The Source of Magic (34 page)

Chester’s human torso was now streaked with blood from the vicious raking of the griffin’s talons. But one of Crombie’s forelegs was broken, and one of his wings half-stripped of feathers. That hand-to-claw combat had been savage!

Now the centaur was stalking his opponent with sword in hand, and the griffin was flying in ragged circles just out of reach, seeking an opening. Despite Bulk’s cautions, these two were deadly serious; they were out to kill each other. Yet how could Bink stop them?

The Magician found a vial and opened it. Bink advanced alertly—but it was another miscue. A huge bowl of yogurt manifested. It had, by the look and smell of it, been in the bottle too long; it had spoiled. It floated gently toward the lake; let the brain coral try a taste of
that
! But Humfrey already had another vial. These mistakes were not the result of Bink’s talent so much as sheer, honest chance; Humfrey seemed to have a hundred things in his vials (he was reputed to have a hundred spells, after all), and few were readily adaptable to combat, and now they were all mixed up. The odds were against anything really dangerous appearing from any randomly chosen vial.

Yet the odds could be beaten. The vial produced a writhing vine from a kraken, which undulated aggressively toward Bink. But he sliced it into fragments with his sword, and advanced on the Magician again. Bink knew he could control the situation now; nothing in Humfrey’s bottles could match the devastating presence of a capable sword.

Desperately Humfrey opened bottles, searching for something to further his cause. Three dancing fairies materialized,
hovering on translucent, pastel-hued wings, but they were harmless and soon drifted over to consult with Jewel, who put them to work picking up stray gems. A package of cough drops formed and burst—but too close to the Magician, who went into paroxysms of coughing. But then a wyvern appeared.

Wyverns were basically small dragons—but even the tiniest of dragons were dangerous. Bink leaped at it, aiming for the monster’s neck. He scored—but the wyvern’s tough scales deflected the blade. It opened its mouth and fired a jet of hot steam at Bink’s face. Bink danced back—then abruptly rammed his point directly into the cloud of vapor with all his force. The sword plunged into the creature’s open mouth, through its palate, and out the top of its head. The wyvern gave a single cry of agony and expired as Bink yanked back his weapon.

Bink knew he had been lucky—and that this was genuine luck, not his talent at work. But the problem with such luck was that it played no favorites; the next break could go against him. He had to wrap this up before such a break occurred.

But the Magician had had time to rummage among more vials. He was looking for something, having trouble locating it amid the jumble. But each failure left him fewer vials to choose from, and a correspondingly greater chance of success. As Bink turned on him again, a set of long winter underwear formed, and several tattered comic books, and a wooden stepladder, a stink bomb, and a gross of magic writing quills. Bink had to laugh.

“Bink—watch out!” Chester cried.

“It’s only a lady’s evening gown,” Bink said, glancing at the next offering. “No harm in it.”

“Behind it is an evil eye!” Chester cried.

Trouble!
That
was what Humfrey had been searching for! Bink grabbed the gown, using it as a shield against the nemesis beyond.

A beam of light shot out, passed him—and scored on the centaur. Half-stunned, Chester reeled—and the griffin dived in for the kill. His beak stabbed at Chester’s blinded eyes, forcing the centaur to prance backward.

“No!” Bink screamed.

Again, too late. Bink realized that he must have leaned on his talent a long time, so that his reactions to chance happenings were slow. Chester’s rear hooves stepped off the ledge. The centaur gave a great neighing cry of dismay and tumbled rear first into the evil water of the lake.

The water closed murkily over Chester’s head. Without further sound or struggle, the centaur disappeared below. Bink’s friend and ally was gone.

There was no time for remorse. Humfrey had found another vial. “I have you now, Bink! This one contains sleeping potion!” he cried, holding it up.

Bink did not dare charge him, because the evil eye still hovered between them, balked only by the evening gown Bink held as a feeble shield. He could see the eye’s outline vaguely through the filmy cloth, and had to maneuver constantly to avoid any direct visual contact with it. Yet that sleeping potion would not be stopped by mere cloth!

“Yield, Bink!” Humfrey cried. “Your ally is gone, my ally hovers behind you, the eye holds you in check, and the sleeping potion can reach you where you stand. Yield, and the coral grants you your life!”

Bink hesitated—and felt the swish of air as the griffin flew at him from behind. Bink whirled, seeing the nymph standing nearby, petrified with terror, and he knew that even as the brain coral made the offer of clemency with one mouth, it was betraying that offer with action.

Until this point Bink had been fighting a necessary if undesired battle. Now, abruptly, he was angry. His friend gone, himself betrayed—what reason had he now to stay his hand? “Look, then, at the evil eye!” Bink cried at Crombie, whipping away the gown as he faced away from the menace. Instantly Crombie turned his head away, refusing to look. Bink, still in his rage, charged the griffin with his sword.

Now it was claw and beak against sword—with neither party daring to glance toward the Magician. Bink waved the bright gown as a distraction while he sliced at the griffin’s head, then wrapped the material about his left arm as a protection
against the claws. Crombie could attack only with his left front leg; his tattered wings did not provide sufficient leverage for close maneuvering, so he had to stand on his hind legs. Still, he had the deadly body of a griffin, and the combat-trained mind of a soldier, and he was as clever and ferocious an enemy as Bink had ever faced. Crombie knew Bink, was long familiar with his mannerisms, and was himself a more competent swordsman than Bink. In fact, Crombie had been Bink’s instructor. Though as a griffin he carried no sword, there was no maneuver Bink could make that Crombie did not know and could not counter. In short, Bink found himself overmatched.

But his anger sustained him. He attacked the griffin determinedly, slicing at legs and head, stabbing at the body, forcing his opponent to face the evil eye. He swung the gown to entangle Crombie’s good wing, then screamed terribly and launched his shoulder into Crombie’s bright breast. Bink was as massive as the griffin; his crudely hurtling weight bore Crombie back toward the deadly water. But it was useless; just as Bink thought he had gained the advantage, Crombie slid sidewise and let Bink stumble toward the water alone.

Bink tried to brake, and almost succeeded. He teetered on the brink. And saw—the golem Grundy, astride the still-floating bottle, now quite near the shore. “Fish me out, Bink!” the golem cried. “The poison can’t hurt me, but I’m beginning to dissolve. Look out!”

At the warning, Bink dropped flat, his face landing bare inches from the water. Crombie passed over him, having missed his push, spreading his wings to sail out over the dark lake. Grundy scooped one tiny hand through the water, splashing a few drops up to splatter the griffin’s tail—and immediately that tail drooped. The water was deadly, all right!

Crombie made a valiant effort, flapping so vigorously that he rose up out of range of the splashing. Then he glided to the far side of the lake and crash-landed, unable to control his flight well because of the defeathered wing and stunned tail. Bink used the respite to extend his sword to the golem, who grabbed the point and let himself be towed to shore.

Then Bink remembered: Grundy had freed Humfrey and
Crombie—in the name of the enemy. The golem was also a creature of the brain coral. Why was he siding with Bink, now?

Two possibilities: first, the coral might have only borrowed the golem, then released him, so that Grundy had reverted to Bink’s camp. Yet in that case, the coral could take over the golem again at any time, and Grundy was not to be trusted. In the heat of battle the coral might have forgotten Grundy, but as that battle simplified, that would change. Second, Grundy might remain an agent of the enemy right now. In that case—

But why should the coral try to fool Bink this way? Why not just finish him off without respite? Bink didn’t know, but it occurred to him it might be his smartest course to play along, to pretend to be fooled. The enemy might have some weakness Bink hadn’t fathomed, and if he could figure it out, using the golem as a clue—

The soldier had not given up. Unable to turn in air because of his disabled guidance system, Crombie oriented himself on land, got up speed, and took off across the lake again.

“Don’t touch me—I’m steeped in poison!” Grundy cried. “I’ll spot the eye for you, Bink. You concentrate on—”

Glad for the little ally despite his doubts, Bink did. As the griffin sailed at him, Bink leaped up, making a two-handed strike directly overhead with his sword. Crombie, unable to swerve, took the slash on his good wing. The blade cut through the feathers and muscle and tendon and bone, half-severing the wing.

Crombie fell to the ground—but he was not defeated. He squawked and bounced to his feet, whirling and leaping at Bink, front claw extended. Surprised at the soldier’s sheer tenacity, Bink fell away, tripped over an irregularity in the rock, and landed on his back. As the griffin landed on him, beak plunging for his face, Bink shoved his sword violently upward.

This time it was no wing he scored on, but the neck. Blood spurted out, soaking him, burning hot. This had to be a mortal wound—yet still the griffin fought, slashing with three feet, going for Bink’s gut.

Bink rolled from under, dragging his sword with him. But it snagged on a bone and was wrenched out of his hand. Instead
he threw himself on Crombie’s neck from behind, wrapping both arms about the spilling neck, choking it, trying to break it. Until this moment Bink could not have imagined himself killing his friend—but the vision of Chester’s demise was burning in his mind, and he had become an almost mindless killer.

Crombie gave a tremendous heave and threw him off. Bink dived in again, grabbing for the legs as Chester had, catching a hind one. Such a tactic could never have worked on the soldier in his human form, for Crombie was an expert hand-to-hand fighter; but he was in animal form, unable to use much of his highly specialized human expertise. To prevent the griffin from reorienting, Bink hauled hard on that leg, putting his head down and dragging the form across the rock.

“Don’t look!” Grundy cried. “The eye is ahead of you!”

Could he trust the golem? Surely not—yet it would be foolish to risk looking where the eye might be. Bink closed his eyes, took a new grasp, and with his greatest exertion yet, heaved the griffin over his head and forward. Crombie flew through the air—and didn’t land. He was flying again, or trying to! Bink had only helped launch him; no wonder the griffin had not resisted that effort!

“The eye is circling, coming in toward your face!” Grundy cried.

To believe, or not to believe? The first demonstrably false statement the golem made would betray his affiliation. So probably Grundy would stick to the truth as long as he could. Bink could trust him
because
he was an enemy agent, ironic as that seemed. He kept his eyes closed and shook out his robe. “Where?”

“Arm’s length in front of you!”

Bink spread the gown, held it in both hands, and leaped. He carried the material across and down. “You got it!” the golem cried. “Wrap it up, throw it in the lake!” And Bink did. He felt the tugging within the gown, and felt the slight mass of the captive eye; the golem had spoken truly. He heard the splash, and cautiously opened one eye. The gown was floating, but it was soaked through; anything caught in it would be finished.

Now he could look about. Crombie had flown only a short distance, and had fallen into a small crevasse; he was now wedged in its base, prevented by his wounds and weakness from rising. But the Magician had remained active. “One step, and I loose the sleeping potion!” he cried.

Bink had had enough. “If you loose it, you will be the first affected!” he said, striding toward Humfrey. “I can hold my breath as long as you can!” His sword was on the floor, where it had dropped from the griffin’s wounds. Bink paused to pick it up, wiping some of the blood off against his own clothing, and held it ready. “In any event I doubt it takes effect before I reach you. And if it does, the golem will not be affected. What side will he be on then? He’s part real, you know; the coral can never be certain of its control.”

The Magician jerked the cork out, refusing to be bluffed. The vapor issued. Bink leaped forward, swinging his sword as the substance coalesced—and struck a small bottle.

A bottle materializing from a bottle?

“Oh, no!” Humfrey cried. “That was my supply of smart-pills, lost for this past decade!”

What irony! The Magician had absentmindedly filed his smart-pills inside another bottle, and without them had been unable to figure out where he had put them. Now, by a permutation of the war of talents, they had shown up—at the wrong time.

Bink touched the Magician’s chest with the point of his sword. “You don’t need any smart-pill to know what will happen if you do not yield to me now.”

Humfrey sighed. “It seems I underestimated you, Bink. I never supposed you could beat the griffin.”

Bink hoped never to have to try it again! If Crombie hadn’t already been tired and wounded—but no sense worrying about what might have been. “You serve an enemy master. I can not trust you. Yield, and I will require one service of you, then force you back into the bottle until my quest is complete. Otherwise I must slay you, so as to render your brain coral helpless.” Was this a bluff? He did not want to kill the Magician, but if the battle renewed … “Choose!”

Humfrey paused, evidently in communion with some other mind. “Goblins can’t come; too bright, and besides, they hate the coral. No other resources in range. Can’t counter your check.” He paused again. Bink realized the term “check” related to the Mundane game King Trent sometimes played, called chess; a check was a direct personal threat. An apt term.