“You don’t say?” he called back. “Think we should be taking their side? It’s probably better for the Pattern to take her back than for the Courts to get her, wouldn’t you think?”
“She shouldn’t be used that way,” I said. “Let’s take her away from both of them.”
“I agree with your feelings,” he stated. “But what if we succeed? I don’t really care to be struck by a meteor or transported to the bottom of the nearest ocean.”
“As near as I can tell, the spikard doesn’t draw its power from the Pattern or the Logrus. Its sources are scattered through Shadow.”
“So? I’m sure it’s not a match for either one, let alone both.”
“No, but I can use it to start an evasion course. They’ll be getting in each other’s way if they decide to pursue us.”
“But eventually they’d find us, wouldn’t they?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I have some ideas, but we’re running out of time.”
“Dalt, did you hear all that?” Luke asked.
“I did,” Dalt replied.
“If you want out, now’s your chance.”
“And miss an opportunity to twist the Unicorn’s tail?” he said. “Keep riding!”
We did, and the shouts grew louder as we raced ahead. There was a certain timeless feeling to it, though—with the muffled sounds and the dimness—as if we had always been riding here and always would be. . . .
Then we rounded a bend and I saw the top of the tower in the distance, heard more shouts. We slowed as we came to the next turn, advancing more cautiously, working our way through a small stand of black saplings.
Finally, we halted, dismounted, worked our way forward on foot. We pushed aside the final screening branches and looked down a slight slope to a blackened, sandy plain beside a three-story gray tower with slit windows and a narrow entranceway. It took a while to sort out the tableau at its base.
There were two demonformed individuals standing to either side of the tower’s entrance. They were armed and their attention seemed focused upon the contest taking place on the sands before them. Familiar figures stood at the far end of this impromptu arena and at either side: Benedict stroked his chin, expressionless; Eric hunkered and smiled; Caine juggled, flipped, palmed, and passed a dagger, reflexively, through some private routine, an expression of amused fascination on his face. From the tower’s top, I suddenly noted, two horned demons leaned forward, their gazes as intent as those of Amber’s Pattern ghosts.
At the circle’s center Gerard faced a demonformed son of Hendrake, of his own height and greater girth. It looked to be Chinaway himself, who was said to have a collection of over two hundred skulls of those he’d dispatched. I preferred Gerard’s collection of a thousand or so mugs, steins, and drinking horns, but your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, in an English lane, if you know what I mean.
Both were stripped to the waist, and from the scuffed-up condition of the sands about them I guessed they had been at it for some time. Chinaway tried to trip Gerard just then, who caught his arm and head as he stepped behind him, and sent him cartwheeling away. The demon lord came up on his feet, however, and immediately advanced once again, arms extended, hands weaving a sinuous pattern before him. Gerard simply waited in a ready position. Chinaway stabbed taloned fingers toward Gerard’s eyes and hooked a blow against his rib cage. Gerard caught hold of his shoulder, however, as Chinaway dropped and caught him about the thigh.
“Let’s wait,” Dalt said softly. “I want to watch.” Luke and I both nodded as Gerard locked Chinaway’s head and Chinaway wrapped his other arm about Gerard’s waist. Then they simply stood there, muscles bulging beneath two hides, one pale and smooth, the other red and scaly. Their lungs worked like bellows.
“I assume the thing’s been dragging out,” Luke whispered, “and they decided to settle it champion against champion.”
“Looks that way,” I said.
“Coral must be inside then, wouldn’t you think?”
“Wait a minute.”
I ran a quick probe into the structure, locating two people within. I nodded then.
“Her and a single guard, I’d say.”
Gerard and Chinaway still stood like statues.
“Now might be the best time to grab Coral,” Luke said, “while everybody’s watching the fight.”
“You’re probably right,” I told him. “Let me see whether I can make myself invisible. That might simplify matters.”
“Okay,” he said about a quarter minute later. “Whatever you did just then worked. You’re gone.”
“Indeed I am,” I said. “Back in a bit.”
“How will you get her out?”
“I’ll decide after I’ve reached her. Just be ready.”
I moved slowly, careful not to scuff the sand. I skirted the circle, passing behind Caine. I approached the door to the tower, soundless, checking about me constantly. Gerard and Chinaway still stood exactly as they had been, locked, and applying enormous pressures to each other.
I passed between the guards, entering the dim interior of the tower. It consisted of a single round room with a bare earth floor, stone pedestals beneath each slit window. A ladder led up to the second floor through a hole in the ceiling. Coral lay upon a blanket to my left; the individual who was ostensibly guarding her stood upon a pedestal, watching the fight through the nearest window.
I moved nearer, knelt, caught up her left wrist and felt her pulse. It was strong and steady. I decided against trying to awaken her, though. Instead, I wrapped the blanket around her, raised her in my arms, and stood.
I was about to try extending the invisibility spell to include her when the watcher at the window turned. I must have made some noise in moving her.
For a moment, the guard stared at the sight of his prisoner drifting below him. Then he opened his mouth, as if to give alarm—leaving me with small choice but to shock his nervous system into insensibility with a charge from my ring.
Unfortunately, there was a rattle of arms as he fell from his pedestal to the floor. Almost immediately, I heard a cry from overhead; followed by sounds of rapid movement.
Turning, I hurried to the door. I had to slow and turn because of its narrowness. I wasn’t certain what the guards outside would think when a comatose Coral drifted by, but I didn’t want to be trapped inside. Peering ahead, I saw that Gerard and Chinaway seemed in the same position as before. Seconds later, however, as I turned my body and took my first sidling step, there came a sudden, sharp twisting movement from Gerard, followed immediately by a sound like that of a snapping stick.
Gerard let his arms fall and stood erect. The body of Chinaway hit the ground at his side, neck at an unnatural angle. Eric and Caine applauded. The two guards beside the door moved forward. Behind me, within, the ladder rattled at the other side of the room. I heard a cry from that direction.
Two more steps and I turned, headed left. The outside guards were rushing toward their fallen champion. A half dozen paces, and there were more cries at my back, as my pursuers exited the tower; and there were human cries as well, from the killing circle.
I knew that I couldn’t outrun any of them, carrying my burden; and all that motor activity interfered with my concentration to the point where I was incapable of performing magical operations.
So I dropped to my knees, lowering Coral to the ground before me, turned without even rising, and extended my left fist, plunging my mind deep within the ring, calling for extreme measures to halt the pair of Hendrake commandos who were only a few paces away now, edged weapons ready to pierce and to slash.
. . . And then they were caught up in the midst of flames. I think they screamed, but there was a lot of noise just then. Two paces more, perhaps, and they fell, blackened and twitching, before me. My hand was shaking, from its proximity to the powers that caused this; and I hadn’t time, even, to think or to feel as I swung toward the sandy place of the recent contest and whatever might be coming at me f
rom that direction.
One of the two guards who had rushed forward lay smoldering on the ground at Eric’s feet. Another—who had apparently attacked Caine—clutched at the knife in his gullet, fires spreading outward, downward, upward, from his throat, as he sank slowly, then toppled to the rear.
Immediately, Caine, Eric, and Benedict turned to stare at me. Gerard, having just drawn on a blue shirt, was buckling his swordbelt in place. He turned, too, just as Caine said, “And who, sir, are you?”
“Merlin,” I replied, “son of Corwin.” Caine actually looked startled.
“Does Corwin have a son?” he asked the others. Eric shrugged and Gerard said, “I don’t know.” But Benedict studied me.
“There is a resemblance,” he said.
“True,” Caine agreed. “All right, boy. Even if you are Corwin’s son, that woman you’re making off with belongs to us. We just won her fair and square off these well-done Chaosites.”
With that, he began walking toward me. A moment later, Eric joined him. Then Gerard fell into step behind them. I didn’t want to harm them, even if they were only ghosts, so I gestured and a line was drawn in the sand before them. Immediately, it caught fire.
They halted.
Suddenly, a huge figure appeared at my left. It was Dalt, a naked blade in his hand. A moment later, Luke was there. Then Nayda. The four of us faced the four of them, across the fire.
“She’s ours now,” Dalt said, and he took a single step forward.
“You are mistaken,” came the reply, and Eric crossed the line, drawing his weapon.
Dalt was a couple of inches taller than Eric, and he had a longer reach. He moved forward immediately. I expected some kind of cut from that big blade he carried, but he went in for a point-attack. Eric, using a lighter weapon, sidestepped and came in under his arm. Dalt dropped the point of his blade, moved to his left, and parried it. The two weapons were suited for very different styles—Eric’s being at the heaviest end of the rapier class, Dalt’s at the lighter end of broadsword. Dalt’s could be a single-handed weapon for a big-enough, strong-enough guy. I’d have had to use it two-handed myself. Dalt tried an upward cut just then, of the sort a Japanese swordsman would refer to as kiriage. Eric simply stepped back and tried for a wrist cut as it passed him. Dalt suddenly moved his left hand to the haft and executed a blinding two-handed cut of the sort known as naname giri. Eric continued to circle, trying for the wrist yet again.
Suddenly, Dalt opened his right hand and let it drift back, as his right foot performed a huge semicircular step to his rear and his left arm moved forward, leaving him in a left-handed European en garde position, from which that massive arm and matching blade immediately extended, performing an inside beat upon Eric’s blade followed by a lunge. Eric parried as his right foot crossed behind his left and he sprang backward. Even so, I saw a spark as his guard was creased. He feinted in sixte, however, dropped his point beneath the parry that followed, extended his arm in quatre; raised himself and his blade into something resembling a stop-thrust targeting the left shoulder as the parry crossed, turned his wrist, and slashed Dalt across the left forearm.
Caine applauded, but Dalt simply brought his hands together and separated them again, executing a little hopstep as he did so, leaving him in a right en garde position. Eric drew circles in the air with the point of his weapon and smiled.
“Cute little dance routine you have there,” he said.
Then Eric lunged, was parried, retreated, sidestepped, threw a front kick at Dalt’s kneecap, missed, then moved with perfect timing as Dalt attempted a head cut. Switching to the Japanese himself, he spun in to the larger man’s right, a maneuver I’d seen in a kumatchi exercise, his own blade rising and falling as Dalt’s cut swept past. Dalt’s right forearm went suddenly wet, a thing I did not really notice until after Eric had rotated his weapon, blade pointing outward and upward, and, the guard covering his knuckles, had driven his fist against the right side of Dalt’s jaw. He kicked him then behind the knee and struck him with his left shoulder. Dalt stumbled and fell. Eric immediately kicked him, kidney, elbow, thigh—the latter only because he missed the knee—set his boot upon Dalt’s weapon and swung his own about to bring its point in line with the man’s heart.
I had been hoping all along, I suddenly realized, that Dalt would kick Eric’s ass—not just because he was on my side and Eric wasn’t, but because of the rough time Eric had given my dad. On the other hand, I doubted there were too many people of such ass-kicking prowess about. Unfortunately, two of them stood on the other side of the line I had drawn. Gerard could have outwrestled him. Benedict, Master of Arms at Amber, could have beaten him with any weapon. I just didn’t see us as having much of a chance against them all, with Caine thrown in for good measure—not even with a ty’iga on our side. And if I were suddenly to tell Eric that Dalt was his half brother, it wouldn’t slow his thrust by an instant, even if he believed me.
So I made the only decision I could make. They were, after all, only Pattern ghosts. The real Benedict and Gerard were somewhere else at this moment and would in no way be harmed by anything I did to their doubles here. Eric and Caine were, of course, long dead, Caine being the fratricidal hero of the Patternfall war and subject of a recent statue on the Grand Concourse, on the occasion of Luke’s assassinating him for killing his father. And Eric, of course, had found a hero’s death on the slopes of Kolvir, saving him, I suppose, from dying at the hands of my father. The bloody history of my family swam through my head as I raised the spikard to add a footnote to it, calling again for the wave of incineration that had taken out two of my Hendrake kin.
My arm felt as if someone had struck it with a baseball bat. A wisp of smoke rose from the spikard. For a moment, my four upright uncles stood unmoving. And my fifth remained supine.
Then, slowly, Eric raised his weapon. And he continued to raise it, as Benedict, Caine, and Gerard drew theirs. He straightened as he held it before his face. The others did the same. It looked strangely like a salute; and Eric’s eyes met mine.
“I know you,” he said.
Then they all completed the gesture, and faded, faded, turned to smoke, and blew away.
Dalt bled, my arm ached, and I figured out what was going on just moments before Luke gasped and said, “Over there.”
My line of fire had gone out some time ago, but beyond the mark it had left, where my faded kinsmen had just been standing, the air began to shimmer.
“That will be the Pattern,” I said to Luke, “come calling.”
A moment later the Sign of the Pattern hovered before us.
“Merlin,” it said, “you certainly move around a lot.”
“My life has become very busy of late,” I said.
“You took my advice and left the Courts.”
“Yes, that seemed prudent.”
“But I do not understand your purposes here.”
“What’s to understand?”
“You took the lady Coral away from the agents of the Logrus.”
“That’s right.”
“But then you attempted to keep her from my agents as well.”
“That, too, is correct.”
“You must realize by now that she bears something that contributes to our balance of power.”
“Yes.”
“So one of us must have her. Yet you would deny us both.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s her whom I care about. She has rights and feelings. You’re treating her like a game piece.”
“True. I recognize her personhood, but unfortunately she is become both.”
“Then I would deny her to both of you. Nothing would be changed, in that neither of you has her now, anyway. But I would take her out of the game.”
“Merlin, you are a more important piece than she is, but you are still only a piece and you may not dictate to me. Do you understand?”
“I understand my value to you,” I said.
�
��I think not,” it responded.
I was wondering just then how strong it really was in this place. It seemed obvious that in terms of energy expenditure, it had been necessary for it to release its four ghosts to be able to manifest itself here. Dared I oppose it with every channel on the spikard opened? I had never tried accessing every Shadow source it controlled simultaneously. If I did this, and if I were to move very quickly, could I get us all out of here before the Pattern reacted? If I couldn’t, could I punch through whatever it raised up to stop us? And if I succeeded—either way—to what place should we flee?
Finally, how might this affect the Pattern’s attitude toward me?
( . . . if you are not eaten by something bigger, come tell me your story one night.)
What the hell, I decided. It is a good day to be listed a la carte.
I opened all the channels.
It felt as if I had been jogging along at a good clip and a brick wall had suddenly appeared six inches before me.
I felt the smash and I went away.
I lay upon a smooth, cool stone surface. There was a terrible rushing of energies in my mind and body. I reached into their source and took control of them, dampening them to something that didn’t threaten to take the top of my head off. Then I opened one eye, slightly.
The sky was very blue. I saw a pair of boots, standing a few feet off, faced away from me. I recognized them as Nayda’s, and turning my head slightly, I saw that she wore them. I also saw then that Dalt lay sprawled several yards off to my left.
Nayda was breathing heavily, and my Logrus vision showed a pale red light about her vibrating hands, menacing.
Propping myself upon my left elbow and peering about her, I saw that she stood between me and the Sign of the Pattern that hovered in the air perhaps ten feet away.
When it spoke again it was the first time I’d heard it express anything like amusement: “You would protect him, against me?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Why?”
“I did it for so long that it would be a shame to fail him when he really needs it.”
“Creature of the Pit, do you know where you stand?” it asked.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 185
