Wizard World 1: Changeling

XV

The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird with the wide-angle eye and the parabola ear followed the dragon-riders north. A series of the larger fliers followed it at well-spaced intervals, to serve as relay points for the spy broadcasts. So far, however, the tracer-bird had not yet gained sufficiently upon its objective that it had anything to transmit. Had it been nearer, it would have overheard portions of the story Pol had recently recounted to Mouseglove. But as it was not, it did not even hear Nora's questions:

"I am surprised that you realized this much of your heritage so quickly, so fully. But even so, Mark has had time to build his strength and you have not. How would you oppose a large flight of those birds, and a mass of the ground machines? And I thought that I saw men back there, too. Or dwarves... Supposing he has a large army? Have you any plan at all?"

Pol was silent for a time, then, "There was an instrument of power which had belonged to my father," he said. "With it, I think I might be able to command all of the, uh, resources of Rondoval. If I could get hold of it before Mark begins to move, I would have something formidable to throw against him. I'm still hazy on the geography and the political setup of this land, though. I don't know how much territory and how many population centers he would be moving against, or what the local defense apparatus is. All of the books I have are older than I am. ... I have maps, too, but I'm not sure what goes where."

"I can show you," she said, "and tell you about it, when we get to the maps."

"But I'll be dropping you in your village."

"No! You can't do that! I'm afraid. He might come for me again. Who would stop him this time?"

"You might not like Rondoval."

"It's got to be better than Anvil Mountain. You don't know any magic that could change him back, do you? To the way he was a few years ago?"

"I don't think any magic can undo what life has done to a person, or a person to himself. I'm sorry."

"I thought you'd say that. The wise folk all seem to talk the same way."

She began to cry softly, for the first time that day. Though it was gaming, the tracer-bird did not hear this either. Pol did, but he was not certain what to say. So he stared ahead and said nothing.

It was dark when they passed above Nora's village and by then Pol had placed his cloak about her shoulders. The stars had come forth in profusion and shone with great brilliance. Pol realized for the first time that he did not recognize any constellations. Moonbird, looking down rather than up, noted the locations of all visible cattle against his return for a late night snack.

He awoke in a dirty room far below ground level. It seemed to be one of the original ancient chambers in the rock, which the new occupants had not yet gotten around to refurbishing. Possibly it had been some sort of storeroom. It was full of junk, dust and stale air. This was why he had chosen it. It was far from the throbbing, or even the humming of the great machines, and none of the lesser ones had rattled by. As for the small, long-armed, slope-shouldered men with the low brows--they seemed to avoid this quarter.

He ate some of the food he had brought with him. He secreted the parcel of figurines beneath a trash heap.

...Had to leave at this stop, he reflected. Once the kid caught on, it was all over. Damned scary, the way he'd plucked the information out of the air. Good thing there was a distraction...

...How many days' walk to Dibna? Could take the better part of a week, he guessed. Therefore, he needed a good supply of food before he set out....

...What time was it? Probably the middle of the night, judging by his internal clock. With any luck at all, he'd have the supplies by morning and be ready to move the following night....

He opened the door slightly and stared out upon the dim corridor. Empty. He was out, along it and up a ramp in a matter of seconds. The air grew somewhat fresher as he advanced, but was still warm. Keeping to the darkest ways available, he mounted until he was several stories above the ground. He heard the distant noises of the factories now, the nearer ones of servant machines passing on mysterious errands.

He stepped out beneath stars. There was that low structure he had not investigated earlier, some illumination within it now. Off to the left and standing higher was the building from which he had descended that afternoon. Yes. There was the bridge above the avenue by which he had crossed over....

He had seen Pol and Nora fly off, heading back to the north. Good that they had gotten free. He wished them no ill, particularly at the hands of that tall, red-haired man with the glowing eye. He had a fear of something even worse than magic should he fall that one's prisoner, and he resolved to avoid him at all costs.

They may keep the food someplace around here....

He was attracted again by the small, dimly lighted structure. It was probably not a supply house, but it might be prudent to know what it was--situated in such a prominent position--in case any threats resided there.

He moved nearer, circling to place a blank wall between his advance and whoever was inside. His tread was soundless. He was alert for trip-wires, sentries.

Finally, he touched the gray wall, slid his hand along it, flattened himself and waited a moment. Then he edged his way to the corner, peered around it, passed beyond it, moved toward the window near the door.

Nothing. The view was blocked by some sort of equipment. He dropped and passed beneath it, hastily passed the door. He tried the next window.

Yes. There were two men, off toward the right, rear, seated before what appeared to be a group of glowing windows which he knew did not penetrate the wall. But the angle was too sharp here, and the window through which he peered was closed.

He passed on, turned the next corner, advanced even more cautiously toward an opened window. Reaching it, he dropped to one knee and looked in toward the right.

He heard an occasional voice, though it took him several moments to realize that the figures within were not speaking. The words seemed to emerge from the wall before them. He squinted, he concentrated, he breathed a few words to Dwastir.

Suddenly, he recognized one of the scenes on the wall. The peripheral screens held strangely accented aerial views of countryscape, not unlike some over which he had passed earlier on dragonback. But the central one, toward which the two men were leaning, showed, in much sharper detail, the library at Rondoval, where he had spent so many hours. It was as if he were peering in through the end windows. There was Pol at the desk, candles flickering near at hand, a number of books opened before him. Nora was dozing on the couch.

Abruptly, he realized that the larger of the two men viewing the screen was Mark Marakson. He fought an impulse to flee. Both men seemed too involved with the display to be exceptionally wary. So, checking about him periodically, Mouseglove continued to stare. The men's attitudes, the surreptitious quality of the enterprise, both convinced him he must be witnessing something important.

Time slipped by, with Pol occasionally muttering something about the points of a triangle. Once or twice, this drew a sleepy reply from Nora.

An hour, perhaps longer, passed before Pol spoke again. He was smiling as he looked up.

"A pyramid, a great labyrinth and the Itzan well," he said, "in that order. That's the Triangle of Int. Nora?"

"Mm?"

"Can you find them for me in the big atlas?"

"Bring it here." She raised herself upright and rubbed her eyes. "I've never been anyplace far, but I always liked geography. What were they, again?"

Pol was rising, a book in his hands, when the view was suddenly blocked by a movement of Mark's.

Mark half-rose to scrawl something on a writing sheet, which he folded and inserted into one of his pockets. Pol's and Nora's voices had resumed, partly muffled now. Mark leaned forward, moving his face close to the screen.

"I've got you," he said softly. "Whatever the weapon you seek to use against me, you shall not have it. Not when I have three chances--"

His voice broke. He raised a hand as if to cover his eyes, forgetting for a moment the red lens that he wore.

"Damn!"

He turned away and Mouseglove ducked quickly, but not before he had glimpsed the screen and what might have been an embrace.

Moonbird drowsed, riding a thermal to a great height, then dropping into a long glide. When he lowered the night-membrane over his eyes, he saw another thermal, like a wavering red tower, ahead and to his left. Unconsciously, he shrugged himself in that direction. He'd a full belly now, and it was pleasant just to drift home, watching the dreams form in the other chamber of his mind.

He saw himself bearing the young master and the lady across a great desert, heading toward a mountain that was not a mountain. Yes, he had passed that way once before, long ago. He remembered it as very dry. He saw a gleaming bird pass and lay an egg which bloomed into a terrible flower. This, he felt, he should remember.

He glided into the next thermal and rose again. It was good to be out of the cavern once more. And he saw that they would be leaving for the dry place tomorrow. That was good, too. Perhaps he would sleep in the courtyard, where he could show them the carrier and the saddle come morning. They would be up early, and they would be needing them....

Near to the tower's top, he spread his wings and commenced a long glide. Somewhere in his dreams, the one with the strange eye moved, but he was difficult to follow.

The sun was already high when Pol finished packing the gear. Again, Nora's argument that she would be in greater danger alone than with him prevailed. He packed two light blades, along with the food, extra clothing, blankets ... No armor. He did not want to push Moonbird to the limits of endurance, or even to slow him with more than the barest of essentials. Besides, he had learned to fence in a different school.

How did he know? he wondered, hauling the parcels out to the carrier the great beast had located for him.

Crossing the courtyard, he placed his hands upon Moonbird's neck.

How do you know what is needed?

I--know. Now. Up high. Look!

The massive head turned. Pol followed the direction of its gaze.

He saw the small, blue-bellied, gray-backed thing upon the sill overhead. It was turned as if watching them. A portion of its front end caught the sunlight and cast it down toward them.

What is it?

Something I do not know. See how it watches?

It must be something of his. I wonder how much of my plans it has learned?

Shall I upchuck firestuff upon it?

No. Pretend that it is not there. Do not look at it.

He turned and crossed to the castle, entering there. He had come upon a description of an effect in one of his father's volumes and had been meaning to try it when he had the time.

He hurried up the stair, to halt outside the library where Nora sat sketching some final maps. Peering in, he saw that she wore a pale tunic, short gray breeches, a metal belt and sturdy boots she had located in one of the upstairs wardrobes. Her hair was bound back by a black strap.

She looked up as Pol entered.

"I am not entirely finished," she said. "There's another page."

"Go ahead."

She completed a drawing she had been making, took up another writing sheet, turned a page, began another map. She glanced up at Pol and smiled. He nodded.

"Soon," she said.

She worked for several minutes. Finally, she sighed, closed the book and took up the papers.

"Would you step outside for just a moment, please?"

"Your voice sounds strange."

"Yes. I talked too much. Please."

She crossed to the door. He waited beside it. His face was expressionless. She paused.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No. Go out."

His lips, now that she looked closely, did not seem to move in proper time with his words. She passed through the doorway and halted. In the corridor, Pol stood off to the right, fingers to his lips.

"How?"

"This way," he whispered, taking her hand.

She followed him.

"It is a simulacrum spun of magical strands, my likeness laid upon it. I don't know how long it will last. Maybe all day, maybe only a little while." He began gesturing, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Something took shape between his hands, a faint glow to it. "This one is yours," he said. "It will go back in there and keep mine company, to distract the spy device, while we depart. He's been watching us. I want as good a lead as possible."

Later, Nora seemed to stroll back into the room, taking the hand of Pol, who still stood beside the door. They crossed slowly to a pair of chairs and sat facing one another.

"Lovely weather."

"Yes."

Periodically, one of them would rise and walk about the room. There were a number of things they would do, together and apart, taking perhaps an hour before the sequence began again.

The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird followed their every step, hung upon their words. It did not turn away at the noises below, or as Moonbird rose above the flagstones, drifted over the far wall, pivoted on the point of a breeze, bore east and vanished.

As the night progressed, Mouseglove had slowly come to feel as if he were a prisoner. Despite several near-disasters, he had remained undetected, gradually enlarging his mental map of the area and developing an awareness of the city's peculiar defenses. But he could find no way off of Anvil Mountain. The perimeters of the plateau were extremely well-patrolled, both by the small men and the half-mechanical caterpillars, as well as being subject to the scrutiny of fixed mechanical eyes and those of the circling birds. It seemed that not even an insect could pass undetected.

Picking lock after lock, he had finally located stores of foodstuffs and transferred what he judged a sufficient quantity to his hiding place. He memorized every niche, every unfrequented passage he came upon. With a thief s eye, he studied the various fixed detection devices from a distance and finally close up, coming to appreciate their functions and some of their weaknesses.

It was only by chance--chance, and Mark's immediate decision to bolster his combat forces above the level he had formerly felt adequate--that Mouseglove happened upon a newly formed ground school for the preliminary training of pilots for a series of manned fliers on which production had been stepped up.

Lying flat on the roof, blocked from overhead detection by an angled air duct, he could hear the words and view the training machine through a grating he had exposed by removing a small panel.

He listened to the entire lecture. When it was over, he had convinced himself. If he could audit just a few more sessions, he would be willing to steal a flier by night and take his chances in the air. Short of finding a hidden tunnel through the rock itself, it seemed the only way to manage an escape.

Feeling a grudging respect for the red-haired man who had brought this city back to life, he returned to his quarters to rest until evening when he intended spying upon the surveillance center once again and later breaking into the classroom to study the trainer's controls at closer range.

Following a full meal, he slept deeply; one hand upon his dagger, a stolen grenade he knew was some sort of weapon beneath the other.

Statue-like, an old female and two young stallions stood on a crag in the midst of a stand of dwarf pines, regarding Castle Rondoval.

"There is nothing out of the ordinary," she said.

"I saw lights last night, Stel, and I heard noises. Bitalph, in the south, did report a dragon."

"The place is probably haunted," she said. "Enough has gone on there."

"And what of the dragon?" asked the younger stallion.

"If one has come awake, it will be dealt with---eventually--by those it most oppresses. It could also be a foreign beast."

"Then we should do nothing?"

"Let us watch here, a day and a night. We can take turns. I've no desire to enter the place."

"Nor I."

It was much later in the day that they saw the dragon rise and drift eastward.

"There!"

"Yes."

"What do we do now?"

"Alert the others. It may never return. But then, again, it may."

"It appeared that there were two riders."

"I know."

"You were there on the day of the battle, Stel. Was that one of the old dragons of Kondoval?"

"All dragons look alike to me. But the riders... One of them looked like Devil Det himself, younger and stronger than I ever saw him."

"Woe!"

"Alas!"

"Go and spread the word among the folk. And we had best talk with the men of the villages, and with old Mor."

"Mor is gone, A Wise One--Grane--said that he walked the golden road and will not return."

"Then things are becoming difficult. Go! I will investigate farther."

"You would enter the castle yourself?"

"Go! Do as I say! Now!"

The youths obeyed her. They knew the look in her eye, and they still feared her hoofs.

During his evening explorations, Mouseglove was attracted by a series of screams emerging from a small, barred window. Approaching, he ventured one quick glance through the opening, then ducked into a pool of shadow to digest what he had seen and, if possible, to eavesdrop.

The first impression had shaken him. But upon reflection, he wondered whether the small man in the reclining chair had indeed been covered with snakes. The black things did seem overlong to qualify for serpenthood, and their farther ends did all appear to be attached to the large metal box nearby. Also, their movements could have been a result of the man's own thrashings. Mark had stood nearby with a small metal case in his hand, turning something on the face of the unit.

He listened to the shrieks a little longer, wondering for what offense the man might be undergoing discipline. Wondering, too, whether anything was to be gained by remaining, or by venturing another look.

There was silence. He waited, but the cries did not resume. He decided to remain. There came faint sounds of movement from within.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. He rose for another glimpse.

Mark, facing away from the window, was detaching what now appeared to be a series of shiny black ropes from the suppine form, coiling them and placing them in compartments within the large box. The smaller man's eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. When the last of the leads were removed, he stirred weakly. Mark passed him a glass of something pink and he drank from it.

"How do you feel?" the large man asked.

"Shaky," the other replied, flexing his arms, his legs. "But everything's all right again."

"Did it hurt?"

"No. Not really."

"You screamed a lot."

"I know. Some were blue, but most were red."

"The screams?"

"Yes. And I could smell them."

"Excellent. You were a brave man to volunteer for this, and I want to thank you."

"I was happy to serve."

"Tell me more about it."

"I tasted the colors, too--and the sounds."

"It was a fine mix, then. Pity it only has such a short range. There are all sorts of problems in scaling it up, too ... I wish I had more time."

"What do you call the--thing that did it?"

Mark hefted the small unit.

"For want of a better name, I call it a jumble box. It smears your sensory inputs, mixes them. Instant synesthesia."

The man gestured toward the huge unit to his right.

"That didn't do it? Just the little one you're holding?"

"That's right. The other just recorded what was happening. If you didn't hurt, tell me why you cried out so much?"

"I--I couldn't understand what was happening. Everything was still there, but it was changed ... It scared me."

"No pain?"

"No one place that hurt. Just a--feeling that disaster was coming. Most of the time, it kept getting worse. Sometimes, though--"

"What?"

"There were moments of great pleasure."

"You were able to count all right."

"Yes... Most of the numbers were yellow. Some tasted sour."

"Did you feel you could have gotten up, walked about?"

"Maybe. If I'd have thought of it. It was hard to think. Too much was wrong."

"You are a brave man, and I thank you again. I will not forget this service. Now, let's test your reflexes."

Mouseglove heard some instruments being shifted about. Silently, he slid off through the night.

It was difficult for Stel to place her hoofs quietly on stone and tile unless she moved very slowly. This she did, however, with the patience of a huntress and former commando.

Memories returned to her as she passed through the great hall where she had stood dripping blood and sweat that final day of the battle. Ah! the stallions had had much work that night...She recalled the sorcerers' confrontation, and her eyes automatically sought that ruined area of ceiling which had settled Det for good, before he could call upon his hidden powers. Much of the rubble beneath had been cleared for the removal of his body. She recalled how Mor had borne it away into the west....

She paused periodically and stood listening. Her ears pricked forward. There were voices. Somewhere up higher, to the left.

She crossed the gallery, came to the foot of the stair, halted again. Yes, up there...

Slowly, keeping near to the wall, she began to climb. The place appeared to be in better condition than she had remembered.

As she made her way along the hall, the voices came louder. To her right now, that third door...

She noted that the door was ajar. Approaching, she stopped directly beside it. She heard nothing from within, not even the sounds of breathing. Venturing farther forward, she looked around the corner, then drew back in puzzlement.

The couple had just seated themselves, facing one another--the young man with the white streak through his hair and the slim blonde girl. But... These were the same people she had seen departing on dragonback. She had not seen them return. Strange...

She looked again.

More than strange...

The girl's face seemed to be melting, pieces of it falling, drifting away, decomposing in the air. The man--who still bore a striking resemblance to old Det--seemed totally oblivious to the fact that portions of his left arm and right thigh appeared to be unravelling, as though he were composed of thin strips of cloth wound about nothing.

Fascinated, Stel did not retreat, but stared in frank astonishment as the couple came apart. Finally, she moved forward and entered the room. What was left of the pair paid her no heed whatsoever.

"Lovely weather."

"Yes ..."

The man's face now began to melt, the girl's garments ran from her body like liquid, drifted in the air currents like strands of silk. Their conversation continued.

"...Though it could rain."

"That is true."

The man rose to his foot and crossed to the girl.

"You have lovely eyes."

She rose slowly.

Stel watched them embrace, losing larger and larger pieces of themselves every moment, to drift tinsel-like before her, fading from view as they crossed the room.

"I-arrooowarnn ..."

The words slowed and deepened, the mouths were gone, the hair went up like smoke. Another half-minute, and they had intertwined and vanished. Stel whinnied and backed away. She had never before seen the like of it. Superstitious dreads rose to harry her.

The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird now focussed its attention upon her as she circled the room, studying it carefully without paying real attention to the opened atlas, as she retreated out the door and into the corridor beyond, her hoofs clattering rapidly as she passed down the corridor.

Mouseglove heard the great doors opening below and made it to an appropriate vantage in time to see the metal birdforms launched like blown leaves into the dark sky, where they rose to swirl beneath stars, then assumed a formation which tightened itself as it wound and unwound, took its course and passed in a direction he deemed to be roughly southeast. This troubled him as he made his way to the surveillance center. He managed the approach once more and heard Mark within, cursing and giving orders. The one glimpse he got of the screens showed nothing of interest.

He did not understand Mark's, "They're gone! More of that magic, I suppose. That damned centaur had something to do with it! Bring me a centaur!"

Mouseglove decided to leave it at that. Less now than at any other time, did he desire to fall into the hands of the ruddy giant the small men treated like a god. As he backed away, though, the words, "...At the triangle's point!" reached him from within. It would not be until later, however, that these would set off lengthy trains of speculation.

Instead, immediate considerations occupied him for the better part of several hours: Time to get out. Things are getting more frantic and life goes less certain. The longer I stay, the worse my chances....

The lock on the training room door barely halted his stride. Slowly and carefully, his fingertips found the controls in the model cockpit. He was afraid to make a light.... Funny if I can only fly it with my eyes closed, he reflected. It's scary up there, but it's worse down here. Anyway, better this than a dragon. What did he say about this little lever? Oh, yes....

Batteries fully charged, the dark birds fled across the night, the land, the water.