The Adventure of the Denver Walker

anything, you decided for both of us!"

  "I thought it was the best thing ta do!"

  "I'm the senior partner, I'm the one who's supposed to make the decisions!"

  "Hah! You couldn't decide what shoes ta wear this morning, you idiot!"

  "I'm the idiot? You're the one who thought we could scare the natives with a simple trick!"

  "How was I ta know they'd seen matches before?!"

  By that time they were within ten feet of the lava. Eile could smell the foul gases and feel the heat rising up from the surface.

  "I knew yer obsession with adventure would get us killed some day, but I never thought we'd go out like this."

  "Son of a--stop blaming me!" White-Lion kicked her legs in frustrated anger.

  She smiled. That's it, she thought, get good and mad. "Who else am I gonna blame? It's no one's fault but yers!"

  "Ooohhh! I can't believe I chose a poopy-skull like you to be my partner!"

  "God, I can't believe I fell for a self-centered butthead such as you. I thought I had better sense!"

  White-Lion screamed in rage as she twisted and bucked her body, but it soon turned into a guttural roar as light exploded from her eyes. It echoed through the jungle, scaring up flocks of birds and flushing animals out of hiding as they fled in terror.

  Yes! Now we're getting somewhere. The only problem was, White-Lion's magical ability was erratic. Eile had no idea what would result. She could only hope it was something productive.

  From "A Little Hospitality"

  Differel Van Helsing paused at a bend in the corniche road and looked west out over the valley behind her. The sun would set behind the mountains in another hour, making it too dark to travel, even considering the well-marked trail, though night would not fall for another hour after that. She had to find a place to camp, as unwelcome as that prospect felt. Hitching the pack higher up her shoulders, she pressed on.

  It was her fourth night in the Dreamlands. It had taken her a week to travel from the town of Ulthar to her mansion in the city-state of Celephais. Once she had had a chance to clean up, change clothes, and have a bite to eat, she contacted the embassy for the island nation of Punica to inquire as to the whereabouts of her husband. Victor Edward Plunkett served as plenipotentiary ambassador to the Kingdom of Ooth-Nargai, of which Celephais was the capital, but he spent about half of his time on his estate in the Mark of Elissa, a group of a dozen islands over which he held seisin as a marquess. Unfortunately, he was absent from both places; Elishat, the Queen of the city-state of Karchedon which ruled Punica, had sent him on a secret diplomatic mission and he wasn't expected to return for a fortnight, ten days at the earliest.

  The road made a sharp turn into a tributary valley and terminated at the foot of a path that ran up the steep slope alongside a cascading stream. Looking ahead, she saw it led to a ridgeway high above. Though the path looked rugged, she figured the track on the ridgeline would be fairly straight and level. She paused again, but that time looked straight up. She could just barely make out a tiny dot in the cloudless azure sky. It was her faithful Wakiya, Eleanor d'Aquitaine. She smiled; Eleanor had become bound to her by an empathic link and followed her everywhere, soaring on thermals and currents in lazy, miles-wide circles, but never more than five minutes away in a dive. Looking down, she eyed the path, sighed, and planted her makila to steady herself as she started up.

  She had spent her first full day in Celephais dealing with the concerns of her knighthood, her rank of lord marshal, and her position as heir presumptive to the throne of Ooth-Nargai, and the second occupied with the maintenance and financial matters of her mansion. Come the third, however, she had nothing to do and considered taking a walking tour. Fortunately, Kuranes, the king of Ooth-Nargai, needed to have some important decrees and missives delivered to various places along the Naraxa River, and she agreed to accept the commission as a good excuse to explore the vale. As such, the following day she set out north for the mining town of Carsoon nestled against the southwestern tip of the Tanarian Hills, and then followed the southern edge of the mountains to the east, stopping at villages and homesteads along the way. A week later she had just one destination left, a Cistercian monastery located on the opposite side of a spur of mountains that extended east from the main mass of the Hills. Kuranes suggested that, rather than waste time going all the way around the range as most travelers did, she take a little used road that cut across the spur and came out above the monastery.

  As she struggled up the precipitous slope, she reflected on how the old king had conned her good. On a map the way looked fairly straight, but in reality it started off as a road with a series of hairpin turns that snaked up the escarpment before turning into the corniche road that wound its way around peaks and followed the line of serpentine ridges. She had hoped to reach the monastery before dusk, but she calculated she probably had traveled twice the straight-line distance, and she doubted she had even reached the halfway point.

  After a quarter hour she spotted the beginning of the ridge line. For the last third of the path, the stream fell as a waterfall from an outcrop of weathered rock before hitting the slope of the valley further down. When she reached the ridge, she saw that the stream flowed out of an adjacent mountain before being diverted by the ridgeline. Looking back, she watched as the water first spilled into a plunge pool in a smooth, flat shelf before running off the edge on the far side. She realized that must have been the rock outcrop she had spotted from below. A copse of firs, pines, ashes, and cottonwoods, with numerous deadfall logs and broken boughs, surrounded two-thirds of the circumference of the pool.

  That looks like a fine spot for an encampment, she thought. It was sheltered from the weather, there was plenty of fresh water and firewood, and it lay hidden from casual observation. Only someone who stood where she did could see down into it. But could she reach it? Studying the wall formed by the ridge she spotted a trail, probably one used by deer. None were around at the moment, which briefly disappointed her; venison stew sounded rather good. Then she realized she didn't want to mess around with skinning and gutting a large animal, especially so close to her camp. She didn't want to attract predators.

  She went to the head of the trail and started down. It was almost too steep for her to negotiate, and she ended up skidding on her backside. Once she reached the bottom, she noticed that the ridge wall overhung the shelf in the back, forming a broad, shallow cave. She walked to the edge of the pool and looked up to see where she had stood on the ridge, as the stream flowed over the ridge wall.

  Turning, she headed for the cave, but stopped before her third step. A camp had already been set up. A fire sat prepared but not yet lit within a ring of stones with cooking gear placed nearby, a lean-to had been constructed from native material and a bedroll laid out inside, and neatly folded clothing lay on a flat rock, with a staff and a bowie knife resting on top. However, she didn't see a traveler.

  Could he be out hunting?

  A splashing sound caught her attention and she turned, reaching under her coat to grasp one of her pistols. A nude male figure emerged from the pool. At first she thought he was a child; he couldn't have been more than four feet tall. Then she noticed the minor disproportions in the sizes of his head, trunk, limbs, and hands. As well, his facial features resembled an adult, and his manner seemed mature by several decades of experience. A dwarf, she realized, relaxing.

  He made for the camp, but only went a couple of feet before he spotted her: he came to an abrupt halt and stared at her with an expression that mixed surprise, apprehension, and keen interest. Suddenly mortified with embarrassment, she whipped around in an about-face.

  "Oh, bollocks, I'm terribly sorry!"

  "No, please, it's all right. I just wanted to wash off the trail dust." His voice was a smooth, gentle, lyric baritone, melodic and soothing, and it calmed her frazzled nerves. "It's probably my fault, anyways. This road is so seldom used anymore I assumed I would have privacy. But, you know what they say: when
you 'assume' you make an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me'!"

  She couldn't help chuckling at the absurdity of that statement.

  "You have a nice laugh. You can turn around now."

  She did so and saw he had dressed in what looked like a monk's hooded habit.

  "I suppose this will sound like a dumb question," he went on, "but are you an adventurer? As opposed to being a hedge robber, assassin, or lady of pleasure."

  She flashed a smirk. "I'm journeying to Cwmhir Abbey, but it's taking me longer to get there than I anticipated."

  "Do tell! I'm bound there myself, but I'm afraid you won't be able to make it before night; there's another twelve hours of traveling ahead of us, at least."

  "Hmph. I thought as much."

  "Then allow me to offer you the hospitality of my campsite, such as it is."

  "No, thank you, I couldn't intrude--"

  "Don't be ridiculous. I would appreciate the company, and I don't see how you could intrude more than you have already." But he said that last with a wry grin.

  "I'm sure I'll be able to find some other place--"

  "Nonsense. There isn't any along the entire length of the ridgeway, and I wouldn't advise trying to camp up there, not with the way the wind can blow in off the mountains."

  She grinned and shook her head. He certainly was persistent. "Very well, in that case I accept." She walked under the overhang.

  "Splendid! My name is Michael by the way." He extended his hand.

  She removed her glove and shook. "I'm Flynnette." She had adopted that alias for when she traveled alone. Being Kuranes's heir, she figured it wasn't a good idea to advertise her movements.

  "Please, make yourself at home. I'll just get the fire started." He squatted down beside the ring of stones.

  She walked over to the lean-to, taking off the other glove and stuffing both into a pocket of her red great coat. Sometimes she felt self-conscious about its colour, being British and all. She leaned the makila against the cave wall and slipped off her pack, placing it beside the stick. She then unhooked the harness that supported Caliburn on her back.

  "That's quite a sword!"

  She looked back at him and held it upright on the tip of its scabbard. The pommel came to just under her chin.

  "Family heirloom." Which was no lie. Caliburn was another name for Excalibur. She descended from King Arthur Pendragon through her mother. Every member of that matrilineal line had been able to summon Caliburn in times of great need, and she had inherited that talent.

  He hit flint against steel. "Is it a claymore?"

  She placed the sword beside the makila. "Similar, but much older. You know about swords?"

  "I have some small knowledge." His lilting tone suggested he was being facetious.

  "Where should I sleep?"

  "You're welcome to share my lean-to; there's plenty of room."

  She examined it and decided he was right, if she lay lengthwise. Still: "Are you sure?"

  "Of course. If you're worried about propriety, while I would love to ravish you, as my guest I am bound by the demands of hospitality to protect you and treat you well." He glanced up at her with a grinning leer, and winked.

  She realized he was being facetious again. "Hmph. Well, if you do, and I ever find out about it, I'll hurt you good, little man."

  He laughed. "My word, such wit! As Speedy Gonzales might say, 'I like you, you're silly.'"

  She removed her coat and hung it over the closest upright support of the lean-to. "That isn't as obscure a reference as you might believe."

  "You've heard it before?"

  She unbuckled the harness over her sleeveless doublet. "From a friend in the Waking World." It was one of Sunny's favorite lines.

  "Ah, so, you're a Dreamer--good heavens, woman!"

  She glanced at him and saw him staring at the six pistols hanging in the harness. She had two more in belt holsters, along with a rondel dagger and a few pouches.

  "Expecting bear?"

  She flashed a lopsided grin. "I get it. In a manner of speaking. I'm a pistol marksman in the Waking World. I feel more comfortable with a gun in my hand than a blade, and even if these are not what I'm used to, they're still better than nothing. Having eight of them just makes it possible to get off multiple shots before having to reload."

  Then the shilling dropped. "You don't seem too surprised to see these."

  He shrugged. "I've seen matchlock guns before, but nothing like those. Are they flintlocks?"

  She slipped off the harness and laid it over the coat. She understood his confusion. Nothing more recent than 1500 could exist in the Dreamlands. "No, they use a mechanism called a wheellock. It was developed just before the 16th century. A spring-driven wheel turns against a piece of pyrite to create sparks." She unbuckled the belt and hung it off the harness.

  "Are they common?"

  She removed her red, wide-brimmed hat and laid it on top of the coat. "No; I believe my collection is the only one so far, but these were made by a weaponsmith in Ulthar, and he offers others for general sale. So you may see more of them as time goes on." She untied her pink ascot from around the doublet's high collar and draped it over the hat.

  "Ulthar, you say. They could make my life a bit easier; safer, too."

  She untied the lacings on her doublet and draped it over her pack. Underneath she wore a chemise tucked inside a pair of tight-fitting trousers. "It takes a goodly amount of practice to be a passable shot, and they require a great deal of care and maintenance to keep in working order, but for all that, they're still easier to master than a knife or a bow."

  "Might be difficult finding a teacher."

  She knelt and unbuckled the straps on her boots. "The smith in Ulthar can show you all you need to know. After that, it's just a matter of practice making perfect." Standing, she leaned with one hand against the cave wall and pulled them off, dropping them beside the pack.

  He didn't say anything more, and the tapping of flint on steel resumed.

  She walked over and knelt down to watch. Eile and Sunny had shown her how to start a fire that way, but she had had little opportunity to practice. After about a minute, she saw a wisp of smoke rise from the tinder. He bent over and blew into the pyramid of wood, and in seconds the tinder blazed up. He quickly added fresh material, then larger pieces of kindling, and in no time the center blazed strongly. He then stood and went over to the other side of the lean-to.

  "Is there anything I can do?" She watched as he rummaged around inside his own pack.

  He shook his head. "You're my guest. Aside from seeing to your own needs, nothing."

  "I'm a fairly good cook."

  He pulled out food packs. "I'm not too bad myself."

  "I meant no offense."

  He straightened up and came back to the fire, carrying half a dozen parcels. He had that wry grin on his face again. "None taken. Feel free to kibitz."

  "I just think I should pull my own weight."

  He passed the packages to her and she laid them beside the cooking gear. Then he knelt beside the growing fire. "Would you consider traveling with me? I could use the company."

  He looked and sounded rather earnest, almost like a child frightened of the dark. It made her wonder if, for all his confidence and high spirits, he wasn't in some measure intimidated by the huge world around him.

  She smiled and extended her hand. "As would I. I would be honoured."

  He beamed at her with what seemed like ecstatic relief, and took her hand in both of his. "Then that would be good enough."

  He flashed that wry grin and winked as he recovered his composure. "Besides, it never hurts to have a big person by your side, does it? Especially one as alluring as you."

  She chuckled. "You are outrageous, you know that?"

  "It has been said of me," he replied in a mischievous tone as he unwrapped one of the packs.

  Coming in March.

  From "The Differential Damsel"

  Differel crept up the trail towards
the wall as Eile and Sunny followed. The ruins were part of an ancient manor abandoned long ago, and while most of the buildings had long since collapsed and fallen into rubble, the protective curtain wall remained largely intact, except for a handful of breaches. The trail led to one, and she stopped on one side, keeping out of sight of the interior. The Girls fell in behind her as she took off her glasses. They were really a fashion statement; though myopic in the Waking World, she had perfect vision in the Dreamlands. But there could be a danger they would reflect light.

  She peered in a cautious manner around the broken masonry into the central courtyard, fingering one of her wheellock pistols just in case. A few rods away four Men of Leng sat around a fire beside one of the few intact buildings, eating, drinking, and telling stories as they whiled away the evening before going to sleep. Though they wore dark-colored tunics and traveling coats, the flames illuminated their bulbous turbans and round faces in the growing twilight, with their wide frog-like mouths and wicked grinning leers. From the way they talked and laughed, she figured they were well pleased with the progress of their adventure so far.

  But she felt less concern about them than the man they held captive. Strung up by his wrists inside the building's open doorway and stripped to the waist, Victor looked none the worst for his ordeal.

  Which is good, she thought. She had resolved before she arrived that if they had harmed her husband in any way, she would kill them instead of take them captive. She was a crack marksman, and at that distance could pick them off easily, even with her primitive firearms.

  She stepped back from the gap and turned to look at the Girls. They had volunteered without hesitation when she asked for their help, and she had been glad of it. She would rather have them at her back than an SAS troop in full battle gear. They were her friends in the Waking World as well as the Dreamlands, and called themselves Team Girl in both places.

  She held up four fingers, and they nodded. She pointed at Sunny and motioned for her to remain behind. She crinkled her azure-blue eyes behind her granny glasses and smiled, then slipped off and strung her reflex composite bow. The Mercutio of the pair, she called herself White-lion in the Dreamworld, though she seemed more golden with her huge mane of gamboge hair and her buff complexion. She preferred comfortable traveling clothes, such as a long skirt, a sleeveless shirt that bared her midriff, and an open jacket, all of which did little to hide her voluptuous figure, along with leather boots and gloves, and a Robin Hood hat with a large golden plume. Her costume often led assailants to underestimate her, but her prowess with the bow and her magical talent prevented most attackers from getting close, and those few who did discovered she was equally adept with a quarterstaff or dagger.

  Differel removed her hat and passed it to Sunny. The broad floppy brim provided excellent