"Going somewhere?" the man asked pointedly.
Thorsby took another step back. "Uh, well, yes. More or less. Time to cancel the spell."
"Cancel the spell?" The huge man shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"Oh?" Thorsby's voiced squeaked. He cleared his throat. "Why not?"
"We get this chance very seldom. We shall not miss it."
"Chance for what, exactly?"
"To come out into the world. To be alive. Very tiresome simply to exist as potential, with no actuality."
"Oh. Yes, well, I'm afraid that can't be helped, old boy. You'll have to go back into your bottle or lamp or whatever. The whole lot of you, in fact. It was a bit of fun, but-"
"That will not happen, great one."
Thorsby made an effort to gather himself together. "See here. You're forgetting who the magician is, who's in charge of this whole charade."
"That is not forgotten, master. But these obligations are not one-sided. By giving us unlimited license, you have opened a door that is not easily shut."
Thorsby nodded. "I see, I see." He looked around. "Well, we'll just have a look at that grimoire. Around here someplace…" Thorsby got down on his knees and searched.
"You won't find it, master."
"Eh? I won't?"
"No."
"Oh. Well." Thorsby rose and dusted off his hands. "Then we'll throw a general cancellation spell on the whole affair and see what happens."
The turbaned man ran a thick finger delicately along the blade of his scimitar. "Master would not want to do that."
"And why not?"
"Because master would not get the second word out of his mouth if he uttered the first."
The turbaned man grasped the curving sword in both meaty hands and swished it about viciously.
"Does my master understand the full import of my words?"
Thorsby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yes. Quite."
The turbaned apparition smiled. "Meanwhile, your every wish will be indulged. Does my master wish anything?"
"A drink."
The man held out his hand. A goblet full of purple liquid appeared on his palm. He extended his arm toward Thorsby. "A drink for my master."
Thorsby took the goblet and drank. His eyes widened. "Why, this is super. Super! I've never tasted wine like iis. It's… well, I can't believe it, but it's better than the other stuff!"
"Only a foretaste of what is yet to come. I bid thee, sit, I divine Caesar. Disport thyself!"
"Enough of the Caesar bit, please. Let's go back to sultan, or caliph, or shah, or something. All this spilling of guts is making me queasy."
"Your slightest whim is graven in stone, great and wonderful master!"
Thorsby lay back down on the divan. He drank, and marveled again at the taste of wine.
Then his face lapsed into a worried frown.
"Grosmond is going to be ever so pissed off at us," he said.
WAR ZONE
Kwip flattened himself against the turf as more artillery shells fell in the vicinity of the clearing, not far away. He had been under fire once or twice before, but had never experienced the terror of these weapons. The explosions pierced his ears like crossbow bolts and the concussion was almost enough to knock him senseless.
Nevertheless he clung to consciousness until all was quiet once again.
When he thought it safe, he rose slowly. Now, to find the portal.
He was sure the magic doorway was very near. As best he could surmise, it lay directly across the clearing from where he had crouched in the underbrush, hiding from the lionthe lion which had never materialized. He had been walking straight back across the clearing when the bombardment started.
But the portal was nowhere in sight.
Was it possible that he could have got turned about widdershins? In that case, the portal would be directly across from where he was right now. But he could not be sure. No telling which way he had run.
The clearing was slightly oval, its border lacking distinguishable features. The shelling had put him in a dither; he was now completely disoriented. Perhaps if he crossed again-but he feared renewed shelling. He resolved, therefore, to keep to the wood, which offered some protection against the blasts.
Kwip drew his sword.
He made his way through the underbrush, keeping as close as possible to the edge of the clearing, yet still leaving a margin of safety. He ducked under low branches, pushed through tangles of vines and weeds. It seemed to be late spring here. The smell of wildflowers was in his nostrils, though he couldn't see any, not at the moment.
He tripped over an exposed root and stifled a curse. All was quiet; not even the birds had recovered their composure. No insects buzzed. He stopped, squatted, and peered out into the clearing. Lumps of raw, red clay had been thrown up by the explosions out of deep craters. He'd have to watch himself when and if he crossed again.
He moved on. At length he stopped again, now totally befuddled. Where was that confounded portal?
There came to his ears a strange whirring sound, and he could not for the life of him imagine what could be making it. He thought of a great metallic bird.
He was astonished when such a creature landed in the clearing. Well, "creature" it may have been, in a manner of speaking; it flew and had stubby wings and spindly legs or supports. It was made of some sort of metal, though a metal painted in stripes of brown and green. Yes, a strange thing to behold; but he was well aware that it was an infernal machine of some sort. It looked wickedly destructive, bristling with rods and other projections-armaments of some kind, he guessed.
The thing settled into the clearing, the shush-shush of its whirling blades strangely quiet. Its engines whined softly. Kwip had seen depictions of similar craft in books in the castle library. This specimen looked to be of a higher species. It was bulbous in parts, yet sleek and supple elsewhere. It had short wings, and the engines appeared capable of rotating from vertical to horizontal. He had never seen this particular craft depicted, but had seen its progenitors.
A hatch on the craft's side opened and metal men spilled out. Soldiers.
Kwip was astonished again. Were these human beings or mechanical men? They were completely encased in metaldappled, like the craft, in a strange mix of brown and green hues-from helmet to shoes. Yet they did not clank and lurch about; they moved as men, with but a faint hissing noise accompanying their movements. Six of them fanned out from the craft to take up defensive positions in a circle about it. They swung their weapons back and forth warily, on guard. Kwip could only imagine the coldly efficient eyes which lay hidden behind the dark glass that fronted their helmets. If indeed they had eyes at all.
The defensive circle widened, each soldier advancing radially. One was coming directly at Kwip, who now felt himself on the prickly horns of a dilemma. If he retreated, it would be into unknown territory, one torn by war. If he moved toward the clearing and the portal, he would be discovered and possibly shot.
He gave thought to retreating a safe distance and waiting for the invading troop to reboard the craft and fly away. But there was risk in that course of action as well. What if this lot were engaged in reconnoitering? They might be scouting the area in search of a suitable site for a camp. Unsettling thought, that. He'd never gain access to the portal. He would be stranded here, possibly forever.
No. Only one thing to do. Make a mad dash for it across the clearing, cutting cater-corner. They would no doubt fire at him, but Kwip prided himself on his fleetness of foot. He would at least have a sporting chance, he thought.
Suddenly, on the far side of the clearing, a sizzling bolt of fire erupted from one of the soldiers, emanating from the barrel of his arquebus, or whatever it was. The bolt hit the trees, sending flames skyward.