Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [80]
“What the devil—Sergeant!” he roared furiously.
There was no answer. Heaving himself out of the chair, James Boris strode angrily across the floor and threw open the door “Sergeant!” he thundered. “That damn teapot—”
There was no one there. Lifting the field phone, he held it to his ear. The static and other strange noises it was making nearly deafened him. Apparently, communications were dead now, too. The Sergeant must have gone off in search of the medics. Major Boris started to swear again, but checked himself. Swallowing his hot words, he could feel them burn all the way down, at least that’s what it seemed. Pressing his hand against his hurting stomach, he stomped back inside his office, flung himself down in his chair—without a glance at his visitor—and glared at the green teapot with the bright orange lid.
“Damn it all to hell and back again! I thought I told him to take that thing out of here!”
“So you did,” said Menju, known on theater marquees in all the major systems as the Sorcerer. Sitting casually on the desk, he was now eyeing the teapot with extreme interest. “So you did,” he murmured. “No, don’t touch it.” Reaching out a quick, slender-fingered hand, he intercepted James Boris as he was about to grab hold of the teapot and do something with it—just what the Major wasn’t certain, but he’d been considering the window.
Menju’s strong hand closed over Boris’s wrist.
“Let us discuss this rash retreat you are planning,” the Sorcerer said pleasantly.
“Rash—”
“Yes, rash. Not only in terms of your future career in the military—I am not without influence as you well know—but in terms of your life and the lives of your men. No, don’t try it, Major.”
James Boris, his face flushed with rage, made a quick move to free himself of the Sorcerer’s grip. The smile never left the magician’s face. A sound of crunching bone brought a gasp of pain from the Major.
“You are strong, but now I am stronger.” Menju’s hand continued to tighten on James Boris’s wrist. Furious, the Major grabbed the magician’s arm and tried with all his legendary strength to pry the man’s hand loose. He might as well have tried to bend the steel laser gun of one of his tanks.
“Forty-eight hours ago I could have snapped your chicken-leg bones in two!” James Boris grunted through clenched teeth, staring up at the Sorcerer in anger that was—he hoped—concealing his fear. “Is this more of your … your magic!” He spit the word.
“Yes, Major James Boris. Just as this is more of my … magic!”
Speaking a word in a strange language, Menju lifted the Major’s hand.
James Boris screamed, snatching his hand—or what had been his hand—free of the Sorcerer’s grasp. Laughing, the magician let go, and Major Boris fell backward in his chair, staring in horror. His hand was gone. In its place was the clawed foot of a chicken.
A gurgle, coming apparently from the teapot, caused Menju to glance at it swiftly. But the teapot hushed instantly, though a wisp of steam coiled up lazily from its spout.
“Change it back!” James Boris clutched his wrist, the chicken foot that was his hand twitched convulsively. “Get rid of it!” His voice rose to a shriek, and he choked.
“There will be no more talk of retreat,” the Sorcerer said coldly.
“Damn it!” Sweat beaded on Boris’s forehead. “We’re beat! We can’t fight this … this …” He sought for words, failing. “You heard my men! Werewolves, giants! Some guy with a sword that can suck up energy….”
“I heard them,” Menju said grimly. With a motion of his hand, he gestured a folding chair to come scurrying forward and position itself behind him. Sitting down comfortably, he smoothed out a wrinkle in the cashmere pants and continued to watch the Major, who had never taken his eyes from his mutated hand. “I heard about the man with the sword. Frankly, that was the only thing I found the least bit interesting, much less frightening.”
With a wave of his delicate fingers, the Sorcerer spoke another strange word and the Major had his hand back again. Shuddering in relief, James Boris examined