For the first time since his return to this magical world, John felt ... godlike!
Looking ahead to the passive, white people obstructing his path, John was offended by their arrogance! How dare they attempt to bar the progress of the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain?
Rubbing the crystal harder, faster, John could sense the saturating power of the gem's force, feel his hair rise, experience himself crackle with crystal-magic.
Fully charged, John dropped the Mage-gem to dangle on his chest. Raising both hands, he stabbed his flashing fingertips at the mob down the road, jagged sparks spurting from his fingertips, the gold, serrated flame tendrils merging into a thick bolt that lanced out toward the white enemy.
Ahead of him, there was a blast; a blinding report! Followed by a billow of dust.
With crystal-enhanced vision, John saw through the clearing haze. Saw that the citizen army, what was left of it, was staggering back.
Did they think they could escape him? Fools! How dare they live after attempting to thwart his will!?
John grabbed up the crystal again; frantically stroked the gem's dry surface; raised his hands before him, fingers pointing at the fleeing enemy .....
Concentrated .......
Nothing.
He'd kept the crystal out of the light too long, a single blast draining the gem's power!
Coming to himself, John realized that the scream of rage that still echoed in his ears ... had been his own.
Devoid of force, he found himself ... exhausted. Depressed. Vulnerable. Even having Platinia by his side ... meant nothing.
The crystal's weight strangling him, it took all John's remaining strength to drag the gem's chain from around his neck.
Quaking, he was barely able to dribble the yellow disk into its pocket.
It was only then that he felt ... guilt. Guilt at how quickly the gem's seductive promise of demonic power had enslaved him. Guilt at how he'd used the crystal's destructive force against the unarmed rabble.
He was feverish.
Sweating.
Familiar consequences of the crystal's dark magic.
Taking a deep breath to recover, John took the dangerous torch from Platinia.
With a shaky hand, held it high to see that the white civilians had run away, the crystal's blast -- brief as it was -- scaring them off.
If they returned ....?
No sense worrying about that.
Able to think again, John picked up the pony reins where he'd dropped them, the hairy little beasts straining back as if the bolt he'd thrown had stunned them too, their eyes wide enough to show the whites, their ears laid back.
Though it took determined hauling on the lead ropes, John finally got the frightened little horses to move, John recuperated enough to lead his party forward, once again.
Until he was at the spot where his bolt had hollowed out the trail. To find corpses. No longer white, with blackened arms and faces.
Five. ... Ten.
More.
Men and women resembling John's conception of people charred by gasoline. Some bodies dismembered.
Hideous!
It was only by blanking out his mind that John could force himself through that ghastly charnel house.
How much time passed after that, John didn't know, John continuing to stagger on, pretending to lead, but in a stupor, awaking when a bright streak lanced down, followed by a distant crash in the ghostly forest.
Functioning again, John was ready for the next strike when it came, this one falling to the far left. No longer bouncing off the sky dome, these strikes were being launched from somewhere farther down the road, rising flatly from the ground before falling in John's vicinity.
John had an idea. Could it be that the white people he'd discovered back there on the trail were less an army than a scouting party? That those who'd gotten away had informed the dark Mage of John's position on the road?
Flash. ......... Boom!
Like any good artillery officer, the evil Mage was laying down a box barrage. Right, then left. Then one long -- the next shot to be short.
Somewhere out there, hidden in the woods, a forward observer must be in position to get information to Auro on where his bolts were landing. Perhaps with blue (black?) messenger birds.
Soon, the lightning would be zeroed in, a fact that forced John's hand.
"This is as far as you two go," John said to the women.
"I gziph pst you," said Platinia quietly, the lack of light continuing to wipe out much of what she said.
"I want you out of the way. Back down the trail," John replied, pointing back the way they'd come.
Platinia shook her head solemnly. Either she didn't understand what John meant, the lack of magic translating little of his speech, or she was disagreeing with him.
Probably the lack of proper translation.
John had never seen Platinia disobey him.
His mind was racing.
Another streak of light, this one sailing over them. Followed by a blinding flash behind them!
Too close for the ponies, the little beasts whickering frantically, plunging, John fighting them, sawing on their halters.
Snubbing up on their lead ropes, making soothing sounds, John managed to get the little beasts quieted down at last, the shelties' brown eyes still wide and rolling, the ponies prancing in place, shivering.
In the lull that always followed strikes, ignoring Platinia for the moment, John handed the lead ropes to Zwicia; motioned Platinia to come with him; handed her the torch; indicated that she should hold it high.
Hurrying back to the cart, stepping up on the edge of the bed, John leaned over the slatted side to look for the sack that contained his chain mail cloak complete with woven wire headpiece.
It was only then that John noticed another interesting phenomena. Now that he was paying attention to all the nuances of his situation, he realized that the wind was back. Not much wind. But some. This time, blowing from behind them rather than from in front of them.
And what did that mean?
That the evil Mage-King had outflanked them? That he was approaching from the rear?
Somehow ... John didn't think so. If Auro was that mobile, he'd have moved forward to blast at them from point-blank range.
Wham! Another strike. Closer this time on the right. Fortunately, John thought, the magic fire that the evil Mage was hurling had no more heat to it than the flames of fire stone torches. Though the bolts seared and blackened, they never set anything alight. Otherwise, the woods around them would be ablaze, giving John something more to worry about than getting his metal suit on before Auro found the range.
Ah! The suit. Still in the bag that John had done his best to waterproof with tallow before packing it on board.
Quickly, John pulled the sack over the side of the cart, dropping the duffel bag on the ground. Jumping down, he bent over to open the drawstrings, then dumped out the sack's contents.
Platinia holding the torch so he could see, John returned to the cart to get out the metal cloth he'd brought along. Not knowing until the last minute who he'd take inland with him, he had the Xanthin craftsman make iron-ringed clothes meant to fit anyone, John's hope that the metal shrouds would protect those under them from the evil Mage's lightning. With gestures and as much explanation as the faint light would translate, he put one cloth over Zwicia, the next over Platinia.
The women protected as well as he could manage, he bent over to pick up the flexible, iron-ringed headpiece, slipping it on. Put on the heavy, chain mail coat. Stepped into the wire-wrapped shoes, iron cleats in them meant to stick into the ground with every step.
A roar overhead! A lightning strike so low it slashed through the dead limbs of roadside trees before exploding in a rain of splinters!
"I'm ready," John said, straightening, feeling that he must look like a Samurai warrior in full regalia. Ridiculous.
Turning to get the spare torch out of the cart, John waddled to the front
to take the pony reins from Zwicia and the first torch from Platinia.
He turned to the girl, seeing her well enough through the open mesh of his iron hood. "You must both go back. If you hurry, you'll be safe. The dark Mage is zeroing in, which means that if you backtrack quickly, you'll get beyond range." Again, John pointed back down the road.
Surely some of that translated.
Upending the second torch, John touched the flame of his torch to the other torch's dry grass and sticks.
The second torch beginning to blaze, he handed it to Zwicia, gesturing to indicate that she should hold the fire away from her, Zwicia turning to totter back at what was, for her, a flying pace.
If Zwicia understood, so did Platinia.
And still the girl refused to move, looking up at John with wide-open eyes, her small, but perfect, face aglow beneath the metal mesh.
White light! ... Crash!
"Go on," John yelled as he wrapped the pony leads firmly around his free hand, the little brown beasts lathered up but apparently not yet ready to bolt. "Get out of here!"
"Lebz kanp with you," the girl said, raising her small voice to be heard over the nickering ponies, the stunted horses digging in with their small hooves as they tried to back up, then shifting their weight from side to side.
"Lebz stay ...."
"You can't stay with me!" he barked, the girl stubbornly standing her ground. "I've got to go on alone. I'll be all right. I've got the protective suit. Besides, I have the cannon. If I read the situation right, Auro's citizens won't be a factor any more. It's just him and me. Mano a Mano. And I've got the upper hand. I can walk right through his magic fire until I'm within range." The girl shrugged.
Light! Boom!!
So close this time that John was struck by a limb blasted off a nearby tree.
* * * * *
Momentarily stunned, John was brought back from the dim, half-world of semi-consciousness by pain in his hand.
The ponies, the nearness of the falling bolts having the small beasts rearing, jerking on the lead ropes that John had wrapped around his hand. Though John still had a grip on their reins, he knew the little horses had taken their last, forward step. ..........
There was a solution to the pony problem. Since the artillery weapon itself was on wheels, John could drop the backside of the cart (the tailgate serving double duty as a ramp) then push out the cannon.
Surely he was close enough to his goal not to need the pony cart any longer.
Now that John thought about it, this change of plans provided a solution to the Platinia problem.
"The ponies. You must take the ponies with you. Get them safely away."
And ... that seemed to do it, Platinia nodding that she understood.
Handing Platinia the lead ropes, John turned to unfasten the ponies' harness from the cart, his mind flying ahead of him. After pushing the cannon off the wagon, he could hitch up the extra rope in the gun carriage, use the rope to pull the cannon down the trail.
His plans made, John moved beside the ponies to unclip their harness, the shetlands free of the cart, John looking ahead to see the road start to go downhill from this point. That, plus a trailing wind, should allow him to drag the cannon for quite some time.
Turning, John got a final glimpse of the backside of the ponies, Platinia doing as she'd been told, at last, leading the eager animals to safety in the rear.
John was on his own.
Clanking purposefully to the back of the cart, John reached up to pull the wooden pins, the creaking tailgate bumping to the ground.
Jumping on the low cart bed, John moved to the front of the iron gun. Shoving, rolled the gun carriage over the back of the cart to the soft dirt road.
Fastening a length of rope to the carriage, John decided it would save time later if he ladled the proper amount of gunpowder into the cannon and put in one of the cannonballs. When within range, all he'd have to do was stick a piece of fuse cord in the back of the cannon, light the fuse and the firing would be automatic, the exploding gunpowder in the cannon lighting the thinner fuse cord already in the ball inside, the cannonball thrown out of the barrel to blow up on arrival near the dark Mage. Assuming the cannon worked the way it had in gunnery practice in a deserted part of Xanthin Island.
Stripping off the canvas snugged over the cannon barrel, tossing the protective cover in back of the pony cart, John pried the tight lid off the powder keg; used the dipper to sift a measured amount of powder down the slanted gun barrel.
Picking up one of the cannonballs, he lifted it to the barrel, the tight fitting ball settling itself in the bore before sliding down into firing position.
For a moment, John debated about whether or not this was the time to put in the cannon's fuse.
Decided against it, the fuse more vulnerable in the cannon than in the sack.
Shifting the torch to his left hand, bending forward, gripping the rope, John threw his shoulder into it, the heavy gun beginning to move.
And John was off again, the rope not cutting into his shoulder too badly, John finding he was relieved to no longer have to worry about Platinia. All he had to do now was keep the clumsy cannon carriage in the middle of the road, John soon alerted to a new sensation -- the ease with which he was pulling the gun -- John looking up to see that the road had begun to slope down before him, also seeing, for the first time, another streak of light begin ... rise, arc down .... the world around John turning a stark, blinding white!!
A direct hit!
With ... no results ... except that John came to himself to find he was standing in a broad, but shallow, hole that wasn't there before.
As John's eyes adjusted to the dark again, as the ringing in his ears faded, John tried to process what he'd just witnessed.
First, a flash starting not too far ahead at the bottom of the road. Then, the bolt strike!
Something he'd been waiting for! An indication that the journey was coming to an end.
Surely, he'd find the evil Mage of Azare down there on the flat where the bolts began!
-23-
Five more steps along the dark path and the downward pitch of the dead-forest trail increased, making the pulling of the gun easier. Easier but ...
For the first time, John was aware of feeling something other than ... numb. He felt ... afraid!
Though the gun cart rolled by itself at that grade, John was sweating; the sweat of hysteria, great, cold drops sliding down John's forehead.
Chills watered his spine. Skeletal fingers clutched his neck. Shaking, John stopped, the artillery piece continuing to roll another yard until the rope was slack.
Holding both rope and torch handle in the same hand, John wiped the perspiration from his eyes as best he could through the open rings of his metal mask, for the first time finding himself racked with shivers so violent they rattled his iron-mesh suit.
Dread. Producing stomach-knotting terror!
But ... why now?
Nothing had changed. John was dressed in his protective cloak, metal-ringed hood over his head, spiked boots grounding him firmly to the soft dirt trail. The downward grade of the path plus the sharp wind at his back relieved him of any worry he might have had about the distance he could pull the cannon.
Trying to consider his situation between paralyzing chills, the only thing that had changed was that Platinia was no longer by his side.
A thought that shamed him! Had he become so addicted to the girl's calming presence he was loath to face danger without her?
Irritated by that thought, John raised the torch, the swelling wind at his back ruffling the firebrand's flame.
Seeing nothing threatening out there in the gloom, John forced himself to take the steps necessary to tighten the rope.
Then hesitated.
Even with the torch held high, John could see little except flickering shadows to either side of the forest path, the trail itself narrowing into total blackness before him.
Not much fire left i
n the torch. He made a mental note to pack it with more fuel. ....
Still unnerved, John stood there, trying to imagine a reason to stay rooted to the trail.
Could think of nothing ... except that he'd never felt so much alone.
Determined to shake off this paralyzing fright, John leaned forward! Dug in his spikes! Pulled!
And after the expected strain necessary to counteract the cannon's weight, was shambling off once more, his shoulders bent, his body swaying laboriously like an armored elephant.
Before him, the path of the death-struck forest maintained its downward slant; blackness sealing the trail behind him.
Momentum achieved, the gun tracking docilely on its metal wheels, John could straighten up to look down the road. .....
What?? .......
Something, no doubt about it.
Through the archway of defunct trees, ahead and below him, John could make out what looked like a pencil-thin strip of light rising into the sky, narrowing to nothingness as it ascended the sky's black vastness.
Concentrating on this completely unexpected phenomenon as a way of closing his mind to panic, continuing to haul the field piece toward that mystifying light, John saw the light source thicken until he could see it ... flicker. At least, at the base, before it narrowed to a razor-cut of luminescence in the sable sky.
Another sweaty hour along the path and John could make out a dot of blue above the light-shaft's vanishing point, seeming to be a patch of Azare's dark blue, sky dome.
Light ahead and wind behind. A wind that steadily increased until it was rushing past him like a river surges toward a waterfall. Wind enough to stiffen John's hair through the metal mask; enough to plaster his white, Cinnabar robe to his back and bubble it through the wire rings of his armor in the front.
Half a mile further, another jagged flash of light rose up, then arced down toward him with an atomic flash and mind shattering explosion!
His head ringing like the clapper in a giant bell, John realized that another Mage-strike had staggered him to his knees.
Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series Page 25
