Authors: Piers Anthony
Chapter 28
Battle
ROWFORTH, KING OF HUD, stood at the edge of the training field and unhappily inspected the twelve flopears in bright red uniforms. So squat, so broad, so ugly, and yet possibly of great value to him. They did not look like soldiers, and he hadn’t anticipated that they would. What they did look like were flopears in especially made Hud uniforms.
“And now, oh, King,” Herzig was saying, “you must see that they learn to ride.”
Rowforth permitted himself a sigh. Herzig had proved unexpectedly difficult in insisting that his handpicked dozen fighters wear the Hud uniform. That had entailed special orders and individual tailoring to fit the odd contours of the flopear bodies. What needless delay! Now they had to learn to ride—these squat, seemingly awkward creatures. It would mean special saddles with special stirrups and a long, painful instructing time. He hoped that his cavalry master could do the job before the abominable green-clad troops swept all the way to the capital. This had originally not been his plan, but there was sense in it: a uniformed flopear cavalry should prove to be even more efficient than a few stationary flopears waiting for eye contact. On horseback these unlikely troops could ride up to the rebel leaders themselves, paralyze them with a stare, and strike them dead. There would be little need for executions after the war. The flopears could execute the entire armed force right from their saddles. When they went into action, no matter what occurred before, victory was assured.
Brownleaf, the cavalry master, stepped smartly forth from the stables, leading a mare. The mare bore a special small saddle on her broad back and towered well over the heads of her potential riders. As she was led near she began to whinny and skitter and jerk in the manner of an untrained horse.
King Rowforth eyed the cavalry master and the horse and the untrained troops, and wondered. Beside him, Herzig spoke: “Danzar, eye!”
One of the uniformed flopears stepped out of line, displaying all the soldierly style of his short-legged race, devoid of grace. The flopear eyed the mare, who was now trying for all she was worth to break free of her handler.
The horse froze. Danzar waddled close, climbed the rope ladder depending from the saddle, settled into the cupped depression, and took the reins.
“Danzar, release!” Herzig commanded.
Instantly the mare reared, came down on her forelegs, and bucked. Danzar flew clear of the saddle, letting go of the reins on his way up. In awe Rowforth watched the tiny body sail up to a height that bordered on the magical. Then down, down, like a stone. SPLAT!
To the king’s astonishment, the dust had scarcely settled around the small body when it stood. The flopear was unhurt! It focused its large eyes on the mare—and the mare, turning her head, rolling her eyes, was caught as before.
Danzar waddled up again, climbed the short rope ladder, and resumed the saddle. And went flying.
“How long will this go on?” Rowforth asked Herzig rather than his cavalry master.
“Until Danzar controls.”
“That will be—?”
“As long as it will take. Horses can be stubborn. That is why none of the serpent people now ride.”
“So these will be the first? The first in history?”
“Yes, the first in history, for this species of animal. The first of the serpent people ever to conquer the equine.” But Herzig’s tone indicated that he did not consider this remarkable. Evidently he expected the flopears to succeed; it was just a matter of time. Herzig did not seem concerned about the rapidly diminishing time the king had left. Who would have thought those ragtag revolutionaries would be able to hire such a well-equipped and trained army! Where had they gotten the money?
Only twelve, King Rowforth thought. Only twelve, but a sufficient number considering their power. Yes, indeed, the flopears, even more than his fine army, would hold and expand his realm. Once the revolution was dispatched, he would torture its surviving leaders until they revealed the source of their mysterious wealth. Then he would make that source his own.
Out on the practice field Danzar was again clawing wildly with both hands as he climbed above their heads into the blue, cloud-flecked sky. It would have been comical, if not so serious.
*
As Kelvin had feared, it was one obscenity of a battle. Oh, his men fought hard enough and his gauntlets knew what to do, and there were volunteers aplenty, even in the midst of a fight. But war was war, and after he had spilled the blood of perhaps his twentieth man, Kelvin would have liked to give up the fray. Was it worth it? he wondered, watching the guts spill from his last opponent. Were even the lives of his father and his brother, and the freedom of this country, worth it? He saw the man topple with a stricken face and land under the hooves of the war-horses. Maybe that enemy soldier was somebody’s father or somebody’s brother, maybe he was just earning money to support his family. At what awful price was anything being accomplished? Yet really, what choice did he have? What choice did any of them have, other than to fight?
Day followed day, and the Shrood mercenaries fought for Hud as if it were their own land. Nobody liked a dictator bent on world conquest; even Rowforth’s closest people seemed secretly to hate him. But people followed dictators, intent on the spoils that conquest brought. Whether such plunder was logical, considering that the opposing armies were apt to do the same to the families of the plunderers, Kelvin could not say; he just knew that he wished he were no part of it.
The soldiers of Hud’s royal army were at least as good fighters as Hud’s Freedom Army; in fact, the two sides were astonishingly well matched. Kelvin was glad that in this fight the Shrood-trained officers were in charge, not he. Yet they did ask his advice, and looked on him as a champion, as did all the troops. With luck and his magic gauntlets, he thought wearily, he could win against the toughest fighters.
Only one thing bothered him, and that was that the flopears did not appear. If they did show up as Rowforth’s allies, he hoped that the weapon he carried sheathed on his hip would come to his aid as it had back in serpent territory. But until they did appear, if they did, the Mouvar weapon was only so much extra drag on his sword belt.
“When are they going to use them?” Biscuit demanded one evening, as if he knew.
Kelvin shook his head. “It bothers me as much as it does the rest of you. Maybe he’s holding them in reserve.”
“And maybe just knowing we have the weapon keeps them out,” Smoothy Jac said. These days, in his green officer’s uniform, he looked nothing at all like a bandit chief. Neither did he sound like a man whose main interest had been in stealing silver serpentskins from the magical flopears. All of them seemed to be changing, Kelvin thought. Considering what bandits were, that was for the best.
Shagmore came and went, and it was almost as big and potentially as disastrous a battle as the one for Skagmore had been in the home frame. Possibly Kelvin’s recounting of the battle of Skagmore helped, as his recollections, suitably modified, of other battles had helped. He was watched carefully by Jac and his compatriots and did not get himself captured as he confessed he had at Skagmore. He had thought that here, surely, the flopears would appear, because this spot had been such a turning point in Rud’s history and could be the same in Hud’s history. Shagmore, like Skagmore in the home frame, was within a day’s ride of the country’s capital.
Thus it was that they were fighting a pitched battle outside the capital itself and winning, little by little, without having yet seen Rowforth’s magical allies. It began to seem that the flopears were not going to appear, and that the palace itself would be taken by the Freedom Army. Kelvin fought on, trusting the gauntlets, and gradually as men died all around him he ceased to think of the flopears and of the Mouvar weapon he carried. In the back of his consciousness there was a cry of alarm, but that was hard to hear when the immediacies of battle preempted his attention.
Men with pitchforks and staves were in their midst, some riding plow horses and others traveling on foot. Peasants from neighboring farms were coming to help the Freedom Army take the palace. Kelvin winced to see those unarmored men and boys who had never before stood up now standing up. As a consequence too many of them were dying, often horribly. Better late than never, some had said, but as he watched them being mutilated and killed, he wondered. Yet peasant hands did pull the proud, red-uniformed Royalists from their saddles; knives, axes, and clubs did bring the Royalists death, as did the flashing swords and twanging bows of the Freedom Army. On and on they battled, the day becoming bloodier as it wore on.
At noon, when the sun was beating down most cruelly, and fatigue was a smothering blanket weighing down the muscles that guided the horses and swung the swords, they arrived at the very gates of the palace. Still no flopears, Kelvin thought, that alarm sounding again in his mind. Victory almost in their grasp—
Suddenly the gates fell, crashing thunderously. They fell
outward,
pushed by men in red uniforms. A dozen war-horses charged from the palace grounds. Each horse carried a rider squat and ugly, with great flopears. Flopears in uniform! Flopears on horses!
There was no time to react. Men in green uniforms froze before the flopears’ stares. Men in red uniforms froze as well, but these were not the targets of the ferocious young flopears with swords. Those swords cut down only the men in green uniforms, and these toppled and died without resistance.
At the side of the action Kelvin fought to move close. Oddly, the gauntlets did not cooperate. They were warm on his hands, and he was reminded again that this meant danger. Well, danger there certainly was, but with luck he and the gauntlets would stop it. He reached for the Mouvar weapon bolstered to his waist.
His gauntleted fingers encountered nothing where the weapon should have been. The holster had been cut away. He was without the critical weapon!
A flopear was standing up on a saddle, right in front of Kelvin, his oversized sword raised, his eyes glowing. Those eyes held Kelvin
and
his war-horse!
The flopear was going to split him all the way through, and he had no way to stop it!
On his hands his gauntlets were very, very warm. As if he couldn’t see the danger for himself!
Chapter 29
Victory
ZOTANAS TURNED AWAY FROM the high window where he had been watching the ongoing carnage. The king had mismanaged the war so badly that every last soldier and guard had had to be marshaled to defend the palace. The servants had fled—or, perhaps more likely, sneaked away to join the Freedom Fighters. The palace was virtually empty. If the flopears turned the tide, as the king believed they would, everyone would quickly return to serve as before; otherwise…
Something was happening that he should know about; his magic told him that much. Zotanas tiptoed down the winding stairs to the palace proper and slipped by slow degrees through the glittering array of objets d’art that took up so much space. If only the quality of the king were up to that of the artifacts he collected! He came to the statue of a former (and better) king and paused behind it, hidden for the moment. Just on the other side of the statue, King Rowforth was berating Zotanas’ daughter, the queen.
“Trying to release the prisoners once was bad enough, but twice! And with those idiot soldiers losing the battle and the flopears refusing to help until the last moment! What was in your mind, woman?”
“You must not do what you swore to do, Husband!” she responded. “You must not destroy them! Your enemies are already at the palace gates!”
“Yes, Wifey, yes, but they will not destroy me, I will destroy them! The flopears have delayed participating, and I can’t push them, but once they eye the enemy, it will be over. You know that; you always have. So why?”
Zanaan began sobbing like a little girl. “Oh, Husband, they are good and you are evil. If the Freedom Army loses, you will know no restraint. You will war on other kingdoms and take them with the help of your magic allies. You will conquer this world and you will attempt to conquer others. If the strangers live, you will make them take you to their own world, or show you the way to get there.”
“Yes.” The word was spoken grimly, through obviously gritted teeth. The king lived for power! “And you will be instrumental in making them cooperate, because the young one sees you as very much like his mother, and the older one sees you as very much like his mistress. When you promise them both fulfillment in return for their loyalty to me, they will capitulate.”
“No!” she cried, appalled. “That cannot be true!”
“It
is
true! I had my minions listen from hiding as they conversed. I suspected something of the sort, and now it has been confirmed, thanks to your visit there. After they saw you, it all came out. So you have power to work my will, woman, and you shall work it.”
“No!” she repeated despairingly, belief overcoming her.
“Yes!” Zotanas winced as that word was immediately followed by the sound of a blow and a falling body.
“Oh!” There was shock and pain and fear in the queen’s voice. It was obvious that she had never imagined such depravity, even in the King.
Hastily Zotanas stepped around the statue. Zanaan sat sprawled on the throne room rug, her red hair all about her beautiful face, her green eyes seeming to spark in their depths. Rowforth stood over her, fists clenched. He had one foot raised, ready to kick her. The king, for all his expressed confidence in his victory, was evidently badly frightened; he was reverting to childish force and cruelty.
“Because if you don’t,” the king was saying, “you will persuade them by suffering in a way they cannot abide. You will bring them great pleasure or great pain; I will settle for either. But my will shall be done!”
His head swiveled as Zotanas came into view. The king’s eyes blazed almost as brightly as the queen’s. “What do you want, Zotanas? To use your magic for me?”
“Yes.” It was what he had long planned.
“Yes? It’s a bit late, isn’t it? With the enemy at the very palace gates?”
“It is, Your Majesty. But now that you have lost—”
“Lost? What are you talking about, you doddering old idiot?” Rowforth put his foot down without kicking. “Lost? I’ve won!”
“Have you, Your Majesty? I suggest you go out on the balcony, or up in my tower, where I have a view of the fighting.”
Rowforth went pale to the edge of his grayish hairs. “My flopears, have they—”
“The strangers from another world have with them a weapon. A Mouvar weapon. Against that, the serpent’s stare rebounds as a sword rebounds from a shield. Against that, the serpent people are helpless.”
“No! No, you’re lying! You’re making that up!”
“Am I, Your Majesty? I suggest you go see for yourself.”
“Yes, yes, I have to see. I—” Rowforth ran as hard as he could for the stairs.
“Father.” His daughter spoke softly from the floor. “You said you’d help him? Use your magic for him?”
“Yes, my magic. I will use it to give him the help he needs—to surrender.”
“Then—then you actually have magic?”
“For little things, daughter. For little things, as I have often said.”
Smiling his most careful smile, Zotanas raised his palms to his eyes and brought them up close until all light was blocked out. Concentrating hard, he mumbled the words he had learned so long ago that aided in the transference. Unbidden and not completely welcome, a face intruded into his concentration: the face of Polzamp, who had saved him from a terrible fate as an infant and had bestowed immortality on him. Polzamp the Restless. Polzamp the Kindly and Just. Polzamp, the onetime ruler of his people before his change. Polzamp, born from the mating of a mortal sorcerer and a serpent person not unlike Gerta. Polzamp, his own most extraordinary father.
Concentrate: black, black, blank.
Cannot see, cannot see, cannot see. Blank, blank, black. As in deepest outer space, nothingness.
He couldn’t see. His eyes were shut tight. Now he could visualize Rowforth looking out from the familiar tower window. Staring down at the grounds, the swirling men and horses, the clouds of dust, the carnage at the gates and beyond.
From above their heads came a scream. “I can’t see! I can’t see!” The screaming was Rowforth’s. In a moment it gave way to crashing sounds and a continuing series of thumps. “Oh, oh, oh!” screamed His Majesty, his pain-racked body at last reaching the foot of the unseen winding stairs. “I can’t see, Zotanas! You are the official sorcerer of the realm—help!”
“Hud must surrender to the victor,” Zotanas said, using the tone of wisdom. “Afterward your sight will be restored.”
“NO!” Indignation supreme. “Never! Rowforth will battle forever! Rowforth will fight though he’s blind!”
“Are you certain, Your Majesty? The magic here is very strong. It will be displeasing never again to see pain in a face or torment in a soul. Strike the flag now and you will see, even though it may be joy instead of suffering.”
“It’s you! You’re doing this! I will never surrender! Never! GUARDS!”
Listening to running feet, Zotanas kept his eyes firmly closed and his hands in place. For as long as he could not see, neither could the king. He knew this; the king did not.
“Help! Help!” the king cried. “Broughtmar, is that you? I can’t see, Broughtmar, old friend. It’s magic—magic used against me.”
Broughtmar? Naturally that thug had managed to escape being assigned to the hard battle outside. But Zotanas suspected that the man would not be much comfort to the king at this moment. Broughtmar was a bully who seemed to exist only to torment the helpless—and now the king was helpless.
“You can’t see?” Broughtmar’s voice came. “What a pity when there’s so much for you to revel in. Outside a man looks at his own steaming innards and a flopear swings a great sword at another man and creates a fountain of blood. You’d enjoy those scenes, Your Highness.” Obviously Broughtmar had not checked recently, but that hardly mattered.
“Ouch! You stepped on my hand! Find that doddering old fool who shares the palace! Make him stop whatever he’s doing! Make him stop! Kill him
and
the queen!”
Oops—-that would break up the magic fast enough, if the guard obeyed. “Hide us, daughter,” Zotanas murmured. “This must be complete, before—”
He felt the queen’s hands guiding him to a safer place. He kept his own hands locked in place, maintaining his blindness—and the king’s. How quickly it was degenerating into a comedy of malice, as the king’s empire fell apart before it could form. Now was the falling out of thieves. But he had to keep the king blind while it proceeded.
“You fool, you lost!” Broughtmar’s voice came again. “Those Freedom Fighters won the war. The mercenaries did it—the ones they bought with silver.”
“No! No! No! Ouch! That hurt, Broughtmar! You’re stepping on me deliberately!”
“How perceptive of you, blubber belly. Maybe a heavy tromp here—?” Broughtmar was certainly acting true to form.
“AHHHH! Stop, stop, stop! This is your king, Broughtmar! Your king! I thought you loved me! I thought we were friends!”
“You were wrong, Your Arrogance.”
“NO! NO! NO! AHHHHH!”
It was exactly such sounds that had given the queen nightmares. Only now it was not some unfortunate prisoner or fancied enemy of the realm Broughtmar was methodically beating, it was the king himself. Zotanas recognized a bit of evil in himself as he hesitated to stop the torture. But perhaps it had proceeded far enough. Reluctantly he took his hands down and opened his eyes.
“I CAN SEE!” the king cried. “I can see, Broughtmar, I can see! Don’t you realize what this means? I’m back in control, no thanks to that sorcerer! Find him, stop him!”
“Stop whom from doing what?” Broughtmar inquired nastily. He was evidently too far gone in his sadism to reverse course now. “Stop me from doing a little more of this to you?”
“AHHHHH! STOP!!”
Zotanas crossed the throne room and the dining hall and came to where Broughtmar was brutally beating the monarch. It was obvious that the moment it appeared the king lacked power, the guard’s loyalty was forfeit.
Very softly Zotanas said: “It wouldn’t be wise to kill him, Broughtmar. He needs to surrender us.”
Rowforth raised a bruised and bloody face. He pointed a shaky finger. “KILL HIM! Kill him, Broughtmar! I order you. Kill!”
Broughtmar grinned, ignoring His Majesty. “You say he should surrender? By lowering the flag from the tower?”
“Yes. That is the way surrendering is customarily done. Can you carry him back up the stairs? Place the flag-rope in his hand so that he can lower the flag himself?”
Broughtmar looked confused. “Why?”
“To live. Or at least not to be tortured. One who does this thing is certain to be rewarded.”
“Rewarded?” Broughtmar sounded both suspicious and eager at the same time. He liked the notion of a reward, but wasn’t quite getting Zotanas’ drift.
“With life. Instead of execution.”
“Oh.” Now at last it dawned: his own life could be at stake.
“Well?”
Broughtmar leaned over the king to pick him up. The king promptly kicked him expertly in the mouth, sending blood and broken teeth spraying.
Zotanas sighed. He should have foreseen that, though Broughtmar hadn’t. The king was like a wounded animal, dangerous even when seemingly helpless.
Broughtmar spat out more teeth and blood, looking surprised. In a moment the light of kill would be in his eyes. He was not the smartest man, but he made up for that in viciousness.
“This isn’t going to do,” Zotanas said aloud. He closed his own eyes again, cupped them with his hands, and concentrated. It was easier this time. Blackness, blackness, black blank.
Transfer.
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” Rowforth cried. “Broughtmar, you must help me! You—what are you doing!”
“Take him up the stairs, Broughtmar, and see that he surrenders,” Zotanas said. “For a man with your strength, it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“P-please,” the queen added, sick at heart.
Even though concentrating heavily on the black, Zotanas heard Rowforth gasp as Broughtmar picked him up. Then Broughtmar tromped heavily as he carried the king to the tower and beyond it to the roof.
Blars Blarsner, amateur wrestler and boxer in better times, was fighting with the confounded sword that seemed forever out of his control, and putting all his energies into staying alive. He finished off the Royalist with a sudden lucky stab and looked for an opening between thrashing horses and battling men. The back of the otherworlder known as Kelvin was toward him. As usual, the hero of another place was battling three Royalists with his shield and his sword, handling both brilliantly. He chopped off the hand of the Royalist in front of him, swung the sword back, and slashed the eyes of the man to his left. He seemed hardly to look; it was as if he knew exactly where his opponents were without having to use his eyes. In the meantime the swordsman on his right had stabbed him, not quite touching him but severing the leather thong that held the Mouvar weapon secure against Kelvin’s leg.
The Mouvar weapon! It had fallen! It was down there in the dust!
While Blars was wiping sweat and dust from his eyes, Kelvin finished off the third of his three attackers with an expert stab. But ahead the way was clearing before the gates. There was a clanging noise and a billow of dust that hid even Kelvin from him. Something was happening!
There was no time to speculate. He had to get the Mouvar weapon while he could, and get it to Kelvin. Without it Kelvin couldn’t continue to win, and none of them could win.
Unless, he suddenly thought, he could manage to use the weapon himself.
With sheer brute strength Blars reined his huge war-horse over to where Kelvin had been. One of the Royalists was still there, horrified as he stared at the spouting end of his arm. Reluctantly, Blars finished off the man and turned his attention to what was under the horse’s hooves.
At first he didn’t see it, and then he did, next to a dead Royalist and a riderless horse that was whinnying pitifully with its guts pouring out. He reached, grabbed, and had it.
He stared dazedly at what he held. He pulled his horse to one side of the fighting and examined the weapon closely for the first time. He had heard so much about it, yet had never seen it in action. It was a strange-looking device that resembled a crossbow only in the most superficial manner. It had a bell-shaped muzzle that would be pointed at whatever was to be attacked. The part that fitted the hand was like the handgrip on the smallest of crossbows—the kind used mainly for games, for children to train with. There was a strange dial set in it, with two odd marks and a little fin-shape pointed at the higher of the marks. Without thinking, Blars turned the fin-shape to the lower mark.