Chapter Twelve
The second-sight revealed that Swan, Erg’Ran and the Champion had set sail again with their pitiful band, this time crossing Woroc’Il’Lod on a wind of Swan’s making. Swan was getting very good, and Eran could not help but wonder if her daughter knew the secret—yet.
Eran, skirts caught up in her clenched fist, stormed along the passageway toward its end. Her magic was so depleted from maintaining the cyclonic wave that she had to concentrate in order to make the chamber door open to her will.
She stepped inside, kicking the door closed with her heel.
“Things aren’t going well?”
“Little do you care!”
“How old am I, Eran?”
“Such reckoning is meaningless, as is conversation between us. Will you submit willingly?”
“No.”
Anger always increased her magical abilities, at least for an eyeblink or two. She willed herself naked and her clothes disappeared from her body. Walking across the room, Eran stopped in front of the glass, stared at herself. Her body was as firm now as it had been then. “How do you control yourself so?”
“With considerable effort, Eran, if that soothes your ego any. You’re as beautiful as the day that I met you.”
“Why, then?”
“My conscience. I have to refuse to help you, because you’re a rotten, evil—”
“Silence!” His mouth still moved, but he made no sound. When he realized that, he stopped moving his mouth, only stared at her—but not at her body. He stared at her eyes.
Eran had set a number of spellcastings on him at the same time when she’d made the shackles appear on his wrists and ankles. Like the steel encircling his limbs, the spells were to control him.
“Would pain interest you?” She smiled. He collapsed to the flagstones in the next eyeblink. His mouth opened again in a mute scream, his hands grasping his abdomen, then his head, then his chest. “I got your attention, didn’t I?”
Eran walked toward him. He writhed in pain at her feet. That was normally a pleasant sensation for her, watching a male suffer so. Under the present circumstances, it was a waste of her time. “I can leave you like this, or worse! Kiss my foot and the pain will stop.”
Her foot was very near to his face. He would only have to move his head ever so slightly to obey. He did not.
“I can make you!” He knew that. And still he made no attempt to accede to her demand.
She had tried blinding and deafening him, left him that way when she went off on a campaign with the Sword of Koth. Periodically, she crippled him with unbearable pain. She had caused him to be gnawed upon by terrifying creatures throughout an entire night. Always, she healed him. Always, he continued to defy her. Eran willed his pain to cease, and his speech to be restored.
He rose to his knees, and for a brief moment she thought that he might be about to relent. When he spoke, he said, “I wish that you’d kill me, Eran.”
“Never. Never that.”
Eran made her clothes reappear to cover her body, made the door open. She walked out and she left him there on his knees.
He knelt not in obeisance to her will, but in total exhaustion.
He had defeated her and she had helped him.
“‘Déjὰ vu’ means that something one sees or experiences seems to be something from before, happening all over again. It’s a term in French, a language of Earth. My world has many principal languages, unlike Creath. Seems to me that the only major languages here are yours and theirs.” Garrison jerked a thumb across the stern rail and toward the horizon, where a Gle’Ur’Gya vessel, identical to the one destroyed in the cyclonic wave, had just appeared.
“With the wind at my command,” Swan told him, “we can outdistance them easily, despite their superior craft. But I would still like to secure them as allies against my mother.”
“You’re an interesting girl,” Garrison told Swan truthfully. “It was a Gle’Ur’Gya who killed your grandfather, yet you don’t seem to hold that against the Gle’Ur’Gya now that you know.”
“I wish to do what is best for the people of Creath, Al’An. That includes the Gle’Ur’Gya, whether they appreciate my intentions or not, whether they like it or not. As Erg’Ran told us, it was the Gle’Ur’Gya chieftain himself who killed the one of his own who murdered my grandfather. My grandfather’s death is past.”
“You’ll make a fine ruler here,” Garrison declared.
“That is not my intention, Al’An. I wish for the people of Creath to learn to rule themselves. The Company of Mir can teach those who survive, teach them how.
“Now, what do you think that we should do, Al’An? Should we outrun the Gle’Ur’Gya, or should we try to speak with them?”
Garrison looked away from Swan and over the stern rail, the comparatively huge Gle’Ur’Gya vessel gaining on them ever so slightly. Swan would only have to summon up a few more knots of windspeed and the Gle’Ur’Gya would be left further and further behind, never overtaking them.
“Could you get me over to their ship? And set me up with a language spell so that we’d all be able to understand one another?”
“I can make it so that their tongue is intelligible to you, and yours to them. Understanding is another question entirely, isn’t it?” Swan smiled. “Do you want to appear on their deck? Poof?”
“Touché. That’s French, too. Yeah, let’s go for poof.”
“But not alone, Al’An. Gar’Ath and Mitan can accompany you. They are both fine warriors and Mitan has considerable magic, in the event that things go badly.”
Garrison nodded his agreement, but said, “I just don’t want this looking like a raiding party. I want the chance to talk before they react.”
“I can fix that, too. Join me in a little while?” Swan smiled at him over her shoulder. She was already walking toward the bow.
What Garrison judged as about ten minutes had passed, most probably time enough for whatever Swan was doing in order to facilitate the planned talks with the Gle’Ur’Gya. Gar’Ath, whom Garrison had briefed concerning their intentions, had nonetheless undertaken to raise the armada’s condition of readiness to what amounted to battle stations, just in case.
“It should be time, Gar’Ath,” Garrison informed him.
Gar’Ath nodded agreement, made a remark to Bin’Ah, then snatched up his shield and fell in beside Garrison. Together, they made their way forward, toward the bow pulpit.
Garrison felt slightly ridiculous, carrying the golden shield which Swan had made for him out of his badge and an axe slung at his waist. But if trouble did occur, it would not be wise to let the Gle’Ur’Gya see his pistols in action unless absolutely necessary. His “firespitters” would be better held back as the high-tech secret weapon.
Garrison happened to be looking at Gar’Ath when the ordinarily brash young swordsman’s jaw dropped and his eyes glazed. Garrison stared at Gar’Ath for another moment or so before looking at whatever Gar’Ath was staring at. When he saw Mitan, he understood Gar’Ath’s reaction immediately. Mitan, usually leather clad and striking in her warrior mufti, looked more beautiful than ever in midnight blue satin and white lace. Evidently, Gar’Ath had never seen her dressed any other way but as a warrior. Garrison felt almost sorry for Gar’Ath; what resolve the fellow had been able to maintain against becoming involved with Mitan had visibly just crumbled.
Swan announced, “The Gle’Ur’Gya know enough about our culture to appreciate the fact that those comparatively few women who are warriors do not dress for battle as Mitan is dressed now. Her appearance will place them at ease, if only slightly.”
Mitan’s appearance might place the Gle’Ur’Gya at ease, but it quite obviously had the opposite effect on Gar’Ath; he walked right into Garrison’s shield as if he were unconscious. Mitan looked more properly dressed for a party than a diplomatic mission. Her neckline fetchingly low, the white lace there and at the belled cuffs of her three-quarter-length sleeves contrasted with the healthy glowing tan of her skin. Her dark brown hair was piled atop her head in an infinity of ringlets, a circlet of white flowers peeking out from within them.
“How do I look, Gar’Ath?” Mitan turned a full three hundred sixty degrees, skirt rustling round her ankles, a hint of white lace petticoat beneath.
Garrison shot a glance at Gar’Ath, the swordsman’s face reading like a book again.
Swan broke the spell. “Language will not be a problem. I’ll second-sight their deck from the moment you reach the Gle’Ur’Gya ship until the moment of your return. Erg’Ran will assist me.” Without saying anything, Swan came into Garrison’s arms and kissed him full on the lips, then stepped away. “Are you ready?”
“So we’ll just be here one eyeblink and there the next? Poof?”
“Poof, Al’An.”
“Then, you’ve gotta let me say this one word before we go. Okay?”
“Is it magical?”
“No. You wouldn’t understand because you don’t have TV here, yet. Someday, maybe. I can’t pass it up, saying it.”
“All right. Say the word and then poof.”
Garrison felt a grin spreading over his face. He stood very straight, blew a kiss to Swan and summoned all the drama that he could into his voice. “Energize!”
There were no tinkling sound effect noises. Garrison was on the deck of their little armada’s flagship, then he was on the deck of the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel. There was no in-between.
A voice which rolled like thunder and had the texture usually associated with too much whiskey and too many cigarettes startled Garrison’s mind into reality. “Kill them!”
A half-dozen human-shaped creatures, the least powerfully built of them the size of a pro football nose guard, charged across the deck, swords and axes flashing in the sunlight. Leathery skinned, they had short hair—brown, blond, black—covering all that was visible of their bodies. The flowing hair on their heads and full beards conjoined to form what resembled a lion’s mane.
Mitan interposed herself between the Gle’Ur’Gya and her companions, calling out in the Gle’Ur’Gya’s language, “We come in peace! I am female. Am I dressed as a warrior?” The Gle’Ur’Gya were either stunned by Mitan’s beauty or her talent for stating what had to be obvious even to them. Either way, Garrison realized, she’d halted the Gle’Ur’Gya’s lethal headlong lunge for at least a second.
“We come in peace!” Garrison reiterated. The growing number of Gle’Ur’Gya surrounding them on the main deck narrowed their eyes, studying the three intruders, massive jaws set, their rippling muscles coiled springs. None of the Gle’Ur’Gya spoke. Garrison was tempted to say, “I am sent by the Great White Father in Washington! Harm us and the long knife soldier coats will come with many firesticks!” Garrison passed on that, recalling what happened to George Armstrong Custer. He told them instead, “The Virgin Enchantress, who fights against the Queen Sorceress for the freedom of all the peoples of Creath, has sent us to speak with your leader.” So far, so good, Garrison thought. He said nothing else, waiting instead for one of the Gle’Ur’Gya to say something—anything—that wasn’t an order to kill. Still, no Gle’Ur’Gya spoke.
Mitan, hands outstretched toward the six crewmen, the wind doing lovely things with her brown ringlets, implored the gathering Gle’Ur’Gya crew, “We were sent here to speak with all of you. Please! There is no time for us to fight. Your ship is superior to ours. Our magic is superior to yours. If we fight, there will be fewer who will be able to fight against the Queen Sorceress. That is all that a battle will accomplish. If we join together, though, we will all be stronger. Please! Who is in command here?”
“I am in command, fair lady!” It was the same voice which, moments earlier, had ordered them to be killed.
Garrison wheeled around. His nautical terminology was failing him again. He couldn’t remember what to call the higher after deck where the wheel was located. It looked just like the deck from which Errol Flynn always made heroic speeches about fighting for England in all the old swashbuckler movies. The Gle’Ur’Gya who’d spoken might have been a pirate, and was quite imposing, but there the resemblance ended.
The commander seemed taller than the others, looming over them from the higher deck as he did, but that might have been optical illusion. Regardless of height, like the others he wore a garment similar to a Scottish great kilt, only it was faded black, girded around his waist and draped diagonally across his chest over a brown leather breastplate. His body was festooned with weapons: a sword was suspended from a baldric to his left hip, a long dagger in his belt, two additional and presumably shorter daggers carried one in each boot top.
“I am Alan Garrison, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States Justice Department. I work out of the Atlanta Field Office and have come from this place very far away to help the Virgin Enchantress fight the evil of the Queen Sorceress and secure freedom for the people of Creath.” Garrison took a breath. “The lady to whom you just spoke is Mitan. She is K’Ur’Mir and has considerable magic. The third member of our party is Gar’Ath, a warrior of great renown. The Virgin Enchantress herself caused us to appear on your deck through the great power of her magic so that we might offer you a proposal.”
“I am Bre’Gaa. There is no love lost between your Enchantress’s people and the Gle’Ur’Gya. Leave now as you came, or die.”
Garrison couldn’t fault the Gle’Ur’Gya commander for a lack of directness. Under the circumstances, Garrison figured that he had nothing to lose by what he was about to say. “Then it doesn’t matter to you that a ship of this size and its entire crew were killed in these waters only days ago by the magic of the Queen Sorceress?” There were a few unintelligible grunts from the crew. “I witnessed one of the Gle’Ur’Gya making the bravest gesture of defiance I have ever seen. A cyclonic wave, like you’d have when the two moons crossed paths, but made by Eran and sent to destroy us, intercepted one of your ships. When the ship was clearly lost, all of the crew dove into the water. They were just as doomed as if they’d stayed aboard. We couldn’t turn back and try to rescue them without being destroyed ourselves. I think they knew that. But one of the ship’s company stayed aboard. He drew his sword. He manipulated his sword with a grace unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He stood on the deck, like you’re standing now, and met the cyclonic wave with his sword ready. Such bravery doesn’t incite you to want to destroy the evil woman who caused his death? I’d heard that the Gle’Ur’Gya were great warriors. Perhaps those who told me this were mistaken.”
Bre’Gaa’s face was anything but inscrutable, the anger there unmistakable. Directed against whom, Garrison wondered?
From behind him, he heard one of the crewman mutter the name “Ag’Riig” and then another and another repeated the name. Garrison knew it, the name of the Gle’Ur’Gya chieftain who had fought Swan’s grandfather, then killed his own crewman for interfering in the duel and murdering his opponent.
“Was Ag’Riig the swordsman who stood defiantly against Eran’s magic?” Garrison shouted up to Bre’Gaa.
“Yes,” Bre’Gaa answered. “My mother’s oldest brother, the war chieftain of our clan. Ag’Riig taught me the use of the sword, gave me my first ship.”
Gar’Ath spoke then. “If my uncle were killed fighting an enemy, that enemy would become my enemy, Bre’Gaa.”
“I am not dressed as a warrior, as I told you. But even though I am a woman, I am a warrior. I wore these skirts to come here only so that you would know I came not to fight.” Mitan announced. “And I echo the words of Gar’Ath, Bre’Gaa.”
“Let’s give the guy a little space here,” Garrison told Mitan and Gar’Ath, then returned his gaze to Bre’Gaa.
The Gle’Ur’Gya captain’s hands—huge—grasped the rail before him so tightly that Garrison thought it would snap into splinters. Bre’Gaa’s voice so low that it was barely audible, he spoke. “The Queen Sorceress has never bothered the Gle’Ur’Gya, but only because she has no ships which can attack us and she uses her magic elsewhere. If she conquers the last resistance against her from among the Landers, she will find the time and find the means to bedevil us, dispatch her Sword of Koth to make war against us. But it is not my place to commit the Gle’Ur’Gya to warfare against the Queen Sorceress. That is for our Queen and her council to decide.
“I, as an individual, will fight.” Bre’Gaa drew his sword and raised it over his head. “Who among you stands with me?”
From behind them, Garrison heard the Gle’Ur’Gya crew shouting and cheering. He heard the rattle of their steel. All that was missing was a trumpet fanfare.
Garrison turned around to look at the crew. He caught sight of Gar’Ath, instead, sweeping Mitan into his arms for what started out to be an enthusiastic hug, one comrade to another. The hug turned into their bodies molding against one another and Gar’Ath crushing Mitan’s mouth beneath his, his hands hungrily grasping her body.
Gar’Ath had evidently overcome his shyness. Either that, or Mitan’s courage and beauty had overcome it for him.
Mitan curtsied, and without rising said, “Virgin Enchantress, Daughter Royal, Princess of Creath, may I present to you the Chieftain Bre’Gaa, Captain Commander of the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel Storm Raider.”
“I am honored, Enchantress,” Bre’Gaa murmured, momentarily bowing his head. His left fist was clenched to the hilt of his sheathed sword; his right arm swept upward, its fist coming to rest over his heart.
Swan held her skirts and made a low curtsy to the Gle’Ur’Gya commander. “It is I who am honored, Captain,” she declared, then raised her eyes to his. Like most Gle’Ur’Gya, his eyes were blue, but Swan found Bre’Gaa’s particularly piercing and quite beautiful. They were, she thought, also a little nervous. With two of his lieutenants, she had magically transferred him from the deck of his vastly larger vessel to the deck of her tiny flagship.
Swan offered her hand. Bre’Gaa took it gently in his, lowered his eyes. “I suppose you know, lady, that I speak only for myself and my crew, and not the Gle’Ur’Gya as a people. That understood between us, I pledge my life and my sword to your service against the Queen Sorceress that I may take my revenge for the death of my uncle, Ag’Riig.”
“I accept your pledge and am well-pleased by your wisdom and your courage, Captain.”
Bre’Gaa relinquished her hand. Swan smiled. “May I present my uncle, Erg’Ran. He is brother to the Queen Sorceress and he is my most trusted advisor and oldest friend.” She nodded her head toward Erg’Ran. “He witnessed the great duel between your uncle and my grandfather.”
“You took many lives of the Gle’Ur’Gya, Erg’Ran. You were an enemy then, but your courage is still spoken of among the Gle’Ur’Gya.” Bre’Gaa saluted Erg’Ran, fist again touching his chest over his heart.
Erg’Ran responded, “Although I was outraged at the death of my father, I was impressed with the great honor of Ag’Riig and how he so decisively dealt with my father’s murderer. I shall forever be both impressed and grateful. I revere your uncle’s memory and will be honored to fight beside you, Captain Bre’Gaa.”
“Al’An, you have met, Captain,” Swan told Bre’Gaa. “He is my Champion. He is, indeed, come from the other realm where he is a great warrior. He has proven himself in battle here, as well, fighting heroically against my mother’s magic.”
“Al’An. Yes,” Bre’Gaa said, bowing curtly to Al’An as he came to stand beside her. “What is the meaning of the strange runes which adorn your burnished shield, Al’An?”
Al’An responded, “As I have told you, in my own world I am an FBI agent. That is what these runes signify, Bre’Gaa.”
“It is a fine shield. I have seen no finer.”
Al’An nodded. Swan couldn’t have been prouder of what he said next. “May my shield gather but one-tenth the honor in battle that I know your sword will win for us against the Queen Sorceress.”
Bre’Gaa cocked one of his black bushy eyebrows and very deliberately nodded his great head.
* * *
With the strong, steady wind Swan magically drew into their sails, the five little ships of her original armada, dwarfed beside the sixth vessel, continued on through the night across Woroc’Il’Lod. The Gle’Ur’Gya were gifted as seamen and could read the stars to guide their navigation. By late in the following day, Bre’Gaa had told them, they would reach the shore of Edge Land. The march on Barad’Il’Koth could then begin.
Swan—wisely Garrison thought—had determined that if the captain and crew of the Storm Raider were to be their allies they should be trusted fully. With that as the operating principle, Swan had asked Bre’Gaa if she could once again magically transport him to the flagship for a conference. That he came alone, that he drank wine with them, was equally demonstrative of his trust in the alliance.
Garrison and Swan, Erg’Ran with them, sat in the usual place, the blue white globes of light like captured stars illuminating the bow pulpit. In addition to Bre’Gaa, Mitan and Gar’Ath, all but inseparable since their kiss earlier that day, had been invited to join them.
Erg’Ran was saying, “I have the strongest reasons to believe the Enchantress’s father still lives within the walls of Barad’Il’Koth. If I am correct in other matters, he will possess certain knowledge which will aid us in defeating the Queen Sorceress, my sister. And he may be able to provide direct aid to us, as only he can.”
“What kind of help can he give us, Erg’Ran?” Garrison inquired.
“I cannot say until I am certain. It is my hope that before we even consider a direct assault against Barad’Il’Koth, a small group of us should get inside and find the Enchantress’s father. If I am right, he has the power to confound Eran’s greatest magical strength, if indeed he will cooperate.”
“So, a commando raid on the castle,” Garrison said, thinking aloud. “How do we get past the armies she’ll have surrounding the place, the guards within the castle itself, the magic of her witches, Eran’s own magic? And assuming we do, how do we get out again? I wouldn’t think that we could use magic to transport ourselves inside. Eran’s gotta have some defenses against that, right?”
“Indeed, Champion,” Erg’Ran responded. “We cannot use magic alone to enter and leave, but the Enchantress may be able to use magic along with a deception of some sort.”
“I’ve been thinking a great deal about just what you propose, Erg’Ran,” Swan announced. “I also feel that it is vital to our interests that I should find my father. And, of course, to fulfill the prophecy, I must. I hope that he still lives for many reasons.”
Erg’Ran said nothing for a moment, merely stared at Garrison. Garrison asked, “What’s wrong?”
“The time has come that I must reveal certain things to you, Champion.”
“What certain things?”
“First of all,” Erg’Ran began quite deliberately, “about your firespitters. They—”
“What are firespitters?” Bre’Gaa interrupted.
Garrison told him as best he could, “They are weapons which I possess. Like a bow, they fire a projectile, but not an arrow.” Garrison drew one of the SIG pistols from beneath his jacket, removed the magazine, then cycled the action to empty the chamber. He closed the slide rather than leaving it open, lest Bre’Gaa inadvertently activated the slide release and catch his beard or something. Then he handed the .45 to the Gle’Ur’Gya Captain Commander. “They fire very small pieces of a lead alloy—a type of soft metal—but at very high speeds. One or two of these small projectiles will drop an average man in his tracks. Even a person your size would be seriously injured or killed by anywhere from one to just a few of these.” Garrison handed over the loose round he’d taken from the chamber. “The front part there is the bullet. That’s the projectile.”
“This is a marvelous thing, Al’An! May I try it?”
“It’s quite noisy, so we’d best wait until tomorrow.”
“Agreed.” Bre’Gaa handed back the pistol, fingering the cartridge in his enormous hand a moment longer, then returning it as well.
“Firespitters are not unknown to Eran,” Erg’Ran said solemnly. “She may well have a spell which will render them inoperable just when you might need them most. You must not allow yourself to rely on them as your sole means of defense, for yourself alone or in your role as Champion to the Enchantress.”
“Let’s get in a little swordplay on deck tomorrow, Champion. It might serve you well,” Gar’Ath suggested.
“Fine.”
“And, another thing that concerns you, Champion,” Erg’Ran began again.
“Yeah?”
“You must firmly resolve that, should something go wrong—”
“Gosh! How could anything go wrong?” Garrison interrupted. He could hardly wait for more good news. First, his pistols might suddenly become inoperable because of a spell of evil magic. What now, he wondered?
“In the event of your imminent, unavoidable capture by Eran’s forces or—the courage of Mir be with you—by Eran herself, you must die fighting or, failing that, take your own life. If you, because of your origin, should fall victim to her power, all would be lost. There would be no hope.”
“Because I’m the Champion?”
“That is only a part of it. I can say little more until we have entered Barad’Il’Koth and know what we must know, Champion.”
“That’s just great! My guns might stop working at the drop of a hat and I’m supposed to do the dutch act.”
“Dutch act?” Swan repeated, apparently unable to make the connection between the languages, despite the spell she’d cast.
“It’s kind of old slang for suicide—taking your own life.” Garrison looked away from Swan and straight at Erg’Ran. “I wasn’t raised to do that kind of thing, Erg’Ran, so if there’s some compelling reason that I’ve got to, you’d better lay it on me and quick.”
“I can promise you this, Champion. Barring the unforeseen, you will know all that you need to know before you might be required to slay yourself.”
“This is supposed to be encouraging?”
Mitan spoke. “I agree with the Champion, Erg’Ran. Telling a warrior to take his own life while still the chance exists to resist torture—”
“Torture? How’d we get to torture all of a sudden?”
Mitan went on unfazed. “Telling the Champion that he must slay himself while still there exists the chance to fight again is a very strange thing indeed, Erg’Ran. He deserves a reason!”
Erg’Ran merely responded, “I would say more if I could, Mitan. I cannot. When I know, the Champion will also know.”
The rationale behind Swan’s saying, “I would like to discuss a possible plan,” was obvious. She was attempting to defuse what might grow into an argument. Garrison let her do it. Erg’Ran’s judgment was something which Garrison had come to respect; now wasn’t the time to doubt it. “With the assistance of our new allies,” Swan went on, “I think that we have an even better chance at success. I’m assuming that my mother’s magical energy is not yet fully restored, and I hope that it will remain at less than full capacity until we have at least been able to reach Edge Land.
“By that time,” Swan continued, “the Queen Sorceress should be wholly capable of attempting to foil our best efforts against her. She’ll quite possibly have troops awaiting us when we reach the coast. Even if my magic were somehow as strong as my mother’s, it would be impossible for me to combat a wide range of enemy activity all at once.
“Thinking about that,” Swan said, smiling, “is what made me realize what our only chance might be to get us into Barad’Il’Koth. My mother will have vastly more troops standing ready to fight us than she would ordinarily require to easily defeat a force of our size, even augmented as it is by our new allies.” She nodded to Bre’Gaa. “She is counting on my magic, which I suppose is oddly complimentary, all things considered. If we can create a sufficient number of diversions to preoccupy her, cause her to use her magic, we have our greatest chance.”
“You lost me a little,” Garrison admitted.
Swan took his hand in both of hers. “You see, Al’An, aside from maintaining spells and the like, it is impossible to undertake more than one major magical activity at a time. Remember that magic is a natural phenomenon, whether used merely to accelerate a natural process or for something wholly unnatural. Think of it like walking, Al’An. One cannot walk and run simultaneously. One must do one or the other or something totally different entirely, but one cannot do both at once because true walking and true running are mutually exclusive, one precluding the other. Magic is not like thinking about two things at once; it is like doing two things at once, two things requiring almost total commitment.”
“So, if we can keep her magic focused on something other than what we’re doing, we’re home free? That is, except for the Horde of Koth, the Sword of Koth, the Handmaidens of Koth and anybody else of Koth hanging around.”
Swan laughed.
Getting Swan to laugh had been Garrison’s intent, since there might be more than ample opportunity for little else but tears later on...
Alan Garrison stood in the bow pulpit. The morning was fresh and cold. Temperatures on Woroc’Il’Lod the previous day had been deceptively mild, but normalized overnight to a point where Alan Garrison could better understand why this body of water was so commonly referred to as the icy sea. In the distance, what he’d at first thought might be the sails of more Gle’Ur’Gya vessels on the horizon became recognizable as icebergs.
Garrison felt good, fit. After a simultaneously satisfying yet frustrating night—Swan had slept in his arms, but he’d respected her insistence that she remain a virgin—he’d awakened to an early morning practice session with Gar’Ath.
Garrison was pleasantly surprised that his limited skills at swordsmanship had somehow improved. Or perhaps what Gar’Ath had taught him in their sessions at the summer palace had finally sunk in. He was not, nor never would be in the foreseeable future, remotely challenging to Gar’Ath, but Garrison felt confident enough with a blade that he could fight an average swordsman without being instantly killed or disarmed. Considering the ability level at which he’d first taken up the sword, he was vastly improved. At the conclusion of their session, he had asked Gar’Ath, “Is there a sword to be had that I could carry when we go against the Horde?” If a spell might be placed on his firespitters, rendering them inoperable or ineffective, a sword might come in handy.
Gar’Ath had smiled; and, in answer to his request, Gar’Ath said, “You understand the basic techniques, if not their finer points. At this juncture, the best way—and the most potentially dangerous way—to learn the sword can be when your life is in the balance. If you keep your wits about you. Remember, Champion, that the overwhelming majority of persons against whom you might bring a sword to bear will be no better than you, albeit to a degree experienced in actual life-and-death combat. There is a small number of fine swordsmen, and a smaller number still of great ones. Against the rest, you could make a good account of yourself if you keep your wits about you. You’ll have a sword, Champion, a sword upon which you can wager your life if needs be.”
They’d agreed to meet later on, which was rather silly, Garrison reflected. On a vessel the size of the armada’s flagship, it would have been impossible not to meet later on, and frequently.
The wind was carrying their armada toward another armada, an armada of icebergs, the floating mountains of white in greater numbers than Garrison would have suspected usual or natural.
Mitan passed near the bow pulpit, wearing her alluringly skimpy warrior’s garb and a heavy cape, the cape wide open, as if the cold didn’t bother her. “Mitan?”
“Yes, Champion?”
“Do you know enough about these waters to even hazard a guess as to whether or not icebergs in such numbers are normal?”
She came to stand beside him at the rail. When Garrison glanced at Mitan, he could tell immediately that she was using the second-sight; he’d come to recognize the look on the faces of those who had it. “I have no grounding in data concerning this, Champion, but the icebergs do seem oddly abundant, don’t they?”
“Swan’s mom, you think?”
It took Mitan a second, but when she looked back at him there was recognition in her eyes. “I will find out. Wait for me here, Champion.” And she was off, sprinting across the deck.
“Killer icebergs. Wonderful,” Garrison mused aloud.
By nightfall, if nothing popped up to slow them down, they would easily have made landfall. Of what would transpire after that Garrison was most uncertain. If Swan had a definite plan spelling out just what she intended as a diversion, she had not yet shared it with him. As far as he could understand magical theory, however, the broad outline of Swan’s plan seemed sound.
Assuming that her mother’s magical powers could be temporarily written out of the scenario, there were still military units and ordinary guards to contend with in order to penetrate the keep at Barad’Il’Koth. If his firespitters—“Guns,” Garrison said aloud, chiding himself—could be relied upon, in and of themselves they would make tremendous equalizers. Their terror value alone against persons with what amounted to a late medieval European level of technology (at Garrison’s most generous estimate) would be almost incalculable. He found himself wishing that somehow he’d been able to bring a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun along with him to Creath. With one of those and a half-dozen spare magazines, he could have taken on the entire Sword of Koth single-handedly.
There was another problem as well.
He was not some sort of commando, only a cop. The FBI academy didn’t teach sentry removal techniques or any of the other requisite skills to penetrate an enemy stronghold. For that, Hostage Rescue or, if they were good enough, the local police SWAT Team got the call.
On Creath, there was no using a cell phone to call for backup.
Mitan rejoined him at the rail, and before either of them could speak, Gar’Ath was beside them as well. “I have that sword, Champion.
“And I have asked Swan to transport herself or Erg’Ran to the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel and ask Bre’Gaa if he will consent to being transported to our ship in order that he may confer with us concerning the icebergs and whether or not such a great number of icebergs could be natural.”
“Here is the sword which I promised to you, Champion.” From beneath his cloak, Gar’Ath produced a still-sheathed blade, then drew the blade from its scabbard. That the sword was clearly magnificent was readily apparent. “May you use it with skill and honor, Champion. It belonged to the finest swordsman I have ever met—next to my father, of course. My father was the man who made it. The previous owner was K’Ur’Mir, and he died fighting with this blade in his hands. When I came upon him as he lay dying, he asked that I find a worthy hand to wield it. Seven Sword of Koth—”
“I thought it was six,” Mitan interrupted impishly.
“Six or seven. But, however many, they were Sword of Koth who fought him and he held against them, one man fighting harder and stronger than seven—or six. Neither heart nor swordarm nor steel failed him. The Queen Sorceress herself took his life, spellcasting that he saw his friends and family surrounding him rather than his enemies. In the eyeblink that he hesitated, the Sword of Koth stormed him as one. Even then, he took four of the seven—or six—with him unto death.”
Garrison took the sword in his hands, looked at Gar’Ath, saying, “I’ll care for it and, when this is over, return—”
“No, Champion. It is your sword to do with as you will, and not to be returned. I’ve found the hand worthy to wield it. You are no equal to his skill, but you have the same strength of heart.”
“I don’t know what to say, my friend.”
“In those words, Champion, you have said enough.” If the sword with which Garrison had practiced could be compared to a clunker off a used car lot, this was a Ferrari, yet much of its elegance was found in its simplicity. Its pommel was a solid wheel, brass like all the fittings and the lobed, drooping double quillons which formed the guard. Between pommel and guard the hilt itself felt as though it were made to fill his hand and no other. It was of wood, he supposed, seamlessly wrapped in black leather. Fullers, for lightening the blade on both sides, ran full length from the short, full thickness, brass-augmented ricasso toward the subtle spear point where the double edges met.
Gar’Ath’s gift was reminiscent of an early sword used by the Scots, the antecedent of the classic two-hand claymores. Like the pre-claymore Scottish sword, because of its wheel pommel, it was more a hand-and-a-half sword, allowing two-handed use when required, yet—as far as Garrison’s limited experience allowed him to judge—just as perfectly designed for single hand use.
As if he were reading Garrison’s mind, Gar’Ath supplied the answer to an unasked question. “The tang of the blade runs full length into the wheel pommel, Champion, and is full width as far as it can go and full thickness throughout. My father built swords to survive combat; that’s the only way the swordsman will survive, Champion.” And Gar’Ath laughed.
“It’s beautiful, Gar’Ath,” Mitan declared, her voice low. “It’s truly beautiful. You have a fine sword there, Champion.”
Garrison only nodded. When he looked up from the blade, and over the rail and across the water, he couldn’t help but notice the icebergs again. There seemed to be more of them now than there had been.
Swan’s voice interrupted his worrisome thoughts. “Bre’Gaa graciously consented to join us.”
Garrison looked around. The Gle’Ur’Gya Captain Commander, much of his head obscured by the hood of his cloak, said nothing as he left Swan’s side and went to the rail. He remained silent for several seconds, breaking his silence only to say, “That is a magnificent sword, Al’An.”
“It was a gift from Gar’Ath.”
“I watched your practice from my deck earlier this day. Such a sword will help with your confidence, thereby aiding you in rapid development of your skills.”
“Thank you.”
Bre’Gaa dismissed Garrison’s thanks with a wave of his hand and what might have been a nod, then fell silent again, staring out to sea.
Bre’Gaa stared, and stared some more. At last, Gar’Ath demanded, “What do you see, man?!”
“Mitan or I can second-sight for you, if you like, Captain,” Swan volunteered.
“That is unnecessary, Enchantress. My mind is already made up, was nearly so well before you invited me to your vessel. According to the legends of the Gle’Ur’Gya, generation upon generation ago, so long ago that the common seed of our peoples was still apparent among your race and my own, the great winter came upon Creath. Many creatures ceased to exist, unable to withstand the cold. The dragons which had once been so numerous all but disappeared as well. But a small number of them, which had been asleep as was their wont during the winter season, were trapped in their caves by the rapidly encroaching ice.”
“We have this same legend,” Swan told Bre’Gaa.
“When your mother brought the ice dragons from their great sleep, she did so with a spell which allowed the dragons to exit their icy lairs in order to perform her bidding, then return to their caves, to be frozen within again while they slept, remaining there until she should require their ferocity to serve her evil ends once more or merely wish to see them wreak havoc for her own amusement.
“If that story is true in all parts,” Bre’Gaa continued, “then those great masses of ice can signal only one thing.”
“She has awakened the ice dragons from their caves,” Swan murmured.
“Yes. Once they are fully awake, they will hunger and they will come for us. We must prepare with all speed.”
“I thought your mother’s magic was probably pretty much depleted,” Garrison volunteered to Swan.
“Remember, Al’An? Magic which merely accelerates that which is natural requires little magical energy at all. The ice dragons are real, not a magical creation. Ice cracks and melts and falls away. Sleeping beasts awaken. These are all natural occurrences, Al’An, in our realm or in yours I should think. She won’t even need to send them against us, because it is their natural instinct to hunt and devour flesh, wherever they may find it. In ancient times, they hunted over the Land. Upon awakening, they will go there in search of prey. They will spy our ships along the way and they will attack. That is the natural order of things, Al’An.”
Garrison asked a question which he considered at once logical and extremely pertinent. “How many ice dragons are we talking about, guys?”
Almost dismissively, Bre’Gaa responded, “It is doubtful that more than a hundred or so of their kind still exist in all of Creath.”
“Would that mean we’ll be facing a pack of a hundred or so, Captain?”
Bre’Gaa shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to say, Al’An. Have you fought a dragon before?”
“You have?”
Bre’Gaa nodded gravely. “Yes, on three occasions. Loss of life was heavy. I have fought them, yes. And it appears that I shall do so anon. I take it that you have not.”
“We don’t have dragons where I come from, so they didn’t hit on it at the FBI academy.”
“If you someday return to your realm, you might suggest that knowledge of dragon fighting can prove worthwhile.”
“What sort of knowledge?” Gar’Ath asked. “An ice dragon destroyed the place where I was born, but I have never fought one, either.”
“There is a saying among the Gle’Ur’Gya, young swordsman, that an amateur at ice dragon fighting can be the ice dragon’s greatest weapon.”
Garrison had always been fond of aphorisms and made a mental note to write that one down in case he needed it sometime. “What sort of special information might be useful to us if we’re to have any hope of becoming more professionally competent at dragon slaying?”
“They are not mere brutes,” Bre’Gaa explained. “Ice dragons have considerable cunning, even what might be called a degree of intelligence and sophistication. They are wholly capable of fighting independently of one another, or fighting as a group toward a common goal. You’ll all find it most illuminating, an experience never to be forgotten, if survived.”
Garrison had been hoping Bre’Gaa would tell them about some special spot on the dragons’ bodies where they were inordinately vulnerable. That Bre’Gaa evidently didn’t know of such a spot was most disquieting.
The typical ice dragon, Garrison learned, was the equivalent in Earth measurement of twenty-five to thirty feet in length, with a wingspan—when fully extended for soaring—of fifty feet or better. Like the terrestrial dragons of myth, they spewed fire (no one explained how that was possible) and their bodies were covered in razor-edged scales, the scales like pieces of interlocking plate armor. Even their genitalia was armored (nor did anyone explain how that allowed the conception of little ice dragons). The males had a great horn at the center of their foreheads. Color ranged from a sickly grey to jade green. Their sound or call, from what Garrison was able to put together from Bre’Gaa’s descriptions of dragon combat and Gar’Ath s recollection of tales told to him during childhood, had no parallel with anything of Earth.
Erg’Ran, while most others aboard the flagship honed their blades or saw to their bows, sat on the steps of the bow pulpit and painstakingly studied an old scroll, the intensity with which he poured over it prompting Garrison’s curiosity, “What is that?”
“It is a scroll, Champion.”
“I know that, Erg’Ran! I mean, what is the subject? What are you reading about?”
“I predicted violent confrontation, with ice dragons particularly, as you may recall. In preparation for that,” Erg’Ran went on, “I brought along certain scrolls and books of notes I have taken over the years in anticipation of the day that my niece, the Enchantress, would engage in battle against the forces of my sister, Eran. That is why I study this scroll, Champion. My axe is sharp enough. It is my mind which I must keen if we are to survive this encounter and go on.”
“So, I should get lost and let you continue your reading?”
“As you say, Champion.”
Garrison quit the bow pulpit and busied himself helping whomever he could about the deck. The armada still made good time toward Edge Land, and the icebergs, although closer, were still sufficiently distant that he really didn’t worry about an imminent collision with one of them. However, this would not have been the time to sit on deck and casually regale his companions with graphic tales of the Titanic disaster.
Garrison saw Swan very little. She, too, was studying, not a scroll but one of her recopied spellbooks. She seemed thoroughly preoccupied and to have time for little else. Feeling somewhat like a child at a grown-up party, Garrison continued to busy himself helping wherever he could. But his thoughts were elsewhere, on the encounter which he considered inevitable.
Would the ice dragons be visible at a great distance? Would their cries boom like thunder?
Would his pistols work at all against the beasts?
Mitan sounded the alarm. “Ice dragons off the starboard bow!” All of Garrison’s misgivings were about to be addressed.
Swan put away the spellbook and stood. Her body shook, the cold radiating from the water and the air only the smallest contributor to the chill which seized her body. She used the second-sight in order to view the ice dragons in better detail.
They moved in a wedge formation, twelve of them. The apex was a male larger by far than any of the others, its great horn more than the length of the dagger strapped to her leg, half the length at least of a sword blade.
Swan had never been a good hand with longbow or crossbow. She pushed back the hood of her greatcape and drew her sword. Swan was uncertain if she knew the right magic to aid in defeating the ice dragons, and steel might be her only weapon against them if she did not.
Swan moved toward the bow pulpit, Erg’Ran already there, axe in hand. “What do you think, Erg’Ran?”
“I take it, Enchantress, that you are as uncertain as I concerning the use of magic against these winged beasts?”
“Yes, uncle. More uncertain than I would like. Our people have had so few encounters with them, and all of the spells are from so long ago. There’s no way I can tell if they even worked.”
“I considered that, Enchantress,” Erg’Ran told her. “We could endeavor to use natural forces against them. What about lightning?”
“If it can be done. In order to summon lightning, I must summon a storm. I worry, out here, that we might then find ourselves forced to contend with high seas, wind gusts and heavy rains as well as ice dragons. And that will require a great deal of magical energy. If I deplete my energy too severely before we reach Edge Land, we may have even worse difficulties.”
Erg’Ran nodded gravely. “Perhaps Mitan, if you taught her the summoning, could—”
“I don’t believe that she currently has the capability,” Swan told him. “Mitan has always had the potential, but she’s expended little effort in the development of her magic, choosing the warrior way instead. And many’s the time all of us have found ourselves grateful for her skills with blade and bow.”
“Indeed. So, we must wait and see how well we fare against the beasts and then you will make the decision.”
Swan nodded, looked past her uncle and out to sea. No second-sight was needed now to see the ice dragons in all of their grisly detail.
Alan Garrison crouched by the starboard rail, beside an oarsman named Lii’Ku, a wiry fellow and shorter than the average woman, yet with muscles any bodybuilder would have envied. Like the other men in the wells, he rowed furiously, despite the wind.
Garrison warned him, “My firespitters are loud. Be ready for a very loud noise and ringing in the ears. When I use my firespitters, small pieces of brass are ejected after each shot. They can feel very hot against your skin. Just want you to know.”
“I will be alert to this, Champion.”
“Good.” Garrison tightened position, on his right knee, his left elbow resting on his left knee. Because his “firespitters” were only handguns, and he wasn’t an Olympic-quality marksman, and his targets would be moving, as was his firing platform—the flagship—Garrison had decided to abide by the old rejoinder, “Don’t shoot until you can see the whites of their eyes.” And, too, the eyes of the ice dragons would be his targets.
A dozen of the giant winged dragons were coming in at eleven o’clock, holding formation as if they were aircraft coming in for saturation bombing runs and their pilots had no fear of antiaircraft fire.
Indeed, what passed for antiaircraft fire was ready all around him. Gar’Ath had command of the fighters, and Garrison heard Gar’Ath’s voice, calmly reassuring, saying, “All right, lads! When I give the command, we fire. If any one of us finds a vulnerable spot, all of us will concentrate on that spot on each of the other ice dragons.” Because there were no ship-to-ship communications, all the vessels in the Armada, including that of the Gle’Ur’Gya, would await the flagship’s opening salvo before commencing their own.
“Do they really breathe fire, you think, Champion?” Lii’Ku panted as he rowed.
“Beats me, pal. That’s what everyone tells me.”
“If one of ’em starts breathin’ our way, can I hide behind that beautiful Golden Shield of yours?”
Garrison grinned, but didn’t take his eyes off his target, the biggest of the ice dragons, a male with an enormous horn. “You can hide behind my shield only if you don’t mind me hiding there with you.”
Almost to himself, Garrison found himself humming. “What’s that tune, Champion?” Lii’Ku got out between breaths.
“Richard Wagner’s ‘Flight of The Valkyries.’ Great composer, shitty outlook on life. Terrific music, though.”
“It seems to me... that a dirge might... might be better suited Champion.”
“You might be right.” The big, horned male was a good seventy-five yards out and closing fast. The hum of ice dragon wings beating the frosty air was growing to a roar. Garrison decided to ignore his own self-imposed range limits. “Gar’Ath!” Garrison shouted.
“Yes, Champion?”
“Permission to open fire with my firespitters.”
“Aye, Champion! Whenever you feel that you should.”
“Thank you!” Garrison sucked in a deep breath, let part of it out and locked the rest in his throat. He thumb-cocked the hammer of his pistol. Garrison held over high, settling his front sight just left of the horn’s root and where, if ice dragons had eyebrows, its right eyebrow would have been. He took up the slack in the trigger, then squeezed.
“G’urg! That’s loud!” Lii’Ku shouted.
A lot of people made a big deal out of .45 ACP recoil. Garrison thought they were silly. He knew slightly built women and comparatively young children who could fire a .45 without complaint. Garrison held, the pistol’s muzzle barely rising. In the next instant, he knew the cry, the call, the ghastly sound of the ice dragons. He heard it.
His shot had no visible effect, but that it had caused pain or startlement was unquestionable.
A cheer went up from the people on deck. Gar’Ath shouted over it, “Open fire, lads!”
Garrison commenced firing in earnest, emptying the remaining seven rounds from the pistol toward the lead dragon’s right eye. There were more hideous screams from the beast, but it kept coming.
A wave of arrows and crossbow bolts filled the air between the flagship and the ice dragons, more projectiles launched from each of the other ships. As Garrison changed magazines in the pistol, he glanced toward the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel. If any conventional weapons of Creath had a chance of inflicting serious damage on the ice dragons, it would be the huge deck-mounted crossbows of the Gle’Ur’Gya, their harpoon-sized bolts already whistling through the air toward the dragons.
Garrison made to fire again, but as he settled his sights, he heard Swan shouting, “The fire breath is coming!”
Garrison saw a tiny wisp of smoke coming from between what would have been lips if the lead male ice dragon had lips. “Holy shit! Lii’Ku! The shield!” Garrison wrenched the Golden Shield of IBF up from the deck beside him, interposing it between himself and the ice dragons. Lii’Ku dove behind it, too.
Garrison had ventured into a burning building once, many years before, having heard crying from inside. He had nearly been burned himself when he failed to feel a door for excessive heat, opened it and a tongue of flame leaped toward him. The tongue of flame from the ice dragon sounded the same. As it had been years before, he escaped the fire, only feeling the searing heat as it washed around and over him, nearly suffocating him.
He’d survived the burning building, helping a policeman to rescue what turned out to be a housecat instead of a baby.
Despite the deck behind him being on fire, Garrison survived the first fiery blast from the ice dragons.
Lii’Ku whipped off his cloak, attacking the flames.
The nearest ice dragon—not the one Garrison had fired at—was under twenty-five yards away, swooping over the water, wings fully outstretched. It would loose its fiery breath in seconds, Garrison knew.
Garrison pushed his shield away, crouched and took aim with his pistol. The underside of the wing—, what would have been the wing stem had the dragon been an aircraft—didn’t look to be armored with scales. Garrison fired two shots, then two more. He threw himself left, the ice dragon’s wing spewing blood or bile under such pressure that Garrison knew he must have struck the equivalent of a main artery.
Peering out from behind his shield again, Garrison watched as the ice dragon tried desperately to beat the air with the one undamaged wing, skipping over the white caps like a stone flicked across the water by some gigantic child.
There was a shriek, horrible beyond anything Garrison had ever heard, clearly the sound of a mortally wounded creature, yet almost supernatural, like he imagined the screeching wail of a banshee.
But the creature was not dead.
Only as it writhed in the icy water could Garrison at last see the mouth of an ice dragon up close. Three rows of spike shaped teeth filled its upper and lower jaws. Fully open those jaws spanned more than six feet from the long, forked tongue to the roof of the mouth.
Garrison emptied his pistol into the ice dragon’s mouth, firing down its throat. The ice dragon vomited a mixture of fire and blood across the water.
A cheer went up from the flagship, more cheers from the other vessels of the armada. Garrison changed to his last full magazine, looking skyward, knowing full well that the battle was just beginning.
The volleys of arrows and crossbow bolts began again, their targets the undersides of the ice dragons’ outstretched wings, where wing and torso met. Garrison happened to be looking the right way as one of the harpoon-sized bolts fired from the deck of the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel struck its mark, the ice dragon struck with such force that its untouched wing folded and the creature rolled over onto its spiny back. Spewing fire toward the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel, almost as a final act of hatred, the creature augered downward into the sea. It struck with the force of a missile. A concussion wave started from impact zero, rolling the sea outward in a full circle around it. The flagship and the other four small ships rolled as it struck them broadside, only the more massive Gle’Ur’Gya vessel seemingly unaffected.
Fire belched from above and Garrison ran for his shield as flames crackled along the deck behind him. There was no time to look up and back; he knew an ice dragon was chasing him. Flames outdistanced him to his right, Lii’Ku consumed by them and he changed directions. As Garrison was about to run out of deck—he was nearing the bow—at the far edge of his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of Gar’Ath and Mitan. They fired longbows in almost perfect unison, then dove over the rail.
Garrison hit the bow pulpit, ran the three steps, jumped the rail and plunged into the frigid water, clutching his pistol tight in his fist. The water above him vaporized into steam.
There’d been no time for a huge gulp of air. Garrison was forced to the surface. As his head broke the water, he saw the ice dragon, one wing crippled, but if there was any great bleeding, it was not immediately apparent.
Treading water, Garrison tucked his pistol into the double shoulder holsters, secured the thumb break safety strap, hoping it would hold, soaked as it was.
His eyes focused hard on the ice dragon. It flapped both wings, propelling itself through the water, belching a stream of fire which streaked a good twenty yards over the water. Not far beyond the flames were Gar’Ath and Mitan. They would never outswim the beast.
“Aww, shit!” Garrison snarled, cursing his own stupidity. But, Gar’Ath or Mitan would have done the same for him. They had, in fact, when they’d loosed arrows at the beast. Garrison started swimming toward the dragon. He would empty his pistols into the beast at close range, and if they didn’t stop the creature, his only viable recourse would be the axe which hung from his belt. Both the sword and the Golden Shield of IBF were back on board the flagship. The shield would have been only a burden under the circumstances, but the sword could have proven itself useful. He hoped that he wouldn’t need the axe.
Ten yards from the dragon, Garrison drew the pistol he’d just reholstered. He swam closer, wanting to be as close to point blank as possible before opening fire. In theory, his ammunition would still function, if Swan’s duplicates of his original ammunition were as perfect as they seemed to be. Seven rounds loaded, the distance six yards or so, he didn’t bother thumb-cocking the pistol. Both he and the ice dragon bobbed too much in the water—and, the water’s temperature was progressively numbing Garrison. Pinpoint accuracy, even at such a short distance, would be impossible.
He waited, waited, for the ice dragon to get past him, leaving the underside of its damaged left wing exposed.
The ice dragon exhaled fire again, A tongue of flame licked lustfully across the water, stopping less than a yard from Gar’Ath. The young swordsman had interposed his own body between that of the woman he loved and the dragon. The ice dragon swam relentlessly forward. When it next loosed its fire, the flames would engulf Gar’Ath and Mitan, no matter how rapidly they swam.
Garrison saw the arrows, still stuck in the underside of the dragon’s left wing, so close to the torso that one or the other should have pierced the artery. Neither had. Using the arrows as his aiming point, Garrison fired once, then again and again and again. All four bullets impacted, but he saw no effect. Garrison emptied the last three rounds into the creature.
There was still no noticeable effect. It didn’t even turn its head toward him.
Garrison inhaled and ducked under the waves, twisted his body so that he was on his back. Still under water he reholstered the pistol, then drew its match from the second holster.
Garrison surfaced. With a full magazine and one in the chamber, the pistol had eight rounds. Garrison fired twice, then twice more. He was closer to the artery, had to be, Garrison told himself.
Only four more rounds remained and he’d be down to the little .32 in his pocket and his two knives.
Deliberately, Garrison disregarded the arrows. If they had not struck the artery where they had hit, it had to be for a reason. There were some few human beings born with their hearts in right sides of their chests. Could an ice dragon have been born with this main artery between the wing and the torso either further forward or further rearward?
Garrison had four shots left with which he could find out.
Treading water, steadying himself as best he could, Garrison opened fire, two shots further forward along the underside of the wing, two shots further back. The first two shots achieved nothing. Nor did the third shot. The last shot struck the artery, and the ice dragon shrieked in anguish and rage. The pressure from the ice dragon’s great heart pumped blood toward Garrison with the force of a fire hose. Garrison was knocked back and downward, under water, no air in his lungs, his hand barely able to still grasp his empty pistol.
Garrison was going down, blackness and cold enveloping him. He thrust his empty hand upward, felt the chill of wind on his fingertips. With his last iota of strength, Garrison heaved his body upward, gulping air the instant his mouth broke the surface. He choked, his lungs cold and on fire at once.
The monster shrieked one last ear-splitting cry and its head bowed over, great red-rimmed eyes open as sea water washed across them.
Alan Garrison’s body was getting seriously numb. Somehow, he fumbled the empty pistol from his hand and into its holster beneath his sodden bomber jacket. Between the jacket and his cowboy boots, his body felt as if it weighed a ton. Forcing himself, Garrison started to swim. The vessels nearest to him and to Gar’Ath and Mitan were the flagship and the Gle’Ur’Gya Storm Raider. Gar’Ath and Mitan were already being thrown lines from the Storm Raider.
As Garrison fought to swim on he saw nine ice dragons were still in the sky, including the big horned male. Then he heard two splashes nearby. Looking around—his neck hurt when he did—Garrison noted that there were two men swimming toward him from the flagship, one of them Bin’Ah.
Garrison tried to swim toward them, his arms leaden, his legs not responding.
Erg’Ran peered over the side, the Champion floundering in the waves, but two men of the flagship nearly to him.
“Will he—”
“You will need your magic, Enchantress, lest he lose a limb. Waters as frigid as these can do much damage, and not only to the limbs, but can kill a heart, even one so great as that of the Champion.”
“Yes, Erg’Ran. I will see to—”
“See to him quickly, I suggest, Enchantress. Our best warriors are unable to continue the fight, and nine of the ice dragons still continue at the attack. That three have perished without the aid of magic is beyond anything that we could have hoped for, Enchantress. If they change their tactics and come in a group against one ship at a time, we will surely perish.”
“You are right,” Swan agreed, her eyes not meeting his. Erg’Ran knew that she was looking toward the water, and he knew why.
His niece would likely have to expend a considerable amount of her magical energy, not in summoning the storm, which was only a natural phenomenon, but in controlling the lightning.
If her magical energy became so depleted that it would take some time to restore itself, he would find himself on the horns of a terrible dilemma. If he shared with the Enchantress and her Champion his strongly held theory concerning the origin of her mother’s vast magical energy, Swan might be tempted to try tapping into that source herself. And, indeed, she might then have magical power as great as or exceeding that of her mother. If she did so, however, the prophecy could not be fulfilled.
But what if the prophecy was wrong?
Her magical energy seemed to return to her more quickly than it had. And her magical abilities were strengthening, expanding, deepening.
Erg’Ran did not know what to do, and only hoped that he would not have to make the choice.
Alan Garrison looked up into Swan’s eyes. “How am I doin’?”
Swan only smiled. Her hands passed slowly over his body, and he felt warmth returning to his legs and arms as her fingertips touched them. But warmth also radiated from the very core of his being, coursing through his veins. She was healing him, staving off the almost inevitable results of the hypothermia which had gripped him in the icy waters.
“Gar’Ath and Mitan?”
“They will be well. Such healing as this is simple, the simplest kind of natural magic. Mitan is well-versed in it. She will have been able to heal herself, without even consciously trying, and will be attending Gar’Ath as I attend you. Bin’Ah and the other of our company who went into the water after you were not so seriously affected. I will see to their needs very soon.”
“What about the little guy with the muscles? Lii’Ku?”
“My magical energy is sufficient that I could cause him to move about, even talk, laugh. But, it is not for my magic nor any magic to restore life to a body once life has slipped from it. He is dead, Al’An.” Swan touched her lips to Garrison’s forehead, as tenderly, he thought, as a mother might kiss a small child. Swan whispered, “That is why I took the essence of you from your body and placed it in the bird at Arba’Il’Tac. Had the life slipped from your body when you crashed to the rocky ground, I could not bring it back, with magic or any other way.”
“I understand,” Garrison answered.
“The ice dragons still attack.” As if to emphasize her words, there was the whooshing sound of a volley of arrows being launched against the beasts. “I must quickly see to many things. When you feel strong enough, bring your sword and the Golden Shield of IBF and attend me at the bow pulpit, Al’An.”
“I will,” Garrison promised. “Soon.”
She rose from her knees, Garrison watching her from where he lay near the mast. Swan stopped, her skirts lifted delicately in the fingertips of her left hand, her right hand first touching to Bin’Ah’s chest. After what would be called in Creath only a few “eyeblinks,” Swan touched the other of Garrison’s rescuers.
Garrison totally trusted to Swan’s magic and her goodness. Without being told, he knew that both men were healed.
Very quickly then, Swan walked forward, sidestepping still smoldering decking, making her way to the bow pulpit. Erg’Ran dropped to a crouch beside Garrison the next instant. “The Enchantress will summon forth a great storm. We must all be prepared. She will use her magic then to draw out the lightning, make it yield to her will. She will use the lightning to repel the ice dragons. It is our only hope if we are to survive.”
Garrison trusted to Swan’s magic, yes, but promised himself that as soon as the tingling was gone from his fingertips, he would load fresh cartridges into his fired out magazines, then reload his empty pistols. Just in case.
Swan ascended the three steps to the bow pulpit.
Her hands emerged from beneath her great cape, raised upward, arms fully extended.
There wouldn’t be time to reload his pistols. “Help me get to my feet, Erg’Ran.”
“Slowly, Champion.”
“Right. Help me.”
Erg’Ran stood, leaned down, offered Garrison his hand. Garrison clasped it nearly collapsing against the older man. “You’ll recall, Champion, I cautioned that you stand slowly.”
“I recall, already,” Garrison nodded, catching his breath from the exertion. “I need my sword and my shield.”
“I will bring your shield. Bin’Ah?” Erg’Ran called out along the deck.
“Yes, Erg’Ran?”
“The Champion’s sword and golden shield.”
“Yes, Erg’Ran.”
Garrison steadied himself, tried walking a step, nearly made it. Erg’Ran held on to him.
Volley after volley of arrows had sailed overhead, but none flew as Garrison stood on the flagship’s deck. The ice dragons had temporarily withdrawn to what Garrison mentally labeled as the west, swarming like hungry insects, circling the almost gently gliding horned male who appeared to be their pack leader. It was as if they were somehow conferring, via body language. And, perhaps they were, Garrison granted.
His sword was brought to him, on a baldric of wide dark brown leather. Erg’Ran helped him to slip it over his head and left arm.
The acrid smell of still smoldering deck planking merely added to Garrison’s lightheadedness. But he felt steadier than he had and ready to walk, albeit slowly and quite carefully. Erg’Ran carried Garrison’s shield and walked beside him, close enough to catch him, Garrison noted with some reassurance.
Ahead, at the very prow, Swan’s hands moved rhythmically through the air, swirling, gliding. In the distance, Garrison spotted a small, dark cloud. Garrison’s eyes followed Swan’s hands, moving with such grace that the motion was erotic. When he felt less than himself, he’d discovered over the years that he seemed to find humor in the oddest things. Such was the case as he continued forward along the deck, Erg’Ran still beside him. “Figured out why K’Ur’Mir men don’t get into magic very heavily. It’s not the thing that women just have more of it.”
“Oh! Really, Champion? Prithee, why, then?”
“Simple. All the hand movements and gentle touching and stuff like that?”
“So?”
“If a guy did that, he’d look like a sissy.” Erg’Ran obviously pondered the meaning of the word for an eyeblink or so, then slowly responded, “That is an interesting observation, Champion. I’d prefer to consider the full implications of your remarks before commenting, if I may.”
“Hey. Not a problem, Erg’Ran. We can talk about it later.”
They were nearly at the bow. No volleys of arrows were being fired. Men stood on the deck, some with spears ready, some with hands on the hilts of their still sheathed swords, some with the prods of their crossbows cocked, all waiting for the dragons to strike. Garrison looked toward the Storm Raider. He thought that he made out Gar’Ath and Mitan on the afterdeck, but was certain that he saw some of the Gle’Ur’Gya setting their massive deck-mounted crossbows, preparing for the ice dragons’ imminent assault.
The little dark cloud Garrison had spied to the north was larger now, growing noticeably even as he watched it, expanding in height and width along the horizon. The wind was picking up. The icebergs seemed to be moving, too. From within the darkening cloud, Garrison saw a flash of light.
Swan was building her weapon, one which would destroy the ice dragons, and just possibly might destroy them. Her hands moved still more rapidly, as they had when she summoned the winds which saved them from the cyclonic wave, but somehow differently, as if each manifestation of her magic had subtle differences, like the intonations in speech or song.
Her hands moved with a flourish which Garrison had never witnessed before, palms outward, willowy fingers splayed. Yellow-white chain lightning crackled from the ever enlarging cloud bank in rhythm with the movements of her fingers, firing right and left, striking into the sea. The booms of thunder eyeblinks later were louder than any thunder Garrison had ever heard.
A gust of wind, colder than cold, swept across the ship, and Garrison’s bones all but rattled with its icy touch.
“Prepare you!” Erg’Ran shouted out across the deck. “Send forth signals to the other ships, Bin’Ah. Make it known to all the Company of Mir and to our Gle’Ur’Gya allies that a storm, in its relentless intensity unlike any that they have ever endured, is visited upon us! Its lightning will smite the ice dragons, ripping them from the sky, plunging them to their destruction in the icy deep!”
“Whew,” Garrison whistled under his breath. Erg’Ran’s speech struck him as awfully long to send as a semaphore style message, but Garrison kept that opinion to himself.
He turned his attention, instead, toward Swan, her hands and the weather that she undeniably, masterfully commanded.
The dark cloud totally obscured the horizon and seemed to cover half of the ocean itself. Inexorably, it devoured the distance still dividing it from the armada, rolling across the sky and sea, engulfing all before it.
Lightning. Thunderclaps. And the fair wind which had propelled them so faithfully over Woroc’Il’Lod was risen into a howling gale. The very air surrounding their vessels turned to luminescent green, electrical energy flickering everywhere around their ship and the other ships of the armada. The suddenness of the storm’s grip closing on them nearly robbed Garrison’s breath, sending a shiver along the full length of his spine.
Rain fell, at first a mist, an instant later a downpour, and an instant after that wind-lashed torrents, each enormous frigid drop stinging the skin like a needle prick.
The ice dragons, all nine of them, chose this very moment to strike, vectoring their attack against the flagship. Garrison had no idea of the ice dragons’ level of intelligence, but they clearly realized in some element of their consciousness that the female standing in the prow of the flagship had something to do with the storm. That was obvious as the ice dragons started their dive. Erg’Ran cried out over the keening of the wind. “Concentrate your arrows and bolts on the leader! Fire, lads! Fire now!”
Garrison’s pistols were still empty and there was no time to reload. The .32 in his pocket would be useless for such work. Summoning all of his strength to ascend the steps to the bow pulpit and stand beside Swan, Garrison unsheathed his sword and raised the Golden Shield of IBF.
“Can you still command the storm if I shield you, Swan?”
“Yes, Al’An.”
“Then be ready!” The exertion required to ascend the steps and bring sword and shield to bear had, rather than exhausting Garrison, somehow reinvigorated him. And he had confidence that the shield would protect them from dragon fire.
Strange words—the Old Tongue, Garrison assumed—issued from Swan’s lips like a cry, yet unmistakably a command. A bolt of lightning, brilliant yellow-white, streaked from the nearly black clouds. One of the nine ice dragons diving toward the flagship was struck. The rumble of thunder was deafening. Garrison’s ears pulsed with it. The colossal winged beast’s vile grey body exploded into flame, a rain of blood and tissue and fire cascading from within the explosive cloud, and an eyeblink later the fireball itself totally dissipated on the driving wind.
Cheers rose from the flagship, hurrahs echoing across the water from the other ships as well. But any human sound was barely discernible as little over a whisper. The relentless shrieks of the ice dragons, the nerve-shattering rhythmic thrum of their mighty wings and the howl of wind and roar of waves vanquished all other sound, penetrated the human soul to its innermost redoubt.
Soaked, freezing, the enormous breakers which crashed over the prow of the flagship pummeling him, Garrison braced himself and stood, offering what protection he could to the Virgin Enchantress whom he loved and served. The nearest ice dragon made what Garrison mentally classified as a strafing run, soaring over the flagship’s deck, fire rolling from its wicked mouth. Garrison wheeled, lifting his shield higher, drawing Swan close against him. The flame washed over them, stealing their breath for a microsecond, the beast’s left wing grazing Garrison’s left cheek, ear and shoulder.
Garrison felt the slick hotness of blood. Shoving Swan aside, but still shielding her, Garrison stabbed upward with his sword. His blade skated over the creature’s scales, its tip finding a spot of flesh. As the great monster passed, a spray of gore spewed from beneath its wing.
Garrison staggered, his sword hand shaking, his blade dripping a greenish yellow puss-like liquid onto the deck. The next wave to crash over the ship’s bow washed the ichor away. The whole left side of Garrison s face and upper body ached beyond any pain he’d ever known.
The ice dragon had gained altitude, was cutting a tight arc, its wings flapping incredibly rapidly. In an eyeblink, it dove toward them, slavering spike-toothed jaws open wide.
Fire.
Garrison raised the Golden Shield, drawing Swan into his sword arm.
The decking around their feet was aflame. Swan didn’t scream, but shouted, “Al’An!” Her skirts had caught fire. Garrison cast his shield against the bow rail, threw himself to his knees and smothered the flames with his body.
“I am all right, Al’An!”
Garrison looked up from his knees, saw her hands moving again. His eyes were blinded by the flash as lightning forked from the black cloud across the green air. There was a dragon sound louder than any Garrison had yet heard, and as his eyes recovered from the flash, he saw the creature spiraling down in flames just off the port bow. His ears rang from the thunderclap.
Seven ice dragons remained.
Bleeding heavily, Garrison staggered to his feet. Magic might not help these wounds, if Swan had any magic left after this, if they survived at all.
Garrison’s left arm was numb, and he refused to look at it. He thrust his sword deep into the decking, keeping it to hand while he once more raised the shield.
Hails of arrows and crossbow bolts filled the air overhead, ice dragons circling there. If the creatures were hit, Garrison couldn’t tell.
Swan had inched forward to the very prow once again, her body wedged into the apex of the port and starboard rails. Her cape was gone. Her auburn hair wildly tossed in the wind and spray, her arms at maximum extension, Swan’s splayed finger tips drew electricity from the air, A halo of light and energy surrounded her, glowing all about her.
“Swan! No!” Garrison shouted, starting to reach for her.
Swan’s arms moved, describing ever enlarging concentric circles. Her left hand flung suddenly upward, outward, palm upraised, a ball of electricity firing from her fingertips, striking the nearest of the remaining dragons.
Thunder reverberated around the ship, shields ringing like bells, swords like tuning forks.
Her right hand. Light and energy. A ball of lightning streaked from her fingers to its mark. Again and again the energy soared from her fingertips and again and again the ice dragons were struck and incinerated.
The last ice dragon, the great horned male, quit the attack.
If it got away, Garrison told himself, it would find other Creathans to feed on.
Swan clapped both hands together, then flung her palms open, the halo of energy surrounding her pouring into her, through her, spewing from her fingertips in a streak of blinding light and an explosion of sound.
Garrison shielded his face, but risked his eyes to look.
Somehow, the great male ice dragon must have sensed that the frail girl on the pitiful ship was not through with him.
The ice dragon looked back.
The energy summoned through the body of the Virgin Enchantress flashed round the beast and devoured it.
They were through now, the final ice dragon accounted for and dead. Alan Garrison turned his eyes to his left shoulder and arm.
The sleeve of his jacket was gone. A dragon scale had completely pierced his upper arm. He could see bone when a wave crashed over the bow and washed the blood away. He didn’t want to feel the left side of his head, because he was certain that his ear had been torn away.
Swan turned away from the prow. Even if his left ear was still where it belonged, Alan Garrison couldn’t hear her because of the thunder which still rang within him. But her lips formed a word he was certain he recognized, “Al’An?”
“I love you.” Garrison didn’t know if Swan could hear him, either. A wave crashed over the bow and brought blackness with it which engulfed him. There was nothing left to worry about.