Ptolemy's Gate

from the water and reared up, gazing toward the veranda. There stood the mercenary, and with him another man, slight, stoop-shouldered, who clapped a hand to his arm in a gesture of comradely support. I strained my weary eyes. For a brief instant I caught sight of his face: bland, even-featured, utterly unmemorable. So why was it that something in it aroused a deep sense of recognition and made me shudder?
    The men moved away from the veranda, out of view. Cursing fluently, the snake plowed onward, looping through the reeds with elegant undulations. A little farther. . . if I could just hear Hopkins speak, get the slightest clue—
    Ten reed stalks moved; five tall gray shadows isolated themselves from the mass of reeds. Ten stick legs bent and sprang. It all happened without a sound: one moment I was alone upon the lake; the next five herons plunged upon me like gray-white ghosts, sword-beaks snapping, red eyes blazing. Flailing wings cracked upon the water, blocking avenues of escape, claws slashed at the desperate snake, beaks stabbed. I coiled myself up and, fast as thinking, dived below the surface. But the herons were swifter still: one beak snared my tail; another snapped fast upon my body, just below the head. They flapped their wings and rose into the air, taking me between them, dangling like a worm.
    I scanned my adversaries on the seven planes: they were foliots, all five of them. In normal circumstances I'd have decorated the city with their feathers, but in my current state to fight a single one was pushing it. I felt my essence beginning to tear.
    I struggled, thrashed, and twisted. I spat venom left and right. Anger filled me, supplied a little strength. I changed, downsizing further into a small and slimy eel, which slipped free of their hold and fell toward the welcoming water.
    A beak lunged.
    Snap! Blackness all around.
    Now this was deeply embarrassing. After my recent treatment of the imp, I'd been swallowed too. Alien essence swirled around me. I could feel it beginning to corrode my own.[7]

[7] In such circumstances you have to act quickly before you are simply absorbed by the other. Weak entities have no chance if swallowed by a greater power, and this was going to be a close-run thing.

I had no choice. I summoned all my energies and used a Detonation. Well, it was loud and it was messy, but it had the desired effect. Small pieces of foliot rained down through the air, and I rained down with them, in the semblance of a small, black pearl.
    The pearl dropped into the water. Instantly the four remaining herons were at the spot, hot eyes glinting, spearing their beaks in and out in feverish pursuit.
    I allowed myself to sink swiftly into the murk, deep down out of range, to where the mud and ooze and rotten tangle of dead reeds concealed me on every plane.
    My mind flickered; I nearly lost consciousness. No, they would find me if I slept. I must escape, return to my master. I needed to make one final effort and get away.
    Giant legs stalked the gloom around me; spear-beaks fizzed, cutting the water like bullets. Muffled echoes of the herons' swearing boomed among the weeds. A small, injured tadpole wormed its way toward the shore, leaving specks of dying essence drifting in its wake. Reaching the lakeside, it broke all aging records and became an ill-favored frog, with a clubfoot and a downcast mouth. The frog skittered away into the grass as fast as it could go.
    I was halfway to the road before the foliots saw me. One of them must have flown high, glimpsed my limping progress; with raucous cries they erupted from the lake, came hurtling over the dark grass.
    One dived; the frog gave a frantic leap. The beak plunged into the ground.
    Out onto the path, among the crowds. The frog hopped hither, thither, between legs, under awnings, leaping from heads to shoulders, baskets to prams, all the while emitting croaks and gargles, staring with its mad pop-eyes. Men shouted, women screamed, children gasped in wonder. Behind came the herons, feat hers flashing, wings buffeting, blind with bloodlust. They crashed through stalls, upturned wine vats, sent dogs howling into the dark. People were tossed aside like ninepins; piles of Real War Stories went flying—some landing in the wine, others in the roasting pits.
    Up onto the outdoor stage hopped the fugitive amphibian, under the bright imp-lights, sending one actor leaping into the arms of a second, causing a third to swan dive into the crowd. It