Just like that, the ball moved. The unicorns repeated the process, working it over the dirt and rabble and outside. It was a slow, difficult task, but they worked well and kept the ball crunching forward.
Goblins burst in from the spiral tunnel. Stile, Sheen, and the bearhead, the cyborg, and the remaining golem turned to face them, protecting the unicorns' flanks. The goblins, seeing only three motley opponents, charged — and discovered the hard way that there were five. In this cramped, littered space, it was a fair match.
Then the ball nudged over the brink and started rolling down the slope in the direction Stile had dictated. The unicorns, their task done, turned to face the goblins — who suddenly lost their eagerness to fight, seeing the odds shift so substantially.
"Mount!" Stile cried, trusting the unicorns to cooperate. "Follow that ball!" And he leaped onto the nearest steed — who happened to be Belle. She spooked, never before having borne a rider, but heard Clip's musical clarification and immediately settled down. Sheen took the golem and mounted Clip, and the bearhead and cyborg mounted the remaining two. They charged down the slope.
For an instant Stile was daunted by the improbability of it alclass="underline" a man, a cyborg, a robot, an animalhead, and a wooden golem, all riding unicorns through a battlefield strewn with goblins and dragons, pursuing an invaluable ball of power-rock that rolled along a channel cleared by plastic explosive. What a mishmash!
Mishmash? No — this was juxtaposition. The complete mergence of magic and science. He should enjoy it while it lasted, for it would not last long. Already he thought he felt the influence of the Platinum Flute weakening, as the strength of the Foreordained became exhausted.
Belle was a fine steed, running smoothly and swiftly, her lovely mane like silk in his grasp. But of course she was smooth; she had won the Unolympics dance event! "Belle, I thank thee for this service," he breathed, knowing she heard him despite the rush of air and booming of the passage of the Phazite ball, for her left ear rotated toward him. "I will try to do thee some return favor, when I can." And she made a faint bell-melody in response.
Meanwhile, the ball was gathering velocity. It crunched down the hill, leaving its smooth, small channel. Where bodies were in the way, they too were flattened. The Phazite was ponderous and inexorable, crushing everything in its path. The live goblins, seeing its onrush, scattered out of its way in alarm. This was the sensible thing to do.
The four unicorns galloped after it, losing headway as the ball rolled down the steepest section of the slope. All the goblins were watching it now, seeing its passage through the erstwhile barriers. For them, this progress was disaster.
But Stile knew the war was not over. Several barriers remained in place, and the slope reversed farther to the north. Stile's big gamble was with the giants and the route. If he had judged all aspects correctly, he would win — but at this moment he was in severe doubt.
The ball encountered the standing barrier wedges and blew them apart. They had not diverted it perceptibly, and seemed not to have slowed it, but Stile knew crucial impetus had been lost. Would the ball carry far enough?
Now the terrain was gently rolling, largely clear of trees. Stile had planned this carefully on the map. The ball sailed up the slope, and down, and onward. It was right on target. But it was slowing, as it had to, for the incidental resistance of the miles was cumulative.
The Proton-frame terrain, unobtrusive so far because of its barrenness, suddenly became prominent in the form of a cluster of force-field domes. The isolated estates of Citizens, perhaps occupied at the moment, perhaps not. There was a peculiar appeal to such technology set in such an absolutely barren environment, a nugget of complete wealth in complete poverty, like a diamond in sand.
Strange that he should see it this way, Stile thought — then realized that it was in fact the perspective of his other self, to whom the entire frame of Proton was a novelty, much as the frame of Phaze was to Stile. What was commonplace to Stile was a miraculous new discovery to Blue.
The ball was rolling toward a linked trio of small domes. The connecting tubes arched high, leaving sufficient clearance below to pass the Phazite-but the ball eschewed that obvious passage to crash right into the westernmost dome. The dome disappeared as its force-field generator was taken out, leaving the serfs gasping in expectation of the sudden decompression. But there was the Phaze atmosphere, here in the juxtaposition; they discovered to their surprise that they could breathe quite well outside. It was every bit as real as the ball, of course.
One serf ran blindly out in front of Stile's steed; Belle tried to swerve, but the serf's erratic course made avoidance uncertain. "Serf — turf!" Stile sang, willing the message. He wanted the man to be removed to a safe spot, suitable turf. Nothing happened, and he realized that Sheen's repressive enchantment against Adept spells remained in force. Fortunately Belle managed to miss the man, and they galloped on past the domes. Just as well the magic hadn't worked; the enemy Adepts would be casting spells furiously now, trying to sidetrack the Phazite, to conjure imposing barriers or trenches in its path, and Sheen's counterspell was the only protection against this.
It was not hard to keep up with the ball now as it slowly lost velocity. Had Stile started it at a different angle, it could have proceeded down a long valley and maintained speed. But he had elected to go the more difficult, surprising route, gambling the fate of the frames on his hunch. The giants should be arriving soon, and the other thing — he would not say, lest it be overheard.
The slope changed, and the ball slowed more definitely. This was the beginning of the rise he knew would balk it. No goblins were in evidence; he had at least been successful in fooling them. Probably there was a huge concentration at the other route and many barriers, pits, and various obstructive things. If the giants arrived in time, there would be no trouble.
At last the ball stopped, settling into a soft pocket so firmly that it was obvious that their present force could not budge it. They rode up and paused beside it. "What now, Stile?" Sheen inquired with a certain unrobotic edge.
"You unicorns change suits and fly up and see if you can spot the giants," Stile said. "They should be close now. Tell them we need help in a hurry."
The four unicorns shifted immediately to their airborne forms and zoomed into the sky. "I'll check too," Stile said to Sheen. "Project my image in a fast survey around the area."
She did. Soon he verified that the goblins were indeed massed at the valley route in horrendous number — but already they were marching toward the ball's present location. It would not be long before they got there. The giants just had to get there first!
The unicorns were successful. In a moment, three of the towering giants appeared, striding across the horizon, their heads literally lost in the clouds. They had been following the progress of the ball with giant field glasses, so had been ready to intercept it when it was stopped.
Stile had Sheen terminate their spells of invisibility and protection against attack, as these were no longer useful or necessary. Now Stile needed to be seen, to help organize the giants for their giant effort.
Soon the giants were using huge metal canes to propel the ball forward, up the slope, following the route Stile dictated. The giants enjoyed this; it was like a giant game of pool, knocking the tiny but extremely solid ball along. If they did it improperly, their pool cues broke, which was inconvenient.
The first elements of the goblin army arrived too late; the ball was well on its way. Stile and his companions were galloping after it.
Now, Stile thought, was the critical time. If the canny goblin commander did what Stile expected him to-