Fantasy For Good: A Charitable Anthology Read online

  “Before he set me in safe haven,” the winged horse said, “the wise mage Myron showed me the demon horse who would threaten the free skies, not too far in the future. He promised to find me a knight who would join me in battle, and that he himself would use his magics to properly armor and equip my rider. Thrice he has woken me so that he might do some further enchantment. Each time he showed me what he had created to assure me of his good faith.”

  “Uh… Why did you let him shrink you and lock you in a box if you weren’t certain of his good faith?” I asked.

  “I did not doubt him,” the winged horse replied. “However, he needed to draw some of my power from me to assure that what he created would be sympathetic with my essence. I believe he desired to reassure me that the pain was not for naught.”

  This was beginning to sound very bad, especially given what I knew of the sort of magics Myron the Magnificent had specialized in. This winged horse reminded me of certain bone-headed knights I’d known, the sort who still believed in fighting an enemy head on, or letting him reclaim his wand after you’d gone to all sorts of effort to knock it from his hand, or other such chivalric nonsense.

  I knew that sort all too well. I’d been like that as a young knight, my shoulder ever tingling with the press of my liege lord’s blade, my ears ringing with his exhortation to be a noble knight and true. I’d held on to my idealism through my first few quests, right up until the day my devotion to chivalry had gotten my best girl and three knights, including my mentor—in those days I’d have called them my “lady love” and “boon companions”—killed in a particularly ugly way. Now I still fight and I like to think I fight for the right, but I’m a lot more cynical and a lot harder to fool. I’m also not terribly inclined to trust, but there was something about this white winged horse that made me trust him—even as I was suspecting that his idealism might get us both killed.

  From the base of the tower, I heard Spike and Tyke barking wildly. Biter was bugling. Fighting against increasingly wild winds, Turbulent soared up unbidden to request orders. My animals didn’t speak—not like this winged creature I’d unwittingly freed—but they understood both me and each other.

  “Take cover, all of you,” I commanded Turbulent. “The stable is stone-walled and secure. Get in there and don’t come out until I come for you or you know I’m dead.”

  Turbulent shrieked what might have been agreement or might have been protest. Like I said, I didn’t understand them, though they do me. Then she spiraled down and I heard the barks and whinnies cease. I hoped they’d gotten into safety.

  I looked over at the winged horse who had been observing the exchange with lively interest. “I just realized,” I said, “we can talk to each other. Is that more of Myron’s work?”

  The winged horse snorted in mild disgust. “Are you not aware that the first winged horse, the legendary Pegasus, was associated with poetry? Indeed, the spring that was created when his hoof struck the rocks of Mount Helicon released the fountain Hippocrene that gave those who drank from it poetic inspiration. How would any of that make sense if he and his kind could not speak?”

  I hadn’t thought about it, and I wasn’t sure the question actually bore thinking about, not with the storm clouds growing darker and the winds more ferocious with every instant.

  The winged horse continued, “I am called Halite, son of Skyvaster, of those herds that roam the Impossible Reaches. And you are?”

  “Sir Gilroy of Pearl Cove, sworn vassal of King Yeats. I am also called the Lord of Iron,” I said, using my full titles for the first time in many years. Knights errant don’t usually bother with long introductions. I was about to ask what sort of enemy Halite expected when the center of the windstorm swirled tight, like the pupil of the eye shrinking against sudden light. In the time it took for three fast beats of Halite’s wings, the eye of the storm swirled wide again, emitting from its center what at first glance seemed a winged horse as storm-stained and tainted as Halite was white and fair.

  Halite bugled an equine challenge and would have risen to do battle, but I nearly fell out of the window, grabbing at his mane to hold him back.

  “Take care!” I bellowed against the rising wind. “That’s not a normal creature!”

  Nor was it… The head was distinctly equine, as were the four slender legs. The remainder was a rising firestorm. The flames were what created the illusion of wings where, in reality, there was nothing but heat eddies, fire, and smoke.

  Shaking loose my grip on his mane, Halite continued to rise to the attack. Frantically, I called after him, “You idiot! Weren’t you supposed to have a knight with you? Isn’t that what Myron told you? Would he have spent all that time creating magical weapons if they weren’t important? Don’t –” I knew the words were ill-chosen, but they tumbled out all the same, “Don’t put the cart before the horse!”

  Halite backed air, slowing his advance. “Are you my knight, Sir Gilroy of Pearl Cove, called the Lord of Iron?”

  “I certainly am. Get back here. Let me grab…”

  I cast my gaze around the heaps of things I’d been sorting and classifying—had it only been a few minutes before? There were several swords, none of very good quality. I chose the flashiest, one with bright diamonds set not only on the hilt but inlaid into the blade as well. I’d already tested it and knew its magics to be of the most minor sort—mostly charms for brilliance and shine. Still, it should impress my idealistic future steed.

  I was at a loss for a lance until I remembered the bedpost Spike and Tyke had sniffed out. It lacked the flaring cuff that protected the user’s hand on a true lance, but it was sturdy enough. Again, the magics on it were not of much use in and of themselves. A wizard’s staff is a versatile item, meant to store magic for future use. This staff had been prepared and strengthened, but the reservoirs were empty.

  The armor of silk and spider web provided more of a challenge. I’d seen nothing at all that fit that description, nor did I have time to put on my own plate armor—even if I’d brought it along, which I hadn’t, since it takes a squire or two to bolt the stuff on. Moving quickly, I tugged a length of greyish fabric off a table top, slashed a hole for my head, then belted it with one of the sashes that held the window curtains. I thrust the bedpost staff sideways into my makeshift belt. Since the staff was much slimmer and lighter than a true lance, I could just about manage.

  So armed and attired, I hoisted myself onto the broad windowsill and, without taking time to think about it, dropped onto Halite’s back. I had no saddle or stirrups, of course, but I discovered that I could throw my legs forward in the general area of the withers, where the feathered wings met the equine body. When I bent my knees slightly, I had a fairly secure seat that didn’t seem to restrict Halite’s ability to use his wings in the least.

  The storm-born flame steed had not taken advantage of Halite’s retreat to press its own attack. I wondered why until I noticed that during the interval it had acquired a rider—a man-shaped specter built from its own storm stuff and tatters of flame. It was attired as a knight in wispy armor, and bore a lance and long sword. I felt troubled. Despite the rider being almost as ill-defined as its steed, something about it was vaguely familiar. As Halite beat his wings and mounted the air to confront the flaming demon horse, the pair turned to face us.

  That’s when I recognized other rider as the absolutely, certainly, without-a-doubt, dead—after all, I myself had slain him and put his body to the torch—Myron the Magnificent.

  Instantly, I comprehended the sorcerer’s plot. He had gulled Halite, imprisoned him under the guise of protecting him, and then drawn from the winged horse the power to destroy him. Nothing calls to like like like, stupid as that sounds. Weapons imbued with a creature’s own essence are the most dangerous.

  I had no doubt that the lance born by the spectral knight was the actual Lance of True Valor and the sword was the Sword of Righteous Might. I had no idea how armor made from silk and spider web would offer any usefu
l protection, but I had no doubt it would do so.

  And here I am, I thought, bearing the Sword of Shininess, carrying the Lance of Empty Dreams, clad in armor made from a dirty tablecloth. I wonder if I can convince Halite of the wisdom of that old proverb: “Those who fight and run away, live to fight another day?”

  I most sincerely doubted it. Certainly the young man I had been all those years ago wouldn’t have been convinced. He’d have spouted words like “coward” and “weak of heart,” not to mention “lily-livered” and “unworthy of one’s shield.”

  What to do? Right now I didn’t have many options. Halite was charging to the attack, so I’d better get ready to defend. My makeshift equipage lacked a shield. I wished I’d thought to grab one. Still, there was one thing in my favor. I wouldn’t be the spectral knight’s target. His goal would be to hit Halite as many times as possible, for each strike would do not only bodily damage, but also drain away the winged horse’s inherent magic.

  (Do I need to stop here to note that, of course, winged horses have magic? There’s no way they could fly without it. Graceful as they look, they’re just too heavy and bulky.)

  Based on what I knew about Myron’s magical specializations, I had a pretty good idea what the end result would be. That still insubstantial duo would gain more and more substance until they transformed into some eldritch horror suitable for world domination. Halite would plummet to the earth as nothing more than a drained husk. What would happen to Halite’s unscheduled rider would be even less amusing, since he—that is, me—would likely hit while still able to feel the impact.

  Beneath me, I could feel the pounding of Halite’s mighty heart as he surged upward. The flame-cloud steed was making wide circles as it descended. The specter had readied his lance. I considered matching him, then decided that would be stupid. These weren’t lists where we would be barreling toward each other, aiming for shield or breastplate. There would be no dramatic shivering of lances while crowds cheered. Instead there’d likely be a shaft of pointed wood impaled in shining white hide.

  The image was so real I could almost see the blood fountaining forth, feel the shudder as my steed staggered in mid-air, wings beating unevenly.

  Our opponents swooped upon us in eerie silence. Not even a crackle of flames or the whoosh of raging fire could be heard. Halite was banking, probably so he could snap at the other equine’s throat, since he didn’t have enough elevation to effectively kick. He seemed oblivious to the threat the lance offered—and maybe he was. If I’d been Myron, I’d have tossed in a charm to make the weapons invisible or at least to seem unimportant to their intended target.

  That damned lance was going to go right into Halite’s chest if I didn’t do something. So I did, even though it was close to suicide. Leaning hard to my right, I grabbed a handful of Halite’s long mane. Keeping hold, I tightly wound it around my wrist for good measure. I knew from experience that horses didn’t feel as much pain when their manes were pulled as humans do when hair and scalp are involved. I had to hope the same was true for winged horses.

  I leaned far out, yelling to Halite, “Turn to the right! The right!” I thought my winged steed might refuse, since that would mean giving up his part in the fight, but apparently my speech about his needing a knight in order to conquer had gone home. He looped far more tightly than I had dared hope. My butt in the air, my hold on my steed maintained by a heel, a leg, and my hand on the mane, I brought the Sword of Shininess down on the Lance of True Valor.

  The impact shuddered up my arm. I felt something give and wondered if it was my shoulder. Then I realized it was my sword’s blade. Diamonds might be the hardest thing there are—the hardest natural thing, I should say—but they aren’t known for flexibility. The blade shattered into myriad sparkling dewdrops, but the one strike had done what I hoped. The tip of the Lance of True Valor had been neatly sliced off. From the severed end spilled a bloody mist that ate its way down the shaft until the lance was gone.

  For the first time, our opponents made a sound. The specter shrieked with inarticulate anger as the flame-cloud steed burned the air, rising to where they could regroup.

  I found myself wondering if they’d even been aware of me before that. After all, my presence had not been part of the plan—no matter that Halite had been told to expect a knight. The undead—especially those recently alive—are not the smartest or most observant creatures. Likely the specter was running on some pre-set imperative. I had my doubts as to whether that horse of flame and cloud was even really “alive.” I suspected it was more akin to a partially created magical item.

  I couldn’t count on being overlooked to help me next pass. My sword’s remaining blade was useless; its brilliance only a glittering memory. I stuffed the remaining length back into the sheath and pulled my lance—really, more of a staff—from my window sash belt.

  “Myron only showed me that horrid facsimile of a horse in his scrying mirror. He didn't show the rider,” Halite complained indignantly.

  This was not the time to tell him that Myron had tricked him in more dangerous ways. I needed my steed strong, his confidence intact—though if I could instill some caution, that wouldn’t hurt, either. Clearly, Halite had not recognized Myron’s features in the specter. Did he even know the sorcerer was dead?

  “Perhaps,” I offered, “Myron’s vision was less than perfect. He did tell you would need a knight. He may have been aware of the facsimile’s rider on a subliminal level. They do blend together as if they are one creature. Do you wish to retreat and reassess?”

  I didn’t know which I’d prefer. Pulling back was safer, certainly, but taking out Myron had been my assigned task—and that included if and when he returned as something other than a mousy researcher. Still, Halite was the one taking the bigger risk, even if he had no idea just how great. And if I let Halite retreat now, how could I keep him safe in the future? Myron would certainly not give up. Even if his undead self did not remember precisely why, the imperative to pursue and destroy the winged horse and suck away his power would remain.

  Guilty relief flooded me when Halite trumpeted indignantly, “Retreat! By no means! This is my battle and you are my true knight.”

  “Then be guided by me, noble one,” I said. “My sword is ruined, but so is his lance. We have the advantage of reach—he of sharp steel. Prithee, do not charge in. Close combat does not offer the victory you crave.”

  Halite considered. The flame-cloud demon was swirling above, as the specter clumsily substituted the Sword of Righteous Might for the destroyed lance.

  “Like the smoke and fire of which it is made, that parody of beauty rises more easily than do I,” Halite admitted. “If we could draw it into a dive and I could get above it, I could fight with my hooves, as well as my teeth.”

  “That plan has potential,” I agreed. “As long as you don’t get skewered in the belly.”

  “I’ll keep to one side. Here’s how I think I can get him to dive…”

  Halite’s idea was a good one, if rather terrifying for his rider. We were well above Myron’s porphyry tower. Halite’s intention was to make as if we were fleeing for shelter within. That meant a dive of our own, directly toward one of the too-small windows in that wall of reddish-purple stone. Halite had been able to get in that way before—Myron had given him some enchantment—but we both knew we couldn’t count on it working now.

  I gripped my knees hard, wrapped my fingers in the silky white mane, and tried to decide if waiting to smash was better with my eyes open or shut. Shut would be worse, I decided. So it was with wide-open eyes that I watched the purple wall loom closer and closer. Our enemies took the bait. Much like a striking hawk—if a hawk trailed fire—the flame-cloud horse swept down, the specter leaning forward, long sword glittering in its grip.

  Halite swerved at the last moment, cutting a tight spiral around the tower. The flame-cloud horse plummeted past us. Halite beat his wings so that we could close in while keeping the advantage offered by our
greater elevation. The plan was working beautifully. I had my makeshift lance set to knock the sword from the specter’s smoky hand when I noticed the bats.

  Their leathery wings were of a stormy darkness that blended well with the tormented skies. Their eyes were preternaturally bright and held ruddy flames. Eldritch as they appeared, I wasn’t terribly worried. I’ve never been afraid of bats. Then I heard what they were whispering.

  “So, Gilroy, leading another innocent to his doom, and all for your own glory.”

  “Get the job done at any cost, is it? You’d think you’d have learned by now.”

  “How bloody are your hands anyhow, Sir Knight? Your fights now aren’t honorable battles. They’re assassinations.”

  On and on they went, voicing every doubt I’d ever felt about myself, about my choices, about the deaths I’d been responsible for—of both of the innocent and the guilty. I heard the voices of fallen comrades, of those who died because their lives were sustained by some evil magic. I saw my lady love, as she had been so long ago and far away. She turned away from my lined and grizzled self, shielding her pretty face with her hands.

  “I know you not, Sir. Gilroy, you say? Nay, my Gilroy is a youth, pure and fair, terrible in his innocence and valor.”

  I heard a scream and believed it was her own dying scream, come to my ears again. Then I realized the one who had screamed was Halite. While I had been ensorcelled by those all too true, oh so false, words, the specter had risen to stand upon the back of his steed. When I say he stood balanced there, I only say what my eyes told me. In truth, he was yet part of his demonic mount. His sword streamed red and I realized that he had sliced a long furrow across one of Halite’s forelegs, then up into the muscles on the underside of his barrel. The distance had been too great for the specter to penetrate to the organs. Nonetheless, blood rained down, bathing specter and steed in a red rain that made them more solid with every shining drop.

  “Up!” I screamed to Halite. “Up! Get clear! Your blood gives them strength.”