaled very slowly. “I just hope you can get us out of that chamber once we’re inside,” Garrison told Swan. “Any chance of that?”

  “My magical energy is replenishing itself extremely rapidly.”

  “I knew that,” Garrison told her. For a second, their eyes met. Over his shoulder, Alan Garrison asked, “Who wants to nail that Sword of Koth guy with an arrow, huh?”

  “Would a dagger do, Champion?” Gar’Ath volunteered, shifting his sword to his left hand, drawing his dagger, flipping it in the air and catching it safely blade first. The dagger flew from his hand, made one and one-half revolutions and buried itself in the throat of the hapless guard. The man fell over, dead before his blood spurted all over the stone floor of the passage.

  Garrison walked on, Swan holding his left hand with her right, her sword in her left hand. She would be relying on magic more than that sword, Garrison realized. Somehow, touching him had something to do with her magic, as had their kiss.

  “Any moment, now,” Erg’Ran observed.

  “Aye,” Gar’Ath seconded.

  Bre’Gaa complained, “Why don’t they strike?”

  “They will,” Mitan told him. “In their good time, they will strike.”

  “There will be a magical barrier at the door to the chamber,” Swan told them. “I must break it.”

  “I have confidence in you,” Alan Garrison said truthfully, but realizing after the words left his mouth that he sounded unintentionally sarcastic. “I really do,” he added.

  Swan’s hand squeezed his harder. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

  “When they hit,” Garrison advised his companions, “it’s important for Swan, Erg’Ran and—I guess— me to get through that doorway.”

  “Aye, Champion. That is understood,” Gar’Ath responded.

  They kept walking.

  The doorway at the end of the passage was fewer than fifty paces away. Other doorways flanked them, ahead and behind. If the Sword of Koth had any plan other than nailing them with sheer force of numbers, Garrison surmised, it had to be to get them trapped by the magical barrier leading into the chamber. If Swan couldn’t break the barrier which her mother would have so thoughtfully placed there, the passage would be transformed into a blind alley.

  For some reason, Garrison recalled a frequently recurring episode from his boyhood. He was sitting in front of a television set with a glass of milk and some chocolate chip cookies, watching a masked Clayton Moore and his faithful American Indian sidekick Jay Silverheels as they fought fearlessly for justice on the frontier and, coincidentally, made a social statement about brotherhood and loyalty which Garrison had never forgotten.

  In the next instant, Garrison was overcome with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He realized why he’d recalled those happy memories at
this particular moment in his life. It had to do with a group of Texas Rangers who died in a box canyon. “What is that sound you are making with your lips, Al’An?”

  “It’s called whistling,” Garrison told her, not even realizing he’d been doing it until she remarked about it. “Where I come from, people whistle if they’re happy; or, sometimes, they whistle when they’re afraid. The tune’s from ‘The William Tell Overture.’ But, I wasn’t thinking about William Tell. I was thinking about some Texas Rangers.”

  “Who was William Tell? Was he a Texas Ranger?” Swan asked.

  Garrison smiled, “Tell you later, darling.”

  They kept walking. They were about twenty feet from the doorway leading into the chamber which they were so intent upon entering. Most of the other doorways lay behind them.

  There was a shouted command. Those doors opened, and spilling from them were more than three dozen Sword of Koth, fireswords drawn. With them, more menacing appearing somehow than the soldiers in their black leather face masks and black coats of mail, were six women.

  “Witches! Evil personified!” Bre’Gaa snarled.

  Everyone in the passage stood still, waiting.

  “I am Moc’Dar. When last we met, I was Captain Leader of the Third Company Sword of Koth, Elite Guard to the Mistress General of the Horde. Then, much evil befell me because of all of you—evil unspeakable.”

  Garrison shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “Sorry about that, man.”

  Moc’Dar continued. “I have been charged with bringing you before my Mistress General, the Queen Sorceress, either living or dead.”

  “If you’re gonna give a speech like this, Moc’Dar, you oughta get the terminology straight. The expression is ‘dead or alive,’ not living or dead. Sounds very tacky that way. Trust me.”

  “You, of the other realm, and you, Virgin Enchantress, and you, old one—”