Pol found that he could not even snarl.
“Actually,” the man went on, “that is a terrific body. You could wreak all sorts of havoc with it, if you’d a mind to. I suppose you’re rather attached to your own, though, eh?”
He raised his head, one huge eye and one small one focusing upon Pol’s own, shifting relative sizes even as he stared.
“Forgive me,” he said then. “I’d forgotten you can’t answer.”
He raised one hand and slapped Pol lightly across the mouth. It stung for only a moment, and something seemed to be released with the stinging. Pol found that his jaws were unlocked, that he could move his head.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked.
“I haven’t the time to tell you, even if I wished to,” the other replied. “It’s a long story and there are other considerations of much greater moment just now. Everything seems to be coming along nicely, though. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
“You call this ‘nicely’?” Pol said, casting his gaze down over his monstrous form.
“Well, not necessarily from an esthetic standpoint, if you happen to be human,” the man said. “I was referring to the progression of events. Larick thinks he’s got you now.”
“Offhand, I’d say he’s right.”
“That might be remedied, if you’re willing to play the game out.”
“I don’t even know the stakes, or the rules.”
“That will be a part of your reward if all goes well: answers to your questions—and answers to some you haven’t even thought of yet.”
“Such as who you are, and what you’re after?”
“That will almost assuredly come out.”
“Will I like what I discover?”
“In matters of taste, each person is of course the only judge.”
“What choice have I?”
“You may act, or be acted upon.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go along with things, find out what it is that your captor desires and decide whether that is what you also want. Then you act accordingly. Larick feels that he has you under complete control, but in a moment I will break his infantile spells. I will also reverse the moderately clever body exchange he has worked upon you, restoring to you your own vigorous, youthful—if fatigued—carcass. Then will follow the work of a true master. Freed and restored, I will disguise your body as I disguised your features, giving to it in every respect the semblance of the monster you now are. For an encore, I will then cloak you in a masking spell in all ways identical to the one which now hides your hideous appearance from most mortal eyes—”
“A disguise within a disguise?”
“Precisely.”
“To what end?”
“At some point, those who desire you in the reduced state will be sure to strip away the outer layer to behold the captive monster within.”
The large sorcerer strode forward and clasped him by the shoulders. Instantly, Pol felt something like an electric shock pass through him. His arm dropped. He sagged forward. His boots fell to the floor from where he had clutched them beneath his left arm all this long while. The sorcerer seized that arm and an agonizing pain ran through it. Before Pol could examine it, he had hold of the other. He was humming as he worked. Whether or not this was a part of his procedure, Pol could not tell.
As he raised his hands and realized that they were indeed his hands again, the man struck him a mighty blow across the back with his left hand and upon the chest just above the heart with his right. Even within the well-muscled and heavily armored form that he wore, Pol could tell that the man was no weakling.
He felt the air rush out of his lungs as his chest cavity was returned to normal. He began to straighten and the sorcerer struck him a terrific blow in the abdomen, well below the belt. The change continued in that region, and he straightened fully, massaging, slapping himself, as much for the joy of feeling his own form again as to ease the omnipresent aches.
The big sorcerer kicked him in the shins and he felt the aches, straightening and shrinkage begin in his legs.
“I must say you have a violent approach to these matters,” he remarked.
“Perhaps you’d prefer a six-hour incantation with incense?”
“I never argue with success.”
“Prudent. I now begin the first masking spell, causing you to look as you just were.”
The illusion began, growing like a gray mist about him, shaped by the flowing gestures of the face-changer’s hands. Pol felt his hidden dragonmark throb in the presence of this magic. Soon it cloaked him completely, coalescing, sinking through his garments.
The sorcerer sighed and straightened.
“ . . . And that will be all they see, if they pierce your outer guise, soon to be supplied by me. I must caution you concerning the obvious, however.”
“That being?”
“You must act as if you are still under control. Be standing paralyzed in the same position in which he left you when Larick returns. Follow all of his orders as if you had no choice. The moment you deviate, you lose your chance to learn anything further. You will probably also have a fight on your hands.”
Pol nodded. He looked down at himself as he did, seeing the monstrous appearance once again but not feeling it.
“I’ll mask this illusion for everyone else now, as Larick had it,” the sorcerer said, “but leave the appearance for you, as he also had it, as a reminder to act in keeping with it—with clumsiness and obedience.”
Pol watched the man’s hands as they commenced an intricate series of gestures.
“Do you see strands when you work?” he asked him suddenly.
“Sometimes,” the sorcerer replied. “But right now I see beams of colored light, which I intercept. Hush. I’m concentrating.”
Pol fixed his eyes on the man’s changing face, trying to guess at his true features. But there was no pattern to the changes.
When the movements ceased and the man straightened, Pol said, “You told me on that night you came to me in our camp that our interests might not be entirely conjoined.”
“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 p
receded 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 register
ed 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?”
Madwand Page 9
