The soldier was framed in the portal, seeming to peer within, weapon at the ready. Then he walked off, only to appear again and shake his head. There was confusion in his manner. Apparently, to Kwip's great relief, the soldier-or this diabolical machine that took a soldier's form-could not perceive the portal.
Kwip was safe.
Something poked him in the back and he jumped and whirled about, sword raised and ready to strike.
'Put that thing down, you crazy fool!'
It was the woman of color, Deena Williams, and her sometime paramour, Barnaby Walsh. Kwip exhaled and sheathed his sword.
'Jumpy, ain't he?' Deena asked of Barnaby.
'You ought not surprise a man like that,' Kwip warned.
'Some trouble up ahead?' Barnaby asked.
Kwip looked toward the portal. The soldier walked by again, still oblivious to the phenomenon in front of him: a doorway to another world.
Kwip shook his head. 'None now, but you don't want to go through that aspect.'
'We been duckin' in and out of aspects for the last couple hours,' Deena told him. 'Hidin' from all this garbage goin' on.'
Kwip nodded. 'Which I've been doing as well.' He suddenly remembered his abandoned booty and looked wildly about.
Over Barnaby's shoulder he saw the glint of gold. He ran for it.
It was a gold drinking cup; as he picked it up he caught sight of a necklace lying on the stone not far way.
The stuff was scattered all over, kicked by dancers, nuzzled by lions, punted about by marching feet. Gods knew how wide an area it had been strewn over, all lying there, waiting for anyone to pick up.
Kwip began searching, dashing around frantically, scooping things up, hurrying to the next item. Another necklace, a sapphire ring… a chalice… a bracelet…
'Uh, is all this stuff yours?' Deena asked.
'Yes,' Kwip said over his shoulder.
The sound of a brass band grew near, and Kwip cursed. The commotion was returning in force after what must have been a momentary lull.
'You ought to stick with us,' Barnaby said. 'We're going to find a nice aspect to hide out in.'
'I must recover my valuables!' Kwip shouted as he ran to recover a diamond pendant. He was amazed that anything was left.
'You're nuts!' Deena yelled. 'Let's get out of here,' she said to Barnaby.
'Right,' Barnaby said. Then he shouted at Kwip again. 'You're absolutely sure?'
'Off with you!' Kwip shouted back. 'I'll be all right!'
'Okay, good luck!'
The pair left Kwip to his valuables and his foolish greed. Presently, two very large cats came prowling around the corner, a whiff of fresh meat in their bewhiskered nostrils.
PLAIN
His tent had a good view of the citadel. The fortress of Troas, well-built and lovely, its beetling walls formidably high, bestrode a hill overlooking the plain. On the north circuit, topless towers soared above the highest rampart. From the walls, from the towers, had come a lethal rain of arrows, spears, rocks, and boiling oil, with sacks of excrement thrown in for comic relief. It seemed the Dardanians had an endless supply of war materiel and that no siege, however long, would exhaust their stores.
For two long years now, the Arkadian armies had tried to breach those angled walls, to scale them, to undermine them. Frustrated eyes had long beheld those towers, and tired, defeated minds had imagined them ablaze, destroyed for all time, their rain of death ended.
But not yet. The siege went on endlessly, and so did the single-combat contests. Dauntless heroes from each side had locked in mortal combat, one on one. Victories had gone to both sides. In this respect the score was about even. But Dardanians were winning the siege, wearing down the Arkadian attackers. Arkadian supplies were low. There were only so many coastal towns to raid for food and other necessities.
It was not a true siege, because the Dardanian army still had access to the sea. Troas was still linked to supply lines, though those were growing more tenuous. The Arkadians had ceaselessly harassed supply ships, to some effect.
Two long years. Two agonizingly long years.
Trent lay on his recliner, drinking plundered Dardanian wine. He was not quite drunk but was getting there. He had given up hope of getting back to the castle and Sheila. He was stranded. There had been no communication from Inky, no message of any sort. Trent felt abandoned and alone.
And defeated. His strategies and tactics had for the most part not worked against the Dardanians. They were stronger than anyone had imagined, and devilishly resourceful to boot. Outnumbered, they had fought the Arkadians to a standstill. The towers of Troas still stood.
With some effort, he got up and went to the tent's entrance, held back a flap, and looked out. Nothing was happening on the front today. A fight had broken out in the camp of the Arkadians. Some squabble about who should inherit a dead trooper's armor. The sky was clear above the citadel, a few fast clouds scudding by. He looked to his left and gazed at the distant rocky heights of Mount Eta for a long moment, then brought his eyes back to the camp. Someone had just run someone through with a spear. A major brawl was breaking out.
The constant bickering disgusted Trent. He closed the flap, returned to his recliner and his wineskin.
He was at the end of his tether. Somehow he had to bring this farce to some sort of conclusion, get back to Arkadia and slip back through the portal (not far from Mykos), and hope the time-compression effect had been enough to render his two-year subjective absence into something objectively tolerable-say, a few months. Even at that, Sheila still might brain him with a potted palm.
If only he could bring himself to go back on his pledge not to work large-scale magic!
Such as, say, conjuring a small tactical nuke…
No. For any number of reasons-not the least of which was the problem of differing physical laws in different universes-that would not do at all. But what else? Fire spells, zone-of-death spells… Actually those were more defensive than offensive. Did he know exactly how to go about constructing siege engines? No, not really; not without a little research. How about whipping up a couple of flintlocks? Too many technologies involved.
Hexes. He could brew up something that would have the Dardanians dropping like flies. Mysterious plagues. Biological warfare!
Damn, that wouldn't do either. He had never been very good at working those kinds of spells. Besides, as amoral as he liked to think he was, there were certain ethical considerations that he couldn't quite get around.
Moreover, he had been charged with a purely military task. Inky's instructions allowed him to employ only those supernatural aids which were divinatory or clairvoyant in nature. Intelligence-gathering. In that, he had been successful. Knowing the exact positions of enemy forces had enabled the Arkadians to take and hold these strategically important flood-plains, sodden and swampy though they were.
Which left most of the high ground to the enemy, true. But they were already up there.
He took another swig of sweet Dardanian wine. Good stuff, if a little heavy. Got you drunk anyway, and that was all that counted.
Tactical magic was out. He'd already tried to sneak in some strategic ploys, since the big show on the high altar. In fact, he'd tried the lightning-summoning bit again, bringing a fierce thunderstorm down on Troas. Lightning strikes had started a good number of fires. But the upshot was that Troas still stood. The fires had been a major nuisance, but nothing more.
And afterward, he'd lain semicomatose for almost a week. The spell had taken a lot out of him.
On the non-supernatural front, the undermining had been his idea, and this gambit had shown great possibilities until the Troadeans had copped to what was going on and had flooded the mine, using water from their
