The dark hole of the cave entrance loomed close. Stile shuffled boldly toward it. But a goblin guard challenged him. 'Where the hell art thou going, dirtface?'
For an instant Stile's heart paused. But he had to assume that goblins normally insulted each other, and that the guard did not realize that Stile's face really was concealed by dirt. 'What the hell business is it of thine, stink- rump?' he demanded in the grating tone of a goblin, and pushed on. He felt the Stallion-roach quaking with suppressed mirth again, enjoying the exchange.
Apparently it had been the right answer. The guard did not stop him. Stile followed his little star into the cave.
Goblins were coming and going, but none of these challenged him. Stile walked downward, through narrow apertures, along the faces of subterranean cliffs, and across dark chasm cracks. The star made it easy, unerringly guiding him through the labyrinth. What might have taken him hours to figure out only took minutes. He wondered passingly how this worked; more than mere energy was involved when magic provided him with specialized information. Amazingly soon he came to a deep nether passage barred by solid stalactitic columns.
The star moved on to illumine what was beyond. It was a horse.
No - not a horse. A dehorned unicorn, so grimed that his natural color hardly showed, standing with head hanging, bedraggled, evidently lacking the will to live but unable to die. Clip!
Stile heard a tiny accordion-note snort near his ear. The roach was seething. No unicorn should be treated like this!
Half a dozen armed goblins guarded the unicorn. Four were leaning against the wall; one was drinking a swig of something foul, and the sixth was entertaining himself by pricking Clip with the point of his spear. The forlorn unicorn hardly even winced; he seemed beyond the point of resistance and did not make a good subject for teasing. Blood streaked his once-glossy blue coat from prior cuts, and his mane was limp and tangled. Flies swarmed, yet his tail hardly twitched to flick them off.
Stile heard the roach on his head breathing hard, with accordion-chord wheezes. The Herd Stallion suffered no one to treat a member of his herd this way, and was in danger of exploding again. 'Nay, Stallion,' Stile whispered. 'Thou must hold form until thou dost get inside. Neither I nor any of thine other forms can pass these bars mechanically; they are too strong and tight. Go inside, warn Clip, then take action against the guards before they strike.'
The Stallion blew a low note of agreement. Stile put his hand to his head, and the roach climbed on it. Stile set the roach on the floor in the comer near the bars.
'Hey - who art thou, rockhead?' a goblin guard cried.
Uh-oh. He had to distract attention from the roach, lest a goblin spot it and idly step on it. The Herd Stallion was vulnerable in that form, and could not shift quickly enough to counter an abruptly descending foot.
'I just wanta see the creep,' Stile said. 'I heard you got a horsehead in here without a horn.'
'That's none of thy business,' the goblin snapped. 'No unauthorized idiots allowed. That specifically means thee.'
The roach was now crawling uncertainly along the wall. Obviously it wasn't used to clinging to vertical surfaces, but didn't want to get stepped on. Progress was slow, so Stile had to stall longer.
'Oh, I do have business here, mucksnoot,' Stile said, and of course that was the truth. 'I have come to .take the 'corn away.'
'Thou art crazy, manface! We have orders to 'kill this brute as soon as our armies finish massing and the enemy Adept be trapped. He's not going anywhere.'
So they weren't going to let Clip live, regardless of Stile's response. And they expected to trap Stile himself. This was a straight kidnap-hostage-murder plot. No honor among goblins!
The roach, overhearing the dastardly scheme, lost its footing and fell to the floor with a loud-seeming click and whoosh of accordion-breath. Stile was afraid it would attract attention. It lay on its back, six legs waving, trying to recover its footing. Oh, no!
'Thou art not up on the latest, foulfoot,' Stile said sneeringly. 'You guards will be executed before the hostage is.' This, too, he intended literally.
His certainty daunted the goblin. Apparently such betrayals did happen in the nether realms. 'Aw, whatcha know about it, gnarltoes?' the goblin blustered.
The roach had finally struggled to right-side-up position, with tiny musical grants. Any goblin who paid attention would immediately catch on that this was no ordinary vermin! Stile had to keep talking.
'I know a lot about it, mandrakenose. That 'corn's the steed of an Adept, isn't it?'
'Sure, smarty, and that's why he ain't dead yet. To keep that Adept off our backs till he's out of the picture. We got Adepts of our own, but they don't like to tangle with each other, so we're keeping this one clear this way. The fool likes animals. We're just doing our job here; no reason to wipe us out.' He looked at Stile uncertainly. 'Is there?'
The roach had finally reached Clip. Stile relaxed. Just a few more seconds, and it would be all right. 'How about what that other Adept thinks? Once he knows thy part, he'll come for thee - and what other Adept would breathe a spell to help thee?'
But as he spoke, Stile saw Clip lift a forefoot, eying the roach. He was about to crash it, not realizing its identity.
'Clip!' Stile called. 'No!'
Then things happened one on top of another. All six goblin guards whirled, scrambled, and looked up, depending on their starting positions, to orient on the hornless unicorn. The magic roach let out a chord and scuttled away from Clip's poised hoof. Clip's head jerked about, his ears rotating to cover Stile.
'It's a trick!' the goblin nearest Stile cried. 'This creep's been bugging me about the hostage. Kill him!'
It wasn't clear whether he referred to Clip or to Stile. It hardly mattered. The alarm had been sounded.
Two goblins thrust their spears at Clip. One stomped at the roach. The one nearest Stile poked his spear through the bars to skewer Stile. The remaining two set up a scream for help.
Clip suddenly animated, swinging his horn about to skewer a goblin. But he had no horn, only the truncated stump. The goblin was merely brushed aside by Clip's nose and struck out with a horny fist.
The roach skittered out of the way and began to expand like a demon amulet that had been invoked. Stile dodged the spear.
In moments the Herd Stallion stood within the prison chamber, stomping his hooves, snorting fire.
Clip charged the goblin who was poking at Stile, crushing the creature's head with a blow of a forehoof. But the two others were running down the far passage, too narrow for the unicorns to follow, crying the alarm.
Stile readied a spell, but paused. So far he had not used magic and, now that he knew there was an enemy Adept involved here, he did not want to give himself away one second sooner than necessary. The goblins did not know it was the Blue Adept who was in their midst, so the other Adept might not know, either - until Stile gave himself away by using magic.
But now there were two unicorns in the prison, and the main goblin mass was stirring in the bowels of the mountain. The Stallion could use his roach-form to escape-but Clip could not change form without his horn. Stile could change Clip's form for him - but that meant magic of Adept signature. Stile could also melt the bars away with magic, if they were not of the magic-resistive type. That must have been how Clip was brought here; the enemy Adept had spelled him through.
If he had to use magic, he might as well tackle the most important thing first. How he wished discovery had been delayed a little longer! 'Clip - here to me!' he called, bringing out the thing he carried like a spear. It was Clip's severed horn.
The unicorn stared, almost unbelieving. No doubt he had thought the horn destroyed.
'My power can restore it!' Stile said, holding the horn out, base first.
Clip came and put his head near the bars. Stile reached through, setting the horn against the stump. 'Restore the horn of this unicorn!' he sang, willing the tissue to merge, the thing to take life again.
It was hard, for he had not intensified his power by playing the harmonica, and the horn was magic. It resisted Stile's magic, and he knew the two parts were not mending properly. He was grafting on a dead horn.
