Part 14 (1/2)

”I don't trust this at all!” Stile said. ”Clip has defended my Lady Blue against the monsters. Suddenly the loveliest mare unicorn in all the herds appears, luring him away.”

”All males are fools in this manner,” Sheen remarked.

”Clip, go not to her!” the Lady Blue pleaded. ”At least wait until my Lord returns. It will not be long now.” But Clip had lost control of himself. Evidently the mare was in heat; he had to go to her. He fought the lure, but step by step he went.

The Lady Blue had to remain in the cave, guarding herself and Hinblue. She was not so foolish as to venture where the ogres could pounce.

Now at last the capsule approached the curtain. But the capsule was below ground, under desert; Stile could not step through at this level. ”Get me to the surface, anywhere by the curtain!” he snapped, in a fever of impatience to reach the West Pole.

Sheen located a bus stop. Stile got out and hurried up the stairs to the surface. ”Keep things in order until my return,” he called back.

”Don't get yourself killed, sir,” she said. Stile didn't answer. He held his breath and burst out on to the desert, running for the curtain. As he came upon its s.h.i.+mmer, he willed himself across-and found himself running on the green plain of Phaze.

Immediately he stopped, formulating a suitable spell in his mind while he played his harmonica to summon his power. Then he sang: ”Convey me whole to the West Pole.”

The spell wrenched him from here to there, making him nauseous. It was never comfortable to work his magic on himself, and he avoided it except in emergencies. Feeling ill, he looked out from the West Pole.

There was no sign of Clip the unicorn. Stile sang a flight spell he had in reserve, rose into the air, and zoomed toward the ravine and cave where the Lady Blue waited. The two ogres were there. As Stile approached, one of them picked up the troll one-handed and hurled him high and away. Apparently Trool had left the security of his tunnels and so fallen into the power of the more ma.s.sive monsters.

”Please-freeze,” Stile sang, willing the interpretation of the spell. But though there was a faint effort of magic, the action did not stop.

Then he remembered that he had already used this spell to freeze the sea monster of the Translucent Demesnes. No wonder it had lost its potency. ”All will be still,” he sang.

This time the tableau froze as intended. The two ogres became statues, along with their injured companion, who was licking his arm a short distance away. The troll hung motionless in the air. The very wind stopped-but Stile himself continued.

The Lady Blue stood in the cave, knife in hand, her lovely face frozen in grinning ferocity as she slashed at the nearest monster. Behind her stood Hinblue, lame but trying to move out and get in a good kick.

Stile made a subspell to free the Lady only. ”My Lord!” she exclaimed, breathlessly glad to see him. ”Clip-he was lured away!”

”I saw,” Stile said. ”First I must tend to thee and thy friends; then will I quest after the unicorn.” The Lady was all right, though tired; it was no easy thing to stand up to an ogre with no more than a knife. Stile made a spell to restore Hinblue, whose injury had been beyond the Lady's gentler healing power. Then he brought Trool sliding slowly down from midair.

”A second time hast thou repaid my favor,” Stile said. ”Now do I owe thee one.”

”Nay, Adept,” Trool protested. ”It was prophesied that three times must I tunnel to free thee and thine from hazard, ere the balance evens.”

”Then gladly do I accept this rescue of my Lady!” Stile said. ”But dost thou not know that the Blue Adept destroyed all thy tribe in fire?”

”As my tribe destroyed all thy village. Those scales are even. The debt is other.”

Stile shrugged. ”Why shouldst thou be burdened, not me?”

”Because thou must save Phaze.” Trool turned and shambled back into his tunnel, which extended darkly into the ground. Stile was amazed at the creature's facility in tunneling-but of course troll magic was involved. Then he noticed an object on the ground. He stooped carefully to pick it up, for his knees remained bad, able to bend only to right angles before pain began. Stile could use magic to move himself but not to heal himself, so had to live with the condition. He picked up the object. It was a small figurine of a woman, quite well executed.

”Who made this?” Stile asked.

”Trool,” the Lady replied. ”He appears clumsy, but his big hands have magic. When he is not tunneling, he turns that magic to sculpture, to relieve his nervousness.”

”Facing two ogres, I can appreciate his concern! Why did he step out on to the land, where they had power?”

”To stop them from charging me,” she said. ”Trolls are not my favorite creature, but Trool acted bravely and selflessly. If again we meet, I shall call him friend.”

”Yet if he is honoring a prophecy, I can not reward him,” Stile said. ”That might alter the meaning of his action and void the prophecy, causing mischief.”

”True,” she agreed soberly.

Stile contemplated the figurine. ”This is thee!” he exclaimed, surprised.

She shrugged. ”He begged my leave. He works better when he has a subject. I saw no harm.”

Figurine magic could be potent-but the Red Adept had specialized in that, with her amulets, and she was gone. ”No, no harm,” Stile agreed. ”He's a fine craftsman. This is as pretty a statuette as I've seen.”

”We forget Clip,” she reminded him, taking the statuette from him.

”In a moment. Now for these monsters.” Stile conjured a cage around the two, then unfroze them. They rattled the bars for several minutes before conceding they were effectively imprisoned; then they were ready to listen to Stile.

”Know, ogres, that I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. ”This is my Lady Blue. Why did the five of you attack her?”

”Blue be now our enemy,” one repeated.

”The Oracle told thee that?”

”Told Brogbt.”

”Who is Brogbt?”

The ogre pointed to one of the dead monsters. ”Then must I make the dead to speak,” Stile said grimly. He pondered, working out a spell, then sang: ”Ogre Brogbt, under my spell, the true message do thou tell.”

The dead ogre stirred. Flies buzzed up angrily. Its rigor stiffened mouth cracked open. ”Blue be not thine enemy,” it croaked, and lay still again.

”Not!” the Lady exclaimed. ”It said not!”

Both living ogres seemed surprised. ”Brogbt told us now.”

”He thought the word was now. He was enchanted, and heard or remembered it wrong. I am not thine enemy. Now thou knowest.”

”Now I know,” the ogre agreed, adapting dully to this new reality.

Stile eliminated their cage. ”Go inform thy kind of the truth.”

They stomped away.

”Thou art as ever generous in victory,” the Lady said. ”Now for the unicorn.” Stile made a spell that set Clip's hoofprints glowing, and they followed these. The trail led over a hill to a copse of evergreens and entered the dense forest island.

”Where are the mare's prints?” the Lady asked. Stile sang a new spell to make those also glow, but evoked nothing.

”She was mere illusion,” the Lady said. ”A sending to distract him so the ogres could get to me. This surely means mischief. Had Trool not interfered-”

Stile made another spell. ”Make an image, make it sooth, - of the unicorn, of the truth.”

The image formed, like a holograph, three-dimensional. Clip walked beside a phantom. The unreal mare led him into the copse-and there a flash occurred, and the unicorn was gone.