by Lyndon Hardy
Melizar rubbed his fingertips together and then looked through a collection of small metal rings mixed with the weights. He selected one from the rest and placed it on the warped drumhead, over the indentation caused by the tare. Instantly, it disappeared from sight into the hole. "Excellent," he said. "The workings of the art are not as nearby as a vault, but they are widespread and strong. The unlocking will proceed better than I first would have thought."
"Well," Ocanar demanded impatiently, "what does your reading portend?"
"That the unlocking should be now, when it is easiest," Melizar replied. "Before, I was too cautious, when there was no need. Now I know that it does not matter. There are none here who can tug in directions other than my own. Yes, I will unlock the nexus now and then be ready when the rebellion has reduced thaumaturgy to a level from which I can proceed."
Melizar bent to the ground and released the tension in the drumheads. He stored the apparatus back in the tent and then indicated silently to Ocanar that he would be but a moment more. In a fashion almost as theatrical as Holgon's, he removed from a chain on his belt a small cubical structure that was painted with a crosshatching of smaller squares.
No, not painted squares, Jemidon thought as he watched Melizar manipulate the solid, twisting faces in a series of rapid rotations that his eye could barely follow. It was a collection of smaller cubes, bound together and yet able to move in several independent directions, creating and destroying intricate patterns as they came together in varying juxtapositions. There were six sides and six different colors on the small cubes. Could the structure be manipulated so that-
Just as the thought formed, Jemidon saw Melizar stop and display the solid for all the onlookers to see. The random patterns of the small, colored squares on the faces of the larger cube were now all homogeneous. In less than the time one could hold his breath, Melizar had solved the unusual puzzle.
Puzzle? Jemidon frowned at why he thought of the cube in that way. It was a puzzle, yes, but certainly of much greater significance than that. And what sort of mechanism inside would allow the small cubes in the corners to rotate about three independent axes-?
Jemidon gasped. The impending uneasiness that had forced him to sit roared suddenly through his being like a wild wind. He was aware of a great snap that released some inner restraint and cast him adrift. Like a swimmer struggling against the current for the shore, he felt himself swept away. Like one diving off a cliff in a dizzying spin, he sensed a tingling thrill radiate out from the pit of his stomach to his fingertips.
Jemidon closed his eyes, but it did not help. Coins, changers, cube puzzles, all danced in his head, streaking by faster and faster, becoming glowing blurs that fused into a distant background with no landmarks. Jemidon clutched his arms around his chest tighter and slowly rocked back and forth. With deliberate effort, he breathed deeply and tried to blot out the dizzying thoughts. The words of Melizar and the others dimmed as he concentrated. He was missing the preparations for the battle, but he did not care.
Onward he seemed to streak, lashing out to grab at the formless glows as they sped by. With numbing impact, they ripped through his hands as he continued on his way. Jemidon strained to strengthen his grip and, after countless failures, held one for a moment, before his fingers let go. His body seemed to whip around, losing some of its momentum and slowing its mad rush. He reached out and held onto the next a little longer, pulling the glow along, his fingers slowly sliding off its rough and bumpy surface. Again and again, in the image in his mind, he flailed his arms to grasp the blobs and, with each successful contact, he decreased the blinding rush. The forms took on detail and shape, as individual coins, changers, and cubes, each with a unique structure differentiated from the shapeless glows farther away. He seemed to slow to a fast run, then to a trot, and finally to a gentle drift that carried him along.
Gradually, after how long a struggle he could not tell, Jemidon opened his eyes. The sense of motion persisted, but with a much lower intensity. He still felt as if he were falling, but the acceleration was not nearly as great as it had been at first. The images of the streaking lights faded into the background of the reality around him. Melizar and the tent were gone, presumably back over the hilltop. Both Ocanar's and Pelinad's bands were in their separate camps. Jemidon looked up at the one man standing patiently before him.
"If you are finished with the dreaming, then I have a suggestion," his father said. "Ask to be that Melizar's apprentice. Perhaps he can teach you a thing or two."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Pendulum Swings
JEMIDON stirred uneasily and flexed his cramped muscles. The advance scouts had moved through the pass at dawn. The main body of the troop from Searoyal should have marched into the ambush over an hour ago. But the road winding down the mountainside was clear. No cloud of dust or creaking wagon wheels disturbed the serenity of the morning.
The pass itself was still in shadow on Jemidon's right. A narrow cleft barely four men wide, it looked like a deep furrow in freshly plowed ground. From where Jemidon was hidden behind the rocks at the side of the trail, he could not see all the way through the notch to the other side. Beyond the crest on the downslope that eventually led to Kenton's barony, Ocanar's band huddled in concealment, waiting for the royal companies to march by. They lay armed and ready, as did Pelinad's men across the wagon ruts from where Jemidon crouched.
Inwardly, Jemidon seethed. Why was he behaving the way he was? The object of his quest had appeared virtually as a gift, and aligned on the same side, at that. For over two months, he had pushed to achieve an encounter and now, with it in his grasp, his thoughts kept dancing aside to other things.
Jemidon looked at Canthor, slumped peacefully beside him, and shook his head. "How can you be so calm?" he asked. "You understand as well as I that Ocanar has manipulated Pelinad into an impossible position. Melizar is on the top of one of the crags which frame the pass. He will be able to shake the earth and deliver the avalanche on schedule, splitting the royal troops in twain. I have seen his prowess before. But you can make no illusion that will terrify those on this side as we fall upon their rear. Pelinad will have no special aid."
''The avalanche will be enough." Canthor stretched and yawned. "That and the attack from behind will make up for our lack of mail and sharp weapons. I will say some meaningless words and then join with the others pouring onto the trail. And when the swords start swinging, no one will remember whether the hesitation of the opponents was due to surprise or a fanciful image."
"But experienced troops from Searoyal!" Jemidon said.
"The toll will not be light," Canthor agreed. "Yet there will be enough booty in the end for those who are quick and skillful."
Jemidon looked at the scythe that was lying nearby and then at the thick-bladed sword in Canthor's lap. "Such a view is perhaps easier for one who has seen battle before," he said. "Easier for one who, at least, has the proper tools of the trade."
"Stay close and guard my rear." Canthor shrugged. "You will fare as well as I. And speak no more of tools. My head is full of your babble about drums and weights."
"I cannot help it," Jemidon said. "My thoughts keep circling what I have seen. Like a rhyme that persists in your head, the images remain fresh and do not fade. You see, the distortion of the drumhead must indicate the degree a craft is being exercised. When Melizar placed a tare on the one that he said represented sorcery, it remained flat. That is reasonable enough, since, except for one of his followers, there are none who know how to practice it. But the drum for thaumaturgy became a deep cone. The art was widespread, he said. It seems clear, once you think of it. What else can it mean?"
"Why speculate when the answers are so near?" Canthor asked. "You had a whole day to ask this Melizar of his craft and yet you did not. He is an ally. We strike for a common cause. At worst, he would refuse the request. Anything else would teach you more than you know now."
"So says my father." Jemidon sighed. "So cry
my memories of Kenton's feast hall and the fields of wheat. And Melizar is the very reason I have returned to the land of my birth."
He paused and tried to sort out his feetings. "And yet, now that I have the opportunity, I am indeed quite hesitant. Somehow, I do not trust this strange one; yesterday, just his presence made me uncomfortable. In truth, his skills I long desperately to know. But now, now that I have experienced him more, something tells me that they must be ferreted away, not received as a gift."
Jemidon hesitated a second time and then smiled. "Besides, I have not done so badly on my own." He numbered the facts on his fingertips, "The first change in sorcery took place on Morgana; nowhere else in all of Arcadia was the craft practiced more. Magic has been nullified on Pluton, where the hoards of tokens were greatest. Here in the wheatlands, thaumaturgy dominates the other crafts. We have seen his use of the drums. It is as if Melizar seeks out where the concentration of the arts is strongest; somehow it makes the changes easier to come about."
"You have the heart of a master and not that of a warrior, to be sure." Canthor laughed. "All of your kind place so much importance on your secrets. And yet, what is the value of any of your efforts in the end? Petty entertainments, bookkeeping devices for trade, machines for the harvest. If not with your arts, then by some other means the same results would have been achieved."
Canthor patted the hilt of his sword. "Even in battle, it is still muscle and bone that determine the final result. Illusions of great monsters or slides of rock perturb the outcome this way or that, but in the end, a blade is in your gut or it is not. It is the warriors who sit on the thrones of Arcadia, Procolon across the sea, and the other kingdoms. Warriors are kings, and not the masters. Why, even the archmage commands only a small guard and a modest house of stone.
"Yes, embrace this Melizar. Learn what you can. In the end, he will be an advisor like the others, bowing deeply to some baron and scrambling for the gold that drops to the floor."
"If it is so simple, then why did I feel such uneasiness yesterday when he was near?" Jemidon insisted, but Canthor stopped paying attention. The warrior put a finger to his lips and pointed down the trail.
Jemidon turned and saw a puff of dust billowing lazily skyward. The royal troop was coming at last. He felt the muscles in his face tighten. The feeling of drifting was still in his stomach, but it faded into an uncomfortable dimness. Now there were more immediate concerns than Melizar's manipulations with the drums.
Eventually, the marching column came into view. Triple file across the trail, the men-at-arms snaked into the cleft of the pass. A mounted commander, with pennant bearers stepping smartly at either side, led the procession. In full armor, he prodded his sweating horse up the incline. Behind the leading officers came the first company. On foot and dressed in mail, they breathed heavily from the labor of the climb.
Jemidon tensed as the head of the troop disappeared from view. After the second of the four companies had gone by, the rocks were to tumble. Each of the two outlaw bands would fall upon those on its side of the pass and then come to the aid of the other, if it were able to. The last of the first company entered the notch, and Jemidon waited expectantly for the next to follow.
But suddenly, just as the pennant bearers of the second group approached, the ground shook. A grinding rumble filled the air.
"Avalanche! Look out!" Jemidon heard someone shout. The flag carriers threw down their standards and turned to run. Small rocks and then heavier boulders began to rain down from above. Streaks of blurring gray fell from the cliffs. The groans of breaking stone and then of wounded men sounded over the deep, teeth-shaking rumble. Clouds of white and dirty brown billowed from the crest of the pass.
One pennant bearer was hit in the shoulder by a rock ricocheting in a flat arc, but he managed to stagger back before the larger boulders smashed him to the ground. In momentary confusion, the marching column stopped in the swell of dust and noise.
A horn sounded from the cover on the other side of the trail, and Pelinad's band jumped to the attack. With swords raised high, they thundered into the third company's flank.
"But Melizar was supposed to wait until two companies had passed through!" Jemidon shouted to Canthor. "And you were to stage your glamour among the wagons from behind! Now Pelinad charges on the side, rather than into the rear."
"A misbegotten plan, to be sure," Canthor said, suddenly alert. "Leave it to a practicer of the arts to bungle what chance we had." He grabbed his blade, bounded around the rock, and looked up and down the trail. "Quickly, follow me," he said after a moment. "With three companies rather than two, the line is too long; we are blocked from the others. But despite Pelinad's odds, we will fare better on his side of the trail than here. There is no time for a pretense of sorcery. Our hope will be to circle through the confusion of the avalanche, if we can."
Jemidon scooped up the scythe and ran after the bailiff as Canthor scrambled toward the pass. The attention of the royal troops was focused on the charge of Pelinad's men, and no one noticed them in the swirling dust. With practiced precision, the middle company turned its shields to meet Pelinad's attack, while the ones on either side made ready to engulf the flanks as the ragged tine drew closer. Soon the rumble of the rock was replaced by the clang of steel and cries of pain.
Canthor jumped among the boulders with an agility that belied his age. He headed directly for the broken rock that had spilled out of the confines of the pass. The royal troops were giving the area a wide berth. In the confusion, Jemidon and the bailiff managed to reach the edge of the rubble before they were noticed. Without slowing, they climbed onto the fresh talus and began to scramble toward the other side of the trail.
But three-quarters of the way across, they were spotted by a pennant bearer. Before Canthor could reach him, he cried out an alarm. In answer, half a dozen men-at-arms turned from the rearmost line and started to climb the rubble. As they approached, Jemidon flung out the scythe at arm's length and struck the nearest in the temple. Two more closed on Canthor, who slashed with his blade, biting deep into the wrist of the one on the right. Undaunted, the other four pressed forward, one waving an axe, and Canthor stepped back in order not to expose his side. Watching the bailiff out of the comer of his eye, Jemidon retreated as well, taking a few steps up the slope.
One of the men-at-arms tried to circle from the left. Jemidon picked up a jagged rock at his feet and threw it squarely into the attacker's face, breaking his nose with a splash of blood. The remaining attackers continued forward, waving their swords in menacing arcs. Jemidon found himself retreating farther up the jumble of rocks, swinging the long scythe back and forth as best he could.
As he retreated, Jemidon jabbed tentatively point first, using the shaft like a pike. The man he faced reacted swiftly. Before Jemidon realized his mistake, a slashing sword hacked the blade from the head of the pole. Jemidon instinctively jabbed a second time, but saw his adversary continue forward, this time removing two more feet from the shaft. Jemidon threw the useless pole aside and turned to look at Canthor, to see what he should do. But as he watched, the bailiff stumbled on loose rock and fell onto his back, his sword sailing out of his hand.
The man-at-arms on the left ran forward, seeing his advantage, and swung his axe high over his head for a fatal plunge. Canthor threw his hand upward in a desperate attempt to ward off the blow, his eyes wide with the image of death. Then, like a drowning man grasping at leaves on the surface of a lake, he sang one of the sorcerers' chants. The three recitals tripped from his tongue faster than Jemidon had ever heard a glamour spoken before. He recognized it as the illusion for a windstorm. He saw Canthor scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles and throw them in the axeman's face.
Then, as Canthor threw, Jemidon experienced a great lurching in his stomach. The feeling of drifting that had been submerged by the danger of battle boiled upward from where it had been pushed away. With a breathtaking blur, Jemidon felt himself flung across some measureless space an
d time. His senses reeled. He was overcome by the same disorientation he had felt in the presence of Melizar and his drums.
As suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished. Like a speeding arrow wrenched from the air in midflight, he jarred back into focus. His stomach was calm, the sense of falling was gone; everything was sharp and clear. It had all happened in an instant, and Jemidon blinked in surprise. He looked at Canthor's adversary and saw the man clutching his face and staggering backward, the axe flung aside on the rocks.
"The sand, the wind!" the man-at-arms shrieked. "It is worse than the high desert. We will all be buried alive!"
Canthor turned to face the others, who now approached with hesitation, looking at their comrade out of the corners of their eyes. Then they, too, dropped their weapons and staggered back. One threw up his forearm across his face. The other dropped to his knees, burying his head in his hands. Canthor turned questioningly to Jemidon. As their eyes met, Jemidon felt a sudden rush of skin-blistering wind and the bombardment of stinging sand,
"What is happening?" Canthor asked. "I do not know why I spoke as I did. It is strange what a man will say when he thinks the words are his last."
"Louder," Jemidon gasped. "Speak louder so I can locate where you stand." He staggered forward, arms across his face, hunched against what seemed like a buffeting gale. His ears roared with a deafening whir that almost drowned out all other sound.
"What nonsense is this?" Canthor persisted. "Stand straight and grab a weapon. We are not yet through."
"It is your charm," Jemidon shouted, trying to hear his own voice above the windscream that surged through his mind. "Somehow it worked. Somehow, someway, sorcery has been restored."