Monsters and Magicians (28 page)

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"No need to remind me that you do not stick at eating the flesh of good Christian men, you heathen beast," said Sir Gautier. "Were we not both sworn

retainers of our puissant Lord Fitz, I'd certainly set upon you with spear, axe and my good sword."

"Any time, buddyroll," replied the lion, "any-fiickin'-time, 'cause like you know, you and them stinkpots of yours ain't my idea of good cats to do no gig with, neither. But forgetting that, you got any real idea how the fuck we gonna get down this mutha, man?"

The knight nodded. "If in truth this is the place wherein we—me and mine—did arrive in these climes, and not merely some place than beareth a resemblence to it, then there is a way. I need but seek out and rediscover it, then we . . . Aha!"

When at last the seven men had carefully and very laboriously descended the height by way of a copse of pines that grew hard against the cliff-face, they were running sweat and Cool Blue—he having made his way back across the burn and jumped down from the spot where the cliff was much lower—was waiting for them.

As the men dropped their loads and their weapons, first to drink deeply and long from the pool at the bottom of the waterfall, then to sprawl out on the soft bed of pine tags, the lion lied to Sir Gautier.

"Look, man, like we should oughta be catching up to Fitz soon, and like he told me was you to find any your boys and bring them along, you know, it was plenty of soap and shampoo and all in that pack and he wanted them and you to be clean, like you know. And like this here's as good a place as any with that there pool and all, you know. Humans smells bad enough when they're like clean. You dig? You and your bunch, man, I've smelled dead skunks had been rotting out in the sun and was full of worms and maggots smelled better'n you do, now."

"I knew there was soap, Master Lion," replied the knight, a bit stiffly, "I smelled its exotic fragrance when first I did gape the pack and right gladly will I relish that cool water upon my body. The men now . . . ? Well, they all are good retainers, obedient and loyal; they will do my will, obey my dictates, even if not at all happily, to begin."

Because the other two-legged, warmblooded prey-beast seemed to have fled, the huge, scaley predator forgot about it, for there was meat to fill its belly in the one that his lashing tail had felled. Approaching its stunned and immobile prey, the lizard sent out its long, forked blue-black tongue to explore the full length of the meal-to-be. When still it made no move to either fight or flee, the predator moved in closer still, close enough for teeth to close in the warm, soft, unsealed flesh of the helpless creature . . . but they would not. Try as the nightmare monster might, strain as it might to bite down, all that the beast accomplished was to cause itself increasing degrees of pain and accelerated blood-loss in the jaw-tendons and muscles almost severed by the shrewd, circular slash of the long, sharp katana.

The reptile backed off, hissing its rage and frustration at being unable to even begin to consume so much fresh, hot meat. Lacking the reasoning-abilities of even the most primitive mammalian brain, the monster could not understand why it could no longer snap its toothy jaws shut, so once again it sent the long tongue out to examine its "kill," relishing the feel-taste of the hot, red blood flowing from the scalp which had impacted with the stump of tree-bole.

Then, suddenly, its senses told it that another of the prey-creatures had appeared nearby; hissing, it spun about to face the menace to its ownership of the meat.

Fitz held the weapon suspended by the leather sling and made sure that both his feet were planted firmly on the ground before his skin came into contact with any steel portion of the drilling, cursing himself the while for bringing it rather than the more powerful though shorter-range magnum, for none of the three loads in the drilling was designed for anything approaching dragon-slaying. The most he could hope to do with one load of birdshot, one of rabbit-shot and a single round of .22 Magnum was to distract the beast, possibly—with extreme luck—blind it and keep it away from the unconscious Japanese officer long enough to himself get possession of the sword . . . And then what? It was not a familiar weapon to him, he'd just have to do his best. But had he had the foresight to bring the heavy revolver instead, now . . . ?

"And if a bullfrog had wings," he muttered fiercely to himself, "he wouldn't bump his arse so much!"

A blast from the first barrel resulted in a pulpy, bloody mess where the monsters left eye had been and evoked an immediate roar of rage and pain, but Fitz doubted if it accomplished much else, for only a stroke of unimaginable luck could have propelled enough of those tiny pellets into the brain to do any good in permanently downing the long, massive reptile. But if he could somehow get the other eye, as well . . .

Arm-long, blue-black forked tongue flickering in

and out of a mouth that was running bright blood, with a lower jaw that seemed crookedly and incompletely closed, the scaley predator turned its head and still-functioning eye in the direction of the creature its tongue-sensors detected.

As he observed its actions, Fitz wondered if the giant reptile's tongue might be its principal sensory organ. 'The driller's other barrel is birdshot-loaded" he thought, "and it has a more open choke than the first one; that tongue has no scales to protect its surface, so the pellets will do a lot more damage to it than they could against its hide. If it doesn't do any good I can always try to put the twenty-two into the other eye, shouldn't be a difficult shot at this range, either."

Waiting until the deeply-forked tongue was again exposed, Fitz snapped off the second barrel. This time, the hissing-roar had to it a fluid, gargling quality. When the tongue was thrust out again, the left lobe of its fork was dangling, attached to the tongue's base only by shreds of bleeding, lacerated flesh. Abruptly, the reptile rose onto its thicker hind legs and took a long step toward its attacker, clawed forefeet extended, long tail suddenly whipping at the legs of its small adversary.

Reflecting that just such a stroke had felled the Japanese officer, Fitz dropped the drilling and willed himself up into the air high enough that the thick, whiplike tail went swishing beneath the soles of his boots. Then he will himself off to the side, partly to escape the monster's charge, partly to secure for himself the young officer's katanga, it surely being of more value just now than a single round of .22 Mag-

num could be. That such intimate proximity to the steel blade would render him irrevocably earthbound so long as he held it was something that he must simply bear with.

"What I need," he thought to himself, "is weapons of some non-ferrous metal—copper, brass, bronze, like that. I recall they used to fabricate guns out of brass and bronze, 'gunmetaT was even the word for bronze, I think. I wonder if it would be strong enough to use for a modern Magnum? I'll have to ask Danna or Pedro to check that out for me, that and run down somebody who'll undertake to make me some edge-weapons of bronze, brass, anything that will hold a decent edge and doesn't contain any iron or steel."

Furious that the two-legged interloper was on the verge of taking possession of its "kill," frustrated in the fact that its fearsome jaws no longer seemed to work and that not even the shrewdest swipes of its muscular tail had connected, maddened by the pain of its many wounds, the reptile again reared up onto its hind legs and lunged to renew the attack, clawed forelegs extended, its hissings projecting a fine spray of blood before it.

Had his perspective been less perilous, Fitz would have pitied the monster. Of necessity, it was canting its head in order to get maximum use of its one remaining eye, it seemed to be having trouble in controlling its long tongue—the once-smooth, once-rapid movement of that sensory organ was now jerky and perceptibly slower—and the nearly-severed muscles at the corners caused the lower jaw to gape quite widely open, so that the beast's movements increased blood-loss and undoubtedly produced grind-

ing agonies as well. But even so, the scaled-down tyrannosaurus rex, with its blocky head and its dangling, blood-dripping dewlaps of scaley skin came on.

Fitz knew that there was great danger, in trying to protect the unconscious young Japanese officer. Yes, he had been a fair swordsman in college, years ago, but with foil and ep6e—point-weapons, both of them—not with the saber. Therefore, this Japanese katanga (at best, a two-handed saber) did not naturally lend itself to his grasp, it felt odd, unwieldy, point-heavy and ill-balanced. Yet the lieutenant's handling of the weapon had looked to Fitz like pure, fluid motion, steel-poetry, and he now sought desperately to recall just how the officer had set about using the antique sword.

The battered but still fearsome beast continued its now-cautious seeming advance. Fitz knew not whether the brain within its blocky head was of sufficient development to really lend it caution or if the lack of former speed and outward ferocity was the result of its succession of grievous injuries, pain and loss of blood, but the slight respite was welcome. At length, when the dragon had come within reach, it swiped at him with one clawed foreleg. Fitz, holding the hilt of his strange weapon with both hands much as he would have held a golf-club, the point almost touching the ground, swung the long, keen blade up and out in a circular slash that met the threatening talon in mid-swing and, to his surprise, severed it at its wrist. He recovered balance and blade-control just in time to wield it against the swiping of the thick, whiplike tail; it he did not completely sever, but the

great, gaping, blood-spouting wound that the katanga inflicted clearly crippled the member to some extent.

"Now what?" he gasped aloud to himself. "There's just no way for one, lone man with a sword to put down a dragon of that size and bulk—even crippled up like it is—without getting hurt himself. The tiling still has one good forepaw, not to mention the two big back ones and even if it can't bite anymore, the teeth, fangs, whatever, in that damned upper jaw could shred me in no time flat if it gets close enough to use them and I can't retreat without exposing this poor bastard here to the same thing. A sword just isn't long enough for this kind of work; what I need is one of those Nip spears."

After briefly applying the vision of its remaining eye and the sense of its mangled tongue to the blood-spurting stump where its right forefoot had so lately been, the remorseless reptile took yet another step toward the two-legged thief that was trying to steal its kill. But, abruptly, it halted and swivelled its gory head about so quickly and forcefully as to send an arc of red blood splattering out around it. A sizable drop caught Fitz full in the eye and he pawed frantically to clear it away, then he too looked toward the stream to see what had distracted the beast.

"If it's another one of these bastards, then my ass is grass, for sure. ..."

Sergeant Kiyomoto, his muscular legs working like pistons, came along the bank of the stream at a full run. He had heard the gunshots and recognized them for what they were—smoothbore rather thati rifle or pistol reports—he had never before heard of gods using shotguns, but he imagined that true gods more

or less made up their own rules as they went along. And why should they not so do?

His feet, thick-soled with callouses, spurned dry sand and gravel, splatting in mud and damp clay, and he bore the bronze axe easily in both his hands before him, at high-port, as if it had been a rifle; sharp-honed, blood-smeared blade-edge bearing forward. He had seen the god fly through the empty air, along the stream and around the bend and he ran in just such course, never casting even once glance back at the knot of spearmen, confident that the loyal, disciplined troops would follow wherever he or Lieutenant Kaoru might choose to lead.

As he rounded the bend, he caught sight of the god. Grasping Kaoru's katanga, the divine personage stood between the sprawled body of the lieutenant and a sizable dragon; that either the god or the officer had used the ancient blade well was evident from a single glance at the gashed and bleeding dragon.

Without breaking stride, the sergeant raced up to the side of the erect dragon and swung the bronze axe, driving the edge deep into the thick haunch— through scaley hide, through layered muscles—to finally reach and sever the tough tendon. The dragon's tail swept around to thud against the sergeant's legs; but the feet were firmly set down and, in any case, the buffet was a mere shadow of the tail-strength of an uninjured beast of the sort. Then, when the animal collapsed onto its belly and remaining two, sound legs, Fitz leaped forward and drove the point of the katanga straight through the snout in a spot he recalled having seen (through Kaorus' eyes, while

he was visiting in that young officer's mind) a spearman thrust his spear, thus pinning down the head long enough for Kiyomoto to step up and cleave the spine where it met the head of the dragon.

When he had jerked out the axe blade and stepped clear of the quivering, jerking body, Sergeant Kiyomoto bowed low in indication of his complete submission and awaited the commands of the newcome god. He was not at all surprised when the god spoke in Kiyamoto's own dialect of Japanese, did not even realize that he was not "hearing" the speech, not at first.

"Your officer took a nasty crack on the head, Sergeant," Fitz informed him. "It might be best to just make him comfortable and leave him prone until we can judge how badly he's injured."

When the last of the Norman retainers had fearfully, grudgingly followed the example and firm orders of their liege-lord, Sir Gautier de Montjoie, had bathed their bodies, hair and clothes in deodorant soap and icy water, the march was recommenced, cleaving to the marks hacked into the treetrunks by Fitz the day before. The blue lion took point, moving well out in advance of the van, occasionally within their sight, but usually not. Following as he was the fairly fresh scent of Fitz's passage, rather than advancing from tree-blaze to tree-blaze, Cool Blue moved faster and straighter than the Normans, far outstripping the men over and over again, then perforce having to wait for them to close.

Coming at a fast walk around a bend in the waterway, Sir Gautier suddenly found it necessary to plunge

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a foot nearly knee-deep in the muddy verge of the onrushing stream to avoid stepping on the blue lion. He swore a cracklingly blasphemous oath in Norman French and demanded, "Sir Lion, must you sprawl your ensorcelled, heathen bulk in the very path of Christian men?"

"If you sadass cats don't like lift up your boots a little faster," replied the lion telepathically, "we gone be like tomorrow catchin' up with ol' Fitz. You dig, man? And you don't want to travel or much less camp out and sleep in this here stretch any longer then you fuckin' got to, neither, man. This here's hostile territory with a like capital fuckin' H."

"What is your meaning, Sir Lion?" demanded the Norman knight. "Save for a seeming dearth of larger game, it appears a goodly and well-watered land."

"And that's all you know, buster," stated the blue lion, giving emphasis to his projected words and thoughts with short, powerful flicks of his tail. "And you stay 'round here too long, you'll find out just what I'm like talkin' the hard way, too. So hard a way that maybe not even you Norman dudes will like live to think about it, neither. You dig?"

hounds or coursing-cats yet spawned can ever prevail against Sir Gautier de Montjoie and his sturdy band of retainers."

The lion growled softly, low in his chest, then beamed. "It's just like I told ol' Fitz back at square one: you Norman fuckers is long on guts and damn near lacking brains altogether. Look, man I ain't talking dogs and cats, see? Hell, no, that kinda pets Saint-Germaine is got running around in this part of the country don't never run in bunches lessen Saint-Germaine sets them to, 'cause they don't like each other at all, man . . . 'cept to eat. Wanta see what they looks like?" The blue lion projected from his own memory the appearance of a huge, long, thick-bodied lizard, then added, "And, cat, they big—I mean like humongous!—take three, four your biggest dude and lay 'em out end to end and that's how long some them scaley fuckers gets. They can move fast-er'n you ever would b'lieve, faster'n you even wanta think about; yeah, they can't keep it up for too long at a time, but then they don't gotta, cause they lays in wait and picks the time and the place and the critter they're gonna jump, see. And they ain't like snakes and littler lizards and all what ain't worth a shit at nights and on cool days, see; they can see as good at night as a cat can and they don't need the sun to keep them warm, so they can come after you 'round the fuckin' clock."

The knight pinched his stubbled lower lip between two, grubby fingers, then nodded. "I thank you for the warning, Sir Lion. A creature five or six ells in length, empowered of such awesome speed and which hunts both by day and by night is indeed

much to be feared. We will from hence move in wariness of such creatures.

"But why are these beasts set here to roam, then, are they the wardens of the marches of the noble Comte, perhap?"

The blue lion arose to his feet and, while stretching fore and aft in typical feline manner, then yawning prodigiously, replied, "Hell, man, like I dunno. I ain't no bunghole buddy of that goddam Saint-Germaine, see, not no way, man. I only know them fuckers and where they stomps on account of that friggin' carrotpuller, he set them to chase me out after he'd done put me in this damn lion-rig, see. And I come right through this damn glen, too; if you and your dudes hadn't of gone up that bluff when you landed here, if you'd of come this way, instead, chances are wouldn't be none of you left un-et, by now, you know.

"If you do have to camp out here, you better plan on climbin' up trees and sleepin' there, see. They can stand up and walk and all on their hind legs, but they can't seem to climb any tree that ain't got lotsa thick branches and limbs low down for them to step up on, they can't none of the fuckers shinny and they all built the wrong way, looks like, to do much jumpin', too.

"Look, you and your dudes couid move lots faster if you'd do like me and keep down here where it's flatlike, 'stead of up on the ridge looking for trees been hacked on. Ol' Fitz ain't' dumb . . . mostly, and you can bet your ass he picked the easiest way to go, see. I'd damn sure rather catch up to him and his

guns before we come on one them fuekin' badass lizards, and that's for damn sure, man."

The group of spearmen who set about butchering the dragon slain by Fitz and their sergeant did so in unaccustomed silence; none of their usual jabbering and joking and horseplay could be seen or heard. Only Sergeant Kiyamoto had witnessed the white man soar to the aid of the downed officer, but one and all had seen him rise unaided from the ground beside the dead carcass of the dragon and move swiftly through the empty air to a point high in a huge tree, then return with a medical kit and certain other objects. To state that the experience had left them all abashed would have been to utter the grossest of understatements.