Part 25 (1/2)
”Petrified? What could scare a sphinx that size?” Chameleon wondered, peering up at Bink's monstrous face.
But there was business to attend to. ”Begone, beastie!” Bink thundered.
The dragon was slow to adapt to the situation. It shot a jet of orange flame at Bink, scorching his feathers. The blast didn't hurt, but it was annoying. Bink reached out with one lion's paw and swiped at the dragon. It was a mere ripple of effort, but the creature was thrown sideways into a tree. A shower of rock nuts dropped on it from the angry tree. The dragon gave a single yelp of pain, doused its fire, and fled.
Bink circled around carefully, hoping he hadn't stepped on anyone. ”Why didn't we think of this before?” he bellowed. ”I can give you a ride, right to the edge of the jungle. No one will recognize us, and no creature will bother us!”
He squatted as low as possible, and Chameleon and Trent climbed up his tail to his back. Bink moved forward with a slow stride that was nevertheless faster than any man could run. They were on their way.
But not for long. Chameleon, bouncing around on the sphinx's h.o.r.n.y-skinned back, decided she had to go to the bathroom. There was nothing to do but let her go. Bink hunched down so she could slide safely to the ground.
Trent took advantage of the break to stretch his legs. He walked around to Bink's huge face. ”I'd transform you back, but it's really better to stick with the form until finished with it,” he said. ”I really have no concrete evidence that frequent transformations are harmful to the recipient, but it seems best not to gamble at this time. Since the sphinx is an intelligent life form, you aren't suffering intellectually.”
”No, I'm okay,” Bink agreed. ”Better than ever, in fact. Can you guess this riddle? What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three in the evening?”
”I shall not answer,” Trent said, looking startled. ”In all the legends I've heard, some sphinxes committed suicide when the correct answers to their riddles were given. Those were the smaller type of sphinx, a different species--but I seem to have muddled the distinctions somewhat, and would not care to gamble on the absence of affinity.”
”Uh, no,” Bink said, chagrined. ”I guess the riddle was from the mind of the sphinx, not me. I'm sure all sphinxes had a common ancestor, though I don't know the difference between one kind and another.”
”Odd. Not about your ignorance of Mundane legends. About your riddle memory. You are the sphinx. I didn't move your mind into an existing body, for the original creatures have all been dead or petrified for millennia. I transformed you into a similar monster, a Bink-sphinx. But if you actually have sphinx memories, true sphinx memories---”
”There must be ramifications of your magic you don't comprehend,” Bink said. ”I wish I understood the real nature of magic--any magic.”
”Yes, it is a mystery. Magic exists in Xanth, nowhere else. Why? What is its mechanism? Why does Xanth seem to be adjacent to any Mundane land, in geography, language, and culture? How is this magic, in all its multiple levels, transmitted from the geographic region to the inhabitants?”
”I have pondered that,” Bink said. ”I thought perhaps some radiation from the rock, or nutritional value of the soil--”
”When I am King I shall initiate a study program to determine the true story of Xanth's uniqueness.”
When Trent was King. The project was certainly worthwhile---in fact, fascinating-but not at that price. For a moment Bink was tempted: with the merest swipe of his mighty forepaw he could squash the Evil Magician flat, ending the threat forever.
No. Even if Trent were not really his friend, Bink could not violate the truce that way. Besides, he didn't want to remain a monster all his life, physically or morally.
”The lady is taking her sweet time,” Trent muttered. Bink moved his ponderous head, searching for Chameleon. ”She's usually very quick about that sort of thing. She doesn't like being alone.” Then he thought of something else. ”Unless she went looking for her spell--you know, to make her normal. She left Xanth in an effort to nullify her magic, and now that she's stuck back in Xanth, she wants some kind of counter-magic. She's not very bright right now, and--”
Trent stroked his chin. ”This is the jungle. I don't want to violate her privacy, but--”
”Maybe we'd better check for her.”
”Umm. Well, I guess you can stand one more transformation,” Trent decided. ”I'l1 make you a bloodhound. That's a Mundane animal, a kind of dog, very good at sniffing out a trail. If you run into her doing something private---well, you'll only be an animal, not a human voyeur.”
Abruptly Bink was a keen-nosed, floppy-eared, loose-faced creature, smell-oriented. He could pick up the lingering odor of anything--he was sure of that. He had never before realized how overwhelmingly important the sense of smell was. Strange that he had ever depended on any lesser sense.
Trent concealed their supplies in a mock tangle tree and faced about. ”Very well, Bink; let's sniff her out.” Bink understood him well enough, but could not reply, as this was not a speaking form of animal.
Chameleon's trail was so obvious it was a wonder Trent himself couldn't smell it. Bink put his nose to the ground--how natural that the head be placed so close to the primary source of information, instead of raised foolishly high as in Trent's case--and moved forward competently.
The route led around behind a bush and on into the wilderness. She had been lured away; in her present low ebb of intelligence, almost anything would fool her. Yet there was no consistent odor of any animal or plant she might have followed. That suggested magic. Worried, Bink woofed and sniffed on, the Magician following. A magic lure was almost certainly trouble.
But her trace did not lead into a tangle tree or guck-tooth swamp or the lair of a wyvern. It wove intricately between these obvious hazards, bearing generally south, into the deepest jungle. Something obviously had led her, guiding her safely past all threats--but what, and where--and why?
Bink knew the essence, if not the detail: some will-o'-the-wisp spell had beckoned her, tempting her ever forward, always just a little out of reach. Perhaps it had seemed to offer some elixir, some enchantment to make her normal--and so she had followed. It would lead her into untracked wilderness, where she would be lost, and leave her there. She would not survive long.
Bink hesitated. He had not lost the trail; that could never happen. There was something else.
”What is it, Bink?” Trent inquired. ”I know she was following the ignis fatuus--but since we are close on her trail we should be able to---” He broke off, becoming aware of the other thing. It was a shuddering in the ground, as of some ma.s.sive object striking it. An object weighing many tons.
Trent looked around. ”I can't see it, Bink. Can you smell it?”
Bink was silent. The wind was wrong. He could not smell whatever was making that sound from this distance.
”Want me to transform you into something more powerful?” Trent asked. ”I'm not sure I like this situation. First the swamp gas, now this strange pursuit.”
If Bink changed, he would no longer be able to sniff out Chameleon's trail. He remained silent.
”Very well, Bink. But stay close by me; I can transform you into a creature to meet any emergency, but you have to be within range. I believe we're walking into extreme danger, or having it walk up on us.” And he touched his sword.
They moved on--but the shuddering grew bolder, becoming a measured thumping, as of some ponderous animal. Yet they saw nothing. Now it was directly behind them, and gaining.
”I think we'd better hide,” Trent said grimly. ”Discretion is said to be the better part of valor.”
Good idea. They circled a harmless beerbarrel tree and watched silently.
The thumping became loud. Extremely loud. The whole tree shook with the force of the measured vibrations. TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP! Small branches fell off the tree, and a leak sprang in the trunk. A thin jet of beer formed, splas.h.i.+ng down under Bink's sensitive nose. He recoiled; even in the human state, he had never been partial to that particular beverage. He peered around the trunk--yet there was nothing.
Then at last something became visible. A branch crashed off a spikespire tree, splintering. Bushes waved violently aside. A section of earth subsided. More beer jetted from developing cracks in the trunk of their hiding place, filling the air with its malty fragrance. Still nothing tangible could be seen.
”It's invisible,” Trent whispered, wiping beer off one hand. ”An invisible giant.”
Invisible! That meant Trent couldn't transform it. He had to see what he enchanted.
Together, silently, steeped in intensifying beer fumes, they watched the giant pa.s.s. Monstrous human footprints appeared, each ten feet long, sinking inches deep into the forest soil. TRAMP!--and the trees jumped and shuddered and shed their fruits and leaves and branches. TRAMP!--and an ice cream bush disappeared, becoming a mere patina of flavored discoloration on the flat surface of the depression. TRAMP!--and a tangle tree hugged its tentacles about itself, frightened. TRAMP!---and a fallen trunk splintered across the five-foot width of the giant's print.
A stench washed outward, suffocating, like that of a stench-puffer or an overflowing outhouse in the heat of summer. Bink's keen nose hurt.
”I am not a cowardly man,” Trent murmured. ”But I begin to feel fear. When neither spell nor sword can touch an enemy ...” His nose twitched. ”His body odor alone is deadly. He must have feasted on rotten blivets for breakfast.”
Bink didn't recognize that food. If that was the kind of fruit Mundane trees formed, he didn't want any. Bink became aware that his own hackles were erect. He had heard of such a monster, but taken it as a joke. An invisible---but not unsmellable---giant!
”If he is in proportion,” Trent remarked, ”that giant is some sixty feet tall. That would be impossible in Mundania, for purely physical reasons, square-cube law and such. But here--who can say nay to magic? He's looking over much of the forest, not through it.” He paused, considering. ”He evidently was not following us. Where is he going?”
Wherever Chameleon went, Bink thought. He growled.
”Right, Bink. We'd better track her down quickly, before she gets stepped on!”
They moved on, following what was now a well-trodden trail. Where the huge prints crossed Chameleon's traces, the scent of the giant was overlaid, so heavy that Bink's refined nose rebelled. He skirted the prints and picked up Chameleon's much milder scent on the far side.
Now a whistling descended from right angles to the path they were following. Bink looked up nervously-- and saw a griffin angling carefully down between the trees.
Trent whipped out his sword and backed toward the black bole of an oilbarrel tree, facing the monster. Bink, in no condition to fight it, bared his teeth and backed toward the same protection. He was glad it wasn't a dragon; one really good tongue of fire could set off the tree explosively and wipe them all out. As it was, the overhanging branches would interfere with the monster's flight, forcing it to do combat on the ground. Still a chancy business, but it restricted the battle zone to two dimensions, which was a net advantage for Bink and Trent. Maybe if Bink distracted it, Trent could get safely within range to transform it.