Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (33 page)

Empty torches in hand, feeling his way across
the dirt trail that still scored a direct line through the
encompassing arms of the skeletal forest, John shuffled to the
roadside. There, groping until his hands brushed a branch of a
mummified sapling, John cracked off the bony limb, the sound
ringing like a pistol shot.

Around him, the warbling sound was steadily
increasing!

Hurriedly snapping the limb in two, John
poked the broken branch into a torch, the kindling sticking into
the metal device from the torch's mouth to the bottom of the
hollow, narrowing handle. More by feel than sight, John snapped off
smaller twigs, repeating the process until both torches were packed
with sticks.

Bending over, he tore off handfuls of tough,
dead grass, stuffing the straw into each torch end.

Satisfied that he'd done his best, putting
one "loaded" torch on the ground at his feet, turning his back to
Platinia and Zwicia -- a good magician, even a nervous one, never
shows his tricks -- John dug out his lighter. Thumbing the wheel,
John nosed the steady fire-jet into the grass tinder he'd stuffed
in the end of the torch, the grass catching, fire creeping through
the straw, the twigs starting to crackle.

As the wood began to blaze higher, then
higher still, John held up the newly burning torch to see
shadow-shapes in the dark, the light showing large four-legged
creatures ... with insect heads and gelatinous bodies, their
internal organs showing through! Bug-eyed horrors the size and
shape of wolves! Termite-headed jackals! Mandibles dripping!

Behind John, the ponies reared and
screamed!

As John's torch flamed to full brightness,
the mutants turned to race away, their trilling echoing after
them.

Shaken, John heard what had to be the sound
of the insect-animals crashing into trees.

It was their eyes. Huge eyes. The eyes of
nocturnal creatures unable to withstand the light.

It was only then that it hit him! The wicked
looking wolf-termites had been creeping up to prey on John and the
women, John stopping them with a flick of the other world's
lighter!

"Lxlop," mumbled Zwicia, the old woman hiding
behind the cart, waving her hands in fear.

Another revelation dawned on John. These, and
possibly other monsters of the night, were this world's savage
creatures. Nocturnals, dangerous only in the dark. And to think
that John had been discounting down-light beasties as pure
myth!

John shuddered. Wondered what other nasty
surprises might await him in the mantled forest!

For the moment, being hunted by the Lxlop
meant never letting his torch go out!

The big-eyed, dangerously evolved creatures
driven off -- John had to get his party moving.

His torch blazing brightly by this time,
bending, John picked up the spare torch, stepping back to trail
center to slip the backup torch through the wagon slats near the
front corner of the cart.

He turned to the women. "This is a different
kind of fire," he explained, raising the torch, the women's faces
reflecting the light like fearful ghost masks in the gloom. "This
is Mage-fire." With a dramatic gesture, John waved the spitting
torch, the flames fluttering angrily, Platinia and Zwicia
involuntarily taking a step back. "It keeps the Lxlop away by
giving both light and heat ... at the same time." Platinia and
Zwicia continued to stare at the flaming torch end, the women calm
again because of the assurance of the "great" Mage.

How much of what John was saying was getting
through? It didn't really matter ... as long as he held the
torch.

Real fire. In a world of magic, not only a
new and dangerous technology but, in this instance, literally, a
lifesaver!

The group settled down somewhat, able to see
again -- at least within the dancing circle of light cast by the
torch -- they started out, John leading the others through the
deadness, all of them keeping a nervous watch for more of the
dangerous beasts, the wolf-termite, Lxlop.

On and in. Slowly. Moving quietly. John
making frequent stops to gather more wood for the torch's fire.

Farther and farther until ... ahead ... like
disembodied spirits ... John saw white reflections.

Ghosts!

Clogging the path! ........

No.

People.

John felt his chest tighten with
recognition.

These were the same kind of people who'd made
up Auro's white army; the ones who'd invaded Stil-de-grain; the
ones he'd seared to cinders with the golden magic of his
crystal.

Though John had been on the lookout for
Azare's white civilians since the boat landed, the sudden
appearance of these zombie-people jolted him!

John pulling up, the cart skreeled to a halt
behind him, the ponies snorting gratefully.

White people. Again, appearing to be
hypnotized like their former counterparts. Waiting for him!

Many against ... one!

John had a quick thought about loading the
cannon. ..... Thought better of it. The gun must be his big
surprise.

How deep were the enemy ranks? .... No way to
tell.

There could be no equivocation now. John must
put on the Mage-crystal to defend himself against the dark Mage
army, John digging the crystal from the secret pocket in his
robe.

No other option, holding his breath, John
slipped the gem's iron chain around his neck.

Looking within to analyze his response to
having chained himself to the crystal ... John realized he felt ...
normal.

He could breathe again. Pant out his
relief.

Beside him, he was aware of ... a touch;
glancing down, saw Platinia gesturing toward the people up ahead.
He nodded.

Instead of Platinia backing away as always,
John grabbed her small hand and pressed the torch handle into it,
motioning her to keep the torch flames away from her.

Freed of the torch, with shaky fingers, John
held up the crystal, stroking it with his other hand; felt the
"dry" static begin to build, first along the surface of his hands,
then tingling throughout his body.

For the first time since his return to this
magical world, John felt ... godlike!

Looking ahead to the passive, white people
obstructing his path, John was offended by their arrogance! How
dare they attempt to bar the progress of the Crystal-Mage of
Stil-de-grain?

Rubbing the crystal harder, faster, John
could sense the saturating power of the gem's force, feel his hair
rise, experience himself crackle with crystal-magic.

Fully charged, John dropped the Mage-gem to
dangle on his chest. Raising both hands, he stabbed his flashing
fingertips at the mob down the road, jagged sparks spurting from
his fingertips, the gold, serrated flame tendrils merging into a
thick bolt that lanced out toward the white enemy.

Ahead of him, there was a blast; a blinding
report! Followed by a billow of dust.

With crystal-enhanced vision, John saw
through the clearing haze. Saw that the citizen army, what was left
of it, was staggering back.

Did they think they could escape him? Fools!
How dare they live after attempting to thwart his will!?

John grabbed up the crystal again;
frantically stroked the gem's dry surface; raised his hands before
him, fingers pointing at the fleeing enemy .....

Concentrated .......

Nothing.

He'd kept the crystal out of the light too
long, a single blast draining the gem's power!

Coming to himself, John realized that the
scream of rage that still echoed in his ears ... had been his
own.

Devoid of force, he found himself ...
exhausted. Depressed. Vulnerable. Even having Platinia by his side
... meant nothing.

The crystal's weight strangling him, it took
all John's remaining strength to drag the gem's chain from around
his neck.

Quaking, he was barely able to dribble the
yellow disk into its pocket.

It was only then that he felt ... guilt.
Guilt at how quickly the gem's seductive promise of demonic power
had enslaved him. Guilt at how he'd used the crystal's destructive
force against the unarmed rabble.

He was feverish.

Sweating.

Familiar consequences of the crystal's dark
magic.

Taking a deep breath to recover, John took
the dangerous torch from Platinia.

With a shaky hand, held it high to see that
the white civilians had run away, the crystal's blast -- brief as
it was -- scaring them off.

If they returned ....?

No sense worrying about that.

Able to think again, John picked up the pony
reins where he'd dropped them, the hairy little beasts straining
back as if the bolt he'd thrown had stunned them too, their eyes
wide enough to show the whites, their ears laid back.

Though it took determined hauling on the lead
ropes, John finally got the frightened little horses to move, John
recuperated enough to lead his party forward, once again.

Until he was at the spot where his bolt had
hollowed out the trail. To find corpses. No longer white, with
blackened arms and faces.

Five. ... Ten.

More.

Men and women resembling John's conception of
people charred by gasoline. Some bodies dismembered.

Hideous!

It was only by blanking out his mind that
John could force himself through that ghastly charnel house.

How much time passed after that, John didn't
know, John continuing to stagger on, pretending to lead, but in a
stupor, awaking when a bright streak lanced down, followed by a
distant crash in the ghostly forest.

Functioning again, John was ready for the
next strike when it came, this one falling to the far left. No
longer bouncing off the sky dome, these strikes were being launched
from somewhere farther down the road, rising flatly from the ground
before falling in John's vicinity.

John had an idea. Could it be that the white
people he'd discovered back there on the trail were less an army
than a scouting party? That those who'd gotten away had informed
the dark Mage of John's position on the road?

Flash. ......... Boom!

Like any good artillery officer, the evil
Mage was laying down a box barrage. Right, then left. Then one long
-- the next shot to be short.

Somewhere out there, hidden in the woods, a
forward observer must be in position to get information to Auro on
where his bolts were landing. Perhaps with blue (black?) messenger
birds.

Soon, the lightning would be zeroed in, a
fact that forced John's hand.

"This is as far as you two go," John said to
the women.

"I gziph pst you," said Platinia quietly, the
lack of light continuing to wipe out much of what she said.

"I want you out of the way. Back down the
trail," John replied, pointing back the way they'd come.

Platinia shook her head solemnly. Either she
didn't understand what John meant, the lack of magic translating
little of his speech, or she was disagreeing with him.

Probably the lack of proper translation.

John had never seen Platinia disobey him.

His mind was racing.

Another streak of light, this one sailing
over them. Followed by a blinding flash behind them!

Too close for the ponies, the little beasts
whickering frantically, plunging, John fighting them, sawing on
their halters.

Snubbing up on their lead ropes, making
soothing sounds, John managed to get the little beasts quieted down
at last, the shelties' brown eyes still wide and rolling, the
ponies prancing in place, shivering.

In the lull that always followed strikes,
ignoring Platinia for the moment, John handed the lead ropes to
Zwicia; motioned Platinia to come with him; handed her the torch;
indicated that she should hold it high.

Hurrying back to the cart, stepping up on the
edge of the bed, John leaned over the slatted side to look for the
sack that contained his chain mail cloak complete with woven wire
headpiece.

It was only then that John noticed another
interesting phenomena. Now that he was paying attention to all the
nuances of his situation, he realized that the wind was back. Not
much wind. But some. This time, blowing from behind them rather
than from in front of them.

And what did that mean?

That the evil Mage-King had outflanked them?
That he was approaching from the rear?

Somehow ... John didn't think so. If Auro was
that mobile, he'd have moved forward to blast at them from
point-blank range.

Wham! Another strike. Closer this time on the
right. Fortunately, John thought, the magic fire that the evil Mage
was hurling had no more heat to it than the flames of fire stone
torches. Though the bolts seared and blackened, they never set
anything alight. Otherwise, the woods around them would be ablaze,
giving John something more to worry about than getting his metal
suit on before Auro found the range.

Ah! The suit. Still in the bag that John had
done his best to waterproof with tallow before packing it on
board.

Quickly, John pulled the sack over the side
of the cart, dropping the duffel bag on the ground. Jumping down,
he bent over to open the drawstrings, then dumped out the sack's
contents.

Platinia holding the torch so he could see,
John returned to the cart to get out the metal cloth he'd brought
along. Not knowing until the last minute who he'd take inland with
him, he had the Xanthin craftsman make iron-ringed clothes meant to
fit anyone, John's hope that the metal shrouds would protect those
under them from the evil Mage's lightning. With gestures and as
much explanation as the faint light would translate, he put one
cloth over Zwicia, the next over Platinia.

The women protected as well as he could
manage, he bent over to pick up the flexible, iron-ringed
headpiece, slipping it on. Put on the heavy, chain mail coat.
Stepped into the wire-wrapped shoes, iron cleats in them meant to
stick into the ground with every step.