Stile raised his right hand to point at the dragon. Then he put the Flute to his mouth again, to intensify the magic and keep his complex spell operating at full strength. The dragon folded its wings and dived at the field. Folded, it was much smaller. It crashed headfirst into the chewed turf and exploded. This was the “death” of his spell. Teeth flew out in a splash, to land all across the field; the rest of the dragon puffed away in smoke. Where each tooth fell, something sprouted. This was the “bloom.” As Stile continued to play the Flute, the teeth grew into leafy vines. Each vine fruited in a gourd, and each gourd hatched into a human baby, and each baby grew rapidly into an armed soldier. This was the “birth to youth” sequence. The soldiers formed into a phalanx, marched once around the field, shifted into a sinuous formation that suddenly sprouted wings and flew as a mass into the sky. It was the original dragon, departing as it had come. In moments it was a mere speck in the sky, and then it was gone.
The unicorns stood in silence. They had just been shown that they could no longer restrict the magic of the Blue Adept, even when their force was greatest. The Adepts, too, were riveted; not one of them could match this performance. Was one of them the murderer he sought? Stile hoped that one was quaking, now, for fear of the vengeance of Blue. Most magic was fun to Stile, but in this regard it was deadly serious.
The Herd Stallion, however, had not budged. Stile had feared this would be the case. He had fashioned a demonstration of magic that was spectacular enough to enable the Stallion to withdraw without shame; obviously no ordinary creature could prevail against power like this. But the Stallion was stubborn; he would not back off regardless. He might face impossible odds but he would not yield to opposition. Stile respected that; he was that way himself. It was another reason why he was going to so much trouble to avoid humiliating the fine animal. How fortunate that the vampire had been available for advice!
Stile sang another spell: “Flute of class, grant equalmass.” Suddenly a giant appeared, in Stile’s own image, standing in his footprints, towering above him. The giant’s mass was equal to that of the Herd Stallion; anyone could see that. Then the giant shrank in on Stile until at last it disappeared in Stile. He now had the mass of the unicorn, though he remained his own size and felt no different. He held the Flute—which was now the broadsword. The Herd Stallion stepped forward. He certainly under-stood; Stile was using his magic only to make the contest even. It depended only on their skills. If the Stallion was good with his natural weapon, he might outfence Stile and win. If not. Stile would prevail. The nullification of shame could go no further than this. Vampire Vodlevile’s advice had taken them to this stage; what followed would follow. The Stallion seemed to be proceeding with guarded confidence. Stile could guess why; Stile was known to be inexpert with the rapier. Neysa had had to drill him in its use, and he had been an apt student, but a few lessons could not bring him to the level of the Herd Stallion. Stile, however, was not now holding a rapier. He was holding an excellent broadsword, perfect in weight and length and temper and balance and all the subtleties of general feel, and with this weapon he was proficient. He had trained with this type of sword for a dozen years, and won many Proton-frame Games with it. While he could not match the Stallion’s protection against being disarmed, he could, if he had to, throw his blade at his opponent. So it was reasonably even. That was the way he wanted it. Vodlevile had shown him how to ease his crisis of conscience.
They met in the center of the arena and ceremoniously crossed weapons. Then each took a step back. Now it began.
The Stallion lunged. The horn shot forward. Stile jumped aside, his point jabbing to tag the unicorn’s shoulder—but the animal was not to be caught that way, and was out of range.
Now Stile lunged. The Stallion’s horn parried his thrust powerfully. Had Stile not possessed equal mass, he could have been disarmed then; as it was, sparks flew from the colliding weapons and both parties felt the impact.
So much for the feeling-out. Stile valued surprise, without sacrificing good technique. He fenced with the Stallion’s horn, setting himself up for disarming, and when the Stallion made the move. Stile slipped by his guard and sliced at his neck. The unicorn, suckered, shifted instantly to man-form so as to duck under it, then back to equine form. He had a sword in man-form, but lacked Stile’s mass; there was no conservation of mass, in magic. Stile wheeled to engage the Stallion again. He knew now that he was the superior swordsman, but he guarded against overconfidence. This shape-changing—that could be tricky.
