The Golden Shield of IBF (33 page)

“Dutch act?” Swan repeated, apparently unable to make the connection between the languages, despite the spell she’d cast.

“It’s kind of old slang for suicide—taking your own life.” Garrison looked away from Swan and straight at Erg’Ran. “I wasn’t raised to do that kind of thing, Erg’Ran, so if there’s some compelling reason that I’ve got to, you’d better lay it on me and quick.”

“I can promise you this, Champion. Barring the unforeseen, you will know all that you need to know before you might be required to slay yourself.”

“This is supposed to be encouraging?”

Mitan spoke. “I agree with the Champion, Erg’Ran. Telling a warrior to take his own life while still the chance exists to resist torture—”

“Torture? How’d we get to torture all of a sudden?”

Mitan went on unfazed. “Telling the Champion that he must slay himself while still there exists the chance to fight again is a very strange thing indeed, Erg’Ran. He deserves a reason!”

Erg’Ran merely responded, “I would say more if I could, Mitan. I cannot. When I know, the Champion will also know.”

The rationale behind Swan’s saying, “I would like to discuss a possible plan,” was obvious. She was attempting to defuse what might grow into an argument. Garrison let her do it. Erg’Ran’s judgment was something which Garrison had come to respect; now wasn’t the time to doubt it. “With the assistance of our new allies,” Swan went on, “I think that we have an even better chance at success. I’m assuming that my mother’s magical energy is not yet fully restored, and I hope that it will remain at less than full capacity until we have at least been able to reach Edge Land.

“By that time,” Swan continued, “the Queen Sorceress should be wholly capable of attempting to foil our best efforts against her. She’ll quite possibly have troops awaiting us when we reach the coast. Even if my magic were somehow as strong as my mother’s, it would be impossible for me to combat a wide range of enemy activity all at once.

“Thinking about that,” Swan said, smiling, “is what made me realize what our only chance might be to get us into Barad’Il’Koth. My mother will have vastly more troops standing ready to fight us than she would ordinarily require to easily defeat a force of our size, even augmented as it is by our new allies.” She nodded to Bre’Gaa. “She is counting on my magic, which I suppose is oddly complimentary, all things considered. If we can create a sufficient number of diversions to preoccupy her, cause her to use her magic, we have our greatest chance.”

“You lost me a little,” Garrison admitted.

Swan took his hand in both of hers. “You see, Al’An, aside from maintaining spells and the like, it is impossible to undertake more than one major magical activity at a time. Remember that magic is a natural phenomenon, whether used merely to accelerate a natural process or for something wholly unnatural. Think of it like walking, Al’An. One cannot walk and run simultaneously. One must do one or the other or something totally different entirely, but one cannot do both at once because true walking and true running are mutually exclusive, one precluding the other. Magic is not like thinking about two things at once; it is like doing two things at once, two things requiring almost total commitment.”

“So, if we can keep her magic focused on something other than what we’re doing, we’re home free? That is, except for the Horde of Koth, the Sword of Koth, the Handmaidens of Koth and anybody else of Koth hanging around.”

Swan laughed.

Getting Swan to laugh had been Garrison’s intent, since there might be more than ample opportunity for little else but tears later on...

Alan Garrison stood in the bow pulpit. The morning was fresh and cold. Temperatures on Woroc’Il’Lod the previous day had been deceptively mild, but normalized overnight to a point where Alan Garrison could better understand why this body of water was so commonly referred to as the icy sea. In the distance, what he’d at first thought might be the sails of more Gle’Ur’Gya vessels on the horizon became recognizable as icebergs.

Garrison felt good, fit. After a simultaneously satisfying yet frustrating night—Swan had slept in his arms, but he’d respected her insistence that she remain a virgin—he’d awakened to an early morning practice session with Gar’Ath.

Garrison was pleasantly surprised that his limited skills at swordsmanship had somehow improved. Or perhaps what Gar’Ath had taught him in their sessions at the summer palace had finally sunk in. He was not, nor never would be in the foreseeable future, remotely challenging to Gar’Ath, but Garrison felt confident enough with a blade that he could fight an average swordsman without being instantly killed or disarmed. Considering the ability level at which he’d first taken up the sword, he was vastly improved. At the conclusion of their session, he had asked Gar’Ath, “Is there a sword to be had that I could carry when we go against the Horde?” If a spell might be placed on his firespitters, rendering them inoperable or ineffective, a sword might come in handy.

Gar’Ath had smiled; and, in answer to his request, Gar’Ath said, “You understand the basic techniques, if not their finer points. At this juncture, the best way—and the most potentially dangerous way—to learn the sword can be when your life is in the balance. If you keep your wits about you. Remember, Champion, that the overwhelming majority of persons against whom you might bring a sword to bear will be no better than you, albeit to a degree experienced in actual life-and-death combat. There is a small number of fine swordsmen, and a smaller number still of great ones. Against the rest, you could make a good account of yourself if you keep your wits about you. You’ll have a sword, Champion, a sword upon which you can wager your life if needs be.”

They’d agreed to meet later on, which was rather silly, Garrison reflected. On a vessel the size of the armada’s flagship, it would have been impossible not to meet later on, and frequently.

The wind was carrying their armada toward another armada, an armada of icebergs, the floating mountains of white in greater numbers than Garrison would have suspected usual or natural.

Mitan passed near the bow pulpit, wearing her alluringly skimpy warrior’s garb and a heavy cape, the cape wide open, as if the cold didn’t bother her. “Mitan?”

“Yes, Champion?”

“Do you know enough about these waters to even hazard a guess as to whether or not icebergs in such numbers are normal?”

She came to stand beside him at the rail. When Garrison glanced at Mitan, he could tell immediately that she was using the second-sight; he’d come to recognize the look on the faces of those who had it. “I have no grounding in data concerning this, Champion, but the icebergs do seem oddly abundant, don’t they?”

“Swan’s mom, you think?”

It took Mitan a second, but when she looked back at him there was recognition in her eyes. “I will find out. Wait for me here, Champion.” And she was off, sprinting across the deck.

“Killer icebergs. Wonderful,” Garrison mused aloud.

By nightfall, if nothing popped up to slow them down, they would easily have made landfall. Of what would transpire after that Garrison was most uncertain. If Swan had a definite plan spelling out just what she intended as a diversion, she had not yet shared it with him. As far as he could understand magical theory, however, the broad outline of Swan’s plan seemed sound.

Assuming that her mother’s magical powers could be temporarily written out of the scenario, there were still military units and ordinary guards to contend with in order to penetrate the keep at Barad’Il’Koth. If his firespitters—“Guns,” Garrison said aloud, chiding himself—could be relied upon, in and of themselves they would make tremendous equalizers. Their terror value alone against persons with what amounted to a late medieval European level of technology (at Garrison’s most generous estimate) would be almost incalculable. He found himself wishing that somehow he’d been able to bring a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun along with him to Creath. With one of those and a half-dozen spare magazines, he could have taken on the entire Sword of Koth single-handedly.

There was another problem as well.

He was not some sort of commando, only a cop. The FBI academy didn’t teach sentry removal techniques or any of the other requisite skills to penetrate an enemy stronghold. For that, Hostage Rescue or, if they were good enough, the local police SWAT Team got the call.

On Creath, there was no using a cell phone to call for backup.

Mitan rejoined him at the rail, and before either of them could speak, Gar’Ath was beside them as well. “I have that sword, Champion.

“And I have asked Swan to transport herself or Erg’Ran to the Gle’Ur’Gya vessel and ask Bre’Gaa if he will consent to being transported to our ship in order that he may confer with us concerning the icebergs and whether or not such a great number of icebergs could be natural.”

“Here is the sword which I promised to you, Champion.” From beneath his cloak, Gar’Ath produced a still-sheathed blade, then drew the blade from its scabbard. That the sword was clearly magnificent was readily apparent. “May you use it with skill and honor, Champion. It belonged to the finest swordsman I have ever met—next to my father, of course. My father was the man who made it. The previous owner was K’Ur’Mir, and he died fighting with this blade in his hands. When I came upon him as he lay dying, he asked that I find a worthy hand to wield it. Seven Sword of Koth—”

“I thought it was six,” Mitan interrupted impishly.

“Six or seven. But, however many, they were Sword of Koth who fought him and he held against them, one man fighting harder and stronger than seven—or six. Neither heart nor swordarm nor steel failed him. The Queen Sorceress herself took his life, spellcasting that he saw his friends and family surrounding him rather than his enemies. In the eyeblink that he hesitated, the Sword of Koth stormed him as one. Even then, he took four of the seven—or six—with him unto death.”

Garrison took the sword in his hands, looked at Gar’Ath, saying, “I’ll care for it and, when this is over, return—”

“No, Champion. It is your sword to do with as you will, and not to be returned. I’ve found the hand worthy to wield it. You are no equal to his skill, but you have the same strength of heart.”

“I don’t know what to say, my friend.”

“In those words, Champion, you have said enough.” If the sword with which Garrison had practiced could be compared to a clunker off a used car lot, this was a Ferrari, yet much of its elegance was found in its simplicity. Its pommel was a solid wheel, brass like all the fittings and the lobed, drooping double quillons which formed the guard. Between pommel and guard the hilt itself felt as though it were made to fill his hand and no other. It was of wood, he supposed, seamlessly wrapped in black leather. Fullers, for lightening the blade on both sides, ran full length from the short, full thickness, brass-augmented ricasso toward the subtle spear point where the double edges met.

Gar’Ath’s gift was reminiscent of an early sword used by the Scots, the antecedent of the classic two-hand claymores. Like the pre-claymore Scottish sword, because of its wheel pommel, it was more a hand-and-a-half sword, allowing two-handed use when required, yet—as far as Garrison’s limited experience allowed him to judge—just as perfectly designed for single hand use.

As if he were reading Garrison’s mind, Gar’Ath supplied the answer to an unasked question. “The tang of the blade runs full length into the wheel pommel, Champion, and is full width as far as it can go and full thickness throughout. My father built swords to survive combat; that’s the only way the swordsman will survive, Champion.” And Gar’Ath laughed.

“It’s beautiful, Gar’Ath,” Mitan declared, her voice low. “It’s truly beautiful. You have a fine sword there, Champion.”

Garrison only nodded. When he looked up from the blade, and over the rail and across the water, he couldn’t help but notice the icebergs again. There seemed to be more of them now than there had been.

Swan’s voice interrupted his worrisome thoughts. “Bre’Gaa graciously consented to join us.”

Garrison looked around. The Gle’Ur’Gya Captain Commander, much of his head obscured by the hood of his cloak, said nothing as he left Swan’s side and went to the rail. He remained silent for several seconds, breaking his silence only to say, “That is a magnificent sword, Al’An.”

“It was a gift from Gar’Ath.”

“I watched your practice from my deck earlier this day. Such a sword will help with your confidence, thereby aiding you in rapid development of your skills.”

“Thank you.”

Bre’Gaa dismissed Garrison’s thanks with a wave of his hand and what might have been a nod, then fell silent again, staring out to sea.

Bre’Gaa stared, and stared some more. At last, Gar’Ath demanded, “What do you see, man?!”

“Mitan or I can second-sight for you, if you like, Captain,” Swan volunteered.

“That is unnecessary, Enchantress. My mind is already made up, was nearly so well before you invited me to your vessel. According to the legends of the Gle’Ur’Gya, generation upon generation ago, so long ago that the common seed of our peoples was still apparent among your race and my own, the great winter came upon Creath. Many creatures ceased to exist, unable to withstand the cold. The dragons which had once been so numerous all but disappeared as well. But a small number of them, which had been asleep as was their wont during the winter season, were trapped in their caves by the rapidly encroaching ice.”

“We have this same legend,” Swan told Bre’Gaa.

“When your mother brought the ice dragons from their great sleep, she did so with a spell which allowed the dragons to exit their icy lairs in order to perform her bidding, then return to their caves, to be frozen within again while they slept, remaining there until she should require their ferocity to serve her evil ends once more or merely wish to see them wreak havoc for her own amusement.

“If that story is true in all parts,” Bre’Gaa continued, “then those great masses of ice can signal only one thing.”

“She has awakened the ice dragons from their caves,” Swan murmured.

“Yes. Once they are fully awake, they will hunger and they will come for us. We must prepare with all speed.”