Kurrelgyre and Neysa were standing by, awaiting Stile’s decision. He made it: he bent carefully to draw off the unicorn socks, revealing himself undisguised.
“Woman, look at me,” he said.
The Lady Blue looked. She paled, stepping back. “Why comest thou like this in costume, foul spirit?” she demanded. “Have I not covered assiduously for thee, who deservest it least?”
Stile was taken aback. He had anticipated gladness, disbelief or fear, depending on whether she took him for her husband, an illusion, or a ghost. But this—
“Though it be strange,” the Lady murmured in an aside to herself. “Thy knees seemed flesh, not wood, and there was pain in them. Am I now being deluded by semblance spells?”
Stile looked at the werewolf. “Does this make sense to thee? Why should my knees not be flesh? Who would have wooden knees?”
“A golem!” Kurrelgyre exclaimed, catching on. “A wooden golem masquerading as the Adept! But why does she cover for the soulless one?”
The Lady whirled on the werewolf. “Why cover for thy henchman!” she exclaimed, her pale cheeks flushing now in anger. “Should I let the world know my love is dead, most foully murdered, and a monster put in his place—and let all the good works my lord achieved fall into ruin? Nay, I needs must salvage what I can, holding the vultures somewhat at bay, lest there be no longer any reprieve or hope for those in need. I needs must sustain at least the image of my beloved for these creatures, that they suffer not the horror I know.”
She returned to bear on Stile, regal in her wrath. “But thou, thou fiend, thou creature of spite, thou damned thing! Play not these gruesome games with me, lest in mine agony I forget my nature and ideals and turn at last on thee and rend thee limb from limb and cut out from thy charred bosom the dead toad that is thy heart!” And she whirled and stalked into the building.
Stile stared after her, bathed in the heat of her fury.
“There is a woman,” he breathed raptly.
Neysa turned her head to look at him, but Stile was hardly aware of the import of her thought. The Lady Blue—protecting her enemy from exposure, for the sake of the good work done by the former Blue Adept. Oh, what a wrong to be righted!
“I must slay that golem,” Stile said.
Kurrelgyre nodded. “What must be, roust be.” He shifted to wolf-form and sniffed the air. Then he led the way into the castle.
Stile followed, but Neysa remained in the courtyard. She had run almost without surcease for a day and night, carrying him, and her body was so tired and hot she could scarce restrain the flames of her breath. Kurrelgyre, unfettered, had fared better; but Neysa needed time by herself to recover.
No one sought to stop them from entering the castle proper. The guard at the gate had been the only armed man they encountered, and he was back at his station. There were a few household servants, going innocently about their businesses. There was none of the grimness associated with the demesnes of the other Adepts he had encountered. This was an open castle.
The wolf followed his nose through clean halls and apertures until they arrived at a closed door. Kurrelgyre growled: the golem was here.
“Very well, werewolf,” Stile said. “This needs must be my battle; go thou elsewhere.” Kurrelgyre, under-standing, disappeared.
Stile considered momentarily, then decided on the forthright approach. He knocked.
There was, as he expected, no answer. Stile did not know much about golems, but did not expect much from a construct of inanimate materials. Yet, he re-minded himself, that was what the robot Sheen was. So he had to be careful not to underestimate this thing. He did not know the limits of magical animation. “Golem,” he called. “Answer, or I come in regardless. Thine impersonation is at an end.”
Then the door opened. A man stood there, garbed in a blue robe and blue boots. He was. Stile realized, the exact image of Stile himself. His clothing differed in detail, but a third party would not know the two of them apart.
“Begone, intruder, lest I enchant thee into a worm and crush thee underheel,” the golem said.
So golems could talk. Good enough.
Stile drew his rapier. For this had werewolf and unicorn labored so diligently to return his weapon to him! “Perform thy magic quickly, then, impostor,” he said, striding forward.
The golem was unarmed. Realizing this, Stile halted without attacking. “Take a weapon,” he said. “I know thou canst not enchant me. Dost thou not recognize me, thou lifeless stick?”
The golem studied Stile. The creature was evidently not too bright—unsurprising if its brains were cellulose—but slowly Stile’s aspect penetrated. ‘Thou’rt dead!” the golem exclaimed.
Stile menaced him with the sword. “Thou art dead, not I.”
The golem kicked at him suddenly. Its move was almost untelegraphed, but Stile was not to be caught oft guard in a situation like this. He swayed aside and clubbed the creature on the ear with his left fist.
Pain lanced through his hand. It was like striking a block of wood—as he should have known. This was a literal blockhead! While he paused, shaking his hand, the golem turned and butted him in the chest. Stile braced himself just in time, but he felt dull pain, as of a rib being bent or cartilage torn. The golem bulled on, shoving Stile against the wall, trying to grab him with hideously strong arms. Stile knew already that he could not match the thing’s power.
Unarmed? The golem needed no overt weapon! Its body was wood. Stile got his sword oriented and stabbed the torso. Sure enough, the point lodged, not penetrating. This thing was not vulnerable to steel!
Now he knew what he was up against. Stile hauled up one of his feet and got his knee into the golem’s body as it tried to butt again. His knee hurt as he bent it, but he shoved the creature away. The golem crashed against the far wall, its head striking with a sharp crack —but it was the wall that fractured, not the head. Stile took a shallow breath, feeling his chest injury, and looked around. Kurrelgyre was back, standing in the doorway, growling off other intruders. This would remain Stile’s own personal fight, like a Game in the Proton-frame. All he had to do was destroy this undead wooden dummy. Before it battered him into the very state of demise he was supposedly already in.
He no longer had qualms about attacking an un-armed creature. He studied the golem. The creature might be made of wood, animated by magic, but it still had to obey certain basic laws of physics. It had to have joints in its limbs, and would be vulnerable in those joints, even as Stile was. It had to hear and see, so needed ears and eyes, though these would probably function only via magic. Whoever had made this golem must have a real knack for this kind of sorcery. An-other Adept, most likely, specializing in golems.
The golem came—and Stile plunged the point of his rapier like a hypodermic into the thing’s right eye. The golem, evidently feeling no pain, continued forward, only twisting its head. The sword point, lodged in the wood, was wrenched about. It snapped off.
Stile had not been expert with this weapon, so this was less of a loss than it might have seemed. He aimed the broken end at the golem’s other eye. But the creature, aware of the danger, retreated. It turned and crashed through the window in the far wall.
Stile pursued it. He leaped through the broken window—and found himself back in the courtyard, where Neysa had been pacing restlessly, breathing out her heat. She paused, startled, at the appearance of the golem. Her eyes informed her it was Stile, with one eye destroyed, but her nose was more certain. She made an angry musical snort.
The golem cast about with its remaining eye. It spied the fountain-whale. It grabbed the statuary in both arms and ripped it from its mooring.