Wizard World 1: Changeling

XX

"You were with him," Mark said to Nora, as they both leaned upon the railing to his roof garden. "What is his power, anyway, now he has that scepter?"

"I don't know," she replied, looking at the flowers. "I really don't know. I'm not even sure that he was absolutely certain. Or else he was being very close-mouthed."

"Well, I think it possible that he is dead. On the other hand, I've no idea how he got across the ocean as quickly as he did. He has something going for him. He was in my flier at one point--and it was shot down near Rondoval. Still...Supposing--just supposing--he is still alive? How would he attack me? What sort of forces might he bring?"

She shook her head and looked at him. His lens was a pale blue and he was smiling.

"I couldn't tell you, Mark," she said, "and if I could ..."

"You wouldn't? I'd guessed that much. It didn't take long did it? For you to fall in love with a flashy traveler with a good story?"

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"What else am I to think? We've known each other most of our lives. I thought we had something of an understanding. Then, practically overnight, you're in love with a stranger."

"I am not in love with Pol," she said, straightening. "Oh, it could happen, very easily. He's quick and strong--clever, attractive. But, really I hardly know him, despite what we've been through together. On the other hand, I thought that I knew you--very well--and now I see that I was mistaken about a great number of things. If you want honesty, rather than sweet words, I am not, at this moment, in love with anyone."

"But did you once feel that way about me?"

"I thought that I did."

He hammered his fist against the rail.

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

"It's this lens, isn't it? This damned, ugly bug-eye!"

"Don't be silly," she said. "I wasn't talking about appearance. I was talking about what you are doing. You've always been different. You've always had a way with mechanical things. That in itself is hardly bad, but what you are doing--what you are planning to do--with your knowledge and your contrivances--that is."

"Don't let's go into it again."

She withdrew her hand.

"You asked me. If he still lives, Pol has to fight you--some way--now. Sometimes it almost seems that a conflict between the two of you was ordained before you both were born. Other times I've thought of it, though, it seemed that it need not be so. You could be friends. He is the closest thing you have to a relative. And it is probably that way for him, also. I will tell you what I told him. I feel like a pawn. You are jealous of him, and he will want to rescue me from you. I almost feel as if my life has been somehow manipulated to bring me into this position, to insure that a battle will occur. I wish that I'd never met either of you!"

She turned away. He guessed that she was crying, but was not certain. He began to extend his hand.

"Sir! Sir!"

A captain of his guard was rushing toward him. Scowling, Mark turned.

"What is it?"

"Castle Rondoval is under attack! The message just came through! Should we send reinforcements?"

"Who is attacking? How? What are the details?"

"There are none. The message was short, garbled. We are waiting for an answer."

"Divert all the nearest birds. Get me a picture of what's going on. I'll be down there shortly. We're going on alert."

He raised his hand and two guards, pretending to study the garden from its opposite end, immediately moved toward him.

"I'd wager your lover lives," he said, "and that this is his doing. At any rate, your talk of pawns has given me an idea. Guards! Take her away. Protect her. Watch her well. She may be of some use yet."

Turning on his heel, he headed toward the elevator. He did not look back.

Mouseglove moved with near-acrobatic skill up the final few meters of the cliff-face, hauled himself into the cave mouth, turned, stooped and assisted Pol.

"All right," he said then, "I am about to keep a promise. I vowed that if they would leave me alone, I would bring them back to Rondoval." He groped beneath his cloak and withdrew a parcel. "They did and I have. So here."

He handed the package to Pol.

"I don't understand. What is it?" Pol asked.

"The figurines of the seven sorcerers I stole from your father. As you gained sections of that scepter, they grew in power until finally they were able to control me. During the trip back here, I told you everything I had done, but I didn't tell you why. They are the reason. Surely, you don't think I'd go and play games with a feathered serpent for laughs? They are powerful, they can communicate if they want--and I have no idea what they are up to. Also, they are all yours now. Don't worry, though. A big part of their purpose in life seems to be taking care of you. I would try to learn more about them soon, if I were you."

"I wish I had time," Pol remarked, "but I don't. Not now." He secured the parcel at his belt and turned. The dragon-light sprang forth to dart before them. "Let's go."

Mouseglove fell into step beside him.

"I wonder how the centaurs are doing?" he said.

Pol shrugged.

"I hope they get the message soon that we made it safely. If the two who brought us hurry, they will. Then they can lay off and return to the woods."

"If you really meant that oath, perhaps you ought to send something particularly nasty upstairs to clear the halls."

"Why?"

"I've seen how centaurs fight. They're tough, but they also get kind of frenzied after awhile. I've a hunch they won't be falling back."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes. So, surely you could spare a dragon or an ogre or two, to clean house and protect your new friends."

"I guess I should."

They walked on for a time, following the pale light. At several points they had to climb down over rocky irregularities.

"Uh, I guess well be parting company soon," Mouseglove said as they entered the first of a series of larger caverns. "I've done what I came back to do, and I promised myself I'd never set foot on Anvil Mountain again."

"I didn't expect you to accompany me there," Pol replied, "and it's not your fight. What have you in mind to do now?"

"Well, after your servant's made it safe for the likes of me upstairs, I'll head in that direction. Be sure to tell him that I'm okay. I'll borrow some fresh garments, if that's all right with you, clean up, have a nap and be moving on."

They passed a large, winged, sleeping form.

"You have my permission, my thanks and my blessing," Pol said. "Also my ogre, to clear your way."

Mouseglove chuckled.

"You are a difficult young man to gull. I'm actually coming to like you. Pity, we'll probably never meet again."

"Who knows? I'll ask the Seven when I get a chance."

"I'd rather you didn't remind them of me."

The next cavern they entered was even larger, though more level. Pol looked at the humped and massed bodies among which they made their way. There seemed to be no way of estimating their number, though the strands ran thick and numerous through the gloom.

As they trudged on, coming at last into the major cavern and starting across it, Pol finally glimpsed the soft glow of the master spell at its farther end.

"Tell me," he asked, "do you see any light in that direction?"

"No. Just the one we're following."

Pol gestured and seized a strand. Soon it took on a pale color and something of incandescence.

"See that?"

"A line of light, running before us."

"Good. I'll give you one of that sort to follow out. What is that thing in your hand?"

"A pistol I've carried since I left Mark's place."

"I thought so. You won't need it here."

"It comforts me."

After a considerable interval, they stood before the pied globe. Pol held the scepter as he faced it.

"I hope this works as I'd anticipated," he remarked.

"I feel some force, but I see nothing special. ..."

"Go and stand over in that niche." He gestured, and for a moment the scepter blazed like a captive star. "I will tell you when it is safe to depart. There is your strand." He gestured again, and a line of pale fire grew in the air before the niche. "Good luck!"

"To you, also," Mouseglove replied, clasping Pol's hand and turning.

He moved quickly and backed into the opening, unable to take his eyes from the spectacle of the younger man, who had already begun a series of seeming ritual movements, his silhouette distorted by guitar case and flapping cloak, his face pale and mask-like in the blaze of the rod, beneath the dark, silver-splashed wings of his hair. Mouseglove clutched the pistol more tightly as the slow dance of the hand and the rod progressed, for he felt a chill followed by a wave of warmth, another chill ... and now he had momentary flashes of vision, as of a massive, burning ball of yarn being unwound.

Pol moved his hand deftly, in and out, unwinding unravelling, and old words trapped within the fabric of the structure, came to him and he spoke them as he worked, and the waves of heat came more frequently, till finally he saw through to the center, the core, the end....

He thrust the scepter into the heart of the spell and spoke the final words.

A great wash of forces swept by him and he swayed, striving to keep his balance. The strands now clung to the scepter, obscuring it completely to Pol's vision. His right arm seemed to take fire as he laid his will upon it.

A moaning rose within the cavern, growing to a mighty chorus of sounds, which echoed and reechoed about him, followed by rustling, scraping noises and the falling of stones.

"...Arise! Arise! and follow me to battle!" he sang, and now there were larger movements within the darkness.

The moaning died down and ceased. The snorts, snarls, roars and rattles diminished. Now the sounds of heavy breathing came to him from every direction.

He plucked a single strand, and soon a huge, gray form moved past him on two legs, hunched forward, arms dragging on the ground, yellow eyes burning within the darkness of a triangular face, scales rustling with each stride. It paused before Mouseglove, who raised the pistol and waited, but it turned and moved on an instant later.

"Give it an hour," Pol stated, "and the upstairs should be cleared. It knows you now and will not harm you."

Mouseglove nodded, realizing as he did that the movement could not be seen, but unable to control his voice. Brief bonfires flared and died at all distances as dragons tested their flames.

Pol turned away, directing all his attention to impressing his identity and his commands upon the awakening creatures.

Arise, I say! We fly south to destroy the city atop Anvil Mountain! Those of you who cannot fly must be mounted upon those who can! I will lead the way!

He cast about for only a moment, and then his fingers moved unerringly to catch at a dark green strand drifting near him.

Dragon! he called. Name yourself!

I am called Smoke-in-the-Skies-at-Evening-against-the-Last-Pale-Clouds-of-Autumn-Day, came a proud feminine reply.

In the interest of ready communication, I shall refer to you as 'Smoke.'

That is agreeable to me.

Come to me now. We must lead the others.

For a time, nothing occurred, as he realized that Smoke had slept within one of the farther caverns. All of the stirring sounds grew louder as the other creatures stood, stretched, mounted. Finally, he heard a noise like a rising wind rushing toward him, and a piece of darkness detached itself from the distant shadows, to sweep in his direction and settle silently before him.

Greetings, Pol Detson. I am ready, she said.

He released the strand and moved to touch her neck.

Greetings, Smoke. If I may mount now, we will be on our way.

Come up. I am ready.

Pol climbed toward her shoulders and settled into position. He raised the scepter and lights danced throughout the cavern.

Follow! he ordered. Then, to Smoke, Now! Let us go!

Smoke was smaller than Moonbird but seemed fester. In a matter of moments, they were airborne and moving ahead quickly. Pol looked back once. He could not distinguish Mouseglove in his niche, but he saw that dark forms were rising like ashes in his wake.

You will sing us a battle-song? Smoke asked.

Pol was surprised to find it already upon his lips.