Masters of Fantasy

by Bill Fawcett

  Larson felt along the metal, defining diamond-shaped mesh that would admit the head of someone who wanted the dizzying experience of looking down. He knew from his one visit there, as a young child, that the bars curved toward the building at the top to thwart a more determined jumper from simply climbing over the security rail. I'm at the outer edge of the terrace, touching the fence. Watch for my hands. Direct me toward the hole they cut, and distract anyone who might see me.

  All right, Silme returned. I'm watching for Shadow there, too; but I can't communicate with him.

  Larson remembered Taziar's mind barriers. Choosing a direction at random, he worked his way along the edge, using pylons as steps. Movement proved easier than he had expected, though one wrong weight-shift would send him plunging to his death.

  Al, I see you. You'll get there a lot faster if you go clockwise.

  Larson repositioned, switching direction and heading back the way he had come. A trek that had seemed surprisingly simple, at first, rapidly became a discomfort. His muscles, already aching from the climb, cramped from the unnatural position; and his nerves wound them to tight coils. Wind pounded his face, threatening his grip. Granite scraped the skin from his arms, and the fencing bit into his fingers.

  Almost there. Almost there. Silme's cautious pronouncement fell on welcome ears. Then, her tone changed drastically. Wait! Al, one of them's headed toward you!

  Larson's heart pounded. He could imagine himself struggling to get up while a stranger tore off his hold and sent him into a long and fatal plunge, filled with evil laughter. Distract him!

  I'll try. Silme's contact disappeared from Larson's mind.

  Now completely disoriented, Larson made a desperate choice. He had to assume the worst, that Silme's interference would fail. He could freeze and hope the other man did not see him, but that did not suit him. A man of action, Larson found himself incapable of just remaining in place, blindly hoping a ruthless killer did not notice him. Instead, he increased his pace, the wind whipping though his ears making hearing all but impossible.

  Jaggedly cut metal sliced Larson's palm, and pain shocked through him. Biting his lip, he maintained his grip, easing into position in front of the hole.

  Al! Silme's presence jabbed into his mind like a hot spear. He's right at the opening!

  Larson jerked his head up and found himself staring into the cold dark eyes of a killer. Shaggy black hair fell around a rugged Caucasian face a few years older than his own. He wore a V-neck shirt, a leather backpack, and a hand-hammered peace sign swinging from a gold chain. The eyes went wide with clear shock.

  Push him, Silme! Feet wedged, one hand winched onto the shattered fencing, Larson wound his free fingers around one strap of the man's pack and pulled with all his considerable strength.

  The man slid toward Larson, as if on a dolly. As most of his weight tipped forward, he screamed, grabbing wildly. Larson flinched. If those flailing hands caught him, they would both go tumbling. His own balance thrown backward, he seized a death grip on metal and strap. For an instant, they remained in a strange balance, hovering between life and death, while time seemed to stand still. Then, the man toppled toward oblivion, shrieking in mindless terror. The abrupt shift of weight tore free Larson's toeholds. Suddenly supporting the full mass of two, every tendon in his right arm seemed to snap at once, a stabbing explosion of burning pain. His fingers jerked open. I'm dead. The calm realization seemed savagely out of place. Then, the backpack straps slipped free. The weight of the killer disappeared. A scream swirled on the wind, and something steady clamped onto Larson's wrist, arresting his own fall. Battling rising panic, he sought and found his toeholds on the pylons.

  Hold on, Silme sent. I won't let you fall.

  Larson gulped down bile. He swung his left hand over the ledge, still gripping the killer's backpack. Only then he realized that he could have saved himself some serious injury if he had only let go instead of clinging to the backpack. At the time, the idea of loosing any solid grip had seemed madness. He looked up to Silme's worried features, both hands clamped around his left wrist.

  Hurry, Silme sent, glancing wildly behind her.

  Larson scrambled up the ledge and through the hole, the pain in his right arm a constant, screaming blessing. It reminded him he was alive. But not for long if we don't do something quickly.

  Larson jerked up the pack and pawed through the contents. He found clothing, food, and spare magazines. Damn it, no gun. The irony became a burning bitterness. I nearly died for no gun. He glanced at Silme. Get back with the others. Let them know I'm on your side. To help me if they can.

  Silme nodded, turning. She headed for the central gift shop.

  At that moment, a huge man with long, greasy blond hair crashed through the door. "Hey!" He seized Silme by the wrist, spinning her through the door, then slammed it behind her.

  Though enraged by the manhandling, Larson kept his head. He dove aside, just as the man raised a .45 automatic. Larson skittered around the loop, pressing against the gift shop wall. Then, another man burst through a door to his left, sandwiching him between them.

  Shit! Surrounded, Larson tried for desperate unpredictability. He sprinted for the fence and dashed up the diamond mesh, only then noticing another man just reaching the incurving spires at the top. Shadow! Brutal realization dawned. And I just gave him away.

  "Holy fuck!" the blond shouted. Ducking, he fired at the figure over Larson's head.

  Blood splashed Larson's cheek. "NO!" Without thought for his own safety, he hurled himself at the shooter. He struck the blond with a force that hurled them both to the floor. A bullet ricocheted wildly, and the hostages screamed, running toward the opposite side of the store. Both men slid, crashing into the glass storefront, pain jarring through Larson's left side. He caught the man's gun-hand with his left, then slammed his aching right arm downward. He heard something crack, accompanied by a rush of pain through his strained muscles. The gun clattered to the terrace.

  Shadow! Silme screamed in Larson's head.

  Larson scooped up the gun, whirling. The other man fired at Taziar. The little climber dodged, then lost his footing on the fencing.

  "No!" Larson shrieked, charging to save his friend, though he knew he could never arrive in time. The killer whirled on Larson, shooting. Fire tore through Larson's thigh, dropping him to a spinning crouch. He watched, helplessly, as Taziar pitched from the fencing into empty air. "No!" he screamed again. "No! No!" Rage overtook him. He trained the blond's gun on the second man, who was now hurriedly reloading. Larson pulled the trigger again and again, until the slide locked back on empty.

  Al!

  Nothing could stop Larson now. "Shadow!" he howled. "Shadow! NO!" Only then, he remembered the blond. The man lay unconscious by the gift shop, a horde of hostages swarming over him. Some attempted to tie him with souvenir King Kong airplanes and anything else with laces or strings. Others pelted him with metal statuettes.

  Larson dropped the gun and fell to his knees. He clamped his face in his hands, his own blood warm and sticky on his cheeks. "No! No! No!" It was all my fault! If I hadn't picked that spot, they wouldn't have seen him. Shadow would still be alive.

  Mrs. Larson rushed to her son, cradling him in her arms like an enormous baby. "Al." Tears dripped down her cheeks as she looked at the blood. "Al, say something." Pam knelt beside them and took Larson's aching hand.

  "I'm all right, Mom," Larson croaked out, though he could not even convince himself.

  Finally, Silme appeared, and she had clearly read the spirit of Larson's thoughts, if not the exact words. Stop beating yourself up. You couldn't have known he was there.

  Larson wasn't so sure. Accidentally or on purpose, he had betrayed a buddy, had caused his very death. In 'Nam, he had learned to keep an eye on each and every companion, to do whatever it took to keep all of them safe. They relied on him, and he knew he could rely on them. Except, this time, he had made a mistake, and his best friend had paid with his
life.

  Silme's delay had, apparently, come from obtaining the key to the stairwell. Now, the police came to survey the scene, herding most of the hostages toward the safety of the stairwell.

  "What happened?" Carter asked, opening the flood gates. Most of the hostages began talking at once.

  Mahan made his way to Larson. "What really happened?"

  Mrs. Larson answered first, hugging Larson to her, though it smeared blood onto her arms, face, and dress. "They shot my boy. Can't you see, they shot my boy."

  "I'm all right," Larson said again. His arm ached, and his thigh felt like a bowling ball; but these faded beneath the terrible agony in his soul.

  Carter called over the hubbub. "Mahan!"

  "Yeah!"

  "I'm going to take these folks down and get some backup. You okay up here?"

  Mahan looked at Larson.

  "Enemy's all down. Third one went over the side," Larson assured. The words ached through Larson. And Shadow, too.

  "Yeah!" Mahan called back, barely missing a beat. He looked at Silme, Pam, and Mrs. Larson. "You three need to go with the others."

  Mrs. Larson did not look up. "I'm not leaving my son."

  Mahan looked at Pam.

  "My brother," she said.

  "My fiancé," Silme added before the policeman could even ask.

  Mahan sighed, then clapped Larson's shoulder. "Guess I know now why you did what you did. You're not really FBI, are you?"

  Larson smiled weakly. "Wouldn't tell you if I was."

  Mahan laughed. "Carter'll have the paramedics up here soon. You going to make it till then?"

  "I've been hurt worse."

  "Really?" Mahan brushed hair from his forehead. "I better rethink that FBI question."

  A voice wafted from the gift shop. "I hurt, too. Why no pretty lady hold me?"

  Everyone whirled at once. Even Larson struggled to a painful stand, recognizing the voice. Shadow? It can't be!

  Taziar dragged himself from the stairwell, smearing blood across the marble floor. Dirt covered every part, and scarlet splotches decorated his tattered clothing.

  Silme at least managed to start the question Larson could not. "How did you . . . ? How . . . ?"

  "Don't move." Mahan approached Taziar, hand raised, attention on the climber's every move. "Who are you?"

  Silme brushed past the policeman to assist Taziar. "That's Taziar Medakan. He's our friend."

  Pam just shook her head. "You . . . you fell off the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building! How . . . how?"

  Taziar smiled weakly. "Falling off, that easy. Climb up from ground, that hard." When no one laughed, he gave the explanation they all needed. "Just fall two floor. Land on ledge. Go through open window." He threw up a hand, as if stating the obvious. "Come here."

  "A miracle," Mrs. Larson breathed.

  Mahan scratched his head. "Actually, been about a dozen attempted suicides before that fence got up. I don't think any of them made it all the way to the ground."

  "Really?" Mrs. Larson finally pried her gaze from her son, which pleased Al Larson. He did not think he could handle another moment of her pained scrutiny.

  "Believe I even remember some old fellow landing on that very same ledge as this guy here. Broke a bone or two but otherwise all right. Wind currents tend to blow everything back toward the building. Probably got a fortune in pennies on every ledge."

  Larson had always believed that a coin dropped from the observatory would crush anyone or thing it hit. Now, he knew why he had never actually heard of anyone killed in such a manner despite the open eighty-sixth-floor terraces and the building's many windows.

  The ping of the arriving elevator brought an unexpected rush of relief. Taziar was here, alive. The paramedics had come.

  Larson closed his eyes, clutching his sister's hand, enjoying the music of a gurney rolling across the marble floor.

  Shadamehr and the Old Wive's Tale

  A Shadamehr Story

  Margaret Weis & Don Perrin

  (Based on the world and characters created by Larry Elmore)

  "Begging your pardon, good sir," said the barkeep deferentially, "but this note is for you."

  "For me?" The man thus addressed was considerably amazed. "But I am a stranger in these parts! I am merely passing through on my way east. Surely you have made a mistake." He waved the note away. "This must be for someone else."

  "I do not think I could be mistaken, sir," said the barkeep with a cunning look. "You have graced my tavern with your presence these three days now, being kind enough to say that my mead is the best in the area—"

  "And so it is," said the man, interrupting.

  The barkeep bowed and continued. "And thus I have come to know you, sir, very well, as have many of my patrons, for you have been most generous in buying rounds for the house."

  The man smiled in a self-deprecating manner and smoothed the ends of a very long and very black mustache. He winked at his companion, a young woman with thick red curly hair, bound up in a coil at the base of her neck. She wore the plain brown robes of one who practices earth magic.

  "Therefore," said the barkeep, "when a note is delivered to me to be given to a person of a certain description that matches you most wonderfully, sir, I am left with no doubts."

  "What would that description be?" the man asked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Let us hear it."

  "This is what I was told: 'He is a human male of middle years with a nose like an hawk's beak, a chin like an ax-blade, eyes blue as the skies above New Vinnengael and a long black mustache of which he is very proud and is constantly smoothing or twirling. In addition, he has long black hair, which he wears bound in a tail at the back of his head, in the manner of the elves.' "

  "Bah! That could be anyone," said the man.

  "He is very handsome—" continued the barkeep solemnly.

  "Oh, then, you are right. That is me," said the man calmly and he plucked the message from the barkeep's hand.

  "You are insufferable, Shadamehr," said his companion in a low voice.

  "You are only jealous, Alise," Shadamehr said as he broke the seal and unfolded the note. The two spoke in Elven, a language which no one in the Karnuan city was likely to understand. "Jealous that no one sent the beautiful human female with the red hair a mysterious missive."

  His companion rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  "I trust this note means that our generous hospitality has finally paid off," Shadamehr said. "At last we are about to receive some information. I don't mind telling you that I am growing sick to death of mead."

  Reading the note, he appeared puzzled, then gratified. "Here now! I never expected this." He handed the note to his companion.

  Doubtless you do not remember me, my lord, but we were companions in our youth. I was an acolyte with the Revered Magi at the time you were in training as a knight. We met through the unfortunate circumstance of our each falling in love with the same woman at the same time. I shall never forget the tricks we played on each other as rivals, tricks that turned out to be for naught, when she married a third man neither of us had known about. Our rivalry became friendship, a friendship that was severed when you left Vinnengael in anger over the policies of the Emperor and I left to return to my homeland to take up my duties for the Church.

  I have followed the tales of your exploits with the deepest pleasure and, although you travel under another name, when I heard from a traveler of a generous stranger with hair as black as midnight, a nose like a hawk and a laugh that booms like a mountain slide, I knew there could only be one. I am certain the gods have sent you. I believe that you come in answer to my prayers.

  You will recall that I was particularly sensitive to the evil magic of the Void. I dare not write more in this note, for fear it will be waylaid. I live in the town of Cunac, about twenty miles north. I beg you to come with all possible haste.

  Your friend,

  Revered Brother Ulien.

  Ali
se frowned. "How could he possibly have known it was you? Hundreds of miles from our homeland. I don't like this." She handed the missive back.

  "Bah!" said Shadamehr with a grin. He tucked the note in his boot and beckoned the barkeep. "Our tab, please. We are leaving your fair city. Of course, Ulien would know it was me, Alise," he added, giving his mustache a twirl. "Everyone for a twenty-mile radius must be talking of the handsome and generous stranger, by now. And his lovely red-haired companion," he included teasingly.

  He paid the bill, throwing in enough extra to cause the barkeep to sing his praises for days, and left the bar with Alise.

  She snorted. "Your ego will be the death of you, Shadamehr."

  "Nonsense, my dear," Shadamehr said, assisting her to mount her horse. "I will cheat death for the simple reason that all the wonderful things people say about me are true. Which is why you adore me."

  He whistled to his own black steed, a horse of a vicious temperament who so terrified the stable boys that they would not come close to him. The horse whinnied in delight at the sight of his master and draped his head over Shadamehr's shoulder, almost purring with pleasure when Shadamehr rubbed the horse's muzzle.

  "I don't adore you. I don't even like you," Alise said coldly. "I don't know why I put up with you. You will get me killed someday. Get yourself killed, too, in some hare-brained scheme to set the world right when it doesn't want to go right."

  Shadamehr leaned over, kissed her on the cheek before she could push him away. Then he was off at a gallop, exhibiting his riding skills to the admiring populace, who took off their hats to wave good-bye.

  "I should turn around now and go back home." Alise muttered as she kicked her horse in the flanks. She was forced to ride hard and fast to catch up.

  Twilight had fallen by the time the two arrived in Cunac, a small town located near the border of the human kingdoms of Karnu and Dunkarga. Once a united kingdom, the two had split apart in a civil war two hundred years earlier. As much as humans of Karnu and Dunkarga hated all those of other races in the world of Loerem, they hated each other more. The town of Cunac was notable for only one thing—it was the site of a large military outpost, built to deter the Dunkargans from crossing the border.