“Yes,” she said, quickly getting the mask. “You are a bold, brave man, and I think I could love you in time. Follow me if you can; I will go for help.” She walked toward the force-field.
“Stop her!” the captor shouted.
The robot went for the lady—and Hulk went for the robot, smashing violently at its face. But the robot threw up an arm to ward off the blow, and grappled with Hulk. Bluette fled, limping. She knew she could not help, here. The robot tried to go after her, but Hulk clung, using his wrestling expertise. “Deal with him first,” the captor decided. “Kill him, then catch the woman!” Given this unequivocal directive, the robot applied its full force to the task at hand. It had no human weaknesses; it could not be choked or kneed in the crotch or made to yield by pain, and it was the stronger creature here. It was bound by no human scruples. It put one hand in Hulk’s face and closed its metal fingers in the vise-constriction, simultaneously gouging the man’s eyes and ripping out the cartilage of his nose.
Hulk smashed desperately with his weapon, but his leverage was not good. His face was a blind mask of blood. It was. Stile thought with horror, like fighting a wooden golem: no harm could be done to the inanimate, and no mercy was expected. Hulk’s blows dented the metal in several places, but he could not put the machine out of commission. He made one more effort, lifting the machine and squeezing it in a bear-hug and smashing it against the wall, trying to destroy it along with himself. The robot remained functional. It put its other hand up to Hulk’s head, clasped the man with its legs, and twisted the head. There was a snap.
“Oh, God—“ Stile cried, anguished.
“Leave this. Go after the woman!” the captor cried. “I will shut down the field.”
The robot disengaged itself from Hulk’s body and lumbered in the direction Bluette had gone. It had suffered some damage; its motion was hardly faster than hers had been. Meanwhile, the force-field clicked off; the air puffed out of the chamber.
If Hulk was not already dead, he would suffocate shortly.
With a broken neck and no air his situation was hopeless.
The holograph faded out. The recording was over.
CHAPTER 8 - Quest
Stile emerged in Phaze at the familiar spot south of the Blue Demesnes. Suddenly his will coalesced. He opened his bag and brought out the magic Flute and played it hard and long. His power gathered to him as the platinum notes pealed forth. Almost, it seemed, the mountain trembled—but not quite. This instrument was the finest he had played, but he knew he could not keep it. When he found the person who could play it better than he—
But at the moment something else preempted his attention. As he played, the words came to him. In a moment he stopped playing and cried it out savagely: “Of the one who killed mine other self, the one who slew my friend, I, Stile, the Blue Adept, swear to make an end!” The magic oath flung outward, making the ground ripple, the trees tremble, and the welkin waver. Pine needles burst into flame. From the Purple Mountains a rumbling echo came back like the voice of a monster: “end . . . end ... end.” Then lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled down. A startled griffin shot up and away to the west. A quick wash of water descended, extinguishing the local flame, leaving wet ashes. His oath had shaken the firmament, but it couldn’t bring his friend back. Stile leaned against a scorched tree and cried.
Neysa and the Lady Blue were waiting for him expectantly at the Demesnes. As soon as they saw him, they knew something was wrong.
“Hulk is dead,” Stile said bluntly. “Mine enemy killed him, in lieu of me. I have sworn vengeance.”
“The sudden storm to the south,” the Lady said. “Thine oath! I thought it no natural occurrence.”
“Mine oath,” Stile agreed. Quickly he filled in the details of the tragedy. “And I know not whether thine other self survives. Lady,” he finished. “I fear I have unwittingly brought demise upon Bluette. I should not have suggested to Hulk that he—“
“Nay,” the Lady said. She exchanged glances with Neysa, and the unicorn blew a small note of assent and left the room.
Stile felt his burden increase. “It is meet that she rebuke me,” he said. “Others have paid the penalty for mine er-rors.”
“She rebuked thee not,” the Lady said. “She knows thou didst seek only to do a favor for thy friend. It was thine enemy at fault.”
“I should have anticipated—“
“So should my Lord have anticipated the threat against him, by the ill hands of the same enemy. So also should I have known to warn him. There is guilt enough to go 2around.” She crossed to him and put her hands on his shoulders, and he felt their healing power. “We were all of us well-meaning and naive. We could not believe that genuine evil stalked us.”
“And thee,” Stile said, not meeting her gaze. “It was thine other self I involved in this. I had no right—“
