Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (34 page)

A roar overhead! A lightning strike so low it
slashed through the dead limbs of roadside trees before exploding
in a rain of splinters!

"I'm ready," John said, straightening,
feeling that he must look like a Samurai warrior in full regalia.
Ridiculous.

Turning to get the spare torch out of the
cart, John waddled to the front to take the pony reins from Zwicia
and the first torch from Platinia.

He turned to the girl, seeing her well enough
through the open mesh of his iron hood. "You must both go back. If
you hurry, you'll be safe. The dark Mage is zeroing in, which means
that if you backtrack quickly, you'll get beyond range." Again,
John pointed back down the road.

Surely some of that translated.

Upending the second torch, John touched the
flame of his torch to the other torch's dry grass and sticks.

The second torch beginning to blaze, he
handed it to Zwicia, gesturing to indicate that she should hold the
fire away from her, Zwicia turning to totter back at what was, for
her, a flying pace.

If Zwicia understood, so did Platinia.

And still the girl refused to move, looking
up at John with wide-open eyes, her small, but perfect, face aglow
beneath the metal mesh.

White light! ... Crash!

"Go on," John yelled as he wrapped the pony
leads firmly around his free hand, the little brown beasts lathered
up but apparently not yet ready to bolt. "Get out of here!"

"Lebz kanp with you," the girl said, raising
her small voice to be heard over the nickering ponies, the stunted
horses digging in with their small hooves as they tried to back up,
then shifting their weight from side to side.

"Lebz stay ...."

"You can't stay with me!" he barked, the girl
stubbornly standing her ground. "I've got to go on alone. I'll be
all right. I've got the protective suit. Besides, I have the
cannon. If I read the situation right, Auro's citizens won't be a
factor any more. It's just him and me. Mano a Mano. And I've got
the upper hand. I can walk right through his magic fire until I'm
within range." The girl shrugged.

Light! Boom!!

So close this time that John was struck by a
limb blasted off a nearby tree.

* * * * *

Momentarily stunned, John was brought back
from the dim, half-world of semi-consciousness by pain in his
hand.

The ponies, the nearness of the falling bolts
having the small beasts rearing, jerking on the lead ropes that
John had wrapped around his hand. Though John still had a grip on
their reins, he knew the little horses had taken their last,
forward step. ..........

There was a solution to the pony problem.
Since the artillery weapon itself was on wheels, John could drop
the backside of the cart (the tailgate serving double duty as a
ramp) then push out the cannon.

Surely he was close enough to his goal not to
need the pony cart any longer.

Now that John thought about it, this change
of plans provided a solution to the Platinia problem.

"The ponies. You must take the ponies with
you. Get them safely away."

And ... that seemed to do it, Platinia
nodding that she understood.

Handing Platinia the lead ropes, John turned
to unfasten the ponies' harness from the cart, his mind flying
ahead of him. After pushing the cannon off the wagon, he could
hitch up the extra rope in the gun carriage, use the rope to pull
the cannon down the trail.

His plans made, John moved beside the ponies
to unclip their harness, the shetlands free of the cart, John
looking ahead to see the road start to go downhill from this point.
That, plus a trailing wind, should allow him to drag the cannon for
quite some time.

Turning, John got a final glimpse of the
backside of the ponies, Platinia doing as she'd been told, at last,
leading the eager animals to safety in the rear.

John was on his own.

Clanking purposefully to the back of the
cart, John reached up to pull the wooden pins, the creaking
tailgate bumping to the ground.

Jumping on the low cart bed, John moved to
the front of the iron gun. Shoving, rolled the gun carriage over
the back of the cart to the soft dirt road.

Fastening a length of rope to the carriage,
John decided it would save time later if he ladled the proper
amount of gunpowder into the cannon and put in one of the
cannonballs. When within range, all he'd have to do was stick a
piece of fuse cord in the back of the cannon, light the fuse and
the firing would be automatic, the exploding gunpowder in the
cannon lighting the thinner fuse cord already in the ball inside,
the cannonball thrown out of the barrel to blow up on arrival near
the dark Mage. Assuming the cannon worked the way it had in gunnery
practice in a deserted part of Xanthin Island.

Stripping off the canvas snugged over the
cannon barrel, tossing the protective cover in back of the pony
cart, John pried the tight lid off the powder keg; used the dipper
to sift a measured amount of powder down the slanted gun
barrel.

Picking up one of the cannonballs, he lifted
it to the barrel, the tight fitting ball settling itself in the
bore before sliding down into firing position.

For a moment, John debated about whether or
not this was the time to put in the cannon's fuse.

Decided against it, the fuse more vulnerable
in the cannon than in the sack.

Shifting the torch to his left hand, bending
forward, gripping the rope, John threw his shoulder into it, the
heavy gun beginning to move.

And John was off again, the rope not cutting
into his shoulder too badly, John finding he was relieved to no
longer have to worry about Platinia. All he had to do now was keep
the clumsy cannon carriage in the middle of the road, John soon
alerted to a new sensation -- the ease with which he was pulling
the gun -- John looking up to see that the road had begun to slope
down before him, also seeing, for the first time, another streak of
light begin ... rise, arc down .... the world around John turning a
stark, blinding white!!

A direct hit!

With ... no results ... except that John came
to himself to find he was standing in a broad, but shallow, hole
that wasn't there before.

As John's eyes adjusted to the dark again, as
the ringing in his ears faded, John tried to process what he'd just
witnessed.

First, a flash starting not too far ahead at
the bottom of the road. Then, the bolt strike!

Something he'd been waiting for! An
indication that the journey was coming to an end.

Surely, he'd find the evil Mage of Azare down
there on the flat where the bolts began!

Five more steps along the dark path and the
downward pitch of the dead-forest trail increased, making the
pulling of the gun easier. Easier but ...

For the first time, John was aware of feeling
something other than ... numb. He felt ... afraid!

Though the gun cart rolled by itself at that
grade, John was sweating; the sweat of hysteria, great, cold drops
sliding down John's forehead.

Chills watered his spine. Skeletal fingers
clutched his neck. Shaking, John stopped, the artillery piece
continuing to roll another yard until the rope was slack.

Holding both rope and torch handle in the
same hand, John wiped the perspiration from his eyes as best he
could through the open rings of his metal mask, for the first time
finding himself racked with shivers so violent they rattled his
iron-mesh suit.

Dread. Producing stomach-knotting terror!

But ... why now?

Nothing had changed. John was dressed in his
protective cloak, metal-ringed hood over his head, spiked boots
grounding him firmly to the soft dirt trail. The downward grade of
the path plus the sharp wind at his back relieved him of any worry
he might have had about the distance he could pull the cannon.

Trying to consider his situation between
paralyzing chills, the only thing that had changed was that
Platinia was no longer by his side.

A thought that shamed him! Had he become so
addicted to the girl's calming presence he was loath to face danger
without her?

Irritated by that thought, John raised the
torch, the swelling wind at his back ruffling the firebrand's
flame.

Seeing nothing threatening out there in the
gloom, John forced himself to take the steps necessary to tighten
the rope.

Then hesitated.

Even with the torch held high, John could see
little except flickering shadows to either side of the forest path,
the trail itself narrowing into total blackness before him.

Not much fire left in the torch. He made a
mental note to pack it with more fuel. ....

Still unnerved, John stood there, trying to
imagine a reason to stay rooted to the trail.

Could think of nothing ... except that he'd
never felt so much alone.

Determined to shake off this paralyzing
fright, John leaned forward! Dug in his spikes! Pulled!

And after the expected strain necessary to
counteract the cannon's weight, was shambling off once more, his
shoulders bent, his body swaying laboriously like an armored
elephant.

Before him, the path of the death-struck
forest maintained its downward slant; blackness sealing the trail
behind him.

Momentum achieved, the gun tracking docilely
on its metal wheels, John could straighten up to look down the
road. .....

What?? .......

Something, no doubt about it.

Through the archway of defunct trees, ahead
and below him, John could make out what looked like a pencil-thin
strip of light rising into the sky, narrowing to nothingness as it
ascended the sky's black vastness.

Concentrating on this completely unexpected
phenomenon as a way of closing his mind to panic, continuing to
haul the field piece toward that mystifying light, John saw the
light source thicken until he could see it ... flicker. At least,
at the base, before it narrowed to a razor-cut of luminescence in
the sable sky.

Another sweaty hour along the path and John
could make out a dot of blue above the light-shaft's vanishing
point, seeming to be a patch of Azare's dark blue, sky dome.

Light ahead and wind behind. A wind that
steadily increased until it was rushing past him like a river
surges toward a waterfall. Wind enough to stiffen John's hair
through the metal mask; enough to plaster his white, Cinnabar robe
to his back and bubble it through the wire rings of his armor in
the front.

Half a mile further, another jagged flash of
light rose up, then arced down toward him with an atomic flash and
mind shattering explosion!

His head ringing like the clapper in a giant
bell, John realized that another Mage-strike had staggered him to
his knees.

Deafened but functioning, John struggled to
his feet; braced himself on shaky legs by leaning back against the
steadily blowing wind.

Less than stable on his feet, blinking, John
could see little but blazing squiggles of light imprinted on the
retinas of his eyes.

Trying to see past the afterimages of what
looked like coils of light bulb filament, John could make out a
wind-swirled dust cloud ahead of him. A vortex of gray powder
driven down the trail, the cloud hiding the distant light pillar at
road center.

John blinked.

And blinked again, the dust cloud
dissipating.

Virtually blind, John bent down. Felt around
him on the road until he located the torch where he'd dropped it,
the torch's dying flames appearing to him as flickers around the
edges of his nearly sightless eyes.

John had sustained a second, direct hit from
the dark Mage's electric fire.

And again, had lived.

Giving himself a long minute more for his
eyes to adjust, John began to pull the cannon again, finding that,
to get it rolling, he had to muscle the heavy, black powder device
up and over the lip of the shallow blast-crater of the last
strike.

Moving again, in addition to seeing and
hearing once more, John was beginning to think -- not entirely a
blessing, thought causing sweating, trembling, and a powerful
inclination to ... run!

Hating his cowardice, John told himself he
was experiencing the emotion any person would have when facing the
unknown. He was on foreign ground. To say nothing of approaching a
dangerous malevolence! Throw in an unnatural wind at his back that
seemed to increase with every step, and what was abnormal was his
former calm. Could it be that Platinia affected him in other ways
beside strengthening him against the "pull" of Zwicia's crystal? In
this instance, had provided him with abnormal courage?

Something to consider.

Some other time.

The pressing business of the moment was to
stumble on in spite of his unmanly fright.

Arguing himself up to speed but still
thinking about Platinia's "hold" on him, John could believe he'd
been ... manipulated into joining this quest. How else to explain
his compulsion to combat the evil Mage of Azare when John's
self-interest lay in refusing to meddle in enigmas he didn't
understand?

Yet he kept on, compelled to champion ...
what? -- Himself? Stil-de-grain? -- Platinia?

On and slowly on, the light pillar, at 500
yards, a fiery column of crackling illumination. A light so thin,
so strange, so powerful that John had to believe the blazing line
from earth to sky was linked to the dark Mage.

Nothing to do for the moment but flog himself
forward, the wind at his back helping him down the trail, the light
line ahead thickening into a writhing, twisting, tongue of fire
that spewed skyward from what seemed to be a hole in the dead
earth.

Though John was tiring, slowing, he was
closing on the light, the dazzle of the vertical line projecting
shadows behind the forest's decaying trees.