The Dragon and the Gnarly King

  Jim hardly heard the last words. His mind was racing, trying to think of something he could do to keep Hill from losing. Clearly, something more than pluck was needed here. Otherwise, he and those with him, including baby Robert, had no hope of coming out alive.

  If Hill could only overcome his opponent, however, they might have a chance of surviving. Hill had spoken of Jim as his "Luck." Surely he would not destroy his Luck if he won. Or would he suddenly turn into the same sort of King as the present one was, when he owned the Robe and the Throne?

  In any case, the odds for Jim and the rest had to be better if Hill could win.

  But, watching the two circling closer and closer in the ring, he felt the slimness of this hope. More and more, as they neared, it became evident Hill could be no physical match for the King. The King was not that much taller—a matter of inches only—but beyond this, the match was like that of a man against a half-grown boy. Not only were the King's muscles more massive, but his movements looked more practiced and certain. Hill had to know that, too, Jim thought to himself; Brian had said it right—he had pluck.

  Now, even as Jim watched, the two closed enough to exchange a couple of slow but strong, swinging blows with their open hands. Surprisingly, in contrast to the way the King had used his hand as if he would flip Brian aside with the back of it, the two now were striking out with fingers together and straight. They used them, thought Jim, much the way Brian used his broadsword: as if the hands themselves were weapons manipulated by the rest of the body. But there was that strange slowness to their blows, as if their hands were indeed so heavy they were an effort to move.

  If this was true—if those hands were actually as hard and heavy as they seemed—then a blow from one of them could be devastating; though, on the other hand, possibly the King's and Hill's bodies were also made of the same heavy material and could absorb considerable punishment.

  Nonetheless, Hill was clearly at a disadvantage. As Jim watched, a strike by Hill's right hand fell short of the Gnarly King's body, where shoulder, such as it was, met neck; and Hill himself ducked a crosswise swing at his head by the King, while both stood with their feet planted facing each other. The King had a considerable advantage in reach.

  Jim fidgeted. With all this going on, the King had evidently so far not noticed his ward. Jim could still make use of his own magic at least. But common sense said that if he used it to help Hill, he should do so in such a way that Hill would never suspect he had been helped. It might make the contest null and void by Gnarly rules. The magic could be wasted, and the King still on the throne.

  Then it came to him that nothing could be easier than helping unnoticed. All he had to do was make the King trip as he started one of his ponderous arm-swings, and leave it to Hill to take advantage of the opportunity. Jim focused on the bigger Gnarly as the other's arm went back. He visualized.

  Nothing happened.

  The King's hand and arm reached their furthest extent behind him and swung forward in another horizontal arc. Once again, Hill ducked the blow, but so slowly as to barely escape.

  Hastily, Jim tried the magic again. Nothing. He tried several other variations. Nothing worked. In desperation he went back to his early days as a magician and made up a spell to the tune of Yankee Doodle. Absolutely nothing. Why?

  "Accounting Office," he whispered. "Is there something wrong with my account?"

  "I will transfer you to the Auditing Department, Jim Eckert," boomed out the invisible bass voice that Jim had always dealt with, on matters regarding his supply of magical energy.

  "Shhhh—!" Jim was unable to stop himself from trying to quiet the resonant voice.

  "Be reassured," boomed the voice, "our words are not audible outside the ward around you."

  "I knew that!" snapped Jim at ordinary volume. He hadn't; but he was damned if he was going to be talked down to by something that always sounded like a machine.

  "This is the Auditing Department," said the same—as far as Jim could tell—voice. "Your account is empty because you have used up your available credit."

  Jim stared at the fight going on in the ring, seeing none of it. So this was as far as the magical energy he had had when he left Malencontri, had been able to take him. Remembering the Auditing Department was probably still there, he made an effort to speak calmly. He went on aloud. "Well, I guess that's it, then… Farewell."

  "Chin up!" said the Auditing Department, sounding unexpectedly human. Silence followed within Jim's ward. In this situation where he finally might have made all the difference, he was not going to be able to do so; simply because he was, for the moment, no longer a magician.

  He focused numbly, once more, on the fight.

  Hill had been merely dodging blows. But the King's great hand-swipes were coming closer, if more slowly. As Jim watched, Hill moved toward the King and stood. This time several solid blows were exchanged, with the odd, clacking sound of one stone striking another. Hill reeled back from the last of these. There was no mark upon him, but he shook his head as if dazed and stumbled slightly, as he began to circle away from, rather than toward, the King. The King came after him like a hunter after a prey.

  Jim raged at himself for his own helplessness. Here he might have made all the difference; and he could do nothing. Nothing.

  As had happened before when he had run out of magic, he was probably still able to change himself into his dragon body—but what good could that do against beings who apparently had rock-hard bodies?—Wait a minute!

  His ability to change into a dragon was innate magic, like a Natural's—independent of the Accounting Office. It had been owed him by this world of magic because of the very accident of his presence in this world. Might it be possible to use that same source of magic in another way?

  Perhaps he could be in another body, just as he had been at the time of his arrival in this world, when he found he had involuntarily occupied the body of the dragon Gorbash, taking control of it away from its owner. If he could now take over Hill's body the same way, maybe he could win the fight for the smaller Gnarly.

  Hill might turn tyrannical on them if he became King. But their chances were at least better with him than with the present Gnarly ruler.

  The method of fighting he was watching favored the larger, heavier Gnarly, but made him slower than his opponent. If Jim took over Hill's body, maybe he could put to use some moves from his own twentieth century that the King would never know. Also, he was ready to bet he could move faster than Hill.

  There was nothing to do but try.

  He tried, trying to use the same feeling he had when he changed into his dragon body, but concentrating on Hill. Abruptly, his eyes were looking at the looming figure of the Gnarly King, only a couple of steps away. He had a brief glimpse of an enormous grey hand coming at him like the prow of an ocean liner at a small rowboat, that only just then discovered that, after all, it could not get out of the way as fast as it had imagined it could…

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There was a terrible impact. Jim found himself flying through the air. He was perfectly conscious, but could not remember the blow. He landed and began frantically rolling over and over as fast as he could. After covering some little distance this way, he stopped. He lay where he was for a moment, expecting to find most of his bones broken. But apparently they were not.

  He looked for the King and located him standing, staring blankly at Jim. Perhaps he was not used to opponents who rolled away once they were knocked down.

  Jim had been operating on the early-learned reflex that once you were down you wanted to put distance between you and your opponent, before trying to get back to your feet. He had done just that. Now he would spring to his feet—He got up, but it could hardly have been called a spring. In Hill's body, he, too, moved in slow motion. Hill's body was like a granite statue come to life, with all the joints and muscles operable, but with a great deal of inertia. He gained his feet just in time to see the King coming ponderously and unsto
ppably, if slowly, toward him.

  Now, he thought, a little bitterly, would be the time to use his magic—if only he had some—the thought was suddenly interrupted by his realization that he and the King were now as close as cellmates; but the King hadn't seemed to notice yet that there was alien magic in his Kingdom. Jim thought it unlikely that the ward Kineteté had put around him before sending him back here had moved with him when he had taken over Hill's body; but could the King still be so mentally involved with this fight that he had ignored what was under his nose—

  Of course not! Jim's mind pounced on the answer. The King was no longer seated on his Throne, and he had taken off the Robe to step into the ring against Hill as an ordinary Gnarly. He would be as blind to the ward as Hill, or any other of this tribe of Naturals at this moment.

  But the King was now close to him. Jim struggled to move a body that felt as if made of lead. There was clearly no point in standing still and attempting to dazzle the Gnarly Monarch with boxing or wrestling techniques from the twentieth century. There was not even any hope of trying to use one of the two or three martial arts moves he thought he might remember having learned, years ago. Not with someone as powerful as the King.

  Besides, he was too much of an amateur at any of them, and the King was far heavier, far longer-armed and stronger than Hill. Hill and his "Luck"! Jim could use some of that "Luck" himself, right now.

  The King was still lumbering toward him.

  There remained the dirty-trick department.

  Jim crouched in plenty of time to avoid a swing from one of the King's massive hands as they came just within reach. He moved aside at his top slow-motion speed. The King came to a stop in preparation to turn and pursue him. For a moment, the larger Gnarly was standing still, and Jim took advantage of the first dirty trick he could remember.

  He had only been third string on his high-school football team and had abandoned it for volleyball, at which he could and did shine. Now, he threw a football-style block at the King's lower legs.

  Two things went wrong. In the first place, he was not able to throw his body as far as he had thought he could. In fact, the only reason he reached the King at all was because the other had turned and was again advancing toward him. And instead of hitting hard across the lower parts of both the King's legs, he merely dropped on the King's toes.

  The King gave an agonized grunt, and limped aside, retreating for the first time. Jim's mind raced. He felt a mild plucking sort of sensation inside him—that would be Hill trying to take back control of his own body, as Gorbash the dragon had struggled for his—occasionally succeeding when Jim's mind was very much occupied. Jim ignored the feeling.

  The football block hadn't worked. Well, there were other ways. This time, when the King got close, Jim spun—slowly—past him and gave him an elbow low in the kidneys—or where kidneys would have been in a human.

  He got in a very solid blow, though he himself felt nothing. It had been so solid, in fact, that Jim pumped his arm a few times to see if his elbow was not broken. It was not. The King was turning toward him once again, looking as if he had not felt the blow, either.

  He was, however, still limping slightly. Hill's body must have dropped more heavily on his toes than Jim had thought—or perhaps Gnarly toes were particularly sensitive.

  However, making the King's toes sore would not win the fight. What was necessary, Jim told himself, was to somehow get the other off his feet; and do that often enough, and hit the King hard enough in the process, so that the other would have to admit he had lost.

  Jim tried ducking aside from the massive hands and trailing a leg to trip the Gnarly King up. That didn't work. The Gnarly King's leg kept moving, and it was Jim's leg that nearly got pulled out from under him. He barely escaped that time.

  He tried standing off and kicking at the king—and was reminded almost too late that the Gnarly legs were short and the Gnarly arms were long—they had much more reach than the legs did.

  Beginning to run out of ideas, Jim paused for a moment to catch his breath. It was a mistake. The King's continual advances were slow, but relentless. Jim had gotten a little too used to being able to dodge out of the bigger Natural's way at the last minute.

  He was still searching for something to do, when he saw the King starting one of his long arm-swings with his right arm. He ducked under it and almost directly into the King's left arm, which was thrusting out just a little behind the right arm.

  Jim made a frantic, spasmodic attempt to leap to his left, but the thick, thrusting fingertips scored a direct hit on his chest. He found himself airborne once more, flying off at an angle to the King's right and past him—an angle that was the product of the vectors of two forces, one being the King's blow and the other, his own desperate leap. He went some little distance through the air and fell to the stone floor with an unbelievable impact.

  I'm done for, Jim told himself.

  But he wasn't. He had not broken every bone in his—Hill's—body this time either. In fact, he had not broken any at all. He was not even dented. The Gnarly body must be very resistant to damage. While scrambling slowly to his feet, he saw that this time he had landed to the right of and behind the King, who was now turning to face him.

  For the first time, he noticed how the King turned. He did not simply pivot around on his toes as a human being might do, but needed several steps—moving the right foot partway around the turn, then the left foot to join it. Then another move with the right foot, and so on. Jim half-ran to stay behind the heavy figure, still trying to put mind and body back together.

  He managed it; and after the King had made almost a full-circle turn without finding him, the Gnarly stopped and looked about uncertainly. Then he started turning once more, his arms a little bit out from his sides to balance his body as it swiveled.

  Suddenly, from the mists of memory—triggered by the relative positions of the King and himself—Jim recalled an aikido throw that had once so struck him with its elegance, its magnificent simplicity and devastating effectiveness, he had told himself he would never forget it. Well, he had forgotten; but now memory served it up again. He plunged toward the king's back almost without needing to think.

  He reached the King in two steps and put his left hand on the King's head, to push it forward and down. At the same time, he closed his right hand over and around the back of the King's right hand.

  Instinctively, the King tried to straighten up, throwing the balance of his body backward—and as he did, Jim began pulling him back and around to his left. Jim was pulling the king into a turn; and, staying behind the King, keeping him off-balance, continued the turn. The King had no choice but to keep spinning slowly about, or fall. They began to turn together faster and faster, Jim congratulating himself—until it suddenly struck him he did not know what to do next. Memory had turned traitor on him.

  Not only that, but the King's stumbling, massive body had acquired a circular momentum of its own; and Jim was beginning to be the one who was being towed around, like a stone on the end of a rope. If he did not let go in a moment, Jim thought desperately, he would be airborne.

  Reluctantly, chagrined, he let go. But to his surprise as well as that of the caveful of Gnarlies—who gave a general, astonishingly audible moan at the sight—the King kept spinning, frantically struggling to keep his feet, until the effort failed him—his legs crossed and he crashed to the floor with a sound like a truckload of bricks being dumped on cement. His head bounced on the stone floor in a way that made Jim wince.

  He lay still.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Jim stood, stunned by the unexpected victory.

  Hill took advantage of the opportunity to take back his own body. Jim found himself back in his, watching Hill walk toward the fallen King. Hill prodded the King's body with a toe. It did not stir. He stepped back, turned to face the caveful of Gnarlies, and spread his arms wide to them.

  And the Gnarlies whistled—a roar of continuing whistling th
at bounced off the cave walls and deafened Jim. A wave of them rushed forward to surround Hill and sweep him up to the Throne. Then the wave receded, leaving Hill behind, with the sparkling Royal Robe draped around his shoulders. Only when all the ordinary Gnarlies were back in their ranks did the whistling stop.

  Slowly, Hill sat down on the Throne, and as he did so, Jim, even back in his own body, felt something like a powerful electric current that seemed to surge upward from deep in the planet toward the new King. Suddenly, all the little shapes of glinting metal on the Robe, and the Throne itself, glowed like molten gold.

  "Ah, well," said Brian, "so the little fellow was the true heir to the kingdom, after all."

  Jim turned his head to stare at the knight.

  "How—" he said. "Why do you think his uncle didn't have as good a claim?"

  "Come, James. No Pretender to a throne would receive these sorts of Greater Tributes. All these common fellows could whistle like that for the big one—probably did, in fear of their lives. But the shaking underfoot, that silver all turned to gold? Hah! It's all gone back to silver again now—you see? But it was gold there for an eye-wink, you saw that, too, yourself. The one we brought here was right about what happened to his father. It stands to reason."

  Jim opened his mouth, and then closed it again. This place and these Naturals were part of the world Brian had been born into. Jim knew he would get nowhere trying to make Brian see his conclusion was more guess than fact. Jim's logic-dominated twentieth-century mind was probably more likely to be wrong than his friend's instincts and beliefs, anyway. Besides, Jim himself had wanted to believe Hill rather than his uncle.

  Jim turned back to look at the Throne and saw Hill was looking at him. Indeed, Hill was glaring at him. Whatever the rules were around here—whether it was simply a matter of manners that only the Royal family was allowed to show emotion, or whether the ordinary Gnarlies were not or could not—hardly mattered. The important point was that Hill was definitely scowling down from his seat of Majesty.