Small images began to build around Jalafar-rula’s head . . . Stonehenge as an immense castle; Stonehenge now in ruins; horses pulling buggies down narrow English streets; Model Ts coming out of early factories; skyscrapers in New York; cars streaming over the Golden
Gate Bridge in California; people looking up at the arch in St. Louis; the opera house in Sydney; a sprawling shopping mall in Minneapolis fdled with shoppers; the space shuttle blasting off; and satellites orbiting Earth.
"As technology improved, Pobe’s work became easier. People from your cities stopped believing in magic. Technology was easier for them to grasp. People didn’t need magic any longer. Factories manufactured televisions and microwaves . . . electricity and variety shows filled the gap. And now, there is little magic left. Oh, there are some pockets here and there. Milo, you unknowingly live in such a pocket on Earth. Your quaint, quaint town. The battlemaid Yevele is near another. But Pobe has nearly drained your world dry. And soon he will turn to another and another, living off their layers. He cannot drain this world, Naile Fangtooth, Milo Jagon. That would be the death of him. But yours . . . what will your world be like if it has no magic at all? Not a breath of it?”
Milo stared speechless at the wizard, and he watched the planes and the other images fade out.
“Why didn’t the wizards here stop him?” Naile raised his voice.
“To get near him is to risk death. He feeds on magic and can drain us dry if he chooses.”
“So you needed someone other than a wizard. And someone not from this world because likely the people here are either too afraid of this ‘Dark One’ or don’t believe you or just don’t have the guts to take him on. Or they don’t know anything about Earth and these layers, and so it’s not their problem.” Naile shook his head. “You needed outsiders, huh?”
“So I brought you here to stop Pobe and to save your world and rekindle its magical spark. Your world is in jeopardy. Your responsibility to aid it. I had intended to meet with you personally, traveling to your world, but Pobe lured me back to this one and into a trap and caught me with my defenses down. I had to rely on my agents and the miniatures. And when you came here, I still tried to reach out to you, but my magic wasn’t strong enough. Pobe siphons me, too, just to keep me from escaping. 1 only was able to contact . . .”
“Berthold of the Green, ” Milo said.
"Yes. And I talk to you now only because of these kind and powerful priests of the Coin Gatherer. I have been bodily imprisoned in the depths of Quag Keep for ...”
The priest’s spell wavered, and he added another tattoo. Brother Reed leaned forward and took more coins from Milo’s stack. Milo likened their operation to a video game. To keep playing, he had to put more tokens in the slot.
"... many long months.”
"Pobe, this villain, he means to kill you?” Naile asked.
Jalafar-rula shook his head. "He needs me.” The wizard paused. "I am a conduit.”
"And he’s siphoning Earth through you.” Milo leaned farther forward. "He’s using you to steal the magic.”
"Not precisely. He has a device, something of great power that lets him leach the magic from your world. But he needs me to keep the link open.”
“So he has to keep you alive.”
A nod.
"So, if you died, Earth would be spared?"
“Milo Jagon, I am not so altruistic as to kill myself to save your magic. I am a good soul, but I will not sacrifice myself to that end. Too important. Too many things left to do."
“So it’s up to us,” Milo stated. “We have to take care of this Pobe for you. ”
“For your own future,” Jalafar-rula corrected. “Which is why I summoned you . . . gamers . . . here. Consider this your grandest game yet. One worthy of true adventurous spirits."
“And if we fail?” Naile was on his knees, eye-to-eye with the wizard. “So what happens with magic gone? It’s like you said, people don’t believe in magic on Earth anyway.”
The old, old face looked pained. "Naile Fangtooth, without any magic at all, Earth will lose its spark. Imagination will stagnate, and the Dark One’s minions will be loosed to feast on the remains.”
"And that means we have to rescue you,” Milo cut it. “Doesn’t it?
We can’t stop this ‘Dark One’ without your help. We can’t find this ‘siphoning device’ without you. ”
Another nod.
“So we have to get to Quag Keep.’’ Milo looked to Naile. “We have to get to the tower and explain all of this to Yevele and Ingrge.’’
“And Berthold of the Green.’’
“But Quag Keep is a long way from here, Naile. It could take us weeks.”
The image of jalafar-rula of Stonehenge wavered, then winked out. The priest shook his head and blinked, then slumped, the spell obviously taking a lot out of him. His eyes had a faraway look, and were pale, like water running over stones.
“I sympathize with your plight, Milo, Naile." The priest’s voice was halting, his breathing labored. Brother Reed helped steady him. “We can help. Together we can cast a spell that would send you straight to Jalafar-rula of Stonehenge.”
Milo brightened and jumped to his feet. “Great! You could send us right to this wizard? "
“Yes,” Brother Reed said. “We have such magic.”
“But it will cost you,” the elder priest added. “More coins than you have left. ’’
Milo looked down at the smattering of silver pieces remaining at his feet.
Breath of life
Ingrge fell forward into the room, the swinging scythe passing above his prone body. Torchlight from the main room spilled in to show that blood streamed from what remained of his right arm. He was conscious, and he was doing everything he could to keep from screaming in pain.
Berthold watched the timing of the scythe, then leapt between the swings and vaulted to Ingrge’s side. Yevele was on his heels, narrowly avoiding the blade, though it sliced her cloak. She made a move toward Ingrge’s head, but slipped on the blood and fell, her sword and chainmail shirt clanking as the metal hit stone.
“Quiet,” Berthold warned. He rolled Ingrge onto his back and tugged a dagger free. Then he pried open the elf’s clenched teeth and shoved the pommel in. “Bite down on this, Ingrge. Try to keep quiet. Please, please try to keep quiet.” He glanced at Yevele, intending to ask her for help.
But she was up and at the door, yanking the scythe blade free of the mechanism above the door frame, and making more noise in the process. “Should’ve thought,’’ she said. “Ingrge and I should’ve been more careful. Every time in the game that you get ahead of yourself, get careless, something bad happens. Except in the game you’re only losing paper characters. You can always get new ones, sometimes better ones depending on how the dice rolls. No great loss, paper.”
“But Ingrge’s not paper,” Berthold pointed out sharply. “And we could lose him.” It was as close as he’d come to directly telling her I told you do.
She leaned her head out into the hall, then, satisfied nothing was outside, she slipped away.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Berthold fumed. He was about to call her back inside. Ingrge had broken into a cold sweat and was going white, the blood spurted faster from his stump, and Berthold’s attempt to stop the bleeding with his cloak was doing nothing. The elf was dying.
A “throom” sounded from above.
Yevele returned a moment later, holding a torch she’d retrieved from the main room. She slammed the door forcibly behind her. “The troll’s coming. It is a troll for certain. Saw its big green foot on the top stair. Hopefully it didn’t hear me fall, and more, I hope it wasn’t taught to count the torches.” She slipped in the blood again, but this time kept her footing, kneeling in the growing pool and nodding to Berthold.
The “throoming” was growing louder, it was true that the sentry was coming down the stairs and making his circuit of the main room again.
Berthold held Ingrg
e’s mouth closed on the pommel and Yevele thrust the torch against the stump, attempting to cauterize the wound. The torch gave off no heat, yet it burned the elf, and he thrashed. The stench of burning flesh was strong, and they looked to the door, thinking the sentry would smell it, too, and come to investigate, and that they should have waited just a moment, but the “throoming" went past the door, just as Berthold lay on top of the elf to keep him from writhing. The thief feared Ingrge would either hurt himself or make noise that would bring the troll down upon them all.
Suddenly, mercifully, Ingrge went unconscious, and Yevele and
Berthold sagged back to catch their breath. Neither said a word, both intent on those heavy footsteps that were pausing somewhere for a moment then continuing on. When the "throoming” finally retreated up the stairs, Berthold tugged his tunic up to wipe the sweat off his own face.
Yevele shrugged her cloak off and began tearing it into strips. The first piece she rolled into a pad, which she carefully knotted onto the end of the elf’s stump with another longer strip. Ingrge had lost his arm just above the elbow. She threw a piece of her cloak over the lost limb so she wouldn’t have to look at it.
Moving around to Ingrge’s shoulders, she settled there and pulled him up so she was cradling him, dabbing at his face with a strip of her cloak, whispering that everything would be all right, even though her voice made it clear she was uncertain.
It was almost tender, and it was the most sympathetic Berthold had seen the battlemaid. He nearly made a comment about her having a heart after all, but wisely stopped himself and looked around the room. It was lit by the torch that lay on the stone floor a few feet from Ingrge, still not consuming itself nor giving off smoke.
Its far wall was curved, following the outline of the tower. Against it were curved bookshelves that reached up to a ceiling nearly fifteen feet high. The books gave off no scent, which surprised the thief. He’d expected to smell old paper and leather, and rotting wood as the shelves were old and had wormholes. He retrieved the torch and went to the nearest shelf. None of the spines had titles, but he knew from studying medieval times that books were not labeled like they are now. Tucking the torch under one arm, he pulled down a thick book and carefully kept it away from the magical flame. There was a thick layer of dust on the top of it, and he noticed the same on the other books nearby and on the wood. No one had been in here for a while. Berthold flapped open the cover to find a title and saw that it was written in a form of Old English that was difficult to read, though not impossible. But it would take a while.
"Like trying to read Beowulf in the original script,” he muttered.
"We don’t have time for you to look at books,” Yevele said. She still cradled Ingrge, slightly rocking him. “We need to get him out of here.”
“To take him where? This room’s as good a place as any.” Berthold selected another book and thumbed through it. And then another. “I thought maybe these books might tell us about the Keep. Maybe show a map or something. Let us get down below. Tell us about whoever used to live here.’’
Yevele’s eyes flashed with fire. “Aren’t you listening to me? We have to help Ingrge. That’s our first priority.”
Berthold whirled to face her. “I’d love to help Ingrge. He’s a fine fellow — in this world and probably back in his own. But I’ve done all I can for him right now. And there’s nothing more that you can do either. In the game, at least in the game we played, we always took a priest or a wise woman with us. So that when some monster tried to eat our face, she’d heal us. Or we’d carry potions in our pockets. Heavy duty, magical Pepto Bismol that would make everything all better again.’’
"We bad a priest with us,” she answered softly. “His name was . . . Li . . . Deav Dyne. He went to the swamp with Gulth.”
"Who?”
"Gulth. Doesn’t matter. At least they’re safe. But we have to help Ingrge.’”
“There’s no hospital here, Yevele. No priests. No potions. We can’t help Ingrge.” He replaced the book and rubbed his chin. “Or maybe we can. Maybe the best thing we can do is find out how to get below this tower and free the wizard. Maybe the wizard can do something. I certainly don’t have a better idea than that. All I know is I’m losing touch with Kentucky. It’s getting harder and harder to remember things. That scares me. It we lose touch entirely, what’s all this for?” Yevele brushed a thin strand of hair off the elf’s forehead. “If we can find the way below. If we can find the wizard. All of that might be too late for Ingrge. And does the wizard even exist, or did you dream him up on a night filled with too much wine? ”
"I don’t know anymore, Yevele. I don’t know for certain what’s real and what’s a dream. Maybe I’m Berthold of the Green only dreaming that I'm really Bertrum Wiggins, patrolman from Bowling Green, Kentucky.’’ Berthold looked at another book, then gave up. "But the tower’s real.’’ He turned to face the wall behind Ingrge, seeing shelves containing rolled parchments and jars filled with things he didn’t want to think about.
“So what do you want to do, Yevele?” His stomach growled at that instant, and he selected another book. "I’m hungry. Forgot it’s been a while since we ate. You hungry? What do you want to do, Yevele?”
"I’ve an idea.” She eased herself away from Ingrge and returned to the door, listening carefully for any sound from the troll. "I could slay it, the troll, I’m certain of it. They’re strong and vicious, but not especially bright. ”
"Fine, so you want to kill a troll. I don’t see how that would help the elf.”
“But I might not be able to kill it quickly, and it could make quite a bit of noise first. It might alert other things in the tower. Maybe more trolls. Maybe too many trolls. When we were here before, we saw odd beasts and had a few nasty fights."
“So you don’t want to kill the troll.”
“No. Not yet.” She carefully opened the door and looked out into the main room. Then she opened it all the way, came back to Ingrge and picked him up. The gesture looked effortless for her, and she carried him out of the room and into the one housing the menagerie.
Berthold followed, magical torch in one hand, a book tucked under his arm, careful to close both doors behind her. “Soyou’ve moved him,” he said. “Not an especially wise thing to do in his condition. Just might make him bleed some more. And from the looks of the floor back there, you can see he's already lost a lot of blood. Too, too much blood.”
She carefully laid him in front of a row of cages, using the last of her cloak for a scant pillow. Then she pointed to Alfreeta. “You said you thought you could get her out of there. ”
“I also said I thought there might be some sort of glyph or such, something that might trigger a magical alarm. Alert all those trolls that might be walking the halls.”
"Or maybe there isn’t any alarm. Free her.” Yevele made it clear that it wasn’t a request.
Berthold shrugged, decided not to argue. "So be it,” he whispered. “If an alarm sounds, we probably won’t have to worry about finding our way down below the tower. And we won’t have to worry about finding something to eat. I suspect—”
The "throoming” started again. But this time it was louder, and there was a longer interval between steps. Yevele and Berthold looked at each other, and Yevele crept to the door and put her ear to the crack. The "throoming” made the same circuit of the room, but when it stopped in front of the menagerie’s door, it was accompanied by a wuffling sound, something sniffing at the crack. Yevele stepped to the side, her hand clenched around the pommel of her sword.
"Rruf?” It was a loud sound and it made the door vibrate a little. "Rruff nerug.” Then the "throoming” resumed, stopping at the next door, making another circle of the main room, at last going up the stairs. Yevele risked a peek out, catching a glimpse of the creature disappearing into the shadows above.
She closed the door and closed her eyes, let out the breath she’d been holding. "It’s a giant,” she said softly. "With big, hai
ry legs. And it was dragging a big club. There wasn't a giant when we were here before.”
“Not that you saw, anyway.” Berthold wiped at the sweat on his face again. "I think I’ve lost three pounds since coming in here, Yevele. All this nervous sweat.”
"I could take the giant, with your help, ” she said.
He turned his attention to the cage holding Alfreeta. She was at the front, wings moving, though there wasn’t enough room for her to flap them and fly. Her eyes blinked furiously, and her tongue darted in and out, touching the bars. Berthold knew she should be making some noise, but there was only silence.
"The occupant of the tower, he mustn’t want to hear the ruckus from these creatures. They should be seen and kept in cages, but not heard.” He was on his tiptoes, hands above his head and fingers running over the latch. “Yeah, it’s got some sort of enchantment on it, but I think I can break it."
Berthold leaned back on his heels and retrieved his leather pouch, opening it and studying the picks inside. “This one and this one.” He pulled two out and replaced the pouch. Then he stood on his tiptoes again and started to work on the lock. “Not quite tall enough,” he said to himself. Then he felt himself being lifted, Yevele’s hands on his hips and holding him higher.
He nearly dropped the picks in surprise and embarrassment. “That’s not at all necessary Yevele. I can. . . .”
“Just open the cage, thief.”
He glared at her, and her face softened.
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