The Sword And The Pen (3 page)

I felt the pressure of his hand against my blade. A small bead of blood welled on his skin and I let my sword drop. If I killed him, would I cease to exist? More important, what of my world and all those who resided there? Though I wasn't yet sure of the truth of his words, I wouldn't take any chances.

He grimaced as he dabbed at the blood on his chin with a piece of soft white paper he pulled from a box behind him. "Do you think you might stop waving around that sword before somebody--namely me--gets hurt? Or are you all about the chop-chop?"

Though frightened, he remained sarcastic. I found myself smiling. Lack of humor had been one of Donnie's flaws; he never saw the funny side of things or made jokes. And this stranger's words resonated with something else I believed.
Knowledge is more powerful than any sword, my child. Often it is better to listen and learn than to slash and kill.
Though long dead, killed by Roark along with the other monks who'd raised and educated me, Brother Eldrin's words were wise. I sheathed my sword and sat.

A thought occurred to me. If all this man claimed was true, then I was finally free. Free of my past. Free of my vows. Free of the guilt that dogged my steps. I'd been a puppet dancing on another's string. Nothing I'd done was ever of my own free will, but it could be now.

Strangely, if there was freedom it felt false. My mind might accept these new possibilities, but my heart could not. I felt real. My world felt real. The death of my loved ones felt real. The past blood staining my hands and soul felt real. This man's mere words couldn't wash it all away.

And yet, my mind believed him. Everything I was, everything I knew and everything I'd done, he said he'd created them as a form of entertainment for his people.

Suddenly, real or not, I wanted more than anything to be home. Back with Hausic, my wizened and wise fussy old war counselor. Back to Mauri, the little slave girl I'd liberated from an abusive owner by liberating said owner's head from his shoulders. Though she was free, she'd insisted on remaining at my side. She cooked my meals--admittedly badly--mended my clothing--also badly--and if I were interested, she'd share my bed. (There I'm sure she'd do quite well.) I wanted to be back with Jole, the lad who cared for my weapons and horses and made me smile with his quick wit and loyalty. I even wanted to be back with Donoval, the big lug. Though I no longer shared his bed and he refused to send troops to help in my campaign against Roark's reign over my country, I yet considered him a comrade.

My heart cried out in denial. The people in my world couldn't all be fictional. I'd touched them, watched them laugh and cry, bleed and die. And what was reality if not the ability to think and feel? Was I not real, no matter my origin?

I looked up at my tormentor. "Why and how have you brought me here? What do you want with me? And why, with all your power, do you allow me to defy and threaten you?"

Brandon watched all fight drain out of the woman. Sitting forlorn in his desk chair, she looked lost and alone. In his books Serilda rarely had a moment of fear or doubt. Her single-minded pursuit of justice against Roark for his murder of her family and subjugation of her country was what made her so popular with her audience.

Serilda?
What was he thinking? He really was losing touch with reality if he could entertain this lunatic's wild claim. She obviously wasn't Serilda. Maybe she was a wacko fan or a friend's practical joke, but not Serilda. Serilda didn't exist anywhere outside of his head or on the printed page! Heaven help him if his characters started to appear in the real world. Roark came to mind as one horrible possibility. Handsome, charming and immoral, the man would most likely end up taking over the world.

But whoever--or whatever--this woman was, she needed help. He edged toward the phone. Whom to call? The police? No, the local police would haul her off to jail. Somehow Brandon knew she wouldn't go peacefully, and he didn't want anyone to get hurt. Who, then?

Hillary. Used to dealing with crazy writers and psycho fans, his agent would know how to handle the situation.

The lunatic didn't stir as he grabbed his cordless phone and retreated into the kitchen.

"Hillary Raymond. Leave a message." Like the woman herself, her message didn't mince words.

"Hillary, this is Brandon. I've got a problem. Can you--"

"Problem? What problem?" Hillary came on the line. "I swear, Brandon, if you weren't so damned talented and your books didn't sell like hotcakes I'd drop you like a hot potato. What's the trouble now?"

"Well, ah, it's. . ." How did he explain the woman in his living room? And what exactly did he want his agent to do about it?

"Spit it out, boy. Unless you have some chapters for me, I don't have time to hold your hand. I have other clients."

Boy?
Angry at the insult and also at his cowardice regarding the Serilda wannabe in the next room, he lashed out. "What other clients? Until I came along you weren't making enough to pay the postage on the rejection letters you were getting." He exaggerated. She was a good agent, and a loyal one. Once she accepted a client she fought for them, though until he came along none of her clients had earned her more than a comfortable living. His success was her success. She still worked with her old authors, but the bulk of her income came from him. "We both know I'm your number one meal ticket."

Hillary's chuckle doused his flare of rage. Blunt herself, she didn't take offense. "That's my boy. I knew anyone who writes the way you do, with such fire and passion, had to have some spunk. So, what's the problem?"

"I have an unwanted houseguest."

"Your ex-wife tracked you down?"

Brandon shuddered. "No, Wanda I could handle." Maybe. "A few dollars and she'd be on her way. This woman is different."

"What woman? Different how?"

He could hear the curiosity growing in Hillary's voice. Even though he'd turned her down, her interest in his love life hadn't dimmed. His hermit-like lifestyle and refusal to participate in the promotional hype surrounding the success of his books was a constant irritation to her.

"She thinks she's Serilda," he blurted. "This woman showed up in my house decked out in the same outfit as on the cover of WARRIOR WOMAN: SERILDA'S QUEST."

Total silence.

"Hillary? Are you still there?"

"Y-yes."

He heard her choked laughter. "This isn't funny! The woman's got a mile-long sword that she keeps waving around. If something isn't done, someone's going to get hurt. Probably me."

"I-I'm sorry, Brandon. You just caught me off guard. So you've got an overly enthusiastic fan on your hands. What do you want me to do about it? I'm halfway across the country. Call the police."

It was his turn to be silent.

After a minute she said, "You don't want to do that, do you? Something about this woman has you intrigued. Tell me."

"You're right. There's nothing you can do. I'll take care of it." Serilda's flashing green eyes and wild claims challenged him in an entirely new way, while her womanly curves steered his thoughts in a different direction--a direction that, after his disastrous marriage to Wanda the Man Eater, he'd been slow to venture. Until this moment the promised reward just never seemed worth the effort. Still, the thought of taking care of his intruder no longer felt like a chore.

"No, wait! Brandon, don't you hang up on--"

He hit the End button and put the phone down. Speaking to Hillary made him realize how isolated he'd become since he'd bought this house three years ago. Aside from the weekly delivery boy from the local market, he often didn't see another person for weeks on end. He rarely went into town, taking his daily runs along little-used back roads, and none of his neighbors came by to visit. If he disappeared or something happened to him, it would be days or even weeks before someone noticed.

The kitchen door creaked open. He looked up. The Serilda wannabe stood in the doorway. Late afternoon sunlight turned her hair to flame.

"To whom did you speak? Another wizard?" She eyed the phone with a mixture of dread and admiration, clearly believing it to be a magic device.

He ran a hand around the back of his neck. "For the last time, I'm not a wizard, witch or sorcerer. I'm just a writer."

She looked doubtful. "In my world, people created on paper do not come to life. It takes a person of great power to conjure a being into physical existence. Though I am loath to admit it, the only explanation for my current state is that I am your creation and you have, though I know not for what reason, summoned me into your world. At first I thought I could force you to return me to my world, but I now realize the strength of my sword is no match for the force of your words." She dropped to one knee and bowed her head. "Please, send me back."

The set of her shoulders and flash in her green eyes before she lowered her lids warned Brandon that acting humble and submissive didn't come easy to her. The Serilda he'd created would never bow to another. Her stubbornness and arrogance were both her greatest strength and fatal flaw. In real life those traits would have gotten her killed a dozen times over. In fiction she had the greatest power in the universe guiding her and watching her back: the writer, namely himself. Of course, of late she hadn't been listening too well.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, get up." He took her arm and tugged her to her feet, but she didn't raise her face to his.

"As you wish, my lord. But who be this Pete? Your familiar? Another wizard?" She tilted her head and peered at him from beneath sooty lashes.

The phone rang, the sound harsh. Before he could react, the lunatic's sword flashed and split it in two. The phone gave a last gurgling ring then fell silent.

Open-mouthed, he stared at the pieces of plastic and wires now littering the floor. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"I beg pardon for my error. The noise startled me. I didn't mean to destroy it."

She didn't sound contrite, however, and he didn't believe for a minute she'd been startled. Brandon doubted this woman ever did anything without forethought. In his books Serilda always had a reason for what she did. She'd damaged the phone beyond repair, but hadn't left a scratch on the table, an indication of careful control. What was she up to now? For that matter, what was she up to period?

His books were a success and he was making good money, but he was hardly worth the trouble of tracking down to kidnap--and if kidnapping was her goal, why such a bizarre method? He'd managed to keep a fairly low profile as an author. So far, his fans had been more interested in his books than in him. What was she after? And how could he catch her up in her little charade? What did he know about Serilda that no one else could possibly know? The answer came to him and he chuckled. Now, to wait for the right moment to confront her.

She slid the sword back in its sheath. There was no denying the curiosity and growing confusion in her eyes as she looked around his neat, modern kitchen.

"Are you hungry?" His question surprised him. He should be hustling her out the door. Instead, he found himself offering her lunch.

"Yes, please."

"Good. You can wash up at the sink and sit down while I throw something together." He opened the refrigerator and pulled out some eggs, cheese and ham. "How's an omelet sound?" With practiced ease he whisked the eggs together and heated the skillet. In minutes the tantalizing smell of sizzling butter and cooking eggs filled the air.

When she didn't answer, he turned. She stared at him with wide-eyed awe.

"What's wrong?"

"With a flick of your wrist you command fire. You've trapped light and cold inside a box. I never imagined such power existed."

He threw back his head and laughed. Even if her actions were entirely an act, being called powerful for owning a fridge and a stove struck him as funny. He caught sight of the anger building on the woman's face. No one appreciated being the butt of someone else's joke. God knows he'd been on the receiving end enough times. A sickly childhood spent with an overprotective, controlling single mother had left him with more than his share of insecurities. Deciding he'd play along, he smothered his laughter. Eventually he'd figure out what she wanted.

"Relax. Sit down. These powers don't belong to me. They come from ComEd and Nicor. I merely pay for the use of them." He felt her eyes on him as he finished the omelets and served them.

*** *** ***

Perched on the edge of the chair I eyed the wizard warily and poked at the food he'd provided. It smelled delicious, but my appetite had fled. To keep him from summoning another wizard to his aid I'd destroyed the object into which I'd overheard him speaking. I'd thought I could lull this wizard into believing I was cowed into submission, but his power was far beyond what I'd first judged. And he had accomplices: ComEd and Nicor. How could I fight three great wizards?

And what exactly did I fight for? To go back to my world, fictional though it might be? Did I truly want to return to the life I'd known there, a life of constant warfare and danger, where children were left orphans so men could fulfill greedy ambition? A world of strife and vengeance?

Yet, what else was there? Would I be forced to remain here? What did I know of this world? Was it better than the one I came from or worse? Why had this wizard summoned me? His surprise and confusion about my appearance didn't bode well.

"Eat," he urged. "Things seem less difficult on a full stomach, or so my grandmother always said. I've found she was right. I can think better if my stomach isn't growling."

I forced myself to take a bite. Wonderful tastes exploded on my tongue and renewed my appetite. Though my soldiers and I were supplied with rations adequate to support life, the meat was dry and tough, the bread coarse and filled with chaff and grit; fruits and vegetables were withered or rotten, and dairy products were a rare treat. It had been years since I'd eaten anything as delicious as this simple meal. It took every ounce of self-control drilled into me by the monks not to shovel the food into my mouth all at once.