The Golden Shield of IBF (23 page)

“And?”

She seemed oddly embarrassed. “I, uh, I ordered that your flesh and muscle should part over your heart, and I touched it with my hand.”

Garrison was suddenly very cold, his body shaking. He snapped away the cigarette, rubbed his hand over his jaw. “You touched my heart,” he said slowly. “Silly girl for being embarrassed.” he whispered. “You touch my heart every time I think of you.” And he kissed her...

Because of the tidal surges, Garrison supposed, the concept of a dock or wharf to which a ship could be tied was unheard of. Any such structure, if built high enough to be left unassailed by the pounding water, would leave whatever vessel secured to it accessible only by climbing down a ladder. Meanwhile, the boat would be battered to pieces by the tides.

Garrison thought that the solution to Creath’s maritime dilemma was, considering the general lack of technology, ingenious. Ships were kept to a size reminiscent to him of those used by the Norsemen. Their overall canoe-like shape, high prows and simple mast structure were similar to Viking craft as well. When put in to shore at what passed for a naval facility, the ships were brought from and back to the water on parallel skids, not dissimilar to railroad tracks in gauge. Since the coastlines were constantly eroding, as the sea claimed more of the land, the rails were merely extended to a still higher elevation. Using ropes and primitive pulleys (magic substituting for muscle when available), the craft were drawn to their dry dock or eased into the surf. They were light enough, because of their modest size, that the crew which oared them could carry them if needed.

Garrison and Erg’Ran stood at the mouth of an enormous cavern, some five hundred yards from the water’s edge and a good hundred feet higher in elevation. There were five ships within the cave being outfitted and rigged.

“They’ll be ready by the morrow, Champion.”

“I can hardly wait,” Garrison cracked. Yet he was anxious to be underway for a variety of reasons, his hopes for consummating the love he felt for Swan chief among them. On another level, he wanted to see Swan’s mother get what was coming to her. If he were somehow able to marry Swan—and the mere thought of how that could be done was mind-boggling—Eran would truly be the mother-in-law of all mothers-in-law.

When the Company of Mir set sail for Edge Land across Woroc’Il’Lod, the only noncombatant would be Swan herself. The spouses of the male and female warriors, the children, the camp followers, all non-fighters would remain within the safety of the summer palace. A handful of warriors only would stay back with them, and merely as a precaution against the unforeseen.

Only three out of the Company of Mir would be K’Ur’Mir: Swan, Erg’Ran and Mitan. Although more warrior than magic user, as a female K’Ur’Mir Mitan had some considerable capabilities. Erg’Ran freely admitted that what magic he, as a male, could employ would be of precious little use for anything serious.

The five vessels were constructed using a combination of magic and (to Garrison) more conventional techniques. Since the Company of Mir was, effectively, a random cross section of Creathan society, most trades and professions were represented. Coopersmiths saw to precision fitting of planking, stonemasons saw to the pitch caulking, while blacksmiths and even Gar’Ath, a swordsmith by trade as was his father before him, saw to the making of grommets, cleats, oarlocks and other necessary metal items.

Gar’Ath, as did many of the others, performed double duty, his principal task in what time remained before they set sail was the completion of spearheads. In preparation to combat the creatures which lay in wait within Woroc’Il’Lod’s waters, everyone was agreed that a large number of extra spears would be needed. Mitan, to Gar’Ath’s discomfort because of her necessary proximity to him, used her magic to apply the final edges to the spearheads, using her muscle power to mate them to the shafts. Garrison doubted that the symbology of the shafts being inserted into the orifices within the spearheads was lost on Gar’Ath, and from the mischievous look in Mitan’s pretty eyes, Garrison knew that she very much appreciated what it suggested.

“It should prove a constant source of amusement, shouldn’t it?” Erg’Ran commented.

“What?” Garrison inquired.

They were walking along a scaffolding set between two of the ships toward the rear of the cave.

“I mean having our young swordsman friend and the fair warrior maid taking passage on the same small ship. I wonder if Gar’Ath will survive it.”

“I could lend Gar’Ath my vest—”

“Your fabric armor, yes! Why?”

“It’s not only good protection against bullets—the things my firespitters spit?”

“Ah, yes. Bullets, indeed.”

“But although it also provides a fair degree of protection against penetration—” Garrison didn’t mean that word the way it came out in the context of their conversation, so he quickly rephrased. “I meant to say that I don’t think it would provide much protection against Cupid’s arrows.”

“Who is Cu’Pid?”

“Cupid is a character from mythology—” Garrison realized that he was digging a hole and about to bury himself beneath a ton of inane verbiage before he could climb out of it. “What I mean is that there’s no armor against love, Erg’Ran.”

“How right you are, Champion. How right you are!” At the end of the scaffolding, Garrison looked down. There was a high stack of canvas bags on something very much like a pallet. The bags were about the length and girth of a man in size, grommeted at the top, cord running through the holes, enabling the openings to be drawn tight.

They were a sobering sight: body bags for burial at sea.

A boy of about twelve, by the way that Garrison reckoned age, came as a messenger. Swan requested that Garrison join her in the keep’s highest tower. She had taken this over for her new—Garrison didn’t quite know what to call it. Was it a magical workshop, a laboratory? An office?

After ascending the endlessly winding stairs, Garrison crossed a small outer room and entered the chamber through a doorless archway. Quill pens wrote furiously, filling empty scrolls and pages within books floating in the air, controlled only by Swan’s magical energy. Merely watching them was unnerving.

“Al’An!” The pens kept writing as Swan came across the room and into his arms.

Garrison kissed her, held her. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“The pens writing without anyone touching them.”

“I can show you the spell.”

“No. That’s okay. Why are you doing it?”

“When my castle was consumed by the Mist of Oblivion, all of my things were lost with it. I memorize anything that I read, so I’m rewriting all of my spells and incantations and recipes.”

“Recipes? Like in a cookbook?”

Swan evaluated the term, then answered, “Some of the recipes are for the cooking of food, yes.”

Garrison wasn’t going to ask what other kinds of recipes she was transcribing.

“I thought that it was time that we saw to your armament, Al’An, as we will be leaving on the morrow. I will spellwork for you a sword the equal to any in the Land! See?” Out of thin air, floating among the books, scrolls and the quill pens still writing upon them, appeared a magnificent hand-and-a-half sword, double fullered along the blade’s entire length, with bronze ricasso, lobed quillon guard, hilt bound in polished wire, a skull-crusher pommel in the shape of some sort of animal head, gemstones set for its eyes.

“That’s lovely, Swan, but—”

“Gar’Ath tells me that you are becoming quite proficient with a sword. I am very proud.”

“You’re sweet to say that, and even sweeter to make such a wonderful weapon for me. And Gar’Ath’s a heck of a fine teacher, but he’s being overly generous with his praise. If I had a lot more practice time, I’d be mediocre, darling. Such a fine sword should be in the scabbard of someone who really knows how to use it. No, I’ll make do. I wish I had more ammo, though.”

“Ammo? Oh! Ammo! Please, give me one ammo.”

“Cartridge. Sure.” Garrison reached under his bomber jacket, not bothering to withdraw one of the pistols from its holster, merely pressing the magazine release catch button. He thumbed a cartridge free and handed it to Swan.

“Are these runes which are inscribed here of magical importance to your firespitters?”

She was referring to the Federal Cartridge Company headstamp. “No, it’s how they’re made that counts. That’s why I use this brand—kind of ammunition for my firespitters, pistols.”

Swan tossed the cartridge into the air, simultaneously speaking words which were totally unintelligible to him—had to be from the Old Tongue. The cartridge floated, weightless seeming, and a vortex formed around it. Light appeared to emanate from the cartridge, filling the vortex. From deep within it, a single cartridge fell, then another and another. The succession of cartridges became a stream, flowing out of the vortex, heaping onto the flagstones below. The pile of cartridges grew and grew, to the height of Garrison’s knee, to the height of his hip. Still, the stream continued to flow from the vortex.

“Tell me when you think you will have enough, Al’An.”

“Oh, anytime now really would be just fine, actually.” Garrison knew that he should be used to magic by now, but realized that he was shaking his head in disbelief.

The flow slowed to a trickle, then a handful more spilled from the vortex and the vortex began to close.

The original cartridge Garrison had placed in Swan’s hand, which she had flung into the air, arced back into her waiting palm. Swan returned it to Garrison. “Thank you,” he told her, his eyes on neither Swan nor the thousands of rounds of ammunition, but on the original cartridge.

He heard her telling him, “I’ve never made ammo before. It’s easy.”

“You’ve brought a whole new meaning to hand-loading, darling.”

“And,” Swan continued, ignoring his quip, “your ammo is magical, now. If you must use it against a magical enemy, it will be much more effective.”

Still looking at the original cartridge, seeing nothing odd or different about it, he asked, “So I should use the new stuff and put my old ammunition away?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“If you do not see yourself using a sword, Al’An,” and the sword which Swan had made and which had hung in thin air since she’d shown it to him instantly vanished, “then you will at least need protection from the swords wielded by your enemies.” This seemed to be quite serious to her, judging from the look on her face as he finally stopped staring at the cartridge. “I know!”

Garrison felt movement in the left side of his bomber jacket. As he looked down, his badge and Bureau ID had already floated from his pocket, the gold badge floating on into Swan’s hand, the ID returning to his pocket. “I heard this object called a shield, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but—no, Swan!”

Garrison was too late. She’d flung his badge into the air. For a split second, nothing happened, except his badge still floated, and he wondered if he was going to wind up with another vortex and another pile beneath it, only this time—But, his badge began to glow, differently than the cartridge had. There was a burst of light and Garrison blinked.

When Garrison looked again, his badge was almost two feet wide and nearly three feet long. The gleaming shield returned to Swan’s hands and she presented it to him. “It is magical and will help to protect you, Al’An.”

All of the embossing on the surface of his badge was present, just as it had been, the letters perfectly reproduced, but perfectly reversed. “IBF,” Garrison commented.

“IBF? What does that mean?”

“On my shield, darling. IBF.”

“Oh!” She smiled sweetly. “The Golden Shield of IBF. The Golden Shield of IBF. It sounds nice.”

Garrison nodded, walked to the pile of ammunition and picked up one of the cartridges. It felt perfectly normal, looked perfectly normal to him as he glanced at the headstamp. The letters were not reversed, but their order was, perfectly.

“IBF. That is a good name for your shield, Al’An.”

Garrison smiled, nodded. “Yes, I think so! There’s not another one like it anywhere, I’ll bet. Thank you, darling, very much.”

Swan lowered her eyes, embarrassed by his gratitude he presumed...

Alan Garrison wondered if all shields felt this heavy to begin with, but supposed he’d get used to the weight. The Golden Shield of IBF was slung over his left shoulder, and in his right hand he carried a wooden bucket brimming over with cartridges. “I could carry your shield, Al’An.”

“No, darling, it’d be a little heavy for you.”

“Don’t worry!” The Golden Shield of IBF left his shoulder and fell in beside them, floating surfboard-like in the air.

Between the two bridges leading to the keep’s backyard, Garrison had remembered a spot where the trees were widely spaced and there was an embankment rising into the hill on which the summer palace was built. It was the perfect spot to shoot, and he was not about to stake his life or Swan’s or anyone’s on magic ammunition which was never tested.

The Golden Shield of IBF was alternately at their heels or beside them, like a puppy. When they reached the spot which Garrison had remembered, he asked Swan, “Would you like to put down my shield now?”

The Golden Shield of IBF made a perfect landing to lean against the trunk of a willow tree. “Is there anything which I can do to help, Al’An?”

“Yes, actually. Would you find some pinecones?”

Half expecting a pile of pine cones to appear out of thin air, Garrison was mildly but pleasantly surprised that Swan ran off to find some in the ordinary way. While she was gone, Garrison set to unloading his magazines, then reloading them with the ammunition Swan had made for him with her magic.

Swan soon returned, carrying a woven basket which she hadn’t had when she left, the basket stuffed with pinecones.

Garrison thanked her, took the basket and set out the pinecones as targets. The maximum range he could get without the trees interfering was about fifty feet. He wasn’t after all, testing his marksmanship skills, Garrison reminded himself. Swan stood beside him, but Garrison waved her back, in case magical ammo exploded when fired from nonmagical guns. “Cover your ears. Tight!”