Chapter Three
Bill Brownwood rose from behind the air conditioning cowling, adjusting his mask. He was some sort of burly creature who walked and dressed like a man, but had the face and short tusks of a wild boar. There was a sword belted at his side, which was probably dull as a butter knife, and a pistol on his other hip. The pistol was an elaborate toy, about the same size as his Beretta 92F 9mm. Brownwood took the raygun from the flap holster and slipped his own real pistol in its place. The flap covered the gun completely, not good for a rapid draw but great for hiding a real gun where a fake should have been. He dropped the raygun beside the body of the man he’d taken it and the costume from, someone named “Wilton Hyde” according to the convention badge.
Wilton Hyde wouldn’t be needing his cap pistol anymore, nor anything else ever again.
Brownwood bent over, finished stuffing Hyde’s corpse into the housing, then lowered the cover. The air conditioning on this side of the building might be a little screwed up, but it would be several hours at least before anyone thought to look for a body in the ductwork.
Brownwood was already warm under the mask, and going inside into the air conditioning wouldn’t help that much. He started inside, anyway...
“This tickles my nose,” Swan announced happily.
“It’s Coca-Cola. You’ve never had a Coke before?” Garrison asked.
“No. It tastes very good,” she told him. They’d found a table in a small snack shop and sat huddled around it, Garrison’s eyes dividing their attention between the face of this funny, gorgeous girl named Swan and the faces passing by in the corridor. “Then you don’t like being a Fed? Alicia said that you wanted to write stories and be a teller of tales.”
“Alicia’s got a big mouth, sometimes,” Garrison observed.
“She is able to change the size of her mouth? Is that common here?”
“That’s just a figure of speech. Where are you from?”
“Creath.”
“Creath?”
“I was fated to come here and find a champion who will fight beside me with the Company of Mir against my mother, the Queen Sorceress.”
“I don’t think I’ve read that book. Who’s the author?”
“I wasn’t talking about a book, Al-An.”
“All right. Sure. Swan. That’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you. Al-An is a strange name, but I like it,” she told him. This girl had the most wonderful smile Garrison had ever seen. Her eyes lit her entire face with a radiance unlike anything he’d ever imagined in a woman.
“So, you know I’m an FBI Agent, now. What do you do?”
“I make magical spells, potions and incantations.”
“Oh. So, are you a witch?”
“No, I’m not a practitioner of the old ways. These were taken over by my mother, Eran, and are used now only for evil by the Handmaidens of Koth.”
“Now, I don’t understand,” Garrison told Swan.
“I am the Virgin Enchantress, Daughter Royal, Princess of Creath. And, as I said, I have been fated to come here in search of a champion who will go with me to Barad’Il’Koth and fight with me against the Horde of Koth, in order to free the people of the Land from my mother, Eran, Sorceress Queen of Creath, Mistress General of the Horde of Koth. It’s very simple, really. Will you come with me when my magic is fully restored? That shouldn’t be very long.”
“Come with you where?”
Swan shook her head, for all the world looking as though he were the one saying goofy things. “To Creath, to fight beside me with the Company of Mir, as I’ve told you.”
“Okay—wait a minute. How come you speak English, or is Creath like one of these sci-fi movies where everybody has a British accent?”
She smiled patiently again. “I merely used a spell so that I could read the runes of your world, then another so that I could speak and understand your tongue.”
“Sure. So, where is Creath, exactly? How many light-years away in space?”
“What are light-years? What sort of space?”
“What? Did you beam down or come here in a UFO?” He was being sarcastic and the last thing in the world that he wanted to do was be offensive, turn her off to him. But time was running out and he was terribly on edge. “Look, Swan. I think you’re the most incredible girl I’ve ever met. I want to see you again, and again, and probably again and again. But I’ve got something I’ve gotta do. Can I meet you at the masquerade, or send word to you if I can’t get there? What’s your phone number?”
“So many questions. I want to see you, Al’An, very much again and again. I don’t have a phone number, at least I don’t think so. Why can’t I go with you?”
Telling her what he felt compelled to tell her was sheer stupidity. “Look.”
“At what?”
“No, I mean listen to me. You know I’m an FBI Agent, a Fed. A cop. I go after bad guys and I’m after one right here and now. He’s a very bad guy.” Garrison lowered his voice. “He’s a bomber. He thinks the government is plotting to kill him and he’s fighting back. He’s killed three people at least and he’s ready to kill a whole bunch more people. You can’t go with me.”
Swan smiled benevolently. “Oh, Al’An, you are a champion! It is only right that if I expect you to fight beside me with the Company of Mir against the Queen Sorceress, that I should fight beside you against this evil person. I pledge to your cause my magic,” and she stood, grasping the hilt of her sword with her tiny right hand, “and my sword, Al’An.”
Alan Garrison didn’t know what to say. But she was still standing there, waiting for him to say something. He couldn’t hurt her feelings. So, he stood up and said something, something wholly in character with his actions as he interpreted them so far this day—stupid. Garrison told Swan, “All right, but you do exactly as I say, and when I tell you to run for it, run for it.”
“What is it that I am to run for?”
“Never mind. Just come with me.” And, under his breath, although he wasn’t Jewish, Alan Garrison murmured the familiar Yiddish expression, “Oy veh.”
Stopping in her tracks, Swan enthused, “I know these words well from my own tongue! But, Al’An, what does what we are doing have to do with the poison bladder of an ice dragon?”
Garrison just kept walking, his hand at Swan’s elbow.
Al’An told Swan, “It’s almost half-past five.” From the worried look in Al’An’s beautiful brown eyes, this “half-past five” must have something to do with “six” which was a designation of the passage of time here. And at six, something bad was to happen unless Al’An located this evil person before then.
“It is time that I use my second-sight, Al’An.”
“What?”
They had been walking rapidly along the passageways, looking inside every room that they passed, persons who were writers such as Al’An wished to be sitting at tables at the far ends of these rooms, facing a host of other persons who were listening attentively or asking questions. But the face for which Al’An searched was not among these faces.
Al’An had shown her what was called a photograph, a very accurate seeming picture of a face, this face very unfriendly looking, as she imagined the faces of her mother’s masked killers, the Sword of Koth, had been when they had come to take her life.
“What are you talking about with second-sight?” Al’An asked again.
“If it is that important that this evil man be found before this six happens, perhaps my second-sight will help. I have never used it with a picture of any land, but I can try. I will need a spell which is usually quite difficult if I am to look other than in a straight line.”
“You mean remote viewing, or clairvoyance?”
The trouble with a language spell of any sort was that, like much of magic, it was only the acceleration of natural processes. So, despite the spell, less commonly used words or expressions were more difficult to understand. But the concept of viewing something remotely became apparent to her in the next instant. “Yes, Al’An. Remote viewing.”
“The Navy did it to track Soviet submarines. Fine. Try it, Swan.” Al’An took the picture from the pocket of the jerkin he called a “bomber jacket.” She supposed that he wore a bomber jacket because it might magically aid him in pursuit of this bomber. She began reciting the spell.
Al’An handed her the picture.
Swan appraised every feature of the man’s face. His hair was dark and even shorter than that of Al’An, his forehead high, but combined with very deepset wrinkles, the effect being that of a forehead that was very low. His eyes were deepset as well, and furtive seeming, as if trying to avoid the gaze of the device or entity which replicated his features on this piece of paper. His chin was remarkable, extremely broad but pushed-in seeming, as if it were withdrawing into his throat. His lips were thin, drawn out very long from side to side, ending in deepset creases in his cheeks.
In the next eyeblink, Swan announced, “He is a creature with the face of, of—” She searched for the word. “A pig! But he has great teeth protruding from his face like horns.”
“Tusks?”
Swan thought for a moment. “Tusks, yes. Curved teeth made of horn. He is returning the mask to his face. He is dressed in black cape and grey doublet and grey hose. He wears no baldric, but a belt, his sword and another weapon at his sides. He carries a leather bag slung to his shoulder. Is this the man you seek?” Swan saw him clearly in a distant passageway within the structure. And she did not like what she saw.
“Can you see where he is?”
This would be hard to describe to Al’An. “He moves toward the stairway where earlier today I and talked with Alicia and Gardner and Brenda, half-cat, half-woman.”
“Take me there,” Al’An commanded.
Swan was not used to being commanded. But, somehow, under the circumstances she did not mind it. Al’An broke into a run, Swan flinging back her greatcape, gathering up her skirts and running with him. Al’An let her pass him, so that she could lead him, she realized, to the stairway, to his quarry. She could still see the evil man with her second-sight. As she and Al’An ran, she told Al’An, “He carries something that looks like a rock. It is in his right hand. There are many square shaped ridges on it and there is a small handle and a ring through which his middle finger is passed, Al’An.”
“That’s a fragmentation grenade!”
Al’An took something from beneath his bomber jacket. A weapon? He folded it open, pushed a button, then began to speak to it as if it were alive. Perhaps it was a magical advisor. She had seen many people speak with such objects since she had arrived here. “This is Garrison. Gimme Wisnewski, quick.” Al’An paused. Then, “Wisnewski, I think we’ve got him. And he may have a grenade. Be ready. I’m on the south end of the main building, proceeding west along a corridor. I’m keeping the line open.”
“This way, Al’An!” Swan turned the corner of the passageway through which they had run, raising her skirts higher now as she started down the stairs.
“Is this the stairway that you saw?”
“He is two levels below us, moving toward the entranceway to the great hall through which all who come here must pass.”
“He’s heading for registration on the main floor. Don’t move on him yet, but be ready. He’s wearing a pig mask with tusks, got a sword, a bag that’s probably got the device in it. And he may have a gun on his sword belt. Black cape, grey thing like a sportcoat Christopher Columbus could have worn, grey tights,” Al’An told his magical advisor.
“Your enemy quickens his pace, Al’An.”
“If he detonates a fragmentation grenade in the main lobby, Brownwood could kill dozens of people. You stay back well behind me by the stairs. Don’t get anywhere near me. I mean it, Swan!”
When they reached the level one above where the evil one trod, Swan fell back, letting Al’An stride past her. But she would not let him battle his evil foeman alone. Magically breaking the peace bond which secured her sword, she ran down the stairs, in Al’An’s footsteps.
Al’An was a fast runner, and a good jumper, Swan observed. He was bounding down the stairs three at a time, then leapt the final five treads, breaking into a long-strided run. She could hear him still as, once more, he spoke with his magical advisor. “I see Brownwood heading for the doors. It’s a grenade. Wait for him outside. Move! Move. Move now, Wisnewski! I’ll be right behind him coming fast!”
As she ran, Swan tried picturing in her mind what a bomb must be like. This “grenade” thing must be some sort of bomb, as well. It would be an explosion, an eruption of great force and energy, like—
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Swan could see both Al’An and his black-caped foeman. The evil one was walking determinedly past a small group of people. Brenda, the half-cat, half-female, stood among them.
Brenda called to the evil one. “Hey, Wilton! Where you been?” Brenda reached out to him. He shrugged away. She stepped toward him. He pushed her to the floor.
The young man Swan had earlier seen—the one dressed as a courtier—jumped toward the evil one, fists clenched and ready.
Al’An shouted, “No! Don’t touch him!”
Al’An’s magical advisor fell from his hand. In its stead was an object such as she had seen earlier worn by a passerby on the stairs. Gardner had told her that it was a laser pistol, and explained its use. But Alicia had told her that a laser pistol was not a real weapon, only a toy. Al’An needed a real weapon, a sword, and Swan was about to make hers appear magically in his hand, but things began to happen too quickly.
The courtier threw a punch and missed, then smashed his body against the evil one. The evil one stumbled back, raised the hand which held the grenade and cried aloud, “I’ll blow up everybody!”
Al’An did not use his laser pistol weapon, but instead hurtled himself against his foeman, Al’An’s upper body colliding with the evil one’s chest, both Al’An and the evil one falling to the floor. Al’An grappled with the evil one, Al’An’s knee hammering against the evil one’s face and chest, Al’An’s hands struggling to pry the grenade thing from his foe man’s grasp.
Swan ran forward to join the fray, brandishing her blade in the air above her head. “Give way! Give way!” Swan commanded, the crowd of people in the great hall splitting asunder before her.
Swan stopped, a few spans from where Al’An and his foeman writhed in combat, her sword clasped in both hands beside her right shoulder, its blade readied to arc downward and cut the life from Al’An’s foeman.
Something happened.
Swan had experienced the phenomenon only once before, when she was but a girl. Powerless to act because there was no time, her mother refusing to act a moment earlier, Swan witnessed a horse and its rider attempting to outrun an avalanche on the far side of a valley in the high mountain snows. The feeling was as if time itself slowed, moving only imperceptibly forward, allowing the incident which was occurring to be viewed in the most minute detail.
The grenade rolled from the evil one’s grasp. The flat thing attached to it like a handle, which she had seen earlier with her second-sight, sprang away from the grenade.
Swan saw Al’An’s eyes, wide with horror. She heard a solitary scream. It was Alicia’s voice, Swan thought. Around the evil one’s finger was the ring which had been attached to the grenade as she’d second-sighted him.
Somehow, Swan knew that this combination of circumstances was very bad.
Al’ An shouted, “Get to cover! Everybody!” Al’An pushed to his feet. His foeman grasped Al’An’s right foot. Al’An shook free, kicking his foeman in the side of the face.
Al’An lunged toward the grenade, looking toward Swan for an eyeblink. And their gazes met. In Al’An’s beautiful brown eyes, Swan saw two things revealed, that somehow Al’An cared for her more deeply than anyone had ever cared for her, and that he knew that he was about to die.
The grenade thing was a bomb.
The spell that she had happened upon before the attack by her mother’s forces, a spell to be used against the power of a volcano, to turn it back against itself—Swan recalled it now, shrieking the words as she cast it. It was untried by her. What if it did not work?
She sheathed her sword.
In the same breath as the first spell, Swan began to recite the incantation which had brought her here, but totally backwards, sound for sound, rune for rune.
Swan’s arms stretched out, hands grasping for the powerful magic she had felt in the air around her here since she first arrived. The magical energy pulsed through her limbs, spiraling into the very core of her body.
Swan walked the few spans separating her from Al’An, her palms pressed together between her breasts, the magical energy filling her, one with her.
Swan dropped to her knees beside Al’An, his body tented over the grenade, shielding all from its deadliness at the sacrifice of his own life. In truth, Al’An was a brave and noble champion, the Champion foretold in the Prophecies of Mir. The deadly little bomb was about to make its evil felt, unless her untried spell succeeded. She could not risk Al’An’s life if it failed.
Magical energy flowed from Swan’s hands as she turned them open, her arms folding around Al’An’s upper body, drawing his head to her breast.
The energy crackled and arced, coursed wildly through their bodies. Her very being shuddered with its force.
There was a roar, not from the bomb, but a roar of thunder, cracking, tearing through the magical fabric of the universe.
In the same eyeblink that the grenade exploded, so did the energy which flowed from within Swan and Al’An, a light glowing whiter than the brightest sunlight, enveloping them. The liquid darkness came again, then was gone. A snowflake touched Swan’s cheek, another settled in Al’An’s eyelashes. He stared up at her in silence, his head still clutched to her bosom. Another snowflake landed on the tip of her nose and Al’An brushed it away with his hand...
Eran, Sorceress Queen of Creath, Mistress General of the Horde of Koth, shrieked with a pain she had not known since childbirth. She stood. The gem-encrusted goblet from which an instant earlier she’d sipped red wine flew from her ring-festooned fingers, hurtling across the banquet table, skipping over the flagstones of the Great Hall of Koth.
Her lover for the night, obedient enough to retain human form if he kept his manners, dragged himself stuporously to his feet, reaching for the sword at his hip. “My Queen? What is...” Eran wondered fleetingly if he were at a loss for words or merely too intoxicated to complete a thought.
“The Virgin Enchantress lives, and she’s brought someone with her. Curse her! Curse them both!”
Eran knotted her fingers into her lover’s hair, pulling his face down to hers, kissing him violently on the mouth. Blood trickled from his lips. Eran tossed back her hair, howling with rage and delight, knowing that for her both feelings always were and always would be one in the same.