Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

Stile did not want to express his notion openly, for fear the enemy was somehow eavesdropping. “Because it will be difficult, slow, but certain; the enemy will not have barriers entrenched there, and no special traps, and our time will be running out.”

“That’s not fully logical,” she protested. “The enemy will not guard that region well, because the natural terrain represents a formidable defense. They will have time to regroup while we struggle to push the ball up the hill.”

“Maybe,” Stile agreed.

“I hope your illogic has some redeeming aspect.”

“I think thou art crazy,” Brown said succinctly.

“We’ll dear a course that curves northwest,” Stile said. “They may assume it’s another ruse. Then we’ll roll the ball along it as fast and far as we can and hope for the best.”

Trool faded out for another survey and returned to report that the contingent from Proton was arriving. “Flesh and metal men,” he said wonderingly.

“Cyborgs, maybe. Robots with human brains. They can be very effective. It’s time for us to move.” He looked around the chamber. “I want the golem crew to remain here, to start the ball rolling at my signal. Timing is essential. Brown will supervise them. Sheen and I will sneak out and clear the path. Trool will act as liaison.”

“I want to sneak out tool” Brown cried.

“What about me?” Clip asked, in man-form.

Stile had been afraid of this. He had to devise legitimate jobs for everyone. “Thou canst go report to thy herd,” he said to the unicorn. “In thy hawk-form and with a spell of invisibility, thou canst get through to tell the Stallion of our situation.” Stile turned to Brown. “But thou—if thou shouldst go, who will guard the book?”

Her brown eyes widened. “The book of magic?”

“If the enemy gets its hands on that, we’re finished. We dare not take it out to battle. Sheen has memorized the spells she needs; she doesn’t need the book with her now. So it is safest with thee and thy golems.”

Brown’s eyes fixed on the book, round with awe. “I guess...” she breathed.

The main reason Stile wanted her here was to keep the child out of the worst danger. Any protective spell they might make might be negated by a specific enemy counter spell. The book did need guarding, so it was a valid pretext. He left with Sheen, using an invisibility-spell as well as the protective shields she had fashioned before. He doubted the two of them would remain undiscovered, but with luck, the goblin army should be distracted by the detachments of serfs, robots, and animalheads. They started down the slope, using conjured spades to eliminate troublesome ridges. This, too, was risky, since the changes they made were visible, possibly calling attention to their otherwise invisible progress. Most of the slope was all right, with a natural channel requiring only touching up.

But as they got away from the ball, the illusion fashioned by the enemy Adepts faded. They saw the goblins ranged about the base of the hill, pistols drawn. The moment there was any visible action at the top of the slope, the goblins would start firing.

Even in this hiatus, it was bad enough. Detachments of goblins were building a series of obstructions near the base of the slope, wedgelike barriers with the sharp ends pointed uphill. If the Phazite ball encountered a wall crosswise, it would crash right through; but these wedges were oriented to deflect it efficiently off-course, where it could be further deflected by the natural channels below, until it was stuck in some cul-de-sac, and the game would be lost. That smart enemy commander’s handiwork again!

“Our work is cut out for us,” Stile said. “One misplay, and we lose the ball. Conjure me some plastic explosive and detonators that can be set off by magic invocation. I’ll have to mine some of those barriers.”

“That sort of thing is not in the book,” Sheen protested. “No plastic explosive with magic detonators! But I can get you one-hour timed explosive.”

“That will do. Just let me know when the hour is up so I can get clear.”

She conjured the explosive. It was high-grade; a kilo gram had enough explosive power to blast away all the emplacements they would have time to mine. They walked on down the hill.

The contingent from Proton was marching toward the hill. Stile realized that it was on the wrong side of the illusion-spell and did not perceive the goblin army; the goblins would ambush it, wiping it out before it had a chance to organize.

“I can’t let that happen,” he muttered. ‘I haven’t been much of an organizer; my allies will be cut down, trying to help me. I must warn them!”

“If you show yourself, you will be cut down!” Sheen said. “My spells won’t save you from attack by the entire goblin army, backed by the magic of all the Adepts.”

“Maybe your magic can help, though. Generate an image of me, like a holograph. Then you can jump it around, and no one will know exactly where I am, so the enemy won’t be able to attack me.”

“Now that might work,” she said. “It’s risky, but so are the alternatives. Your convoluted organic brain does come up with artful wrinkles.” She made a combination of gestures and sounds, sketched a little figure in the dirt—he could see it and her, as the invisibility-spell affected only the enemy’s observers—and suddenly Stile found himself standing in the path of the cyborgs. He felt a squeeze on his hand and knew Sheen was with him, and that his consciousness had joined his distant image. This was clever magic; his respect for the book increased. The leader of the cyborgs spied him and approached. This was an obvious machine, with gleaming metal limbs and chambers for attachments on its torso. But it was no robot; the brain was human, taken from the body of some aging, or ill, living person. Cyborgs could be exceedingly tough and clever.

“I perceive you, sir,” the machine-man said, orienting a lens on him. “But you have no substance. You are therefore an image. I cannot be sure of your validity. Please identify yourself in a manner I can accept.”

“I am an image of Citizen Stile,” Stile said. “Also the Blue Adept. My employee Mellon should have primed you with key information about me. Ask me something appropriate.”

“Yes, sir. Who is your best friend?”

“In which frame?”

“That suffices, sir.”

Oh. Clever. It was the type of response, rather than the actual information, that had been keyed. “Let’s get busy, then,” Stile said. “This region is infested with goblins with modem weapons. I doubt they are good shots, but don’t take chances. If you can drive them away from this area, that would be a big help. But don’t attack any animalheads or unicorns. There’s quite a bit of illusion magic around, so be careful.”

“We understand, sir.”

“I’m not sure you do. Send out scouts to the base of that slope.” He indicated it. “They will pass the line of illusion and see the truth. Pay attention to what they tell you. This is likely to be deadly serious; your lives are in jeopardy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They would have to find out for themselves. Stile murmured the word “animalhead” and found himself on a hill where the animalheads were gathered. The elephanthead chief spied him with a trumpet of gladness. “We have found thee at last. Adept!” he exclaimed; evidently Stile’s prior spell of intelligibility remained in force. Spells did seem to have a certain inertia about them, continuing in definitely unless countered or canceled. “We feared our selves lost.”

Quickly Stile briefed the elephant on the situation. “Now I’ll be clearing a path for the ball to roll along,” he concluded. “In mine own body I’m invisible, but the goblins will quickly catch on and interfere. So if thy force can divert them from this side, and while the cyborgs operate on the other side—“