For a moment Bink was tempted: with the merest swipe of his mighty forepaw he could squash the Evil Magician flat, ending the threat forever.
No. Even if Trent were not really his friend, Bink could not violate the truce that way. Besides, he didn't want to remain a monster all his life, physically or morally.
'The lady is taking her sweet time,' Trent muttered. Bink moved his ponderous head, searching for Chameleon. 'She's usually very quick about that sort of thing. She doesn't like being alone.' Then he thought of something else. 'Unless she went looking for her spell-you know, to make her normal. She left Xanth in an effort to nullify her magic, and now that she's stuck back in Xanth, she wants some kind of counter-magic. She's not very bright right now, and-'
Trent stroked his chin. 'This is the jungle. I don't want to violate her privacy, but-'
'Maybe we'd better check for her.'
'Umm. Well, I guess you can stand one more transformation,'' Trent decided. 'I'll make you a bloodhound. That's a Mundane animal, a kind of dog, very good at sniffing out a trail. If you run into her doing something private-well, you'll only be an animal, not a human voyeur.'
Abruptly Bink was a keen-nosed, floppy-eared, loose-faced creature, smell-oriented. He could pick up the lingering odor of anything-he was sure of that. He had never before realized how overwhelmingly important the sense of smell was. Strange that he had ever depended on any lesser sense.
Trent concealed their supplies in a mock tangle tree and faced about. 'Very well, Bink; let's sniff her out.' Bink understood him well enough, but could not reply, as this was not a speaking form of animal.
Chameleon's trail was so obvious it was a wonder Trent himself couldn't smell it. Bink put his nose to the ground-how natural that the head be placed so close to the primary source of information, instead of raised foolishly high as in Trent's case-and moved forward competently.
The route led around behind a bush and on into the wilderness. She had been lured away; in her present low ebb of intelligence, almost anything would fool her. Yet there was no consistent odor of any animal or plant she might have followed. That suggested magic. Worried, Bink woofed and sniffed on, the Magician following. A magic lure was almost certainly trouble.
But her trace did not lead into a tangle tree or guck-tooth swamp or the lair of a wyvern. It wove intricately between these obvious hazards, bearing generally south, into the deepest jungle. Something obviously had led her, guiding her safely past all threats-but what, and where-and why?
Bink knew the essence, if not the detail: some will-o'-the-wisp spell had beckoned her, tempting her ever forward, always just a little out of reach. Perhaps it had seemed to offer some elixir, some enchantment to make her normal-and so she had followed. It would lead her into untracked wilderness, where she would be lost, and leave her there. She would not survive long.
Bink hesitated. He had not lost the trail; that could never happen. There was something else.
'What is it, Bink?' Trent inquired. 'I know she was following the ignis fatuus-but since we are close on her trail we should be able to-' He broke off, becoming aware of the other thing. It was a shuddering in the ground, as of some massive object striking it. An object weighing many tons.
Trent looked around. 'I can't see it, Bink. Can you smell it?'
Bink was silent. The wind was wrong. He could not smell whatever was making that sound from this distance.
'Want me to transform you into something more powerful?' Trent asked. 'I'm not sure I like this situation. First the swamp gas, now this strange pursuit.'
If Bink changed, he would no longer be able to sniff out Chameleon's trail. He remained silent.
'Very well, Bink. But stay close by me; I can transform you into a creature to meet any emergency, but you have to be within range. I believe we're walking into extreme danger, or having it walk up on us.' And he touched his sword.
They moved on-but the shuddering grew bolder, becoming a measured thumping, as of some ponderous animal. Yet they saw nothing. Now it was directly behind them, and gaining.
'I think we'd better hide,' Trent said grimly. 'Discretion is said to be the better part of valor.'
Good idea. They circled a harmless beerbarrel tree and watched silently.
The thumping became loud. Extremely loud. The whole tree shook with the force of the measured vibrations. TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP! Small branches fell off the tree, and a leak sprang in the trunk. A thin jet of beer formed, splashing down under Bink's sensitive nose. He recoiled; even in the human state, he had never been partial to that particular beverage. He peered around the trunk-yet there was nothing.
Then at last something became visible. A branch crashed off a spikespire tree, splintering. Bushes waved violently aside. A section of earth subsided. More beer jetted from developing cracks in the trunk of their hiding place, filling the air with its malty fragrance. Still nothing tangible could be seen.
'It's invisible,' Trent whispered, wiping beer off one hand. 'An invisible giant.'
Invisible! That meant Trent couldn't transform it. He had to see what he enchanted.
Together, silently, steeped in intensifying beer fumes, they watched the giant pass. Monstrous human footprints appeared, each ten feet long, sinking inches deep into the forest soil. TRAMP!-and the trees jumped and shuddered and shed their fruits and leaves and branches. TRAMP!-and an ice cream bush disappeared, becoming a mere patina of flavored discoloration on the flat surface of the depression. TRAMP!-and a tangle tree hugged its tentacles about itself, frightened. TRAMP!-and a fallen trunk splintered across the five-foot width of the giant's print.
A stench washed outward, suffocatingly, like that of a stench-puffer or an overflowing outhouse in the heat of summer. Bink's keen nose hurt.
'I am not a cowardly man,' Trent murmured. 'But I begin to feel fear. When neither spell nor sword can touch an enemy?' His nose twitched. 'His body odor alone is deadly. He must have feasted on rotten blivets for breakfast.'
