Split Infinity

Kurrelgyre stepped between them. “What coward attacks the smallest of men, knowing that man to be unarmed and bound to use no magic?”

The Stallion’s horn swung on the werewolf. The bitch shifted into wolf-form and came at the Stallion’s off-side, snarling. But Kurrelgyre retained man-form.  “Dost thou challenge the pair of us, unicorn? That were more of a fair match.”

The lesser male unicorns stepped forward—but so did the other werewolves. Two for one. “Not so!” Stile cried, perceiving needless mayhem in the making. “This is my quarrel, foolish as it may be, not thine.”

“With bad knees, fatigue from a marathon run, separated ribs, and a bruised hand—against that monster?” Hulk inquired. “This is a job for your bodyguard. I daresay a karate chop at the base of that horn would set the animal back.”

The Stallion paused. He glanced at Kurrelgyre and his bitch, then at Hulk. He snorted. “No one dares call the Herd Stallion coward,” Clip said. “But his proper quarrel is not with thee, werewolf, nor with the ogre. It is with the impostor. Let Stile confess he is no Adept, and he will be spared, and the foolish mare chastened.”

“Yes,” the Lady Blue agreed. “It were indeed folly to fight because of an impostor.”

Such an easy solution! All parties agreed on the compromise. Except for Neysa, who knew the truth, and Kurrelgyre, who believed it, and Stile himself. “I abhor the prospect of bloodshed here, but I will not confess to a lie,” Stile said firmly.

“Then show thy magic!” Clip said.

“Thou knowest mine oath—“

The Stallion snorted. Neysa looked up, startled but adamant. “Release him of his vow,” Clip translated for Stile’s benefit.

“Now wait!” Stile cried. “I will not tolerate coercion!  You have no right—“

Kurrelgyre raised a cautioning hand. “I hold no great affection for this horny brute,” he said, indicating the Stallion. “But I must advise thee: he has the right, friend. He is the Herd Stallion. Even as my pack obeys me, so must his herd, and every member of it, obey him. So must it ever be, in this frame.”

The Stallion snorted again, imperatively. Slowly Neysa bowed her horn. She played one forlorn note.

“Thou art released,” the werewolf said. “Now the challenge is fair. I may no longer interfere. Use thy magic to defend thyself. Adept.”

Stile looked again at Neysa. She averted her gaze.  Obviously she had been overruled. She did not like it, but it was, as the werewolf had pointed out, legitimate.

By the custom of this frame. Stile had been released.  He could use his magic—and would have to, for the Stallion was bringing his horn to bear, and there was no doubting his intent; and not one wolf would come to Stile’s defense. To avoid magic now would be in effect to proclaim a lie, and that would not only cost Stile his life, it would shame those who had believed in him. He had to prove himself—for Kurrelgyre’s sake and Ney-sa’s sake as well as his own. Even though that would give the Lady the victory she had so cleverly schemed for.

But Stile was unprepared. He had not formulated any devastating rhymes, and in this sudden pressure could think of none. His magic was diffuse, uncollected without music. In addition, he didn’t really want to hurt the Stallion, who seemed to be doing a competent job of managing his herd, with the exception of his treatment of Neysa. Why should anyone believe a man who claimed to be able to do magic, but never performed?  Such a claimant should be put to the proof—and that was what the Stallion was doing.

Stile saw the Lady Blue watching him, a half-smile on her face. She had won; she had forced him to prove himself. He would either manifest as the Blue Adept—or die in the manner of an impostor on the horn of the Stallion. Vindication or destruction! Beside her, Neysa remained with gaze downcast, the loser either way.

“I am sorry, Neysa,” Stile said.

Stile brought out his harmonica. Now it was a weapon. He played an improvised melody. Immediately the magic formed. The Stallion noted the aura and paused, uncertain what it was. The wolves and other unicorns looked too, as that intangible mass developed and loomed. Ears twitched nervously.

Good—this gave him a chance to figure out an applicable verse. What he needed was protection, like that of a wall. Wall—what rhymed with wall? Ball, fall, hall, tall. Unicorn, standing tall—

Abruptly the Stallion charged. Stile jumped aside. He stopped playing his harmonica and cried in a singsong:

 “Unicorn Stallion, standing tall—form around this one a wall.”

Immediately he knew he had not phrased it properly; he had technically asked the unicorn to form a wall around Stile, which was backward. But the image in his mind was a brick wall two meters high, encircling the Stallion—make that six feet high, to align the measurements with the standard of this frame—and that was what formed. His music was the power, his words the catalyst—but his mind did the fundamental shaping.