Juxtaposition (30 page)

“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 dip. 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. His horn was not truncated. It blurred as it lunged at one goblin, then at a second and a third, before any could flee. Three goblins were lifted into the air, skewered simultaneously on that terrible spike.

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. Meanwhile, a phalanx of goblins appeared in the passage behind Stile, bristling with spears. Stile saw them from the corner of his eye but could not release his hands from the horn, lest the slow healing be interrupted. Clip could not move, either, for he was on the other side of the bars waiting for the healing.

But the Herd Stallion was free. He launched himself at the bars. “No!” Stile cried in alarm, knowing the stone was too strong for the animal to break. But the Stallion shifted in midair to roach-form, sailed between columns, and shifted on Stile’s side to dragon-form.
 
The dragon spread his wings, banked about, and fired forth a horizontal column of flame that seared the oncoming goblins. The stench of burnt flesh wafted back. Stile felt sorry for the goblins, then remembered how they had treated Clip, and stilled his sympathy. The creatures of the frame of Phaze conducted their business violently, and goblins were among the worst. Stile continued to concentrate on the healing, letting the Stallion guard him, and slowly the two parts of Clip’s horn melded together. Stile felt the living warmth creep along the length of it, animating it. Soon all would be well.

A horde of goblins poured in from the far side of the prison. “Stallion!” Stile cried, and the Herd Stallion turned about, charged the bars, shifted into and out of roach form, and appeared on the other side in dragon-form again. Another burst of flame seared out, cooking more flesh.

But greater trouble was gathering. Stile could feel the rumble of the march of many feet as hundreds or thou sands of goblins closed in, traveling in unseen neighboring passages. He knew he had alerted the enemy Adept, for he had performed Adept magic; that would further complicate the situation. Still he held on to the horn, waiting for the final inch to be restored to life so that Clip’s full capacity would return. He would settle for nothing less.
 

There was a puff of fog. The White Adept stood beside Stile. Her hair was white, matching her eyebrows, and a sparkling white gown bedecked her somewhat stout form.
 
“So it is thee. Blue, as we suspected,” she said, her voice and gaze cold as ice. “Thou didst take the bait.”

“I took it,” Stile agreed grimly. He was not really surprised; his relations with the White Adept had always been chill. But why was she involved with the goblins? “I got tired of getting ambushed by the likes of thee.” Would she tell him anything before making her move? If she started a spell-diagram before he was finished with Clip’s horn, he would be in trouble; he would have to defend himself, for without him the unicorns could not escape. But White could have generated a spell that acted at a distance instead of facing him directly. Maybe she wanted to talk.
 
The Herd Stallion turned from his endeavors, leaving a pile of scorched goblins rolled up like dehydrated bugs, and saw the witch. He braced for renewed action.
 

“Caution,” Stile called. “She’s Adept.” The mighty animal stood still. He knew better than to attack an Adept in a situation like this. He also knew that Stile was not finished with Clip. For the moment it was an impasse.

“I can not attack thee directly. Blue,” the White Adept said. “And thou canst not attack me. Yet can our minions make mischief.”

“Agreed,” Stile said. “But why has mischief been made?
 
I sought none.”

“Abate thine onus for the moment and hear me out,” she said. “Blue, I would reason with thee.” In Stile’s experience, those who claimed to want to reason with others were apt to have cases that were less than secure. Still, it was better to talk than to fight. Now at last Clip’s horn had healed. Stile let go, and the unicorn backed away, blowing an experimental saxophone note. It was off-key, but strong. His coat seemed to be brightening under the grime; he had been restored to the joy of life.
 
The White Adept had known what Stile was doing, and had not interfered. She had to be serious about her subject, and Stile seriously wanted to know what this was all about.

“Give thy word there will be no attack by Adept or goblin without fair warning,” he said.
 
“No treachery.”

“I give it. Blue.” There was a faint ripple in the air about her.

He had to accept that. Truth animated the very atmosphere and substance of Phaze. Adepts did not get along well with each other, but they honored the deals they made. “Then I will hear thy reason.”

“Thou knowest that the end of Phaze draws nigh,” she said. “The Purple Mountains have shaken, the Fore ordained is on the scene, the Little Folk mass as for war, and portents abound.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “They tell me I am involved. Yet all I sought was to honeymoon with my wife. Someone set traps for me, and one trap setter resembled thee.”

“Merely to warn thee off,” she said. “Thou art Adept and perhaps the strongest of us all. Thou hast suffered much, yet thou shouldst be the leader in our effort instead of opposing it.”

“What effort?” Stile’s interest intensified.

‘To save Phaze.”

“Of course I want to save Phaze! I love this land! I want to live and die here!”

“But not, methinks, before thy time.”

Stile smiled grimly. “I wish not to die here among goblins, true. But I sought no quarrel with goblins. Thou didst kidnap my steed, and abused him, and forced this quarrel on me.”

“Aye. Unable to strike effectively at thee or at thy Lady, or to warn thee off, we finally had to take thy steed. It is not a thing I like. Now thou canst have thy freedom with our apologies, and thine animals with thee, and leadership in the present order, if thou wilt but accept it.”

“Why should I not accept it?” Stile asked, not rhetorically.

“Because thou art prophesied to be the leader of the forces of the destruction of this order. The Foreordained is only part of it; thou art the other part.”

“Obviously there’s a loophole,” Stile said. “Aside from the fact that I have no intention of harming Phaze, thou wouldst not be pressuring me if thou didst believe my destiny was fixed.”

“There is a loophole. A dead man cannot lead.”

Stile laughed ironically. “Kill me? My fate will survive thine effort, if it be truly set.”

“Aye. Fate has indeed charmed thee, unlike thine other self. But we are not assured thou canst not be killed, only that if thou dost remain alive in Phaze, thou wilt destroy it. The charms that preserved thee so cleverly before are passing. Thou hast already conceived thy son on the Lady Blue—“

“I have?” Stile asked, surprised.

“—which is why she joins thy former steed and accepts the protection of the animal herd. So fate no longer preserves thee for that. It preserves her. Still, her feeling for thee is such that she might not survive thy demise, so thou art indirectly protected yet. I warned the others of that, but they heeded me not; they thought they could vanquish thee before thou didst reach the West Pole.”

“They?”

“The other Adepts. We all are patriots in the end. Blue.
 
We all must needs try to save our land.” She seemed sincere! “All the other Adepts are against me?” he asked incredulously.

“All except Brown; the child wavers. She likes thy steed.”

Stile remembered how Neysa had given the little girl a ride. It seemed that kindness had paid a dividend. “What of Yellow?” Stile had had differences with the Yellow Adept, but recently had gotten along with her tolerably well. He could not believe she was his enemy.
 

“Dost thou want it from her own mouth?”

“Aye”

“Then let me bring her here.” White made a diagram on the floor and tapped it three times. A puff of smoke formed and dissipated, and there stood the Yellow Adept in her natural hag-form.

“Oh, no!” Yellow exclaimed. “Let me just get changed for the occasion, my handsome bantam.” She brought out a vial, tipped it to her lips, swallowed—and changed to a young, ravishingly pretty creature.

“White tells me that thou and the other Adepts think I will destroy Phaze, so are against me. Yellow,” Stile said.
 
“Can this be true?”

Yellow made a devastatingly cute moue. ‘It is close enough. Blue,” she said. “I am not thine enemy and will not oppose thee—but neither can I join thee, for that thou art indeed destined to wreak much mischief and overthrow the natural order.”

“How is it I know nothing of this?” Stile demanded.
 

“The instruments of great events seldom know their destinies,” Yellow said. “This prevents paradox, which can be an awkward complication and a downright nuisance.”

“Nuisance, hell! I was attempting to have my honey moon! Why should this represent a threat to anyone?”

“Thou didst bring the Foreordained, and then thou didst travel to the West Pole. These were elements of the prophecy.”

“So the other Adepts decided to stop me from getting there,” Stile said, grimacing. “Setting neat little magical traps.”

“Some did. Green chose to stand aloof, as I did, disliking this. Sure enough, thou didst get there. Now the onrush of events is upon us, and if we do not get thee away from Phaze promptly, we all are doomed.”

“So you propose to remove me by killing me?”

“Nay, we know that would not work,” Yellow said. “At least White and Green and I suspected it would not. Black and Orange and Translucent did not participate in the proceedings, and Brown opposed them. We had to suppress her, lest she warn thee.”

So it now developed that the other Adepts were any thing but unanimous; most were at best neutral. That explained why they had not simply massed their magic against him. Stile’s expression turned hard. “Suppressed Brown? What dost thou mean by that?”

“A stasis-spell,” White said quickly. “No harm was done her. It is hard indeed to do direct harm to an Adept; the spell is likely to bounce and strike down the speller. But slantwise action can be taken, as with the silence and confinement for thee.”

“You froze the child in place?” Stile demanded. “Our truce is just about to come to an unkind end.”

“She would have blabbed to thee,” White repeated.

“Now I am blabbing to thee: release her.” White’s expression hardened, as was typical of those whose reason was only a front.