Were the circumstances otherwise. Stile would have done just that. Neysa had waited years for just this opportunity, and Stile wanted no avoidable quarrel with anyone. But Neysa believed—and now Stile agreed—that he needed her on his quest for his murderer. Not merely to ride, for he could now move himself, but as an essential back-up. Surely his enemy would prove far more formidable than the Worm of the Purple Mountains cavity, and Stile had barely prevailed against the Worm even with the Platinum Flute. Neysa’s presence could have made the difference, there. He could not free her by giving up his quest, because it was his own murderer he sought. That person had to be brought to justice—and no one else would do it if Stile did not. So for the sake of Neysa’s desire as an oath-friend, and his own intermediate-term security, he had to keep her with him, and that meant putting down the Herd Stallion. Put more succinctly: he had to crush the pride of an honorable creature, to win the right of another creature to sacrifice her ambition of dam-hood and risk her life for him. Some pride! A bat fluttered up and landed before him. It shifted to man-form. No long canine teeth, no horrific eyes; this was an ordinary, slightly pudgy brown-haired man of middle age.
‘Thou art Blue?” the vampire inquired diffidently.
“I am he,” Stile responded guardedly. “I seek no quarrel with thy kind.”
“I am Vodlevile. I encountered thine ogre-friend. Hulk, and thereafter through thine intercession the Yellow Adept did forward to me a potion that cured my son. I owe thee—“ Stile put up a disclaiming palm. “It was in abatement of Hulk’s debt to thee for the help thou didst give him in the course of his mission for me. Thou hast no debt to me. I am glad to hear of thy good fortune, and I wish thee and thy son well.”
“I helped Hulk from mere camaraderie,” Vodlevile protested. “Repayment for that were an insult.” He paused. “No offense. Adept; a figure of speech.”
“Understood,” Stile said, liking this creature. “Yet would I have helped thy son regardless, had I known of his condition. The Lady Blue is a healer, and it is ever her pleasure to help the creatures of Phaze. Can I do less?”
“Apology,” Vodlevile said. “I spied thy Lady not. I recognized thee from thy music on the Flute, forgetting her. A greeting to thee, fair one.”
“And to thee, sociable one,” the Lady Blue replied. She turned to Stile. “We ask no recompense for the work we do, yet neither do we deny the proffered gratitude of those we help.”
Stile smiled. “Methinks I have been directed to accept what thou mayst proffer, though I feel thou hast no obliga-tion.”
“I bring naught tangible,” the vampire said. “If there is anything I may do for thee—“
“What I must do, no one can do for me,” Stile said gravely.
“What is that?”
“I must match the Herd Stallion in fair combat.” Stile quickly outlined the situation.
“Why, sir, that is merely a matter of face. We vampires, being naturally stealthy, have ready means to handle such questions.”
“You vampires must be smarter than I am,” Stile said ruefully.
Then Vodlevile explained the recommended strategy. Stile clapped the heel of one hand to his forehead. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “There is no better service thou couldst have done me than this simple advice.” The vampire made a gesture of satisfaction.
“Every time I see my son change form and fly, I think of Blue.” He shifted back to bat-form and flew away.
“Thou art very like my Lord,” the Lady Blue murmured. “His friendships were many, his enmities few.” Except for the enemy who killed him. Stile thought bleakly. That one had undone all the rest. The final match was decided and the victorious unicorn paraded off the field. Now it was time for the special event —Herd Stallion vs. Blue Adept—in a combat supposedly immune to magic.
The Herd Stallion strutted out, resplendent in his natural color and musculature. Stile started forward, but found himself restrained by the Lady Blue’s hand. He turned to her, uncertain what she wanted.
She was always beautiful, but at the moment she seemed to him to be transcendentally lovely. “Go with care, my Lord,” she said, and somehow it was the greatest compliment he could have imagined.
“I thank thee. Lady,” he said. Then he proceeded on out to meet the Stallion, carrying the Platinum Flute. The unicorns formed a great ring around the two, sealing off external magic. They thought Stile would be unable to draw on the background power, and ordinarily this would be true. But the Oracle had enabled him to nullify that nullification. This was the real debt he owed Hulk, for Hulk had donated his one lifetime question to the Oracle for Stile’s benefit; that was why Stile had taken Hulk’s debt of a favor on himself. Now the vampire had repaid it, and by Stile’s logic he owed a major favor to Hulk. Perhaps his gift of the pursuit of the Proton-self of the Lady Blue had abated that; perhaps not. He remembered that he had agreed to Hulk’s visit to the Oracle at the subtle behest of the Lady Blue, who had been aware of what was developing. She had acted to defuse the issue before it came to Stile’s attention. So where was the right of it? Stile knew he would have to think about the matter some more; right was not always simple to ascertain. Yet such deliberations were always worthwhile. Now he stood in the center of the huge arena, before the Stallion. The contrast in their sizes was striking; a large equine, a very small man. But there was no snicker from the audience, for Stile was the Blue Adept. First he had to establish his power, making it instantly and compellingly evident to the entire assembly. That was the first stage of the vampire’s excellent advice. He had to prove that the ring of unicorns could not impinge upon the Blue Adept’s practice of magic. At the moment, only a few understood the full properties of the Platinum Flute, like the Yellow Adept; after the demonstration, everyone would know.
Stile brought out the Flute. The Herd Stallion waited, as if curious to see what his opponent was up to. Stile played. Again the enchanting melody poured forth, the finest sound a flute could make. The unicorns listened raptly, yet perplexed. How could mere music stop the great Stallion?
When the magic had gathered. Stile halted and went into a singsong spelclass="underline" “Show us the story of the Dragon’s Tooth, from death to bloom, from birth to youth.” But the real shaping of it was in his mind; the words only initiated the sequence.
In the sky a dot appeared. It expanded rapidly into the shape of a dragon, with six legs, six wings, and a tremendously toothed mouth. A shadow almost the size of the entire arena fell as the monster crossed the sun. The unicorns looked up, alarmed; seldom did any dragon approach a unicorn herd, and this one was the largest ever seen locally.