Out of Phaze aa-4

by Piers Anthony

  "Hey, I see something!" one exclaimed.

  Mach's living heart seemed to catapult to a crash-landing against his breastbone. Had they seen him?

  No, they were hurrying away from him. He started to relax again.

  "A doll!" a goblin cried.

  They had spied Fleta!

  "A damn nymph!" another exclaimed. "Sleepin' by a tree."

  "Well, let's have at her! Anything like that we catch-"

  "That's no nymph," another said. "See the horn-button in her forehead? That's a unicorn!"

  Fleta woke. She tried to scramble to her feet, but they were upon her, grabbing at her arms and legs. "Hold her horn!" the leader cried. "So she can't change form!"

  A goblin clapped a calloused hand on Fleta's forehead, covering the horn-button. The others virtually wrapped themselves around her limbs, one to each. She struggled, but she was still very tired and they overwhelmed her.

  Mach had noted all this as if detached; meanwhile he was charging to the rescue, drawing his axe. The goblins, preoccupied by their capture, did not see him.

  "Now, mare, tell us where the man is, or we'll take turns raping you," the leader said, yanking her cloak up. "You animals don't like that much, do you!"

  Fleta's forehead was covered, but not her eyes. She saw Mach charging in. "No!" she cried. "Not that way!"

  But Mach was already committed. His axe swung down at the goblin-leader's head. The goblin turned, but too late; the axe chopped into his face, slicing off his nose.

  The goblins were no cowards. They let Fleta go and pounced as one on Mach. Before he could get in a second blow, four of them were on his arms and legs. They had surprising power; they bore him back and down, spread-eagling him on the ground.

  The goblin leader, amazingly, retained his feet. His nose was gone, but he seemed otherwise unbothered. "That be him!" he exclaimed. "The one we seek!"

  Mach struggled, but the goblins were too strong for him. Now he understood why Fleta had tried to warn him off. She had known he could not handle these creatures. Who would have thought that monster's skull could be so hard as to make the axe shear off! For Mach knew he had scored directly on the goblin's forehead; had it been fashioned of ordinary stuff, the stone blade would have cut right in. Instead it had been turned aside by the super-hard bone, doing what was apparently only minor damage to the goblin's face. How could an ordinary man fight such creatures?

  "Tie him up," the leader said. "I'd love to. chew up his eyeballs, but orders are orders. The Adept wants him intact. We'll have to content ourselves with the animal." He looked about with sudden alarm. "Who's holding her?"

  "I am!" the sixth goblin cried. But though he still had his hands on Fleta's forehead, his touch nullifying the magic power of her horn, he was now the only one. Fleta's arms and legs were free, because the other four goblins were now holding Mach.

  Fleta smiled. She reached up and grabbed the goblin's hands in her own, hauling them down while she straightened up. He might be stronger than she, but he could not keep his hands in place while she was moving her body. He needed more hands. In a moment her forehead was clear.

  Abruptly she vanished. In her place was the hummingbird, and its buzz was quite angry. It darted at the goblin leader.

  One of the goblins holding Mach began to laugh, for such a tiny creature could hardly hurt a goblin. But the laugh was cut off when the unicorn manifested almost in the leader's face. The forward motion of the bird translated into a plunge by the unicorn.

  The long horn speared right through the goblin's head.

  Then Fleta lifted her head and flung the goblin off her horn. She whirled to face the ones holding Mach, but these were already scrambling desperately away. Their skulls might be too tough for Mach's crude axe, but the unicorn's horn was another matter! In a moment there was not a live goblin in sight.

  Fleta fluted, blood spitting from her horn as she blew it. She stood by Mach, angling her head.

  He needed no further urging. He scrambled to her back, and they were off. It was obvious that the goblins would soon spread the news of the discovery of the prey, and greater numbers of them would be in hot pursuit. He hated to make Fleta run again, when she had had so little rest, but they had to find a better place to hide.

  Where was there? If the goblins roamed this forest, that was no good. But out in the open the harpies would be able to spot them. It was getting dark now, but what of the morning?

  Fleta was pounding directly south, toward the looming Purple Mountains. Mach had to have faith that she knew what she was doing. But he could feel the fatigue of her body; she shouldn't be running at all, right now!

  Well, he could do nothing about it at the moment. He just had to hang on and hope it would be all right.

  Meanwhile, he realized that he had learned some new things. A unicorn couldn't change form if her horn was covered; thus she could be held captive, or even raped, despite her normal powers. So if they were ever in a situation like this again, his first job would be to eliminate whoever was holding her horn, so as to free her magic. That was the way he should have proceeded before, had he but known. He could have thrown himself upon the goblin at her head, dragging it off for that necessary instant.

  But also, the goblins had confirmed that it was an Adept behind this. And that it was Bane's presence, not his death, that was wanted. That meant that their guess about trying to eliminate Bane during his weakness was wrong; the Adept wanted something else.

  What could the Adept want? Mach was simply not very effective as a resident of Phaze! Without Fleta he'd have been dead several times over already. He was learning to do magic, but even that was only a poor suggestion of what Bane could do. He wouldn't be worth much even as a hostage, since he was the wrong person.

  He shook his head. He just couldn't make much sense of it. But he was sure he didn't want to get hauled in to that enemy Adept!

  Fleta slowed. He feared it was because she was exhausted, but he discovered it was the terrain; the level plain had ended, and the slope of the mountain range was beginning.

  "I'll walk now!" he said quickly. "You've done enough!"

  She did not object. Mach slid off. It was now dark, except for the light of three moons. Proton had seven small moons, which meant that Phaze did too, and several were normally in view. Most were pale shades of gray; the one blue moon seldom showed.

  She changed to girl form, showing the way up the mountain slope. Mach was amazed by the amount she evidently knew of far-flung terrain. She must have done a lot of exploring in her day! He followed, covertly admiring her rear view, though he knew that her human shape was exactly what she had chosen and crafted; naturally she had not devised an ugly one.

  Then she stumbled. Mach hastened to join her, putting his arm about her waist. But she sagged, too tired to keep her feet.

  "The hummingbird!" he exclaimed. "Change to that form!"

  "Nay," she whispered. "It takes more energy to fly than this!"

  "Not to fly," he said. "To perch! You carried me; let me carry you, now!"

  She turned her head to him. She nodded. She became the bird. He put out his hand, and she flopped in it. He lifted her to his shoulder, and there she perched, her little claws anchored on his homemade shirt.

  "Sleep, Fleta," he said. "I will climb this hill."

  Climb he did. It made him feel good to do his part, his strength filling in for hers. His legs were stiff, but he had plenty of remaining energy. As the way became steeper, he hauled himself up by grabbing handholds on saplings. He hoped he got them wherever they were going. It was so dark now that he could barely see the next tree before him.

  There was an angry squawk from ahead. Startled, Mach paused.

  "Who the hell art thou?" a voice screeched. "Stay out o' my bower!"

  "A harpy!" Mach exclaimed with dismay. He gripped his axe. Fleta, on his shoulder, was so tired that she didn't wake.

  "What didst thou think it be-a damned goblin?"

  "Yes,"
Mach said. Could he escape her surveillance in the darkness, or were they in for another horrible chase?

  The harpy laughed raucously. "Well, no such luck! Come not near me, lest thou catch the tailfeather itch!"

  Mach knew he should shut up and hide, but something nagged at him. Why was this foul creature talking instead of attacking or summoning her cohorts? "I'm just a weary traveler," he said. "I have no tailfeathers to itch, but I will detour around your bower. I apologize for bothering you."

  "Thou dost what?" she screeched.

  "I apologize for bothering you," Mach repeated.

  "Nobody doth apologize to a harpy!"

  "I don't want any trouble, I just want to get somewhere where I can rest for the night."

  "Thou dost speak strangely. Who be ye?"

  "I am called Mach." If she knew his identity, his name made no difference now. "I am a robot."

  "What kind of monster be a rovot?" she demanded.

  "One that looks like a human being."

  "Oh, hell, come into my bower," she said. "I be lonely for company."

  Stranger yet! Was it a trap? Well, might as well spring it as have it pursue him. Mach climbed forward.

  He parted a thick curtain of leaves and came into a snug chamber padded with ferns. There was a tiny bit of glow, so that he could ascertain its approximate size and see the form perched on a stick at one side. This was the harpy.

  "Why, thou dost be a man!" she exclaimed.

  "I said I looked like a human being."

  "Aye, that be true. And a bird on thy shoulder."

  "My companion." Fleta was stirring now; what would she think of this interview?' "I be Phoebe," the harpy said.

  Mach checked through his memory. "I know of a bird of that name. Nondescript, except that it wags its tail."

  "Aye, that be why the name," she agreed. She rustled about as if to make the point. "But it be uncomfortable as hell, and not just in the feathers."

  "You really do have a tailfeather itch?"

  "Aye, and no cure, so I be exiled from my kind."

  "You mean you're not part of the pursuit?"

  "What pursuit?" Phoebe demanded.

  "We've been chased by harpies, demons and goblins," Mach said. "We don't know why."

  "I know naught o' that! I've had no contact with my kind in a year."

  Could he believe that! Or was she just trying to lull him while others closed in?

  "No offense-but you don't smell. The other harpies I encountered-"

  "I wash my feathers daily to keep down the itch, but always it returns," Phoebe said. "An' another o' my kind come near, it will spread. That be my curse."

  Fleta jumped off his shoulder, then materialized as her girl form. "Know thou my nature?" she asked the harpy.

  "A werebird! Ne'er saw I the like before!"

  "Nay. Unicom."

  "And thou comest to roust me out o' my bower? For shame, 'corn; I have no quarrel with thee!"

  "Willst swear so on my horn?"

  "For sure, an thou attack me not."

  Fleta parted the leaves of the bower wall and stepped out.

  The harpy peered after her. She shrugged with her wings. "Hell, trust must begin somewhere, and I have no life worth living alone." She half-spread her wings and hopped out after Fleta.

  Mach followed her out, not certain what was happening.

  Outside, he could just make out the dark unicorn shape. Fleta lowered her horn, and the harpy hopped up to it. The horn touched her feathers. "I swear I have no quarrel with thee," the harpy said.

  Fleta fluted.

  "What, turn about?" Phoebe asked, evidently understanding her. "What for?"

  Fleta played several notes.

  "That?" the harpy asked incredulously. "Thou wouldst?"

  An affirmative note. Mach tried to fathom what this was about, but it baffled him.

  The harpy turned about, and Fleta put her horn to the creature's tailfeathers. For a moment there seemed to be a kind of radiance, but Mach could not be sure.

  "Mine itch!" the harpy cried. "Gone!"

  Fleta returned to girl form. "Grant us rest in thy bower for a day, and all's repaid," she said.

  "For this cure?" Phoebe cried. "Thou canst stay a year!"

  Fleta made her way back into the bower and curled up on the fern. In a moment she was asleep.

  "But-how could you know that we had no quarrel with you?" he asked the harpy.

  " 'Corns be stubborn beasts," Phoebe said. "They betray not who betrays them not."

  "And she cured you-just like that?"

  "Aye, the horn has power, an there be ailment. But for 'corn to cure harpy-that be rare indeed."

  "We were looking for a place to rest in safety," Mach said.

  "Ye have it now." Phoebe wiggled her tail, appreciating the lack of itch.

  Mach went in and lay down beside Fleta. It seemed that his willingness to talk with the harpy had paid off; she was not after all an enemy. In a moment he slept.

  Fleta slept all night and much of the following day. It was evident that she had seriously depleted her resources in the long run. Mach, less tired, found himself talking with Phoebe. The harpy brought fresh fruit and

  edible roots, but urged him to wash them in a nearby spring. "I wash, but my talons form the poison, and it gets on what I touch," she explained. Mach was happy to wash the food.

  "There be my sisters in the sky, and goblins o'er the plain," Phoebe announced after taking a flight. "An thou knowest not why they seek ye?"

  "An Adept sent them," Mach said. "He wants me alive; he doesn't care about Fleta. She carried me from the Lattice in a day."

  "In a single day? Lucky thou art she died not on the hoof!"

  "She's a good creature," Mach agreed.

  "And for the love o' thee!" She shook her head. She was as awkwardly endowed as all her kind, with a human head and breasts and the wings and hind parts of a vulture. Her face was lined and her breasts sagged; her hair was a wild tangle. About the only pretty part of her was her wings, which had a metallic luster. Her voice was harsh, sounding like a screech even when she talked normally. Mach could see that if she had behaved the way the others of her kind did, allowing filth to encrust her body, she would have been monstrously ugly; as it was, she was merely homely. "My kind has no such love."

  "If I may ask-just how does your kind reproduce? I understand there are no males of your species."

  "Aye, there be none. We lay eggs and leave them scattered about; an one survive the animals long enough to hatch, an the chick not get consumed, she grows to size and lays her own eggs. Legend has it that only a fertilized egg can hatch a male harpy-but only a male of our species can fertilize it. So it be an endless circle. We be chronically bitter about that, and take it out on all creatures." She sighed. "Sometimes I wish it were otherwise. But what else be there?"

  Mach shrugged. "I don't know. It does seem a tragedy. But why didn't you revile me when I showed up in the night?"

  "I should have, I know," she confessed. "But after a year denied the company of mine own kind, awful as that be, I was lonely. So I was foolish."

  "And got your tail fixed."

  "It passeth all understanding."

  "Phoebe-are harpies supposed to be ugly?"

  "What point to be other?"

  "If you get lonely, you are more likely to find company of any kind if you look nice."

  She laughed with her raucous cackle. "What a notion!"

  "Why don't you let me do some work on your hair, and see what happens?"

  "Thou canst not make me beautiful," she said. "That would take the magic o' an Adept!"

  "I'm just curious."

  She shrugged. "It be a mere game, but I be beholden for thy company. Play with my hair, an thou wishest."

  "I need a comb." Mach looked about. He found a piece of a fish bone with a few ragged spikes.

  He pondered. Then he sang: "Give this home one big comb."

  The fish bone shimmered, a
nd became a huge mass of wax and honey. The stuff dripped from his hand.

  "A honeycomb!" Phoebe screeched, snatching it out of his hand. In a moment she was gobbling it, getting it all over her face and in her hair. Then she paused. "Oops, my harpy manner o'ercame me. Didst conjure it for thyself?"

  "No, welcome to it," Mach said. "I wanted a hair comb."

  "Check in my purse. Mayhap there be a comb there."

  Harpies had purses? Mach found her handbag and sorted through it. It contained several colored stones, a moldy piece of bread, a dozen acorns, a large rusty key, two large red feathers, a number of prune pits, a fragment of a mirror, the skeleton of a small snake, three pottery sherds-and a fine old comb.

  "But we'll have to get the honey out," he decided. "Can you wash your hair?"

  "Aye, it be time for another dunking anyway," she said. She licked off her claws-evidently the poison didn't affect her own system-and launched herself clumsily into the air. She flapped toward the spring, folded her wings, and dive-bombed into it.

  So that was how she bathed! Mach and Fleta had drunk from that spring in the morning. Suddenly he felt queasy.

  Phoebe emerged. For a moment, with just her head and bosom showing above the surface, she looked distinctly human. Then she spread her wings, and clambered into the air, and the effect was gone.

  She came to a crash-landing beside him, spattering water on him. "I be clean now," she announced.

  But what of the water in the spring?

  Mach took the comb and began working on her hair. There were tangles galore, so the job was tediously slow, but he didn't have anything better to do while waiting for Fleta to recover.

  Gradually the hair straightened, and as it did so, drying, it began to assume some of the metallic luster of the wings. Small iridescent highlights glinted as the sunlight struck it.

  "Thou didst conjure that honeycomb!" Phoebe exclaimed, belatedly realizing what he had done.

  "I tried to conjure a comb," he reminded her. "I always mess it up."

  "But then thou canst do magic!"

  "Not a fraction as well as the one whose body I'm using. As a magician I'm a dunce."

  "But to do any magic, aside from that of werecreatures and the like-that be special!"