Madwand (Illustrated) (25 page)

“What of—my brother?”

“He would not go along with our plans. Ryle has warped his thinking. I suggest you permit me to banish him, perhaps to the world where you yourself grew up.”

“He is a sorcerer. He may find his way back.”

“It will be a simple enough matter to inflict a loss of memory.”

“That could be kind of rough.”

“His treatment of you was somewhat less than exemplary.”

“But as you said, Ryle influenced him.”

“Who cares what the reason may be? I am only willing to spare him at all because he is your brother.”

“Say that I give you what you want. What assurance have I that I will be of any use to you afterwards?”

“There will be massive changes, and I cannot control an entire world by myself. There are not that many Madwands about. I would not dispense with any of them unnecessarily. And you, of course, will always hold a special place, because of this assistance.”

“I see,” Pol said.

“Do you really? Are you aware what will come to pass in this world when the Gate is opened?”

“I think so. Or at least I have my suspicions.”

“It will become our plum. With the power at our disposal, we will be gods of the new world.”

Pol’s eyes moved toward the Gate, where some trick of the light made the figure of the nailed bird seem to jerk forward.

“Supposing I said ‘no’?” he asked.

“That could cause us both considerable inconvenience. But what possible reason could you have for not agreeing?”

“I don’t like being pressured into things, whether it’s by you or Ryle or the statuettes themselves. I’ve been manipulated ever since I set foot in this world, and I’m tired of it.”

“Well, as in most major matters there is only a limited number of choices. In this case, you are with me, you are against me or you want to walk away from me. Two of those responses are unacceptable and would require action on my part.”

“I wouldn’t like that,” said Pol. “But then, you might not either.”

“Are you threatening me, lad?” Spier asked.

“Just stating a possible consequence,” Pol replied.

The big man sighed.

“You’re strong, Pol,” he said, “stronger today than you ever were before in your life. You’ve passed your initiation, and your lights are all shining as pretty as can be—for the moment. No telling how long it will last, of course. But be that as it may, I am stronger still. There would be no contest whatsoever between us. You would be as a candle’s flame before the hurricane of my will. Now, I could force you to produce the Keys. But I would far rather you did it willingly, for I want you alive and on my side and wearing no special enchantment.”

“Why?”

“I’ve my reasons. I’ll tell you later, after I’m sure of you.”

“You foresaw a possible conflict between us. Something you’d said . . . ”

“Yes, I did. But it need not be. If you’re squeamish, I’ll even do the sacrificing myself.”

Pol laughed.

“That’s not it. I’d have killed Ryle only a little while ago if I could have. As I said, you’re pressing me, you’re manipulating me.”

“I have no choice.”

“The hell you don’t.”

Spier turned away, staring for a moment at the Gate.

“I wonder . . . ?” he began.

“By the way,” Pol said, “if you were to kill me, how would you get at the Keys?”

“Only with great difficulty, if at all.” Spier said, “since you are carrying them around in what is practically a private universe. If you die, it would be a hell of a problem piercing it.”

“Then your ‘candle in the wind’ metaphor isn’t quite apt, is it? You’d have to pull your punches if it came to throwing any.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I wouldn’t count on it, though. The Gate could be opened with just one Key—but it might take me a couple of years and an awful lot of trouble. Good thing we’re just speaking hypothetically, isn’t it?”

Pol crossed the chamber and touched the Gate for the first time. It felt cold. The eyes of the nailed serpent seemed to be fixed upon him.

“What would happen if the statuettes were destroyed?” he asked.

“That would be a very difficult thing to accomplish,” Spier replied, “even if one knew how.”

“But we’re being hypothetical, aren’t we?”

“True. The Gate would fade away from this plane, and you would be standing there looking at a raw piece of mountain.”

“But it is open now—or can be opened without the Keys—on another plane?”

“Yes. But only tenuous things can take that route, as you did in your dreams.”

“What brought it here in the first place?”

“Your father, Ryle and myself—with great exertions.”

“How? And how are the statuettes involved?”

“That’s enough for being hypothetical—or anything else of an interrogatory nature,” Spier said. “There were three choices—one good one and two bad ones. Do you recall?”

“Yes.”

Pol turned toward him, leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his breast. Immediately, he felt the coldness along his spine, but he did not move. The power was still there, moving within his right forearm.

Spier’s eyes widened, slightly and but for an instant. He glanced upward and then back down at Pol again.

“I know your answer,” he said, “but I have to hear you say it.”

“You ran out on my father and left him to face an army.”

Spier frowned, looked puzzled.

“He acted against my advice,” he said. “The army was there because of his actions, not mine. There was no sense in my dying with him. But what is all of this to you? You never even knew him.”

“Just curious,” Pol said. “I wanted to hear your side of it.”

“Surely you are not going to use that as a basis for refusing me? You were only a baby.”

Pot nodded. He was thinking of the thing that might have been his father’s ghost walking beside him in the misty chamber.

“You’re right. But humor me with one more question, if you will. Would the two of you have fought one another eventually, for hegemony in this new land?”

Spier’s face reddened.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps . . . ”

“Had it already begun? Were you on the threshold and was this your way—”

“Enough!” Spier cried. “I take it that your answer is ‘no’. Would you care to tell me which is your real reason for denying me?”

Pol shrugged.

“Choose any of the above,” he said. “Maybe I’m not certain myself. But I know there is a sufficiency. “

The coldness had invaded his entire body now, but he made no move to withdraw from the serpent figure of the Gate against which he leaned. It was almost as if it had invited him to position himself just there . . . 

“It’s a shame,” Spier said, “because I was beginning to like you . . . ”

Pol hit him. He summoned up every bit of the power he could muster, backed it with all of his will and hurled it at the man.

Very slowly, Henry Spier unscrewed the cigarette from its holder, dropped it upon the floor and stepped on it. He replaced the holder in some hidden pocket beneath his cloak. It had to be sheer bravado. Pol knew that the man must be feeling the force of his attack. But the display was effective. Pol felt a tremor of fear at Spier’s power, but he maintained the siege and reached for even more force to back it. He was committed now, and he felt as if he were sliding down a long tunnel which ended in blackness.

Spier raised his eyes and they bored into his own. Pol suddenly felt a resistance rising.

Spier took a step toward him.

It was as if he suddenly faced a heat backlash, as if the target of his exertions stood directly before him rather than some distance away.

Frantically, he switched to the second seeing. His vision focused upon Spier, advancing upon him, fists raised. The image of Spier, still standing in the distance, faded. The man’s face was twisted into a smirk and perspiration dotted his brow. His fist was already moving.

Pol’s concentration was broken. He ducked forward, raising his hands to protect his face. He heard a solid
thunk,
followed by a brief cry and realized immediately that Spier’s blow had fallen upon the Gate.

He dropped his hands and drove his left fist, followed by his right, into Spier’s abdomen. The blows had surprisingly little effect. The man was solid.

Even as he swung a left uppercut and felt it connect, he realized that the main pain the man seemed to have felt was in the bloodied knuckles of his right hand, which he now held in an awkward position. Pol immediately threw a right toward his face, but this blow was blocked. Then Spier rushed him.

Spier’s bulk crashed into him, driving him back against the Gate. Pol was dazed as his head struck upon it. Then Spier stepped back and their eyes met again.

He called upon the dragonmark to raise a defense as a shock ran through his entire system like a jolt of electricity. He struck out with the power he had wielded earlier, but it barely seemed to shield him against the forces the other was turning against him. He felt a pressure beginning to build, not unlike that which Ryle had turned upon him. Both he and Spier stood absolutely still now, and though he threw everything he had into the defense, the pressure continued to mount.

A throbbing began in his temples and his breathing became labored. He grew damp with perspiration, though he still felt abnormally cold. A wave of dizziness came and went, came again. He felt that he might only be able to hold Spier off for a few more seconds. His defenses would crumble, the man would place him under control, force him to produce the statuettes and then possibly use him for the sacrifice. Where was the flame which had guided him, protected him?

He seemed to hear faint, mocking laughter. In that instant he realized that this was the end toward which they had guided him. They wanted the Gate opened. If he were not willing, then they would not protect him against the one who would.

His vision began to fade as the vertigo retuned. If this were to be the end, then at least he ought to try inflicting a final hurt upon his enemy.

He placed his right foot flat upon the door behind him and thrust himself forward toward Spier, striking outward and upward with both fists.

He was surprised that his blow actually landed. The last thing that he saw before he fell was the look of astonishment on Spier’s face as the man toppled over backwards.

A wave of darkness rushed through Pol’s head. He felt nothing as he hit the floor.

XIX.

Drifting. He was drifting through blackness and silence. His only other sensation was a feeling of intense cold, but after a time this passed.

For how long he drifted, he could not tell—moments, ages . . . The sensation was not unpleasant, now that the coldness had passed. Memory required too much effort. He only knew that it was good to know something of rest, of an end to all exertion.

A gentle rocking motion began. Even so . . . It was hardly disturbing. But then motion commenced in a single direction. He rode with it, still feeling the rocking as he was drawn along.

He perceived a feint light. It seemed to be coming from all directions, but he did not wonder at the variety of sensory apparatus the sensation might require. His consciousness was growing, but portions of his mind were numb.

The light grew and the motion continued. Whatever was below seemed a pale yellow with smoky patches.

Now the prospect grew clearer, but his sense of perspective was warped. The light values were strange, and there was no way of determining his distance from the slowly resolving objects below. It was a broken land, rocky, sandy, shadowed, with wind-borne clouds of dust and low-lying, snaky mists. But there was nothing recognizable for contrast, nothing to provide a scale. Yet the place was familiar. Where? When?

He dropped lower. Were they mountain peaks or low ridges above which he moved?

And where was he going? Was he controlling his own movements, only drifting, or both? Or neither? It almost seemed—

He was moving alongside one of the larger stone prominences. Suddenly, he rounded it and the matter of relative proportions was resolved.

About ten feet below him, high on a stake, a demonic head was impaled. Something which might be classifiable as a grin drew the dark, scaly face tight. The eyes were fully opened, very black and appeared to be staring directly at him.

He felt something akin to a shudder as he was swept on past the grisly thing, with the distinct impression that it had winked at him. The wasteland fell farther below him as he soared into a twilit area of pale stars in a pale sky above the level of blowing dust. Here the wind still blew, cold, with a moaning sound, empty of everything.

Far below now, the features of the landscape fled backward. A fountain of sparks rose as if to intercept him, but he veered far wide of it. Shortly afterwards, a crashing metallic note filled the air, as of the striking of a great gong, the reverberations of which seemed to remain with him for many long minutes.

A bright meteor cut a long, slow trail above and before him; and he heard a sound like thunder though there were no clouds in the sky. His velocity seemed to increase, and the moaning of the wind rose in pitch. Far below him, the dark and light patches of the land moved in a sea of distortions, rendering themselves into momentary faces—elongate, twisted, beautiful, alien, angry, composed, bereft. He passed over a shattered city above which dark forms hovered and turned. Small blue lights darted amid the ruins. Occasionally, the dark things fell upon one and extinguished it. He passed above a black tower from whence a lovely, liquid-voiced singing emerged. A squat, many-legged creature with a juicy, cracked skin, lay like a rotten plum atop it. A brazen chariot passed silently through the middle air, driven by a dead-white being muffled in saffron, drawn by long-tailed creatures whose breath emerged in white clouds to congeal and fall as crystals upon the winds. In a moment, the apparition was gone, and he began to doubt whether he had actually seen it.