Juxtaposition (53 page)

The goblins burst in, caving in the mound walls with pikes. They spied Stile and charged him—but their points had no effect on his image. On inspiration, he pretended that he could be hurt, and dodged about to avoid the thrusts, so as to distract them as long as possible. He didn’t want them working on the Phazite ball, now vulnerable.

The golems were still standing awkwardly. Stile realized that they needed to be told what to do. “Protect your selves!” he cried. “Golems, fight the goblins!” Now the golems acted. They were neither smart nor swift, but they were as tough as wooden planks. The goblins swarmed over each golem and were hurled back violently. Yes, it was after all possible to make a decent fight of it!

Abruptly he was back with Sheen, at the base of the hill. The two of them were running through the battlefield, and it was grim. Goblins and animalheads lay dead and dying. This was where the animalheads had been fated to lose half their number, he realized. Some cyborgs were here too, their metal lying twisted and smoking; Stile saw one with its metal skull cracked open, the human brain exposed and shriveled. The odor of carnage was strong.
 
“We must find help,” Sheen said, “to clean out the goblins and get the ball rolling.”

“I wish we could save these creatures in pain,” Stile said.

“We can’t do it now. Once the ball crosses, we can.”

Stile knew it was true. They had to move the ball first.

Now only seconds remained before the plastic detonated.

They found a bearhead just recovering consciousness.
 
Stile put his hand on the creature’s shoulder, breaking the invisibility-spell for this one individual. “We need thee,” Stile said. “Follow us.”

“Aye, Blue,” the bearhead agreed dizzily.
 
Sheen found a cyborg in the process of self-repair; it had lost-a foot, but was affixing the foot of a dead cyborg in its place. Sheen introduced herself similarly. The four hurried on.

As they reached the crest of the hill, they smelled smoke. Something was burning in the mound. “The golems!” Sheen said grimly.

Stile winced. He knew the wooden golems were not truly alive, but surely they hurt when they burned. The goblins had used a devastating weapon, and the Brown Adept would be mortified.

They charged the mound, staring into its broken chamber. In the smoke of the golem bonfire, the goblins were trying to push the ball back into the spiral tube. The ball was shaking, starting to rock. Soon they would get it moving.

The four burst into the chamber. The goblins cried out and scattered as they saw the bearhead and cyborg, but rallied in a moment and drew their weapons. Stile and Sheen, invisible to them, knocked the pistols from the goblins’ hands. Unable to fathom this new menace, the goblins nevertheless fought bravely, overwhelming their opposition, both visible and invisible, by force of numbers.
 
Then the plastic explosive detonated. The barrier wedges blew up, raining fiery pieces on the heads of the goblin army. The goblins in the mound disengaged and dashed out to see what new danger threatened. There was general disorganization.

“Now we roll it!” Stile cried. The four of them, joined by a charred but surviving golem, picked up the scattered limbs of golems and their tools and started levering the ball forward. They were more disciplined and purposeful than the goblins had been, and the ball was poised for this direction, but it was so massive they had just as much trouble budging it. “We need better levers!” Stile gasped.
 
But he knew of none within range—and now they heard the goblins charging up the spiral tunnel. There was no time for a search.

A hawk flew into the chamber, “Clip!” Stile exclaimed. “What art thou doing here?”

The unicorn changed to man-form. “I knew thou wouldst foul it up by thyself. Adept,” he said. “Mere men always do. So I brought some friends to bail thee out.” Now a bee, a hummingbird, and a blue heron flew in, changing to three more unicorns. The third had an iridescent mane.

“Belle!” Stile said, recognizing her.
 

“She was wandering toward the battle,” Clip said diffidently. “I could not leave her to such danger, and she does feel she owes thee. Adept, for the manner in which she was used to—“

“Yes, of course!” Stile agreed. “The four of you—help us push this ball down the hill!” Clip shifted to equine form and played musical directions on his sax-hom. He was answered by a violin, tuba, and ringing-bell tune of agreement. The four put their horns carefully down into the crevice between ball and floor; then, musically coordinated, they levered up and forward.

Just like that, the ball moved. The unicorns repeated the process, working it over the dirt and rubble and outside. It was a slow, difficult task, but they worked well and kept the ball crunching forward.

Goblins burst in from the spiral tunnel. Stile, Sheen, and the bearhead, the cyborg, and the remaining golem turned to face them, protecting the unicorns’ flanks. The goblins, seeing only three motley opponents, charged—and discovered the hard way that there were five. In this cramped, littered space, it was a fair match.
 
Then the ball nudged over the brink and started rolling down the slope in the direction Stile had dictated. The unicorns, their task done, turned to face the goblins—who suddenly lost their eagerness to fight, seeing the odds shift so substantially.

“Mount!” Stile cried, trusting the unicorns to cooperate.
 
“Follow that ball!” And he leaped onto the nearest steed—who happened to be Belle. She spooked, never before having borne a rider, but heard Clip’s musical clarification and immediately settled down. Sheen took the golem and mounted Clip, and the bearhead and cyborg mounted the remaining two. They charged down the slope.
 
For an instant Stile was daunted by the improbability of it all: a man, a cyborg, a robot, an animalhead, and a wooden golem, all riding unicorns through a battlefield strewn with goblins and dragons, pursuing an invaluable ball of power-rock that rolled along a channel cleared by plastic explosive. What a mishmash! Mishmash? No—this was juxtaposition. The complete mergence of magic and science. He should enjoy it while it lasted, for it would not last long. Already he thought he felt the influence of the Platinum Flute weakening, as the strength of the Foreordained became exhausted.
 
Belle was a fine steed, running smoothly and swiftly, her lovely mane like silk in his grasp. But of course she was smooth; she had won the Unolympics dance event!

“Belle, I thank thee for this service,” he breathed, knowing she heard him despite the rush of air and booming of the passage of the Phazite ball, for her left ear rotated toward him. “I will try to do thee some return favor, when I can.” And she made a faint bell-melody in response.
 
Meanwhile, the ball was gathering velocity. It crunched down the hill, leaving its smooth, small channel. Where bodies were in the way, they too were flattened. The Phazite was ponderous and inexorable, crushing every thing in its path. The live goblins, seeing its onrush, scattered out of its way in alarm. This was the sensible thing to do.

The four unicorns galloped after it, losing headway as the ball rolled down the steepest section of the slope. All the goblins were watching it now, seeing its passage through the erstwhile barriers. For them, this progress was disaster.

But Stile knew the war was not over. Several barriers remained in place, and the slope reversed farther to the north. Stile’s big gamble was with the giants and the route.
 
If he had judged all aspects correctly, he would win—but at this moment he was in severe doubt.

The ball encountered the standing barrier wedges and blew them apart. They had not diverted it perceptibly, and seemed not to have slowed it, but Stile knew crucial impetus had been lost. Would the ball carry far enough?
 
Now the terrain was gently rolling, largely clear of trees.
 
Stile had planned this carefully on the map.

The ball sailed up the slope, and down, and onward. It was right on target. But it was slowing, as it had to, for the incidental resistance of the miles was cumulative.
 
The Proton-frame terrain, unobtrusive so far because of its barrenness, suddenly became prominent in the form of a cluster of force-Held domes. The isolated estates of Citizens, perhaps occupied at the moment, perhaps not. There was a peculiar appeal to such technology set in such an absolutely barren environment, a nugget of complete wealth in complete poverty, like a diamond in sand.
 
Strange that he should see it this way. Stile thought—then realized that it was in fact the perspective of his other self, to whom the entire frame of Proton was a novelty, much as the frame of Phaze was to Stile. What was commonplace to Stile was a miraculous new discovery to Blue.
 

The ball was rolling toward a linked trio of small domes. The connecting tubes arched high, leaving sufficient clearance below to pass the Phazite—but the ball eschewed that obvious passage to crash right into the westernmost dome. The dome disappeared as its force-field generator was taken out, leaving the serfs gasping in expectation of the sudden decompression. But there was the Phaze atmosphere, here in the juxtaposition; they discovered to their surprise that they could breathe quite well outside. It was every bit as real as the ball, of course.
 
One serf ran blindly out in front of Stile’s steed; Belle tried to swerve, but the serf’s erratic course made avoidance uncertain.

“Serf—turf!” Stile sang, willing the message. He wanted the man to be removed to a safe spot, suitable turf. Nothing happened, and he realized that Sheen’s repressive enchantment against Adept spells remained in force. Fortunately Belle managed to miss the man, and they galloped on past the domes. Just as well the magic hadn’t worked; the enemy Adepts would be casting spells furiously now, trying to sidetrack the Phazite, to conjure imposing barriers or trenches in its path, and Sheen’s counterspell was the only protection against this.
 
It was not hard to keep up with the ball now as it slowly lost velocity. Had Stile started it at a different angle, it could have proceeded down a long valley and maintained speed. But he had elected to go the more difficult, surprising route, gambling the fate of the frames on his hunch.
 
The giants should be arriving soon, and the other thing—he would not say, lest it be overheard.
 
The slope changed, and the ball slowed more definitely.

This was the beginning of the rise he knew would balk it.
 
No goblins were in evidence; he had at least been. successful in fooling them. Probably there was a huge concentration at the other route and many barriers, pits, and various obstructive things. If the giants arrived in time, there would be no trouble.

At last the ball stopped, settling into a soft pocket so firmly that it was obvious that their present force could not budge it. They rode up and paused beside it.

“What now. Stile?” Sheen inquired with a certain unrobotic edge.

“You unicorns change suits and fly up and see if you can spot the giants,” Stile said. “They should be close now.
 
Tell them we need help in a hurry.”

The four unicorns shifted immediately to their airborne forms and zoomed into the sky. “I’ll check too,” Stile said to Sheen. “Project my image in a fast survey around the area.”

She did. Soon he verified that the goblins were indeed massed at the valley route in horrendous number—but already they were marching toward the ball’s present location. It would not be long before they got there. The giants just had to get there first!

The unicorns were successful. In a moment, three of the towering giants appeared, striding across the horizon, their heads literally lost in the clouds. They had been following the progress of the ball with giant field glasses, so had been ready to intercept it when it was stopped.
 
Stile had Sheen terminate their spells of invisibility and protection against attack, as these were no longer useful or necessary. Now Stile needed to be seen, to help organize the giants for their giant effort.

Soon the giants were using huge metal canes to propel the ball forward, up the slope, following the route Stile dictated. The giants enjoyed this; it was like a giant game of pool, knocking the tiny but extremely solid ball along.
 
If they did it improperly, their pool cues broke, which was inconvenient.

The first elements of the goblin army arrived too late; the ball was well on its way. Stile and his companions were galloping after it.

Now, Stile thought, was the critical time. If the canny goblin commander did what Stile expected him to—

“There’s no way the goblins can stop the giants,” Sheen said. “We’ve won! Clip says the other side of the curtain is this side of the crest of the hill. We’re nearly there!” But another contingent of goblins was arriving at the hill. They did not try to oppose the giants; instead they marched ahead, as if clearing the way, which was strange.
 
The giants, unperturbed, kept pushing the ball, taking turns with their cues. Even for them, it was very heavy, and progress slowed as they tired and their cues broke.
 

“The line should be right about here,” Sheen said.
 

“Not any more,” Stile told her. “The goblins are moving it.”

Now she caught on. “No! We aren’t gaining at all, then!”

“Oh, we’ll get there,” Stile said. “This only means delay.
 
The giants are tired; it will take longer to crest the hill.”