Madwand (Illustrated) Page 9

  “Oh, there is a possibility that we might wind up at odds,” the other replied. “I hope not, but there you are. It could happen. If so, it won’t be because I didn’t try, though. And at least for the moment we want the same thing: to get you out of here intact, to deceive your enemies, to position you strategically.”

  “Have you any idea what will happen when I leave here?”

  “Oh, yes. You will be spirited away almost immediately—to Castle Avinconet.”

  “Larick did say that much. But who else is involved. And what will I meet at that end?”

  “It is for better for you to learn these things yourself, to keep your responses normal.”

  “Damn it! There’s more to it than that! You’re hiding something!”

  “In what way does that make me different from other men? Play your part, boy. Play your part.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I need more information to carry this thing off.”

  “Bullshit,” the sorcerer replied and turned away. “And strike your pose again. I believe I hear someone coming.”

  “But—”

  “The rest is silence,” the changing man said, as he vanished around the corner.

  VII.

  Mouseglove hunkered in a rocky recess to the left of the cavemouth, his hood raised and cloak drawn about him against the morning’s chill. To his right, the fresh-risen sun constructed morning above the foothills, skimming a layer of glory from the magical city he had quitted hours before. Eight of the initiates had so for passed him, each in the company of Larick, to salute the dawn, then make their ways back toward the town, alone, or in the company of a servant or former master. When he heard footsteps once again, Mouseglove stirred slightly, turning his head toward the opening. When he saw Pol approaching with the leader, he rose, joints creaking, but did not immediately depart his station.

  Unlike those who had preceded him, Pol had already removed his white robe. His gait was slower and more awkward than usual. Larick, too, was dressed only in his day garments and head cloth. His face bore a far less solemn aspect than it had when he was bringing the others forth from Belken. He was snapping orders at Pol as they emerged. The two immediately turned to their left and began walking quickly in that direction.

  Puzzled, Mouseglove stepped out from his niche and hurried after them.

  “Good morning,” he said. “How did you fare during the night?”

  Larick almost stumbled in halting, and he placed his hand upon Pol’s arm. By the time he turned, his face was composed. Pol, moving more slowly, was without expression.

  “Good morning,” Larick replied. “Your friend is well enough physically, but some who go through initiation experience mental disorganization in varying degrees. This has occurred with him.”

  “How serious is this thing?”

  “That depends upon a great many factors—but it is generally treatable. I was hurrying him off right now with that end in mind.”

  “That is why you skipped the dawn salutation?”

  Larick’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, as if assessing the other’s knowledge of the matters involved.

  “We were not going to dispense with it entirely,” he said. “But perhaps you are right, since this is the traditional spot.”

  He turned toward the place where the others had stood to perform the final ritual function.

  “Pol! Do you at least understand me?” Mouseglove said.

  Larick turned back.

  “I am certain that he does,” he told him. “But, technically, he should not address anyone until he has finished with this part of things. You can see in a few minutes what his response will be.”

  He led Pol over to the place, speaking softly and rapidly to him. Mouseglove shifted about, glancing in every direction. A little later, he saw Pol raise his arms and lift his face toward the light in the east. As Pol began to mutter, Larick moved a short distance away from him. Mouseglove watched carefully, hands beneath his cloak.

  When Pol had completed a hurried version of the sunrite, he turned toward the smaller man.

  “It may not be all that serious,” he said then. “But I must go away with Larick for a time. I can afford to take no chances in something like this.”

  “How long?”

  “I do not know. For as long as is necessary.”

  “It could take a week or two,” Larick put in. “Possibly even longer.”

  “Where is it that you are taking him? I’m going with you.”

  “I couldn’t tell you that until I have conferred with some experts. Perhaps he can be treated here. Then again, he may have to go away.”

  “Where?”

  “That remains to be determined.”

  “Pol,” Mouseglove said, “are you certain that this is what you want to do?”

  “Yes,” Pol replied.

  “Very well. We will go and find out. If it is to be here, I will wait. If it is to be elsewhere, I will accompany you.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Pol said, and he turned away. “I don’t need you.”

  “Nevertheless . . . ”

  “You are an encumbrance!” Larick said, and he raised his hand.

  Mouseglove moved, but not fast enough. All strength and sensation fled his limbs. He fell, his hand still gripping the butt of the pistol he had been unable to draw.

  For some time before he opened his eyes, Mouseglove was marginally aware of a slow, intermittent, shuffling sound. When finally he did open them, his field of vision was occupied by a small, gray, mossy rock and a scattering of gravel. He noted that the day had grown perceptibly brighter.

  He moved his left hand slowly, placing its palm flat upon the ground near to his shoulder. It remained there for long seconds before he became aware of the coldness of the stone. The shuffling sound came again and he raised his head a few inches, suddenly aware of a stiffness in his neck. He pushed hard with the hand, heaving himself upward, rolling into a seated position, fighting a tendency to slump forward. As his gaze moved across the area, passing the place where Pol and Larick had stood, his memory of the morning’s events poured into his mind. He turned his head to the east. The station of the sun told him that an hour or more had passed since that encounter. He rehearsed the entire exchange, seeking clues as to what had occurred within the mountain and what might now be afoot. He resolved that the next time he argued with a sorcerer he would have the weapon drawn and pointed at its target.

  A series of small sounds reached him from within the cave, turning itself into several rapid footfalls and then halting. He drew one knee beneath him and pushed himself up into a crouch. He rose slowly as the footfalls came again, nearing the mouth of the cave. He drew the weapon and pointed it at the opening, the hammer making a clicking sound as he set it.

  The steps grew stronger, steadier. A moment later, a small, red-haired man appeared within the opening. He was wearing a dirt-streaked white robe. He leaned against the rock, eyes rolling and blinking, head turning. When his gaze swept over Mouseglove, it did not pause. His complexion was dead white. He twitched and jerked, as though he were having a minor seizure.

  Mouseglove watched him closely for a long while before he spoke.

  “What is the matter?” he asked, weapon still steady.

  The head rolled again, the eyes passing over him, then back again, back again, their orbit narrowing, a rapid scanning motion. At last, they seemed to focus upon him, but the look they held caused him to suppress a shudder.

  “What is the matter?” he repeated.

  The man took a step forward, raised a pale hand, opened his mouth and inserted the fingers. He made a gargling noise, then withdrew his fingers slightly, pinching the tip of his tongue. He took another step, released the tongue, held both hands at shoulder level. He took another step, and another, his right hand moving from side to side, gradually reaching forward. He continued to make gasping, rattling noises, and his tread grew more steady.

  “Hold it!” Mouseglove said. �
��What do you want?”

  The man roared at him and rushed forward.

  “Stop!” Mouseglove cried, and when the man did not he pulled the trigger.

  The round struck the man in the left arm, turning him sideways. He swayed for a moment, then dropped to his knees, making no effort to reach for the area of impact. He rose again almost immediately, turning back toward Mouseglove, voicing a new series of gutturals.

  “Don’t make me shoot again,” Mouseglove said, setting the hammer. “I recognize you. I know you’re one of the candidates. Just tell me what you want.”

  The man kept coming, and Mouseglove fired again.

  The man jerked and was turned sideways again, but this time he did not fell. He straightened and resumed his progress, his steady stream of sounds acquiring more and more inflection.

  “Aaalll riight . . . ” he said.

  Mouseglove licked his lips as he readied the weapon once more.

  “For gods’ sakes, stop!” he cried. “I don’t want to do this to you!”

  “Not im—por—tant. Listenlistenlistenlisten,” the other said, face totally devoid of expression, eyes still rolling, hands still extended and twitching.

  Mouseglove backed off three paces, but the other hastened once more, Mouseglove halted then and shot him squarely in the chest.

  The man was jolted by the blow. He fell backward, caught himself in a seated position and began to rise again.

  “No!” Mouseglove cried. “Please! Stop!”

  “Stop,” the man repeated without emotion. “Listen, listen, listen. Pol. Im—por—tant. You.”

  “Pol?” Mouseglove said, cocking the weapon again. “What about him?”

  “Yes. Pol. Yes. You un-der-stand—me—now. Yes?”

  “Then stay put and tell me! Don’t come any nearer!”

  Slowly, the other rose again, and something which had registered without Mouseglove’s realizing it, came into his consciousness at that moment.

  The man was not bleeding from any of his wounds. The garment was torn, darkened, slightly damp-looking where each round had penetrated—but there were no bright red splotches.

  “Stay—put?” he said. “Stand—here?”

  “Yes. You make me very nervous. I can hear you clearly. Tell me from there. What about Pol?”

  “Pol . . . ” said the other, swaying. “In trouble, Mouseglove. Listen.”

  “I am listening. What sort of trouble is it?”

  “Larick—placed him—under a spell.”

  “What sort of spell? I’ll find someone who can lift it.”

  “Not necessary. It has been removed. But Larick—does not—know this.”

  “Then Pol’s mind is all right?”

  “As always.”

  “But Larick thinks he is under a spell?”

  “Yes. As Pol wishes.”

  “Where is he taking him?”

  “Castle Avinconet.”

  “That’s Ryle Merson’s place! I might have known. I will go there and help him in whatever he is about. “

  “Not yet. You would be of little help and likely be destroyed. There is a better course of action.”

  “Name it.”

  “Go to Pol’s patron.”

  “Ibal?”

  “That one. Tell him what has occurred. Ask him for speedy transportation back to Rondoval.”

  “Say he grants it. What then?”

  “You can speak with dragons.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Tell the old one—Moonbird—to take you to the dead crater on Anvil Mountain and there help you to recover the magical tool.”

  “The scepter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say this can be done.”

  “Then take it to Pol at Avinconet. “

  “He will be all right in the meantime?”

  “They may see fit to destroy him at any time. I do not know. If they do not, however, he may well need it soon.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I do not know.”

  “How do you know all these things?”

  “I was there. “

  “Why do you wish to help Pol?”

  “I am uncertain.”

  “How is it that I could not kill you?”

  “A corpse cannot die.”

  “Now it is I who do not understand.”

  “You know enough. Good-bye.”

  The red-haired man collapsed and lay still. Mouseglove approached him cautiously. There was no sign of breathing, and he considered the man’s waxy pallor at closer range. He reached out and touched a cheek. It was cold.

  He raised the right hand. It was cold, also; and a certain stiffness had already come into the limb. He pressed upon the fingernails one after the other. They all grew white and remained so. Finally, he leaned forward and lay his ear upon the chest near to the bullet hole. He discovered it to be a quiet place.

  He arranged the body, crossing the arms upon the breast. He drew the white cowl up over the head and down across the face. He rose and moved away.

  Crossing to the place where Pol and Larick had stood, he located their tracks and began following them. They disappeared quickly, however, in the rocky terrain. He halted there and spent several minutes pondering. Then he turned to the city of illusion and began his descent toward its flickering towers.

  VIII.

  Wind whistling past him, cloak flapping behind him, Pol leaned forward upon the shoulders of the lesser dragon—a lithe, brown creature of similar mien and considerably less mass than the giant beasts of Rondoval—his legs gripping the sides of its back-ridge, hands upon a leather harness it wore. Twenty meters to his left and a few higher, Larick was similarly mounted upon one of the leathern-winged creatures. He glanced occasionally at Pol, who maintained an impassive attitude. A number of bright strands, visible at the second seeing, ran between them. Pol wondered how difficult it might be to kill the other when the time finally came. He decided that magic was too slow and uncertain a thing when employed against another sorcerer. He decided to strike quickly, with full violence and without warning once he had learned what he needed to know and could afford to dispense with the man. It would be foolhardy to leave enemies of his sort alive.

  The sun was about to cut the throat of another day in the west and the moon had long since risen—a pale rag tossed above cloud-crests, brightening now over rough and shadowed land—as north and west they headed, long necks of their dark mounts extended, vanes outstretched and occasionally booming against gusts.

  They had changed mounts four times during the day, finding the fresh ones magically tethered at a series of high locales. Pol’s shoulder and leg muscles had long before ached themselves to the point of numbness. He stole a glance at Larick, who seemed tireless, bent forward and urging his mount to greater efforts. He stared ahead as if trying to burn holes through the darkening air.

  Avinconet, Avinconet . . . He had repeated the name to himself for hours, in time with the rhythms of the flight. He had answered truthfully in telling Larick he had known nothing of it, yet—

  It seemed now as if there might be some small familiarity attached. It seemed possible that there had been references in some of his father’s earlier journals, though he could not recall anything specific.

  Avinconet. Avinconet and Rondoval . . . Had there been some sort of tie?

  The sun dipped lower and the moon grew brighter—and then, splashed with daysblood, he saw it, spread across the face of one of the more prominent peaks of a distant range. And he knew that he knew it.

  Avinconet was the castle of his dreams, through which he had passed on his way to the Gate. Somehow, he had known all along that it was a real place. But seeing it . . . Seeing it gave rise to a train of disturbing sensations. He found himself anxious to enter the place, to locate the Gate. There was something that he had to do there, wanted to do, despite a reflex squeamishness at the very thought of the Gate. Yet, precisely what that action was, he could not say.

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nbsp; He watched the grim architecture grow before him, paling to yellow, silver, gray-white—a huge, central keep, stepped like a terrace, bristling with towers at many levels, flanked by long ranks of attached side-buildings—surrounded by high, wide ramparts, battlemented, possessed of numerous angles, a squat tower atop each turning. Windows were lighted at several levels toward the right side of the main structure. He shifted to the second seeing and immediately noted a tremendous massing of strands high in the air above the rear of the keep. He also noted a small, pale light drifting along the forward wall from left to right, pausing occasionally, wavering.

  When they reached a position above the place, Larick swung his mount into a huge circle and Pol’s followed, buffeted by strong winds. They commenced a slow, downward spiral.

  As they descended toward the larger of a number of courtyards toward the rear, Pol continued to study the small light, visible only with the second seeing. It appeared human in form from this nearer distance, and there was a long, pale strand attached to it. Something about its aspect at this level touched him with a vague feeling of mournfulness.

  As they dropped lower, Pol saw that the rear wall of the enclosed area was rough rock—a part of the mountainside itself—pierced by a number of irregular dark openings, several of them barred. It was at about this point that the light upon the ramparts disappeared from sight.

  They touched down roughly and Larick alit at once. Moments later, Pol felt his strings jerked and he followed him. Larick unharnessed the beasts, shouted an order and watched them shuffle off into one of the cave-like openings. He followed them and drew upon something in the shadows. A metal grillwork dropped into place with a clang which echoed through the court.

  Larick returned to Pol.

  “We made excellent time because of the tailwinds,” he commented. “I didn’t think we’d be getting in till after midnight. He might be able to see you now. I don’t know. Ill have to check.”

  “Who is ‘he’?” Pol asked.

  “Ryle Merson, the master of Avinconet.”

  “What does he want with me, wizard?”