Night Mare (15 page)

Now the gaping wound started visibly healing. All they had to do was wait.

In half an hour, Ichabod was whole once more. “I hope I never have to go through that particular experience again!” he said. “Thank you, lovely maiden, for your timely help.”

The Siren smiled, pleased. She was middle-aged, and evidently appreciated being called a maiden.

“She’s no maiden,” Grundy said, with his customary etiquette. “She’s the Siren.”

“The Siren?” Ichabod asked, growing if anything more interested. “But does she lure sailors to their doom?”

“Not any more,” the Siren said with a frown. “A centaur smashed my magic dulcimer, and that depleted my power.”

“Oh.” Ichabod pondered. “You know, if you had your power again, you could do a lot of good for Xanth. You could lure the Mundanes—”

“I really don’t want to harm people, not even Mundanes,” she said. “I’m a family woman now. Here is my son Cyrus.” She introduced a small boy who smiled shyly, then dived into the lake, his legs changing in mid-dive to the tail of a triton.

“Nobody likes killing, of course,” Ichabod said. “But perhaps you could lure them to some isolated island in waters infested by sea monsters so that they could not do anyone any harm.”

“Yes, that would be all right,” she agreed. “Or lure them to my sister the Gorgon, who could change them to stone. Such statues can be restored with the right magic, or when returned to Mundania,, where the spell would be broken, so it’s not quite the same as death.” She shrugged. “But I fear my power is gone forever, as only the Good Magician knows how to restore the instrument, and he wouldn’t do it even if I were willing to pay his fee of one year’s service. So it really doesn’t matter. I think I’m much happier now than I ever was when I had my power, frankly.” But she looked pensive, as if aware of the enormous ability she had lost.

Ichabod spread his hands. “One can never tell. I am on good terms with Good Magician Humfrey, having provided him with a number of excellent Mundane research tomes, and perhaps I can broach the matter. I suspect you have just saved me at least a year of life by your assistance. At any rate, I certainly appreciate what you did for me.” He turned to Imbri. “And you and Grundy, of course. Now we really must rejoin Chameleon.”

He was right. The night was passing entirely too rapidly. They bade farewell to the Siren and the friendly merfolk and headed southwest. They had to get out of the water wing before Imbri turned solid again, for she could not gallop across the water by day.

They made it through the perpetual storm at the edge of the water wing and out into normal Xanth terrain before the sun rose. Imbri invoked her person-locating sense, which she had used during her decades of dream duty to find the sleepers on her list, and oriented on Chameleon.

The Night Stallion had always provided the addresses of the sleepers as part of the labeling on their dreams, but she could tune in on people she knew well and who were thinking of her. At least she hoped so; she had not tried it when the location of the person was unknown.

It worked. In this manner they caught up to Chameleon and the day horse. The woman was sleeping in a cushion bush, while the horse grazed nearby. Apparently they had scouted the area and made sure it was safe. Chameleon seemed to have a good sense for safety, despite her stupidity. Of course, while no place in Xanth was completely safe, many were safe enough for those who understood them. A Mundane in this area would probably have fallen prey to a patch of carnivorous grass or a tangle tree or the small water dragon in the nearby river; Xanth natives avoided these things without even thinking about them. Perhaps it was the complex of dangers here that made it safe from Mundanes.

Chameleon woke as they approached. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe!” she exclaimed. “I had a night mare visit—I thought at first it was you, Imbri, but it wasn’t—with a horrible dream about Icbabod getting badly wounded. I’m so glad to see it wasn’t true!”

“It was true,” Ichabod said. “That’s why our return was delayed.”

“We got caught by the Mundanes,” Grundy said.

“Oh, now I remember; that was in the dream, too. How perfectly awful!”

The day horse approached, ears perking up. “How glad I am to have had this horse near,” Chameleon said, patting him on a muscular shoulder, and the day horse nickered. Obviously he liked Chameleon, as did all people who knew her in her lovely phase.

“We were using the smoke of that brush fire for cover, but the wind shifted,” the golem continued. “They surrounded us. We talked to their leader, Hasbinbad the Punic. Then the Horseman came—”

The day horse snorted.

“I tell you he was there,” Grundy insisted. “Said he forced a centaur to carry him north, since things got hot near Castle Roogna. We don’t know what happened to the henchmen Imbri told us about; maybe a dragon got them. Good riddance! He wanted to know how Imbri escaped from him before—”

“And I had to tell him,” Imbri sent apologetically. “He promised to let us go, and I think he kept his word.”

“If he kept his word, it was only because he had no reason to keep you there!” the day horse insisted in the dream Imbri provided. “I know that man! He never does anything for anyone unless he stands to gain!”

“Well, he did let us go,” Grundy said. “Maybe it was a plot to follow us back to you. But we foiled that! We went through the water wing to see the Siren and get Ichabod healed, and the Mundanes couldn’t follow. So maybe we outsmarted the Horseman after all.”

“I doubt it,” the day horse said in the dream. “He has levels and levels of cunning. He probably wanted to let you go, for some devious reason of his own. Maybe he knew the Mundanes wouldn’t let him have Imbri for himself, so he saw to it they couldn’t keep her either. He’s like that. He spites people in subtle ways so the mischief can’t be traced to him. He wants everything his own way. But he surely knows just about where we are now. We must flee south immediately.”

“That’s for sure,” Grundy agreed. “We’ve got our information; we know who the Mundanes are. Now we have to get it to King Dor as fast as we can, so he can figure out how to break up the Wave.”

That made sense. Imbri was amazed at the expressiveness of the day horse, who hardly seemed stupid at all now. His points about the Horseman were well taken. But if the man had wanted them free, knowing they would go straight to King Dor, what was his rationale? He was an enemy who would only suffer if the King organized a good defense. Something important was missing, and it made her uneasy.

They set off south. Chameleon was satisified to continue riding the day horse, so they left it the way it was. All day they galloped, avoiding the problems of the journey up, and made such good progress that by nightfall they had crossed the invisible bridge and were back at Castle Roogna.

The day horse, wary of populated places, begged off entering the castle itself. “People tend to want to catch me and pen me,” he explained in equine language that Grundy translated for the nonequines.

Chameleon was sympathetic
.
“I understand,” she said. “The Mundanes penned Imbri.” She dismounted, then threw her arms about the horse’s sweaty neck, giving him an affectionate hug. “Thank you so much, day horse!” She kissed his right ear.

Horses did not blush, but this one tried. He wiggled his ear, snorted, and scuffled the ground with a forefoot. He flicked his tail violently, though there were no flies near. Then he turned on two hooves and trotted away, seeking his own place to graze and rest.

“It’s easy to like a pretty woman,” Grundy remarked somewhat wistfully. “Even if you are a horse.”

And easy for a mare to like such a horse, Imbri thought to herself. He was such a beautiful, nice, helpful animal. If only he were smarter!

Chapter 7. The First Battle

K
ing Dor was waiting for them. He listened gravely to their report, making careful note of the numbers and armament of the enemy as Ichabod reported them. Imbri was amazed to discover how observant the Mundane scholar had been; he had noted everything relevant, and was able to fill in from his wide background information. It seemed Xanth now knew more about the Mundanes than the Mundanes knew about Xanth.

“The Carthaginian mercenaries were—are—redoubtable fighters,” Ichabod concluded. “They had excellent leadership, and were accustomed to carrying on on their own with very little support from the home city. They dominated the western half of the Mediterranean Sea, and even the Romans were unable, generally, to match them in battle.” He broke off. “But I wander too far afield, as is my wont. My point is that these are formidable foemen who are prone to feed captives to their bloodthirsty god Baal Hammon. You must not give them any quarter. I dislike advocating violence, but I see no peaceful way to abate this particular menace. Fortunately, they have no weapons with which you are unfamiliar, except perhaps that of treachery.”

Dor shook his head heavily. He seemed to have aged in the three days Imbri’s party had been away, though he had caught up on his sleep. “I had hoped it would be otherwise, but a Wave is a Wave. We shall fight with what resources we have. So there are about six hundred Nextwavers remaining, armed with swords, spears, and bows. This is too great a number for us to handle by ordinary means. I have marshaled the old troops of King Trent’s former army, but I am skeptical about their combat readiness. What we really need is the help of some of Xanth’s more ferocious animals, such as the dragons. In Xanth’s past they have been known to help us out of bad situations. But so far, this time, they have rejected my overtures. I think they might have been more positive toward King Trent, as his power is more compelling than mine. The dragons seem to feel that if men wish to kill men, this will make things easier for dragons.”

“Wait till the Nextwavers ravage Dragon Land,” Grundy muttered. “Then the beasts will take notice.”

“That may be too late for us,” Dor said. “In any event, it is not just the dragons. The goblins, who really are more manlike than beastlike, told our messenger to go soak his snoot.”

“The goblins don’t want to get drafted for war,” Imbri sent, remembering the last bad dream she had processed.

King Dor concentrated on a map of Xanth before him. “We expect the Mundanes to drive for Castle Roogna first. That is where the Mundane city of Rome is in the land they thought they were invading, so naturally they see it as the target. Unfortunately, they are correct; if they conquer or destroy Castle Roogna, Xanth will have no central focus for resistance. Dragon land and Goblin land are in central Xanth; if the Nextwave flows down the west coast, it will miss those regions. So the dragons and goblins are not worrying. Since the main human regions are in the west, we must bear the brunt.” He ran a hand over his hair, which seemed already to be thinning. “I wish King Trent were well; he has the tactical ability to handle this sort of thing.”

There it was again. Even King Dor lacked confidence in his ability. The loss of King Trent had been a terrible blow to Xanth—as it seemed the enemy leader Hasbinbad was well aware. The Horseman had done a good reconnaissance.

“The Gap Chasm will stop them,” Grundy said.

“It may, if we take down the magic bridges. I don’t want to do that except as a last resort. Those bridges are hard to restore. Good Magician Humfrey supervised the installation of the main one, and he’s not young any more.”

“He never was young,” Grundy said. “I think he was born a wrinkled, hairless gnome. But you do have a point. I think the Gorgon pretty well runs his castle now. I’m not sure I’d trust a bridge whose construction he supervised today.”

“So I shall lead King Trent’s old army to intercept the Mundanes north of the Gap—”

“Not you, Dor!” Chameleon exclaimed, alarmed.

“But, Mother, I’m the King!” he protested somewhat querulously. “It’s my job to lead the troops.”

“It’s your job to govern Xanth,” Grundy said. “If you go foolishly out to battle and get yourself killed, where is Xanth then?”

“But—”

“Listen to them, your Majesty,” a voice said from the doorway. It was Queen Iris, garbed in black. “I know what it is like to be halfway widowed; I don’t want my daughter to learn.”

Dor smiled wanly. “I’ll try to hang on to my life. I’ll stay out of the actual battle. But I must be there with the troops. I can not do less than that.”

As anticipated, the Nextwave flowed down the western side of Xanth, avoiding the deadly central region and the monsteriferous coastal region. The Horseman, obviously, had scouted out their best route—the enchanted path that trade parties used to reach the isthmus that was the only access to Mundania. Now that enchantment was helping the enemy force to drive directly for Castle Roogna.

Most creatures of Xanth thought of the historic Waves as sheer ravening hordes of Mundanes, and the current Wave resembled that notion closely enough. But it was evident that this force had considerable expertise supporting its violence. The Mundanes were quickly learning how to handle the hazards of Xanth and how to use beneficial magic.

The quiet North Village had to be evacuated hastily before the Wave swamped it, and the centaur village south of it was similarly abandoned. These local centaurs were less prudish about magic talents than were those of distant Centaur Isle and were quite helpful to the human Villagers, carrying the aged and infirm. In return, the human folk used their magic talents to facilitate the travel of the centaurs, conjuring food and tools as needed. It was a fine cooperative effort. Imbri knew that Dor’s paternal grandparents lived in the North Village, and the sire and dam of Chet and Chem Centaur lived in the centaur settlement, so this effort was important to those who were at Castle Roogna in a personal as well as a tactical sense. Faces were turning grim at the notion of handing these areas over to the enemy, but it was a necessary evil.

Queen Iris was deputized by King Dor to supervise the evacuation of those regions. She spent day and night in the bedroom with unconscious King Trent, using her enormous powers of illusion on behalf of the welfare of Xanth in the manner King Trent would have asked her to. She projected her image to every household of the Village, warning each person of the danger and making sure that person left. Iris could actually perceive these people, and they could perceive her; to that extent her illusory images were real. It was indeed difficult to ascertain exactly where illusion left off and reality began. She spoke calmly but certainly, making sure that important belongings were taken and that nothing of possible advantage to the Mundanes was left behind.

Because she could also perceive the progress of the Wave, though this was at the fringe of her range, the people had the confidence to evacuate in an orderly manner, not rushing wastefully, while also not delaying overlong.

But the Queen was working too hard. Her use of illusion at such range was like a horse galloping cross-country; it required a lot of concentration and energy. Iris would not rest herself at night, insisting on checking and rechecking every detail. Her illusion-figures were blurring. Iris was no longer in the flush of youth; she was as old as King Trent. This enormous effort without respite was apt to put her into a state no better than that of Trent.

Finally King Dor sent Imbri in to her, carrying a basket of food and drink, with instructions to make the Queen take a needed break. King Dor did not feel right about giving orders to his mother-in-law, which was why he asked Imbri to handle it. His reason for choosing her was seemingly superficial—her ability to project dreams resembled the Queen’s ability to project illusions. Perhaps there would be rapport. Imbri was glad to try.

Imbri entered the bedroom and set the basket down, releasing the strap she had held in her teeth. “Queen Iris, I have brought refreshment,” she sent. “You must eat and drink”

Iris paused in her labor of illusion. “Don’t try to fool me, mare,” she snapped. “There’s sleep potion in that beverage.”

“So there is,” Imbri agreed. “Your daughter put it in. But she says she will watch her father while you rest, if you are willing.”

“Her place is with her husband, the new King,” Iris said, softening. “I know she loves her father. She doesn’t have to prove it to me.”

“Please—take the rest. The Villagers can travel now without you, and your talent may be needed later. There are people in charge like Dor’s grandfather Roland, of the Council of Elders, and Chester and Cherie Centaur, who tutored King Dor in literacy and martial art. They can handle it now.”

“In fact, Irene loves Trent more than she loves me,” Iris grumbled. But she ate the cake and drank the coconut milk provided, and allowed herself to get sleepy. “
You
watch the King,” she said. “And don’t send me any bad dreams! I have more than enough already.”

“No bad dreams,” Imbri agreed.

But she did send the Queen a good dream, of the Villagers and centaurs arriving safely south of the Gap Chasm and finding temporary homes in other villages and on other ranges.

“Don’t try to fool me!” Queen Iris said in her sleep, catching on. “I deliver illusions to others; I prefer reality for myself.”

“You are brave,” Imbri sent.

“I’ll have none of your false flattery either!” the Queen retorted, threatening to wake up.

“I didn’t say you were nice,” Imbri said in the dream, taking the form of an older woman, one with whom the Queen might be comfortable. “I said you were brave.”

“It takes no courage to project pictures to others; you should know that.”

“To seek reality,” Imbri clarified. “I send my images inside the minds of others, rather than outside, as you do, but I, too, prefer to know the truth, which may not be at all like a dream. Many people do prefer illusion, however.”

“I appreciate your effort,” the Queen said. “You’re trying to keep me asleep, and I suppose I do need it. I can’t serve Xanth well if I am overtired.” Then she brought herself up short. “Xanth? Whom am I fooling? I said I sought reality, but this is illusion! I never cared for the welfare of Xanth! I always wanted to rule it, which is an entirely different matter. But no Queen is permitted to rule Xanth, no matter what her talent.”

“Ichabod says Xanth is a medieval Kingdom,” Imbri’s image said. “He thinks that eventually it will progress to equal rights for women.”

“Is the King all right?”

Was this a deliberate shifting of subject, or merely the meandering of an overtired mind? Imbri checked King Trent. “He is unchanged.”

“Do you know, I only married him so I could be Queen. If one can not rule, the next best thing is to be married to the one who does. It was a marriage of convenience; we never fooled each other that there was love between us. He had to marry because the Council of Elders who made him King required it; he married me so as to eliminate Magician-level dissension.”

“But surely—” Imbri started to protest.

“I have my faults, and they are gross ones, but I was never a hypocrite,” the Queen insisted. “I craved power more than anything else, and Trent craved power, too. But he did not want to remarry, and when he saw he had to, he refused to marry for love. So he made the deal with me, as I was unlovable. That was perhaps almost as potent an asset as my magic; if his dead Mundane wife was watching, she would have known I was not capable of replacing her in his esteem. He was, in fact, punishing himself. I knew it—but the truth is, I wasn’t looking for love either. So I was happy to prostitute myself for the appearance of power and distinction—though it wasn’t prostitution in any literal sense. He had no physical desire for me.”

Imbri was embarrassed by these revelations, but knew the Queen was unwinding in her sleep. Long-buried truths were bubbling to the surface. It was best not to interfere. “Horses don’t look for love either,” she said. “Just companionship and offspring and good pasturage.”

The Queen laughed. “How well you define it, night mare! That was what I sought, in addition to power. And King Trent gave me all those things, in his fashion; I can not complain. He was known in his youth as the Evil Magician, but he was in fact a good man.
Is
a good man.”

“And a good King,” Imbri agreed. “I understand this is the best age of Xanth since King Roogna’s time.”

“True. King Roogna fought off the Fourth or Fifth Wave, I misremember which, and ushered in the golden age of Xanth. He built this fine castle. We call the present the silver age, but I suspect it is as gold as the other was.” She paused reflectively. “It is strange how things work out. I married Trent from contempt, thinking to use him to achieve subtle power for myself. But he was stronger and better than I thought, and instead of dominating him, I was dominated by him. And strangest of all, I discovered I liked it. I could have loved him . . . but the one love of his life died before he returned to Xanth. He had had a son, too. Some alien disease took them both; he never spoke about it. He would have felt guilty if he ever loved again. So he was true to his design, while I was not. How I envied that unknown, deceased Mundane woman!”

“But you have a child by him!” Imbri protested.

“That signifies less than it might,” the Queen said. “Xanth needed an heir, in case there should be no Magician when Trent died. Someone to fill in, to occupy Castle Roogna until a Magician showed up. So Trent had to come to me. He was so disturbed by it that I had to invoke my illusion to make it appear to be two other people, not him and me.
That
was how we conceived Irene.”

Imbri was shocked. “A mating of convenience?”

“Again you phrase it aptly. It was real for me, but not for him; he was only doing his duty. But after Irene came—not even a Sorceress, and not male, a double failure—I think there was no conflict there. He could love another child, for it is possible for a man to have several children without denying any of them. The girl was no threat to his memory of his son. He loved Irene. And sometimes, I think, he almost loved the mother of Irene.”