Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

Two more ogres came into view. The five lumbered down upon the woman and unicorn. Clip launched himself at the closest, lowering his horn, skewering the monster through the center.

The ogre was so heavy the unicorn could not lift it; Clip had to back away, extricating his horn, shaking the monster’s blood from it. But the ogre was mortally wounded; brown pus welled from the wound, front and back, and the creature staggered and fell with a crash like that of an uprooted tree.

Meanwhile, the remaining creatures had reconverged on the Lady. “Here to me, Hinblue!” she called, and stepped back across the curtain.

“Aren’t we there yet?” Stile demanded. “She can’t hold out much longer!”

“Sir, there seems to be a power interruption,” Sheen said. “This passage needs repair; we must detour.”

“How long?” Stile cried.

“Another fifteen minutes, sir, I fear.”

Stile clapped his hands to his head in nonphysical pain.

“My Lady! My Lady!”

“I love her too, sir,” Sheen murmured.

Stile could only watch the unfolding sequence helplessly. He should never have left the Lady Blue so lightly guarded!

The Lady reappeared beyond the ogres as Hinblue arrived. “Now you can catch me not!” she cried, vaulting on to her 5ne steed, The four ogres nevertheless started after her. Clip raced to join Hinblue.

But as they moved out, readily outdistancing the monsters, a small ravine appeared ahead. “Watch out!” Stile cried.

Too late. The distracted horse put a foot in it. Instantly Hinblue went down and the Lady flew off and forward. Athlete that she was, she landed on her feet, running, unhurt.

But Hinblue was hurt. She got to her feet, but she was bruised and lame. She could only hobble, not run. The ogres were closing in again.

Clip assumed man-form. “Lady, ride me! The mare can not carry thee.”

“Oh, no!” Stile breathed. “I know what she will say.”

“And desert my horse, offspring of the Hinny and the Blue Stallion?” the Lady Blue demanded. “Never!”

“She said it,” Stile said, suffering.

“Then must we guard her,” Clip said. He became unicorn again, and stood facing the four onrushing brutes. They were no longer astride the curtain. The Lady could not use it to save herself—and in any event would not have left her horse. She drew a narrow, sharp knife and stood beside Clip, ready to fight.

The monsters came—but slowed. They had seen the fate of the first one to encounter the unicorn’s horn. Still, they were four against two, and towered over their opposition. A hole opened in the ground. An ugly head poked out, swathed in bandages. For an instant Stile thought yet an other monster had joined the attack. But then he realized it was Trool the troll, the one who had helped them escape the Orange Demesnes. “Here!” the troll croaked. The Lady recognized him. She was evidently uncertain of the creature’s motive. Her Adept husband was no longer with her, and trolls liked human flesh. “Escape,” Trool said, indicating his tunnel. He was offering a route out of the trap.

“I thank thee, Trool,” the Lady said. “But my steed fits not in thy tunnel.”

The troll opened out another section of turf, and an other. There was a shallow cave there. “This crisis was anticipated,” he said, his voice becoming clearer, as if a long-disused faculty was being revived. “I labored to prepare.”

The ogres were now very close. The Lady decided to risk the help of the troll. Without further protest, she led Hinblue into the cave, then stood at the entrance with her knife poised.

The ogres, outraged at this seeming escape, charged into the gully. But Clip charged too. His deadly horn punctured another ogre, this time from the side. The monster fell, squirting its brown juice, and again the others hesitated. There were only three of them now, and they evidently did not like dying. If any two had pounced on Clip together, they could have torn the unicorn apart—but they evidently lacked the wit or courage to do that. They also seemed nervous about Trool, who was a monster some what like themselves, though only half as stout. Why was he participating?

“That is Neysa’s brother, sir?” Sheen asked. The fact that she was now using “sir” warned him that she was not sure they had complete privacy.

“Yes. He’s one good unicorn.”

“And ogres eat people?”

“Yes. Trolls eat people, too, and horses. But Trool can be trusted—I think.”

Finally the ogres consulted, and came to the conclusion Stile had feared. Two of them stalked Clip together, while the third faced Trool, preventing the troll from interfering. Stile realized an ogre should have been able to demolish a troll on open ground, but not within a troll’s tunnels, so this was merely interference rather than combat. The Lady Blue had to stay with the horse she guarded. Clip had to fight alone.

The unicorn could have changed into hawk-form and flown away, but he did not. He charged again. His horn skewered the left ogre—but the right one brought a ham fist down on the unicorn’s rump. Clip’s hindsection collapsed under the power of that blow. He was helpless, down on the ground, his hindlegs possibly crippled, his horn still wedged in the left ogre’s torso. Now the Lady Blue leaped forward, knife flashing. She sliced into the heavy arm of the right-hand ogre. Ichor welled out of a long slash, and the creature made a howl of pain.

Now the two remaining monsters retreated, one holding its wounded arm. Clip changed back into hawk-form, extricating himself, and the Lady held out her arm for him to perch on. He seemed shaken, limping, but not seriously hurt. Stile breathed a sigh of relief. The two returned to the impromptu cave.

For a time the ogres stayed back. Stile relaxed some what. The longer they waited, the better his chance to get to Phaze and correct the situation before any more harm was done. The capsule was proceeding with what seemed to him to be tedious slowness, but he knew Sheen was doing her best.

He decided he should divert his mind, as long as he could not act. “Place that call to the Citizen,” he said curtly. “But don’t interfere with this image.”

“Yes, sir.” Sheen placed the call.

In a moment the face of a well-fed, middle-aged male Citizen appeared beside the image of the West Pole region. There were no serf or robot intermediaries this time.

“Yes?” he inquired, peering at Stile.

“Kalder, I am Stile,” Stile said briskly. He was rapidly shedding his apprehension about Citizens. “I am not sure you know me—“

“I don’t,” Kalder agreed brusquely.

“But about two months ago you gifted me with a humanoid robot. I was then a serf.”

Kalder’s face wrinkled in perplexity. “I did?”

“This robot,” Stile said, indicating Sheen. Still there was no recognition in the man’s face. Was this a misidentification?

“Let me check my records,” Kalder said.

In a moment the Citizen looked up. “I have it now. My staff handled it, without informing me. It was a routine protective measure.”

“Routine measure?” Stile asked. “This is a five-gram robot! Why would you give her to a serf employed by another Citizen?”

Kalder’s brow furrowed again. “That is peculiar. But I’m sure my chief of staff had reason. Let me see—yes, here it is. We received news that the chief horse trainer and jockey of a rival stable was to be assassinated, and the blame attached to me. I have one of the finest stables on Proton.” He said this matter-of-factly, and Stile believed him. Citizens did not need to brag, and in his racing days he had come up against the entries of a number of excel lent stables. He was probably familiar with Kalder’s horses, if he cared to do the spot research necessary to align the Citizen’s name with that of his stable.