Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming. Part 2
A young prince marching off in defense of his father’s castle. A fair young man he was, and well set up for the warrior trade. He marched at the head of his troop of men, and they were a brave sight, their banners of scarlet and yellow fluttering finely in the summer breeze. Then, ahead, they saw another body of men, and the prince pulled his mount to a halt and called up his seneschal.
“There they are,” the prince said. “We have them fairly now, between a rock and a hard lump of ice, as they say in Lapland.”
This much Azzie saw. And then the vision faded.
“Can you read what fate befell him?” Azzie asked.
Hermes sighed, closed his eyes, lifted his head.
“Ah,” he said, “I have tuned in on the battle, and what a fine engagement of armed men it is! See how furiously they come together, and hear the well-tempered swords singing! Yes, they clash, they are all brave, all deft. But what is this . . . One of the men has left the circle. Not even wounded, but giving retreat already! It is the former owner of these legs.”
“Poltroon!” cried Azzie, for it was as though he could see the engagement.
“Ah, but he gets not off unscathed. A man is following, his eyes red with the blood fury, a huge man, a berserker, one of those whom the Franks have been fighting for hundreds of years, whom they call the madmen from the north!”
“I don’t like the northern demons much, either,” Azzie said.
“The berserker is running down the cowardly prince. His sword flashes – a sidewise blow struck with an uncanny combination of skill and fury.”
“Difficult to strike such a blow,” Azzie commented.
“The blow is well struck-the poltroon prince is cloven in twain. His upper half rolls in the dust. But his cowardly legs are still running, they are running now from death. Relieved of the weight of his upper body, they find it easy to run, though it is true they are running out of energy. But how much energy does it take for a pair of legs to drive themselves, when no one else is attached? Demons are pursuing these running legs, because they have already passed the boundaries of the normal, already they run in the limitless land of possibilities that is the preternatural. And now, at last, they totter a last few steps, turn, sway, and then crash lifeless to the ground.”
“In short, we have here the legs of a coward,” Azzie said.
“A coward, to be sure. But a sort of divine coward who would run from death even in death, so afraid was he that what had in fact happened would happen.”
Chapter 2
After Hermes left him to preside over a meeting of maguses in what would someday be Zurich, Azzie sat and brooded. Moodily he poked the legs. They were much too valuable to waste on snacking. That’s what Hermes had implied in his usual roundabout fashion.
What should he do with them? He thought again about the great event, the Millennial contest. What he needed was an idea, a concept. . . . He stared at the legs, rearranged them this way and that. There must be something. . . .
Suddenly he sat up straight. Yes, the legs! He had it! A wonderful idea, one that was sure to make his name in circles of evil. He had an idea for the contest! It had come in a burst of demoniac inspiration. He must lose no time, must hurry and get it on record, get cooperation from the Evil Powers. What day was this? He calculated swiftly, then moaned. This was the last day in which entries could be made. He must go to the High Demon Council, and quickly.
Taking a deep breath, he propelled himself away from Earth to the region of Limbo where the high council was meeting. It is not generally realized, but demons have as much trouble getting in to see someone in the top level of command as mortals do. If you’re not high up in the hierarchy, if you’re not related to someone important, if you are not a gifted athlete, then forget anything immediate; you have to go through channels, and that can take time.