The Warslayer(65)

"Glory!" Dylan's voice boomed out of the mist somewhere behind her. She heard something else—maybe Ivradan—but couldn't make out the words.

"It's all right," she shouted back, though to her own ears, her voice sounded flat and muffled. "I reckon we're near the top. Hang on!"

As if he'd do anything else. Fair strangling the poor beast, he probably was.

Water beaded up on her skin and began to run down it in rivulets, trickling beneath her corset and soaking the lining. Glory shivered as the chill of the sodden fog began to make its presence felt, and spared a wistful thought for all those other blankets they'd had to abandon. Her hair was braided back, but even so, she could feel it getting heavier as it wicked up moisture from the air around her just as if it were raining. She hoped that whatever that purple sword was made of, it wasn't something that could rust.

Through it all, the little pony plodded on doggedly.

Glory didn't know how long they spent in the cloudbank—it was strange how the destruction of all visual referents destroyed the time sense as well—but suddenly she was aware of a peculiar brightness ahead. Then the mist thinned further, and she realized it was sunlight. Bright afternoon sunlight.

As simply as that, they were through the fog. Somewhere back in the mist the trail had widened, or ended, or whatever. They were here, at the top, in daylight, looking down at the tops of clouds.

The top of the mountain was absolutely flat, as though someone had decided to construct a king-size scenic car-park in the middle of nowhere. It was large—you could drop Melbourne Cricket Ground in the middle of it and have elbow room to spare—and completely covered with short, velvety, utterly weed-free lawn.

And in the middle of it there was a genuine size-extra large Mad Enchanter Stronghold. It looked like it had been designed by Perky Goths, or maybe by Martians who'd seen one too many episodes of Beverly Hills 90210. It was at least five stories tall—the towers were taller, and there were a lot of them—and apparently chiseled out of one giant piece of mother-of-pearl. It was carved and ornamented over every inch of its surface, and polished to a fare-thee-well. It flashed and glittered iridescently in the sun, and the whole thing gave Glory a headache to look at it. Banners and pennants flew from every place a banner or pennant could fly from, all of them as soap-bubble glistery as the palace itself.

"What the bleeding 'ell is that?" Dylan demanded, reverting to the vowels of earliest youth. He slid stiffly off Fimlas' back and staggered toward Glory, giving his inoffensive mount a backward look of venomous dislike.

Ivradan made a sound very like a groan of despair, slipping easily from Heddvi's back. Both animals stood stolidly, neither dipping its muzzle to browse at the greensward.

"Turn them loose," Glory said in a low whisper. She stroked Felba's neck, stripping cloud-water from the coarse hair. She didn't like this place. She liked it less with every passing moment, and she didn't know why—other than the obvious. It was storybook-pretty; cloyingly, exuberantly sweet, like a Precious Moments version of Middle Earth. It shouldn't leave her feeling the way Ivradan looked.

"Turn them loose," she repeated. She swung her leg over Felba's rump with some difficulty and stood up, letting her tote-bag slip to the ground. "Send them away, if you can."

She was here by choice. Ivradan and Dylan hadn't exactly had a choice, but they were able to consent. The ponies could neither choose nor consent to their involvement, and Glory wanted to save them if she could.

"That won't be necessary."

She'd been looking toward the others. The voice came from behind her. Glory swung around.

She was staring at a woman who might even be taller than she was. The woman was wearing a long heavy robe of turquoise blue gold-shot silk that resembled the robes of the Allimir mages the way a showroom-new Maseratti sports car resembles a battered old Ford truck. Her hair was entirely hidden beneath a silk caul in the same color, and she wore a high elaborate jeweled headdress with sheer floating veils that brushed the grass at her feet. Her eyes were brilliantly blue, her beautiful face serene in the way of a statue's or a saint's.

"If you want them gone, then they shall go." Her voice was like low music, kindly and amused.

Before Glory could say anything, the woman raised one arm in a sweeping gesture. The rings on her fingers flashed: the stones were a rich and toxic azure, a brighter blue than the sky. The robe had long batwing sleeves; they fell back as she gestured, revealing a tight undersleeve as brightly gold as if it were made of the liquid metal itself.

The horses were gone.

Glory stared numbly at the place where Felba had been, unwilling to look back and see that the other two were gone as well, though she knew they were. Even her tote-bag was gone. She clutched Gordon tighter.