The Golden Shield of IBF (47 page)

Garrison’s arms were still folded around Swan; in the next eyeblink, she was through the opening, her cloak floating around her like a superhero’s cape, her braid caught in the wind as well.

Looking back toward the window, Alan Garrison saw Peter Goodman, his body about to be drawn through the opening, mere millimeters from it. There was a bright burst of yellow light, the same flashbulb effect there had been when Swan broke her mother’s spell at the doorway into the chamber. But the light did not dissipate this time, and Peter Goodman was violently hurtled back from it, broken out of the gentle grasp of the wind.

“No-o-o-o!” Swan shrieked in anguish, the wind falling away from around them.

“Your father wouldn’t want you to die!” Garrison shouted to Swan as they began to tumble downwards. Garrison still held her, their bodies turning and twisting, plummeting toward the cobblestones below.

The wind which had abandoned them rushed around them, lifted them higher and higher, higher than they had been before. Garrison saw within the chamber, through the open window, the barrier of light still there. But, beyond the light, Garrison saw Lieutenant Peter Goodman.

And, Garrison saw Moc’Dar, racing into the chamber, a wedge of Sword of Koth and Handmaidens in his wake. One of Moc’Dar’s men reached for Peter Goodman; and, there was the flash of dagger steel in Goodman’s hands, blood spray as Swan’s father severed the Sword of Koth’s carotid artery.

Lieutenant Peter Goodman stepped back, looked through the window opening and made that kind of rakish, devil-may-care salute that soldiers always saved for civilians, then blew a kiss with his left hand as his right hand drove his daughter’s dagger into his heart.

Swan saw it. Her body went rigid, then limp in Alan Garrison’s arms. Again, they began to tumble downward, to their fate all but abandoned by the capricious wind. Garrison heard Erg’Ran’s voice shouting, “Mitan! Only you can save us now!”

Swan was either dead or unconscious.

Their bodies spiraled downward. Garrison caught a glimpse of Mitan, her hands flicking outward, her body suddenly upright. Still clutching Swan against him, Garrison tumbled past Mitan, the cobblestone courtyard slamming toward them.

In an eyeblink, the motion of their bodies stopped, Garrison’s stomach ceasing its downward motion a nanosecond later, the remnants of the meal which he had consumed before leaving for Barad’Il’Koth fighting upwards into his throat.

Garrison looked at Swan, her body like a rag doll’s, but her eyelids fluttered.

Garrison breathed, swallowed.

They hung suspended in the air, the wind erratic, but supporting them. Fifty feet or so below, a handful of Horde of Koth regulars were spilling into the courtyard. Soon, there would be more.

Garrison looked toward Mitan.

Her hands moved erratically; Garrison could feel their motion in the wind which surrounded them.

Garrison looked down again. Below, another two or three Horde of Koth had entered the courtyard, and one of them at least held a bow.

A few seconds later, an arrow vectored toward them.

“Mitan! You’ve gotta get us down!” Garrison shouted.

“I don’t know how!” Mitan cried back, desperation clear in her voice.

Garrison looked down at Swan, her eyelids fluttering again. She was incredibly beautiful, beyond any hope he had ever had of a woman who would be in his arms, his. “Swan. Swan?”

Swan’s body moved almost imperceptibly against him. Tears flowed from her eyes as her lids raised. “My father, Al’An!”

“I
know,” he whispered. Then Garrison looked up. There were Sword of Koth in the open window above them. It wouldn’t be long before one of them got the brilliant idea to go find his bow and arrow set and have some fun at target practice.

Another arrow whizzed up from below as Garrison looked toward the courtyard. Like the first, the wind blew it off course and it fell away.

“Swan?”

“I can’t, Al’An.”

“Your father died for you, not because of you, died so that you could live and wouldn’t have to die. You know that. Mitan’s keeping us up here, but she can’t control the wind to bring us down. You have to, or we’ll all die.”

Swan turned her face away, but nodded slowly. Her arms, which had hung limply at her sides, rose, and her hands seized the wind. “Release, Mitan!” Swan cried out.

There was a faintly perceptible drop in wind pressure, then it rose, evened out, and—slowly—they started downward.

More Horde of Koth were venturing into the courtyard. There were at least three archers. As if Swan read his mind, she said quickly, “I have very little energy remaining. The wind will repel their arrows, but once we are—”

“But once we’re on the ground it’s up to us,” Garrison finished for her. “I know.”

They were nearly to the cobblestoned surface of the courtyard, more Horde of Koth in view. The archers fired repeatedly, but the wind swept their arrows away. Garrison had an idea. “Mitan! When we land—when we are down—can you hold the windspell for a few eyeblinks, then release it?”

“She can,” Swan answered for her, Swan’s voice terribly enfeebled sounding.

“You can do it, Mitan!” Garrison called out.

“I will!” Mitan answered.

The ground rose to meet them, but the instant before their feet touched the cobblestones, Bre’Gaa twisted his body in the air and lunged, hurtling himself onto three Horde of Koth troopers, bowling them over.

Gar’Ath leaped forward, sword flashing.

Swan, her voice barely audible, whispered, “I release the wind.”

“Mitan! Now! Take it!”

The wind nearly died, then rose, Mitan controlling it again.

Alan Garrison swept Swan up into his arms, his sword held uselessly in his right hand. Erg’Ran stumbled, but only to one knee, his peg leg slipping from beneath him.

Mitan s control of the wind was, oddly, better for their purposes, the errant gusts making archery marksmanship even more difficult. As Bre’Gaa and Gar’Ath hacked their way forward, they brought down one archer, then another and another, then the last of those already into the courtyard.

Two Horde of Koth troopers charged Garrison.

The wind evaporated as Mitan shouted, “I release the wind!” In the next instant, her sword drawn, Mitan had interposed herself between Garrison and his two attackers. “Get her out of here, Champion!”

“We’ll need horses.” Garrison ran as best he could, his own strength all but gone, his legs and arms feeling simultaneously limp, yet stiff and unbending. His eyes flickered right to left as he crossed the cobbled courtyard, cursing himself for not learning the outline of Barad’Il’Koth better before coming here, searching for anything that looked like stable doors.

Near the courtyard’s farthest end his search ended.

With the last of his energy, Garrison ran toward the spot, nearly collapsing as he neared the stable doors. When he looked back, Mitan had dispatched the two Horde of Koth she’d fought for him, and Erg’Ran was half the length of the courtyard back, heading for the stables as well.

Garrison sagged to his knees, Swan still in his arms. He heard Erg’Ran’s voice shouting something, but couldn’t make it out. Blackness washed over him as he fell forward.

“I was draining him of his life, wasn’t I? Just by touching him?”

Erg’Ran looked at her and answered, “I’m afraid so, Enchantress.”

Swan wanted to reach out to Al’An, but dared not. “How soon will—”

“He should recover rapidly. He must. In eyeblinks, we must be gone.”

Swan tried to stand, to go to Erg’Ran and help him as he saddled horses. She could not stand, yet. “I have no magic to give, uncle.”

“Your magic is not the reason that we love you, Enchantress. Rest.”

She drew her sword, managed to get to her knees. If her mother’s soldiers entered the stable, she would die fighting them, fighting for her lover, her uncle, her friends—the memory of her father. “Erg’Ran?”

“Yes, Enchantress,” he huffed from behind her.

“You believe that because I am half of the other realm that, if Al’An and I—”

Her uncle mercifully interrupted her. “Speaking bluntly, Enchantress, not as your subject—which I will always be—but as your uncle, it is my belief that if you and your Champion become as one in love, because your seed is of his realm, you will possess magical power greater than your mother possesses, greater than even she can imagine possible.”

“I did not want it to be this way. I love Al’An, uncle.”

The voice Swan heard from beside her chilled her. “I know that you do. And if you’ll have me, I want you forever.” So quickly that she felt faint, Swan turned her head toward the voice. Al’An sat up from the stable floor where Erg’Ran had left him after dragging them inside. “I heard what you said, and what Erg’Ran said. I’ve wanted to be your lover since the moment I set eyes on you.” Al’An smiled that wonderful smile Swan so much loved. “It’s a rare opportunity, to save a world and have paradise in your arms while you do it.”

“Al’An,” she sighed, almost touching him.

He edged up to his knees. “Let me catch my strength a little,” Al’An implored, smiling again. Shakily, he rose to his feet. “I can help, Erg’Ran.”

“Then by all means do so, Champion.”

Swan glanced back. Four horses were already saddled. How she so longed for them to need seven mounts instead of six only. Tears filled her eyes again, but at least strength was returning to her. Through the crack between the stable doors, as she looked toward the courtyard again, she saw Mitan, Gar’Ath and Bre’Gaa, more than two score of the Horde at their heels as they ran. “Hurry!”

“This is the last of the mounts, Enchantress!” Erg’Ran advised her.

Al’An asked her, “Can you still light a fire?”

“I think I have the magical energy for that,” Swan replied.

“Good! Then once we’re mounted, I want you to light my cigarette.” She thought that this seemed an odd time to smoke. Al’An told Erg’Ran, “And I want you, as soon as you’re mounted, to get ready to shag the rest of these horses out those doors the moment I say so. Right?”

“Aye, Champion! At your command, then.”

The doors flew open, Mitan first, Bre’Gaa and Gar’Ath right behind her.

“Mount up, guys! We’re getting out of here,” Al’An ordered, climbing into the saddle.

Bre’Gaa helped Swan to her feet, lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all, placing her astride one of the six horses. The animal was dark brown with an almost black mane and tail. Swan freed her cloak from the saddle’s cantle, drawing the garment around her, cold in her weariness.

Gar’Ath held Mitan’s mount’s bridle as she stepped up into the saddle, her long legs holding fast to the animal.

“There are gates and a drawbridge,” Gar’Ath advised, his own lean frame swinging up into the saddle with perfect ease.

“Good point,” Al’An announced. “There’s likely a gatekeeper?”

“Aye, Champion, I would imagine so.”

“We’ll find a way to make him cooperate. Trust me,” Al’An told him.

Swan reined back on her mount. It was skittish, likely used to a greater weight than her own in its saddle.

Al’An had a cigarette in his mouth. Without thinking, Swan lit it.

“The rest of these horses—let’s shag ’em out of here before they get barbecued!” Al’An ordered.

The concept of barbecue took an eyeblink or so to comprehend, but Swan suddenly realized why Al’An wanted the lit cigarette. Al’An’s pockets bulged with straw from the floor, and bales of straw and hay were stacked high along the far rear wall of the stone building and on either side. The structure itself might not burn, but inside it would become a raging inferno.

Mitan swung low from her saddle, tugging the stall ropes open. Gar’Ath used the edge of his sword to sever more of the ropes, then its flat against the rumps of the animals as they started out. Erg’Ran, sword in hand, did the same, urging the animals through the open doors and into the courtyard.

There were more than a hundred horses here, and Swan, barely able to stay astride, smote herself for her weakness, for being unable to help herd them through the stable entrance.

Al’An took a long coil of rope from where it was racked on a peg protruding from a supporting column, then rode along the center of the stable, toward the far rear of the structure. Loosed horses stampeded wildly around him. Swan was barely able to restrain her own mount; its instinct was to follow the others of its kind.

Her eyes turned back to Al’An. He had reached the rear of the stable, but was barely discernible, the stable’s darkness and shadow consuming him.

Then, suddenly, there was a bright light.

A burning brand flew from Al’An’s right hand, into the center of the tallest stack of baled straw, near its base. Another flew into the stacked hay to Al’An’s right, then another into the hay at his left.

There was a long, thin arc of orange light as Al’An’s cigarette snapped from his fingers, into the straw near his horse’s feet. “Let’s get out of here!” Al’An commanded.

Horses streaked past her in a stream which seemed unending, their eyes wild with fear of the flames, nostrils flared against the already foul-smelling air. Erg’Ran, Gar’Ath and Mitan, riding in their midst, urged the creatures onward, shouting at them, waving their swords in the air.

“I will stay beside you, lady,” Bre’Gaa told her. “If you should perchance fall from your mount, be assured that I will catch you, Enchantress.”

“Noble Captain, I am in your debt,” Swan responded.

“Then, let us away, Enchantress!” Bre’Gaa slapped the flat of his sword against her horse s rump and the beast beneath her vaulted forward.

Smoke already wafted along the length of the stable, the fire seeking the greater volume of air at the open doors. Her eyes starting to tear from the smoke, Swan clutched the reins and a knot of her horse’s mane in her hand. Bending low over the animal’s neck, she struck the flat of her sword as Bre’Gaa had done, her mount picking up speed, racing into the courtyard.

Ahead of her ran almost a hundred horses, the cacophonous din of their hooves against the cobblestones pulsing inside her head, thrumming maddeningly.

Swan looked back. Al’An rode hard, his sword raised high, his ebon mount, galloping toward the doorway, its hooves chucking great clods of debris from the stable floor.