Split Infinity

Stile considered poking his sword through the bars and puncturing the fat pink rear, or cutting off the tail with his knife. But this would not release him from the cage, and could make the elephant quite angry without really incapacitating it. Better to hold off.

In a moment they emerged into the stockaded area.

There were cages all around. It resembled an archaic zoo. Stile identified a griffin, with the body of a lion and head and wings of an eagle, in the cage most directly across from his. This was no glorious heraldic monster, but a sad, bedraggled, dirty creature whose wings drooped and whose eyes seemed glazed. And no wonder: the cage was too small for it to stretch its wings, and there was no place for its refuse except right next to the cage where the creature had scraped it out. No wonder its feathers and fur were soiled; no wonder it stank!

Now Stile’s attention was taken by the proprietress: an old woman garbed in a faded yellow robe, with stringy yellow hair and yellowish complexion. A hag, in every sense of the word.

“What a lovely little specimen!” the hag cackled, mincing around Neysa’s cage. Neysa seemed to be coming out of her daze; her ears perked up, then laid back in revulsion as the crone approached.

“And this one,” the Adept continued, examining Stile. “A white stallion, yet! What a pretty penny thou wilt fetch, my sweet!” She circled the cage, appraising his apparent form with an indecently calculating eye.  “Yes indeed, my precious! White is in the market for the likes of thee! Needs must I send Crow’s-foot with the news.” She hobbled into the house.

Now Stile resumed his survey of the enclave. Beyond Neysa was Kurrelgyre, whose eye was already on him; the wolf nodded slowly. They were in trouble!

The other cages contained a small sphinx, a three-headed dog, a wyvern, and several creatures Stile couldn’t classify. All were bedraggled and filthy; the witch did not bother to care for them properly, or to clean their cages. She did feed them, as there were dishes of food and water at every cage—but several of these dishes had been overturned and kicked out, un-eaten.

Stile examined his own cage. The bars were yellow-ish, like the rest of this place, and somewhat slick. It was as if some sort of grease had been smeared on the metal in a vain attempt to make it seem like gold. He tried to push a bar out of position, but it was like welded steel. The door was firmly locked.

Still, the bars were fairly widely spaced, and he was small. Just a little bowing should enable him to squeeze between two. Stile located the longest, widest section of the cage roof, then drew his sword and used it cautiously as a lever. He did not want to break the weapon, and did not know how strong it was. But he really could not gain purchase, and had to put away the sword. Instead he jumped up, put his feet against one bar, his hands on the next, and hauled as if lifting a heavy weight. Slowly, unwillingly, the bars separated as he strove and panted. When his muscles balked, he had widened the aperture only slightly—but perhaps it was enough.

He dropped down to the cage floor—and discovered that he had become the object of considerable attention. He was still disguised as a unicorn; that must have been quite a sight, a horselike creature clinging to the upper bars!

But he couldn’t allow such cynosure to stop him. The witch should soon be back. He had to do whatever he could do, rapidly.

Stile drew himself up, put his feet between the widened bars, and squeezed his body up and through. Last was his head; his ears got mashed, but he scraped by.  He was out.

He climbed silently down, while the captive animals watched the contortions of this astonishing unicorn.  They were not about to betray him to the witch! The conspiracy of silence was the only weapon they possessed.

Stile went to Kurrelgyre’s cage. “I must have a rapid update,” he said. “How can I free thee and Neysa and the others? The large bars are too strong for me.”

The werewolf transformed into his human form, too large to squeeze between the bars. “Thou art fortunate in thy size,” he said. “Only Neysa might do what thou hast done—and the potion hath dulled her wit so she can not transform her shape. My wolfsbane might help steady her—but we dare not administer it to her animal form. We are at impasse. Save thyself; thou canst not free us.”

“If I go, it will be only to help thee—as thou didst for me before. Can I overcome the witch?”

“Only if thou canst kill her by surprise, instantly with thy sword. She will else throw a potion on thee, and destroy thee.”

“I don’t want to kill her,” Stile said. “Murder is not the proper solution to problems. I only want to neutralize her and free these poor captives.”

Kurrelgyre shook his head. “Thou canst not defeat an Adept fairly save by magic.”

“No. Mine oath-“