Blue Adept (32 page)

“Robots are no match for the wiles of woman,” Sheen agreed.

The captor decided. “Take her to the force-field. Put only her head through. Hold it there until the man comes.”

Now Bluette held back. “No—“

“You will call him—or suffocate slowly,” the captor said.

The robots hauled the struggling Bluette to the force-field. One put a hand to her head, grasped her hair, and shoved her head through.

The opacity of the force-field exploded into man-form.
 
One robot was lifted into the air and swung about by the legs so that its head crashed into the wall, hard. There was a blue flash of electricity as its wiring shorted; it was done for.

Already Hulk was turning on the other robot. But this one retained its hold on Bluette. Hulk could not get at it without going through her.

Without pause. Hulk turned back to the first robot, picked it up again by the feet, and smashed it into the wall again. Then he jumped on it, caught hold of one of its arms, and wrenched the limb up and around. His muscles bulged hugely as he strained—and the arm broke off, trailing wires. He worked it all the way free.
 
“That man is beautiful,” Sheen said.

“They kidnapped more than they bargained on,” Stile agreed with grim satisfaction. “Hulk is the over-thirty serf wrestling champion, and he knows free-fighting too. Now he is armed, with only one robot left to disable. He has a fair chance.”

Hulk stalked the robot with his improvised weapon.

“Turn her loose, machine. You can not fight me while you remain encumbered with her.”

The robot retreated uncertainly, but retained its hold on Bluette, “What’s this?” the captor screamed. “You are not the Blue Adept!”

“I never said I was,” Hulk replied, baring his teeth in a fighting grin. “I’m his bodyguard.” He smashed his club at the robot, catching it on the back of the head. It let Bluette go, and she limped hastily away.

“Kill them both!” the captor screamed, enraged.

Hulk stood facing the robot, but he spoke to Bluette.
 
“Go to the body. Open the chest cavity. Take out the breathing mask. Put it on and flee. I will occupy this machine.”

“I can’t go without you!” Bluette cried.
 

“You must go before the witch summons other help. Go to your Employer; bring a rescue mission here. Don’t let the robot make you hostage again. I need this chamber clear to fight it properly.”

“Yes,” she said, quickly getting the mask. “You are a bold, brave man, and I think I could love you in time.
 
Follow me if you can; I will go for help.” She walked toward the force-field.

“Stop her!” the captor shouted.

The robot went for the lady—and Hulk went for the robot, smashing violently at its face. But the robot threw up an arm to ward off the blow, and grappled with Hulk.
 
Bluette fled, limping. She knew she could not help, here.
 
The robot tried to go after her, but Hulk clung, using his wrestling expertise. “Deal with him first,” the captor decided. “Kill him, then catch the woman!” Given this unequivocal directive, the robot applied its full force to the task at hand. It had no human weaknesses; it could not be choked or kneed in the crotch or made to yield by pain, and it was the stronger creature here. It was bound by no human scruples. It put one hand in Hulk’s face and closed its metal fingers in the vise-constriction, simultaneously gouging the man’s eyes and ripping out the cartilage of his nose.

Hulk smashed desperately with his weapon, but his leverage was not good. His face was a blind mask of blood. It was. Stile thought with horror, like fighting a wooden golem: no harm could be done to the inanimate, and no mercy was expected. Hulk’s blows dented the metal in several places, but he could not put the machine out of commission. He made one more effort, lifting the machine and squeezing it in a bear-hug and smashing it against the wall, trying to destroy it along with himself.
 
The robot remained functional. It put its other hand up to Hulk’s head, clasped the man with its legs, and twisted the head. There was a snap.

“Oh, God—“ Stile cried, anguished.

“Leave this. Go after the woman!” the captor cried. “I will shut down the field.”

The robot disengaged itself from Hulk’s body and lumbered in the direction Bluette had gone. It had suffered some damage; its motion was hardly faster than hers had been. Meanwhile, the force-field clicked off; the air puffed out of the chamber.

If Hulk was not already dead, he would suffocate shortly.

With a broken neck and no air his situation was hopeless.

The holograph faded out. The recording was over.

Stile emerged in Phaze at the familiar spot south of the Blue Demesnes. Suddenly his will coalesced. He opened his bag and brought out the magic Flute and played it hard and long. His power gathered to him as the platinum notes pealed forth. Almost, it seemed, the mountain trembled—but not quite. This instrument was the finest he had played, but he knew he could not keep it. When he found the person who could play it better than he—

But at the moment something else preempted his attention. As he played, the words came to him. In a moment he stopped playing and cried it out savagely: “Of the one who killed mine other self, the one who slew my friend, I, Stile, the Blue Adept, swear to make an end!” The magic oath flung outward, making the ground ripple, the trees tremble, and the welkin waver. Pine needles burst into flame. From the Purple Mountains a rumbling echo came back like the voice of a monster: “end . . . end ... end.” Then lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled down. A startled griffin shot up and away to the west.
 
A quick wash of water descended, extinguishing the local flame, leaving wet ashes. His oath had shaken the firmament, but it couldn’t bring his friend back. Stile leaned against a scorched tree and cried.

Neysa and the Lady Blue were waiting for him expectantly at the Demesnes. As soon as they saw him, they knew something was wrong.

“Hulk is dead,” Stile said bluntly. “Mine enemy killed him, in lieu of me. I have sworn vengeance.”

“The sudden storm to the south,” the Lady said. “Thine oath! I thought it no natural occurrence.”

“Mine oath,” Stile agreed. Quickly he filled in the details of the tragedy. “And I know not whether thine other self survives. Lady,” he finished. “I fear I have unwittingly brought demise upon Bluette. I should not have suggested to Hulk that he—“

“Nay,” the Lady said. She exchanged glances with Neysa, and the unicorn blew a small note of assent and left the room.

Stile felt his burden increase. “It is meet that she rebuke me,” he said. “Others have paid the penalty for mine er-rors.”

“She rebuked thee not,” the Lady said. “She knows thou didst seek only to do a favor for thy friend. It was thine enemy at fault.”

“I should have anticipated—“

“So should my Lord have anticipated the threat against him, by the ill hands of the same enemy. So also should I have known to warn him. There is guilt enough to go 2around.” She crossed to him and put her hands on his shoulders, and he felt their healing power. “We were all of us well-meaning and naive. We could not believe that genuine evil stalked us.”

“And thee,” Stile said, not meeting her gaze. “It was thine other self I involved in this. I had no right—“

“To pass her to another man? She surely has will of her own! Thy friend was no bad person; I think she might have warmed to him, had she no other commitment. Certainly she would make her own choice, in her own time.” And the Lady Blue surely knew.

“Thou hast no resentment, that I did not—?”

“Did not court her thyself, and bereave the Blue Demesnes a second time? Even were the danger naught, it matters not. An I decline thy suit for myself, why should I be jealous of what attention thou mightest pay to mine other self? She would like thee well enough, I think.”

“But I did not court her!” Stile protested, in his distraction looking into her lovely face.

“And am I to feel insulted that it is I alone thou seekest, not my likeness in another frame?”

“Thou hast a marvelously balanced perspective.”

“It was a quality thine other self selected for, methinks,” she said with a half rueful smile. “I could not otherwise have maintained the Demesnes in his absence. Surely this, not any wit or beauty, was what caused the Oracle to identify me as his ideal wife.”

“Thou hast those other qualities too,” Stile said. “I beg thee. Lady, let me go now, lest I embarrass us both by—“

She did not let him go. “Thou’rt very like my Lord. Well I know what thou wouldst do with me, were I amenable.”

‘Then well thou knowest that I like not to be toyed with!”

“Thou’rt now the Blue Adept. Thy power is proven.
 
Fain would I have thee remain here, not risking thy life in any quest for vengeance.”

“I have made an oath,” Stile said, somewhat stiffly.
 

“Well do I know the power of thine oaths! Yet there be ways and ways to implement, and here is thy bastion. Let thine enemy come to thee here, where thy magic is strongest; do not put thyself in jeopardy in hostile Demesnes.”

 
“There is merit in thy view,” Stile said, still overwhelmingly conscious of her nearness, of her hands upon him.
 
He kept his own hands at his sides. “Yet I fear that it is folly to wait for attack. Already mine enemy’s traps have imperiled my life in both frames, and destroyed my friend and perhaps thine other self too. I want no others to suffer in my stead. I prefer to take the initiative, to do boldly what has to be done. Thereafter will I retire to the Blue Demesnes.”

“I fear to lose thee, as I lost him! As has so nearly happened already. What becomes of me, of the Blue Demesnes, if thou goest the way of my Lord?”

That moved him. “Never would I place thee in jeopardy, if I could avoid it. Lady. Yet I dare not take thee with me on my quest for vengeance.”

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “It is my vengeance too, to have or to renounce. If thou lovest me, heed my plea! Leave me not!”

“I have no right to love thee, now less than ever,” Stile said. “I may only guard thee.”

“Thou’rt the Blue Adept! Thy right is as thou makest it!”

“My right is as my conscience dictates. I seek not the spoils of mine other self’s Demesnes. Fain would I return thy Lord to thee, if I could.”

She shifted her grip and drew him savagely in to her.
 
She kissed him. Stile’s heart seemed to explode with longing, but with an iron will he held himself passive.
 
She shook him. “Respond, Adept. These Demesnes are thy spoils, and I too. Take what is thy right. Leave me not bereft of Lord and of power. I will grant thee whatever thou dost desire. I will give thee a son. No one, I swear, will ever suspect by word or gesture or deed of mine that in truth I love thee not. Only remain to preserve these Demesnes.”

It was that truth that cut him almost as savagely as the murder of his friend. Gently but firmly Stile disengaged from her. “If the occasion comes when I do not suspect, then I may act as thou hast in mind. This scene becomes thee not.”

She slapped him stingingly across the cheek. “How dost thou dare prate to me of scenes, thou who dost seek futile vengeance that will only exterminate thee and bring down what remains of what my Lord created?”

“I apologize for my foolishness,” Stile said stiffly. He hated everything about this situation, while loving her for the sacrifice she was attempting. To preserve the memory and works of her Lord, she would do anything. She had thrown away her pride in that effort. “I am the way I am. I will fulfill mine oath in the best way I know.”

She spread her hands. Surprisingly she smiled. “Go then, with my blessing. I will aid thee in whatever manner I am able.”

This startled Stile. “Why the sudden change. Lady?”

“It is now thy welfare I value, for whatever reason. If I can not preserve thee from thy folly my way, I must help thee do it thy way. Ever was it thus, in these Demesnes.”

Stile nodded. “Thy balanced perspective, again. I thank thee. Lady, for thy support.” He turned to go.
 

“Thou’rt so very like my Lord,” she repeated as he passed through the doorway. “Nor wiles nor logic nor rages could move him iotas from his set course, when honor was involved.”

Stile paused. “I am glad thou understandest.”

She hurled a blue slipper at him. “I do not understand! My love died of that stubbornness—and so wilt thou!” Stile found Neysa in the courtyard, cropping the perpetual bluegrass patch. “We must move swiftly to surprise the enemy and allow me time to get to my next match in Proton-frame. But I dare not leave the Lady unguarded, especially in her present mood. Without Hulk—“ Neysa tooted reassuringly and led the way outside.
 
Shapes were racing toward the castle. “The werewolves!”

Stile exclaimed.

Soon the pack arrived, panting. The leader metamorphosed to man-form. It was Stile’s friend Kurrelgyre, wild-haired and scarred but trustworthy. “The Pack greets thee, Adept.”

“I have need of thy assistance,” Stile said. “But how didst thou know?”