A Wizard in Chaos

CHAPTER 14

The Hawks screamed, their horses reared and turned, and the enemy line boiled in confusion for a minute.

Cort ached to turn and see, but held his eyes on the enemy. The Hawks did look, though, and froze. Lances of light sprang out, spearing Hawk soldiers, searing through their ranks like scythes. The Hawks screamed and fled.

“Lasers!” Dirk stared at the carnage.

The light rays pursued the Hawks relentlessly, but the voice called again, echoing with the hollowness of a tomb: “Let some escape, to tell the tale!”

“Amplified,” Dirk said.

Gar nodded. “Digital reverb.”

The rays shifted downward to score the horses’ hooves. In two minutes the whole squadron was gone, leaving half a dozen dead behind. The survivors galloped away, back down the road, as far from the Hollow Hill as they could get. Even the hounds turned tail and ran with fading howls of terror.

Cort went limp. “Thank our lucky stars! Your gamble worked, Gar!”

“Maybe not.” Dirk glanced over his shoulder. “Take a look behind you.”

Slowly, dread rising like a giant in the night, Cort turned, to look, and cried out in terror.

Gar turned, too, and stood staring.

An oblong door in the side of the hill had opened like an eye, filled with glaring light. Tall men stood silhouetted against that glare. They were more than six feet in height, much more, almost as tall as Gar, and the weapons in their hands weren’t swords.

As the three comrades stared, the light dimmed to little more than the moonlight itself. Corn blinked, trying to see through dazzled eyes. He could make out other lights floating in midair, of a gentle brightness and delicate color, some rose, some lavender, some the shade of new straw.

Beneath those lights came the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He gasped, amazed at their slenderness, their tallness, their delicate grace, their perfect straightness—and the equally perfect curvature of their figures. Their hair fell long and wild about their shoulders, some pale as new straw, some rich as red gold, some even perfectly white. Their skin, too, was pale, delicate as the petals of new rose blooms. Their eyes were huge, lustrous in the night; their cheekbones were high, their lips full and wide. They wore the simplest of gowns of gauzy cloth, fabric that shimmered and clung as they moved, more becoming than any confection a boss’s wife might wear—gowns that left rounded, soft arms bare in the moonlight, gowns that swept down to their ankles, revealing slender, graceful feet in gilded sandals, gowns that scooped low from their necks, to hint at voluptuous curves beneath. They were easily as tall as Dirk and Cort, perhaps taller.

Cort caught his breath, feeling himself go weak. The men were much like the women, fair-haired and lean, with high cheekbones, large eyes that seemed to glow in the reflected light of the floating lamps, hollow cheeks, and long, straight-nosed faces. Their hair hung long, below their collars, and they were dressed in doublet and hose with cloaks of rich, heavy fabric. Each wore a baldric holding a rapier and a dagger, but the weapons sheened with the golden tone of bronze. In their hands, though, they held things like crossbow stocks, though strangely elongated, squarish and bulky.

“These also bear weapons!” the sepulchral voice thundered. “Slay them, too!”

But, “Hold!” one of the women cried, raising a hand. Bold and daring, she stepped toward Gar, swaying, and held up a hand to stroke his cheek. “This one is as tall as we, and taller! Could he be a son of the Fair Folk?”

“With that black hair? Come, Maora!” one of the men said with scorn. His voice wasn’t amplified.

“Who knows what a changeling might grow into, Daripon?” Maora smiled languorously, and Cort could see Gar brace himself. “After all,” she went on, “we have given our babes to Milesian women for no better reason than having such hair as his.”

“Or for having such ugliness,” Daripon sneered. “Speak, intruder! Are you of the blood of the Fair Folk?”

“No changeling would know that,” Cort objected. “Silence, small man!”

Blood boiled, and Cort laid a hand on his sword. The crossbow stocks swung toward him, and he froze, having seen what those light lances could do.

Another of the women swung toward him, too, though shorter than the others, no taller than Cort himself. Her eyes were even wilder than those of the other women, and her face was a dream of loveliness, with delicate brows arching over violet eyes, a retrousse nose, and full ruby lips that smiled lazily in a broad invitation. “Hold your fire, Lavere,” she said, and placed a hand on Cort’s sword.

At her touch, he felt himself go weak, but the look in her eyes brought all his strength raging back, making the blood pound through his veins. How could he have ever counted Violet beautiful, when there was a face such as this in the world?

Except, of course, that she wasn’t really of his world …

“I shall keep this one,” she said. “He might prove amusing.”

“Don’t be a fool, Desiree!” Lavere said, reddening, and raised his rifle, sighting along the barrel. Cort yanked at his sword, but the woman’s hand tightened on his, holding it still with amazing strength for one so delicate in appearance.

“Hold!” the sepulchral voice snapped. “We need his blood for our pool!”

Lavere froze, then ever so slowly, ever so reluctantly, lowered his weapon.

“Do they speak of human sacrifice?” Cort demanded.

“Only the kind that you would die for,” Gar reassured him.

Cort relaxed a little, for Desiree was a woman he would die for indeed. He looked back into her eyes…

And was lost. He gazed into violet pools, felt all go dark about him save their glow, felt them envelop him, felt himself floating adrift in their coolness …

“Come back!” Gar commanded, and all at once the woman’s eyes were only eyes, he was aware of her face around those eyes again, and saw the Fair Folk behind her amid their glowing lights—but all dimly; only she seemed bright.

Dirk’s voice came to him distantly: “There’s some of this spell you can’t break.”

“Yes,” Gar agreed, “but that’s entirely natural.”

“He has the weirding way!” exclaimed another man of the Fair Folk. “He must be of our blood!”

“I can’t be,” Gar returned, “for I’m from a different world than yours. But I am a wizard, and so is my friend, though he’s a wizard of another kind, from yet another world.”

“That’s overstating the case,” Dirk objected. “Not if you know the words for our weapons and voice,” another Fair Man said, thin-lipped. “All the more reason to slay them out of hand, Aldor,” Lavere said bitterly, his gaze still on Cort.

“No, Lavere,” said Desiree, eyes all but devouring the lieutenant. “There is too much strange about them, too much we must learn of what they know. My lord duke, bring them in to question.”

“Yes, bring them in,” the sepulchral voice commanded. “We can always slay them there.”

The Fair Folk men stepped downhill to surround the companions, weapons trained on them.

“Our horses,” Gar reminded.

“Let them wander,” Lavere replied. “If you are fortunate, they will still be near in the morning. If you are even more fortunate, you may come forth to join them.”

“Enter!” the sepulchral voice commanded, and the Fair Folk stood aside from the still-glowing doorway.

Gar and Dirk hesitated, but Cort, gaze still rapt on his fairy, said, “You must always do what the Fair Folk command.”

“You must indeed,” she agreed, her voice throaty. She lifted a hand to touch his cheek, and his own hand darted to catch hers, but the featherlight palm was already gone, leaving a print behind that seemed to burn with gentle fire.

“I never argue with laser rifles,” Dirk said. “Especially when they’re pointed at me,” Gar agreed. “All right, then. Thank you, Fair Folk. We’ll be your guests for the night.”

“I just hope it’s a short one,” Dirk said, and followed Gar into the hill.

Cort was almost unaware of their going; he only went with his fairy, by her side, gaze still joined with hers, the blood in his veins singing with hope and desire.

Metal grated on metal. He whirled, hand on his sword, but only saw the door closing—though how strangely it closed! A huge, curved panel slid down from above while another slid upward from below, both flattening as they went until they met in a straight line with a metallic clash.

The touch that stung his blood was light on his hand, and he turned to gaze into Desiree’s face again. “There are many strange and wonderful things in this hill,” she said, her eyes mischievous. “You must not draw your sword at each new encounter.”

“If you say it, lady.” Cort took his hand away. “Only speak to me, and I will notice nothing else.” She laughed, a sound like a springtime brook. “How gallant, sir! Where did you gain such a silver tongue?”

Cort wondered about that, himself. He’d never been much of a man for the ladies before—but then, this wasn’t flirting. He meant every word.

The oldest of the Fair Folk, a man, took a medallion from about his neck and hung it on a velvetlined circular pad, as though it were a diamond on a tray. They were in a vestibule, magical in its decoration. The walls were smoothly curved and intricately patterned in the light of the floating lamps. The floor was carpeted, no design, but thicker and softer than any Cort had ever seen. The chamber was about eight feet square with an eight-foot ceiling.

Something whined behind him. Cort glanced back, marveling as metal spun outward to form a circular door opposite the outer portal. He smiled, the wonder of it all heightening the euphoria he felt as he glanced back at Desiree. She returned his smile, then followed the others through the door and on into the Hill, which meant Cort did, too, behind Dirk and Gar.

The Fair Folk men had to stoop as they came through the inner portal. Desiree followed the rest of the band through the inner door. Cort stepped through, too, and heard the whining again. Turning, he saw metal sliding in from the sides, making the doorway smaller and smaller, like the pupil of an eye in bright light. He shook his head in amazement, then turned to follow Desiree, and stepped into Fairyland indeed. Cort looked about him and caught his breath.

They were surrounded by marble buildings, none more than a story tall, with green grass forming broad lawns about them. The stone was pastel in its swirling patterns, and each house’s walls were pierced with broad windows glinting with glass. Cort had never known panes could be made so large, for not a single window was subdivided. The doorways were intricately carved, the panels bulging in bas-relief sculptures.

Gar and Dirk were tossing meaningless phrases at one another.

“How old is that style of hatch?” Dirk asked. “Iris doors went out of use three hundred years ago,” Gar said, “though my family archives said they were very popular for two centuries before that. I’m amazed it still works.”

“You know too much,” Lavere said sternly, but the duke commanded, his voice no longer sepulchral, “Let them speak. We must know how much they know.”

Dazed, Cort looked about him as they strolled down the street that led from the plaza. Now that his eyes were accustomed to it, he could see that the light really wasn’t as bright as it had seemed at first, but was soft and rosy, from lamps that rose from the roofs of all the houses. Garlands of flowers grew from the lawns, the roofs, the windows, the vines that climbed the corners of the dwellings. The air was warm, and sweet with the perfume of many blossoms. It invited a man to relax, to rest, to dally in love …

His gaze strayed to Desiree again. With a start, he saw she was watching him with a smile of amusement. “What think you of our hill, sir?”

“Wondrous,” Cort told her, “and everywhere beautiful—but nothing so beautiful as yourself.” She lowered her gaze demurely. “I think you praise me overmuch.”

“I speak only truth,” Cort breathed.

She looked up at him, a calculating, weighing gaze, but with a smile that was inviting nonetheless. Then she tossed her head and turned away. “Come, sir! We must attend the duke!”

They went on down the lane, and Cort wondered where the rest of the people were. But he followed Gar and Dirk steadily, even though they were making more of their meaningless noises.

“A domed city,” Dirk was saying, “left over from the colony days. Didn’t the history say the first colonists lived in domes while they were Terraforming the planet?”

“It did,” Gar confirmed. “Apparently not all of them felt the urge for the great outdoors.”

Dirk eyed one of the lamps at the top corner of a house. “Lighted by electricity, and I’ll bet there’s a nuclear generator busily breeding more reaction mass for itself. I hope it’s far underground.”

“It must be,” Gar said, “or the people would show a lot more mutation than they have.”

“Everything we’re seeing could be explained by genetic drift and good nutrition,” Dirk agreed. “I’ll bet each house has a vegetable garden and robots to till it, and the lamp’s emit imitation sunlight while the people sleep.”

“They wouldn’t want it while they’re awake, with those fair skins,” Gar agreed.

“Where did you learn these words, sir?” Maora asked, frowning.

“In school,” Dirk told her. “We’re from very far away.”

“In space or time? For you speak as good a Galactic Standard as we, though with a slight accent.”

“Do I really?” Dirk asked, looking up with interest. “Say, can you tell the difference between my accent and my friend’s?”

“It is noticeable,” Maora said, with an odd frostiness to her words. Her glance was concerned. Dirk decided to relieve her mind. “If only Magda were here to see these wonders with me!” he sighed, and promptly fell despondent.

“He loves a lady, then?” the woman asked, interested.

“Totally smitten,” Gar told her.

“That explains it, Maora,” another woman said, and to Gar, “No Milesian man can resist a woman of the Fair Folk. Therefore we know you for one of us.”

“Really?” Gar asked, amused. “How do you know I’m not just in love with the girl I left behind me?”

“If you were, your young friend’s state would make you sad, reminding you of your love,” Maora said, nodding toward Cort.

“I fear there’s some truth to that,” Gar sighed, glancing at the lieutenant. “What am I going to do with two lovesick comrades? Have pity, ladies! Tell your friend Desiree to free my companion from her spell!”

“She cannot,” Maora said simply. “His heart is hers; he is past her control in that.”

“But only in that,” Gar qualified.

Maora smiled, relaxing, almost gloating. “In all else, he will gladly do as she bids.”

Gar knew there were limits to that, but wasn’t about to bet on what they were.

As they came toward the center of the dome, the buildings grew taller, having more headroom. They began to hear music, reeds and strings, with an odd beat from softened drums that seemed to invade Cort’s head and work itself into his blood, until his heart beat to its rhythm. Finally they came to a palace that towered three stories high in the very center of the town. It was brightly lit both inside and out, and in the wide plaza before it, the Fair Folk were dancing—stately, courtly measures that were somehow also completely voluptuous.

“What make you of that, my friend?” Gar nudged Dirk.

“Hnnh?” Dirk tore an envious gaze away from Cort’s infatuated face and looked about him. “Hey! It’s the town square of the colony dome. And the courthouse, probably, or at least City Hall.” He inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what they’re serving for refreshments, but it smells delectable!”

Cort snapped out of his daze, turning to stare at them, appalled. “Don’t eat or drink anything! If you do, you’ll be in their power, and they can keep you as a slave or companion for twenty years!”

Amused, Desiree assured him, “Do not flatter yourself, mortal man. We would scarcely want you for so long a period.”

Cort turned to her, dismayed. She laughed at the look on his face, then, instantly contrite, touched his cheek and told him, “But if I did, be sure that you would want to stay, and we would have no need of enchanted food or drink.”

Cort let himself drift into her eyes and knew her words for truth.

“Indeed, you are far more likely to want to stay than we are to desire your presence,” Maora said, though the measuring look and sultry smile she gave Gar belied her words.

“Come, hero of daring.” Desiree turned, holding out her hands and making an invitation somehow into a challenge. “Are you bold enough to dance with a woman of the Sidhe?”

She pronounced it “shee,” and Cort grinned, taking her hands. “Bold enough for a she indeed!” Then they were off, whirling and turning as though they were thistledown in the wind, instantly lost in a world of their own, in which nothing existed except the music, and each other. Maora smiled, taking Gar’s hand. “Will you dance, too, sir?”

“I thank you, but shanks so long as mine are clumsy in such giddy measures… Trouble breathing, friend?”

Dirk’s whole body shook, as though strangling a coughing spasm. “Yes, you might say I had trouble swallowing something,” he wheezed.

A golden-haired boy as tall as Dirk’s shoulder came twisting through the crowd and bowed to them. He was already broad in the shoulder. “My lady, the duke wishes to speak with these Milesians.”