King of Swords (The Starfolk) (10 page)

Mira looked impressed. “Can elves kill halflings?”

“I didn’t ask, but my amulet will defend me, so I’m a public threat and I think my only hope of getting status is if Fomalhaut or his Prince Vildiar needs a staff assassin badly enough to bribe the jury, if that’s how it works.”

“Lucky you! Is assassination a well-paying career?”

“I don’t know and I certainly don’t intend to find out!”

For a moment neither spoke, then Mira yawned. “Dunno about you, sonny, but I’m tired. Scraping rocks is hard work. We can share the bed, but if you get any fancy ideas about concubinage, I’ll stuff that magical sword of yours right down your throat.”

Rigel laughed and jumped up. “I’d better not risk it, then. I’d rather sleep on the beach anyway. It’s my starborn blood, you know.”

He came trotting back to the cabin as the eastern sky began to brighten. His sleep had been haunted by dreams of the massacre at Walmart, and once he had been awakened by a warning from his amulet when something large began circling overhead. He had crawled in under a canopy of thorny branches and gone back to sleep. Nevertheless, he felt marvelously happy. All his life he had been hiding from view, but now his secret was out in the open at last. While this new world offered new problems, it was an immensely exciting and, so far, enjoyable place to be. A halfling who owned the most deadly sword in the Starlands shouldn’t have to take crap from anyone. He had begun his day by swimming out to the reef again. If life stayed this good, he was all for it.

The stars here revolved around Sirius instead of Polaris.

When he walked into the cabin, Mira was still snoring away under a heap of covers.

A glance in the mirror revealed that his scars had already faded to faint pink lines. This really was extraordinarily fast healing, even for him.

Hotcakes and bacon? A few eggs on the side? Orange juice! He called up a clear memory of the Versailles Room and opened the portal. He stepped through into…
nothing!
… not even a floor. Off-balance, he started to fall into outer space, complete with blackness and stars.

He grabbed the jamb with his free hand, but the door swung wider until he was almost horizontal, staring down at stars
below
him. If the sun or moon were there, he was too busy hanging on and saving his skin to bother looking for them. He hauled himself vertical by brute strength and staggered back into the cabin, shaking and streaming sweat. He slammed the door shut behind him. It couldn’t really be outer space. There had been air, a cold wind, but not a rush of atmosphere into vacuum.
I’m a stranger here; which way to the edge of the world?

As soon as he caught his breath, he tried again, this time thinking of the swimming glade and opening the door only a crack. Still there was nothing out there. He went to the nearest chair and sat down to think this over. The portal had worked for the mudling Sextus, so it ought to work for a halfling. Was he in jail? There was nothing landward of the cabin except jungle, nothing seaward except sea.

A light tap, the portal swung wide, and there was Sextus, bowing and ready to take his order for breakfast.

“Whatever Starborn Muphrid usually has,” Rigel said. “For two.” He watched the slave exit into some sort of pantry. The instant the door closed Rigel lunged over to it and inched it open. He found midnight and stars again, nothing else.

Came a mumble from under a quilt. “Whatimeisit?”

“Just enough time for you to have a swim before breakfast.”

Her reply was brief but emphatic.

“My father the elf taught me never to use such words,” Rigel said.

Grumbling, Mira sat up, clutching the covers under her chin. “It is
freezing
in here!”

“Just comfortable.”

The portal swung open, and she vanished back under the bedclothes. The new arrival was not Sextus, though, but
Gacrux, the beefy elf. He glanced regretfully at the bed as if wondering what he had missed, then at Rigel.

“Ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“To fight the Minotaur. Don’t you remember?”

“Only vaguely,” Rigel admitted. There had been some talk of showing off Saiph. “You really expect me to kill something in cold blood?”

The big lout sneered. “Scared?”

“No. It just doesn’t seem sporting if my amulet never loses. I always thought the Minotaur was imaginary.”

“Of course it’s imaginary. We’re not ready yet, but Muphrid thought you might want to scout out the lay of the land first.”

“I suppose that’s a good idea. Darling, if I’m not back in time, you’ll have to eat breakfast for two.”

“Trying to tell me you’ve got her knocked up?” Gacrux said scornfully.

“I never miss. Lead the way.”

The big elf said, “Taygeta!” and his sword appeared in his hand.

Rigel felt no warning tingle at his wrist, so he knew that Gacrux wasn’t planning to attack him at the moment. Maybe never, maybe later.

Gacrux opened the portal a crack and peered out cautiously. Only when he had satisfied himself that it was safe did he open it fully and walk through. Rigel followed.

T
hey were at the top of an ornate marble grandstand whose cushioned seats would hold about fifty people. It stood halfway down the side of a gentle grassy hollow, a natural arena. On the skyline opposite, stark white against the ultramarine sky, stood a pair of stone columns supporting a triangular lintel, what architecture books called a pediment. It had no doors, so it might be just what it seemed, not a magical portal like the one beside the swimming hole.

“That’s where it will come from.” Gacrux pointed at the arch with Taygeta, then put the sword away, as if suddenly self-conscious. “You should be up there when it does, so that you can lure it down close, where all of us can see the fight.”

“Can I go and look over the terrain?” The slopes of this killing ground were tufted with thorny-looking shrubs that might hide all sorts of rough footing. What lay beyond the skyline?

“If it worries you. It’s obvious enough, I would have thought. Muphrid sees that it’s kept in good shape. There shouldn’t be any sharp stones or burrows to trip you.”

“Have you ever hunted minotaurs?” Rigel asked suspiciously.

The big elf shrugged. “Smell of blood churns my gut. I’ve watched it a time or two. There’s nothing to it. The more you wave the red cloak, the madder it gets. Just remember what Muphrid told you last night. It isn’t a bull. It has hands. It’ll try to grab you and pull you onto its horns.”

“Right.” Rigel trotted down the aisle and vaulted over the rail at the bottom of the grandstand, dropping nimbly to the grass. A staged slaughter was not his idea of hunting and certainly not sport, but refusing to cooperate might endanger his chances of gaining status. He suspected the childlike starfolk just wanted to see him kill something with Saiph. And there was no doubt in his mind that this was also a test—of his abilities certainly, and perhaps of his obedience too. He set off to explore.

He loped across the hollow and started up the slope, checking the footing and the height of the shrubs. There were places where a man or animal could hide from view and he was curious to know why Gacrux had drawn his sword before opening the portal. He glanced back and saw that the elf had gone. The portal doors were closed.

Studying the grandstand from this angle, he decided that it wasn’t a secure vantage point. A real bull wouldn’t have been able to reach the spectators, but an agile man, whether he had a bull’s head or a human one, could easily jump up and catch hold of the railing. Then he could haul himself aboard and turn the tables on those who had come to watch him being slaughtered. Either there were defenses that Rigel couldn’t see, or Muphrid had immense confidence in his own magical powers.

He turned to resume his exploration and saw a minotaur sitting cross-legged in a slight hollow no more than ten meters off to his right, watching him. Rigel opened his mouth to
summon Saiph, but then realized that the amulet was not tingling and the sword would come on its own if it were needed.

The apparition yawned and stretched its arms. After all the straw-thin elves, its sheer bulk was daunting. From the neck down it would have made an impressive NFL linebacker—probably hairier than most—and its huge horned head must add an extra thirty kilos. It was naked, without so much as a gold ring in its black nose. Rigel gingerly took a backward step.

The Minotaur said,
“Buenos dias.
”

“Um, good morning.” Rigel went closer to convince himself that he was brave enough. “I didn’t expect you to talk.”

“Why not? We won’t have much time to chat later.”

“Probably not. I’m Rigel.”

“I’m the Minotaur. All us minotaurs are called
the
Minotaur.”

“What did your mother call you?”

The Minotaur snorted explosively. “Darling.” His bull’s head was Hereford red, but his human body hair was black—Aberdeen Angus, maybe. “Didn’t expect a halfling. You’re here to prove that you can kill to order, I suppose?”

“I’m sure that’s the idea, but it wasn’t my idea.” At close range Rigel could tell that the monster’s name was Elnath. Why had it lied to him?

Saiph was still giving no warning, so Rigel sat down cross-legged and almost knee-to-knee with his soon-to-be adversary. He noticed that the bushes hid them from the grandstand, and wondered if Elnath had been setting up an ambush.

The Minotaur regarded him with a huge and gentle bovine eye. “Well, I’m glad. A halfling should do a nice clean kill. Some of those milksop starfolk can’t finish the job properly. They chop and hack and mutilate, and then can’t bring themselves to finish us off. My brother was just left there to bleed to death. I call that
escandaloso!”

“Me too,” Rigel said. “But now that I’m getting to know you, I don’t want to kill you at all.”

“Oh, but you must!” Elnath’s face displayed no emotion, but he sounded shocked. “That’s what I’m for. For thousands of years we minotaurs have been bred to be killed by heroes. If you don’t do it someone else will, and I’d rather be slain by a bloodthirsty savage halfling than a daffodil elf. No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Rigel pulled his knees up and leaned his chin on them to think. “You insist on this?”

The bull head turned to fix its other eye on him. “Certainly. I don’t want to kill you either, but when you wave the cloak at me, the only way I can stop the pain is to try and get it away from you.”

“Pain?”

The Minotaur laughed, a monstrous rumble deep in his throat. “They didn’t tell you? The cloak is an amulet. When you shake it, it hurts me. Red-hot needles! I go loco. You think any sane minotaur would charge a swordsman without a weapon? No, it’s just the only way to stop the agony.”

“We could just shake hands and part as friends.”

“That merely gives me an hour or so longer in the death paddock while they line up another hero. Muphrid Starborn has to entertain his guests. Besides, that wouldn’t help you prove you’ll be a good assassin. And I have to think of my sons.”

“You lost me,” Rigel said.

The Minotaur made a harrumphing noise and studied the enormous dirty, tattered fingernails on his right hand. “The Minotaur must die bravely. He must put on a good show. That’s what he’s for. You want my sons to grow up with the shame of a father who
made a deal
?”

“I see. How do I help you put on a good show?”

Elnath scratched a furry shin. “Make sure I bleed a lot. You have to disable my arms first, of course—that way I can only try to gore you—and you must be careful not to spoil my legs. Then you spin it out, making it last a good, long time. I keep charging and charging like an idiot. But finally, if you don’t mind, put that moment of truth right through my heart?”

Rigel was feeling more like a daffodil elf every minute. “This is all strange to me. I only just arrived in this world. I didn’t believe in minotaurs until I saw you sitting here.”

The monster snorted. “You wouldn’t, of course. On Earth, we’re imaginary; here we’re real. Like the elves. Reality on Earth is fantasy here and vice versa. And one thing you must understand about the Starlands is that they
aren’t
a world. They’re a translated state of being. The domains have all been manifested from the starfolk’s imagination, and each place is a personal creation. Time is conserved, so life and death stay the same. If you can imagine your own death you can die here—believe it! And even the best mage can’t do
nada
about death.”

“Magic?” Rigel looked at his bracelet. “Amulets. You said the cloak they give me will be an amulet. The elf, er, starborn, who brought us here carried a long staff.”

“That would be his reversion amulet. In order to effect the dimensional transformation, it has to be longer than the user’s height, see?”

He didn’t. “I’ll take your word for it. So all the magic in the Starlands is done with amulets? Rings, bracelets…”

The Minotaur sighed hugely. “Not quite. Some elves are better at magic than others, but spells take time to cast, and they can go wrong. You want to remember something, you write it down, right? An elf puts his spell in an amulet, so it’s always available.”