He saw a pale blue strand drifting by, but he ignored it.
Everything shouldn't be gimmicked, he thought. Should it?
He heard the voices again, in that place where he drifted between sleep and wakefulness.
"Mouseglove, Mouseglove, Mouseglove . . ,"
Yes. It was not the first time he had heard them--weak yet insistent, calling to him--and on awakening he always forgot the small chorus. But this time there seemed more strength to the calls, almost as if he might come away with the memory, this time...
"Mouseglove!"
He began to remember his circumstances, sprawled in the secret apartment atop Anvil Mountain, unwilling guest of Mark Marakson, a.k.a. Dan Chain, taboo-breaking engineer from the east village. He was trying to find a way out, past the man's gnome-like legions and electronic spies, trying to learn to fly one of the small craft--small, yes, not like the battle-wagons with the six-man crews, two cannons and a rack of bombs he had seen take off earlier, sailing in every which direction across the sky, rotors whirling, wings tilting all about them--small, just right for himself and the jewelled figurines which would make him his fortune....
"Mouseglove!"
He was moved a jot and two tittles nearer awakening yet still the chirping cries came to him. It was almost as if...
He tried. Suddenly, somewhere inside himself, he answered.
"Yes?"
"We bring warning."
"Who are you?"
Immediately, his dreamsight began to function. He seemed to stand at the center of a low-ceilinged room, illuminated by seven enormous candles. A figure, human in outline, stood behind each of them. The flames obscured the faces, and no matter how he turned or stared, nothing more of them was revealed to him.
"You sleep with the figures beneath your head," said the one at the extreme left--a woman's voice--and immediately he knew.
Four men, two women and one of uncertain gender, out of red metal, studded in peculiar places with jewels of many colors... Somehow, they addressed him now:
"We gained power when the Triangle of Int was unbalanced by the heir of Rondoval," said the second figure--a man.
"We are the spirits of sorcerers vanquished by Det and bound to his statuettes," said the third--a tall man.
"We exist now mainly to serve him or his successor," said the fourth--a woman with a beautiful soprano voice.
"We see futures and their likelihoods," said the fifth--a gruff-voiced man.
"We have come into your possession for a reason," said the sixth--of uncertain gender.
"...For we can to some extent influence events," finished the man on the right--the seventh.
"What is your warning?" asked Mouseglove. "What do you want?"
"We see a great wave about to break upon this plane," said the first.
"...At this place," said the second.
"Soon," said the third.
"...To settle the future of this world for some lime to come," said the fourth.
"Pol must be protected," said the fifth.
"...At this point of the Triangle," said the sixth.
A map was lying before him on the floor. It was actually a part of the floor, he now realized, cunningly inscribed. It seemed that it had been there all along. As he looked, one spot grew light upon it.
"Steal maps, steal weapons, take Mark's flier and go to that place," said the seventh.
"Take Mark's flier?" he asked.
"It is the fastest and is capable of the greatest range," said the first.
"Pol isn't a bad guy," Mousegiove said, "and I wish him no ill, but my intention is to get as far away from him and Mark as soon as I can, as fast as I can."
"Your willing cooperation would make things easier," said the second.
"...But it is not absolutely necessary," said the third.
"... As our power rises," said the fourth.
"I've never had booty talk back to me before," Mouseglove replied, "except for a parrot, when I was a lad. But that doesn't count. You're asking too much. I've led a dangerous life, but this was to be my last big risk. You are my retirement security. I want nothing to do with your breaking wave."
"Fool," said the fifth.
"...To think you have a choice," said the sixth.
"You have walked a charmed line since the day you entered Rondoval," said the seventh.
"We had a part in everything that brought you to this point," said the first.
"Even our theft," said the second.
Mouseglove chuckled.
"If I have no choice, then why do you request my cooperation?" he asked. "No. Perhaps I was manipulated up to this point. Now, though, I think you need my help and your power has not risen sufficiently to insure it. I'll take my chances. The answer is no."
Silence followed. He felt himself the object of intense scrutiny.
Then, "You are shrewd," said the third, "but incorrect. The answer is merely that it would be easier for us with your cooperation. We could devote our energies to other matters than your coercion."
"We can see that you are suitably rewarded," said the fourth.
"Rewards are of no benefit to a dead man," he stated. "No deal."
"You will not like what Mark does to this world," said the fifth.
"I've never been totally happy with it the way that it is," he replied. "But I get by."
"For your own protection then, learn to use the grenades. They practice with them on the southern rim," said the sixth, neutral-voiced.
"...And get the maps," said the seventh.
"That much I intended anyway," Mouseglove answered. "But I am not going to the place you showed me and do any fighting there."
The candles flickered, the room expanded toward nothingness and his consciousness faded. The last thing that he heard was the sound of their voices, laughing.
Three flying boats approached Castle Rondoval cautiously, guns loaded and swiveling in pace with the vessels' circling movements. As the circles diminished, the first battle-wagon discharged a shot across the battlements. At this point, all three were poised to withdraw and regroup in the face of a severe reaction. Nothing however, followed.
The circling continued for the better part of an hour, though no more shots were fired. Finally, the vessels--very close, very low now--broke formation to drift about among the still-standing towers, to hover while their occupants peered through windows and damage gaps in the walls. Slowly, then, one of the three floated to a landing in the main courtyard. None of its occupants emerged immediately, and the other two ships moved above it, guns ready. A quarter of an hour passed, and nothing stirred but the leaves on the trees and a lizard on the wall.
At last, a large hatch at the rear fell open and five small figures emerged, weapons held ready, to rush for cover in five different directions, dropping to earth and remaining motionless as soon as it was achieved. After several minutes, they rose and began to move, entering the castle.
It was over an hour before they emerged, their attitudes more casual, their weapons slung. Their leader signalled to the other two vessels, which immediately began to descend. When they were down, five more individuals emerged from each of them.
The fifteen men stood about, conferring on the building's layout. At last, they returned to the vessels to bring forth heavier weapons for emplacement inside.
Later that afternoon, when Rondoval had been secured, one of the vessels departed, leaving behind a dozen men, one on permanent duty in each of the remaining ships, the other ten set to patrol the castle.
The departing battle-wagon spiraled outward, moving more rapidly than on its inward journey, ship's telescope sweeping the rocky heights and, finally, the forested depths of the vicinity. Still, it was nearly an hour before a small group of centaurs was detected in a distant glade.
The sky boat dropped immediately to a point near treetop-level, out of line of sight of the creatures. It descended into the first clear area it reached, where its engines died and its hatch opened. The five infantrymen
emerged, moving away into the trees, the pilot remaining behind with the vessel.
They passed slowly and silently through the forest, having spent basically predatory existences before their present level of culture had been thrust upon them. Now they fanned, like a well-organized hunting team, moving to surround their prey. As they neared the glade, they communicated entirely by a kind of sign language, messages passing from man to man about the circle they formed. Taking up their positions, they studied the disposition of the eight centaurs in the area and commenced a rapid and elaborate sign discussion as to target assignments. Then they raised their weapons.
The signal was then passed, and each of the five fired one round. Five centaurs jerked and bled. Two fell immediately. None of the riflemen paused to reload his single-shot weapon. Instead, they rushed forward to use the butts as clubs, only two finally drawing the blades they wore at their sides. There were only a few cries from the centaurs, but the smells of sweat and urine were suddenly strong upon the air.
One of the wounded ones rose unexpectedly, crushing an attacker's skull with her forehoofs. She was beaten down along with the three unwounded. The lightest of the uninjured had his legs bound together and hands tied behind him. Three of the remaining attackers slung their weapons and moved to transport him, the fourth reloading and covering them.
They bore their burden back through the woods, encountering no resistance. They entered and secured the vessel. Shortly thereafter, the rotors became shimmering blurs and the ship rose slowly, took its course and drifted southward, acquiring altitude, its speed slowly mounting as it passed above the deepening forest.
Moonbird flew above the dark, convoluted patterning--a large, flat design within the field of rock--at the other end of the long island from the city and its ports. Shadows cast by the morning's sun broke the scheme in numerous places, and the entire prospect caused a swimming effect whenever one stared for too long. Pol gestured as if to interrupt his vision, for countless dark strands now drifted from it, further blurring, confusing the image.
Some power lies there, beneath the ground, Moonbird remarked. This is the place?
Yes.
Pol scanned the skies carefully, then looked down once again. There was one break, at the pattern's northern edge, where the strands billowed like an inkpot dropped into an aquarium.
Take us down at that far end, where the stand of trees comes in like a spear point, nearest to the thing.
Moonbird slowed and began His descent. Pol strained forward, studying the terrain. Soon, he saw that the marked area was an elaborate, monolithic construction, the dark lines representing a continuous overhead opening presumably running the entire length of many interconnected interior corridors for purposes of some small illumination. The structure itself stood perhaps twice his height above ground level. As they slowed to land, Pol saw the single pale jade strand he sought among the masses of sable and ochre lines. A faint bellowing noise reached his ears from some undeterminable point.
As he touched the ground, Moonbird asked:
Play me one more song.
Do you fear that you will never hear one again?
Humor an old sauroid servitor. Dragons have their reasons.
Very well.
Pol uncased his guitar, not even bothering to dismount.
"What are you doing?" Nora inquired.
"Request performance," he answered, and he began a long, slow, nostalgic ballad.
Thank you, Moonbird replied, when it was finally concluded. That was soothing, and you reminded me of a story that a griffin once told me--
I'm afraid that I do not have the time to hear it now. More of those metal birds with bombs could--
Did you notice anything special as you sang?
No. What do you mean?
The bellowing sounds. They stopped.
Pol climbed down and assisted Nora in alighting. He patted Moonbird's neck.
Thanks.
"How do you intend to approach this one?" Nora asked. "The same way as..."
She had barely noticed the twirling motion of Pol's left hand, two fingers extended, slightly bent. As they moved near to her face, it felt as if a black bandage were sliding across her eyes....
Pol caught her as she slumped, bearing her to a spot beneath the branches of the nearby trees, largely sheltered from overhead view.
Guard her while I'm inside, he told Moonbird. If more of those things show up, it would be better if you stay hidden here for so long as you are undetected.
I can break them.
But then Nora will be unprotected. No. Only fight if you are discovered.
Moonbird snorted and drops of spittle fell upon the ground and began to smolder.
Very well. I can at least listen to the music.
Pol turned away and approached the high, wide entrance. A snuffling, growling sound commenced somewhere within--distant or near, he could not be certain. It shifted about him, moving, growing, diminishing.
The corridor he had entered ended abruptly several paces before him. There was a lower, narrower opening to his right and the strand led directly into it.
He halted and hung the guitar by its strap. He began to play, a slow, lullaby-like tune, into which he poured a wrist-throbbing desire to calm, to charm any listener. Several strands drifted near and he caught them on the neck of the instrument and saw them grow taut and begin to pulse in time with the music.
Slowly, he turned, still playing, and entered the opening.
He found himself in a dim passageway, a narrow band of sky visible high above him, running like a blue brook to separate into several tributaries at a place where a number of corridors met. He stood still for a time, strumming and humming, letting his eyes adjust to the lesser light. He realized then that the snorts and snufflings had ceased, though there was now a sound of heavy breathing all about him.
He moved forward, following the pale green strand. He turned right when it did, and left and immediately left again. Two more paces bore him into a circular chamber, ten equidistant doorways in its walls, including the one from which he had just emerged.
His strand led through the one to the immediate right, though another section of it crossed the chamber, stretched between two other doors. He ignored this and followed it to the right.
There came a series of left-right, left-right, then left-left, right-right turns which left him dizzy. He paused to regain control of his music. The sounds of breathing still came heavily about him, filling all the passageways, accompanied now by a strong barnyard odor. A tiny bit of cloud drifted across the blue band above him. Switching to another tune--still languid, dreamlike--he continued on.
After a time, he entered a circular chamber with ten doors, following the strand across it. He felt that it was the same one through which he had passed earlier, because of a familiar pattern of cracks in the wall, but there was no trace of the green strand passing between the adjacent doors across the way.
Then, looking behind him, he realized that the jade strand was shrinking or being gathered before him as he progressed. It was then that it occurred to him that while the force within the object he sought made it easy to describe a spell that would lead him to it, finding his way back out again might be a little more difficult without such a goal.
He ducked and squatted as he traversed a low passage--hell of a place to get caught!--and turned sideways as he negotiated a narrow one. He then entered upon a fresh series of turns, most of them doubling back upon themselves.
How long? he wondered. Surely I don't have to go through the entire thing....
Shortly thereafter, he realized that the breathing sounds had grown louder. And it was not long after that that he entered the long, low hall where the minotaur paced....
Mouseglove leaned forward again. The light in Mark's penthouse had been out for the better part of an hour, yet he had learned by observation that the sometime flashing device which had replaced the man's left eye was capable of very effective night-vi
sion. He was also aware of Mark's restless disposition, of his inclination to pace within his quarters, to burst suddenly forth and embark upon surprise inspections of his installations, his factories, the barracks, his laboratories, his fields.
Is it better to assume that sleep has claimed him? he wondered. He's had a busy day. Still, he's so full of nervous energy... He could come out at any time. Once he's off and running again, it would be easy....
More maps than he really needed were folded in the various pockets of his cloak. The package containing the seven figurines was there, also. The grenades--about which he felt even more uncomfortable, having earlier witnessed their power--hung from his belt, along with one of his daggers. He carried a parcel containing food and a pistol he had stolen.
He leaned back behind the duct again and breathed more deeply of the chill and smoky night air. The longer he waited, of course, the greater the risk of discovery by one of the gnomes or machines. He was certain that he had spotted all of the stationary alarm devices, yet there were mobile units.
Still, he realized that he could not enter the flier and secure it about him without making some noise. Even if Mark were already sleeping, it would be well to let him drift further along into oblivion.
He looked up at the stars. The moon had not risen. Good for stealth. Less good for one's first flight. He touched each grenade. He checked his supplies. He had no intention of being captured. Especially after having seen what they had done to that centaur they had brought in earlier. And he was convinced that the poor brute had not even understood what it was that they wanted to know.
Patience had long been a way of life with Mouseglove. He commenced massaging major muscles, pausing periodically to listen, to peer about him.
Over an hour went by.
Time, he decided. The belly of the night. Two hundred paces now. Slow and steady. Patron of Thieves, be with me... .
It was time to think of nothing, to be an eye, to be an ear, to breathe just so, to feel vibrations. The hatch would have to be on the side facing Mark's door....
Twenty more paces, ten... What are they burning in those factories, anyway? It bites the nose...
He circled the vehicle twice, seeking alarms. Finally, he extended his hand, touched the smooth, cold body of the ship...
Wizard World 1: Changeling Page 14
