Bride of the Castle by John Dechancie Page B

swordplay.”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œRight.” Gene thrust his hands into nonexistent pockets, then, appearing to feel awkward, folded his arms. “Right! Now, let’s see . . .”
    Snowy threw his huge broadaxe into the alcove.
    Gene frowned. “Why?”
    â€œHeck, I don’t need weapons anyway. I just use ‘em because you do.”
    â€œOh. Well, good. Now, let’s see—Hey, this place looks interesting.”
    The aspect in question looked pleasant enough, but there wasn’t much to see. A nearby grass-covered hillock was the most prominent feature of the landscape, or that part of it viewed from the angle the portal afforded. A birdcall sounded from a lone tree on the crest of the rise, where two sheep grazed, a female with her lamb.
    â€œThere’re birds on the hill,” Snowy said.
    â€œBut I never heard them singing,” Gene said.
    â€œNo?” Snowy asked, amazed.
    â€œI never heard them at all, till there was ewe,” Gene said, pointing to the sheep.
    Snowy cast a longing glance back toward the alcove.
    Gene stepped out and took a good sniff of the local air.
    â€œHey, this is a nice place. Fresh air, not a cloud in the sky, trees, grass. This is great. Just what I need, maybe.”
    â€œYeah,” was Snowy’s mordant comment as he strode out.
    â€œNo, really. Maybe what I need is simply some rest. Some peace and quiet.”
    Snowclaw halted and looked about warily.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Snowy?”
    â€œIt pays to be cautious.”
    â€œNonsense. That’s just the wild in you. This isn’t a wilderness. Does this look like nature red in tooth and claw?”
    â€œI don’t like to take chances.”
    Gene laughed. “You can take the beast out of the wild, but you can’t wildebeest.”
    â€œHuh?”
    Gene chuckled. “C’mon, let’s see what’s over this hill.”
    â€œI’m with you.” Snowy followed, still alternately checking both flanks, with an occasional glance toward the rear. In that direction lay a bush-studded plain bordered by a distant line of ridges.
    â€œWish Linda were here,” Gene said. “We could have us a nice picnic.”
    â€œYeah,” Snowclaw said noncommittally.
    Gene stopped about three-quarters of the way up the hill. The sheep regarded him placidly. Gene held his arms out in an expansive gesture.
    â€œYou see? Nothing to fear. Very few aspects are dangerous. You can get along practically anywhere with the proper attitude.”
    â€œYeah,” Snowclaw said as he climbed to where Gene was standing. He took another look around, then sprawled out on the grass. “It’s too hot here.” He yawned.
    Gene yawned, too. “Jeez, don’t do that.”
    â€œI’m sleepy.”
    â€œMe, too.” Gene lay down, resting his head on Snowclaw’s abdomen. He yawned again. “Sheesh.”
    â€œSure is peaceful,” Snowy murmured.
    â€œYeah. Sure is. Only goes to show you, no need for weapons, or fighting, or . . . any of that . . . stuff . . .”
    Snowclaw emitted a loud snore.
    Gene chuckled faintly. “Peace,” he intoned.
    A bird answered him with a lilting melody. A bee buzzed by his ear.
    â€œAin’t it the truth,” Gene said, eyes closed.
    The ground began to rumble.
    Gene opened one eye. “Eh?”
    The sound increased. The earth shook.
    Gene sat up. Then Snowclaw did, too.
    They looked at each other.
    â€œUh-oh,” both said in unison.
    They came over the hill, a thousand men on horseback streaming over the crest like a wave, foaming like surf, a surge of horseflesh, leather, and metal, a sea of hard faces under spiked helmets, bodies wrapped tight in chain-mail and embossed cuirasses, a tide of thumping hooves and rattling sabers, clods of earth flying, dust billowing. The entire phenomenon flowed down the hill in a noisy flood.
    Gene was transfixed, looking up the