The Trials of Lance Eliot (2 page)

At this point my courage failed me.

“I understand,” I mumbled.

The Skeleton looked at the clock. “I have an appointment elsewhere, but I am not yet finished with you. Come to my office tomorrow. Eight o'clock sharp.”

It was as though a great weight were lifted from my shoulders. “I'm sorry, but I'm leaving Oxford this afternoon,” I said, trying to look penitent. “I've already booked the six o'clock train for Reading. For the holiday, you know. I won't be back for three weeks.”

My professor grimaced. “Very well,” he said. “You will see me in my office the first day after the Christmas holiday. I will not forget, Eliot. You may go.”

“Yes sir,” I replied, then turned and fled.

I stepped out of the building, cringing in the gale that blasted from an iron sky. I had escaped the dragon's den and was a free man—but only until the holiday was over. An image of the Skeleton's cadaverous grin passed through my mind, and I shuddered. I thrust my hands into my pockets, stumbled down the steps and took off down the sidewalk. I needed a drink.

There were several pubs in the neighborhood, all packed with chattering students. I might have joined them under happier circumstances, but the session with my professor left me desperate for peace and quiet. A sudden gust threatened to snatch away my hat and send it spiraling into the sky. Drat the wind, I thought, holding the hat to my head. Drat literary criticism, drat the Skeleton and drat his wretched grin!

In this gloomy state of mind, I happened to glance down an alleyway and notice a large sign hanging over the street.
The Red Lion Public House
was emblazoned on it in bold red letters. I strode to the window and peered inside. There were only a few customers, none younger than sixty. My annoyance vanished instantly, supplanted by an urgent desire for a hot Scotch and lemon.

I burst through the door, drawing disgruntled looks from two old men playing dominoes in a corner. The proprietor peered irritably at me from behind the bar. “What do you want?”

“Hot Scotch and lemon,” I said, laying down a few coins. I took my drink, found a booth by the window and sat down. It had begun to snow. Checking the clock above the bar, I realized my train wouldn't leave for an hour and a half. I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, lit one and gulped down the smoke. Except for the gentle
click
,
click
,
click
of the dominoes, all was silent.

Perhaps I'll stay here a while, I thought. This pub is cozy and warm, and there's no need to fetch my luggage immediately and wait on a freezing railway bench when I can pass the time comfortably indoors. Laying down my cigarette, I took my cup and raised it in a toast. Here's to a long holiday, I thought. With that I closed my eyes, lowered the cup to my lips and disappeared from the sphere of this world.

The moments that followed are difficult to put into writing. There was an overpowering roar. Alarmed, I opened my eyes and watched the pub dissolve into shadows. The ground fell away from beneath my feet. I seemed to be suspended in a void, dim shapes and glints of light passing by in a rush. The jumble of light and sound made me feel sick. I closed my eyes again.

The roar grew louder and then faded away to silence. As the noise died away, I became aware of something solid beneath me. It was very uncomfortable. I opened my eyes, sat up and groaned. My vision was blurred and my body felt weak. What in blazes had just happened? Was I drunk? I didn't recall so much as tasting my Scotch and lemon.

If I haven't finished my drink, I mused, this would be an excellent time to do so.

My surroundings came slowly into focus. The first thing I noticed was a sack of flour slumped on the floor nearby. Further investigation revealed strings of onions hanging from the ceiling, barrels standing in a neat row, jars of vegetables lining shelves and other foodstuffs lying about the room. It was evidently a storeroom of some kind. My Scotch was nowhere to be seen.

A gasp rang through my aching head. I turned around. A young woman of eighteen or nineteen stood a few feet away, staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and shock. She wore something like a Japanese kimono. My muddled mind couldn't quite reconcile it with her hair, which was auburn, or her eyes, which were blue.

We gaped at each other in silence, and then she spoke in an unfamiliar language. I shook my head. Two things happened at that exact moment: a hand grasped my shoulder and a jolt of energy pulsed through my body like electricity. I gave a shout. The hand released my shoulder.

Then, to my amazement, I distinctly heard the woman ask, “Are you Lancelot?”

“Ugh?” I replied.

“Are you the hero Lancelot? The knight of Camelot?”

“No,” I said. Then, to break the silence, I added, “My name is Lance Eliot.”

“Oh,” said the woman. There was a pause, and then she burst into tears.

“Pardon me,” said another voice. A man stood at the back of the room, gazing at me with an apologetic expression. “There has been a mistake,” he said.

“You don't say?” I mumbled.

“Please wait a moment,” said the man. He walked to the back of the room, opened a door and spoke with someone outside.

At this instant I fell—finally—into merciful unconsciousness.

2

WHAT LANCE FINDS THERE

I AWOKE ON A small cot. My head hurt and my throat was dry. If I get up, I thought drowsily, I might find something to drink. Simple. With an effort I lifted myself off the cot, stood for a moment and then collapsed onto the floor. It took four more attempts to stand. Leaning against the wall, I rubbed my hind parts and looked around.

The room was built of pale gray stone and furnished with a table, two chairs and the flimsy wooden cot. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling above the table. I looked in vain for a bottle or pitcher. No drink. I staggered to the door and tried the knob. Locked. I turned my gaze to the walls. No windows. I cursed and reached into my pocket for a cigarette. Empty. I cursed again, lurched to the cot and lay down. My headache began to fade away.

I had just begun to doze when the door crashed open. I sprang to my feet, swayed like a tree in a strong wind and fell back onto the cot. The man who had spoken to me earlier had entered the room and stood opposite the table. “I am sorry for startling you,” he said. “I did not mean to make you fall over. Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine,” I growled. “I landed on the cot—this time.”

“Your strength will soon return,” said the man. “In the meantime, would you do me the honor of accepting a cup of tea?” He motioned toward the table, where someone had set a teapot and two cups.

I can hardly describe my surprise. His request wasn't strange. It was rather commonplace, in fact, but to hear such an ordinary question under such extraordinary circumstances was bizarre. It was as though a native in a remote Amazonian village had asked to borrow five pounds. Unable to reply, I opened and closed my mouth several times like a goldfish.

“Excellent,” said the man, taking a chair. “Please sit down. I must apologize for confining you in this room. It was a necessary precaution, I assure you.”

“What's going on?” I demanded, finding my voice. I sank into the other chair and fixed the man with what I hoped was an accusing stare. “Where am I?”

“That is what I have come to explain,” said the man. He poured tea into a china cup and pushed it across the table. “You are confused, and we owe you an explanation.”

He was in his late fifties, with a neat beard and gray hair tied up in a topknot. His features were unmistakably Asian. He would have looked just like a samurai if his expression hadn't been so grandfatherly.

“Are we in Japan?” I blurted. “Korea? China?”

The man laughed. “I have never heard of these places. Tell me, Lance Eliot, from what world have you come?”

I hadn't the slightest idea.

“What kind of a question is that?” I asked.

“A simple one, I hope. What world are you from?”

“I—I don't know—the world—terra firma—Planet Earth!”

“Ah, you come from Terra,” said the man, nodding sagely.

“Where the devil am I?”

“You have been summoned by magic to the kingdom of Rovenia.”

“What?!” I yelled, standing up and knocking over my chair.

“You seem to have spilled your tea,” said the man. “Allow me to pour you another cup.”

“Rovenia?” I whispered. “
Magic?
”

The man rose and set my chair upright. “Please sit down,” he said, returning to his own chair. “I have not introduced myself. My name is Kana Shoukan. You, of course, are Lance Eliot.”

“I—yes, but—it can't—it can't be,” I stammered.

“You are wondering why you are here?”

“Obviously.”

“Well,” he began, stroking his beard. “It is a long story. You were summoned by Maia Lufian, a Vocomancer-in-training.”

“Vocomancer?”

“Vocomancy is the kind of magic by which people or things are pulled from one place or dimension to another,” he explained. “Do you have any sort of magic in Terra?”

“No,” I said. My head had begun to ache again.

“Then I must tell you about magic as well. You see—what is it?”

A man in a black uniform had entered the room. He saluted, glanced at me and said to Kana, “General Shoukan, the governor is asking for you.”

“I apologize,” said Kana, setting down his teacup. “I must go.”

“You're a general?” I asked. “In the military?”

“Yes, a general in the military,” he said with a laugh. “Age may have damaged my good looks, but it has not yet impaired my ability to give orders.” He became serious. “Please stay here. I will send someone to show you around the city. Lance Eliot, we are at your service. I will return as soon as I can, and then your questions will be answered.”

He left the room. I sat rigidly in my chair for a moment, then drank my tea and stood. My legs were already steadier than they had been. I paced the room a few times, returned to my chair and put my head in my hands.

I couldn't believe it. Magic? Surely not. It made no sense—but then, nothing that had happened made sense. I took a few deep breaths. If I was going to figure this out, I had to be logical. Could this be a dream? I pinched myself hard, swore and concluded I was not dreaming. Could this be an elaborate joke? It was not likely. Nothing short of intense fever or strong hallucinogens could have induced my weird journey through swirling lights and shadows.

Some clever fellow (I think it was either Aristotle or Sherlock Holmes) once remarked that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. What other possibilities were there? I could think of none, but could it really be
magic
?

At that moment my musings were interrupted by a knock.

I rose from the table and opened the door, expecting another military officer. It was the young woman whom I had met earlier. “It's you,” I blurted.

“Here to serve,” she said. “Kana asked me to show you around. Please come with me.”

I followed her along a corridor, up some stairs, into a parlor, up more stairs and through a door into sunshine. I sneezed repeatedly. As my blinking eyes adjusted to the light, I realized we were standing on a terrace. “Take a look,” said my guide with a sweep of her arm. I gave a final sneeze and looked.

We stood at the summit of a great hill, upon which was built a beautiful city of stone. Rows upon rows of houses reached down to a great wall. Here and there were parks and gardens, splashes of green grass and yellow autumn leaves against the gray stone. Paved streets, connected by flights of steps, ran round and round the hill from its base to its peak. A lake lay beyond the city wall. Beyond the lake, ordered fields gave way to hills, which grew until they became mountains on the horizon.

“Welcome to Faurum, the Golden City,” said the woman.