Wizard World 1: Changeling

XIV

He had threaded them all through Rondoval; and now, as the day slackened, he was resolved to lie in wait, to learn whether they worked, to see what they snared.

In a small sitting room he had not previously frequented, he seated himself at the center of his web and waited. He had set himself no other chore than thinking during this period, but that was all right. Fine, in fact.

The strands lay all about him, silver-gray, taut. He had strung them throughout Castle Rondoval that afternoon, like a ghostly series of trip wires. He could feel them all, knew where each one led.

By now, he had come to the conclusion that they were not visible to other people under normal conditions. Summoning them, noting them, using them, were all a part of his power--the same power that had led him to this place he now knew to be his home. The others who had dwelled here had also possessed it, along with other knowledge and aptitudes--things about which he was still learning. He wondered about them....

Mor had taken him as a baby, the old man had said, and exchanged him for the real Daniel Chain. If he had been born here and removed at the time of the battle which had so damaged this place, then these depredations had occurred a little over twenty years ago--presuming that time behaved in approximately the same fashion here as it did there. Such being the case, he wondered concerning the cause of the conflict and its principals. All things considered, it would seem that his parents had been the losers and were doubtless now dead.

He wondered about them. There were intact portraits in various rooms, one of which could have been that of the Lord Det, the author of the journals, the man he judged to be his father. The portraits were untitled, though, and he had no idea at all as to his mother's identity.

His wrist tingled slightly, but there were no signs yet from the strands he had laid. He watched the hallway darken beyond the door. He thought of the world in which he now found himself, speculating as to whether he might have been able to see threads in his own, had he known to try. He wondered what it would have been like to have grown up here. Now, now he felt a proprietory attitude toward the place, even if he did not understand its fiill history, and he resented the presence of the intruder.

For an intruder there was. He knew it as surely as if he had seen him lurking about. Knew it not just from the fact that everything edible and drinkable which he left about had a way of disappearing, but from dozens of small telltales--suddenly bright doorknobs which he knew to have been dusty, minor rearrangements of articles, abrupt scuff marks in unused hallways. It added up to a sense of the presence of another. Irrationally, he felt as if Rondoval itself were passing him warnings.

And he had worked this spell out carefully, partly by intuition, partly from hints in his father's books. It seemed that everything had been done correctly. When the visitor moved, he would know it, he would act--

Again, the tingling. Only this time it did not pass, and his finger jerked toward a single strand. He touched it, felt it pulse. Yes. And this one led to a ruined tower to the rear. Very well. He caught it between his fingers and began the manipulations, the sensations in his wrist increasing as he worked.

Yes. A moving human body, male, had disturbed his alarm. Even now the thread swelled, pulsed with power, was firmly fixed to the intruder.

Pol smiled. The workings of his will flowed forth along the line, freezing the man in his tracks.

"... And now, my friend," Pol muttered, "it is time for us to meet. Come to me!"

The man began descending the tower stair, his movements slow and mechanical. He tried to resist what he realized to be a spell, but this had no effect upon his progress. Perspiration broke out over his brow and his teeth were clenched. He watched his feet proceed steadily down the stair, then along a hallway. He tried catching at door frames and pillars as he passed them, but his hands were always torn free. Finally, they vanished beneath his cloak.

Moments later, he held a long climbing cord, which he hurriedly knotted about his right wrist. He attached a small grappling hook to its farther end and cast it up and out through a high window. He tugged several times upon it, saw that it held. Seizing the cord with both hands then, he began to pray to Dwastir, protector of thieves, as he threw his weight upon it.

Pol frowned. He realized that the other's progress had ceased. He increased his efforts, but the intruder was no longer coming toward him. Rising with a curse, he walked out into the twilit hallway, following the filament, candles flaring as he neared them. It only occurred to him after he had gone some distance that the other might also be some sort of an adept. How else could he have halted in the midst of such a summons as he had received to walk in this direction? Perhaps he should simply call Moonbird, to overwhelm the intruder with sheer force...

No. This act of defense, he decided, should be his own, if at all possible. He felt a need to test his powers against another, and the defense of Rondoval seemed as if it should be a personal thing now that he and the place had claims on each other.

He might have missed the small, darkly clad man, had not the angle of the silver-gray strand directed his attention upwards. There, he saw the kicking feet, as if they still strove to walk, as the figure dragged itself upward using armpower alone.

"Amazing," Pol observed, reaching out and touching the strand again. "Halt all your efforts to flee me. Climb back down. Return. Now!"

The man ceased his climbing and his boots grew still. He hung for a moment, began to lower himself. Then, at a point about ten feet overhead, in full if not proper obedience to his order, the man let go the cord at a certain moment of its sway and, heels together, dropped directly toward him.

Pol leaped backward, struck the wall with his shoulder, spun aside. The man struck the floor nearby, fulfilling the order, then began to run.

Recovering, Pol manipulated the strand so that it slipped and caught like a lariat about the other's ankles. The man sprawled.

He moved to the other's side, maintaining the tension upon the filament. The man rolled, a knife appearing in his hand, thrusting toward his thigh. Pol, already alert, danced away, a loop appearing in the strand and twisting itself about the other's wrists, tightening.

The blade fell to the floor and skidded a great distance along it, vanishing from sight in the far shadows. The man's wrists were drawn together as tightly as his ankles. His pale eyes now found Pol's and regarded him without expression.

"I must say you are extremely imaginative in executing an order," Pol remarked. "You take me literally when you choose to and take advantage of every loophole when you do not. You must have some legal background."

The other smiled.

"I have at times been very close to the profession," he said in a soft, almost sweet voice, and then he sighed. "What now?"

Pol shook his head.

"I don't know. I've no idea who you are or what you want. My security as well as my curiosity require that I find out."

"My name is Mouseglove, and I mean you no harm."

"Then why have you been sneaking about here, stealing food?"

"A man must eat--and my own desire for security demanded that I sneak about. All that I know of you is that you are a sorcerer and dragon-rider. I was somewhat reluctant to come up and introduce myself."

"Reasonable enough," Pol observed. "Now, if I knew why you are here at all, I might be in a better position to sympathize with your plight."

"Well, yes," said Mouseglove. "I am, as they say, a thief. I came here for the purpose of stealing a collection of jewelled figurines belonging to the Lord Det. It was a commissioned thing. I simply had to deliver them to a Westerland buyer, collect my fee and go my way. Unfortunately, Det caught me at it--much as you've trammeled me here--and had me confined to one of the cells below. By the time I managed to escape, a war was in progress. The castle was under attack and the besiegers were about to break in. I saw Det destroyed in a magical contest with an old sorcerer, and I decided that the safest place for me was back in my cell. I lost my way below, however, and wound up in a cavern, where I slept. I was awakened to the sight of you flying off on a great dragon. I left there, came up here, was hungry. I couldn't get at the food in the pantry."

"I don't understand why you remained around at all."

Mouseglove licked his lips.

"I had to check," he said finally, "to see whether the figurines were still about."

"Are they?"

"I couldn't locate them. But from the growth of the trees hereabout, I began to realize that more time than I'd thought had passed while I slept ..."

"About twenty years, I'd guess," Pol said, freeing Mouseglove's legs. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"So am I. Let's go and eat. If I release your hands, will you use them to help me carry food, rather than try to knife me?"

"I'd much rather knife you on a full stomach."

"That'll do."

Pol untwisted the final loop.

"I'd give a lot to know that trick," Mouseglove said, watching him.

"Let's go to the pantry," Pol said, "and on the way, I want you to tell me how my father died."

Mouseglove rose to his feet.

"Your father?"

"The Lord Det."

"There was a baby," Mouseglove said.

"Twenty years," Pol replied.

Mouseglove rubbed his brow.

"Twenty . , . That is hard to believe. I don't see how it could happen."

"You were trapped in a grand sleep spell, along with the dragons. I must have released you when I awakened Moonbird. You had to have been asleep nearby."

They began to walk.

"There were dreams of dragons, now you mention it."

He turned and regarded Pol.

"I first saw you in your mother's arms. She burned me when I tried to touch you."

"You knew her?"

"The Lady Lydia... Yes. Lovely woman. I suppose I'd best start at the beginning ..."

"Please do."

They obtained food and drink from the pantry and returned to the library, to spend most of the night talking. When they had finished eating, Pol strummed his guitar absently and listened to the other speak, occasionally pausing to sip from his wineglass. At one point, he struck a chord which made Mouseglove's hair rise and set his teeth on edge.

"They killed my parents?" he said softly. "The villagers?"

"I guess there were other people in the army besides villagers," Mouseglove replied. "I even saw centaurs among them. But it was another sorcerer who actually fought Det--Mor, I think he was called--"

"Mor?"

"I believe so."

"Go on."

"I think your mother was in the southwest tower when it fell. At least, that was where she was headed when I saw her with you. You were discovered alone outside the entrance to it. You were taken to the main hall. The troops wanted to kill you. Mor saved you, though, by exchanging you for another child from another place--or rather, he claimed that he could. Did he?"

"Yes. They killed my parents...."

"Twenty years. They'll be older now--perhaps even dead. You could never locate all of them."

"Those who stoned me had the proper mentality--and their recognition of my dragonmark says something."

"Pol--Lord Pol--I don't know your story--where you've been, what it was like, what you've been through, how you came back--but I'm older than you. There are many things of which I am not sure, but one that I've had more opportunity than most to learn. Hate will eat you up, will twist you--more so, perhaps, if there is no longer, really, a proper object upon which to vent it--"

Pol began to speak, but Mouseglove raised his hand.

"Please. Let me finish. It's not just a sermon on good behavior. You're young and I got the impression on the way up here that you had just come into your powers. I've a feeling that this may be a pivotal point in your life. Looking back on my own, I see that there were a number of such occasions. Everyone seems to have a few. It looks to me as if you have not yet given thought to the path you intend to follow. Old Mor seemed, basically, a white magician. Your father had a reputation as one of the other sort. I know that things are never really black or white, pure and simple, but after a time one can usually judge from a preponderance of evidence in which direction a great power has led a person, if you see what I mean. If you start looking for revenge after all these years, at this time in your life--using your newfound powers to do it--I've a feeling you may in some ways be twisted by the enterprise, so that everything you touch later on will somehow bear its mark. I tell you this not only because I fear turning another Det loose upon the land, but because you are young and because it will probably hurt you, too."

Pol was silent for a time. Then he struck a chord.

"My father had a staff, a wand, a rod," he said. "You mentioned earlier that Mor broke it into three parts. Tell me again what he said he was going to do with it."

Mouseglove sighed.

"He spoke of something called--I believe--the Magical Triangle of Int. He was going to banish each segment to one point of it."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"Do you know what it means?"

"No. Do you?"

Pol shook his head.

"Never heard of it."

"What do you think of my assessment of your position?"

Pol took a sip of wine.

"I hate them," he said, as he replaced the glass. "Perhaps my father was an evil man--a black magician. I do not know. But I cannot learn of his death by violence and be unmoved. No. I still hate them. They responded like animals in their ignorance. They treated me badly when I meant them no harm. And I recently heard the story of another man, who meant them well and perhaps went about things incorrectly, but who suffered greatly at their hands. It is not so easy to forgive."

"Pol--Lord Pol. They were afraid. You represented something they must have had good cause to fear if its memory lingered this long, this strongly. As for the other man, who knows? Could there have been some similarity?"

Pol nodded.

"Yes. I understand that he tried to force something new upon them--new, yet like something which had been rejected long ago. I suppose you are right. Have you more to tell me?"

"Not really. I would like to hear your story, though. It seems only a few days since I saw you as a babe."

Pol smiled for the first time in a long while. He refilled their glasses.

"Very well. I would like to tell someone ..."

Daylight was trickling into the room when Pol opened his eyes. He had slept on the sofa. Mouseglove was curled up on the floor.

He rose and soundlessly made his way downstairs, where he washed and changed his garments. He headed for the pantry to load a breakfast tray. Mouseglove was up by the time he returned, grooming himself, eyeing the food.

As they ate, Mouseglove asked him, "What are your plans now?"

"A little vengeance, I think," Pol replied.

"I was afraid of that," said the other.

Pol shrugged.

"It's easy for you to say, 'Forget it.' They didn't try to kill you."

"I spent time in the hands of your father's jailers."

"But you admit to attempted larceny here. I wasn't doing a damned thing to them, except providing a free floor show. There is a distinction."

"You've made up your mind. There is nothing more I can say--save that I would like to leave, if it is all right with you."

"Sure. You're not a prisoner any longer. We'll make you up a food parcel."

"Just these extra loaves here, and some of those other leftovers would be sufficient. I like to travel light."

"Take them. Where are you headed?"

"Dibna."

Pol shook his head.

"I don't know it."

"A port city, to the south. Here." He turned and drew an atlas from a shelf. "There it is," he finally said, pointing.

"Fairly far," Pol remarked, nodding "A lot of dead country between here and there. I'll take you, though, if you're game."

"What do you mean?"

"Dragonback. I'll fly you down."

Mouseglove paled and gnawed his lip. Then he smiled.

"Of course you jest."

"No, I'm serious. I feel indebted for all the information you've given me. I can postpone burning a few fields and barns for a day or so. I'll take you to Dibna if you're willing to ride with me on Moonbird."

Mouseglove began to pace.

"All right," he finally said, turning on his heel and halting. "If you are sure he'll permit the company of a stranger."

"He'll permit it."

They sailed south on the massive back of the coppery dragon, the sun still low to their left, the cool winds of the retreating night making human conversation difficult.

I wish you had brought the musical instrument.

It's a little crowded for it.

That human is somehow familiar. From dreams, I'd say.

He was tanked in your sleep spell, nearby in the cavern. He dreamt of dragons, he tells me.

Strange... I almost feel as if I could talk with him.

Why not try?

HELLO, HUMAN!

Mouseglove started, looked down, smiled.

You are Moonbird? he asked.

Yes.

I am Mouseglove. I steal things.

We slept together?

Yes.

I am glad to meet you.

Likewise...

The small man relaxed noticeably after that, leaning back at one point to remark to Pol, "This is not at all as I'd thought it would be. He seems awfully familiar. Those dreams ..."

"Yes."

They watched the countryside dip and rise beneath them, green wood, brown ridges, blue waters. They passed an occasional isolated dwelling, traced a track that turned into a road. There were several orchards, a farmhouse. To the left, where the land sloped, Pol saw the cluster of stones where he had slept. His mouth tightened.

Follow the road.

Yes.

The village would be coming up soon. Might as well take another look, during daylight hours, he decided. Might even be able to frighten a few people.

Below, he saw a centaur on a hilltop, staring upward. What was it Mouseglove had said? "I even saw centaurs among them?"

Dive. Give him a good look.

They dropped rapidly. The centaur turned and ran. Pol chuckled.

"It's a beginning," he remarked, as they climbed again.

Ahead, Lord. More of the flying things. Let me smash them.

Pol squinted. The dark metallic shapes were circling over a small area. He looked below.

Aren't there more of them on the ground?

Yes. But those in the air will be easier to get at.

He felt Moonbird's body grow warm beneath him.

But isn't there someone--human--down there with them? It looks like a girl.

Yes.

Even from this height, he could see the color of her hair....

Let's go after the ones on the ground. Be careful not to harm the girl.

Moonbird sighed and wisps of a grayish gas seemed to curl from his nostrils, to be immediately dispersed by the winds.

Humans always complicate things.

Suddenly, they were diving. The scene below enlarged rapidly. Pol was certain now that it was Nora, at the center of a triangle formed by three of the flying things. These seemed more elaborately constructed than those he had encountered in the night. They had landed and were moving--hopping and crawling--along the ground, closing in on her. She, in turn, was using the rough terrain to keep them at a distance, maneuvering so that rocks and stands of shrubbery barred their ways, as she worked her way toward the fringes of the forest. Once she got in among the trees, he decided, she might well be able to elude them. Still, she might not.

He smelled an odor of rotten eggs now, as the results of some internal chemical reaction of Moonbird's seemed to fill the air about him.

Suddenly, Moonbird's wings were extended and his body was assuming a more upright position as he slowed. Pol braced himself. Mouseglove, seated before him, did the same.

The landing was even worse than he had anticipated--a spine-jolting crash that nearly threw him loose from his position. He squeezed with his legs and his knuckles tightened. It was several seconds before he realized that they had come down directly atop one of the devices.

Then Moonbird belched--a moist, disgusting sound, which was accompanied by an intensification of the odor Pol had detected during their descent. Immediately thereafter, he appeared to be regurgitating. A great stream of noxious liquid spewed from his mouth to drench the second machine nearby. It fumed for several seconds after it struck, then burst into flame.

Pol sought Nora. She now appeared to be retreating as much from them as from the final machine. Suddenly, however, she recognized him.

"Pol!"

"It's all right!" he called back, just as Moonbird advanced and began striking at the device which was now bounding about as if attempting to take flight.

The first blow damaged its right wing. The second shattered it completely. By then, however, two more had descended and a third was diving but pulled up and began to circle.

Moonbird belched again and another began to flame. The final one launched itself toward his face.

Pol crouched low, as did Mouseglove, but not so low that he could not see what followed.

Moonbird opened his mouth and raised his forelimbs. There followed a crunching sound, and then he was tearing the wings off the flier.

...Not at all good to eat.

He spat. The remains fell before him and began to smolder.

Pol looked up. The one remaining bird was climbing higher and higher.

Chase it?

No. I want to help Nora. Wait.

He climbed down and threaded his way through the wreckage.

"Hi," he said, taking hold of her hand. "What happened? What are they?"

"They're Mark's," she replied. "The same sort of thing that came to save him. He sent them for me...."

"Why?"

"He wants me. He said he'd come for me."

"And you don't want to go to him?"

"Not now."

"Then I think we'd better go see him and straighten this out. Where is he?"

She looked at him, at Moonbird, back at him.

"South, I believe," she finally said, "at a forbidden place they sometimes call Anvil Mountain."

"Do you know how to find it?"

"I think so."

"Have you ever ridden a dragon before?"

"No."

He squeezed her hand and turned.

"Come on. It's fun. This one's named Moonbird."

She did not move.

"I'm afraid," she said. "The last dragons anyone saw were Devil Det's. ..."

He nodded.

"This one's okay. But let me ask you whether you're more afraid of this Mark guy and his gadgets or a tame, housebroken pet I just rode in on."

She shook her head.

"Where did you find it? How do you control it? Is it true about your being related to the House of Rondoval? You said you were a traveler--"

"Too much. Too long to tell you now."

"....Because, if you are of Rondoval--as they said--then that probably is one of Det's dragons."

"He's mine now. But I won't lie to you. I didn't before, either. I just didn't know then. Yes, I'm related to that House. I'd like to help you, though. Will you show me where this guy lives? I want to talk with him."

She studied his face. He met her eyes. Abruptly, she nodded.

"You're right. He means harm. Perhaps we can reason with him. How do we mount?"

"Let me introduce you first. ..."

As the ground dropped away beneath them, Pol leaned past Nora and told Mouseglove, "There's going to be a little detour on the way to Dibna. I want to visit the person who controls these things."

Mouseglove nodded.

"You postponing your revenge, too?" he asked.

Pol reddened.

"Revenge?" Nora inquired. "What does he mean?"

"Later," Pol snapped. "Tell me about forbidden places."

"They are areas containing leftover things from the old days when people still used that sort of equipment."

"They are supposed to be haunted," she added.

"I've heard similar stories," Mouseglove put in. "Seen some artifacts too, in my line of work. The day you were taken away, I heard Mor speak of some sort of balance. Our world went the way that it did, the one he was taking you to went the other way. The two ways seem basically incompatible, and attempts to combine them are dangerous. I got the impression Det might have been doing something along those lines."

"So Mark could be a greater menace than is immediately obvious?"

"It seems that way."

Pol shaded his eyes and stared ahead, locating the tiny dot the bird-thing had become.

"We seem to be headed in the same direction."

"What revenge?" Nora said.

"I'm not sure. Let it go, huh?" He glowered at the small thief, who smiled back at him. "An intention is less than a deed," he said, "less even than an attempt." His gaze grew unfocussed. He seemed to pluck at something in the air. "You're a fine one to preach," he added, long moments later, as the smaller man clutched suddenly at his chest, "when you've got my figurines inside your shirt."

Mouseglove blanched, then fell into a spell of coughing "I'll deal with you later," Pol said. "I doubt you'll be running off in the meantime. Right now, though, I think I'm beginning to see what Mor meant about a menace when he was bringing me here."

"I can explain--" Mouseglove began.

"Old Mor is the one who brought you to our land?" Nora said.

"Yes."

"That is very interesting. For he is the one I told about Mark when it happened. He seemed ill at the time, though."

Pol nodded.

"He wasn't well."

The character of the land began to shift beneath them. The forest grew thinner. A large river which had followed roughly parallel to their course in the west narrowed, finally passed beneath them and vanished into the southeast. Exposed areas of land were lighter in color now, shading over toward yellow.

The dark speck that was the surveillance flier disappeared from Pol's sight far ahead. It was not until afternoon that they encountered more of them. They first saw several wheeling at a great height for ahead. They dipped lower and moved in their direction, half a dozen of them.

Pol felt a sudden tension in Moonbird's neck and it seemed that the dragon began to grow warmer.

More to smash...

Wait, Pol instructed. They don't seem to be attacking. I think he has sent us an escort.

Smash escort.

Not so long as they keep their distance.

....Some time later.

Wait.

They continued on until the shape of Anvil Mountain appeared low on the horizon in the afternoon light. Their escort had maintained a regular flight about them for hours, unvarying. As they drew nearer, they saw that more of the birds patrolled the skies above the flat-topped height. Below, the land had assumed a bleaker aspect--yellow, streaked with red, dotted with gray and russet outcrops of stone; jagged cracks ran in dry, unpatterned profusion, as on a dropped, earthenware pot; small, scrubby bushes, wind-twisted, clung to the slopes of hills.

The mountain stood larger now, and they could make out a skyline atop it--white, green, gray, a reflecting backdrop to many movements. Pol looked about as they drew closer and he felt Moonbird stiffen, then change his course slightly to conform with the movements of the dark fliers.

Go where they take us, for they are surely taking us to him, he ordered.

Moonbird did not reply, but altered course several times as they neared the city on the rock, rising and swinging to the west, beginning a gradual approach to the great flat-roofed building near the center of the complex. Peering downward, Pol saw a tall, red-haired man standing upon a terrace outside what appeared to be a penthouse dwelling. A flying machine of unusual design rested upon a gridded landing area behind the structure. A number of man-sized machines of unknown function moved about in the vicinity.

"More magic," Mouseglove muttered.

"No," said Pol. "Not at all."

He felt Nora's hand upon his arm then, gripping it.

"You know this guy pretty well, don't you?" he asked her.

"Know him? I've been in love with him for years," she replied. "But I'm afraid of him, too, now. He's changed a lot."

"Well, we seem to have a landing clearance. Let's go and talk with him. If you want him to stop bothering you, tell him so and I'll back you up. If you don't, now's your chance to straighten things out."

Down, Moonbird. Land in the clear area.

They descended into a much smoother landing than the previous one. His ears rang faintly as the winds finally ceased whistling about them. He climbed down and assisted Nora to descend. He heard her gasp.

"His eye! It was injured!"

Pol turned. The man in the khaki jumpsuit with numerous bulging pockets was now approaching a peculiar device which covered his left eye changing color as he left the shade, becoming a bright, then deep blue. A vivid scar passed down his forehead above it, emerged on his cheek below it. Pol stepped forward to meet him.

"I'm Pol Detson," he said. "Nora wants to talk to you. So do I."

Mark halted at a distance of about two meters and studied him. Finally, he nodded curtly.

"I'm Mark Marakson." He immediately turned to look at Moonbird. "I've never seen a dragon before... Gods, he's big!"

He returned his attention to Pol, not even glancing at Nora.

"Detson... Magician?"

"I suppose so."

"I don't understand magic."

"I'm still working at it myself."

Mark gestured suddenly, a sweeping motion of his left arm, apparently intended to take in the entire city.

"This I understand," he said.

"Me, too. There's a lot of it where I come from."

Mark rubbed the scar on his cheek.

"What do you mean? Where is that?" he asked.

"We are step-brothers," Pol replied. "Your parents raised me, in a land much like this place you have restored. Excuse me if I stare, but you do bear Dad a very strong resemblance."

Mark turned away, paced several steps, returned.

"You're joking," he said at last.

"No. Really. For most of my life, I bore the name you were given as a child."

"Which is?"

"Dan Chain."

"Dan Chain," Mark repeated. "I rather like that... But how could this be? I did learn only recently that I'd been adopted, but this--Too much coincidence! I can't believe it."

"Well, it's true, and it's not entirely coincidence. In fect--Wait a minute..."

Pol dug in his hip pocket, withdrew his wallet. He opened it and flipped through the card case.

"Here," he said, stepping forward, extending it. "These are pictures of Mother and Dad."

Mark reached toward him, accepted the wallet, stared.

"These aren't drawn!" he said. '"There's a very sophisticated technology involved!"

"Photography's been around for awhile," Pol replied.

The lens brightened as Mark stared.

"Their names?" he asked.

"Michael Chain--and Gloria."

"I--Yes, I see myself in these faces. May I--Have you others?"

"Yes. I have some more further down. You can take those. Just slide them out. Yes, like that."

Mark passed the wallet back.

"What sort of work does he do?"

This time Pol made a sweeping gesture.

"He builds things. Designs them, rather. Much on the order of what you've apparently been doing here."

"I would like to meet him."

"I believe he'd like you. But I was thinking--as I acquired certain recent skills of my own--on the means by which I was brought to this world. It would take more research and some experimenting, but I believe I could learn to duplicate Mor's stunt in transporting me. It's occurred to me that a guy like you might not be happy here--especially after the story I heard--and I wondered whether you might be interested in going to the place from which I came. You might like it a lot better there."

Mark finally looked up from the photos and inserted them into a small thigh pocket. He stared at Nora as if seeing her for the first time.

"She told you what they did to me, to my--stepfather?"

Pol nodded.

"You have my sympathy. I received very similar treatment myself, for different reasons."

"Then you must understand how I feel." He looked again at Moonbird. "Do you have plans for them?"

"At first, I did. But now, no. I can almost understand, almost forgive. That's close enough. The longer I let it go, the less it should bother me. Let them go their ways, I'll go mine."

Mark struck his right fist against his left palm and turned away.

"It is not that easy," he said, pacing again. "For you--a stranger--perhaps. But I lived there, grew up there, knew everyone. I took them a gift. It was rejected under the worst circumstances. Now--Now I'm going to force it upon them."

"You will cause a lot of pain. Not just for them. For yourself, too."

"So be it," Mark said. "They've made their own terms."

"I think I could send you home--a place you'd probably like--instead."

For a moment, Mark looked at him almost wistfully. Then, "No. Maybe afterwards," he said. "Now it's no longer the gift, but its acceptance. In a matter of weeks, I'll be ready to move. Later... We'll see."

"You ought to take some time to think it over."

"I've had more than enough time. I've done plenty of thinking while recovering from our last encounter."

"If I could send you back for just a little while--and you rethought it in a different place--you might get a whole new perspective, decide that it isn't really worth doing. ..."

Mark took a step nearer, lowered his head. His new eye hummed and the lens shone gold.

"You seem awfully eager to be rid of me," he said slowly. Then he turned and looked again at Nora. "Might she be the reason?"

"No," Pol said. "She's known you for years, me for only a few days. There is nothing between us."

"A situation you would probably like to remedy in my absence."

"That's your idea, not mine. I'd like to keep you from making a mistake I almost made. But she can talk for herself."

Mark turned toward her.

"Do you want to get rid of me, also?" he asked.

"Stay," she told him. "But leave the village alone. Please."

"After what they did?"

"They showed you their feelings. They were too harsh, but you'd scared them."

"You're on their side!"

"I was the one who warned you."

"...And his side!" He gestured at Pol, lens flashing. "Magic! Dragons! He represents everything archaic and reactionary! He stands in the way of progress! And you prefer him to me!"

"I never said that!"

She took a step forward, beginning to reach toward him. He turned away. He waved his right fist in Pol's face.

"I could kill you with one hand. I was a blacksmith."

"Don't try it," Pol said. "I was a boxer."

Mark looked up. Moonbird looked down at him.

"You think that ancient beast makes you invincible? I, too, have servants."

He raised his left hand, peeled back the sleeve. A large control bracelet, covering half his forearm, gleamed in the space between them. His fingers danced upon the studs. The man-sized machines all turned in their direction and began to advance.

Pol raised his right hand. His loose sleeve fell back. The dragonmark moved visibly upon his pulse.

"It is not too late," Pol said, "to stop what I think I see coming."

"It is too late," Mark replied.

One by one, the machines faltered and grew still, some emitting static and strange noises, others ceasing all movement abruptly, without sound. Mark ran his fingers over his controls once again, but nothing responded.

"Dad used to call that my poltergeist effect," Pol stated. "Now--"

Mark swung at him. Pol ducked and drove a fist into his midsection. Mark grunted and bent slightly. Pol caught him on the jaw with a left jab. He'd a chance for a second blow to the other's face but pulled the punch for fear of striking the eye prosthesis. In that off-balance moment of hesitation, Mark swung his entire left arm like a club, his heavy bracelet striking Pol on the side of the head.

Pol fell to his knees, covering his head with both arms. He saw a boot coming and fell to the side to avoid it.

Squash? Burn?

He realized that he had come into contact with the great beast.

No, Moonbird! No!

But a low rumble from the dragon caused Mark to draw back, looking upward, raising his hands.

Vision dancing, Pol saw the strands all about them. That red one...

From the corner of his normal eye, Mark saw the fallen man gesture with his left hand. He moved to kick at him again and felt his legs grow immobile. He began to topple.

He struck and lay there, paralyzed from the waist down. As he struggled to prop himself with his arms, he saw that the other had risen to his knees again and was still rubbing his head. Suddenly, there was an arm about his shoulder. He looked up.

"Nora ..."

"Please, Mark. Say you won't hurt our village, or any of the others."

He tried to pull away from her.

"You never cared for me," he said.

"That's not true."

"The first good-looking stranger comes along you lay your claim and send him to get rid of me. ..."

"Don't talk like that."

He turned into a sitting position.

"Flee while you have the chance," he said. "Warn the villages or not, as you choose. It will make no difference. I will be'coming. I will take what I want. That includes you. What I bring with me will be more than sufficient to deal with a dragon--or a whole family of them. Go! Tell them I hate them all. Tell them--"

"Come on, Nora," Pol said, rising. "There is no reasoning with the man."

He held out his hand. She rose and took it.

"I suppose I would be wise," he said to Mark, "to kill you. But she would never forgive me. And you are the son of the only parents I knew. So you have some time. Use it to reconsider your plan. If you come, as you said you would, I will be waiting. I've no desire to be the villagers' champion. But there is a balance you would upset which could bring great danger to us all."

As he helped Nora to mount Moonbird, he saw that Mouseglove had vanished. He looked about the rooftop, but the man was nowhere in sight.

He climbed up behind her. He looked down at Mark.

"Don't come," he said.

"I feel your magic," Mark said softly. "I will find a way to stop it. It must be a wave phenomenon, tuned by your nervous system--"

"Don't lose any sleep over it."

Moonbird, home!

He felt the great muscles bunch beneath him. Moonbird was running, hopping, gliding. They sailed out over the edge of the roof and began to climb.

"He will not be paralyzed for good, will he?"

Pol shook his head.

"An hour or so. The strands are tangled, not knotted."

"Strands? What do you mean?"

"He's a prisoner inside himself. His body will recover soon."

"He will destroy us," she said.

"He's got quite an impressive base," said Pol, looking down. "You may be right. I hope not."

The sun had begun its long slide westward. Once more, the winds sang about them. Below and behind, Mark's mechanical servants began to move long before he did. He had not really paid attention to the third person to regard him from the back of Moonbird. Now, the shadowy image of the small man was submerged by the torrent of his hate for the other, passing altogether into oblivion.

Clouds passed. His lens darkened. The bracelet began to function once again.