Dor moved to the next ladder, but this one was really hooked on tightly. The zombie serpent was having trouble holding off the onslaught. 'What's holding you on?' Dor cried in exasperation as he labored to pry it up.
'I am an enchanted ladder,' it replied. 'The stupid Mundanes stole me from a stockade arsenal; they don't know my properties.'
'What are your properties?' Dor inquired.
'I anchor irrevocably when emplaced-until someone utters the command 'weigh anchor.' Then I kick loose violently. This facilitates disengagement.'
'Way anchor?'
'That doesn't sound quite right. It's weigh as in lifting, spoken with authority.'
'Weigh anchor!' Dor cried with authority.
'Oooh, now you've done it!' the ladder cried, and kicked off violently, dumping its occupants into the moat.
Dor went on to the next. The delay at the second ladder had cost him vital time, however. The top warrior had gotten over his shock of encountering the satyr, and had hacked it to pieces. Now three warriors stood on the deck, with more crowding up. Fortunately there was not room for them to stand abreast; they were in a line, and until they moved, the fourth man could not dismount from the ladder.
The first Mundane gave a loud cry and brought his sword down on Dor as if chopping wood. Dor's body parried automatically blocking the descending sword with his crowbar so that it glanced off to the side. Simultaneously he dodged forward, coming inside the Mundane's guard, striking into the man's gut with his left fist. The man doubled over, and Dor caught his leg and heaved him over the parapet into the moat. He rose to face the next Mundane in one fluid motion.
This man was smarter about his attack. He came at Dor carefully, sword extended like a spear, forcing him back. The Mundane knew he did not need to slay Dor yet; all that was required was that he widen the stretch of ledge held by his forces, so that others could get off the ladder.
Dor, on the other hand, had to keep the man penned until he could eliminate him and the next man and get at the ladder. So he met the Mundane's thrust with his own, pointing the bar, refusing to give way. In this restricted locale, the crowbar was an excellent weapon.
The Mundane's eyes widened in an expression of astonishment. 'Mike!' he cried. 'You survived! We thought you were lost in that damned magic jungle!'
He seemed to be addressing Dor. It might be a ruse. 'Look to yourself, Mundane,' Dor said, and forced the man's sword out of the way so he could shove him outward with his arm and shoulder.
The Mundane hardly tried to resist. 'They told me there was a man looked like you, but I didn't believe it! I should've known the best infighter in the troop would make it okay! Hell, with your strength and balance-'
'Balance?' Dor asked, remembering how his body had walked Jumper's line across the river.
'Sure, you could've joined a circus! But you kept pushing your luck too far. What are you doing here, Mike? Last I saw you, we got separated by goblin bands. We had to cut out to the coast, thought you'd rejoin us- and here you are! Lost your memory or something?'
Then Dor's wedging prevailed, and the Mundane, surprised, toppled into the moat. Quickly Dor charged the third, jamming the dull point of his bar into the man's middle before he got his guard up, and this one also fell. Then Dor jammed his pole into the ladder hooks and wrenched so hard that a whole section of the stone parapet gave way and the ladder lost purchase. All the men on it fell screaming. The job was done.
Now, standing victorious on the edge, looking down, Dor suffered a multiple reaction. He had killed, again, this time not in ignorance or in the agony of reaction to his friend's mutilation, but to do his job defending the castle. Murder had become a job. Was that how he proposed to forward his career? The sheer facility with which he had done it-maybe that was partly the natural prowess of his body, but he had also used his talent to gain the ladder's secret. No, it was he himself who was responsible, and he felt a great and growing guilt-after the fact
And the Mundane-that man had recognized Dor, or rather Dor's body, calling him Mike. That must mean this body was that of a Mundane, part of this army, a man separated from his companions in the jungle, trapped by goblins, and presumed dead. Dor had taken over that body, preventing its return to its army. What had happened to the personality of the real Mike?
Dor bashed his hand against his head. The flea had bitten him again. Infernal bug! Oops-others called Jumper a bug, and Dor didn't like that; maybe the flea didn't like being called a-oh, forget it!
Where had he been, as he pondered things and watched the Mundanes drown below? Oh, yes: the fate of the personality of the original Mike Mundane. Dor couldn't answer that. He presumed the real Mike would return when Dor left. What bothered him more was the fact that he had taken advantage of the Mundane's recognition of him, to hurl the man from the wall. The Mundane had paused, not wishing to strike a friend-and had paid for that understandable courtesy with his position, perhaps his life. How would Dor himself feel if he encountered Jumper, and welcomed him-and Jumper struck him down? That had been a cruel gesture!
Nevertheless, he had held his position. He hoped the others had held theirs. He didn't dare check directly; this was his position to defend, and another ladder crew could arrive the moment he deserted his post.
War was not nice. If Dor ever got to be King, he would see that problems were settled some other way if at all possible. No one would ever convince him that there was any glory in battle.
The sun sank slowly before him. The Mundanes scrambled out of the moat, dragging their wounded and dead. They took their ladders, too, though these were sadly broken.
At last Millie came. 'You can come down, now, Dor,' she said hesitantly. 'The zombie bugs say the Mundanes are too busy with their wounded to mount another attack today, and they won't do it by night.'
'Why not? A sneak attack-'
