Madwand

by Roger Zelazny

  The fat man suddenly moved quickly and placed his hand upon the scepter below Pol’s own. Immediately, Pol felt a partial easing of the tension which had held him for so long.

  Spier’s eyes, which had been wide, suddenly narrowed. Larick came up beside Pol on the left, his hand, also, coming to rest upon the scepter.

  “You say I would use you,” Spier said, “and this is true. But they are also guilty—of the same thing.”

  Pol bore down with his will, augmented by the others’. The flame leaped forward again—and halted, as if it had met an invisible wall.

  He strove to increase his efforts and felt the others doing likewise, yet the situation remained unchanged. In fact, Spier was smiling—a small, almost sad smile.

  “What’s happening?” Pol said in a hoarse whisper.

  “He’s holding us,” Ryle replied.

  “All three of us?” Pol asked. “I almost had him myself before!”

  “My little serpent,” Spier said from across the chamber. “Although you surprised me several times, I was but testing your strength and letting things run long enough to give me the opportunity to speak with you. I see now that I have failed, and I must conclude things, though it really does my heart sore to see you put to waste. Good-bye—until some more agreeable life, perhaps.”

  He began to walk toward them. Immediately, the scepter became burning hot in Pol’s grip. He clung to it despite this, however, and directed all of their energies toward halting the man, who now seemed the embodiment of strength and assurance. He felt some resistance, but Spier did not stop, and the smell of burning flesh came to his nostrils. His head swam, and for an instant the mists seemed to roil about him and the figure to his right was no longer Ryle Merson. What was he saying?

  Spier doubled forward as if experiencing a sudden stomach cramp. He waved both his hands in small circles, frantically, the right before him, the left far out to the side.

  After a moment, he straightened, the hand movements continuing but becoming more regular now, the circles growing. He looked ahead and then to the left.

  “They’re coming out of the woodwork now,” he said ruefully.

  Pol, who could no longer tell whether the scepter was hot, cold or lukewarm, turned his head toward the chamber’s entrance.

  Ibal and Vonnie stood there. He bore a white wand. She held what appeared to be a brass hand mirror, crosswise and close to her breast.

  “You’ve roused the bloody geriatrics ward,” Spier added, glaring now and appearing fully recovered. “We’ll just have to retire them again.”

  His left hand changed its pattern, altered its rhythm. The metal mirror flashed as Vonnie swayed. Ibal laid a hand upon her shoulder and displayed his wand like an orchestra conductor at the opening of Brahms’ Second Symphony.

  “There was a time when you were good, old man,” Spier said. “But you should have stayed retired . . . ”

  He flicked his right hand suddenly and Ryle Merson cried out and fell.

  “A little misdirection never hurts,” he said. “And then there were four . . . ”

  But his face showed signs of strain, and the mirror flashed again.

  “Damned witch!” he muttered, retreating a step.

  A needle-fine line of white light fled from the tip of Ibal’s wand and pierced Spier’s right shoulder. Spier bellowed as the arm fell to his side and a wave of fire and force from the scepter swept over him.

  Clothing smouldering, he gestured wildly and the scepter was torn from Pol’s and Larick’s grip, spinning across the room and striking Ibal about the chest and shoulders as it turned. The white wand dropped to the floor as the sorcerer fell, his face already twenty years older.

  The mirror flashed again and Spier seemed to catch its light with his left hand, from whence it was reflected upon Pol and Larick.

  Pol felt it as a blow and was momentarily blinded. Falling, he struck against Larick, who was not strong enough to hold him. Both of them went down as Spier, his arm dripping blood, hair and eyebrows singed, face bright red, cloak smoking, turned toward the woman. He was muttering—whether profanity or the beginning of a spell, she was not certain.

  “My dear lady,” Spier said, advancing upon her, swaying. “It is all over.”

  Distantly, Pol heard her reply: “In that case, behold yourself.”

  He heard Spier’s scream and thought that she had finished him. But then, at an even greater distance, he heard the man’s weak answer: “Good. But not good enough.”

  But Pol was already walking through the place of mists, the form of the man so like himself at his side, telling him something, something to remember, something important . . .

  “Belphanior!” he said aloud, half-raising his head.

  And then he slumped and the mists rolled over him.

  XXI

  My world was torn apart and reassembled in an instant. Possibly I, too, was subjected to the same process. My existential yearnings were redefined and satisfied by that single gesture. The perturbations of my spirit subsided. Everything—for the first time in my existence—was made clear to me. I reveled in the moment.

  “Belphanior!”

  Belphanior. Yes, Belphanior. It fit so beautifully, like an exquisite garment tailored just for me. I turned before the mirrors of my spirit, admiring the cut and the material.

  I had been hurriedly assembled from the raw stuff of creation in this world by the sorcerer Det Morson on the day of his death—almost within minutes of it, actually. So rushed had he been by the unusually speedy advance of his enemies that he had been unable properly to conclude the work, to charge me in full with all of the necessary restrictions, compulsions and promptings. He rushed off to tend to his death without quite completing his spell and setting into motion all of those reflexes he had instilled. Or telling me who I was. Conscientious in the extreme, I realized, I had been trying to figure these matters out for myself.

  It is very pleasing to learn of one’s importance in the scheme of things.

  And it is a good thing, in a very real sense, to have made one’s own way in the world, unlike those others who came full-furnished with stocks of intellectual and emotional equipment suiting them for their comfortable niches in life and requiring never a second thought. Consider . . .

  Det rushed off. I see now why he did not release me. Not only was I incomplete, without that final pronunciation of my name, but my infant strength would have been of small use against that army of besiegers and their wizard would doubtless have put me aside, likely rendering me useless for my true purposes. For how long after the fall of Rondoval I remained, trapped by the paraphernalia of the spell in that small chamber, I do not really know. Years, perhaps; until the natural erosions of time wore away the designs which barred my exit from that room. No true hardship this; for my existence at that time was next to vegetable in character, not at all the inquiring and highly sophisticated state of mind I now enjoy. In the years which followed, I learned the geography of the place thoroughly, though I never questioned the nature of the force which kept me anchored to it—not even when I found that my modest forays into the countryside were invariably accompanied by an apprehension which was only allayed when I returned to the castle’s confines. But I was young and naive. There were so many questions I did not yet ask. I slithered along rafters. I danced among moonbeams. Life was idyllic.

  It was not until Pol’s arrival and all of the activities which ensued that anything like a true curiosity was aroused in me. Beyond the vermin and some then incomprehensible dwellers upon other planes, my only experience with sentients had come from the minds of the sleeping dragons and their companions—hardly the most stimulating intellectual fare. But I was suddenly deluged with thoughts and words, and the ideas which lay behind them. It was then that I came into self-consciousness and first began to explore the enigmas of my own condition.

  I know now that I was drawn to Pol because of his dragonmark, and any of the horde of other cues which served to identi
fy him to me at some primal level with my first accurséd master. I did not know, however, that this was a part of the design of my existence. In light of it, certain of my other actions became even more intelligible. Such as my animation of the corpse for purposes of conveying a message to Mouseglove. Such as my decision to depart Rondoval and follow Pol.

  “Belphanior.” Delicious word.

  As Pol lay semiconscious, gasping, aching, suffering from a number of burns, broken bones, sprains, abrasions., contusions and near-total fatigue, I realized that an important part of my mission in life involved his protection and I was pleased to have succeeded as well as I had, considering the handicap under which I was working. It gratified me that I had occasionally relieved the pressure of some of his more distressing dreams, not to mention sending Mouseglove after the scepter, without which he would almost certainly by now have been dead.

  Yes, it pleased me that I had done the right things when I had acted, had reached so many proper conclusions by virtue of my own initiative rather than because of any standing order I was obliged to follow. As I considered the fallen form of Larick—also under my protection—as well as those of Ryle, Ibal and the rapidly tailing lady Vonnie, I was happy to know that by extension, as allies, I could also count them as being in my care. The philosophical vistas now opened to me seemed almost limitless.

  Yes.

  With the pronunciation of my name I was immediately aware of who and what I was:

  I am the Curse of Rondoval (a technical term, that), existing to defend both the premises and the members of the House, and failing that, to avenge them.

  I look upon it as a challenging, exciting and wonderful occupation.

  It is with extreme gratitude that I now consider the fact that Det Morson, hard-pressed as he was there at the end, yet managed to find time for the creation of a good Curse.

  As I watched Henry Spier and Vonnie swaying and staggering back and forth, hurling their remaining energies through intricate and deceptive patterns at one another in a conflict to determine the fate of my charges, not to mention that of the world, I realized that, despite the forces which had been thrown against him, the man had the edge and would doubtless in a few moments emerge victorious. It was instructive to follow his magical manipulations. There was genuine artistry there, as I understood it. The man had, after all, once been a peer and close friend of my accurséd master. It was, in this sense, unfortunate that he had become an enemy of Rondoval and, hence, the designated recipient of my wrath.

  Which led me to another important train of considerations: With Det Morson dead these two decades and two heirs of Rondoval visible on the floor, who was his proper successor as my accurséd master? Larick was Pol’s senior, yet he had forsaken the family precincts to dwell at Avinconet. Pol, on the other hand, maintained his residence at the family seat and thus was more sensitive to the needs of Rondoval itself. Witness, his ongoing program of repair and renovation. The matter could, over the years, become very important when it came to the assigning of priorities in my work-schedule.

  I resolved it finally in Pol’s favor. Possibly, ultimately, a sentimental choice. While I allowed myself to be swayed by the argument from residence, I was not unaware that my decision could easily have been colored by the fact that I knew Pol better than I did his brother and that I had not approved of Larick’s earlier actions against him. Or, to put it more simply, I liked Pol better.

  I drifted near his twitching, recumbent form, and for the first time attempted direct communication with him.

  Everything is all right now, accurséd master, I reported, except for a few details.

  He began coughing just as Vonnie screamed, interfering with his acknowledgement.

  I regarded Henry Spier once more, his face twisted and blackened, as he tied the final knots of his spell. I noted, too, that Ryle Merson was awake and struggling to raise one arm. Larick and Ibal were likely to remain unconscious for some time longer. Taisa was sitting up and looking very bewildered.

  I reviewed a number of possible actions I might take against Spier, rejecting many—even the one which involved flooding the chamber by diverting a nearby underground stream, a course which possessed a great esthetic appeal for me.

  Finally, the choices were narrowed to one and the only remaining detail involved my decision as to the proper color scheme.

  Avocado, ranging to a very pale green, I finally decided.

  XXII

  When Pol heard the voice in his head, he rolled onto his side and opened his eyes. He lacked the strength to do anything more. The situation appeared virtually unchanged so for as he could tell. Vonnie seemed no longer a young woman, but middle-aged and tired-looking. Spier also looked worn, but there was still some vitality in his gestures. A moment more and it appeared that the man would win.

  There came a loud hissing sound from the back of the chamber. Spier glanced in that direction and his face froze. His hands halted in mid-gesture. Vonnie also looked that way, with identical results.

  Pol struggled to turn his head, and when he succeeded he beheld a particularly ghastly materialization. It appeared to be the demon body he himself had briefly worn, taking rapid shape beside the table—headless. In place of a head, it wore a crown of flames—avocado, ranging to a very pale green.

  Pol heard Taisa shriek. And from their changing expressions, it appeared that Spier and Vonnie each thought the other responsible for the phenomenon.

  In that moment, a bit of light fled from between Ryle Merson’s cupped hands to fall upon Spier’s breast. Spier staggered back, gesturing as if to brush it away and casting a quick glance in Ryle’s direction.

  Pol raised his hand and moved it as if engaged in a sorcerous manipulation, though the power was gone, the dragonmark still once again. Spier made a warding movement just as the voice boomed out:

  “The Curse of Rondoval is upon you, Henry Spier!”

  The flame-headed demon-form lurched forward, and Spier—all color fled from his lace—turned and seized the statuette, which he raised before him.

  “I have served you!” he cried. “Now it’s your turn! Now, or never!”

  There came a flash of light from Vonnie’s mirror, directed toward Spier, simultaneous with a heavy scraping sound from the direction of the table.

  The light from the mirror did not reach Spier. Somewhere in the vicinity of the figurine—at arm’s length before him—it appeared to be absorbed. The jewels in the statuette suddenly shone like tiny, colored fires.

  A dark shape rushed forward, racing the demon-form toward Spier. It passed the creature—a heavy wooden armchair from beside the table—passed Spier also, pivoted in midair, dropped and pushed forward, striking Spier behind the knees.

  The sorcerer collapsed into the chair, still clutching the blazing icon.

  The chair tilted backward and levitated rapidly, just as the Curse of Rondoval sprang toward it. It swung in a wide arc about the room and the fire-crowned avenger bounded after it.

  It rushed at the wall, banked suddenly, then shot directly toward the window.

  Belphanior recovered his balance, turned, and sprang after it, talons extended. He caught the edge of Spier’s long yellow cloak which trailed behind.

  The chair jerked and Spier made a gagging sound, clawing at his throat with one hand. Then its clasp tore loose and the cloak fell away. The chair resumed its forward motion, picking up speed, and passed out through the window.

  Pol heard a startled cry followed by a dragon’s roar. A moment later, there were gunshots. Then he heard Mouseglove cursing. He propped himself with one stiff arm and started to sway. He felt Ryle’s hand upon his shoulder, steadying him.

  “Easy . . . ” Ryle said. “He’s been checked. We’re safe.”

  Ryle helped him into a sitting position, then looked toward Taisa, Larick, Vonnie.

  The old woman was sitting upon the floor, the mirror at her side. She held Ibal’s head in her lap and was speaking softly, almost crooning, above hi
m. When she felt Ryle’s gaze, she raised one hand to cover her face. Ryle quickly looked away.

  Larick was stirring again. Ryle rose slowly, ponderously, to his feet and made his way toward his daughter. Pol caught only one brief glimpse of his face.

  “Accurséd master,” Belphanior said then, prostrating himself before him. “I have answered your summons. I apologize that the man escaped my wrath.”

  “What—who are you?” Pol asked, moving his suddenly warm foot back from the bowed, avocado to pale green-flamed head. “And please rise.”

  “Belphanior, the Curse of Rondoval, your servant,” he said, raising himself into a semi-erect stance.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You called and I answered. I would have dismembered him for your delight, save for that unfair chair trick.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have another opportunity one day,” Pol said. “But thank you for this service. It was timely, and well done.”

  Belphanior handed him the yellow cloak.

  “Your own garments are in need of repair. Perhaps the sorcerer’s robe . . . ”

  “Thanks.”

  Pol took it into his hands. The light fabric felt strange, yet at the same time familiar. There was a small patch of white on the inside, below the collar. He raised it and looked more closely.

  CUSTOM-MADE IN HONG KONG ran the words upon it.

  He almost dropped the cloak as he was taken by a sudden chill.

  “May I assist you, accurséd master?”

  “No. I’ll manage.”

  He drew it about his shoulders and fastened it at the neck. He straightened his legs painfully, rising upon them. The ache in his left side grew stronger. Larick, too, was attempting to rise. He extended his hand. Larick looked at it for a moment, then took it and pulled himself up. He did not release it for a moment, however, but continued to stare at the dragonmark. Then he looked up at Pol’s hair.

  “I never knew,” he said at last.

  “I only learned at the last possible moment myself,” Pol said.