“There are none. The message was short, garbled. We are waiting for an answer.”
“Divert all the nearest birds. Get me a picture of what’s going on. I’ll be down there shortly. We’re going on alert.”
He raised his hand and two guards, pretending to study the garden from its opposite end, immediately moved toward him.
“I’d wager your lover lives,” he said, “and that this is his doing. At any rate, your talk of pawns has given me an idea. Guards! Take her away. Protect her. Watch her well. She may be of some use yet.”
Turning on his heel, he headed toward the elevator. He did not look back.
Mouseglove moved with near-acrobatic skill up the final few meters of the cliff-face, hauled himself into the cave mouth, turned, stooped and assisted Pol.
“All right,” he said then, “I am about to keep a promise. I vowed that if they would leave me alone, I would bring them back to Rondoval.” He groped beneath his cloak and withdrew a parcel. “They did and I have. So here.”
He handed the package to Pol.
“I don’t understand. What is it?” Pol asked.
“The figurines of the seven sorcerers I stole from your father. As you gained sections of that scepter, they grew in power until finally they were able to control me. During the trip back here, I told you everything I had done, but I didn’t tell you why. They are the reason. Surely, you don’t think I’d go and play games with a feathered serpent for laughs? They are powerful, they can communicate if they want—and I have no idea what they are up to. Also, they are all yours now. Don’t worry, though. A big part of their purpose in life seems to be taking care of you. I would try to learn more about them soon, if I were you.”
“I wish I had time,” Pol remarked, “but I don’t. Not now.” He secured the parcel at his belt and turned. The dragon-light sprang forth to dart before them. “Let’s go.”
Mouseglove fell into step beside him.
“I wonder how the centaurs are doing?” he said.
Pol shrugged.
“I hope they get the message soon that we made it safely. If the two who brought us hurry, they will. Then they can lay off and return to the woods.”
“If you really meant that oath, perhaps you ought to send something particularly nasty upstairs to clear the halls.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen how centaurs fight. They’re tough, but they also get kind of frenzied after awhile. I’ve a hunch they won’t be falling back.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes. So, surely you could spare a dragon or an ogre or two, to clean house and protect your new friends.”
“I guess I should.”
They walked on for a time, following the pale light. At several points they had to climb down over rocky irregularities.
“Uh, I guess well be parting company soon,” Mouseglove said as they entered the first of a series of larger caverns. “I’ve done what I came back to do, and I promised myself I’d never set foot on Anvil Mountain again.”
“I didn’t expect you to accompany me there,” Pol replied, “and it’s not your fight. What have you in mind to do now?”
“Well, after your servant’s made it safe for the likes of me upstairs, I’ll head in that direction. Be sure to tell him that I’m okay. I’ll borrow some fresh garments, if that’s all right with you, clean up, have a nap and be moving on.”
They passed a large, winged, sleeping form.
“You have my permission, my thanks and my blessing,” Pol said. “Also my ogre, to clear your way.”
Mouseglove chuckled.
“You are a difficult young man to gull. I’m actually coming to like you. Pity, we’ll probably never meet again.”
“Who knows? I’ll ask the Seven when I get a chance.”
“I’d rather you didn’t remind them of me.”
The next cavern they entered was even larger, though more level. Pol looked at the humped and massed bodies among which they made their way. There seemed to be no way of estimating their number, though the strands ran thick and numerous through the gloom.
As they trudged on, coming at last into the major cavern and starting across it, Pol finally glimpsed the soft glow of the master spell at its farther end.
“Tell me,” he asked, “do you see any light in that direction?”
“No. Just the one we’re following.”
Pol gestured and seized a strand. Soon it took on a pale color and something of incandescence.
“See that?”
“A line of light, running before us.”
“Good. I’ll give you one of that sort to follow out. What is that thing in your hand?”
“A pistol I’ve carried since I left Mark’s place.”
“I thought so. You won’t need it here.”
“It comforts me.”
After a considerable interval, they stood before the pied globe. Pol held the scepter as he faced it.
“I hope this works as I’d anticipated,” he remarked.
“I feel some force, but I see nothing special . . . ”
“Go and stand over in that niche.” He gestured, and for a moment the scepter blazed like a captive star. “I will tell you when it is safe to depart. There is your strand.” He gestured again, and a line of pale fire grew in the air before the niche. “Good luck!”
“To you, also,” Mouseglove replied, clasping Pol’s hand and turning.
He moved quickly and backed into the opening, unable to take his eyes from the spectacle of the younger man, who had already begun a series of seeming ritual movements, his silhouette distorted by guitar case and flapping cloak, his face pale and mask-like in the blaze of the rod, beneath the dark, silver-splashed wings of his hair. Mouseglove clutched the pistol more tightly as the slow dance of the hand and the rod progressed, for he felt a chill followed by a wave of warmth, another chill . . . and now he had momentary flashes of vision, as of a massive, burning ball of yarn being unwound.
Pol moved his hand deftly, in and out, unwinding unravelling, and old words trapped within the fabric of the structure, came to him and he spoke them as he worked, and the waves of heat came more frequently, till finally he saw through to the center, the core, the end . . .
He thrust the scepter into the heart of the spell and spoke the final words.
A great wash of forces swept by him and he swayed, striving to keep his balance. The strands now clung to the scepter, obscuring it completely to Pol’s vision. His right arm seemed to take fire as he laid his will upon it.
A moaning rose within the cavern, growing to a mighty chorus of sounds, which echoed and reechoed about him, followed by rustling, scraping noises and the falling of stones.
“ . . . Arise! Arise! and follow me to battle!” he sang, and now there were larger movements within the darkness.
The moaning died down and ceased. The snorts, snarls, roars and rattles diminished. Now the sounds of heavy breathing came to him from every direction.
He plucked a single strand, and soon a huge, gray form moved past him on two legs, hunched forward, arms dragging on the ground, yellow eyes burning within the darkness of a triangular face, scales rustling with each stride. It paused before Mouseglove, who raised the pistol and waited, but it turned and moved on an instant later.
“Give it an hour,” Pol stated, “and the upstairs should be cleared. It knows you now and will not harm you.”
Mouseglove nodded, realizing as he did that the movement could not be seen, but unable to control his voice. Brief bonfires flared and died at all distances as dragons tested their flames.
Pol turned away, directing all his attention to impressing his identity and his commands upon the awakening creatures.
Arise, I say! We fly south to destroy the city atop Anvil Mountain! Those of you who cannot fly must be mounted upon those who can! I will lead the way!
He cast about for only a moment, and then his fingers moved unerringly to catch at a dark gre
en strand drifting near him.
Dragon! he called. Name yourself!
I am called Smoke-in-the-Skies-at-Evening-against-the-Last-Pale-Clouds-of-Autumn-Day, came a proud feminine reply.
In the interest of ready communication, I shall refer to you as ‘Smoke.’
That is agreeable to me.
Come to me now. We must lead the others.
For a time, nothing occurred, as he realized that Smoke had slept within one of the farther caverns. All of the stirring sounds grew louder as the other creatures stood, stretched, mounted. Finally, he heard a noise like a rising wind rushing toward him, and a piece of darkness detached itself from the distant shadows, to sweep in his direction and settle silently before him.
Greetings, Pol Detson. I am ready, she said.
He released the strand and moved to touch her neck.
Greetings, Smoke. If I may mount now, we will be on our way.
Come up. I am ready.
Pol climbed toward her shoulders and settled into position. He raised the scepter and lights danced throughout the cavern.
Follow! he ordered. Then, to Smoke, Now! Let us go!
Smoke was smaller than Moonbird but seemed faster. In a matter of moments, they were airborne and moving ahead quickly. Pol looked back once. He could not distinguish Mouseglove in his niche, but he saw that dark forms were rising like ashes in his wake.
You will sing us a battle-song? Smoke asked.
Pol was surprised to find it already upon his lips.
XXI
The bird-things sent to determine the nature and progress of the conflict at Rondoval were the first observers of the dragon-flight which began at the northern cliff-face below the castle, spiraling upward, wheeling through the west and falling into a sky-darkening pattern heading southward, led by a man mounted upon a sleek gray dragon, a shining scepter in his right hand. The sun settled as they flew, and the metallic birds climbed and moved far to the right and the left to monitor their progress.
Mark assigned troops to the various stations, and the elevators ground ceaselessly as tanks and artillery pieces were raised from the warehouse areas to the streets of the city proper. Weapons and ammunition were issued to the defenders. All available sky boats were serviced and armed. Assembly lines were shut down, and the workers went to collect their weapons.
Mark studied the array of screens in the surveillance center, showing varied views of the oncoming formation.
“I’d like to know what those things can do,” he remarked to the captain who stood at his elbow. “This could be closer than I’d care to see it. Who’d have thought he could raise something like that this quickly? Damned sorcerer! Send a dozen battle-wagons to hit them at dawn. Swing six of them wide to hit their left flank out of the sunrise, and drop six on them from above. We’ll probably lose them, but I want to see how it happens.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mark toyed with the idea of sending for Nora, but dismissed it. He visited the lab instead, to check whether a long-range jumble was yet possible. He doubted it, but something useful might yet be salvaged from that project.
. . . Damn! he mused. A year from now and he’d never make it across the desert. I know about more things than I’ve got. Can’t get them into production fast enough . . . Damn!
His lens was a pale yellow beneath a perfectly clear sky. Stars winked at him and a warm breeze licked like an affectionate tiger at his cheek. Suddenly, a meteor shower began, and he watched it for several minutes, dismissing the shaking beneath his feet as the labors of the heavy machinery which had long since been shut down.
Pol fled across the night, the power of the scepter his meat, his drink and his sleep. When the attack came in the morning, he spread the formation, detached two groups of ten dragons each to deal with the sky boats and continued on. Later, sixteen dragons rejoined him, but two of them had to drop out, their injuries preventing them from maintaining the pace of the others. He led the entire formation to a greater altitude after that and began spreading it into a great line. Through the morning hazes, the ground seemed to ripple momentarily beneath them.
He saw the advancing formation of flying things just before Anvil Mountain came into view.
Destroy as many as are necessary to get through, he ordered the leather-winged masses at his back. But do not remain to toy with them, I doubt they will bomb or strafe once you are into their own city fighting with its defenders. Destroy anything on the mountain that offers resistance. Then burn the place. Only this girl—and he sent a mental picture of Nora back along the strands—must not be harmed. If you see her, protect her. And this one—a picture of Mark followed—is mine. Call to me if you see him.
They swept on toward the line of defenders and shortly the firing began. A little while after that, dragon vomit fell like rain upon the sky boats. Fires dotted the ground, wreckage and falling bodies filled the air. There were a great many of the ships, but their crews could not reload the guns quickly and their accuracy was far less than perfect. After several minutes of combat, it was clear that Pol’s forces would not be halted here. When they finally passed on toward Anvil Mountain, their force was diminished but the air fleet was broken.
As they came within range of the flat-topped mount, the artillery fire began. But Pol had spread his formation even more thinly by then, having seen evidence of heavy artillery on his earlier visit to the place.
Still, the great guns fired with deadly effect for several minutes, until two of them toppled, one exploded and others began firing wildly.
Sweeping even nearer, through the morning light, Pol saw that the entire mountain was shaking.
It is a mighty magic you wield, Smoke remarked.
That is not my doing, he replied.
A dragon can feel magic, and that which leads to the earthquake I feel upon my back.
I do not understand.
The answer hangs at your belt.
The figurines?
I know not what they are, only what they are bringing to pass.
Good! I’ll take all the help I can get!
Even if they control you?
Either way, I have no choice now but to try to win, do I?
They broke through the openings in the artillery screen, dragons landing and discharging the non-winged creatures which immediately turned and sought the defenders. Tanks rumbled along the shaking streets, some of them spewing flames back at the dragons.
A steady crackling of gunfire rose above the city. The metallic worms were out, wrestling with the attackers. Here and there, blades flashed in the hands of men as ammunition was exhausted. The howling, bounding lesser beasts of the caverns tore through the city, killing and being killed. A crack opened, diagonally, in one of the main avenues and noxious fumes rose out of it.
Pol looked about, searching rooftops and opened bunkers, hoping to catch sight of the red-haired man with the eye of many colors. But Mark was nowhere in sight.
He sought altitude again, and he directed Smoke to take him in a wide circle above the city. The screams grew fainter as they rose, and the designs of the buildings and the overall layout of the city impressed themselves upon him for the first time. The place was efficiently disposed, extremely factional, logically patterned and relatively clean. He realized that he felt a grudging admiration for a country boy capable of materializing such a dream—and in such a brief while—whether his world wanted it or not. He wished once again that he could have sent Mark back to the place where he himself had been so long the misfit.
They landed upon the vacant roof of a tall building; and there, without dismounting, Pol raised the scepter with both hands and laid his will upon his forces below. They required organization now, not skirmishing. It was time to create groups and direct their efforts toward specific objectives. His wrist pulsed, the rod pulsed, the strands pulsed as he began. There was usually a feeling of elation as he worked with the power. But this time, while the feeling was present, there was little joy accompanying it. He
had never wished to be the destroyer of another man’s dreams.
He saw tanks torn apart by his creatures, but he also saw dragons beset and hacked apart by the small folk, who, having moved from the wilds to this existence in the span of a few years, still possessed the instincts of pack hunters when reduced to the bloody basics of life. He felt something of an admiration for them, also, though this in no way affected his tactics. He grew more and more dispassionate as the sun climbed and the conflicts progressed. Moving each time artillery pieces were repositioned to bring him down, directing strike forces toward the most troublesome emplacements, he hurled other assaults against what appeared to be nerve centers, breaking down walls and spreading fires, wondering the while whether Mark occupied some similar position elsewhere, and with radio communication directed his forces into the surprising patterns of resistance which kept developing. Most likely. Things were still too closely balanced to permit him to desert his command post and seek the other out, however.
The casualties were heavy on both sides. Pol felt he now had the edge, though, in that he was destroying more and more of his adversary’s capabilities as the day progressed, whereas his own forces were not dependent upon things outside themselves. He was slowly reducing them to reliance upon the simplest of weapons, and when this reduction had reached the proper point, a parity of forces would represent no equality whatsoever and the battle would be near to its end.
The mountain gave another shudder, and the opening in the ground grew larger. Steam had emerged from it for a long while, earlier, but with the enlargement flames and pieces of stone shot forth, the buildings nearby suffered partial collapse of their facades and a roaring noise came up, growing until it smothered all the sounds of the fighting.
Pol’s aching hands tightened even more upon the scepter, as he said aloud, “Only a fool could call it coincidence. If I’ve an unseen ally, make yourself known!”
Immediately, seven large flames hovered in the air before him, unsupported by any burning medium. The one to his left flickered, and the reply seemed to come from that source:
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