Madwand

by Roger Zelazny

  “Eohippus, Mesohippus, Protohippus, Hipparion . . . ” it began.

  Dust and sand rose from the ground to swirl about the small figure in a counterclockwise direction, obscuring it completely. As he continued, the spinning tower rose and widened into a dark vortex far larger than himself. It produced a low moaning sound which rapidly became a roaring. Materials from greater and greater distances were sucked into it—shrubs, gravel, bones, lichen.

  He stepped back away from its tugging force, arms raised to shoulder level, hands rising and falling. A long, wavering cry came from its center, and he moved his hands downward.

  The roaring ceased with a blurt. The swirling curtain began to fall away, revealing a large, dark, quadrapedal outline, head high and tossing.

  He moved forward and placed his hand upon the neck of the creature, unfamiliar to the inhabitants of this world. It whinnied.

  A moment later, it grew calm, and his hand slid back to the pommel of the saddle with which it had come equipped. He mounted and took up the reins.

  They were at the center of a crater which had not been present when he had begun his spell. He spoke to the sand-colored beast, rubbing its neck and its ears. Then he shook the reins gently.

  It climbed slowly out of the depression and he turned its head northward. He smiled as they began moving in that direction. Scarlet fingers reached above them from out of the east as they made their way down to a more level area and located a trail. He squeezed with his knees and rustled the reins again.

  “Hi-yo, Dust!” he shouted. “Away!”

  His tireless mount shot forward across the dawn, quickly achieving a blinding, unnatural pace.

  XIII

  They had arrived in the afternoon, Mouseglove and Moonbird, circling above the wreckage atop Anvil Mountain. Looking downward, Mouseglove, who had spent so much time there, found it difficult to recognize those features he had known. But he saw the one huge crater, still now, beside the wreckage of a tall building.

  “That has to be it,” he stated, “the place where Pol said he cast the rod.”

  It is, Moonbird replied.

  “It is said that the eye of a dragon sees more than the eye of a man.”

  It is said correctly.

  “Any of the machines or the dwarves still active down there?”

  I see no movements of either sort.

  “Then let us go down.”

  To the crater?

  “Yes. Land beside the cone. I’ll climb it and have a look.”

  It is quiet within it. And I do not see excessive heat.

  “You can see heat?”

  I ride on towers of heat when I soar. Yes. I am able to see it.

  “Then take us down inside, if you know it is safe.”

  Moonbird began a downward spiral toward the flared opening. He tightened his turnings as they drew nearer, then drew in his wings and dropped, spreading them at the last moment to ease the landing slightly. Gritting his teeth, Mouseglove had watched the rough gray walls rush by. He was jolted forward and to the side when they struck the irregular surface. Clutching at Moonbird, he turned a fall into a dismounting movement, then stood upon the slag heap, leaning against the dragon’s swelling rib cage. There was a great silence, and shadows already cloaked the declivity.

  Moonbird turned his head from side to side, then looked up, then down.

  I might have made a small miscalculation, the dragon confessed.

  “What do you mean?”

  The size of this place. I may not have sufficient room to climb into the air.

  “Oh. Then what are we to do?”

  Climb out when the time comes.

  Mouseglove cursed softly.

  There is a brighter side to the matter.

  “Tell me.”

  The scepter is definitely here. The massive head turned. Over that way.

  “How do you know?”

  Dragons can also sense the presence of magic, of magical items. I know that it is below the ground. Over there.

  Mouseglove turned and stared.

  “Show me.”

  Moonbird moved with a slithering sound across the gray roughness, the rubble. Finally, he halted, extended his left forelimb and with an enormous black claw scored an X upon the dark surface.

  You must dig here.

  Mouseglove unloaded the digging implements, selected the pickax and attacked the spot indicated. Chips flew in all directions, and he coughed occasionally from the dust he raised. He removed his cloak and finally his shirt, as the perspiration flowed freely. After a time, he assumed a statue-like aspect as a layer of gray dust clung to his body. His shoulders began to ache and his hands grew sore, as he drove the pit to a shin-deep level.

  “Does your dragon-sense,” he asked then, “tell you how deeply it is buried?”

  It lies somewhere between two and three times your height in depth.

  The crater returned ringing echoes as Mouseglove threw down the pickax.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

  I did not realize it was important. A pause. Then, Is it?

  “Yes! There is no way I can dig down that far in any reasonable period of time.”

  He seated himself on a mass of rubble and wiped his brow with the heel of his hand. His mouth tasted of ashes. Everything smelled of ashes. Moonbird moved nearer and stared into the shallow pit.

  Might there not still be strong tools about? Or weapons? From the time when Red Mark ruled here?

  Mouseglove raised his eyes slowly until he was staring directly overhead.

  “I suppose I could climb out and go looking,” he said. “But supposing I found some explosives—or one of those throwers of light beams which cut through things? It might destroy what I am seeking.”

  Moonbird snorted and his spittle flew about. Wherever it struck it began to boil and smoulder. After several seconds, each moist spot burst into flame.

  The thing was once hidden because no one knew how to destroy it.

  “That is true . . . And I’m certainly not making much progress this way.”

  He picked up his cloak and began wiping the dust from himself on its inner surface. When he had finished, he donned his shirt again.

  “All right. I think I remember where some of the things were stored. If they are still there. If I can still find my way—in all this mess.”

  He moved to what appeared to be the most negotiable face of the crater wall. Moonbird followed him, with rough sliding sounds.

  I had better begin climbing out myself.

  “It looks pretty steep, for one of your bulk.”

  You go now. I will come up in my time. I wish to be away from the disturbance.

  “Good idea. I’m on my way.”

  Mouseglove found a handhold, a foothold, commenced his climb. Later, when he paused to rest upon the rim and looked back down, he saw that Moonbird had made scant progress in his attempt to scale the wall. He groped slowly and carefully for the perfect hold, then dug in with his powerful talons, improving each niche or shelf with deep gouges before trusting his weight to it.

  Mouseglove turned away, surveying the area once again. Yes, he decided. Over there to the southeast . . . One of the places where I hid was beneath that leaning monolith. And . . .

  He glanced at the sinking sun to take the measure of remaining daylight. Then he moved with speed and grace, descending, circling, every step of his route already in mind.

  He moved among twisted girders and blocks of stone, craters and smashed war machines, heaps of rubble, shards of glass, the skeletons of dragons and men. The ruined city was very dry. Nothing grew. Nothing moved but shadows. He remembered his days as a fugitive in this place, still reflexively casting an eye skyward for signs of the birdlike mechanical flyers, still sliding about corners and automatically checking for spy devices. For him, the giant figure of Mark Marakson still stalked the broken landscape, his one eye clicking and flashing through all the colors of the rainbow as he moved from darkness to li
ght to shadow and back again into darkness.

  Crossing the fire-scored pavement beside one of the fallen bridges, he ducked through a twisted door frame into a roofless building. Within, he passed the shriveled bodies of half-a-dozen of Mark’s diminutive subjects. (He resented the term “dwarf” by which the others referred to them, since he was approximately the same height himself.) He wondered as he went by what it might be like for any survivors of that engagement—to be raised from barbarism to a highly organized level of existence and then to be cast back down again to subsisting as in days gone by, all the machines stopped. Perhaps it had been too brief an interlude, he told himself. They would not yet have lost their primitive skills. This entire experience might merely turn to the stuff of legend among them one day.

  But from somewhere—he was never to be certain where—he seemed to hear the sound of hammering; and twice, he heard the chuffing noises which made him think of attempts to start one of the great machines.

  He located the stairwell he had been seeking and spent ten minutes clearing it for his descent. Below, he followed a series of twisting tunnels down into the mountain itself, the turnings as fresh in his memory as if he had traversed them but yesterday, despite the fact that he moved now through regions of absolute blackness—the generators which had provided their minimal lighting having long since failed. He moved with a certain deliberation, his pistol in his hand. But nothing threatened him here.

  The door to the arsenal was locked, but he was able to pick it in the dark, his sensitive fingers faultlessly manipulating the small pieces of metal he had always with him. They had a memory of their own, his fingers, and he had opened this lock before.

  Inside, then. And he crossed the room and sought the racks. He filled a grenade belt and slung it, pausing only to acquire an extra supply of cartridges for his pistol after this was done.

  Departing the place, he halted, and for reasons not completely clear to himself, locked the door. Then he hurried back along the tunnels, gripping the pistol once again.

  As he mounted the stair, a touch of panic—immediately suppressed—followed by a full measure of heightened alertness, came to him. What subliminal cues might have triggered this response, he did not know, but he trusted it fully because it had served him well in the past. He halted, pressed against the wall, then commenced moving slowly up the stairway, his footsteps grown soundless through deliberate placement.

  When his head cleared floor level, he halted again and studied the interior of the wrecked room. Nothing stirred. The place seemed unchanged since his earlier passage.

  He drew a deep breath, mounted the remaining steps quickly and headed toward the doorway.

  There was a rapid movement to his right.

  He halted when he saw that it was one of the short, heavily muscled aboriginals who had manned this place, emerged from behind a slanting piece of cracked ceiling material, moving so as to bar his way. The man had on the tattered remains of the uniform those in Mark’s service had worn.

  Mouseglove raised the pistol and hesitated.

  The dwarf was armed with a long, curved blade. But it was not the inequality of arms which stayed Mouseglove’s trigger finger. The man appeared to be unaccompanied, but if there were others about the sounds of gunfire might summon them.

  “No problem,” Mouseglove ventured, lowering his weapon and thrusting it away. “I’m just leaving.”

  Even before the other’s wide mouth shaped a grin, he’d a feeling that he would not be able to talk his way out of this one.

  “You were one of them,” the man said, moving toward him, blade twitching. “Friend of the sorcerer . . .”

  Mouseglove dropped into a crouch, his right hand falling upon the hilt of the dagger which protruded from his boot-sheath, his thumb unfastening the small strap which held it in place.

  Still bent far forward, he took the weapon into his hand and began a sidewise, shuffling movement toward his right. The other advanced and slashed at his head with the curving blade. Mouseglove avoided it and raised his own weapon quickly, to nick the man’s forearm. He sidled faster and feinted twice toward the man’s chest, dodged a thrust he knew he would be unable to parry and produced a small laceration in the other’s brow above the right eye with the crosspiece of his own blade. It should have been a neat slash, but he had underestimated the man’s speed. The sudden contact with the horny brow-ridge threw him slightly off-balance and he retreated, stumbling.

  He recovered his balance, but continued the stumbling movement to scoop up a handful of broken masonry.

  Straightening, he cast the pieces at the other’s head, danced to the right and thrust. He attempted to twist the blade as it entered the man’s left side but found that he was unable to withdraw it.

  The man pushed him away and swung his own blade. Mouseglove darted out of range, snatched up another piece of masonry, hurled it and missed. The man moved toward him, the dagger protruding from his side, his blade still raised, his face expressionless. Mouseglove could not tell how much strength remained with him. Another rush, perhaps . . . ? It would be too risky to turn his back on him now, or attempt to dart by—and he still effectively barred his way to the door. He considered simply attempting to avoid him until the injury took its toll. The man had not raised an outcry, and Mouseglove was still determined not to use the pistol unless all else failed or an alarm was given.

  The other seemed to smile, tight-lipped, as he came toward him, and Mouseglove realized that he was being backed toward an outhouse-sized slab of roofing material.

  “I will live,” the dwarf said. “I will recover from this. But you—”

  He rushed, blade raised high, careless of any openings now.

  Mouseglove gripped the heavy grenade belt which hung from his shoulders, dropped low and swung it with all of his strength toward the other’s legs.

  The man toppled and Mouseglove moved. He did not spring, because the other had managed to raise his blade. But he seized the extended wrist and threw his weight upon it, covering the fallen man with his own body, pushing downward. With his other hand he caught hold of the other half of the blade and twisted, so that the cutting edge was turned.

  As he leaned, pushing it toward the other’s throat, the man’s left hand clawed upward toward his face. He ducked his head and drew back; as he did this, he felt the other’s legs locking about him. They tightened almost immediately, achieving a painful pressure. As this occurred, the left hand assailed his face again, fingers raking toward his eyes.

  He removed his right hand from the blade and raised it to fend off the attacking hand. As he did so, the right hand began to move upward against his pressure, the blade slowly turning. The other’s legs continued to tighten until he felt that his pelvis would surely crack. Now, slowly, teeth clenched, the man began to raise his wide shoulders from the ground.

  Mouseglove dropped his defending right arm and drove the elbow down and back against the haft of his blade which protruded from the other’s side.

  The man shuddered and fell back, the grip of his legs loosening. Mouseglove repeated the blow and a moan escaped the man’s lips.

  Then Mouseglove’s right hand was upon the other’s blade again, as he dragged himself free and threw his weight forward. The blade sank rapidly, its cutting edge touching the other’s windpipe and continuing downward.

  As the blood spurted, he dragged the weapon across the throat and still held tightly to it, afraid to let go until long after a series of spasms had shaken the man, to be followed by a stillness, despite the fact that his hands, arms and shirtfront were spattered and in places soaked by the other’s blood.

  He wrenched the blade away then and cast it aside. He rose, and placing his foot upon the body, drew his dagger from it and wiped it upon the man’s garments. He sheathed it, picked up the grenade belt and slung it over his shoulder, drew his pistol again and departed the wrecked building.

  Nothing barred his way as he headed for the crater, and he began feel
ing that his assailant had been a solitary survivor, half-crazed perhaps, scratching out a living and leading a reclusive life among the remains of the previous year’s debacle. But then he began hearing noises—a falling stone, a metallic creaking, a scratching, a shuffling sound—any one of which might, by itself, be taken as the action of settling, or wind, or rodents. Together, however, and coming upon the heels of his struggle, they acquired a more sinister aspect.

  Mouseglove hurried, and the sounds seemed to follow him. He scrutinized every bit of cover as he went, but detected no one—nothing—of a threatening nature. The sounds, however, increased in frequency behind him.

  He was running, however, by the time he reached the base of the cone, and he commenced climbing immediately, not even looking back. And though he scanned the rim of the crater, there was no sign of Moonbird at the top.

  As he climbed, he heard the footfalls below, behind him. A backward glance took in six or eight of the small people, emerging from the ruins, running after him now. While they bore clubs, spears and blades, he was slightly relieved to see that none of Mark’s advanced weapons appeared to have survived for their use. Several of them, he noted, wore bits of machined metal, like amulets, about their necks. At that moment, he wondered how much they had really understood of the technology into and out of which they had been so quickly propelled. The speculation was only a fleeting thing, however, accompanied as it was by the acknowledgement that primitive weapons render one just as dead as the more sophisticated variety.

  Climbing, he wondered then concerning the ghostly bond which permitted him to communicate with Moonbird. Their proximity and spell-involvement in the caves of Rondoval during the two decades of the spell’s effect had worked that linkage. He had never communicated with the dragon except at close range, though it occurred to him that now only a thin layer of rock might be all that separated them.