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.
The female centaur’s eyes widened.
“What have you done to him?” she asked.
“Return my rod and we’ll talk about it.”
From the corner of his eye, Pol saw that Mouseglove was edging away.
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“I recovered it, piece by piece, from the points of the Triangle of Int.”
“Only a sorcerer could do that.”
“You noticed.”
“I, too, have some familiarity with the Art, though only the middle part of this rod will respond to me. Mine is an Earth magic.” She gestured upward. “Why then were you riding in that thing?”
“My dragon was occupied. That vessel was stolen from my enemy, Mark Marakson, who has many such, atop Anvil Mountain. Perhaps you have seen his dark birds, who are not of flesh, in the skies.”
“I know who he is and I have seen such birds. Some of my people were killed and some injured by men who came in larger vessels such as the one you rode.”
The strands came into his hands and Pol felt the power throb in his wrist. Still, he had no wish to face a person who could use even the middle section of the rod.
“Small men, I daresay,” he answered, “for such is the stature of the race which serves him. I have never harmed a centaur and I’ve no desire to. This will be the first time, if you force me to fight here.”
“Sunfa, come forward,” she said, and a smaller male moved from among those to the rear of the group to a position beside her. There was a long gash upon his left shoulder, and he was missing several teeth. “Were either of these men of the party which attacked you that day?”
He shook his head.
“No, Stel. Neither of them.”
Her head snapped forward.
“You know my name now,” she said. “So know, too, that I was among the force which stormed Rondoval the day this rod was wrested from Det Morson.”
Pol raised his right hand so that his sleeve fell back, revealing the dragonmark.
“I am Pol Detson,” he stated. “I have heard stories concerning my father. But I was taken from this land as a child and raised in another place. I never knew him. The past is dead, so far as I am concerned. I have only been back for a short while. I need that scepter for purposes of arousing the forces of Rondoval against those of Anvil Mountain. Are you going to return it to me?”
“In many ways,” she replied, “this is even more disturbing than your being what we had thought you. For the moment, it is good if our enemy is also your enemy. But to see the hordes that lie beneath Rondoval roused once again is a frightening thought, especially for those of us who were alive in your father’s day. So tell me, what do you propose doing when your battle is over?”
Pol laughed.
“You are assuming that I win and that I live. But, all right . . . I would lay most of my forces to rest again. I would like to be left alone to pursue my studies, and I would be happy to return the favor and leave everyone else in the neighborhood to his own devices. After a time, I may do some traveling. I don’t know. I am not attracted by the darker aspects of the Art. I have no desire to conquer anything, and the idea of ruling over anybody bores the ass off me.”
“Commendable,” she said, “and I find myself wanting to believe you. In fact, it seems likely that you are telling the truth. However, even granting that, people do change. I would like very much to see you deal with the people who feel that they can hunt centaurs whenever they choose. But I would also like some assurance that you will not one day be inclined to do it yourself.”
“My word is all that I can give you. Take it or leave it.”
“But you could give me more—and in return, your own way might be eased.”
“What have you in mind?”
“Swear an oath of friendship with us, upon your scepter.”
“Friendship is a thing that goes further than nonaggression,” he replied. “It is something that works both ways.”
“I will be willing to swear the same oath for you.”
“On your own, or on behalf of the other centaurs as well?”
“For all of us.”
“You can speak for them?”
“I can.”
“Very well. I’ll do it if you will.”
He looked back at Mouseglove, who was about to slip off among the trees.
“Stay put,” he called back. “You’re safe.”
“For now,” Mouseglove replied. But he returned.
Pol moved around the cataleptic centaur who stood between Stel and himself, destroying the spell which held him with a twisting motion of his hand as he passed. That one drew away, eyes shifting rapidly, until Stel spoke some reassurance.
“Tell me the words of the oath,” Pol said, coming up before her.
“Place your hand upon the middle section of the rod, and repeat after me.”
Pol nodded and complied.
As she began to speak the words, a series of dark strands knotted themselves about them. He felt a vaguely threatening force accumulating within them. When they had finished speaking the knots separated and drifted away, like small, dark clouds. One went to hover behind Stel. He felt such a presence behind himself, also.
“There,” she said, passing the rod to him. “We have created our own dooms, should we betray one another.”
They clasped hands.
“No problem then,” Pol answered, smiling “and it’s good to have some friends. I’d like to stay and visit, but now I’ve some monsters to rouse. Hopefully, I’ll be back.”
He turned away and fetched his guitar case.
“A weapon?” she asked as he raised it.
“No, a musical instrument. Maybe I’ll be able to play it for you one day.”
“You are really going to Rondoval now?”
“I must.”
“Give me time to raise a force, to rid the place of your enemies. Now we are allies, it is our fight, too.”
“Not necessary,” Pol said. “They are up in the castle. My destination is far below it. Moonbird—my dragon—showed me a tunnel to the place. I’ll go in that way and bypass the bastards. There is no need at all to deal with them now.”
“Where does the tunnel open?”
“Down the slope, to the north. I’ll have to do a little climbing but I foresee no real difficulties.”
“—Unless your enemies see you and go after you in their flying boats.”
He shrugged.
“There is always that chance.”
“So I will take a small force and lead a diversionary assault from the south. Two of my males will bear you and your friend to the northern slope.”
“The enemy has guns, which kill from a distance.”
“So do arrows. We’ll take no unnecessary risks. I am going to send runners now, to tell the others to arm and to bring them here. While we wait, I would like to hear your music.”
“Okay. Me, too,” said Pol. “Let’s get comfortable.”
XX
“You were with him,” Mark said to Nora, as they both leaned upon the railing to his roof garden. “What is his power, anyway, now he has that scepter?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, looking at the flowers. “I really don’t know. I’m not even sure that he was absolutely certain. Or else he was being very close-mouthed.”
“Well, I think it possible that he is dead. On the other hand, I’ve no idea how he got across the ocean as quickly as he did. He has something going for him. He was in my flier at one point—and it was shot down near Rondoval. Still . . . Supposing—just supposing—he is still alive? How would he attack me? What sort of forces might he bring?”
She shook her head and looked at him. His lens was a pale blue and he was smiling.
“I couldn’t tell you, Mark,” she said, “and if I could . . . ”
“You wouldn’t? I’d guessed that much. It didn’t take long did it? For you to fall in love with a flashy traveler with a good story?”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
�
�What else am I to think? We’ve known each other most of our lives. I thought we had something of an understanding. Then, practically overnight, you’re in love with a stranger.”
“I am not in love with Pol,” she said, straightening. “Oh, it could happen, very easily. He’s quick and strong—clever, attractive. But, really I hardly know him, despite what we’ve been through together. On the other hand, I thought that I knew you—very well—and now I see that I was mistaken about a great number of things. If you want honesty, rather than sweet words, I am not, at this moment, in love with anyone.”
“But did you once feel that way about me?”
“I thought that I did.”
He hammered his fist against the rail.
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s this lens, isn’t it? This damned, ugly bug-eye!”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about appearance. I was talking about what you are doing. You’ve always been different. You’ve always had a way with mechanical things. That in itself is hardly bad, but what you are doing—what you are planning to do—with your knowledge and your contrivances—that is.”
“Don’t let’s go into it again.”
She withdrew her hand.
“You asked me. If he still lives, Pol has to fight you—some way—now. Sometimes it almost seems that a conflict between the two of you was ordained before you both were born. Other times I’ve thought of it, though, it seemed that it need not be so. You could be friends. He is the closest thing you have to a relative. And it is probably that way for him, also. I will tell you what I told him. I feel like a pawn. You are jealous of him, and he will want to rescue me from you. I almost feel as if my life has been somehow manipulated to bring me into this position, to ensure that a battle will occur. I wish that I’d never met either of you!”
She turned away. He guessed that she was crying, but was not certain. He began to extend his hand.
“Sir! Sir!”
A captain of his guard was rushing toward him. Scowling, Mark turned.
“What is it?”
“Castle Rondoval is under attack! The message just came through! Should we send reinforcements?”
“Who is attacking? How? What are the details?”
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