Centaur Aisle (41 page)

"Thanks," Dor said, finding himself liking this bold young King more than ever. Rival he might be, but he was a good man.

They shook hands. Dor didn't know whether this was a Mundane custom, but King Trent had evidently explained Xanth ways. "Now our blood has mingled; we are blood brothers," Omen said gravely.

Irene and Iris were tearing up lengths of cloth from somewhere, fashioning bandages. Irene got to Omen first, leaving Dor for her mother. "I suspect I underestimated you, Dor," the Queen murmured as she worked efficiently on his wound, cleaning and bandaging it after applying some of the plant healing extract. "But then, I also underestimated your father."

"My father?" Dor asked, bewildered.

"That was a long time ago, before I met Trent," she said. "None of your business now. But he did have mettle in the crunch, and so do you."

Dor appreciated her compliment, but regretted that her modification of attitude had come too late. Irene had focused on King Omen. He tried to stop himself from glancing across to where Irene was working on the Mundane King, but could not kelp himself.

The Queen caught the glance. "You love her," she said. "You did not before, but you do now. That's nice."

Was she taunting him? "But you endorse King Omen," Dor said, his emotion warring within himself.

"No. Omen is a fine young man, but not right for Irene, nor she for him. I support your suit, Dor; I always did."

"But you said—"

She smiled sadly. "Never in her life did my daughter do what I wished her to. Sometimes subtlety is necessary."

Dor stared at her. He tried to speak, but the thoughts stumbled over themselves before reaching his tongue. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

"Let's get you on your feet," the Queen said, helping him up. Dor found that he could stand, though he felt dizzy; the wound was not as critical as it had seemed, and already was magically healing.

King Trent appeared. "You did good work, men. Thanks to your diversion, I was able to get close to the majority of the Avar soldiers. I turned them into bats."

So that was the origin of the bats Dor had seen! One bat had tried to warn the remaining Avars, without success.

"But the Avars are not the only enemies," King Omen said. "We need to weed out the other collaborators, lest assassins remain among us."

"Magic will help there," King Trent said. "Iris and Dor will see to it."

"We will?" Dor asked, surprised.

"Of course," the Queen said. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know," Dor said. His feelings about Irene's mother had just been severely shaken up, and it would take some time for them to settle into a new pattern. He stepped forward experimentally, and she gripped his arm and steadied him. He half wished it were Irene lending him support.

The Avars, however, had discovered that the dragon did not follow beyond the dungeon. They were not yet aware that their backup contingent had been eliminated. Now they charged back into the chamber.

"They're catching on to the illusion," Grundy said. "We'd better get out of here."

True enough. The Avars were stopping just outside the magic aisle and nocking arrows to strings. They had found the way to fight magic.

Smash went back into action. He ripped a boulder out of the foundation and hurled it at the Avars. His strength existed only within the aisle, but the boulder, once hurled, was just as effective beyond it as the arrows were within it. The troops dived out of the way.

The party moved back up the tunnel, Dor limping. Dragons flew ahead and behind, a ferocious honor guard.

In due course they reached the main hall of Castle Ocna. A number of the castle personnel were there, huddled nervously at one end. The Avars had spread out and used other routes, and now were ranged all around the hall. The castle staff were afraid of the Avars, and did not yet know King Omen lived. Thus the castle remained in King Oary's power despite King Omen's release.

"The ogre and I will guard King Omen," King Trent said. "Irene, grow a cherry tree; you and the golem will be in charge of defensive artillery. Magician Centaur, if you please, stand in the center of the hall and turn rapidly in place several times as soon as I give the signal. Iris and Dor, your powers reach farther than mine; you will rout out the lurking Avars."

"You see, I know how my husband's mind works," Queen Iris murmured. "He's a genius at tactics."

"But the Avars are beyond the magic aisle!" Dor protested. "And they know about your illusions. They're pretty smart, in their fashion. We can't fool them much longer."

"We don't need to," Iris said. "All you have to do is have any stones in the magic aisle call out the position of any lurking Avars. The test of us will take it from there."

"Ready, Irene?" Trent inquired.

Irene's tree had grown rapidly, and now had a number of bright red cherries ripening. "Ready, father," she said grimly.

Dor was glad King Trent was a good tactician, for he, Dor, had only the haziest notion what was developing. When Arnolde turned, it might bring some Avars within the magic aisle, but most would remain outside. How could those others be nullified before they used their bows?

"Now it gets nervy," King Trent said. "Be ready, ogre. King Omen, it's your show."

King Omen mounted a dais in the center of the hall. He was pale from loss of blood, and carried his left arm awkwardly, but still radiated an aura of Kingliness. Irene picked several of the ripe cherries, giving some to Grundy, who stood beside a pile of them. Smash lifted a solid wooden post to his shoulder.

Arnolde, in response to Trent's signal, began turning himself about in place. Dor concentrated, willing the stones in the hall to cry out if any Avars were hiding near them. Queen Iris fashioned an illusion of extraordinary grandeur; the dais became a solid gold pedestal, and King Omen was clothed in splended royal robes, with a halo of light about his body.

"Hearken to me, minions of Castle Ocna and loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Onesti," the King declaimed, and his voice resonated throughout the chamber. "I am King Omen, your rightful monarch, betrayed and imprisoned by the usurper Oary. Now my friends from the magic Land of Xanth have freed me, and I call upon you to renounce Oary and resume your rightful homage to me."

"Mknn jko!" the Avar leader cried in his own language. "Ujqqv jko fqyp!"

An arrow flew toward King Omen. Smash batted it out of the air with his stake. "Oww!" the arrow complained. Dor's talent was operating too effectively. "I was only doing my duty."

As Arnolde turned, the magic aisle rotated, reaching to the farthest extent of the hall. "Here's an Avar!" a stone cried as the magic engaged it. "He shot that arrow!"

"Shut up, you invisible tattletale!" the Avar snapped, striking at what he assumed was there.

Now a winged dragon launched toward the Avar, belching forth fire. "You, too, you fake monster!" the man cried. He drew his sword and slashed at the dragon.

Irene threw a cherry. It struck the floor at the Avar's feet and exploded. The man was knocked back against the wall, stunned and soaked with red cherry juice.

Arnolde had hesitated, facing the action. Now he resumed his turning. Another stone cried out: "There's one behind me!" The dragon, flying in the moving aisle, sent out another column of flame, rich and red. This time Irene timed her throw to coincide, and the cherry bomb detonated as the dragon's apparent flame struck. That made the dragon seem real, Dor realized.

"All of you—shoot your cttqyu!" the Avar leader called as the magic aisle passed by him. "Vjg oqpuvgtu ctg lwuv knnwukqpu!" But his men hesitated, for two of their number had been stunned by something that was more than illusion. The cherry bombs did indeed detonate outside the ambience of magic; maybe there were, after all, such things in Mundania.

Arnolde continued to turn, and the stones continued to betray the Avars. The lofted cherries commanded respect among the Avars that King Omen did not. The ogre's bat prevented their arrows from scoring, and the Queen's illusions kept them confused. For the flying dragon became a giant armored man with a flashing sword, and the man became a pouncing sphinx, and the sphinx became a swarm of green wasps. Thunder sounded about the dais, the illusion of sound, punctuating King Omen's speech. Soon all the remaining Avars had been cowed or nullified.

"Now the enemy troops are gone," King Omen said, his size increased subtly by illusion. "Loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Onesti need have no fear. Come before me; renew your allegiance." Stars and streamers floated down around him.

Hesitantly, the castle personnel came forward. "They're afraid of the images," Grundy said.

The Queen nodded. Abruptly the monsters vanished, and the hall became a region of pastel lighting and gentle music—at least within the rotating aisle. Heartened, the people stepped up more boldly. "Is it really you, Your Majesty Good Omen?" an old retainer asked. "We thought you dead, and when the monsters came—"

"Hold!" a strident voice called from the archway nearest the castle's main entrance.

All turned. There stood King Oary, just within the aisle. Dor realized the man must have ridden to Castle Ocna by another route, avoiding the path with the bridge out. Oary had figured out where Dor's party was heading, had known it meant trouble, and hastened to deal with the situation before it got out of control. Oary had cunning and courage.

"There is the usurper!" King Omen cried. "Take him captive!"

But Oary was backed by another contingent of Avar mercenaries, brought with him from the other castle. The ordinary servitors could not readily approach him. He stood just at the fringe of the magic aisle, so that his words were translated; he had ascertained its limit. He could step out of it at any moment.

"Fools!" Oary cried, his voice resounding throughout the hall. "You are being deluded by illusion. Throng to me and destroy these alien intruders."

"Alien intruders!" King Omen cried, outraged. The stars exploded around him, and gloriously indignant music swelled in the background.

"You, who drugged me and threw me into the dungeon and usurped my throne—you dare call me this?"

The people of the castle hesitated, looking from one King to another, uncertain where their loyalty should lie. Each King was imposing; Oary had taken time to garb himself in full regalia, his royal cloak, crown, and sword rendering his fat body elegant. King Omen was enhanced by Queen Iris' magic to similar splendor. It was obviously hard for the ordinary people to choose between them, on the basis of appearance.

"I call you nothing," Oary roared, with the sincerity of conviction that only a total scoundral could generate. "You do not even exist. You died at the hands of Khazar assassins. You—"

The stars around Omen became blinding, and now they hissed, sputtered, and roared with the sound of the firmament being torn asunder. The noise drowned out Oary's words.

"Nay, let the villain speak," King Omen said. "It was ever our way to let each person present his case."

"He'll destroy you," Queen Iris warned. "I don't trust him. Don't give him a chance."

"It is Omen's choice," King Trent said gently.

With that, the illusion stopped. Not in the slightest way did Queen Iris ever oppose her will to King Trent's—at least in public. There was only the Mundane court, silent and drab, with its huddled servants facing the knot of Avars.

"You are no more than an illusion," Oary continued boldly, grasping his opportunity. "We have seen how the aliens can fashion monsters and voices from nothing; who doubts they can fashion the likeness of our revered former King?"

Queen Iris looked pained. "Master stroke!" she breathed. "I knew we shouldn't have let that cockatrice talk!"

Indeed, the castle personnel were swayed. They stared at King Omen as if trying to fathom the illusion. The very facility of Queen Iris' illusions now worked against King Omen. Who could tell reality from image?

"If King Omen somehow returned from the dead," King Oary continued, "I would be the first to welcome him home. But woe betide us all if we proffer loyalty to a false image!"

King Omen stood stunned by the very audacity of Oary's ploy. In their contest of words, the usurper had plainly scored a critical point.

"Destroy the impersonator!" Oary cried, seizing the moment. The people started toward King Omen.

Now King Omen found his voice. "How can you destroy an illusion? he demanded. "If I am but a construct of air, I will laugh at your efforts."

The people paused, confused again. But once more Oary rushed into the gap. "Of course there's a man there! He merely
looks
like King Omen. He's an imposter, sent here to incite you to rebellion against your real King. Then the ogre can rule in my stead."

The people shuddered. They did not want to be ruled by an ogre.

"Imposter?" King Omen exclaimed. "Dor, lend me your sword!" For in the confusion Dor had recovered his sword, while King Omen had lost his.

"That will settle nothing," King Trent said. "The better swordsman is not necessarily the rightful King."

"Oh, yes, he is!" Omen cried. "Only the royalty of Onesti are trained to fine expertise with the sword. No peasant imposter could match Oary. But I am a better swordsman than the usurper, so can prove myself no imposter."

"Not so," Oary protested. "Well I know that is an enchanted sword your henchman has given you. No one can beat that, for it makes any duffer skilled."

The man had learned a lot in a hurry! It had never occurred to Dor that King Oary would be so agile in debate. Evidently his head was not filled with pudding.

Omen glanced at the sword, startled. "Dor did not evince any particular skill with it," he said with unconscious disparagement of Dor's technique.

"It is nevertheless true," King Trent said. "Dor was outside the magic aisle when he used it."

'"That's right," Dor agreed reluctantly. "In the aisle, with that sword, anyone could beat anyone. Also, the Queen's illusion could make King Trent look like you, King Omen—and he is probably a better swordsman than you are." Dor wondered just after he said it whether he had made that comparison because he smarted from Omen's disparagement of his own skill. Yet King Trent was the finest swordsman in Xanth, so his point was valid.