“I have every present intention of returning,” King Trent said with a smile. “I am now merely pondering mechanisms. I can deal with the Avars readily enough, provided I can get close enough to them with my magic power intact. That means I shall have to remain with Magician Amolde.”
“And with me,” Queen Iris said. “To keep you invisible. And the ogre, to open doors.”
“And me,” Irene said loyally.
“You I want safely out of the way,” her father said.
There was a bubbling noise. “The oil!” Grundy cried. “We’ve got to move!”
Smash went into action. He started bashing out a new channel.
They became invisible. But Dor had a mental picture of where each person was; King Trent, Amolde, and the Queen were near the ogre, ready to follow in his new tunnel and avoid the spilling on. But Irene and the golem were on the far side of the chamber. The oil was already flowing between them and the ogre. They would be trapped-and as the centaur moved away, they would become visible and vulnerable, even if they avoided oil.
Dor ran across to pick up a fragment of rubble. He tossed it into the flowing oil. He grabbed more chunks and tossed them, forming a dam. But it wasn’t enough; he wasn’t sure Irene could make it through.
Then the pieces started flying into place at double the rate he was throwing them. Someone else was helping. Dor could not tell who, or communicate directly; he simply continued tossing stones, damming off the hot oil. Soon it formed a reluctant pool. Dor filled in the crevices of the dam with sand, and the way was clear. The oil ploy had been abated, and Irene could cross to safety.
Now a troop of guards charged down the steps, swords drawn.
They wore heavy boots, evidently to protect them from the oil they thought would be distracting their quarry. It should have been a neat double trap. They didn’t know the quarry had departed.
Still, the Avars could use their bows to fire arrows up the new tunnel, doing much harm. Dor leaped across to guard the tunnel entrance, trusting that the others had by now safely passed through it.
An invisible guardian could hold them off long enough, perhaps.
Then he saw his own arms. The magic aisle had left him vulnerable!
The soldiers spied him in the torchlight. They whirled to attack him.
Another sword flashed beside him. King Omen! He was the other person who had helped dam the hot oil!
No words were exchanged. They both knew what had to be done; they had to guard this entrance from intrusion by the enemy until King Trent could handle his task.
The ogre’s new passage was too narrow to allow them to fight effectively while standing inside, and the dungeon chamber was too broad; soldiers could stand against the far wall, out of sword range, and fire their arrows down the length of the tunnel. So Dor and Omen moved out into the chamber, standing back to back near the wilting pie tree, and dominated the entire chamber with their two swords. Dor hoped King Omen knew how to use his weapon.
The Avars, no cowards, came at them enthusiastically. They were of a wild Turk nomad tribe, according to Amolde’s secondhand information, dissatisfied with their more settled recent ways, and these mercenaries were the wildest of the bunch. Their swords were long, single-edged, and curved, made for vigorous slashing, in contrast with Dor’s straight double-edged sword. Here in the somewhat confined region of the dungeon, the advantage lay with the defenders.
Omen cut great arcs with his curved blade, keeping the ruffians at bay, and Dor stabbed and cut, severing an Avar’s hand before the soldiers teamed respect. Dor’s sword was not magic now; he had to do it all himself. But he had been taught the rudiments of swordplay, and these now served him well.
Several bats shot out of the tunnel and flew over the heads of the Avars, who mostly ignored them. One bat, as if resentful of this neglect, hovered in the face of the Avar leader, who sliced at it with his sword. The bat gave up and angled out of the chamber.
But swordplay was tiring business, and Dor was not in shape for it. His arm soon felt leaden. Omen, too, was in a poor way, because of his long imprisonment. The Avars, aware of this, pressed in harder; they knew they would soon have the victory.
One charged Dor, blade swinging down irresistibly. Dor tried to step aside and counter, but slipped on blood or oil and lost his footing; the blade sliced into his left hip. Dor fell helplessly headlong.
“Omen!” he cried. “Flee into the tunnel! I can no longer guard your back!”
“Xnt zqd gtqs!” Omen exclaimed, whirling.
The Avars, seeing their chance, charged. Omen’s blade flashed in another circle, for the moment daunting them, while Dor fought off the pain of his wound and floundered for his lost sword. His questing fingers only encountered something mushy; a spoiled chocolate pie from the dead pie tree.
Two Avars stepped in, one countering King Omen while the other ducked low to slice at Omen’s legs. Dor hefted the pie and smashed it into the Avar’s face. It was a perfect shot; the man dropped to his knees, pawing at his mud-filled eyes, while the stink of rotten pie filled the chamber.
King Omen, granted this reprieve, dispatched the remaining Avar.
But already another was charging, and Dor had no other pie within reach. Omen hurled his sword at the bold enemy, skewering him, then bent to take hold of Dor and haul him back to the tunnel.
“This is crazy!” Dor cried. Despite the peril of their situation, he noticed that Omen, too, had been wounded; a slash on his left shoulder was dripping bright blood, and it was mixing with the gore from Dor’s own wound. “Save yourself!”
Then the Avars were closing for the final assault, knowing they faced two unarmed and injured men, taking time to aim their cuts.
Even if Omen got them to the tunnel, he would be doomed. He had been a fool to try to save Dor-but Dor found himself rather liking the man.
Suddenly a dragon shot out of the tunnel, wings unfurling as it entered the dungeon chamber. It snorted fire and hovered in the air, raising gleaming talons, seeking prey. The Avars fell back, amazed and terrified. One made a desperate slash at the monster-and the sword passed right through the dragon’s wing without resistance or damage.
Illusion, of course! The magic had returned, and now the Queen was fighting in her spectacular fashion. But the moment the Avars realized that the dragon had no substance, it worked the opposite way. The Avar, discovering that he could not even touch the dragon, screamed and fled the chamber. He was far more afraid of a spiritual menace than of a physical one.
King Omen, too, stared at the dragon. “Where did that come from?” he demanded. “I don’t believe in dragons!”
Dor smiled. “It’s an illusion,” he explained. They were able to converse again, because of the ambience of magic. “Queen Iris is quite an artist in her fashion; she can generate completely credible images, with smell and sound and sometimes touch. No one in all the history of Xanth has ever been able to do it better.”
The dragon spun to face them. “Why, thank you, Dor,” it said, dissolving into a wash of color that drifted after the departing Avars.
Now Irene appeared, as the Avars scrambled to escape the dragon. “Oh, you’re hurt!” she cried. Dor wasn’t sure whether she was addressing him or Omen.
“King Omen saved my life,” he said.
“You were the only one with sense enough to dam off the oil to save the girl,” Omen replied. “Could I do less than help?”
“Thanks,” Dor said, finding himself liking this bold young King more than ever. Rival he might be, but he was a good man. They shook hands. Dor didn’t know whether this was a Mundane custom, but King Trent had evidently explained Xanth ways.
“Now our blood has mingled; we are blood brothers,” Omen said gravely.
Irene and Iris were tearing up lengths of cloth from somewhere, fashioning bandages. Irene got to Omen first, leaving Dor for her mother. “I suspect I underestimated you, Dor,” the Queen murmured as she worked efficiently on his wound, cleaning and bandaging it after applying some of the plant healing extract. “But then, I also underestimated your father.”
“My father?” Dor asked, bewildered.
“That was a long time ago, before I met Trent,” she said. “None of your business now. But he did have
