One Quest, Hold the Dragons

by Greg Costikyan

  By the time he reached the ridgeline, he was panting. He had made good time up the hill-better time, in fact, than the soldiers, who were still some paces from the ridge's peak, perhaps fifty rods distant. Mortise, feeling uncomfortably exposed, began to descend the ridge's far side. Perhaps he could find a hiding place before the soldiers reached the ridgeline themselves.

  Indeed, a perfect place presented itself: a copse of trees, standing alone on the valley floor. He must first descend the ridge, then walk several minutes to get there, but once there, could observe Broderick and the army without fear of being seen.

  He made haste, running down the slope and leaping from one terrace to the next. Mortise reached the valley floor and peered back up the ridge. Could he make it to the copse before the soldiers reached the ridgeline?

  Alas, no; the cavalry was just beginning to cross the ridge, the men leading their horses slantwise down the slope-more or less in his direction. Mortise cursed—then noticed that the intervening plain was planted in wheat and maize. If he crawled, the plants would shelter him.

  And so, on hands and knees, he skirted the periphery of the wheatfield—to plunge into it would mean swaying stalks of wheat, which the soldiers might observe. The next field was maize; he wove his way between the stalks, green leaves a canopy over his head. It was cool, down here by the earth, the leaves filtering out the harshest rays of the sun.

  After some minutes, he stuck his head up high enough to essay a glimpse of his surroundings. The soldiers were closer now, he saw; indeed, they had taken up position in the very wheatfield he had left moments ago. The cavalry had remounted and had formed up in ranks at center, flanked on either side by the foot. The latter were in tight formation, guisards held parallel and forward. They were clearly expecting trouble. And they were facing him.

  Mortise yanked his head down and hugged the cool earth. He was directly between the soldiers and the copse of trees.

  Could the elves be amid those trees?

  In sudden terror, Mortise realized: It was more than likely. Elves are creatures of the woods; if forced, for some reason, to travel across a cultivated plain, they would make camp, if at all possible, amid some stand of trees, some little wood.

  "Deeset aid me," Mortise whispered into the dirt-but he was facing the wrong way, not toward the heavens; and anyway, the moon had not yet risen.

  Stalks of corn cracked. A single footman rode past Mortise, close enough that the friar could see the froth about the horse's bit. He bore a white flag.

  This relieved Mortise somewhat; they were going to try to parley. He wasn't going to be trampled to death by charging cavalry for a little bit longer, in any event.

  The footman dismounted not far away and planted his flag.

  Long moments passed. Mortise wondered whether he should try to crawl off-but with the footman so close feared even to breathe, lest that give him away. He dithered, until he heard a voice speak.

  "Hiya," it said. It was a cheerful voice, rather highpitched. "What's shaking?"

  An elf, Mortise thought.

  The footman cleared his throat. "The Graf von Grentz would speak with you under flag of truce," he said.

  "Jake by me," said the elf.

  The footman blew a horn—Mortise nearly leapt out ofhis skin—and, a moment or two later, another two horses passed within yards of Mortise. One bore Broderick; the other, the nobleman Mortise had seen before—the Graf von Grentz, he presumed. Though von Grentz retained his armor, Mortise saw, both noblemen had left their swords behind.

  "I hight Gerlad, Graf von Grentz," said a deep, curiously calm voice.

  "Howdy," said the elf. "You can call me Beliel. Hiya, Broddy, old buddy."

  "Greetings, Beliel," said von Grentz. "Are you aware that you are in Hamsterian territory?"

  "Gosh, is that so?" said the elf, slightly sarcastically. "Golly. Well, you know how it is, if it's Tuesday, this must be Ishkabibble. Got my passport here somewhere, just a sec . . ."

  "To be specific," said von Grentz, "you are in County Weintroockle, a fief of the House von Grentz. My demesne, in other words. Which you have entered, bearing arms, leading several dozen elves at arms. An armed invasion, in point of fact. Can you offer any reason why I should not order the lot of you killed out of hand?"

  "Well jeez," said Beliel in an aggrieved tone. "If we'd known you'd be such a prig about it. I mean, we haven't actually done anything; no villages pillaged, no cities put to the sword or nothing. Just merry old elves, singing our merry song as we voyage merrily across the land. Maybe it's technically armed invasion, but gosh, let's keep this in perspective."

  There was silence for a long moment.

  "Then," the elf said, rather more nervously, "there is interspecies comity to consider. I mean, with the war with the orcs and all, you wouldn't want an international incident opening a breach among the Free Peoples, would you?"

  There was another pause.

  "Would you?" said the elf again.

  "Mr. Beliel," said von Grentz, "you will order your folk to leave the thicket of trees ahead of us, one by one, and lay down their arms. You will permit my men to make a thorough search of your equipment."

  "And then?" said Beliel.

  "You will be escorted over the border," said von Grentz.

  "And our things?"

  "Your what?"

  "Our possessions?"

  "Your weapons will be returned to you upon your departure. Items of contraband will be confiscated. Your legal possessions you may retain."

  "Gotcha," said Beliel. "There's this statue, see. We don't plan on giving it up."

  "Indeed," said von Grentz. "Sir Broderick and I have discussed it at considerable length. I believe you stole it from him, and I fully expect you to return it."

  Beliel snorted. "No," he said.

  "No?" von Grentz inquired.

  "No," said Beliel. "Negative. Nugatory. Nope. Uh uh. Nosirreebob. The opposite of yes. No—"

  There was sudden violent motion from where the speakers stood, and the elf's voice broke off. Then Broderick bellowed, "Surrender, or your leader dies!"

  Mortise dared a peek. Broderick had grabbed the elf and held a knife to his throat. Even to possess a knife was a violation of the rules of parley; to hold a negotiator hostage was a criminal act in every human, dwarven, and elven realm. This was loathsome, Mortise thought, even for Broderick.

  Even von Grentz looked rather disgusted, but not enough, apparently, to force Broderick to put the elf down.

  The elves' response was a shower of arrows. One of the horses went down, neighing in terror. Beliel wriggled outof Broderick's grasp and shoved Broderick's own blade, still in Broderick's hand, into Broderick's stomach.

  That was all Mortise saw before he hit the dirt once more. An arrow plunged into the earth scant inches from his head.

  A horse screamed in pain; an arrow must have found its mark. Moments later, another horse thundered close by Mortise, at a gallop-von Grentz, crouching low over his mount's neck, was off to rejoin his army.

  Mortise went to hands and knees and began to scuttle away, keeping his head down but hustling to get out from between the army and the elves. Things were going to get pretty hairy pretty damn soon—

  Things got hairy even sooner. Mortise started, rising inches into the air almost before he heard the report of thunder; a fireball had exploded a few rods distant. A fullthroated, many-voiced roar rose from behind, and the beat of hooves on earth; the air above him was filled with flitting arrows.

  Moaning in terror, Mortise gave up hope of escape and simply clutched the earth for dear life. Another fireball exploded, and another; the air was filled with smoke now. Fortunately, it had been a wet spring; Mortise didn't think the maizefield would burn, not yet, anyway.

  The cavalry thundered past; one horse missed stepping on him by inches. And then there were screams and confusion amid the smoke, the thunderous charge becoming hesitant, breaking up under fire; and then horses galloped back, not
far distant, several with empty saddles.

  Things were quieter momentarily; the quietness only made the screams of the wounded more piercing.

  A silver shadow drifted to a halt before Mortise; the cleric looked up and saw a beast that stood at least twenty hands, silver pelt marred by soot from the fires, eyes reddened with anger and fear, horn a deeper red with the blood of men. The unicorn sniffed Mortise for a moment, but forbore to kill him. It drifted on, as silent as the wind.

  Mortise gasped thanks to Deeset; his connection to the goddess-a deity beloved of elves as well as men-was the only reason he could conceive for the unicorn to spare him.

  There were several more explosions; the smoke became denser. Crashing noises could be heard through the stalks of maize. A pair of boots passed by him.

  The foot was advancing, he realized, under cover of the smoke. They had broken their tight formation and moved forward individually, to make them less vulnerable to archers. No doubt they'd regroup at the forest edge.

  In moments, he heard the clangs of steel. Then Mortise felt magic energy discharge-and the very stalks of maize that had sheltered him until now bent down and began to rip at his flesh.

  Screams from the wood told him that the soldiers were similarly beset. Quietly and grimly, Mortise used his sickle to cut himself free from the maize.

  As quickly as it had come, the spell passed. The sounds of battle continued now, amid the roar of the fire; orange flames licked the sky. They were burning the trees, he realized; a fire mage was with von Grentz, and they were destroying the elves' only haven.

  Wet spring or no, the whole valley would soon be in flames.

  He dared a peek. The trees were a mass of struggling men, horses, and elves. Von Grentz himself, wielding an enormous sword, strove against the unicorn.

  Mortise turned; the ridge behind was empty. The army had passed.

  He leapt to his feet and hurtled away.

  Feet whirled. Music played. Sidney danced.

  Time passed, unreckoned time. So must time be to abeast, which has no way of measuring it, which has no appointments and no intentions beyond the next meal. Time passed; and it didn't seem to matter how long a time.

  It didn't seem to matter. Only the music, the dance, the beautiful creatures, both natural and magical; about her; only these things mattered.

  Sidney collided with Frer Mortise. She had never stumbled or collided with anyone before, in all that long time. Mortise was standing stock-still, not far from the rock at the center of the glade, staring straight upward, upward at the moon.

  It was a full moon.

  Some remote corner of Sidney's mind noted the fact, but failed to recollect that the moon had been a crescent when they had gone to sleep. It didn't seem to matter. Hesitantly, she resumed the dance, mad music swirling about her.

  "Lady Deeset!" shouted a high and reedy voice. "Hear me!" And stock-still within the circle, a motionless point within exuberant motion, Frer Mortise began a prayer, his eyes upward to his goddess.

  His words cut through the music like a knife. The dancers turned toward him, steps slowing, until they stood unsteadily still.

  One by one, the players stopped playing, music dying, turning sour, like a bagpipe blatting as its bag empties. The moon seemed somehow to have grown until it covered half the sky. Though each of the humans stood at a different point within the glade, each of them saw the same thing: the figure of Mortise, silhouetted against an enormous lunar orb. The priest looked angry and stern, shouting the words of his prayer.

  A raccoon scurried away into the forest. The goatlegged man gave a wordless snarl, leapt off the rock-and never hit ground, disappearing in midleap. As the humans came groggily to, they looked about the glade-but the fays were gone.

  The moon was back in its accustomed place, its accustomed size, but a full moon still. Mortise was kneeling now, chanting another prayer, this one in thanks to his goddess.

  Sidney fell to the earth, overcome by fatigue, legs trembling uncontrollably. So did the others, sprawling across the glade.

  "Good heavens," said Timaeus, chest heaving with exhaustion. "What was that?"

  "You slept in a faerie ring," said Mortise, moving from form to form to make sure they were alive. To each he handed a flagon of water.

  Sidney looked about the glade; it was nearly circular, in truth, but there were no toadstools, no standing stones to mark it as such.

  What there was gave her a start: On easels about the glade stood parchments, stretched across triangular and hexagonal frames. On each parchment were painted mystic symbols. At four points around the circle the compass directions, she realized-stood braziers, from which wafted scented smoke.

  "What are those?" she asked, pointing.

  Mortise looked. "It was no small enchantment," he said apologetically. "It took effort and preparation to break it."

  "We should have listened to you," said Jasper. "You did feel uneasy about this place, didn't you?"

  "Yes," said Mortise. He handed each of them a stick of jerky. As he handed one to her, Sidney realized the intensity of her hunger.

  " `I could have danced all night' takes on a new meaning," said Nick tiredly.

  "Ow law i ee," Sidney said, then swallowed, the jerky only half masticated, and tried again. "How long did we dance?"

  "Eleven days," said Mortise.

  There were muttered oaths and exclamations, then silence as they chewed.

  "Thank you, Brother," said Jasper at last. "We owe you a great deal."

  Mortise coughed. "You'll need rest," he said. "I know you're all tired, but I'll have to ask you to move out of the ring. Crawl, if you have to."

  And they did.

  The morning was as pretty a day as one could hope for; clear skies, bright sun, gentle breezes. Sidney itched to go, but Mortise insisted they spend a day resting. "You've got eleven days' eating to catch up on," he said, flipping a cornmeal flapjack in a skillet over the fire. When it was done, he gave it to Sidney, hot out of the pan. She managed to choke it down with stream water. They had neither syrup nor sugar among their supplies.

  "What I don't understand," said Jasper thoughtfully, "is why."

  "Vhy vhat?" asked Kraki.

  "Why did this happen?" asked Jasper. "I've heard the stories about faerie circles, of course; but in the stories, the fays always have some good reason to hate their victims. But what have we done to the fays? Or the elvenkind? Or the denizens of the woods? Apart from killing a few squirrels, I mean."

  Mortise nodded. "They normally avoid humans," he said. "They wanted to kill or delay us. I couldn't say why."

  A shiver ran down Sidney's spine. Certainly some creatures wanted them dead, or delayed; Arst-Kara-Morn might well know of their quest. But the fays were allies of the elvenkind, and therefore of humanity, in the war against the east; there was no sense in it. They should have wished the humans well, if anything. ,

  "Eleven days," she said. "Broderick could be anywhere! We have no idea what happened to the statue. It could be—"

  "Well," said Mortise deferentially, "not no idea."

  "What?" said Sidney.

  So he told them.

  "Elves?" said Jasper.

  "Yes," said Mortise.

  "Why elves?" asked Jasper.

  "Who knows?" said Timaeus shortly. "What does it matter, anyway? It sounds like this von Grentz fellow has it, anyway."

  "That old man with the elves must have been Vic," said Nick.

  "But vhy did he-are the elves good guys?" said Kraki. "What is Vic—"

  "Who knows?" said Timaeus. "The ways of senility are unaccountable."

  "We've got to get going," said Sidney.

  "Tomorrow," said Mortise firmly.

  Toward the evening, Jasper essayed a spell. Sidney watched as he spoke Words of power, spiraled upward into the air in a complex dance-those dirty socks waving in the air below him—and hung there, over the camp, moving slightly this way and that. "Damn," he said at last.

>   "What is it?" asked Sidney; Jasper zipped down to her level. Timaeus listened in, filling his pipe, while the others busied themselves, packing away belongings and washing the dirty dishes at the stream.

  "I'm not sure I can say," said Jasper uncertainly. "Broderick ... Something has changed."

  "Yes," said Sidney. "He's escaped from the elves and gone off with von Grentz and the statue. Is he off in the same direction as before? East-southeast?"