Book 10 - Angry Lead Skies by Glen Cook Page A

lay folded up like a hairpin outside, entirely
silver now. Another silvery figure ministered to it, briefly
flashing into the form of a bum every ten seconds. Only the fallen
one didn’t shimmer like I was seeing it through a lot of hot
air. My bolt must have disrupted a serious compound illusion
sorcery.
    Playmate stepped up and tried to talk to them. In
Playmate’s universe reason should be able to solve
anything.
    I’ve got to admire his courage and convictions. My own
response to those critters was the only behavior I could
imagine.
    One invader had something shiny in his right hand. He extended
it toward Playmate. The big man folded into himself as though every
muscle in his body had turned to flab.
    I let the hammer fly.
    Ever since I was a kid I’ve had a fascination with the
hammer as a missile weapon. I used to enjoy playing at throwing
hammers, when I could get my hands on one without anyone knowing
that I was risking damage to something so valuable. I knew that in
olden times the hammer had been a warrior’s weapon and the
little bit of Cypres Prose resident within me had woven mighty
legends around Garrett the Hammer.
    Garrett the Hammer was dead on with his throw. But his target
saw it coming and shifted its weight slightly, just in time, so
that the speeding hammer brushed its shimmer only obliquely,
ricocheted off, and continued on in a rainbow arc that brought the
metal end into contact with the back of the head of the silvery
figure trying to resurrect the villain I’d knocked down
earlier.
    That blow should’ve busted a hole in the thing’s
skull. No such luck, though. The impact just caused it to fling
forward and sprawl across the creature that was down already.
    These were Playmate’s elves, it was obvious, but equally
obvious was the truth of his contention that his sketches did not
capture their real nature.
    The one who had downed Playmate closed in on me. The other one
chased Kip. Kip demonstrated the sort of character I expected. He
had great faith in the patron saint of every man for himself. He
made a valiant effort to get the hell out of there.
    Kip’s pursuer extended something shiny in his direction.
The kid followed Playmate’s example. He demonstrated
substantially less style in his collapse.
    I avoided the same fate for seconds on end by staying light on
my feet and putting great enthusiasm into an effort to saturate the
air with flying tools. But, too soon, I began feeling like I had
been drinking a whole lot of something more potent than beer. I
slowed down.
    The dizziness didn’t last long.
     
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11
    I do not recall the darkness coming. My next clear memory is of
Morley Dotes with his pretty little nose only inches from mine.
He’s reminding me that to stay alive one
must
remember to breathe. From the corner of my eye I see Saucerhead
Tharpe trying to sell the same idea to Playmate while the ratgirl
Pular Singe scuttles around nervously, sniffing and whining.
    The disorientation faded faster than the effects of alcohol ever
do. Without leaving much hangover. But none of those clowns were
willing to believe that high-potency libations hadn’t been
involved in my destruction. When people go on a nag they
aren’t the least bit interested in evidence that might
contradict their prejudices.
    Pular Singe, ratgirl genius, was my principal advocate.
    What can you do? “You two are a couple of frigid old
ladies,” I told Morley and Saucerhead. “Thank you for
your faith, Singe. Oh, my head!” I didn’t have a
hangover from this but I did have one from last night. The latest
headache powder wasn’t helping.
    “And you’d like us to believe that you don’t
have a hangover,” Morley sneered. Weakly. One side of his
face wasn’t working so good.
    Not a lot of time had passed since the advent of the silvery
people. Smoke still wisped off the cut ends of some of the wall
planks. I suppose it was a near miracle that no fire had gotten
going. Perhaps, less miraculously,