“Then you must understand how I feel.” He looked again at Moonbird. “Do you have plans for them?”
“At first, I did. But now, no. I can almost understand, almost forgive. That’s close enough. The longer I let it go, the less it should bother me. Let them go their ways, I’ll go mine.”
Mark struck his right fist against his left palm and turned away.
“It is not that easy,” he said, pacing again. “For you—a stranger—perhaps. But I lived there, grew up there, knew everyone. I took them a gift. It was rejected under the worst circumstances. Now—Now I’m going to force it upon them.”
“You will cause a lot of pain. Not just for them. For yourself, too.”
“So be it,” Mark said. “They’ve made their own terms.”
“I think I could send you home—a place you’d probably like—instead.”
For a moment, Mark looked at him almost wistfully. Then, “No. Maybe afterwards,” he said. “Now it’s no longer the gift, but its acceptance. In a matter of weeks, I’ll be ready to move. Later . . . We’ll see.”
“You ought to take some time to think it over.”
“I’ve had more than enough time. I’ve done plenty of thinking while recovering from our last encounter.”
“If I could send you back for just a little while—and you rethought it in a different place—you might get a whole new perspective, decide that it isn’t really worth doing. . . . ”
Mark took a step nearer, lowered his head. His new eye hummed and the lens shone gold.
“You seem awfully eager to be rid of me,” he said slowly. Then he turned and looked again at Nora. “Might she be the reason?”
“No,” Pol said. “She’s known you for years, me for only a few days. There is nothing between us.”
“A situation you would probably like to remedy in my absence.”
“That’s your idea, not mine. I’d like to keep you from making a mistake I almost made. But she can talk for herself.”
Mark turned toward her.
“Do you want to get rid of me, also?” he asked.
“Stay,” she told him. “But leave the village alone. Please.”
“After what they did?”
“They showed you their feelings. They were too harsh, but you’d scared them.”
“You’re on their side!”
“I was the one who warned you.”
“ . . . And his side!” He gestured at Pol, lens flashing. “Magic! Dragons! He represents everything archaic and reactionary! He stands in the way of progress! And you prefer him to me!”
“I never said that!”
She took a step forward, beginning to reach toward him. He turned away. He waved his right fist in Pol’s face.
“I could kill you with one hand. I was a blacksmith.”
“Don’t try it,” Pol said. “I was a boxer.”
Mark looked up. Moonbird looked down at him.
“You think that ancient beast makes you invincible? I, too, have servants.”
He raised his left hand, peeled back the sleeve. A large control bracelet, covering half his forearm, gleamed in the space between them. His fingers danced upon the studs. The man-sized machines all turned in their direction and began to advance.
Pol raised his right hand. His loose sleeve fell back. The dragonmark moved visibly upon his pulse.
“It is not too late,” Pol said, “to stop what I think I see coming.”
“It is too late,” Mark replied.
One by one, the machines faltered and grew still, some emitting static and strange noises, others ceasing all movement abruptly, without sound. Mark ran his fingers over his controls once again, but nothing responded.
“Dad used to call that my poltergeist effect,” Pol stated. “Now—”
Mark swung at him. Pol ducked and drove a fist into his midsection. Mark grunted and bent slightly. Pol caught him on the jaw with a left jab. He’d a chance for a second blow to the other’s face but pulled the punch for fear of striking the eye prosthesis. In that off-balance moment of hesitation, Mark swung his entire left arm like a club, his heavy bracelet striking Pol on the side of the head.
Pol fell to his knees, covering his head with both arms. He saw a boot coming and fell to the side to avoid it.
Squash? Burn?
He realized that he had come into contact with the great beast.
No, Moonbird! No!
But a low rumble from the dragon caused Mark to draw back, looking upward, raising his hands.
Vision dancing, Pol saw the strands all about them. That red one . . .
From the corner of his normal eye, Mark saw the fallen man gesture with his left hand. He moved to kick at him again and felt his legs grow immobile. He began to topple.
He struck and lay there, paralyzed from the waist down. As he struggled to prop himself with his arms, he saw that the other had risen to his knees again and was still rubbing his head. Suddenly, there was an arm about his shoulder. He looked up.
“Nora . . . ”
“Please, Mark. Say you won’t hurt our village, or any of the others.”
He tried to pull away from her.
“You never cared for me,” he said.
“That’s not true.”
“The first good-looking stranger comes along you lay your claim and send him to get rid of me. . . . ”
“Don’t talk like that.”
He turned into a sitting position.
“Flee while you have the chance,” he said. “Warn the villages or not, as you choose. It will make no difference. I will be coming. I will take what I want. That includes you. What I bring with me will be more than sufficient to deal with a dragon—or a whole family of them. Go! Tell them I hate them all. Tell them—”
“Come on, Nora,” Pol said, rising. “There is no reasoning with the man.”
He held out his hand. She rose and took it.
“I suppose I would be wise,” he said to Mark, “to kill you. But she would never forgive me. And you are the son of the only parents I knew. So you have some time. Use it to reconsider your plan. If you come, as you said you would, I will be waiting. I’ve no desire to be the villagers’ champion. But there is a balance you would upset which could bring great danger to us all.”
As he helped Nora to mount Moonbird, he saw that Mouseglove had vanished. He looked about the rooftop, but the man was nowhere in sight.
He climbed up behind her. He looked down at Mark.
“Don’t come,” he said.
“I feel your magic,” Mark said softly. “I will find a way to stop it. It must be a wave phenomenon, tuned by your nervous system—”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it.”
Moonbird, home!
He felt the great muscles bunch beneath him. Moonbird was running, hopping, gliding. They sailed out over the edge of the roof and began to climb.
“He will not be paralyzed for good, will he?”
Pol shook his head.
“An hour or so. The strands are tangled, not knotted.”
“Strands? What do you mean?”
“He’s a prisoner inside himself. His body will recover soon.”
“He will destroy us,” she said.
“He’s got quite an impressive base,” said Pol, looking down. “You may be right. I hope not.”
The sun had begun its long slide westward. Once more, the winds sang about them. Below and behind, Mark’s mechanical servants began to move long before he did. He had not really paid attention to the third person to regard him from the back of Moonbird. Now, the shadowy image of the small man was submerged by the torrent of his hate for the other, passing altogether into oblivion.
Clouds passed. His lens darkened. The bracelet began to function once again.
XV
The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird with the wide-angle eye and the parabola ear followed the dragon-riders north. A series of the larger fliers followed it at well-spaced intervals, to se
rve as relay points for the spy broadcasts. So far, however, the tracer-bird had not yet gained sufficiently upon its objective that it had anything to transmit. Had it been nearer, it would have overheard portions of the story Pol had recently recounted to Mouseglove. But as it was not, it did not even hear Nora’s questions:
“I am surprised that you realized this much of your heritage so quickly, so fully. But even so, Mark has had time to build his strength and you have not. How would you oppose a large flight of those birds, and a mass of the ground machines? And I thought that I saw men back there, too. Or dwarves . . . Supposing he has a large army? Have you any plan at all?”
Pol was silent for a time, then, “There was an instrument of power which had belonged to my father,” he said. “With it, I think I might be able to command all of the, uh, resources of Rondoval. If I could get hold of it before Mark begins to move, I would have something formidable to throw against him. I’m still hazy on the geography and the political setup of this land, though. I don’t know how much territory and how many population centers he would be moving against, or what the local defense apparatus is. All of the books I have are older than I am . . . I have maps, too, but I’m not sure what goes where.”
“I can show you,” she said, “and tell you about it, when we get to the maps.”
“But I’ll be dropping you in your village.”
“No! You can’t do that! I’m afraid. He might come for me again. Who would stop him this time?”
“You might not like Rondoval.”
“It’s got to be better than Anvil Mountain. You don’t know any magic that could change him back, do you? To the way he was a few years ago?”
“I don’t think any magic can undo what life has done to a person, or a person to himself. I’m sorry.”
“I thought you’d say that. The wise folk all seem to talk the same way.”
She began to cry softly, for the first time that day. Though it was gaining, the tracer-bird did not hear this either. Pol did, but he was not certain what to say. So he stared ahead and said nothing.
It was dark when they passed above Nora’s village and by then Pol had placed his cloak about her shoulders. The stars had come forth in profusion and shone with great brilliance. Pol realized for the first time that he did not recognize any constellations. Moonbird, looking down rather than up, noted the locations of all visible cattle against his return for a late night snack.
He awoke in a dirty room far below ground level. It seemed to be one of the original ancient chambers in the rock, which the new occupants had not yet gotten around to refurbishing. Possibly it had been some sort of storeroom. It was full of junk, dust and stale air. This was why he had chosen it. It was far from the throbbing, or even the humming of the great machines, and none of the lesser ones had rattled by. As for the small, long-armed, slope-shouldered men with the low brows—they seemed to avoid this quarter.
He ate some of the food he had brought with him. He secreted the parcel of figurines beneath a trash heap.
. . . Had to leave at this stop, he reflected. Once the kid caught on, it was all over. Damned scary, the way he’d plucked the information out of the air. Good thing there was a distraction . . .
. . . How many days’ walk to Dibna? Could take the better part of a week, he guessed. Therefore, he needed a good supply of food before he set out . . .
. . . What time was it? Probably the middle of the night, judging by his internal clock. With any luck at all, he’d have the supplies by morning and be ready to move the following night . . .
He opened the door slightly and stared out upon the dim corridor. Empty. He was out, along it and up a ramp in a matter of seconds. The air grew somewhat fresher as he advanced, but was still warm. Keeping to the darkest ways available, he mounted until he was several stories above the ground. He heard the distant noises of the factories now, the nearer ones of servant machines passing on mysterious errands.
He stepped out beneath stars. There was that low structure he had not investigated earlier, some illumination within it now. Off to the left and standing higher was the building from which he had descended that afternoon. Yes. There was the bridge above the avenue by which he had crossed over . . .
He had seen Pol and Nora fly off, heading back to the north. Good that they had gotten free. He wished them no ill, particularly at the hands of that tall, red-haired man with the glowing eye. He had a fear of something even worse than magic should he fall that one’s prisoner, and he resolved to avoid him at all costs.
They may keep the food someplace around here . . .
He was attracted again by the small, dimly lighted structure. It was probably not a supply house, but it might be prudent to know what it was—situated in such a prominent position—in case any threats resided there.
He moved nearer, circling to place a blank wall between his advance and whoever was inside. His tread was soundless. He was alert for trip-wires, sentries.
Finally, he touched the gray wall, slid his hand along it, flattened himself and waited a moment. Then he edged his way to the corner, peered around it, passed beyond it, moved toward the window near the door.
Nothing. The view was blocked by some sort of equipment. He dropped and passed beneath it, hastily passed the door. He tried the next window.
Yes. There were two men, off toward the right, rear, seated before what appeared to be a group of glowing windows which he knew did not penetrate the wall. But the angle was too sharp here, and the window through which he peered was closed.
He passed on, turned the next corner, advanced even more cautiously toward an opened window. Reaching it, he dropped to one knee and looked in toward the right.
He heard an occasional voice, though it took him several moments to realize that the figures within were not speaking. The words seemed to emerge from the wall before them. He squinted, he concentrated, he breathed a few words to Dwastir.
Suddenly, he recognized one of the scenes on the wall. The peripheral screens held strangely accented aerial views of countryscape, not unlike some over which he had passed earlier on dragonback. But the central one, toward which the two men were leaning, showed, in much sharper detail, the library at Rondoval, where he had spent so many hours. It was as if he were peering in through the end windows. There was Pol at the desk, candles flickering near at hand, a number of books opened before him. Nora was dozing on the couch.
Abruptly, he realized that the larger of the two men viewing the screen was Mark Marakson. He fought an impulse to flee. Both men seemed too involved with the display to be exceptionally wary. So, checking about him periodically, Mouseglove continued to stare. The men’s attitudes, the surreptitious quality of the enterprise, both convinced him he must be witnessing something important.
Time slipped by, with Pol occasionally muttering something about the points of a triangle. Once or twice, this drew a sleepy reply from Nora.
An hour, perhaps longer, passed before Pol spoke again. He was smiling as he looked up.
“A pyramid, a great labyrinth and the Itzan well,” he said, “in that order. That’s the Triangle of Int. Nora?”
“Mm?”
“Can you find them for me in the big atlas?”
“Bring it here.” She raised herself upright and rubbed her eyes. “I’ve never been anyplace far, but I always liked geography. What were they, again?”
Pol was rising, a book in his hands, when the view was suddenly blocked by a movement of Mark’s.
Mark half-rose to scrawl something on a writing sheet, which he folded and inserted into one of his pockets. Pol’s and Nora’s voices had resumed, partly muffled now. Mark leaned forward, moving his face close to the screen.
“I’ve got you,” he said softly. “Whatever the weapon you seek to use against me, you shall not have it. Not when I have three chances—”
His voice broke. He raised a hand as if to cover his eyes, forgetting for a moment the red lens that he wore.
“Damn!
”
He turned away and Mouseglove ducked quickly, but not before he had glimpsed the screen and what might have been an embrace.
Moonbird drowsed, riding a thermal to a great height, then dropping into a long glide. When he lowered the night-membrane over his eyes, he saw another thermal, like a wavering red tower, ahead and to his left. Unconsciously, he shrugged himself in that direction. He’d a full belly now, and it was pleasant just to drift home, watching the dreams form in the other chamber of his mind.
He saw himself bearing the young master and the lady across a great desert, heading toward a mountain that was not a mountain. Yes, he had passed that way once before, long ago. He remembered it as very dry. He saw a gleaming bird pass and lay an egg which bloomed into a terrible flower. This, he felt, he should remember.
He glided into the next thermal and rose again. It was good to be out of the cavern once more. And he saw that they would be leaving for the dry place tomorrow. That was good, too. Perhaps he would sleep in the courtyard, where he could show them the carrier and the saddle come morning. They would be up early, and they would be needing them . . .
Near to the tower’s top, he spread his wings and commenced a long glide. Somewhere in his dreams, the one with the strange eye moved, but he was difficult to follow.
The sun was already high when Pol finished packing the gear. Again, Nora’s argument that she would be in greater danger alone than with him prevailed. He packed two light blades, along with the food, extra clothing, blankets . . . No armor. He did not want to push Moonbird to the limits of endurance, or even to slow him with more than the barest of essentials. Besides, he had learned to fence in a different school.
How did he know? he wondered, hauling the parcels out to the carrier the great beast had located for him.
Crossing the courtyard, he placed his hands upon Moonbird’s neck.
How do you know what is needed?
I—know. Now. Up high. Look!
The massive head turned. Pol followed the direction of its gaze.
He saw the small, blue-bellied, gray-backed thing upon the sill overhead. It was turned as if watching them. A portion of its front end caught the sunlight and cast it down toward them.
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