from swimming the river with traces of it on his body. While he dried
himself by the fire and swilled down a mug of steaming soup, his
companions considered what their next move should be.
“We learned much today,” Glandurg said as he paced up and down before the
fire.
“We learned dwarves are not meant to fly,” came a voice from the edge of
the circle.
“We learned the plan of the castle and of our enemy’s defenses,” Glandurg
shot back, determined to put the best possible face on the day’s events.
“If we did not accomplish our objective, at least we gathered valuable
knowledge.”
“And how do we use that knowledge?” asked one of the other dwarves.
“We will find a way, but first we need a new strategy.”
“We need a new leader,” Snorri muttered.
Glandurg reddened. “Someone who attacks with poison and kills the cup no
doubt.”
It was Snorri’s turn to redden.
“Can’t we just say we tried and go home?” asked Gimli, the youngest of the
dwarves.
“No!” Glandurg roared. “We are sworn to this quest. Our honor and the
honor of all dwarfdom rests with us. Others may turn and run, but I will
pursue our pledge to the bitter end.”
“Bitter it is likely to be,” said Thorfin sourly, nursing an arm in a
sling.
“That is as it is,” Glandurg said loftily. “The important thing is how we
may fulfill our vow.”
“Well, we’re not going to fly in,” Ragnar said from the fire.
“The human wizards have been busy,” Thorfin said. “Now the whole castle is
closed to us.”
“Unlikely it is that this Sparrow will venture beyond the walls,” Snorri
added.
“We must think,” Glandurg said. “We must await our opportunity and think
in the meanwhile.” He dropped down on a stump and ostentatiously rested
his chin on his fist in a pose meant to suggest to all deep thought. In
their own ways all of his followers imitated him.
It was a very imposing sight, but none of them had the faintest idea what
to do next.
Fourteen: VIRTUAL UN-REALITY
“This is hopeless,” Wiz said finally. “We’ve just got to have more
information.”
The dusty smell of hay and cattle still clung to the programmers’
workroom, legacy of its days as a cow barn. Most of the stalls along the
walls were no longer used as programmers’ cubicles and the people who were
left could have fitted into a room inside the keep proper, but the
programming team kept the Bull Pen, partly because it was easier than
moving and partly because of the aptness of the name. In a little while
they were settled around the long plank table down the center. “We can’t
very well go knocking on the gate,” Wiz said.
“Perhaps we can do exactly that,” Moira said slowly. She turned down the
table to Arianne. “Lady, does magic work within that castle?”
Arianne’s brow furrowed as she considered. “As best we can tell. We cannot
see through their barriers, but they seem to use magic within it.”
“Then perhaps someone can go knocking at the gate of the castle. Or at
least the semblance of someone.”
Arianne’s jaw dropped. Then she beamed and nodded. “Of course! Yes, Lady,
I think that would work very nicely.”
* * *
“When I proposed this, I did not have you in mind,” Moira grumbled as she
watched the preparations. She, Wiz and Arianne were jammed into Arianne’s
workroom off the main courtyard of the keep.
As one of the Mighty, Arianne rated a tower to herself, but as Bal-Simba’s
assistant she spent most of her time doing administrative work and she
preferred a place closer to the meeting halls of the main keep.
“Come on, darling, you said yourself this isn’t dangerous,” Wiz said from
the stool in the middle of the room.
“She said no such thing,” Arianne said sharply, looking up from her work
table. “She said you cannot be harmed physically. But there will be a
psychic link between you and the simulacrum.”
“Not like a video game, huh?”
“Not a game of any sort,” Arianne repeated firmly. “So be very careful and
pull out at the first sign of trouble.”