Wizard World 1: Changeling

by Roger Zelazny

  At that moment, the reptilian combatants rolled toward them and they fled.

  They came together among the high growth to the east, gasping, leaning upon vine and fungus-decked trees.

  "Hurry!" Pol said, extending his hand. "The rod! I need it!"

  Mouseglove passed it to him, a thin, long section, sculpted with clouds, the moon, stars and a celestial palace set above them, angelic spirits passing through the high places. Pol dropped it twice before he succeeded in fitting it into place at the end of the other sections. The feeling of power that washed over him as he did so was immense. It steadied his hands as it made his head swirl. He straightened.

  "We have to go after her," he said, facing back toward the sounds of crashing and roaring. He pointed to the left of that place. "We can move faster if we return to the clearing, stay away from the fight, skirt the jungle."

  Mouseglove nodded and put up his hand.

  "I don't think we'll succeed, but I believe that she is safe for now, anyway."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know those dwarves fairly well. She'd be dead by now if they didn't have orders not to kill her. They came here in flying ships and they'll doubtless take her back in one. They must be to them by now."

  "I thought it was me they were after--or the last piece of this rod."

  "Yes, but they'll avoid you rather than confront you now that you've got it. She was probably second choice--as hostage, possibly."

  "What do you mean 'possibly?' "

  "Mark likes her himself, you know."

  "Yes, I know," Pol said, "Fill me in later. Let's move."

  He raised the rod, and a blinding flash of white light leaped from it, cutting a path through the jungle. Without pausing, he headed forward along it.

  When they came into the clearing once again, they saw that Moonbird and the feathered serpent were locked together, unmoving, pressed up against the side of the pyramid. The dragon was still caught within a coil, and his teeth were now locked upon the great snake's side. The serpent had his fangs fixed in Moonbird's left shoulder. A portion of the pyramid had collapsed about them.

  As they turned and began to pass to their left, a sudden resumption of activity shook the ground. The singed serpent was thown flat as Moonbird, wings freed, rose into the air, his shoulder still in the grip of his dangling adversary. Pol swung about and raised the rod.

  No! The word vibrated along a green strand which suddenly sprang up between Moonbird and himself. This is between us! Stay away!

  Without pausing to acknowledge the message, Pol continued on his way toward the place where Nora had been borne into the jungle, Mouseglove close behind him. There came another roar. Shortly, he smelled the stench of burning flesh. He did not look back.

  They reached the spot where the bodies lay among the reddened grasses, Nora's blade protruding from one of them. Now that they were away from the scuffling beasts, other noises came to their ears--mechanical humming sounds from beyond the trees.

  A dark shape rose into the air some distance to the south of them. Almost immediately, two more followed it.

  "No!" Pol cried, and he raised the rod.

  Mouseglove caught at his arm, dragging it down.

  "You'll kill her if you shoot it down!" he shouted. "Besides, you've no way of knowing which one she's in. You can't afford to hit any of them!"

  Pol's shoulders sagged. Two more vessels climbed into the air.

  "Of course," he said, his arm falling. "Of course. ..."

  He turned and looked at Mouseglove.

  "Thanks," he said. Then, "I've got to go after her. I have to do what Mark wants--take things to a full conflict. He doesn't know what I've got to bring up against him, but he has to find out before he can embark on his campaign. Now he is about to learn. I'm going back there and take Anvil Mountain apart, if Moonbird can still fly. ..."

  "I've got a ship," Mouseglove said. "I stole Mark's. I can fly it. I'll show you."

  He took Pol's arm.

  As they passed the pyramid again, the struggle was still in progress with neither combatant showing any sign of weakening. Great furrows and pits had been torn in the charred ground; thick, sweet-smelling blood was smeared everywhere, and both dragon and serpent were soaked in it. At the moment, they were so intertwined that it was impossible for Pol to assess their damages, let alone to use the rod on Moonbird's behalf.

  He summoned the strand by which Moonbird had addressed him earlier.

  I must return to Rondoval now and prepare for battle, he said. Mark has Nora. Mouseglove can take me there in his flier. I cannot await the outcome of your struggle.

  Go. When it is finished, I will return.

  Immediately, the two began to thrash about again. The serpent, half of its feathers missing, began to hiss violently. Flames blossomed about it, upon it, as Pol and Mouseglove hurried by. It succeeded just then in throwing a coil about Moonbird's neck, but the dragon's claws were now raking its midsection.

  "Tell him to go for the green jewel in the thing's head," Mouseglove said. "I stunned it for a moment when I hit it there."

  Strike at the jewel in its head, Pol immediately relayed to Moonbird, but there was no reply.

  They hurried past, coming shortly to the trail Mouseglove had hacked through the brush.

  "This way," said the smaller man. "I've concealed it in a place not too far ahead. But--Pol, I'm too tired to make the flight all the way back. I'd fall asleep and kill us both."

  "Just get us airborne," Pol replied. "I'll watch and ask questions. We can take turns flying if necessary."

  "You look fairly tired yourself."

  "I am. But it is not going to be as long a haul as you might think."

  They entered a cleared area. Mouseglove paused and gestured, crossed to a green mound, began removing fronds.

  "What do you mean?" he asked. "I just made the trip."

  Pol moved to assist him.

  "You're not going to like it," he said, "but I know a shortcut. ..."

  XIX

  ...He strode past the glassed-in banks of flat-faced machines, their huge metal eyes rotating, stopping, reversing, rotating again, ceaselessly, silently, to his left. To his right, a line of men and women, seated before glowing screens, traced designs with electric pencils upon them. The rug was soft and resilient, making the floor seem almost nonexistent. A gentle light emanated from glowing tubes overhead. The abstract design upon the wall to the right changed as he passed. A soft, characterless music filled the air. ...

  ...He halted when he came to the large window looking out upon the city. Far below, numerous vehicles passed on the streets. Boats moved upon the distant river, and an airplane was passing overhead. Towering buildings dominated the prospect, and everything was clean and shining and smooth, like a piece of well-tended machinery. A certain warmth grew in his breast as he regarded the power and magnificence of the scene. His fingers tapped at a latch, and he drew the window upward, leaning forward to drink in the full range of sensations which emanated from the city...

  ...A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and he turned toward the tall, heavyset man who stood smiling beside him, drink in hand, face as ruddy as brick, red hair mingled with white, red scalp showing through....

  "...Yes, Mark, admire it," he was saying, gesturing with his glass. "One day, all of that will be yours...."

  ...He turned to look again, having drawn back slightly from the aura of power which surrounded the larger man. Something at the left side of his face clicked against the window's frame. Raising his hand to explore, he discovered a huge protruberance above his left eye. Immediately, he remembered that it had been there all along. Turning farther, with something like shame, he reached up and touched it again....

  ...His vision doubled. Beyond the window now, he saw two discrete scenes. Half of the city before him was still bright and beckoning. The other half was gray, drab, the air filled with ashes and yellowish fog-like tentacles. Raucous noises, as of the rattling of heavy
machinery rose up on that side of the split scene, accompanied by a wave of acrid odors. Moist, sickly patches of color clung to the buildings. The river was muddy. The ships' smokestacks poured filth into the air....

  ...He drew back, turning again toward the big man, to discover that he, also, had doubled. The man to the right stood unchanged; the one on the left was even redder, his face partly shadowed, eyes flashing baleful lights....

  "...What is the matter, my son?" he was asking.... Mark could not speak. He gestured toward the window, turning slightly in that direction, to discover that the scene was no longer split. The left side had superimposed itself upon his entire field of vision. His father merged also at that moment, and only the darker version remained....

  ...Gesturing frantically, Mark tried to inform him as to what had occurred. Suddenly, a dragon appeared above the skyline, Pol mounted upon its back, headed in their direction....

  "...Oh, him," the shadowy figure at his side was saying. "He is a troublemaker. I cast him out long ago. He comes seeking to destroy you. Be strong. ..."

  ...Mark stared as the figure grew larger and larger, until finally it was crashing soundlessly, through the wall, reaching for him. Then there came a knocking sound, growing louder as it was repeated. Everything began to come apart about him, and he was falling....

  He sat up in his bed, drenched with perspiration. The knocking continued. He rose and turned on the light, despite the fact that his left eye saw clearly. Throwing his robe about his shoulders, he moved to the door and opened it. The small man drew back, extending a piece of paper. "You asked to see this as soon as it came in, sir." He glanced at it and lowered it.

  "We have Nora, and Pol got away with the magical device," he stated.

  "Yes, sir. They're already in the air, bringing her here."

  "Good. Notify the force at Rondoval that he may be on his way back there." He looked out, past his new flier, into the night. "I'd better check on the status of our mobilization. Return to duty."

  "Yes, sir."

  When he had finished dressing, he withdrew the photograph from his night table and stared at it for a time.

  "We'll see," he said, "who falls."

  Mouseglove was at the controls as they neared Rondoval.

  "I don't see how you can seem so rested," he remarked, "after such a short nap. Mine didn't do me that much good--not after that damned shortcut of yours."

  He looked about the messy cabin and wrinkled his nose.

  "I seem to be drawing some sort of energy from the scepter," Pol answered. "It feels as though I have an extra heart or lung or both. That--"

  A puff of smoke appeared above the battlements.

  "What was that?" Mouseglove asked, as two more appeared.

  "It almost seems as if it could be gunfire. Veer off. I don't want to take--" The ship shuddered, as if from a heavy blow, "--any chances," Pol finished, bracing himself and seizing the rod with his right hand.

  A moment later they were falling, smoke coming into the cabin.

  "Is it out of control?" Pol shouted,

  "Not completely," Mouseglove replied, "but I can't pull it up. I'm trying to miss the rocks, at least. Maybe those trees over there ... Can you do anything?"

  "I don't know."

  Pol raised the scepter and strands were drawn to it through all the walls. To his eyes, it seemed again as if he sat at the center of an enormous, three-dimensional spiderweb. All of the strands began pulsing in time with the throbbing that rose in his wrist. The ship seemed to slow.

  "We're going to miss the rocks!" Mouseglove shouted.

  Perspiration sprang forth on Pol's brow. The lines between his eyes deepened.

  "We're going to crash!"

  A final burst of power fled from the scepter along the strands. Then there were treetops before them, upthrust branches reaching, then breaking. Abruptly, they came up against one which did not yield and they were pitched forward at the impact. The ship was torn open about them, but they were not aware of it.

  Pol came awake with his hands tied behind him and did not open his eyes, as all his recent memories were immediately present within his throbbing head. He heard voices and smelled horses. There followed a sound of retreating hoofbeats. If whoever had shot at them had ridden down from the castle, the fact that they had not killed him immediately seemed to offer some sort of chance. He tested his bonds and found them very secure. He wondered how long he had been unconscious, and he wondered whether Mouseglove had survived the crash. And the scepter... Where was it?

  He opened his eyes to the barest of slits and began turning his head, slowly.

  He flinched, just slightly. But that was sufficient. He had not expected to see a centaur.

  "Aha! You are awake!" cried the horse-man, who had apparently been scrutinizing him.

  The well-muscled human torso towered above the sorrel horse-body, long, black hair pulled back from the dark-eyed, heavy-featured, masculine face and tied behind the head in something, Pol almost giggled, that he had once known as a pony tail.

  "I am awake," he acknowledged, heaving himself toward a sitting position.

  He succeeded on the second try. He saw Mouseglove lying on his side, hands similarly bound, still apparently unconscious, perhaps four meters away, beneath a large tree. The guitar case, apparently unscathed, rested against the tree's trunk. Pieces of wreckage lay between them, and when he looked upward, he saw the balance of the flier hanging like a giant, squashed fruit among the branches.

  "Why have you tied us up?" he asked. "We've done nothing to you."

  "Ha!" snorted his captor, executing a small prancing maneuver. "You call murder nothing?"

  "In this case, yes," Pol replied, "since I've no idea what you are talking about."

  The centaur stepped nearer, as if considering abusing him. Behind him, Pol saw Mouseglove stir. There seemed to be no other centaurs about, though the ground bore a great number of hoofmarks.

  "Is it not possible that you could be mistaken?" Pol continued. "I know of no deaths hereabout--unless a piece of our ship fell on someone--"

  "Liar," said the centaur, leaning forward and glaring directly into his eyes. "You came in your ships and slaughtered my people." He gestured toward the wreckage in the treetop. "You even kidnapped one of them. You deny this?"

  The hoofs were darting and dancing uncomfortably near him as Pol shook his head.

  "I do," he said, staring back, "but I would like to know more about what happened, if I'm to be blamed for it."

  The centaur wheeled and paced away from him, kicking dust into his face. Pol shook his head, which had begun aching more severely, and he automatically called for healing strands to wrap it, as he had for his neck wound. They came and attached themselves to his brow, draining away some of the pain. He thought of his wrist then, but it was partly numbed by the pressure of the cord. He wondered whether he could manipulate strands in more complicated patterns without seeing what he was about, or whether there might be some other way to gain control over his captor.

  "The others have gone to fetch a warrior to decide what to do with you," the centaur stated. "She may wish to talk about these things. I don't. It should not be long though. I believe that I hear them approaching now."

  Pol listened but heard nothing. A purple strand settled near him, its farther end passing across the centaur's shoulder. He willed that it come into contact with his fingertips. It passed behind him, and shortly he felt a tingling in his left hand. His fingers twisted. There came a familiar sensation of power.

  "Look at me," he said.

  The centaur turned.

  "What do you want?"

  Pol caught his gaze with his own. From his left hand, he felt the power move.

  "You are so tired that you are almost asleep on your feet," he said. "Now you are, but don't bother closing your eyes. You can hear only my voice."

  The centaur's gaze grew distant. His breathing slowed. He began to sway.

  "...But you can move
about just as if you were awake, when I tell you to. My hands have been tied by mistake. Come over here and free them."

  He rose to his feet and turned. The centaur came up behind him and began fumbling at the knots. Pol recalled seeing a knife at the creature's side.

  "Cut the bonds," he ordered. "Quickly!"

  A moment later, he was rubbing his wrists.

  "Give me the knife."

  He accepted the blade, crossed to where Mouseglove lay beneath the tree, watching him.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked, as he faced the smaller man.

  "I ache all over. But then, I felt that way before the crash, too. I don't believe anything is broken."

  Mouseglove stood and turned about, raising his hands. As Pol slit the cord, he said, "Must be Mark's people in your castle. No one else has weapons like that--Uh-oh."

  The sound of hoofbeats now came to their ears.

  "Shall we run for it?" Mouseglove asked.

  "No. Too late. They'd catch us. We'll wait and have this out here."

  Pol slipped the knife behind his belt and turned to face the wood. A mental order to the centaur he now controlled moved him off to the right.

  Shortly, the figures came into sight--four male centaurs led by an older female. She halted, about ten meters from where he stood, and regarded Pol.

  "I was told you were bound," she stated.

  "I was."

  She stepped forward, and Pol started as he saw that she held the scepter in the hand which had been out of sight at her side. She raised it and pointed it at him. He saw a cluster of strands rush toward it. He issued a mental command and the centaur under his spell stepped between them. New spells suggested themselves to him and he summoned strands of his own.