Wizard World 1: Changeling

XVII

That night, as they lay listening to the sound of waves and breathing the smell of the sea on a small island far from the mainland, Moonbird sought sustenance for afield and Nora studied the rod from the pyramid.

"It does have a magical look, a magical feel to it," she said, turning it in the moonlight.

"It is that," Pol replied, stroking her shoulder, "and the other two pieces should do more than just add to its potency. Each should multiply the power of those which precede, several times."

She put it aside and reached out to touch his wrist.

"Your birthmark," she said. "They weren't really wrong--the villagers. You are of that tribe with your feet in hell and your head in heaven."

"No reason to throw rocks," he said. "I wasn't doing anything to them."

"They'd feared your father--once he got involved in blood sacrifices and the treating with unnatural beings who had to be paid in human lives."

Pol shrugged.

"...And they took his life to balance accounts. Also, my mother's. And they wrecked the place. Didn't that pretty much square things?"

"At the time, yes--as I understand it. But you stirred up fears as well as leftover hatred. Supposing you'd come home to avenge their deaths? You did have that in mind, too, didn't you? That's what that Mouseglove person said."

"Not at the time, though. I hadn't even realized who I was when they attacked me. But it made it easier for me to hate them when I did learn."

"So, in a way they were right."

Pol took the rod into his hands and stared at it.

"I can't deny it," he said, finally. "But I didn't follow through on it. I've harmed none of them."

"Yet," she said.

He turned onto his side and glared at her, the covers slipping from his shoulder.

"What do you mean 'yet'? If I'd been that serious about it, it would have been my first order of business."

"But you still dislike them."

"Wouldn't you, in my position? So for as I'm concerned, they're not very likable people. And if they'd handled Mark a little differently, they probably wouldn't have him on their backs."

"They are quick to react to the unknown. Theirs is a settled way of life--traditional, slow to change. They saw both of you as threats to it and acted immediately to preserve it."

"Okay. I can see that. But I can understand something without liking it. I've called off the feud I almost declared on them. That should be enough."

"Only because you've got a bigger one on your hands. You know that if you don't destroy Mark he's going to destroy you."

"I have to operate under that assumption. He's given me every indication. The time is past for trying to talk with him."

She was silent for a long while.

"So why aren't you like the others?" he asked. "You were a friend of his and now you're hanging around with a dark sorcerer--helping me, in fact."

She remained silent. Then he realized that she was crying softly.

"What is it?" he said.

"I'm a pawn," she answered in a low voice. "I'm the reason you got involved--you were trying to help me."

"Well--yes. But sooner or later Mark and I would have met, and the results would probably have been the same."

"I'm not so sure," she said. "He might have been more inclined to listen to you if it hadn't been for me. But he was jealous. You might have become friends--you have much in common. If you had--think what an alliance that might have been--a sorcerer and a master of the old science arts--both out for revenge on my homeland. Now that cannot be, and the wheels are turning to bring you into a struggle to the death. Supposing I really hated you both? It wouldn't make a bit of difference--now."

"Do you?" he asked.

"...And I'd be damned if I'd tell you."

"You wouldn't have to sleep with me. Once those wheels are in motion a roll in the hay wouldn't alter them."

"It might make the winner more disposed to leave us alone, out of a certain fondness."

"And telling him about it might have just the opposite effect."

"It's a good thing I'm talking principles and not cases," she replied, touching his shoulder again. "As I said, I do feel like a pawn, though, and you wanted to know why. As for your last question, I was answering it as things could be, not informing you. It was the wrong question, anyhow."

"You're too tough to be a pawn," he said, "and you know who the only woman on the board is. And we can sleep with a sword between us if you want."

"It is not cold steel that I want," she said, moving nearer.

He saw a pale blue strand drifting by, but he ignored it.

Everything shouldn't be gimmicked, he thought. Should it?

He heard the voices again, in that place where he drifted between sleep and wakefulness.

"Mouseglove, Mouseglove, Mouseglove . . ,"

Yes. It was not the first time he had heard them--weak yet insistent, calling to him--and on awakening he always forgot the small chorus. But this time there seemed more strength to the calls, almost as if he might come away with the memory, this time...

"Mouseglove!"

He began to remember his circumstances, sprawled in the secret apartment atop Anvil Mountain, unwilling guest of Mark Marakson, a.k.a. Dan Chain, taboo-breaking engineer from the east village. He was trying to find a way out, past the man's gnome-like legions and electronic spies, trying to learn to fly one of the small craft--small, yes, not like the battle-wagons with the six-man crews, two cannons and a rack of bombs he had seen take off earlier, sailing in every which direction across the sky, rotors whirling, wings tilting all about them--small, just right for himself and the jewelled figurines which would make him his fortune....

"Mouseglove!"

He was moved a jot and two tittles nearer awakening yet still the chirping cries came to him. It was almost as if...

He tried. Suddenly, somewhere inside himself, he answered.

"Yes?"

"We bring warning."

"Who are you?"

Immediately, his dreamsight began to function. He seemed to stand at the center of a low-ceilinged room, illuminated by seven enormous candles. A figure, human in outline, stood behind each of them. The flames obscured the faces, and no matter how he turned or stared, nothing more of them was revealed to him.

"You sleep with the figures beneath your head," said the one at the extreme left--a woman's voice--and immediately he knew.

Four men, two women and one of uncertain gender, out of red metal, studded in peculiar places with jewels of many colors... Somehow, they addressed him now:

"We gained power when the Triangle of Int was unbalanced by the heir of Rondoval," said the second figure--a man.

"We are the spirits of sorcerers vanquished by Det and bound to his statuettes," said the third--a tall man.

"We exist now mainly to serve him or his successor," said the fourth--a woman with a beautiful soprano voice.

"We see futures and their likelihoods," said the fifth--a gruff-voiced man.

"We have come into your possession for a reason," said the sixth--of uncertain gender.

"...For we can to some extent influence events," finished the man on the right--the seventh.

"What is your warning?" asked Mouseglove. "What do you want?"

"We see a great wave about to break upon this plane," said the first.

"...At this place," said the second.

"Soon," said the third.

"...To settle the future of this world for some lime to come," said the fourth.

"Pol must be protected," said the fifth.

"...At this point of the Triangle," said the sixth.

A map was lying before him on the floor. It was actually a part of the floor, he now realized, cunningly inscribed. It seemed that it had been there all along. As he looked, one spot grew light upon it.

"Steal maps, steal weapons, take Mark's flier and go to that place," said the seventh.

"Take Mark's flier?" he asked.

"It is the fastest and is capable of the greatest range," said the first.

"Pol isn't a bad guy," Mousegiove said, "and I wish him no ill, but my intention is to get as far away from him and Mark as soon as I can, as fast as I can."

"Your willing cooperation would make things easier," said the second.

"...But it is not absolutely necessary," said the third.

"... As our power rises," said the fourth.

"I've never had booty talk back to me before," Mouseglove replied, "except for a parrot, when I was a lad. But that doesn't count. You're asking too much. I've led a dangerous life, but this was to be my last big risk. You are my retirement security. I want nothing to do with your breaking wave."

"Fool," said the fifth.

"...To think you have a choice," said the sixth.

"You have walked a charmed line since the day you entered Rondoval," said the seventh.

"We had a part in everything that brought you to this point," said the first.

"Even our theft," said the second.

Mouseglove chuckled.

"If I have no choice, then why do you request my cooperation?" he asked. "No. Perhaps I was manipulated up to this point. Now, though, I think you need my help and your power has not risen sufficiently to insure it. I'll take my chances. The answer is no."

Silence followed. He felt himself the object of intense scrutiny.

Then, "You are shrewd," said the third, "but incorrect. The answer is merely that it would be easier for us with your cooperation. We could devote our energies to other matters than your coercion."

"We can see that you are suitably rewarded," said the fourth.

"Rewards are of no benefit to a dead man," he stated. "No deal."

"You will not like what Mark does to this world," said the fifth.

"I've never been totally happy with it the way that it is," he replied. "But I get by."

"For your own protection then, learn to use the grenades. They practice with them on the southern rim," said the sixth, neutral-voiced.

"...And get the maps," said the seventh.

"That much I intended anyway," Mouseglove answered. "But I am not going to the place you showed me and do any fighting there."

The candles flickered, the room expanded toward nothingness and his consciousness faded. The last thing that he heard was the sound of their voices, laughing.

Three flying boats approached Castle Rondoval cautiously, guns loaded and swiveling in pace with the vessels' circling movements. As the circles diminished, the first battle-wagon discharged a shot across the battlements. At this point, all three were poised to withdraw and regroup in the face of a severe reaction. Nothing however, followed.

The circling continued for the better part of an hour, though no more shots were fired. Finally, the vessels--very close, very low now--broke formation to drift about among the still-standing towers, to hover while their occupants peered through windows and damage gaps in the walls. Slowly, then, one of the three floated to a landing in the main courtyard. None of its occupants emerged immediately, and the other two ships moved above it, guns ready. A quarter of an hour passed, and nothing stirred but the leaves on the trees and a lizard on the wall.

At last, a large hatch at the rear fell open and five small figures emerged, weapons held ready, to rush for cover in five different directions, dropping to earth and remaining motionless as soon as it was achieved. After several minutes, they rose and began to move, entering the castle.

It was over an hour before they emerged, their attitudes more casual, their weapons slung. Their leader signalled to the other two vessels, which immediately began to descend. When they were down, five more individuals emerged from each of them.

The fifteen men stood about, conferring on the building's layout. At last, they returned to the vessels to bring forth heavier weapons for emplacement inside.

Later that afternoon, when Rondoval had been secured, one of the vessels departed, leaving behind a dozen men, one on permanent duty in each of the remaining ships, the other ten set to patrol the castle.

The departing battle-wagon spiraled outward, moving more rapidly than on its inward journey, ship's telescope sweeping the rocky heights and, finally, the forested depths of the vicinity. Still, it was nearly an hour before a small group of centaurs was detected in a distant glade.

The sky boat dropped immediately to a point near treetop-level, out of line of sight of the creatures. It descended into the first clear area it reached, where its engines died and its hatch opened. The five infantrymen emerged, moving away into the trees, the pilot remaining behind with the vessel.

They passed slowly and silently through the forest, having spent basically predatory existences before their present level of culture had been thrust upon them. Now they fanned, like a well-organized hunting team, moving to surround their prey. As they neared the glade, they communicated entirely by a kind of sign language, messages passing from man to man about the circle they formed. Taking up their positions, they studied the disposition of the eight centaurs in the area and commenced a rapid and elaborate sign discussion as to target assignments. Then they raised their weapons.

The signal was then passed, and each of the five fired one round. Five centaurs jerked and bled. Two fell immediately. None of the riflemen paused to reload his single-shot weapon. Instead, they rushed forward to use the butts as clubs, only two finally drawing the blades they wore at their sides. There were only a few cries from the centaurs, but the smells of sweat and urine were suddenly strong upon the air.

One of the wounded ones rose unexpectedly, crushing an attacker's skull with her forehoofs. She was beaten down along with the three unwounded. The lightest of the uninjured had his legs bound together and hands tied behind him. Three of the remaining attackers slung their weapons and moved to transport him, the fourth reloading and covering them.

They bore their burden back through the woods, encountering no resistance. They entered and secured the vessel. Shortly thereafter, the rotors became shimmering blurs and the ship rose slowly, took its course and drifted southward, acquiring altitude, its speed slowly mounting as it passed above the deepening forest.

Moonbird flew above the dark, convoluted patterning--a large, flat design within the field of rock--at the other end of the long island from the city and its ports. Shadows cast by the morning's sun broke the scheme in numerous places, and the entire prospect caused a swimming effect whenever one stared for too long. Pol gestured as if to interrupt his vision, for countless dark strands now drifted from it, further blurring, confusing the image.

Some power lies there, beneath the ground, Moonbird remarked. This is the place?

Yes.

Pol scanned the skies carefully, then looked down once again. There was one break, at the pattern's northern edge, where the strands billowed like an inkpot dropped into an aquarium.

Take us down at that far end, where the stand of trees comes in like a spear point, nearest to the thing.

Moonbird slowed and began His descent. Pol strained forward, studying the terrain. Soon, he saw that the marked area was an elaborate, monolithic construction, the dark lines representing a continuous overhead opening presumably running the entire length of many interconnected interior corridors for purposes of some small illumination. The structure itself stood perhaps twice his height above ground level. As they slowed to land, Pol saw the single pale jade strand he sought among the masses of sable and ochre lines. A faint bellowing noise reached his ears from some undeterminable point.

As he touched the ground, Moonbird asked:

Play me one more song.

Do you fear that you will never hear one again?

Humor an old sauroid servitor. Dragons have their reasons.

Very well.

Pol uncased his guitar, not even bothering to dismount.

"What are you doing?" Nora inquired.

"Request performance," he answered, and he began a long, slow, nostalgic ballad.

Thank you, Moonbird replied, when it was finally concluded. That was soothing, and you reminded me of a story that a griffin once told me--

I'm afraid that I do not have the time to hear it now. More of those metal birds with bombs could--

Did you notice anything special as you sang?

No. What do you mean?

The bellowing sounds. They stopped.

Pol climbed down and assisted Nora in alighting. He patted Moonbird's neck.

Thanks.

"How do you intend to approach this one?" Nora asked. "The same way as..."

She had barely noticed the twirling motion of Pol's left hand, two fingers extended, slightly bent. As they moved near to her face, it felt as if a black bandage were sliding across her eyes....

Pol caught her as she slumped, bearing her to a spot beneath the branches of the nearby trees, largely sheltered from overhead view.

Guard her while I'm inside, he told Moonbird. If more of those things show up, it would be better if you stay hidden here for so long as you are undetected.

I can break them.

But then Nora will be unprotected. No. Only fight if you are discovered.

Moonbird snorted and drops of spittle fell upon the ground and began to smolder.

Very well. I can at least listen to the music.

Pol turned away and approached the high, wide entrance. A snuffling, growling sound commenced somewhere within--distant or near, he could not be certain. It shifted about him, moving, growing, diminishing.

The corridor he had entered ended abruptly several paces before him. There was a lower, narrower opening to his right and the strand led directly into it.

He halted and hung the guitar by its strap. He began to play, a slow, lullaby-like tune, into which he poured a wrist-throbbing desire to calm, to charm any listener. Several strands drifted near and he caught them on the neck of the instrument and saw them grow taut and begin to pulse in time with the music.

Slowly, he turned, still playing, and entered the opening.

He found himself in a dim passageway, a narrow band of sky visible high above him, running like a blue brook to separate into several tributaries at a place where a number of corridors met. He stood still for a time, strumming and humming, letting his eyes adjust to the lesser light. He realized then that the snorts and snufflings had ceased, though there was now a sound of heavy breathing all about him.

He moved forward, following the pale green strand. He turned right when it did, and left and immediately left again. Two more paces bore him into a circular chamber, ten equidistant doorways in its walls, including the one from which he had just emerged.

His strand led through the one to the immediate right, though another section of it crossed the chamber, stretched between two other doors. He ignored this and followed it to the right.

There came a series of left-right, left-right, then left-left, right-right turns which left him dizzy. He paused to regain control of his music. The sounds of breathing still came heavily about him, filling all the passageways, accompanied now by a strong barnyard odor. A tiny bit of cloud drifted across the blue band above him. Switching to another tune--still languid, dreamlike--he continued on.

After a time, he entered a circular chamber with ten doors, following the strand across it. He felt that it was the same one through which he had passed earlier, because of a familiar pattern of cracks in the wall, but there was no trace of the green strand passing between the adjacent doors across the way.

Then, looking behind him, he realized that the jade strand was shrinking or being gathered before him as he progressed. It was then that it occurred to him that while the force within the object he sought made it easy to describe a spell that would lead him to it, finding his way back out again might be a little more difficult without such a goal.

He ducked and squatted as he traversed a low passage--hell of a place to get caught!--and turned sideways as he negotiated a narrow one. He then entered upon a fresh series of turns, most of them doubling back upon themselves.

How long? he wondered. Surely I don't have to go through the entire thing....

Shortly thereafter, he realized that the breathing sounds had grown louder. And it was not long after that that he entered the long, low hall where the minotaur paced....

Mouseglove leaned forward again. The light in Mark's penthouse had been out for the better part of an hour, yet he had learned by observation that the sometime flashing device which had replaced the man's left eye was capable of very effective night-vision. He was also aware of Mark's restless disposition, of his inclination to pace within his quarters, to burst suddenly forth and embark upon surprise inspections of his installations, his factories, the barracks, his laboratories, his fields.

Is it better to assume that sleep has claimed him? he wondered. He's had a busy day. Still, he's so full of nervous energy... He could come out at any time. Once he's off and running again, it would be easy....

More maps than he really needed were folded in the various pockets of his cloak. The package containing the seven figurines was there, also. The grenades--about which he felt even more uncomfortable, having earlier witnessed their power--hung from his belt, along with one of his daggers. He carried a parcel containing food and a pistol he had stolen.

He leaned back behind the duct again and breathed more deeply of the chill and smoky night air. The longer he waited, of course, the greater the risk of discovery by one of the gnomes or machines. He was certain that he had spotted all of the stationary alarm devices, yet there were mobile units.

Still, he realized that he could not enter the flier and secure it about him without making some noise. Even if Mark were already sleeping, it would be well to let him drift further along into oblivion.

He looked up at the stars. The moon had not risen. Good for stealth. Less good for one's first flight. He touched each grenade. He checked his supplies. He had no intention of being captured. Especially after having seen what they had done to that centaur they had brought in earlier. And he was convinced that the poor brute had not even understood what it was that they wanted to know.

Patience had long been a way of life with Mouseglove. He commenced massaging major muscles, pausing periodically to listen, to peer about him.

Over an hour went by.

Time, he decided. The belly of the night. Two hundred paces now. Slow and steady. Patron of Thieves, be with me... .

It was time to think of nothing, to be an eye, to be an ear, to breathe just so, to feel vibrations. The hatch would have to be on the side facing Mark's door....

Twenty more paces, ten... What are they burning in those factories, anyway? It bites the nose...

He circled the vehicle twice, seeking alarms. Finally, he extended his hand, touched the smooth, cold body of the ship...

Now, little man, there is no retreat, he told himself.

He cracked the hatch, drawing slowly and steadily upon it. Silently, it came open. A moment later, he was inside, scanning the rooftop, seeking the hatch's interior handle. There would be an unavoidable noise in closing it. He located the handle and pulled downward upon it until it was only opened a crack....

No!

The door to Mark's apartment banged open and the man himself emerged. Mouseglove's fingers outlined and dug for the pistol within his parcel on the seat beside him, There was not time in which he might take off, no way in which he could flee.

Yet, Mark did not immediately advance. He stood with his thumbs hooked behind his belt, studying the sky, the roof. Could it be that it was only the man's insomnia which had brought him outside?

Mouseglove realized that he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly and took the pistol onto his lap. His left arm was beginning to tremble, from holding the door nearly closed against the tension of its spring.

...And don't let it rattle, he appended to his latest prayer.

He located the trigger and raised the pistol. Abruptly, Mark buttoned his jacket and closed the door behind him. He began walking across the terrace.

I'd shoot him. Right now. If I could be sure of getting him. But I've never used one of these things. And already my grip is slippery upon it. I'd take the chance with a crossbow, if I had one. If this door were shut and the window down... if...

Mark passed within five meters, without even glancing at the flier. Mouseglove, deep within his cowl, crouched, arm aching, watched him go.

It was another ten minutes before he dared to slam the hatch and turn his attention to the controls.

Pol did not permit the music to falter. The man-beast's eyes had passed over him several times as it moved slowly back and forth along the hall. It was well over two meters tall, with dark, curved horns. The room stank. Pol wondered what sort of teeth the creature possessed, with the head of a herbivore and the reputation he was still fresh on from his recent readings. He decided that he was willing to leave the question to sorcerers of a more academic bent. He turned his full attention to his playing.

Only his hands moved. He imagined that he plucked strands extending from the instrument to the horns of the beast. The force that grew within his wrist seemed to flow out through his fingertips, into the guitar, across the distance that lay between them.

...Rest. A nervous life such as yours requires some interlude of peace, he sent within the song. Not merely sleep, but the deep, muscle-easing joy of total rest that is almost pain, it is so sweet....

The minotaur slowed even more, finally coming to a standstill beside the wall. Even its awful breathing slowed.... Forget, forget the moment. The dream-sights dance already behind eyes that would close. Approach the cloud-strewn border of the land where visions dwell. They beckon...

The minotaur put out his right hand and leaned upon the wall. His head nodded. He snorted softly, once.

...Go, go to that place. There, skiey towers caressed by cool breezes make sweet the forgetting--and infields of flowing green you wander. Delight spills across your body like a gentle rain. You bathe in the pools of healing. Bright colors fill your vision. There comes a song that brings you peace....

The creature knelt, lowered himself to the floor. His eyes closed.

Pol continued to play for a long while. There was little expression upon that sleeping face, other than a certain slackness. And the minotaur's breathing had grown much slower and quieter. For the first time, Pol dared to look away from him, to trace with his eyes the path of the strand he had followed.

The green line led to a niche, high in the wall at the far end of the room. There were several clusterings of the darker strands about it, but these were far less elaborate than those he had encountered beneath the pyramid--and apparently cast where they were mainly for purposes of protecting the faintly glowing cylinder from molestation by the minotaur himself.

Pol moved quietly across the stone floor in that direction, his hands automatically continuing the melody as he studied the knottings of the spells. There were three of them, any one of which might have stopped the minotaur or an ordinary man. Yet, their undoing should take a competent sorcerer no more than--

He glanced back at the sleeping creature as he realized that he would have to stop playing in order to unwind the spells.

He reduced the tempo and strummed more softly.... Sleep, sleep, sleep...

He stopped and lowered the instrument. His left hand twisted forward. When the first spell was undone, he glanced back and saw that the beast still slumbered.

As he worked on the second one, he heard a noise behind him, but at that moment he could not look away. Finally, it fell apart beneath his hands and he turned quickly, strands dispersing all about him.

The minotaur had only turned in its sleep.

He returned to the consideration of the final spell. It was no more difficult than the others. But he could not rush its untwining for the proper pace was as much a matter of necessity as the appropriate movements. His left hand darted, hooked and twisted. These last strands were colder than the others and, correspondingly, released a greater feeling of heat when they were at last undone.

Again, Pol looked back.

The minotaur's eyes were open and staring at him.

Who are you?

A singer.

What do you want here?

A mere bauble.

The thing in the niche? It bites. Take care.

I shall. You do not mind that I take it?

Why should I? It is nothing to me. Where have I been?

Dreaming.

I had never been there before. There were bright things I'd never seen....

Colors?

Perhaps. Everything was good. Like never before. I want to go there again.

That can be arranged.

I want to dwell there forever.

Close your eyes then, and listen to the music.

The minotaur closed his eyes.

Bring this music and send me away....

Pol began to play, recovering all the visions which had come to him earlier. As he did, his eyes passed over the second section of the rod in its niche--longer, narrower than the first segment, bearing a scene of animals and men and woodland spirits, free of strife, dancing, eating, loving...

He struck the strings, reached out, seized the rod-section and fitted it into the first at his belt. Then he resumed playing as the minotaur still drowsed. He felt the increased warmth, the mightily enhanced sense of power that now twisted about the rod. As he played, he called upon it for a new usage and he felt that power move warmly through his abdomen, down his arm, into the guitar, to be joined with the music itself.

...Across the fields, where there is no strife, no hunger, no pain, where no one is a monster, where the light is soft, where the birds call and the brooks burble, where twilight comes on bringing stars like swarms of fireflies--to dwell there forever, never to awaken, never to depart--sleep, bull-man, in the peace you have never known--always, ever...

Pol turned away from the sleeper. He touched his wrist to the new section of the rod. Somewhere, buried in his unconscious, it seemed that there should be a record of every step, every turning he had taken on the way in. Therefore--

The dragon-image rose like a phoenix glowing above his wrist. Surely, it should be able to reach those buried memories.

Go! he commanded. I follow!

It darted away from him, to depart the hall from the doorway nearest the niche, rather than the one through which he had entered.

He hesitated only a moment, then followed, smiling. So much for theory. He took it as a message that the forces his special sense reached and manipulated were not to be categorized in so facile a manner.

As he took his first turn beyond the doorway, he had his final glimpse of the sleeping minotaur, over his right shoulder. He saw the knot of his own spell drifting above the prostrate form, like a giant, yellow butterfly.

Mouseglove's relief was immense as the ship cleared the highest tower and soared out, away from Anvil Mountain. Already, the lights of its city were small beneath him, and he was surprised to be taken by a sensation of beauty viewed as he looked upon it. Turning away, he continued to direct the vessel up past the regions where the dark bird-things wove their interminable patterns. So far, there was no indication of pursuit. He pushed the ship to its ultimate speed and held it there until the mountain was only a dim outline behind him. At last, this, too, faded and only the stars gave him light.

Then he relaxed, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall over the back of his seat. He sighed and rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. A great tension began draining away, and the beginnings of delight in the act of flying under his own control came over him.

Soon ... At this speed, he would be in Dibna before morning. That would provide ample time for hiding the vessel and walking into town. In a day's time, he should be able to locate a buyer or a middle-man for the disposition of the figurines. Unless, of course, the men who had commissioned their theft were still alive, still wanted them. Either way ... A few days more, possibly, to tie up the deal. Then, his purse full of coins, he would treat himself to a bit of revelry. After that, use the flying machine to travel to another town where no one would know of the transaction. In fact, it might be best to do that before celebrating. Then find a place to settle down. A villa on a hillside, with a view of the sea. A cook, a manservant, a gardener--it would be pleasant to have a garden--and a few assorted slave girls....

He turned the control wheel slowly to the right. More, more... Southeast, south... He began to wonder why he was doing it. This was no longer the way to Dibna. He struggled to halt the motion, but his hands continued to move the control. Southwest... He was almost completely turned around. It would simply have to be corrected. Only...

His hands refused to obey, to turn him back. It was as if the will of another now directed his actions. He fought against it, but to no avail. He was now headed in almost exactly the one direction that he did not wish to go. As he watched himself being directed, the entire sequence of his actions took on a dreamlike quality, as though he himself were being forced further and further into the background, as though...

Dreamlike. For a moment, the tiny control lights swam before him, rearranging themselves into seven flickering forms. The full memory of his dream crashed down upon him then, with a feeling that somewhere the last laughter continued.

He had a strong premonition that he was saying goodbye to his villa.

Pol's first impulse on reaching the labyrinth's exit was to rush out through it. Instead, he halted just within the doorway. Something--he was not certain what--was amiss. It was as if he had been granted such a brief glimpse of a danger that he could not name it, could only be aware of its existence. Had something moved?

He wondered, looking out to the place where Moonbird watched a sleeping Nora. He took the rod into his hands and tried to recall elaborate spells from the books he had read in his father's collection. Everything seemed to be all right, yet...

A slow-moving shadow slid across the ground before him, twisting itself over every irregularity. Still, it was easy for him, coming from the world that he had, to recognize the outline as that of a flying machine--a thing larger than the dark birds, if the sound which now reached his ears were any indication of its nearness.

There was a partial spell he had studied, simpler than the complete version of the same thing. It might require considerable energy, but then, he need no longer work solely with his hands upon the fabric of reality....

He raised the rod and began moving it about him, catching and swirling large quantities of the strands, of every color. As the shadow receded, the clot of strands grew before him, assuming a disc-like shape. The colors drained from it as it spun and increased in diameter, until, at length, it was a shimmering shield larger than himself. Objects beyond it rippled and swam and the rod vibrated steadily, silently within his grip.

Now. He took a step forward and the shield advanced a similar distance. Its size seemed sufficient for its purpose and he slowed the swirling movement to restrict its growth, to maintain it at its present size.

The shadow had passed away to his left, and he moved the rod in that direction and tilted it upward. He took another step and scanned the sky carefully. Unlike the complete spell, which rendered its caster entirely invisible, the partial spell he had been able to weave created only a flat screen, capable of blocking observation from a single direction.

Another step, and he caught sight of the battle-wagon, swinging away, farther to the left. Turning sideways, he adjusted the shield and began walking toward the trees. If he were to remain stationary, there was a way to rest his arm. As it was...

He crossed the cleared area, turning to follow the movement of the vessel, like some negative-petalled flower after an anti-sun, distorting the light that fell upon it, until finally he was walking backward when he reached the trees.

Standing now before the tree of the girl and the dragon, he spun the shield larger, watching the wavering image of the circling battle-wagon through the upper righthand quadrant of the screen.

He reached out and touched Moonbird.

I am going to awaken her now, he indicated. When I do, we are going to retreat within the wood.

And not fight?

We may not have to.

I could barf it to ruin...

Not if it gets you first. Trust me.

He turned to Nora and began releasing her from the sleep-spell, reflecting on how much simpler things would have been with the minotaur had he been able to do it at other than close range. Nora stirred, looked at him.

"I've been asleep! You did it to me! I--"

"Shh!" he cautioned. "They're up there!" He gestured with his head. "Sounds carry in a quiet place like this. Save it for later. I've got the second piece. Now we have to get off into the trees. We're invisible from just this one side."

She got to her feet and stood stiffly erect.

"It was not a nice trick," she said, "and you won't catch me that way again."

"I'll bear that in mind," he stated. "Now let's head back that way."

She glanced at the ship in the sky, nodded and turned. Moonbird shifted his great bulk and edged slowly after her.

As he retreated, Pol slowed the swirling motion, withdrew his energies, released the spell. The trees covered them adequately now. It seemed that they had escaped from immediate danger.

Pol seated himself beneath a tree, hands clasped under his chin.

"What now?" Nora finally asked him.

"I am wondering whether I might be able to bring that thing down, as I did that lesser one at the pyramid. Now that I have two of the sections together, it seems possible."

"It sounds worth trying."

"I am going to wait until its course brings it nearer. Distance does seem to be a factor."

For over a quarter of an hour, he watched the vessel, attaching strand after gray metallic strand to the rod that he held. Finally, when the ship swept by them again, he felt ready.

He raised the instrument and stared past it through gaps among the branches, amid the leaves, saw the strands grow taut, imagined that he could hear them singing as if caressed by some cosmic wind. The rod grew warm in his hand as he felt the energies flow forth.

For a time, nothing seemed to happen. Then they heard a cough and a rattle, followed by a sputtering noise. Two of the ship's rotors began to slow. It listed to starboard as a third propeller went out. Immediately, it began to descend, and Pol guessed that this was an action of the pilot's in trying to avoid a crash, rather than an indication that it might not remain airborne a while longer. His knuckles grew white as he gripped the rod, willing more force into his spell. More rattling and coughing noises came from the sinking vessel. A thin wisp of smoke arose from beneath the cowling at its forward end. Two more rotors halted, but by now it was only fifteen or twenty meters above the ground, near to the western perimeter of the labyrinth.

It dropped only a short distance, moments later, and a hatch at its rear fell open. Three men hurried out and another followed more slowly, coughing. Pol saw a darting of flames within and more moving forms beating at and attempting to smother them. He lowered the rod and extended his hand to Nora,

"Let's get out of here," he said. "I've burned out several engines. They won't be able to follow."

They clambered up onto Moonbird's back.

Now! Hurry! Take us away!

We can finish them off first.

They are helpless now. Get us aloft!

Moonbird began a waddling run beneath the trees, fanning the air with his wings. When he broke into the cleared area, he lifted above the ground. A cry came up from somewhere to the right.

Pol saw the three men who had fled the smoldering battle-wagon. They were kneeling and had raised their weapons. White puffs emerged from the muzzles, and he immediately felt a burning pain in the back of his neck and slumped across Moonbird's shoulder. He heard Nora cry out and felt her catching at his shirt, his belt. His head swirled through dark places, but he did not immediately lose consciousness, A distant booming sound came to his ears. His neck was wet.

We should have finished them first... Moonbird was saying.

Nora was talking as she did something behind him, but he could not hear the words.

Then his eyes closed and everything diminished.

When the world came back, her hand was on his neck, holding a cold compress in place. He smelled the sea. He felt the play of muscles beneath the scales against which his cheek was pressed. Moonbird smelled a bit like old leather, gunpowder and lemon juice, he suddenly realized. Somehow the thought struck him as funny and he chuckled.

"You're awake?" said Nora.

"Yes. How serious is it?"

"It looks as if someone laid a hot poker across your neck and held it there for a time."

"That's about how it feels, too. What's on it?"

"A piece of cloth I soaked in water."

"Thanks. It helps."

"Do you know a spell to heal it?"

"Not offhand. But I may be able to think of something. Tell me first what happened, though."

"You were hit by something. I think it might have come from one of those smoking sticks the men were pointing."

"Yes, it did. But what was the crashing noise? Did their ship explode?"

"No. It had larger--things--like those pointed by the men. These turned to follow us, then they began smoking and making the noise. Several things seemed to explode near us. Then it stopped."

Pol propped himself and looked back. It hurt to turn his head. The island was already receding in the distance, its outline vaguely misted. He looked down at the sea, up toward the sun.

Moonbird, are you all right?

Yes. And you?

I'll be okay. But we seem to be heading, northwest, rather than southwest. Maybe I'm wrong, though. You are the expert.

You are not wrong.

"Let me tie that in place for you."

"Go ahead."

Why? What is the matter?

The place you wish to visit next--it lies a great distance from here, many day's travel.

Yes, I know. That is why it is important that we follow the route I have laid out. Many island stopovers will be necessary.

Not really. Maps mean less to me than my feelings. I realized recently there is a shortcut.

How can that be? The shortest distance between two points is a--a great circle segment.

I will take us the way of the dragons.

The way of the dragons? What do you mean?

I have been that way before. Between some places there are special routes. Holes in the air, we call them. They move about, slowly. The closest one to a place near where you would go now lies in this direction.

Holes in the air? What are they like?

Uncomfortable. But I know the way.

Anything that is uncomfortable to a dragon might prove fatal to anyone else.

I have borne your father through them.

They are much faster?

Yes.

All right. Go ahead.

How far is it?

I may get us there by evening.

Is there a place before that where we can stop for repairs?

Several.

Good.

The sun hung low and red before them. To the right, a fuzzy line of coast darkened the horizon like a rough brush stroke. Mounds and streamers of pink and orange clouds filled the sky to the left and ahead. Moonbird was climbing and the wind seemed to grow colder with each beat of his wings. Pol stared upward and rubbed his eyes, for his vision had suddenly blurred.

The blur remained. He moved his head and it stayed in the same place.

Moonbird... ?

Yes, we are nearing it. It will be soon now.

Is there anything special that we should do?

Do not let go. Mind your possessions. I cannot help you if we become separated.

The wrinkle in the sky had grown larger as they climbed, reminding Pol of the invisibility shield viewed from the user's side. They reached its altitude and passed it. Looking down upon it, he saw it to be silvery, shining and opaque, like a pool of mercury, touched faintly pink by the receding sun. It achieved an even more substantial appearance as they rose higher above it.

Why have we passed it?

It must be entered from the bright side.

"We are going to dive through that?" Nora asked.

"Yes."

Pol touched the back of his neck and felt only a moderate ache. Already, the healing spell he had concocted seemed to be working--or at least killing the pain. Nora squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm ready."

He patted her hand as Moonbird achieved a position above the circle and began to slow.

"Hang on."

They began to drop. Moonbird's wings beat again, driving them faster.

It is not solid, Pol told himself without conviction, as the shining thing grew before them.

Suddenly, they were past it, and there was no up or down, only forward. Right and left would not stay put, for they seemed to be swirling, spiraling about a light-streaked vortex while a continuously rising scream pierced their ears. Pol bit his lip and clung tightly to Moonbird's neck. Nora was hugging him so hard that it hurt. He tried closing his eyes, but that worsened things, making his rising vertigo near to unbearable. There did seem to be a bit of brightness far, far ahead. His stomach wrenched, and whatever emerged was mercifully whipped away, Moonbird began expelling flames which fled back past them like glowing spears. The wailing had now reached at least partially into the ultrasonic. If he stared too long at the smears of light they seemed on the verge of becoming grotesque, open-mouthed faces. The one steady patch of brightness seemed no nearer.

Are all of the shortcuts like this? Pol asked.

No. We're lucky, Moonbird replied. There are some bad ones.