Now a whistling descended from right angles to the path they were following. Bink looked up nervously- and saw a griffin angling carefully down between the trees.
Trent whipped out his sword and backed toward the black bole of an oilbarrel tree, facing the monster. Bink, in no condition to fight it, bared his teeth and backed toward the same protection. He was glad it wasn't a dragon; one really good tongue of fire could set off the tree explosively and wipe them all out. As it was, the overhanging branches would interfere with the monster's flight, forcing it to do combat on the ground. Still a chancy business, but it restricted the battle zone to two dimensions, which was a net advantage for Bink and Trent. Maybe if Bink distracted it, Trent could get safely within range to transform it.
The griffin settled to earth, folding its extensive glossy wings. Its coiled lion's tail twitched about, and its great front eagle's talons made streaks in the dirt. Its eagle head oriented on Trent. "Cawp?" it inquired. Bink could almost feel that deadly beak slicing through his flesh. A really healthy griffin could take on a medium-sized dragon in single combat, and this one was healthy. He nudged within transformation range.
"Follow the giant tracks, that way," Trent said to the monster. "Can't miss it."
"Bawp!" the griffin said. It turned about, oriented on the giant tracks, bunched its lion muscles, spread its wings, and launched itself into the air. It flew low-level along the channel the invisible giant had carved through the forest.
Trent and Bink exchanged startled glances. They had had a narrow escape; griffins were very agile in combat, and Trent's magic might not have taken effect in time. "It only wanted directions!" Trent said. "Must be something very strange up ahead. We'd better get there in a hurry. Be unfortunate if some part-human cult was having a ritual sacrifice."
Ritual sacrifice? Bink growled his confusion.
"You know," Trent said grimly. "Bloody altar, beautiful virgin maiden "
"Rrowr!" Bink took off down the trail.
Soon they heard a commotion ahead. It was a medley of thumps, crashes, bellows, squawks, and crashes. "Sounds more like a battle than a party," Trent observed. "I really can't think what-"
At last they came in sight of the happening. They paused, amazed.
It was an astonishing assemblage of creatures, ranged in a large loose circle, facing in: dragons, griffins, manticoras, harpies, land serpents, trolls, goblins, fairies, and too many others to take in all at once. There were even a few human beings. It was not a free-for-all; all were intent on individual exercises, stamping their feet, biting at air, slamming their hooves together, and banging on rocks. In the interior of the circle, a number of creatures were dead or dying, ignored by the others. Bink could see and smell the blood, and hear their groans of agony. This was a battle, certainly-but where was the enemy? It was not the invisible giant; his prints were confined to one quadrant, not overlapping the territory of his neighbors.
"I thought I knew something about magic," Trent said, shaking his head. "But this is beyond my comprehension. These creatures are natural enemies, yet they ignore one another and do not feed on prey. Have they happened on a cache of loco?"
"Woof!" Bink exclaimed. He had spied Chameleon. She had two large flat stones in her hands and was holding them about a foot apart while she stared intently between them. Suddenly she clapped them together, with such force that they both fell out of her hands. She peered at the air above them, smiled enigmatically, picked them up, and repeated the procedure.
Trent followed Bink's gaze. "Loco!" he repeated. But Bink could smell no loco. "Her too. It must be an area spell. We'd better back off before we also fall prey to it."
They started to retreat, though Bink did not want to desert Chameleon. A grizzled old centaur cantered up. "Don't just meander around!" he snapped. "Get around to the north quadrant." He pointed. "We've suffered heavy losses there, and Bigfoot can't do it all. He can't even see the enemy. They'll break through any minute. Get some rocks; don't use your sword, fool!"
"Don't use my sword on what?" Trent demanded, with understandable ire.
"The wiggles, naturally. Cut one in half, all you have is two wiggles. You-"
"The wiggles!" Trent breathed, and Bink growled his own chagrin.
The centaur sniffed. "You been drinking?"
"Bigfoot's passage holed the beerbarrel tree we took refuge behind," Trent explained. "I thought the wiggles had been eradicated!"
"So thought we all," the centaur said. "But there's a healthy colony swarming here. You have to crush them or chew them or burn them or drown them. We can't afford to let a single one escape. Now get moving!"
Trent looked about. "Where are the stones?"
"Here. I've collected a pile." The centaur showed the way. "I knew I couldn't handle it myself, so I sent out will-o'-the-wisps to summon help."
Suddenly Bink recognized the centaur: Herman the Hermit. Exiled from the centaur community for obscenity almost a decade ago. Amazing that he had survived, here in the deepest wilderness-but centaurs were hardy folk.
Trent did not make the connection. The episode had happened after his exile. But he well knew the horror the wiggles represented. He picked up two good rocks from Herman's cache and strode toward the north quadrant.
Bink followed. He had to help too. If even one wiggle got away, there would at some later date be another swarming, perhaps not stopped in time. He caught up to the Magician. "Woof! Woof!" he barked urgently.
Trent looked straight ahead. "Bink, if I transform you here and now, the others will see, and know me for what I am. They may turn against me-and the siege against the wiggles will be broken. I think we can contain the swarm with our present creature-power; the centaur has organized the effort well. Your natural form would not be better equipped to wage this war than your present form. Wait until this is over."
Bink was not satisfied with all the arguments, but he seemed to have no choice. So he determined to make himself useful as he was. Maybe he could smell out the wiggles.
As they came up to their designated quadrant, a griffin gave a loud squawk and keeled over. It resembled the one they had directed here; it must have lost sight of its guiding will-o'-the-wisp. But all griffins looked and smelled pretty much alike to Bink. Not that it mattered, objectively; all creatures here had a common purpose. Still, he felt a certain identification. He ran to it, hoping the injury was not critical. The creature was bleeding from a mortal wound. A wiggle had holed it through its lion's heart.
Wiggles traveled by sudden rushes along wiggle-sized magic tunnels they created. Then they paused to recuperate, or perhaps merely to contemplate philosophical matters; no one really knew the rationale of a wiggle. Therefore the killer wiggle that had gotten the griffin should be right about here. Bink sniffed and picked up its faint putrid odor. He oriented on it, and saw his first live wiggle.
It was a two-inch-long, loosely spiraled worm, hovering absolutely still in midair. It hardly looked like the menace it was. He barked, pointing his nose at it.
Trent heard him. He strode across with his two rocks. "Good job, Bink," he cried. He smashed the rocks together on the wiggle. As they came apart, the squished, dead hulk of the tiny monster dropped. One down!