Madwand

by Roger Zelazny

  “It is not opening the Gate,” Pol replied. “It is having something taken from me in this fashion that rankles. You are going to have to work for anything you get out of me.”

  Ryle raised his hands.

  “It may be easier than you think,” he said. “Painless, in feet—if you’re lucky. We’ll learn in a moment how far-sighted you might have been.”

  As Ryle’s hands began moving, Pol fought down the desire to strike back. A small voice seemed to be saying, “Not yet.” Perhaps it was himself. He shifted his vision to the second seeing and saw a great orange wave rolling toward him.

  When it struck, he felt a certain slowing and then a rigidity of his thought processes. A genuine stiffness came over his body. Gone was any certainty as to what he wanted or did not want.

  Ryle was speaking and his voice seemed somehow more distant than their proximity indicated:

  “What is your name?”

  It was with a peculiar fascination that he felt his lips move, heard his own voice reply, “Pol Detson.”

  “By what name were you known in the world where you grew up?”

  “Daniel Chain.”

  “Do you possess the seven statuettes that are the Keys to the Gate?”

  Suddenly, a sheet of flame hung between them. Ryle did not seem aware of its presence.

  “No,” Pol heard himself reply.

  The fat sorcerer looked puzzled. Then he smiled.

  “That was awkwardly phrased,” he said, almost apologetically. “Can you tell me the location or locations of the seven magical statuettes which once belonged to your father?”

  “No,” Pol answered.

  “Why not?” Ryle asked.

  “I do not know where they are,” Pol said.

  “But you have seen them, handled them, had them in your possession?”

  “Yes.”

  “What became of them?”

  “They were stolen from me, on the way to Belken.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  Pol remained silent.

  “ . . . But you are to be congratulated for your foresight,” Ryle continued. “You have guarded against self-betrayal with a very powerful spell. It would take me a long time to ascertain its exact nature and to break it. Unfortunately for you, I have neither the time nor inclination, and you must be forced to speak. I have already mentioned the means which will be employed.”

  The man began another series of gestures, and Pol felt a certain clarity return to his consciousness. As this feeling grew, the image of the flame faded.

  “I have also restored your appearance, for esthetic purposes,” Ryle said. “Now that you are yourself again, is there anything that you would care to add to what you said?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  The fat sorcerer turned away, crossed the room, opened the door.

  “Larick?” he called.

  “Yes?” came a distant voice.

  “Take this man back to his cell,” he said. “I’ll send for him when the interrogation room has been made ready.”

  “You tried a coercion spell?”

  “Yes. A good one. He’s protected. We’ll have to go the other route.”

  “A pity.”

  “Yes.”

  Ryle turned back.

  “Pol, go along with him.”

  Pol moved, turning, advancing slowly toward the doorway. He wondered as he did . . . He would be passing very close to Ryle. If he were to turn suddenly and attack the man, he felt that he could deal with him fairly quickly, before the other could bring any magic into play. Then, of course, he would have to fight Larick, and he wondered whether he could dispatch Ryle before the younger sorcerer was upon him. For that matter . . .

  A vision of the flame flashed before him again.

  “Not yet,” came the voice in his mind. “Wait. Soon. Restrain yourself.”

  Nodding mentally, he passed Ryle and stepped out into the corridor where Larick waited.

  “All right,” Larick said, and he commenced walking, heading in the opposite direction from which they had come.

  Pol heard the door of the room he had quitted close behind him. One quick rabbit punch, he decided, just below that kerchief he always wears, and Larick will be out of the picture . . .

  Almost predictably, the image of the flame passed before his eyes once again.

  “Turn here.”

  He turned, then said, “This isn’t the way we came.”

  “I know that, you son of a bitch. I want to show you what your kind have done.”

  Suddenly, they passed into a familiar area, and with a touch of panic Pol realized where they were headed and what it was that he was being taken to see. He slowed his pace.

  “Come along. Come along.”

  No plan presented itself to him, but the pulse of power still throbbed in his disguised arm. He decided to rely upon the guidance of the invisible flame. Something would provide him with an opportunity, very soon, he felt, an opportunity to smash Larick and—

  Of course. His future actions came into perfect focus. He was suddenly certain as to what was going to occur, knew exactly what he was going to do when it did.

  They entered the cavern. Larick produced a magical light which traveled on before them, illuminating their advance. Pol readied himself as they made their way around to the place where the opened, empty casket lay. Just a few more steps . . .

  He heard Larick cry out. The sounds echoed from the rocky walls. His vision swam through the second seeing. Bands of bright, colored light moved everywhere. When he tried, he was able to resolve them into strands, but the moment he relaxed this effort they became bands again—horizontal, not drifting, but moving slowly upward, of various widths. After a moment, he saw that they overlay a field of vertical bands, and beyond them, diagonals. The world had acquired a peculiarly cubist structure. And he realized in that instant that he had but shifted to another mode of seeing the same thing which had always been presented to him as the strands—and he knew that there were others beyond it and that, somehow, in the future, he would always view the magical world in the mode most appropriate to his needs of the moment rather than the more restricted vision his power had brought him in the past. And he knew, intuitively, how to use these bands just as he had known in the past what the strands were for. It took a great effort to restrain himself from reaching out to manipulate them as Larick turned toward him, teeth bared.

  “She’s gone!” he said. “Stolen! How—?”

  Then his eyes took on a strange cast and his head slowly turned to his right. Pol was certain that he, too, was now into the second seeing and something in his version of it was indicating to him the direction in which Taisa had been taken.

  Larick turned suddenly and moved rapidly, heading off along the ledge. The light which had guided them remained stationary, somewhere behind Pol, spilling its pale light into the empty casket.

  Pol advanced, moving onto the ledge, holding his second sight in focus, ready to utilize his new understanding of magical processes. He hurried toward the natural light at the end of the tunnel, rushing past the place where he had hidden the statuette.

  When he came into the chamber, a chorus of voices burst upon his consciousness: “Now! Now! Nowl Now! Now! Now! Now!”

  Larick, his back to him, was bent over Taisa’s still form upon the sacrificial stone, perhaps ten paces before him. Pol reached up with both hands and seized upon an orange band, feeling his will go forth through the dragonmark.

  In a moment, it was loose and swinging freely, like a long, bright pole, sweeping toward Larick.

  Even as he made the gesture, however, Pol saw Larick stiffen and begin to turn, knowing that the other sorcerer had heard the sounds of his entrance. He saw the look of astonishment upon his face, succeeded immediately by one of apprehension.

  But Larick managed to move, and he moved quickly. His left hand shot upward, fingers knotting. He seized upon a red diagonal and jerked
it into the path of Pol’s attack.

  The force of the blow knocked him sprawling upon the floor, but he had managed to keep it from striking him. Pol turned the long shaft which he still held, and with a chopping motion of his left hand shortened it to a javelin. Larick shook his head and began pushing himself up from the floor. His gaze locked with Pol’s as Pol was drawing back his right arm to hurl the gleaming shaft.

  Larick pushed himself back onto his heels and raised both arms high up over his head. Pol cast the spear of light directly toward him and Larick dropped his arms. The bright bands which lay before him jumped and seemed to turn on their longitudinal axes.

  It was like the sudden snapping shut of a Venetian blind. Larick was momentarily invisible behind a rainbow wall. Pol’s lance struck against it and both the shaft and the wall seemed to shatter in a fountain of sparks. As these fell away, he saw Larick standing, moving his hands crossbody.

  His peripheral vision warned him, barely in time. Larick was operating two lateral diagonals like a bright pair of scissors. Pol extended both hands before him and rushed forward.

  He seized upon a vertical and thrust it before him into the jaws of the light-spell. The diagonals closed upon it, their edges halting inches from his waist. He saw a slight sign of strain upon Larick’s face as the man’s hands tightened further. The diagonals jerked nearer. He pushed even harder himself, holding them back. Larick leaned forward, straining against the pressure.

  Abruptly, Pol heaved forward with all of his strength, throwing himself backward, dropping to the floor and rolling to the side as Larick staggered back and the bands closed above him.

  Regaining his feet, he faced Larick again, watching his hands. He began circling the other at a distance of about fifteen feet and Larick turned slowly, accommodating his position to the movement. Slowly, the other sorcerer’s hands began to move in an elaborate pattern. Pol followed them as closely as he could but was unable to detect any manipulation of the magical materials as he now perceived them.

  Suddenly, Larick’s foot passed through a wide, sweeping gesture and one of the lower bands took Pol across the ankles and he pitched sideways to the floor. Cursing himself for being misdirected so easily, he struggled to rise.

  But the floor seemed to ripple and heave, preventing his recovery. As he fought against it, he realized that his weight no longer rested upon the floor, but that he now rode upon a rippling wave of the bands several inches above it. It was then that he began to realize that technique in these matters could be more important than raw energy. He could not regain his footing, but supported himself on his knees and left hand. He saw Larick’s right foot moving rapidly up and down as if pumping a piano pedal, keeping the surface in agitation beneath him. It seemed that Larick’s facility so far exceeded his that effective countermeasures were a matter of reflex to him, whereas Pol had to think for several moments to decide upon each attack and defense.

  He wondered then whether a magical attack was the ultimate answer in dealing with the man. If he could only get near enough to land a blow capable of distracting Larick from magical manipulations, he felt confident that his own boxer’s reflexes would be sufficient to deal with him in hand-to-hand fighting. If they were not, then he’d a feeling that he’d simply met a better man . . .

  The bands! They could obviously be employed to support one’s weight. So . . .

  Reaching upward, he took hold of the higher, rising bands and drew himself upright, continuing the motion until he swung free above the heaving layer. Larick’s right hand was already moving, out to the side, at shoulder level.

  Pol reached far forward, took hold of another horizontal, swung upon it, directly toward Larick.

  He was able to twist his body aside at the last possible moment, release himself and drop.

  Larick had held a three-foot blade of green light, sword-like, swung ready to impale him.

  He felt the normal floor beneath him again, and he snatched at a diagonal band of yellow light, willing it into blade-form, dragging it into an en garde position as he struggled for footing. It was the first time in this world that he had held anything like a blade in his hands—and also the first time since the end of the previous fencing season at the university.

  He parried a head cut and leaped backward, not having sufficient footing and balance to venture a riposte. As he recovered and Larick advanced, he became aware of two things simultaneously: Larick was facing him full-body rather than sidewise, and a dark oblong several feet in length had taken form upon his left arm.

  He backed away as Larick came on. Blade and shield was not normal collegiate fencing. It was something medieval—slower, more ponderous, entailing different footwork. He was not about to materialize a shield of his own and face Larick on terms with which the other man had to be more familiar.

  Larick swung his blade through a chest cut and Pol leaped backward, entirely avoiding any engagement. Larick continued his advance, Pol his retreat.

  Quickly, he reviewed everything he knew concerning the other’s techniques. Larick should be unfamiliar with the lunge; also, most of his bladework should involve the edge rather than the point of the weapon. Pol maintained a saber en garde, but began thinking in terms of the épée.

  He halted his retreat and feinted a chest cut. Larick raised his shield slightly and moved to ready his blade for a slashing riposte. Pol did not follow through, and he saw that Larick was beginning to smile.

  He adopted a low stance and beat once upon the other’s blade. The attack followed.

  The moment Larick’s blade moved, Pol was back and up, very straight and high, his weapon describing a clockwise semicircle into an overhand position, from which he executed a stop-thrust to the other’s forearm. Larick made a small noise in his throat as Pol then continued the movement through a full bind in anticipation of going in for the body past the edge of the shield.

  But the weapon spun out of Larick’s hand, and he stepped backward, covering himself more fully. Pol smiled, stamped his foot and rushed him.

  Larick raised his right arm, but Pol ignored it and threw a head-cut. The green blade came flying back from the floor into Larick’s hand, and he parried it. Pol could not check his momentum, so he increased it, crashing into Larick’s shield before he could riposte.

  As Larick staggered back, Pol chopped heavily at his weapon, knocking it aside, then kicked as hard as he could squarely against the center of the shield. Larick stumbled and Pol chopped again, knocking the blade from his hand once more. The shield swung aside and Pol was no longer in any orthodox fencing posture, but was near enough to drive his left fist into the other’s midsection.

  The shield fell away as he struck, and he cast his own weapon aside to throw a right at Larick’s jaw.

  Larick recovered, and raising his hands before his face, his elbows together over his midsection, rushed directly toward him. Pol stepped to the side and threw a left toward his head but did not connect.

  Larick dropped and seized him about the knees. Pol felt himself go off balance; grabbed for Larick’s shoulder, caught only a handful of his shirt and fell backward to the accompaniment of a tearing sound.

  “Kill him! Hurry!” the voice came into his head.

  As Pol fell, Larick attempted to hurl himself upon him but was met with a crosscut that knocked him off to the side. At that instant, Pol knew exactly what he must do.

  He raised his right hand to shoulder level, palm upward, as he rolled to straddle Larick’s supine form. His dragonmark throbbed as the blackness of the lines which separated the bands about him fled toward his hand and coalesced into a dark ball of negation, cancellation, death.

  As he swung the ball downward toward Larick’s face, his eyes jerked once and he barely had time to twist his body and hurl the death-sphere across the room, away.

  Larick struggled to rise, and he clipped him once, hard, on the point of the chin and felt him grow slack. Then he rocked back onto his heels, brushed his hair out of his eyes and
stared.

  He reached slowly forward. There, where he had torn away the sleeve . . . Larick’s right arm lay bare.

  His hand trembled slightly as he touched the exposed dragonmark above Larick’s right wrist.

  XVI

  Ryle Merson’s voice filled the chamber:

  “Is he still alive?”

  Pol ignored it, reached up and removed the bandana from Larick’s head. A single streak of white ran through his dark hair, front to back.

  Only then did Pol turn his head and regard the heavy figure which had just come into the chamber.

  “Have you slain him?” Ryle asked.

  Pol stood and took a step toward the man.

  “I haven’t killed anyone here, yet,” he said. “Who is Larick, anyway? And what is he to you?”

  “How did you come free of the spell which bound you?”

  “No. You answer me. I want to know about Larick.”

  “How quickly you forget your position,” Ryle said softly. “You may have freed yourself from direct control, but your leash is short.”

  He spoke then the words which dissolved the spell of illusion, and the human guise slipped from Pol to reveal the monster body.

  “The spell stands ready for the final transfer of which I spoke,” he said, “requiring but the proper guide-word.”

  “I think not,” Pol replied, and his will flowed forth through the dragonmark, shattering the image of the monstrous form which hung over him; his features flowed back into their normal pattern, and his hair was stirred as by an invisible wind, its natural color returning, the white streak reappearing.

  His garments hung in rags upon him and he breathed heavily for several moments, but he smiled.

  “Answer me now,” he said. “Who is Larick?”

  Ryle’s face grew pale.

  “Back when your father and I were still on friendly terms,” he said, “he gave his young son into my care, as an apprentice.”

  “Larick is my brother?”

  Ryle nodded.

  “He is about five years older than you.”

  “What have you done to him?”

  “I taught him the Art and I raised him to be a good man, to respect the decent things—”