The Talisman

a more human sound would have done.
    It moved and shuffled its way forward with its own slow idiot rhythm:
    Clank . . . THUD!
    Clank . . . THUD!
    There was a long pause. Jack waited, pressed against the far wall a few feet to the right of the painted doors, his nerves so tightly wound they seemed to hum. Nothing at all happened for a long time. Jack began to hope the clanker had fallen back through some interdimensional trapdoor and into the world it had come from. He became aware that his back ached from his artificially still and tautly erect posture. He slumped.
    Then there was a splintering crash, and a huge mailed fist with blunt two-inch spikes sprouting from the knuckles slammed through the peeling blue sky on the door. Jack shrank back against the wall again, gaping.
    And, helplessly, flipped into the Territories.
    6
    Standing on the other side of the drop-gate was a figure in blackish, rusty armor. Its cylindrical helmet was broken only by a black horizontal eye-slit no more than an inch wide. The helmet was topped by a frowzy red plume – white bugs squirmed in and out of it. They were the same sort, Jason saw, as those which had come out of the walls first in Albert the Blob’s room and then all over Thayer School. The helmet ended in a coif of mail which draped the rusty knight’s shoulders like a lady’s stole. The upper arms and forearms were plated with heavy steel brassards. They were joined at the elbows with cubitieres. These were crusted with layers of ancient filth, and when the knight moved, the cubitieres squealed like the high, demanding voices of unpleasant children.
    Its armored fists were crazy with spikes.
    Jason stood against the stone wall, looking at it, unable in fact to look away; his mouth was dry as fever and his eyeballs seemed to be swelling rhythmically in their sockets in time to his heartbeat.
    In the knight’s right hand was le martel de fer – a battle-hammer with a rusty thirty-pound forged-steel head, as mute as murder.
    The drop-gate; remember that the drop-gate is between you and it –
    But then, although no human hand was near it, the windlass began to turn; the iron chain, each link as long as Jack’s forearm, began to wind around the drum, and the gate began to rise.
    7
    The mailed fist was withdrawn from the door, leaving a splintered hole that changed the mural at once from faded pastoral romantic to surrealist bar-sinister: it now looked as if some apocalyptic hunter, disappointed by his day in the marshes, had put a load of birdshot through the sky itself in a fit of pique. Then the head of the battle-hammer exploded through the door in a huge blunt swipe, obliterating one of the two herons struggling to achieve liftoff. Jack raised his hand in front of his face to protect it from splinters. The martel de fer was withdrawn. There was another brief pause, almost long enough for Jack to think about running again. Then the spiked fist tore through again. It twisted first one way and then the other, widening the hole, then withdrew. A second later the hammer slammed through the middle of a reedbed and a large chunk of the right-hand door fell to the carpet.
    Jack could now see the hulking armored figure in the shadows of the Heron Bar. The armor was not the same as that worn by the figure confronting Jason in the black castle; that one wore a helmet which was nearly cylindrical, with a red plume. This one wore a helmet that looked like the polished head of a steel bird. Horns rose from either side, sprouting from the helmet at roughly ear level. Jack saw a breastplate, a kilt of plate-mail, a hemming of chain-mail below that. The hammer was the same in both worlds, and in both worlds the knight-Twinners dropped it at the same instant, as if in contempt – who would need a battle-hammer to deal with such a puny opponent as this?
    Run! Jack, run!
    That’s right , the hotel whispered. Run! That’s what fushing feeves are supposed to do! Run! RUN!
    But he would not run. He might die, but he would not run – because that sly, whispering voice was right. Running was exactly what fushing feeves did.
    But I’m no thief , Jack thought grimly. That thing may kill me, but I won’t run. Because I’m no thief .
    ‘ I won’t run! ’ Jack shouted at the blank, polished-steel birdface. ‘ I’m no thief! Do you hear me? I’ve come for what’s mine and I’M NO THIEF! ’
    A groaning scream came from the breathing-holes at the bottom of the bird-helmet. The knight