Madwand

by Roger Zelazny

  When he felt that he had regained sufficient strength, he entered the blast and moved forward once more. In such fashion, he traversed the long defile, finding himself at last in the final protected area, adjacent to the forward opening of the pass. As he waited there, he considered his course of action upon emerging. He decided to move immediately to the nearer side—this being the left—upon departing the gap to prevent his being swept back into it.

  As he traveled that final distance, he caught a glimpse of a dark and ancient sea, far ahead, before he slipped to the side, was taken by the winds and felt himself hurled skyward.

  He rose at a rapid rate, and the world spun kaleidescopically through whatever senses he possessed. He was tossed upward and outward away from the mountain and then found himself falling, to be caught and dragged through a washboard-like trough of turbulence. When this ended, he fell again, his senses in total disarray.

  After a time, he slowed, and he became aware of the tugging once again. He drifted away from the region of high winds, continuing to lose altitude. Gradually, what passed for vision reasserted itself.

  Below him, sweeping down to the still sea and seeming to continue beneath its surface, was a fantastic, terraced city of asymmetrical buildings, many of them of a darkly burnished metal, extending on to the right and the left to vanish at the horizon. He was drawn nearer to this place. Towers of colored smoke redolent with heavy perfumes drifted by him. His vision was constantly tricked by the unusual perspectives, the pale light. He drifted lower and saw where demons walked with their human lovers; he heard the strange, slow music from the revolving pentagons. He moved above an avenue lined with grotesque statues, all of them turning slowly in a centuries-long figure-dance. An enormous being, chained among russet pillars, wept continually into a stone basin from which green chalices were filled by the passersby. Faint flashes like heat lightning colored the somber sky far out over the sea. He grew dizzy at the prospect; there was something new and not quite comprehensible in every direction that he looked. Such as the high, yellow tower near the seaside with the statue of the dark woman-like bird-thing crouched atop it . . .

  Then it stirred and he knew that it was no statue.

  Nyalith’s voice went forth like trumpets across the land and the sea.

  All motion below him was frozen for an instant.

  And he knew.

  He turned toward the waters and directed his course out over them, his velocity mounting steadily, the world becoming a gray, tunnel-like blur about him. He moved along that line of force which had drawn him across the world. He felt, for the first time, the presence toward which his flight was bearing him.

  Before him, there occurred a darkness at the end of the tunnel. Then, for one flashing moment, he caught sight of the great black-winged form, limned against a violet sky, lightnings flickering about it. A moment only, and then he was swept to that destined rendezvous, his newly awakened consciousness shifting and breaking apart, merging.

  He opened his beak and sent forth his answering cry across the still waters, a cry of exultation in the knowledge that he, Henry Spier, had been joined with the ancient consciousness of Prodromolu, Opener of the Way.

  He rode the winds to a great height, then dived down to regard his own reflection in the waters—shadowy birdform haloed in baleful light. Here was the power, he knew. He would summon his people and lead them across the land to the place of the Gate. There he would arouse his human body on the other side. It mattered not that but one Key was in place. This would prove sufficient with the Opener of the Way as aid, once the blood of any of the fallen was added to the spell. There was nothing now to stay the merger of the planes, the salvation of his world. He beat downward once with his wings, feeling their strength, grazing the surface of the water beneath which bright things moved.

  Then, sea-splitting tower of scale and mud, it rose before him, red eyes unwinking, wrack of the depths adorning its horns, upon whose back the rock-shelled scavengers danced among skeletons of ships and shards of dead things’ bones. And even as it reared, it swayed, the dragger-back-into-the-mud of primordial creation, Talkne, Serpent of the Still Waters, who had for eons awaited this passage and the renewal of their eternal conflict.

  Prodromolu’s wings went wide, scooping at the air, slowing his forward progress. In that instant before recovery, Talkne struck.

  Hammerlike, the head of the serpent fell against the fluttering bird, driving it down among the waves amid a flurry of feathers. Talkne plunged after him.

  Prodromolu’s talons extended like switchblade scimitars, to gouge long furrows in the serpent’s side. His beak slashed as Talkne threw a coil over his back.

  Then they were rolling over and over in the water, sending up mighty showers of spray, their blood darkening the foam as it billowed in all directions. His talons continued to slash against the side of the snake, seeking purchase there, as the coil tightened across his back and Talkne’s head darted from side to side, moved forward, moved backward, seeking an opening for a deadly strike. Above them, the skies darkened and lightened again. Far across the water, the cry of Nyalith was repeated.

  “It is a summons you will never answer, Bird,” hissed Talkne.

  “We’ve had this conversation before, Snake,” Prodromolu answered.

  For the first time, their eyes met, and both stared for a long, peculiar moment.

  “Pol?” the bird croaked.

  “Henry . . . ?”

  And then Prodromolu struck, overwhelming the slower, human personality within. Talkne writhed in the sudden spasm of his talons, but the dark wings were already shrugging water as they beat with a sound like wet sails aluff, and the serpent was rolled onto her back, tail thrashing, as Prodromolu mounted the air and strove to raise the other into his own element.

  Talkne fought back, heaving coil after coil toward the bird. But Prodromolu avoided them or slashed with his beak, never missing a beat with his pinions as he commenced a slow movement in the direction of the land, dragging the serpent after him, half-in, half-out of the water.

  The bird uttered a triumphant cry as his velocity increased and more and more of Talkne’s bulk was drawn into the air, dangling and writhing. After a time, the mountains came into view, and the world-city upon their slopes. It was then that the serpent struck again.

  Talkne’s head flashed upward, mouth wide. But the fangs closed only on feathers. The tail swung then like a great club, battering the bird. Prodromolu reeled and jerked at the blow but did not lose altitude. Three times the serpent attempted to catch him in a coil and three times failed. Again, the head came up and back, but Prodromolu parried the strike with his beak and strove for a greater altitude.

  They mounted higher into the streak-shot air. The land was nearer now, and Talkne’s weight hung limp and heavy in the dark bird’s claws. The wing-beat tempo increased and a steady wind fanned the snake.

  “Out of the water,” Prodromolu said, “you are nothing but a stuffed skin, a sausage.”

  Talkne did not reply.

  “I am Opener of the Way,” he said after a time. “I go to throw wide the Gate, to bring the breath of fresh life.”

  “You will not depart this world,” Talkne hissed.

  Prodromolu swept on toward the land, its music and incense now reaching him across the water, a crowd of its orange-robed inhabitants waiting near the shoreline to be slain, singing and swaying as his shadow drew near. He opened his beak again and cried out to them.

  As he approached the land he chose the spot with care, fled across the lower terraces and opened his claws as he banked and commenced a wide circle.

  The serpent body writhed, twisting as it descended upon the city. Where it struck, buildings collapsed and people and demons were crushed, fountains were broken and fires sprang forth from the rubble. Prodromolu’s head dropped and his wings swept back. He plunged toward his fallen adversary.

  As he struck with his talons, Talkne’s still body suddenly responded like a br
oken spring. A coil fell across his back and tightened immediately. Off balanced, one wing pinned, feathers flying, Prodromolu was wrenched to one side and then over, and over again. More of the buildings collapsed, statues toppled, as they turned, rolled, fell. They descended the terraces, the ground shaking beneath them.The singing grew louder as they dropped toward the lowest level.

  As the constriction of Talkne’s body increased, Prodromolu tightened his own grip upon it and continued to strike and tear with his beak. Their blood mingled and spread in a series of coin-like pools. Orange-clad bodies lay all about them as the bird continued to hammer at the scaly form which imprisoned him in massive bands. At last there came a slight loosening of the serpent’s coils, and the bird struck with renewed energy, tearing out chunks of flesh and dashing them aside into a small ornamental garden of silver-leafed shrubs.

  He felt the serpent go limp. Dragging himself free, he struck once again, then threw back his head and uttered a piercing shriek. Then he spread his wings slowly, painfully, and lifted himself into the air.

  The head of the serpent flashed upward and the mouth snapped shut upon his right leg. With a whiplike movement, Talkne cast Prodromolu through the air and into the water, not letting go the leg, slithering immediately after to wind about the dark bird again.

  “You will not depart this world,” Talkne repeated, driving them out into deeper water.

  “Pol!” said the other, suddenly. “You don’t know what you’re doing . . . ”

  There was a long pause, as the serpent dragged him even farther away from the shore. Then, “I know,” came the reply.

  Talkne dove, bearing Prodromolu along with him.

  The bird tore partway free for an instant and drove his beak down upon the back of the serpent’s head a bare instant before the fangs found the side of his neck and closed there.

  As the waters roiled about him and the blow from that great beak fell upon the head of the serpent, Pol felt his consciousness fading and then everything seemed distant. Even as he locked his fangs more tightly upon the other, he felt insulated from the event, as if it really involved two other parties . . .

  Thrashing frantically, he could not free himself from the grip upon his neck. As he was drawn ever more deeply beneath the water, Henry Spier felt the blackness rising and covering him over. He wanted to cry out. He reached to summon his powers, but he was gone before the necessary movement of Art could be completed.

  XX

  He was walking. The mists were rolling all about him and the figures came and went. There was one very familiar one, with a message . . .

  It was cold, very cold. He wanted a blanket, but something else was thrust into his hands. A warmth seemed to flow from it, however, and that was good. The moaning sounds ceased. He had barely been aware of them until then. He clutched more tightly at the object he held and something of strength came into him from it.

  “Pol! Come on! Wake up! Hurry!”

  The message . . .

  He was aware that his face was being slapped. Face?

  Yes, he had a face.

  “Wake up!”

  “No,” he said, his grip continuing to tighten upon the staff.

  Staff?

  He opened his eyes. The face before him was out of focus, but there was something familiar about it even then. It moved nearer to his own and the blurring vanished from its features.

  “Mouseglove . . . ”

  “Get up! Hurry!” the small man enjoined him. “The others are stirring!”

  “Others? I don’t . . . Oh!”

  Pol struggled to sit up and Mouseglove assisted him. As he did so, he saw that it was his father’s scepter which he held clutched in his hands.

  “How did you come by this?” he asked.

  “Later! Take it and use it!”

  Pol looked about the chamber. Larick had rolled onto his side, facing him. His eyes were open, though his expression was not one of comprehension. Across the chamber, near the door, Ryle Merson was moaning and beginning to move. From the corner of his eye, Pol saw that Taisa’s arm was rising. He remembered Spier’s words concerning a lapse of will, and he stared at the man, just as Spier began to sit up.

  “Are they all enemies?” Mouseglove asked. “You’d better do something to the ones who are—fast!”

  “Get out of here,” Pol said. “Hurry!”

  “I’ll not leave you now.”

  “You mustl However you came in—”

  “Through the window.”

  “Back out it then. Go!”

  Pol got up onto one knee and raised the scepter before him, staring at Henry Spier across it. Mouseglove moved out of sight, but Pol could not tell whether he had fled or only retreated. From somewhere, the smell of dragons came to his nostrils.

  His arm was already throbbing, and he gave a grateful shudder that the power had not again deserted him. The statuette still stood in position upon the diagram, facing the Gate. He rose to his feet and sent his will into the scepter. There was an answering tingle in the palms of his hands. A sensation as of a protracted, subauditory organ note passed through him.

  He felt no doubt whatsoever that Spier must die. If he let him live, he decided that he would be guilty of a greater offense than if he killed him, becoming himself responsible for any evil the man would work.

  With a sound like a thunderclap, a sheet of almost liquid flame leapt from the scepter’s tip to fall upon Henry Spier. The chamber was brilliantly illuminated and shadows ran relay races about the uneven walls.

  Then the flame parted like a forked tongue, to reveal Spier standing beyond the bifurcation, right arm upraised.

  “How’d you manage to get your hands on that thing?” he said, above the fire’s roar.

  Pol did not reply but bent all of his efforts to closing the fiery gap. Like a bloody pair of scissors in a shaky hand, it commenced swaying toward, then away from the man in its midst. Pol felt the counterpressure growing and then waning, as Spier mustered his forces with occasional lapses.

  “Your dragon outside the window, eh?” Spier said. “Must have him well-trained. Can’t stand dragons myself. Smell like stale beer and rotten eggs.”

  The flames suddenly flew wide apart, like a letter Y, then a T. They began retreating toward Pol, the arms of the T slowly curving back around in his direction.

  Pol gritted his teeth, and the flames’ progress toward him was halted. He was seized with the sickening realization that even with his powers augmented by the scepter, Spier seemed to hold the edge. And Spier’s strength was continuing to grow as he recovered, whereas his own appeared to have reached its limit. The flames began to sway again, but they were edging closer toward him. He knew that it was too late to shift to a different mode of attack, and he knew also that it would not make any difference if he could.

  “It is a powerful tool that you hold,” Spier stated slowly, as if reading his mind. “But a tool, of course, is only as good as the man who uses it. You are young, and but recently come into your powers. You are not sufficient to the task you have set yourself.” He took a step forward and the flames roared ominously. “But then, I doubt that any man in this world is.”

  “Shut up!” Pol cried, and he tried to banish the flames, but they remained.

  Spier took another step and halted as a surge of effort accompanying Pol’s anger flicked them back a span in his direction.

  “There can be only one outcome if you persist,” Spier went on,” and I do not want that. Listen to me, boy. If you are good enough to give me as much trouble as you have, you are very good. I would regret very much having to destroy you, especially when there is no reason for it.”

  There came a loud report from the direction of the window, and a bullet richocheted about the chamber. Spier glanced in that direction at the same time Pol did.

  Mouseglove, standing outside, had rested his elbows upon the wide, stony sill. The pistol, pointed toward Spier, still smoked in his hand. He seemed to stiffen, and he slid awa
y out of sight, the weapon clattering against stone as it fell.

  Pol turned back in time to see Spier completing an almost casual gesture.

  “Had I a moment or so more, I would have made him turn it against himself,” he said. “But I can do that afterwards. Firearms are such a barbaric intrusion in this idyllic place, don’t you think? I approve of your actions at Anvil Mountain, by the way. The Balance must be tipped toward more magic, where we will be supreme.”

  Panting now, Pol fended off the return of the flames, his dragonmark feeling as if it were itself afire. He knew that without the scepter he would be dead in the face of the present onslaught. Spier seemed to be increasing even in stature now, as he recovered, an aura of poise and command growing about him.

  “As I said, there is no reason for this,” Spier continued. “I am willing to forgive our archetypal struggle beyond the Gate and what passed between us here before then. I feel that you still do not understand. I am also more convinced than ever of your suitability as an ally.” He took a step backward and the pressure diminished. “A sign of my good faith,” he said. “I have made the first move toward our easing away from this in stages. Let us call a halt and work together to our mutual benefit. I’ll even teach you some unusual things about that staff you hold. I—”

  Pol screamed and fell to his knees as his entire left side was seized and twisted by a hideous series of spasms. He thought that he felt his lower ribs give way.

  Summoning all of his remaining energy, he drove it toward Spier in a gigantic psychic wedge, powered by fear, hate, a sense of betrayal, shame at his own gullibility . . .

  “It wasn’t me!” Spier cried—half in anger, half in surprise—as he was driven, tripping, back against the wall.

  “Larick! Stop it . . . ” came a weak voice from off to the right, as Ryle Merson struggled to his feet.

  Instantly, the seizure halted, though its aftereffects left Pol kneeling, aching, shaking.

  “Help him! Damn you!” Ryle cried, advancing. “That’s Spier he’s got against the wall!”