R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

“Leave naive spiritual fantasies out of this,” he huffed. “I know you, Mr. Shank-have known men like you all my life. Something happens which you can’t readily explain and you yell ‘miracle’ and fall on your knees to recite hollow prayer verses.”

“You got a better explanation?” Billy retorted.

“All of this and still you doubt?” Doc Brady added.

Reinheiser stroked his goatee. “Have you considered that this entire episode might be part of an elaborate deception?”

“Yeah, right,” Billy muttered, echoing Brady’s sentiments exactly.

Del tuned out of the heightening argument. He considered any discussions of Calae to be pointless. He didn’t understand everything that was going on, but that wasn’t important, for Del knew instinctively that the science and rationale of his time offered no explanations for what had occurred. Logic, as they understood it, did not apply here. So Del broke through the limitations imposed by his inadequate knowledge and experience and released himself to the boundless acceptance of his imagination. He embraced Calae’s tale and this new world, not with his mind, but with his heart.

Ignoring the others, he turned his attention to the sword at his side. A sense of wonderment engulfed him as his trembling fingers felt the exquisite detail in the hilt. This came from no assembly-line mold. Its delicate designs were crafted with the patient workmanship and love of caring hands. He marveled at the sword, not as a weapon, but as a symbol. Something about it set his imagination free to wander in lands of soaring dragons and dark dungeons of treasure and danger. And, of course, beautiful maidens waiting to be rescued from loathsome beasts by him, the Hero, or better still, of warrior women, fighting beside him. Consumed with his fantasy, he drew the sword from its scabbard and swung it about slowly, getting used to the feel of its perfect balance.

The sounds of the argument suddenly stopped and Del realized that all eyes were upon him. He tried to hide his embarrassment behind a screen of comedy.

“Goblins!” he roared, a smile fighting through his serious facade. “Bring on the goblins!” He tightened his muscles into a Hollywood-mimicking fighting pose and grimaced away his growing smile.

“Talons!” Billy corrected lightheartedly.

“Bring them, too,” Del clowned. “For my vengeance is great and my sword is hungry!” He thrust the weapon to the sky in triumph.

“Hey, jerk!” the captain shouted, in no mood for games. “Put the toy away.”

That stole a bit of Del’s bluster.

“Swords,” Mitchell spat. “I’d trade the whole lot of them for one rifle. Or even a stupid pistol, for that matter.”

At the mention of the word “pistol,” Del instinctively grabbed at his shirt pocket and felt the familiar bump of the derringer.

“I-” Del began reflexively as he fingered the bullet, about to tell the others. But then he realized the implications, remembered the frightening image of Mitchell on the beach, wild-eyed and bordering on delirium with the power afforded him by his superior weapon. Best that the derringer remained his own little secret.

“What?” Mitchell snarled in open contempt.

“Nothing,” Del answered quietly, hoping the issue would be dropped. Mitchell glared, scrutinizing him and, Del understood, searching for some further excuse to vent his frustration.

“I told you to put that damn sword away!” Mitchell raged. “When I give you an order, you jump, mister!”

Now satisfied that he had put his junior officer in place, Mitchell’s need for power and domination seemed temporarily satiated. He turned to Reinheiser. But this time Del wasn’t going to let him have the last word.

“Not again,” he said under his breath. “Time to get some things straight.” And as Mitchell swung back at Del to blast him for mumbling, Del looked him square in the eye and asked firmly, “Why?”

“Why what?” Mitchell demanded incredulously.

“Why do you give the orders?” Del asked as calmly as he could, taking extra care to make sure there wasn’t even a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“You got guts,” Billy whispered to Del, even as he took a cautious step away from his doomed friend.

The imposing captain approached, but Del held his ground. “If the country blew up twelve hundred years ago, the Navy, and NUSET, went with it.”

Mitchell listened unblinking, his muscles corded dangerously, on the verge of an explosion.

But Del had committed himself and felt he had to finish his point. “We’re civilians.”

Pure outrage reflected clearly on Mitchell’s contorting face. The others stared in disbelief. The captain turned to them and pretended to relax, grinning wickedly as he heard Del’s relieved sigh behind him. “Did you hear him?” the captain asked calmly, his smile broadening. “He wants to know why I’m in charge.”

Suddenly, he wheeled back, the masking grin torn away by a snarl of unbridled rage so wicked that the blood drained from Del’s face. “I’ll tell you why,” Mitchell growled, and thwop! his huge fist smashed into Del’s jaw.

Del reeled backward under a wave of dizziness. His knees wobbled but he refused to let them buckle. “I’m not going down,” he groaned softly, and by sheer determination he held his balance. Then thwop! came the second blow, and Del felt the warmth of the blood running freely from his nose.

“I’m not going down” he grunted angrily, covering his face with his arms just as Mitchell began unloading punches on him. The others quickly jumped in and separated the two.

“Enough!” Mitchell shouted, and he pulled away from Billy and Brady. “It’s over!” He pointed ominously at Del. “You’re asking for more trouble than you can handle, pal.”

Del kept his eyes averted but couldn’t ignore the threat.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Doc Brady said, holding Del’s head back to stop the flow of blood from his nose.

“I wasn’t going down,” Del said with grim pride, firmly convinced that he had achieved a victory without throwing a punch.

“Maybe you should have,” the pragmatic doctor replied. “He probably wouldn’t have hit you again.”

“That’s not the point!” Del retorted, frustrated that Brady apparently didn’t share his dedication to principle. “We’re civilians now. We can’t let him push us around!”

“Humor him, Del,” Brady advised. He looked back over his shoulder as he started away. “Or he’s going to kill you.”

“Yeah, right,” Del muttered, too low for anyone to hear, and he gradually rejoined the others. Mitchell eyed him threateningly, but again Del didn’t return the look.

“How do you figure all of this?” Mitchell asked Reinheiser, the captain apparently satisfied that his fight with Del had come to a temporary halt-just a plateau, they both knew, and they knew, too, that they would be climbing much higher before too long.

The physicist shrugged. “I have no answers for you.”

“Well, then what the hell do you suggest we do?” Mitchell snapped, his expression showing mounting frustration.

“What can we do?” Reinheiser answered. “We cannot stay here, and I’ve no desire to go back to the beach and meet those creatures again.”

“Only one choice left,” Brady cut in.

“Play along, Captain,” Reinheiser advised. “Go east as the being instructed us. Perhaps our answers are there.”

Mitchell closed his eyes in dismay; he had feared that advice. To him, going along with this game meant accepting it as real, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. “Okay,” he finally said, out of options. “Then let’s get going. Shank, take the point, and Doc, you and him-” He motioned at Del. “-bring up the rear.” The situation may have had Mitchell confused, but he was still shrewd in handling his crew. He knew that he had to keep Del and Billy as far apart as possible if he was to maintain control.