|
"Uh-oh," Stile
murmured. "Can't hide from that.
But the Stallion was burning
hot from his exertions. He looped about, aimed his snout at the pursuing
griffin, and exhaled a searing shaft of fire.
The griffin squawked as it
was enveloped in flame. The blaze of its burning wings lit up the entire
cavern. It tumbled down to the water, smoking feathers drifting after
it.
But the next sending was
another dragon, a big one. Its chest pumped like a bellows, building up
pressure for a devastating blast that would incinerate Stile and the
Stallion. The enemy was now fighting fire with fire.
The hawk winged at it, too
small and fast for the dragon to catch or avoid. The dragon ignored the
bird, knowing nothing that size could dent its armored hide. The
enormous metal-foil wings beat swiftly, launching the dragon forward.
The hawk dived, zeroing in
on the dragon's head. Stile could only watch with dismay, knowing Clip
was throwing away his life in a useless gesture, a diversionary effort
that was not working. He could not even think of a preventive spell on
this too-brief notice.
The dragon opened it
monstrous mouth to take in the tiny missile--and Clip changed abruptly
to unicorn-form. He struck horn-first, piercing the dragon's head, his
horn passing from inside the throat right between the eyes and out,
penetrating the little brain on the way.
The strike was so unexpected
and powerful that the monster simply folded its wings and expired. It
plummeted to the water, while Clip changed back to hawk-form and flew
clear. "Well done!" Stile cried, amazed and gratified.
Now for a time there were no
more sendings. But Stile knew worse attacks were in the offing. His
party had to get out of the chasm--and could not. Already they were
close to the nether water. He had to relieve the Herd Stallion of his
weight--yet was sure that the one enchantment the enemy Adepts would
have blocked would be a personal transport-spell. They were trying to
force Stile to use it--and launch himself into oblivion.
The Stallion sent forth more
fire, just enough to light the way. The dark water below reflected with
slight iridescence, as if oily. Stile mistrusted that. He didn't want
the Stallion to fall into the liquid. He would have to risk magic. Not
transport, of course; something unexpected.
The hawk had been circling.
Now he came back, squawking news. Over and over he cried it, until Stile
was able to discern the word. "Curtain!" Stile cried. "The curtain is
ahead?"
That was it. Now Stile had a
better alternative. "Fly low, Stallion, and I'll pass through the
curtain. Then thou and Clip can fly up and escape in the night. They
want thee not, only me, and soon thou canst return to thy herd. I'll
climb up on the Proton side, where magic can't reach me." Of course
there would be other problems across the curtain, but he would handle
them in due course.
The Stallion was in no
position to argue. He glided low--and there in the dark was the
scintillation of the curtain, crossing the chasm. "If there's any sort
of ledge--I don't want to drop too far."
There was no ledge. It would
have to be the water. They intersected the curtain, and Stile spelled
himself across. |
