The Magic Kingdom of Landover Volume 1

The G’home Gnomes returned with protestations of good intent spilling forth. The furry tree sloths were a favorite food of their people, Fillip insisted. Yes, the furry tree sloths were quite delicious, Sot agreed. Ben cut them short. Their request would be granted, he told them. He would go with them to the Melchor to see what could be done to gain the release of those taken by the Crag Trolls. They would depart Sterling Silver at dawn. Fillip and Sot stared at him, then fell to their knees before him, groveling in a most disgusting manner. Ben had them removed at once.

He went up to the Landsview alone that evening after dinner. The gnomes had been sequestered in their rooms by Abernathy (who refused to trust them anywhere else in the castle), and the others were occupied with preparations for the journey north. Ben had time to use as he chose. He decided to take a quick peek into the lake country.

The night was misted and dark, no different from dozens of others, seven of Landover’s brightly colored moons faintly visible over the line of the horizon, stars a distant sprinkling of street lights through a midnight fog. The Landsview took him instantly to the lake country, and he descended slowly into Elderew. The city was bright with torchlight atop treelanes and along roadways, and her people were still abroad. The sound of laughter and light conversation made him feel uneasy somehow—more an intruder than he already was. He slipped over the amphitheater, down across the city dwellings and shops, past the cottage that had been his lodging, and into the deep woods. He found the old pines where Willow’s mother had danced. They were deserted. The tree into which Willow had transformed herself was gone. Willow was nowhere to be found.

He let himself remain in the deep woods for a time, thinking of Annie. He could not explain why, but he needed to think of her. He needed to be with her, too, but he knew that Annie was gone and it was pointless to dwell on it. He felt alone, a traveler come far from home and friends. He was adrift. He felt that he had cut himself off from everything, and that his reasons for doing so were proving to be poor ones. He needed someone to tell him that it would all work out, that he was doing the right thing, that there were better times ahead.

There was no one to do that, however. There was only himself.

Midnight came and went before Ben finally refocussed on Sterling Silver. He took his hands reluctantly from the railing of the Landsview and he was home again.

CRAG TROLLS



Morning followed night, as it always does, but Ben awoke questioning the assumption that it necessarily must. His mood was dark, and his nerves were on edge after a sleep troubled with a vicious and depressing dream of death and personal futility. There had been people dying in his dream; they had died all about him, and he had been powerless to save them. He had known none of them in his waking life, but they had seemed quite real in his sleep. They had seemed his friends. He had not wanted them to die, but he had been unable to prevent it. He had tried in desperation to come awake so that he could escape what was happening, but he could not. There had been in his sleep that frightening sense of timelessness that occurs when the subconscious suggests that waking will never come, that the only reality is in the dream. When his eyes finally slipped open, he saw the dawn filtering down, misted and gray, through the windows of his sleeping chamber. It had been misted and gray in the world of his dream, too—a twilight in which neither day nor night could seize upon the other.

He found himself wondering then if there were some worlds where morning could not follow night—where there was only the one or the other or a constant mix of both. He found himself wondering if, with the failing of the magic, Landover might not become one.

The prospect was too dark to contemplate, and he dismissed it with a flourish of activity. He rose, washed, dressed, finished gathering up his gear for the journey north, greeted Questor, Abernathy, Bunion, Parsnip, Fillip, and Sot at breakfast, ate, saw his possessions to the pack animals on the far side of the lake shore, mounted Wishbone, and gave the command to ride. He had been careful not to permit himself time to think back on the dream. It was nearly forgotten now, a fading memory better gone. Landover’s King, with the members of his court and the G’home Gnomes in tow, sallied forth once more.

They journeyed north through the hill country all that day, traversing forested steeps, scrub-covered hollows and glens, and the shores of thicketed lakes. They passed west of the Greensward, east of the Deep Fell. The sun shone above them, veiled by clouds and mist, a fuzzy white ball of light that barely cast out night’s shadows. The land they traveled looked wintry and ill. Leaves and brush were dark and spotted with wilt, grasses looked dried and burned as if by frost, and trees were blanketed with fungus that sapped away their juices. The land was growing sicker; its life was seeping away.

Strabo passed over the little company toward evening. The dragon appeared from out of the west, a massive winged shadow darker than the skies he flew. The G’home Gnomes saw him at the same moment and together scrambled from the back of the horse they shared and disappeared into the brush. The remainder of the company watched in silence as the dragon passed east. It took fifteen minutes after he was gone for Ben and his companions to persuade the gnomes to surface from their hiding place and continue the journey.

They camped that night in a glen sheltered by apple trees and clumps of birch. The light disappeared quickly in the dusk, and they ate their evening meal in darkness. No one had much of anything to say. Everyone seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. They finished eating and went directly to sleep.

The following day was much the same as the first—gray, misted, and unfriendly. They crossed from the borders of the Greensward into the foothills leading upward to the Melchor. The mists of the fairy world which rimmed the valley seemed to have drifted far down across the shoulders of the Melchor, forming a mantle of gray that obscured everything. They rode toward it and then into it. It was past midday when they were swallowed.

Bunion guided them ahead, sure-footed and unswerving, his eyes sharper than those of his companions. They followed a rock-strewn road that quickly became a pathway and then a narrow, rutted trail. Cliff walls and shadows closed about. They were within the Melchor. The light began to fail rapidly with the coming of dusk. They were forced to walk their horses now, the way forward too uncertain to risk a fall. Fillip and Sot clung to each other as the company pressed ahead, mumbling to themselves, their uneasiness apparent. Ben squinted through the mist and darkness, trying to see what lay beyond. He might as well have been peering through paint.

There was a growing sense of desperation in Ben Holiday. He had been struggling to deny it all day, but it was persistent and claimed him in the end. This expedition into the country of the Crag Trolls to secure the release of the captured G’home Gnomes was more important than he had been willing to admit. It was, quite possibly, his last chance. He had failed to gain the pledge of a single ally to the throne. He had failed to accomplish a single positive act since assuming the Kingship. If he failed again here—with these universally disdained and pitifully dependent gnomes—where would he go next? The word of his failure would travel quickly. No one else was likely to seek his help. He would become the play-King that the Lord Kallendbor had labeled him.

Night settled in. The way forward grew more uncertain and the pace slowed to a walk. There was thunder in the distance, a low rumbling punctuated by the sharp crack of lightning. A dull, reddish glow began to stain the darkness. Ben peered at the glow uncertainly. The thunder and lightning took on new tones, no longer the sounds of a storm approaching, but of something else.

Bunion brought the company to a halt. He exchanged a few words with Questor, and the wizard turned to Ben. The reddish glow was the fire of the troll furnaces. The thunder and lightning were the sounds of bellows being pumped and metal being forged.

Ben had Abernathy unfurl the King’s banner and hoist it over them. The little company went forward.

Minutes later they crested a rise, the narrow trail broadened as the defile ended, and they found themselves poised at the entrance to Hell. At least, that was how it appeared to Ben. Hell was a valley surrounded by great, towering cliffs that disappeared into a ceiling of mist and darkness. Fires burned everywhere. They burned in monstrous rock kilns, the stone so hot that it glowed, in iron kettles, molten ore bubbling and steaming, in pits dug out of the rock and earth, flames licking at waste and fuel, and in iron stanchions set to give light to the valley perimeter and to aid in the keeping of the watch. The fires burned red, so that everything was bathed in crimson light. A narrow river wound its way through the valley basin, its waters the color of blood. Shadows flickered like chained beings across the cliffs and boulders, thrown against the stone by the flames. Squat houses of stone blocks and tiles lay scattered between the fires, and close beside them were the pens. The pens were formed of iron stakes and wire. The pens held living beings—livestock, but humans as well. The center pen contained a gathering of some fifty-odd gnomes, ragged, frightened-looking creatures, their ferret faces buried in bowls of food and pails of water. There were gnomes outside the pen as well, these engaged in feeding the fires. Backs bent, heads lowered, their furry bodies singed and blackened, they hauled fuel, fed raw ore, stoked the kilns, and hammered molten metal. They were the damned of the earth, sent to their eternal reward.

The trolls were there to see that this reward was properly bestowed. There were hundreds of them, dark, misshapen forms that slouched purposefully about the valley from fire to fire, some engaged in the work allotted, some engaged in directing its course. The trolls were sullen, heavy-limbed beings, their faces closed and virtually featureless, their bodies muscled and disproportionately fashioned. Limbs were long and rangy, heavier than the lean bodies. Torsos were bent at the spine, shoulders too broad for the ligaments and sinew that bound them, heads oblong and sunk down into chests matted with wiry hair. Their skin had the look of burned toast, an uneven cast that failed to reflect the fires’ light but seemed only to absorb it. Gnarled, splayed feet gripped rock and earth with the sureness of a mountain goat’s hooves.

Ben felt the air go out of his lungs as if it had been sucked away by the fires. Despite the suffocating heat that washed over him, he turned cold. Heads swung about and misshapen bodies lumbered forward. The little company had already been seen. Bright, yellowed eyes fixed on them as the Crag Trolls advanced.

“Dismount,” Ben ordered quietly.

He climbed down, Questor and Abernathy beside him. Parsnip came forward to stand with Bunion, and the kobolds hissed in warning at the trolls, their teeth showing white against the fires’ crimson light. Fillip and Sot cowered behind Ben, their small bodies pressed down close against his legs.

Two dozen Crag Trolls were in front of them almost immediately. They crowded to within several yards, slouched forms bumping mindlessly, yellow eyes decidedly unfriendly. A geyser of fire erupted from one of the waste pits in the valley behind them, exploding in a booming cough. Not a head turned.

“Show them the flag,” Ben ordered Abernathy.

The scribe dropped the flag forward at an angle so that its insignia rolled clear of the folds. The trolls studied it without interest. Ben waited a moment, glanced briefly at Questor and stepped forward.

“I am Ben Holiday, High Lord of Landover!” he shouted. His voice reverberated from the rock walls and died. “Who is your headman?”

The trolls studied him. Not a one moved. There was a headman of this tribe; Ben knew that much from his studies with Questor. “Who speaks for you?” he demanded, keeping his voice steady and commanding.

Other Crag Trolls had joined the first gathering. They parted now, and a single troll slouched forward, a rugged, battered creature with a collar of silver studs. He spoke quickly, a tongue that Ben did not recognize.

“He wants to know what we are doing here, High Lord,” Questor interpreted the response. “He sounds irritated.”

“Does he understand what I’m saying?”

“I do not know, High Lord. Possibly.”

“Speak to him in his own language, Questor. Tell him again who I am. Tell him that because he failed to attend the coronation when summoned I have come to see him instead, and that now he must give me his pledge.”

“High Lord, I don’t think …”

Ben’s face was hard. “Tell him, Questor!”

Questor spoke briefly to the troll, and there was a rumble of discontent through the ranks of those gathered behind him. The troll lifted one arm and the rumble ceased. The troll said something more to Questor.

Questor turned to Ben. “He says that he knows nothing of any coronation, that there is no King of Landover and hasn’t been since the old King died. He says that he will give his pledge to no one.”

“Wonderful.” Ben kept his eyes on the headman. Slowly he extracted the medallion from beneath his tunic and held it out where it could be seen. There was a murmur of recognition. The Crag Trolls glanced at one another and shuffled back uneasily. “Tell them I command the magic, Questor,” Ben ordered. “And be ready to give them a show of proof if I call for it.”

Questor’s owlish face tightened sharply as he glanced at Ben, hesitating.

“Do it, Questor,” Ben said softly.

Questor spoke again. The trolls mumbled among themselves, still shifting about. The headman looked confused. Ben waited. The heat from the fires washed over him; sweat soaked through his clothes. He could feel the faces of the G’home Gnomes pressed up against his pant legs, peering past them at the trolls. The seconds slipped by, and nothing happened. He knew he had to do something quickly or he would lose whatever small advantage he might have gained.

“Questor, tell the headman again that he must give his pledge to the throne. Tell him that he must give over to me as a show of good faith the G’home Gnomes he has taken so that they might serve me instead. Tell him he must do so immediately, that I have little time to waste on him, that I go next to the witch of the Deep Fell. Tell him not to challenge me.”

“High Lord!” Questor breathed in disbelief.

“Tell him!”

“But what if he challenges you and I cannot summon the magic?”

“Then we fry in the fire with the gnomes, damn it!” Ben’s face was flushed and angry.

“Caution, High Lord!” Abernathy warned suddenly, his muzzle shoving into view.

“The hell with being cautious!” Ben wheeled on him. “Bluff or no bluff, we have to try something … !”

Abernathy cut him short with a hiss of warning. “High Lord, I think he understands what you have both been saying!”

Ben froze. The headman was studying him, his yellow eyes suddenly cunning. He had understood everything; Ben knew it instantly. The troll gave a quick command to those behind him and they began to fan out about the little company.

“Use the magic, Questor,” Ben whispered.

The wizard’s face was gray with uncertainty. “High Lord, I do not know if I can!”

“If you don’t, we are in big trouble!” Ben kept his eyes fixed on Questor’s. “Use it!”

Questor hesitated, his tall, rainbow-colored form a statue against the fires and the night. Then abruptly he wheeled on the Crag Trolls, his arms lifting. The trolls shrieked. Questor’s arms windmilled, words poured forth from his throat and the air exploded with light.

It began to rain flowers.

They showered down from out of nowhere—roses, peonies, violets, lilies, daisies, chrysanthemums, orchids, daffodils and every other kind of flower under the sun. They descended on the little company and the Crag Trolls in buckets, tumbling off them and bouncing to the ground.

It was difficult to decide who was the most surprised. It was certain that everyone had expected something else—including Questor, who made a valiant effort to recover after his initial shock, arms lifting a second time as he tried again to engage the magic. He was far too slow. The Crag Trolls had already recovered. They launched themselves at the members of the little company somewhat in the manner of linebackers in a full blitz. They looked monstrous. Ben shouted in warning to the others. He saw the kobolds leap up, heard them hiss, heard Abernathy’s teeth snap, felt the gnomes Fillip and Sot grappling at him for protection, and smelled an instant’s mix of charred ash and smoke.

Then the Crag Trolls piled into him. He was hammered back—thrown from his feet with the force of the rush. His head struck the hard earth, and the air before him exploded instantly into blinding light. Then everything went dark.



He came awake a prisoner in Dante’s Inferno. He was chained to a post in the central holding pen, heavy bracelets and locks fastened to his wrists and ankles. He sat slumped against the post, the faces of dozens of furry gnomes peering at him through a haze of smoke. His head throbbed and his body was bathed in sweat and grime. The stench of the kilns and waste pits filled the air and made him instantly nauseous. The fires burned all about, crimson light falling like a mantle across the valley rock.

Ben blinked and turned his head slowly. Questor and Abernathy were chained to posts close by, awake and whispering together guardedly. The kobolds were trussed hand and foot by chains and bound to iron rings fixed to spikes driven into the stone floor. Neither appeared conscious. Crag Trolls patrolled the perimeter of the compound, their misshapen forms little more than shadows drifting silently through the night.

“Are you awake, High Lord?”

“Are you unhurt, High Lord?”

Fillip and Sot edged forward out of the sea of faces peering at him. Ferret eyes regarded him solicitously, squinting. Ben wanted nothing so badly at that instant as to break free long enough to throttle them both. He felt like the prize exhibit at the zoo. He felt like a freak. Most of all, he felt like a failure. It was their fault that he felt like that. It was because of them that he was here in the first place. Damn it, all of this had happened because of them!

But that wasn’t true, and he knew it. He was here because it had been his choice to come, because this was where he had put himself.

“Are you all right, High Lord?” Fillip asked.

“Can you hear us, High Lord?” Sot asked.

Ben shoved his misplaced anger aside. “I can hear you. I’m all right. How long have I been unconscious?”

“Not long, High Lord,” Fillip said.

“Not more than a few minutes,” Sot said.

“They seized us all,” Fillip said.

“They threw us into this pen,” Sot said.

“No one escaped,” Fillip said.

“No one,” Sot echoed.

So tell me something I don’t know, Ben thought bitterly. He glanced about the compound. They were caged by wire fences that were six foot high and barbed. The gates were of heavy wood lashed with chains. He tugged experimentally at the chains secured to his ankles and wrists. They were firmly locked and fixed in their rings. Escape was not going to be easy.

Escape? He laughed inwardly. What in the hell was he thinking about? How was he going to escape from this place?

“High Lord!” He turned at the sound of his name. Questor had discovered that he was awake. “Are you hurt, High Lord?”

He shook his head no. “How are you and Abernathy? And the kobolds?”

“Quite well, I think.” The owlish face was black with soot. “Bunion and Parsnip got the worst of it, I am afraid. They fought very hard for you. It took more than a dozen trolls to subdue them.”

The kobolds stirred in their chains, as if to substantiate the wizard’s claim. Ben glanced at them a moment, then turned again to Questor. “What will they do to us?” he asked.

Questor shook his head. “I really do not know. Nothing very pleasant, I would think.”

Ben could imagine. “Can you use the magic to free us?” he asked.

Questor shook his head once more. “The magic does not work when my hands are chained. It has no power when iron binds me.” He hesitated a moment, his long face twisting. “High Lord, I am sorry that I have failed you so badly. I tried to do as you asked—to invoke the magic to aid us. It simply would not respond. I … cannot seem to master it … as I would wish.” He stopped, his voice breaking.

“It’s not your fault,” Ben interjected quickly. “I’m the one who got us into this mess—not you.”

“But I am the court wizard!” Questor insisted vehemently. “I should have magic enough at my command to deal with a handful of trolls!”

“And I should have brains enough to do the same! But it would appear that this time we both came up a bit short, so let’s just forget it, Questor. Forget the whole business. Concentrate on finding a way out of this cattle yard!”

Questor Thews slumped back in dejection. He seemed broken by what had happened, no longer the confident guide that had brought Ben into the land. Even Abernathy made no response. Ben quit looking at them.

Fillip and Sot edged closer to where he was chained.

“I am thirsty,” Fillip said.

“I am hungry,” Sot said.

“How soon can we leave this place, High Lord?” Fillip asked.

“How soon?” Sot asked.

Ben stared at them in disbelief. How about the twelfth of never? How about next decade? Did they think that they were just going to walk out of here? He almost laughed. Apparently they did.

“Let me give it some thought,” he suggested and smiled bravely.

He turned away from them and stared out over the pen yard. He found himself wishing he had brought some sort of weapon with him from the old world. A bazooka, maybe? A small tank, perhaps? Bitterness welled up within him. That was the trouble with hindsight, of course—it gave you perfect vision when it was too late to be of any use. It had never occurred to him when he had decided to come into Landover that he would ever have need of a weapon. It had never occurred to him that he would ever find himself in this sort of predicament.

He wondered suddenly why the Paladin had failed to appear when the trolls had come at him. Ghost or not, the Paladin had always appeared before when he was threatened. He would have welcomed an appearance on this occasion as well. He mulled the question over in his mind for a moment before deciding that the only difference between this time and the others was that this time he had failed to think about the medallion when threatened. But that seemed a tenuous link. After all, he had tried to summon the Paladin by willing his appearance when he was testing the medallion’s power, and absolutely nothing had happened.

He sagged back against the holding post. The throbbing was beginning to ease in his head. Hell wasn’t as bad as it had been five minutes ago. Before it had been intolerable; now it was almost bearable. He reflected momentarily on his life, dredging up all the bad things that had gone before to hold up in comparison to this. The comparison failed. He thought of Annie, and he wondered what she would say if she were alive to see him like this. Annie would probably have dealt with the situation much better than he; she had always been the more flexible, always the more resilient.

There were tears in his eyes. They had shared so much. She had been his one true friend. God, he wished he could see her just once more!

He brushed furtively at his eyes and straightened himself. He tried thinking of Miles, but all he could think about was Miles telling him “I told you so” over and over. He thought about his decision to come to Landover, to the fairy-tale Kingdom that couldn’t exist. He thought about the world he had left to come here, about all of the little amenities and irritations he would never experience again. He began to catalogue the wishes and dreams that he would never see fulfilled.

Then he realized what he was doing. He was giving up on himself. He was writing himself off as dead.

He was immediately ashamed. The iron-hard determination that had carried him through so many fights reasserted itself swiftly. There would be no quitting, he swore. He would win this fight, too.

He smiled bitterly. He just wished he knew how.

Two familiar ferretlike faces shoved into view once more.

“Have you had enough time to think about it yet, High Lord?” Fillip asked.

“Yes, have you decided when we will leave, High Lord?” Sot asked.

Ben sighed. “I’m working on it,” he assured them.

The hours slipped away. Midnight passed, and the Crag Trolls began to shuffle off to bed. A few stayed on duty to tend the kilns and watchfires, but the rest disappeared into their stone huts. Questor and Abernathy dropped off to sleep. Most of the G’home Gnomes joined them. Fillip and Sot curled up at his feet. Only the kobolds remained awake with Ben. They lay on their sides, unable to get to a sitting position, their narrow eyes fixed on him watchfully, their white teeth showing through those maddening grins. Ben smiled back at them once or twice. They were tough little creatures. He admired them and he regretted getting them into this mess. He regretted getting them all into this mess.

It was nearing morning when he felt a hand lightly touch his face. He had been dozing, and he came awake with a start. Mist and smoke hung like a pall across the valley floor. Shadows cast by the fires chased one another through the haze, red and black wraiths. There was a chill in the air; the fires burned low.

“Ben?”

He looked around and Willow was there. She was crouched directly behind him, huddled close to the chaining post. Slate-and earth-colored clothing concealed her slim form and a hooded cloak shadowed her face and hair. He blinked in disbelief, thinking her a part of some half-remembered dream.

“Ben?” she repeated, and her sea-green eyes stared out at him from beneath the hood. “Are you all right?”

He nodded mechanically. She was real. “How did you find me?” he whispered.

“I followed you,” she answered, moving closer. Her face was inches from his own, the shadows drawn clear of her exquisite features. She was so impossibly beautiful. “I told you that I belonged to you, Ben. Did you not believe me?”

“It was not a question of believing you, Willow,” he tried to explain. “You cannot belong to me. No one can.”

She shook her head determinedly. “It was decided long ago that I should, Ben. Why is it that you cannot understand that?”

He felt a wave of helplessness wash through him. He remembered her naked in the waters of the Irrylyn; he remembered her changing into that gnarled tree within the pines. She excited and repelled him both, and he could not come to terms with the mix of feelings.

“Why are you here?” he asked in frustration.

“To set you free,” she answered at once. She slipped from beneath the cloak a ring of iron keys. “You should have asked my father for me, Ben. He would have given his permission if you had asked. But you did not ask, and because you did not, I was forced to leave anyway. Now I cannot go back again.”

“What do you mean, you can’t go back?”

She began working the keys into the locks of his chains, trying each in turn. “It is forbidden for any to leave the lake country without my father’s permission. The penalty is exile.”

“Exile? But you’re his daughter!”

“No longer, Ben.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come, damn it! You shouldn’t have left, if you knew that this would happen!”

Her gaze was steady. “I had no choice.”

The third key fitted and the chains fell away. Ben stared at the sylph in anger and frustration, and then in despair. She slipped from his side and moved to Questor, Abernathy, and the kobolds. One by one, she set them free. Daylight was beginning to lighten the eastern sky across the mountains. The trolls would be waking soon.

Willow slipped back to him. “We must go quickly, Ben.”

“How did you get in here without being seen?” he asked.

“There are none who can see the people of the lake country if they do not wish it, Ben. I slipped into the valley after midnight and stole the keys from the watch. The gates stand open, the chain only draped through its rings. But we must leave at once; the deception will be discovered.”

She passed the ring of keys to him, and he took them. His fingers brushed hers. He hesitated, thinking suddenly of what she had risked to come after him. She must have shadowed him since he had left the lake country. She must have been watching over him all that time.

Impulsively he reached for her and hugged her close. “Thank you, Willow,” he whispered.

Her arms wrapped about his body and she hugged him back. He felt the warmth of her body burn into him, and he welcomed it.

“High Lord!” Questor was pulling urgently on his arm.

He released Willow and glanced about hurriedly. The G’home Gnomes were stirring in their sleep, rubbing their eyes and stretching their furry limbs. Some were awake already.

“Is it time to leave, High Lord?” Fillip asked, coming drowzily to his feet.

“Yes, is it time, High Lord?” Sot echoed, rising with him.

Ben stared at them, remembering what had brought him here in the first place. Abernathy suddenly leaned close. “High Lord, it will be difficult enough for five of us to slip away unnoticed. We cannot hope to take an entire company of gnomes in the bargain!”

Ben glanced about once more. Mist and smoke were beginning to dissipate. The sky was growing lighter. There were signs of life in several of the stone huts. The entire village would be awake in the next few minutes.

He looked down at the anxious faces of Fillip and Sot. “Everyone goes,” he said quietly.

“High Lord … !” Abernathy tried to protest.

“Questor!” Ben called softly, ignoring his scribe. Questor stepped close. “We need a diversion.”

The wizard went pale. The owlish face twisted into a knot. “High Lord, I have already failed you once …”

“Then don’t do so again,” Ben cut him short. “I need that diversion—as soon as we’re through the gates of this cattle pen. Do something that will distract the Crag Trolls. Explode one of their kilns or drop a mountain on them. Anything—but do it!”

He took Willow’s arm and started across the compound. Bunion and Parsnip were ahead of him at once, clearing the way, creeping through the fading dark. Furry, ferret-faced forms squirmed and bunched close as he went.

He caught a glimpse of a lean, misshapen figure approaching the compound gates. “Bunion!” he warned with a hiss.

The kobold was through the gate in an instant, shoving free the chains from their rings. He caught the surprised troll before the creature knew what was happening and silenced him.

Ben and Willow rushed from the compound, Questor and Abernathy a step behind. The G’home Gnomes poured through after. Shouts of alarm broke through the stillness almost immediately, deep-throated cries that shattered the sleep of the Crag Trolls. The trolls stumbled from their huts, grunting. The gnomes scattered, stocky forms moving much faster than Ben would have thought possible. He drew up short. There were Crag Trolls at every turn.

“Questor!” he yelled frantically.

Brilliant white light exploded overhead, and Strabo appeared. The dragon flew across the valley breathing fire everywhere. Crag Trolls scrambled frantically for cover, and G’home Gnomes screamed in terror. Ben stared in disbelief. Where had the dragon come from?

Then he caught sight of Questor, arms thrust out of his robes and windmilling madly as the wizard stumbled back. He saw at the same instant that Strabo had only one leg, that the wings were not centered properly on the barrel-shaped body, that there were odd clumps of feathered plumage about the leathered neck, and that the dragon’s fire lanced earthward but burned nothing. The dragon was a fake. Questor had given them their diversion.

Willow saw it, too. She seized his arm, and together they broke for the valley pass that had brought the little company in the previous night. The others followed, Questor bringing up the rear. Already the illusory dragon was beginning to fade, bits and pieces of his body disintegrating as he flew back and forth above the astonished trolls. Ben and his companions dashed through their midst. Twice they were intercepted, but Bunion dispatched the attackers with a swiftness that was frightening. They gained the defile in moments, the way before them clear.

Ben risked a final glance back. The dragon had come apart completely, pieces of magic falling into the mist and smoke like a broken puzzle. The trolls remained in a state of complete confusion.

The little company dashed into the shadows of the defile, and the trolls, the fires, the valley, and the madness were left behind.

CRYSTAL



It was nearing midmorning when Ben and his companions finally ended their flight. They were safely out of the Melchor by then, well below the shadowed, misted cliffs and defiles, back within the foothills from which the G’home Gnomes had originally been taken. The gnomes had long since disappeared, the Crag Trolls appeared to have lost interest in the matter, and there no longer seemed to be any reason to continue running.

Make no mistake, Ben thought, lowering himself gingerly to rest his back against an oak trunk—they had been running. It was an ignominious admission. It would have been far more satisfying to couch their flight in terms of making an escape, or some such. But the truth of the matter was that they had been running for their lives.

Willow, Questor, Abernathy, and the kobolds gathered about him, seating themselves in a circle on a patch of wintry saw grass colored a faint pink. Clouds rolled overhead in a thick blanket of gray, and the smell of rain was in the air. They ate a brief meal of leaves and stalks from Bonnie Blues that grew close at hand, and they drank the water of a spring that ran down out of the mountains. They had nothing else to eat or drink. All of their possessions, horses included, had been lost to the trolls.

Ben chewed and sipped disinterestedly and tried to gather his thoughts. He could argue the relative merits of the matter until the cows came home, but things were not going well for the ruler of Landover. His track record was abysmal. With the exception of those seated about him, he had not gained a single ally. The Lords of the Greensward, traditional supporters of the throne, had received him coolly, tried unsuccessfully to bribe him, then practically thrown him through Rhyndweir’s gates. The River Master had been more congenial in his reception, but only because he was completely disinterested in anything the throne said or did, believing the salvation of his people lay entirely in his own hands. The Crag Trolls had imprisoned him and would have undoubtedly fried him had he not managed to escape their cattle pens—thanks, he reminded himself, not to anything he had done but to Willow’s perseverance and to a fortuitous turn of events that finally enabled Questor to conjure up the magic in more or less the right way for a change.

There were the G’home Gnomes, of course. Fillip and Sot had pledged for them. But what was that worth? What good was the pledge of a burrow people who were despised by everyone for being thieves and scavengers and worse?

“So what exactly do we have here?” he asked aloud, and everyone looked up in surprise. “We have this. The Lords of the Greensward—Kallendbor, Strehan and the rest—will pledge to the throne on the day I rid them of the dragon, something that no one has ever been able to do. The River Master will pledge to the throne on the day that I gain the promise of the Lords of the Greensward and various others to cease pollution of his lands and waters and to work with him to keep the valley clean. Fat chance. The Crag Trolls will pledge to the throne on the day I can walk back into the Melchor without fear of being offered up for roast beef. Good luck there, as well.” He paused. “I’d say that about covers the situation, doesn’t it?”

No one said anything. Questor and Abernathy exchanged uncertain glances. Willow looked as if she did not understand—which, indeed, she might not, he conceded. The kobolds stared at him with their bright, knowing eyes and grinned their needle-sharp smiles.

He flushed with a mix of sudden embarrassment and anger. “The truth of the matter is I have made absolutely no progress whatsoever. Zero. Nil. Zip. Any arguments?” He hoped someone would try.

Questor obliged him. “High Lord, I think you are being entirely too hard on yourself.”

“Am I? What part of what I said was untrue, Questor Thews?”

“What you said was true as far as it went, High Lord. But you overlook an important consideration in your appraisal.”

“I do? What consideration is that?”

Questor held his ground. “The difficulty of your position. It is not easy to be King of Landover under the best of circumstances.”

The others nodded in agreement. “No,” Ben shook his head at once. “I can’t accept that. I can’t blame this on the circumstances. You take the circumstances as you find them and make the best of them.”

“Why do you think that you have not done this, Ben?” Willow wanted to know.

The question confused him. “Because I haven’t! I couldn’t persuade the Lords of the Greensward or your father or those damned trolls to do any of the things that I wanted them to do! I almost got us killed back there with the trolls! If you hadn’t followed us and if Questor hadn’t managed to get his magic working, we would probably all be dead!”

“I would not make too much out of any help you gained from my magic.” Questor muttered softly, owlish face twisting uncomfortably.

“You did succeed in freeing the gnomes, High Lord,” Abernathy reminded him stiffly. His brown eyes blinked. “I personally consider it wasted effort, but such value as their lives might hold is owed now entirely to you. You were the one who insisted that we take them with us.”

The others nodded once more. Ben glanced from face to face, frowning. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think it’s misplaced. Why don’t we just accept what we all know—I’m just not doing the job.”

“You are doing the best that you can, High Lord,” Questor replied at once. “No one can ask anything more.”

“Nor do anything more,” Abernathy added.

“But maybe someone else can do more,” Ben declared pointedly. “Maybe someone else should.”

“High Lord!” Abernathy rose stiffly. He pushed his glasses back on his long nose and his ears cocked back. “I have been scribe to the throne for more years than you have lived. Perhaps that is difficult to realize given my present form,” he cast a withering glance at Questor, “but I ask you to accept my word nevertheless. I have witnessed Kings of Landover come and go—the old King and those many who followed after him. I have observed them all in their attempts to govern. I have seen them exercise their wisdom and their compassion. Some have been capable; some have not.” His right paw pointed dramatically. “But I will tell you now, High Lord, that none—not even the old King—have ever shown more promise than you!”

He finished and sat back on his haunches slowly. Ben was stunned. He would not have expected in his wildest dreams to receive such a ringing endorsement from the cynical scribe.

He felt Willow take his hand. “Ben, you must listen to him. The part of me that is my mother senses something very special about you. It tells me that you are different. I think that you are meant to be King of Landover. I think no one else should even try.”

“Willow, you cannot make that judgment …” he started to tell her, but a sudden hissing from the kobolds cut him short. They spoke between themselves a moment, and then Bunion said something quickly to Questor.

The wizard looked at Ben. “The kobolds agree with the sylph. There is something different about you, they feel. You show courage and strength. You are the King they wish to serve.”

Ben sagged back weakly against the tree trunk, shaking his head reprovingly. “What do I have to do to convince you that you are mistaken about me? There is nothing different about me, nothing special, nothing that would make me a better King than the next guy. Don’t you see? You’re doing the same thing I did when I took the kingship—you’re deceiving yourselves! This may be a fantasy kingdom on paper, but it is real enough in the flesh—and we have to accept the fact that no amount of wishing or make-believe is going to solve its problems!”

No one responded. They stared at him silently. He thought about saying something further to persuade them, but decided against it. There wasn’t anything else worth saying.

Finally, Questor rose. He came to his feet as if the weight of the world were suddenly on his shoulders. His owlish face was screwed up so tightly that he appeared to be in pain. Slowly, he straightened.

“High Lord, there is something that you should know.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I told you before that my half-brother chose you quite deliberately as buyer of the throne of Landover. I told you that he chose you because he believed that you would fail as King and that the Kingship would revert once again to him—just as it has each time it has been sold since the old King’s death. He believed you one of life’s more obvious failures, High Lord. He depended on it, in fact.”

Ben folded his arms defensively across his chest. “Then I guess he won’t be disappointed when he discovers the way things are working out, will he?”

Questor cleared his throat again, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “As it happens, High Lord, he knows exactly how things are working out and he is extremely disappointed.”

“Well, frankly, Questor, I don’t give a …” Ben stopped short. He stared hard at the other man. “What did you say? Did you say he knows how things are working out—exactly how they’re working out?”

He came to his feet and faced the wizard. “How can that be, Questor? His magic doesn’t reach into this world anymore, does it? You said he couldn’t take anything with him when he left Landover except the medallion. Everything else had to be left behind. If that’s so, then how does he know what’s happening back here?”

Questor was eerily calm, his face composed like a death mask. “I tell him what is happening, High Lord,” he said quietly.

There was an endless silence. Ben could not believe what he had just heard. “You tell him?” he repeated in astonishment.

“I must, High Lord.” Questor’s eyes dropped. “It was the bargain I made with him when he departed Landover with the old King’s son. I could be court wizard in his absence, but I had to agree to report to him on the progress of the would-be Kings of Landover sent over from your world. I was to let him know of their failures, and should they occur, of their successes. He planned to use this information in his selection process of candidates for future sales of the throne; he would look for weaknesses that the information revealed.”

The others had come to their feet as well. Questor ignored them. “I want no more secrets between us,” he went on quickly. “There have been too many secrets already, I fear. So I will tell you the last of what I have kept from you. You asked once how many Kings of Landover there have been since the death of the old King. I told you more than thirty. What I did not tell you was that the last eight came from Rosen’s, Ltd.—all within a span of less than two years! Five of those lasted less than the ten-day trial period permitted under the terms of your agreement. Consider for a moment what that means, High Lord. It means that five times, at least, the store would have had to refund to the customer the money paid—five times my half-brother would have lost his sale. One million dollars each time, High Lord. Bad publicity, bad business. I think that neither the store nor my brother would have tolerated such losses. That suggests to me the losses were never discovered. I think that most, if not all, of those sales were kept hidden from the store. And I think that the subsequent dissatisfaction of the customers was covered up in the most expeditious way possible.”

He paused deliberately. “Questor, what are you saying?” Ben whispered.

“That were you to use the medallion now to return to your own world, High Lord, you would find your money gone and your life expectancy shortened considerably.”

Abernathy was furious, his muzzle drawn back to reveal all of his numerous teeth. “I knew you were not to be trusted, Questor Thews!” he growled ominously.

Ben brought his hand up quickly. “No, wait a moment. He didn’t have to tell me this; he chose to do so freely. Why, Questor?”