The Warslayer(7)

"God's teeth!" she gasped, and just-too-late remembered it was a line from the show. Vixen's favorite oath.

She turned back into her dressing room, still blinking away afterspots from the flash that had somehow put this outside her door. When her vision cleared, she saw all three of the short guys were still standing in the middle of her dressing room, staring at each other in confusion.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Belegir gasped. The purple crystal on his staff was slagged and melted, like the remains of an old-time flashbulb.

"It has happened," said Helevrin. "The magic went awry and took that which it ought not have. But she hasn't agreed to help us. We have to send her back."

"How?" Belegir cried in anguish. "This is the forest of Duirondel—beyond it lies Serenthodial the Golden—home! The stave's power is expended, and the rest returns to Erchane's embrace." He let go of the staff. It hit the tatty green linoleum floor in pieces, crumbling into a line of dust as Glory watched in relieved disbelief.

This is real. They were telling the truth. This is all real, or . . . or I'm going to break Bazza's jaw, is what.

"We'll have to get more," Englor piped up bravely. From the way the other two looked at him, Glory got the impression that getting more magic wasn't going to be all that easy.

She felt a pang of relief so strong it was almost painful. These people weren't nutters. She knew what special effects could do, and they couldn't drop a Hollywood dressing room into the middle of a birch forest that looked and smelled and felt like a birch forest, even for a goof. The forest was a real forest.

But that meant a delegation of wizards really had come to her for help.

"I reckon that I— I just— I'm glad this is all . . . " She leaned against the doorway, fighting a wave of dizziness born of shock. "What did you think I could do?"

"We did not know," Helevrin said simply. "All we know is that only a hero can save us."

If she didn't sit down soon, she was going to fall over and probably squash a couple of her guests. Glory staggered over to the couch and collapsed, breathing as deeply as she could under the circumstances. Gordon tumbled from his perch and she clutched the stuffed elephant reflexively to her chest.

This is wackier than all of last season's scripts put together.

"What will we do? What will we do?" Englor was actually wringing his hands in panic.

"We must . . . we must ask her to come with us. As our guest. We will consult the Oracle of Erchane to see why this has happened and how best to return the Slayer to her own place," Belegir said.

"Just like that?" Glory heard herself say.

The fact that she always got into some kind of trouble because of it had never kept Glory from speaking her mind. Today, the unreality of the whole situation made shooting off her mouth even easier. This was all so real that her mind insisted it couldn't be happening.

All three of the Allimir turned to look at her.

"I mean, you asked for my help, and now you've got me here, and you're just going to turn around and let me go?"

"The Allimir," said Helevrin stiffly, "are people of honor. Your presence is an accident. You have not offered to aid us. We have no claim on you."

If that's their idea of begging for help, no wonder everyone else turned them down.

"Look, I— I reckon you've really got the wrong person. There isn't anything I can do about whatever it is. But I can come and take a dekko, maybe give you some advice, hey? No promises." This is SUCH a stupid idea. God's teeth, gel, doesn't your mouth ever get tired of writing checks your body can't cash?

"'No promises,'" Belegir echoed, as if the words puzzled him. "Come, then." He held out his hand.

Glory got to her feet, clutching Gordon reflexively. By now the temperature of the room had dropped to that of a crisp fall day, and she grabbed a sweatshirt—grey with a picture of Vixen on the back and the show's logo embroidered on the right front—and knotted it around her shoulders. After a panicked moment—knowing she ought to pack for this adventure but without the faintest idea of what to bring—she grabbed a large logo tote-bag and stuffed her street clothes, her makeup, her purse, and her script into it. She tucked Gordon carefully into the top. He was her mascot, and she wasn't leaving him behind.

"Okay," she said breathlessly. "Let's go."

The Allimir turned and filed through the doorway. Glory hesitated, then hitched her bag over her shoulder and followed them.

* * *

Her feet scuffed through a thick fall of yellow birch leaves, and the bite of the air made her glad she'd brought the sweatshirt. She would have liked to change back to her baggy T-shirt and jeans before going off with these guys, but she'd felt an odd reluctance to suggest it. While she wore the costume, she was Vixen the Slayer, and groundless though the conviction was, wearing the costume made her feel protected.