"What d' you mean by that?" Houghton demanded.
"That's going to be just a little difficult to explain," Wencit said, then shrugged. "If you want to stand here and keep pointing your weapon-I assume it is a weapon?-at me while we talk, I suppose we can do that. Or we can sit down by my fire over there and enjoy a mug of tea during the conversation, instead."
He twitched his head sideways, at the neat campfire burning in the carefully built turf fireplace and the warhorse tearing steadily at the tall grass to one side of the area he'd tramped down for his camp. Houghton's eyes followed the movement for an instant, then flicked back to Wencit.
"I think we will stand here, at least for now," he said. "And, yes. It's a weapon."
"I rather thought it must be." Wencit smiled crookedly. "I don't suppose I should have expected any other reaction out of you, especially under these circumstances." He waved one hand in a slight arc, indicating both the bizarre vehicle and the grasslands stretching away in all directions.
"No, you shouldn't. And," the other man's voice hardened slightly, "I'm still waiting for that explanation."
"So I see. Very well, the short version is that a friend of mine is about to run into a situation which is even more dangerous than he realizes. There's more going on than I suspect he knows, and his enemies are rather more powerful than he's been given cause to expect. I happen to have been following some of those enemies for reasons of my own, which is how I know what's happening. So, I cast a spell of summoning, seeking allies. Obviously it fastened on you, for some reason, although you and this peculiar . . . wagon of yours," he indicated the vehicle once more, "are nothing at all like what I expected to answer me."
Houghton understood the words just fine, despite the fact that they were obvious and arrant nonsense.
Stop that! he told himself. It may sound crazy, all right, but do you have any better explanation, Ken?
"What's a 'spell of summoning'?" he heard himself asking.
"It's a spell which is supposed to be very carefully keyed to a specific entity or type of entity," Wencit replied. "The caster-me, in this case-sets up the qualities and . . . personality, for want of a better word, for the entity he hopes to summon. The spell is designed to find someone-or, sometimes, something-which matches what the wizard has specified."
"And-assuming for a moment that I believed any of this-it just yanks whoever you point it at to where you want him, is that it?"
The sharp edge of anger, honed, undoubtedly, by perfectly understandable fear and confusion, was unmistakable, and Wencit shook his head.
"As a matter of fact, no," he said calmly. "I adhere to the Strictures of Ottovar, and the Strictures are very clear on that point. No wizard may coerce any other being or entity into obeying his demands except in certain very carefully specified instances of self-defense, or in equally specific instances of the defense of others. I have absolutely no idea why my spell might have brought you here so abruptly. In fact, it shouldn't have brought you here at all, unless you were willing to come."
"Well in that case," Houghton said grimly, "I suggest you just send Jack and me back where we came from, since it's for damned sure that neither one of us volunteered for this little excursion of yours."
"There's someone else in the vehicle?" Wencit's dismay wasn't at all feigned.
"Of course there is! You don't think I run the whole damned track by myself, do you?"
"I don't know," Wencit said frankly. "I don't know anything more about you and your vehicle or your companion than it would appear you know about sorcery. But the fact that someone else came with you is only one more indication that something must have gone badly awry with my spellcasting. I was seeking only a single individual."
"You were, huh? If this friend of yours is in such deep shit, why'd you only ask for one person to help out? What? You were expecting Clark Kent?"
"I have no idea who 'Clark Kent' might be," Wencit replied, wrapping his tongue around the odd-sounding name with care. "What I was hoping I might manage to convince to come help me was a gryphon."
"A gryphon?" Against his will, Houghton was beginning to believe the fiery-eyed old man was telling him the truth about how he, Mashita, and Tough Mama had gotten here. Wherever the hell "here" might be!
"You mean one of those lion-mixed-with-an-eagle critters?" He snorted a laugh. "Hell, why settle for something like that? Why not go whole hog and 'summon' a frigging dragon?"
"It takes too long to explain things to dragons," the oldster replied reasonably. "Or, rather, to convince them they ought to get involved. By the time they get done searching the time stream and philosophizing, it's usually too late to accomplish much. Then there's the little problem that most of them aren't very happy about having anything to do with even a white wizard these days. But mostly, frankly, because I needed something as powerful as I could get."
Houghton stared at him for a moment longer, then sighed. It was all totally insane, of course. Unfortunately, it actually seemed to be happening to him.
He slid the pistol back into the shoulder holster under his left arm. Then he removed his helmet and tucked his left elbow around it while the cool breeze swept over red hair still wet with Middle Eastern sweat.
"You realize, of course," he said conversationally, "that I think you're probably nutty as a fruitcake. On the other hand, I don't have any better explanation for what the hell is going on here. In fact, at the moment, you seem to be the only game in town when it comes to answers. And presumably, if you got us here, you can send us home again, too."
"Of course I can," Wencit agreed, and saw the other man relax, at least a little. "Unfortunately, I can't simply turn around and do it with a snap of my fingers," he continued, and grimaced mentally as the momentary relaxation disappeared.
"And why might that be?" Houghton growled suspiciously.
"It's a complex spell," Wencit said apologetically. "It takes time to prepare for it, and that's especially true in this case. Since you aren't remotely what or who I anticipated, I'll have to be very careful in specifying where you're supposed to go. It's my fault you're here, and if I send you home, that's where I want you to go. I certainly don't want to end up just dropping you into still another world that isn't yours."
"I see." Houghton knew his tone sounded grudging. Which, now that he thought about it, was just too bad. The old guy was right-it was his fault Houghton and Mashita had ended up wherever the hell they were. Still, he reminded himself, the other man-the wizard, he supposed-seemed to be willing to acknowledge his responsibility and do his best to make things right again.
"My name's Houghton," he heard himself saying. "Gunnery Sergeant Kenneth Houghton, U.S. Marines."
"Houghton?" the other man repeated, as if the name felt peculiar in his mouth. Then he shook himself. "Men call me Wencit of Rūm," he said.
"Well then, Wencit," Houghton said, "how soon can we get started on this 'complex spell' of yours?"