Free Castle War! by John Dechancie Page B

again, this time in another direction. Twigs of saplings snagged at him. Low branches swooped. An angry buzzing informed him that the gourdlike object he had brushed against was a wasps’ nest. He geed up into a gallop and almost had his head taken off by a malevolent tree. He rode blindly for a good long while.  
    At length he broke into the open. The blasted trail again!—this time with more sets of hoof prints than he could discern.  
    â€œI'm starting to get pissed off.”  
    He turned against the traffic and went back the way he had originally come.  
    The trail gave out about a minute later. He found himself in a small clearing that had not been there before. He reined his sweating steed around to find that the path had entirely disappeared. Hemmed in, he dismounted.  
    â€œAll right, what do you want?”  
    He heard—or thought he heard—laughter.  
    â€œRight. Well, we'll see.”  
    He walked the circumference of the clearing, peering into the undergrowth. Nothing, no one.  
    At the center of the clearing was a fairy circle of toadstools, these about knee-high. He stood in the middle of the circle and raised his arms. He murmured a few words.  
    He waited. Silence.  
    He said the words again, this time more slowly. He stood still for a good while longer, eyes closed.  
    A rustling off to the left. He did not open his eyes. Time passed.  
    Presently a four-legged beast ran into the clearing and halted not far from him. He turned and beheld it.  
    It was small, had short white hair, and looked like a cross between a goat and a pony. On its head were long golden horns, three of them: two curving ones to the side, and one, slightly straighter, growing out of the middle of the forehead. The creature's eyes were a piercing blue.  
    The tricorn regarded him dispassionately.  
    He asked, “Are you the demiurge around here—or at least its incarnation?”  
    The empathic vibrations he received in reply seemed to indicate the affirmative.  
    â€œIs there something you want of me?”  
    (Negative.)  
    â€œThen you're simply having a bit of fun?”  
    (Mirth.)  
    â€œMuch as I hate to spoil your sport, could I possibly persuade you to let me go?”  
    (Perhaps.)  
    â€œWhat would it take?”  
    (Mild amusement.)  
    â€œI have the feeling that nothing short of my death would satisfy you, although you don't want it to happen suddenly. You intend to keep me a prisoner in your domain until I waste away.”  
    (Laughter.)  
    â€œAll right, you play rough. But two can play.”  
    He held out his right hand. A flame sprang to life on his upturned palm. He turned his hand over and the flame spilled to the ground. The grass blazed up, and he stepped back.  
    Thunder cracked, and rain began to fall. The flames did not go out; they leaped up and roared, spreading, making a path for the undergrowth.  
    â€œYou'll find that water won't quench it,” he called. “Only my counterspell will.”  
    The thunder faded and the rain stopped.  
    â€œConvinced?”  
    (Affirmative!)  
    He waved his hands and the flames died. Pale smoke rose from the clearing.  
    â€œNow. How about showing me a way out?”  
    The tricorn stood motionless.  
    He searched the edge of the clearing. The path had reappeared.  
    â€œFine. I need a little help, though. I want to find a shortcut across the continent. I'm told that a hellwind blows from here to the mountains of Marnass. Will you show me where I can catch this infernal zephyr?”  
    (Reluctant assent.)  
    He mounted. “Good. Lead on, hat rack.”  
    (Indignation.)  
    â€œSorry, couldn't resist.”  
    The tricorn raced ahead on the path. He had trouble keeping up, catching only glimpses of the animal's silky white tail as he rounded bends. The forest breathed its cool breath on