Changeling (Illustrated)

by Roger Zelazny

The day had beaten its way well on toward evening before they stirred, almost simultaneously, as if shaken by a sudden breeze. They began to flex their wings.

  Soon, one by one, they dropped from the heights, caught the air, rose, found their way, found their patterns, resumed their journey . . .

  * * *

  Pol’s wrist began to itch some time before their goal came into view. He felt that it was not just the now-darkening sunburn, and increased his surveillance of the bright and wavering horizon. Minutes later, a pointed dot resolved itself before him and he licked his dry lips and smiled.

  Your internal compass seems to be working fine.

  I do not know what you mean.

  That seems to be it up ahead.

  Of course.

  “Nora!” His voice came out as a croak. “I see it!”

  “I think I do, too!”

  It grew before them until there could be no doubt as to its nature. There were no signs of movement anywhere about the dark stone structure. The plain before it was dotted with columns and statues.

  Moonbird took them down near the far end of the approach, and Pol’s joints creaked as he alighted.

  “I can’t persuade you to wait here?” he said, as he helped Nora down.

  She shook her head.

  “If anything happened to you, I’d be in to investigate later, anyway. Waiting would just defer things.”

  He turned to Moonbird.

  Wish I could take you with—but the entrance is too small.

  I will guard. You will play sweet music for me later.

  I appreciate your confidence.

  Pol turned and looked up the sand-scoured roadway, pylons and beasts converging upon the dark rectangle of the structure’s entranceway.

  . . . Walking into a vanishing point, he mused.

  “Okay, Nora. Let’s go,” he said.

  His vision blurred and cleared again as they advanced. For a moment, he thought it was an effect of the brilliant sunlight or the sudden activity after hours of sitting crouched. Then he saw what he took to be flames pouring forth from the opening before them. He flinched.

  Nora took hold of his arm.

  “What is it?”

  “I—oh, now I see. Nothing.”

  The flames resolved themselves into great billows of what he had come to think of as the weft of the world. He had never seen them bunched so thickly before, save in the great ball in the caverns of Rondoval—and here they were flapping and drifting freely.

  “You must have seen something,” she said as they continued on.

  “Just an indication of sorts, showing a concentration of magical power.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She loosened her blade in its scabbard. He did the same.

  His right wrist, which had not stopped its itching and tingling was now throbbing steadily, as if that special part of him which was best suited to deal with such matters was now fully alert.

  He brushed his fingertips across the massed strands and felt a surge of power. He tried to locate some clue as to its nature, but nothing suggested itself.

  The rod, the rod . . . he concentrated. Somewhere among you . . .

  A pale green strand, like milky jade, drifted toward him, separating itself from the mass. As he raised his hand, it seemed drawn toward his fingertips. Once he touched it, he willed it to adhere and held it, knowing that this was the one.

  “Now,” he told Nora, advancing to the threshold, “I know the way—though I know nothing of what it will be like.”

  He entered the narrow passage and halted again. The dimness about them deepened to an inky blackness only a few paces ahead.

  “Wait,” he said, commencing the mental movements which had summoned the phantom dragon from his wrist the night he had fled her village.

  It rose and drifted before him again, exactly as it had on that earlier occasion.

  Is this a phenomenon I am destined never to use in the absence of danger? he wondered.

  Behind him, Nora drew her blade. His chuckle rang hollowly.

  “That is my doing,” he told her. “It is our light. Nothing more.”

  “I believe you,” she said, “but it seems a good time to have a weapon.”

  “I can’t argue,” he replied, beginning to move once again, following the pale thread through the new light.

  They came to a flight of steps where they descended perhaps ten meters, the air growing pleasantly cool, then clammy about them. From the foot of the steps, passages ran to the right, the left and straight ahead. The thread followed the one before them. Pol followed the thread.

  After several paces, the passage began to slant downward, its angle of steepness seeming to increase as they continued. The air was thick now, and stale, with a scent of old incense or spices buried within its dampness.

  The light danced before him. The walls vanished. At first, he thought that they had come to another set of side passages. As he willed his light to brighten and move, however, he saw that they had come into a room.

  He sent the dragon-light darting before him, outlining the chamber, revealing its features. The walls were decorated with a faded frieze, the ceiling was cobwebbed, the floor dusty. At the far end of the room was a stone altar or table, a band of carvings about its middle. A dark rectangle stood behind it. The strand at Pol’s fingertips ran directly across the block of stone and vanished into the shadowy oblong.

  Pol listened but heard nothing other than their own breathing. He moved forward, Nora at his side, their footsteps muffled. For him, the air was alive with strands, as if they passed through a three-dimensional web woven of rainbows. Still, the milky green strand could not be lost. Eyes open or closed, he knew precisely where it hung.

  They separated to pass around the altar, and Pol increased his pace to reach the small doorway first, duck his head and pass within, a mounting feeling of anticipation hinting at some climax beyond its threshold.

  The light shot in before him and, on his willed command, rose to a level above his head and increased in brilliance.

  This room was smaller than the outer one and it, too, possessed something resembling a low altar at its farther end. Flanking this was a pair of stone or stuffed jackals, eyes fixed forward. A great mass of the strands, all of them of the darker shades, were woven into strange patterns about the altar and the jackals. No doorway was visible behind this carved block, but rather a tall, shadowy figure, roughly man-shaped save for its head which resembled those of the jackals. Something small and glowing rested upon a dark green cushion atop the stone before it.

  Pol swept his arm backward, halting Nora.

  “What do you see?” he asked her.

  “Another table and two statues,” she said. “Something on the table . . . ”

  “According to the description and the sketch, that appears to be what I’m after,” he said. “I want you to wait here while I go and try to take it. I expect to meet some sort of resistance and I’ll probably have to improvise. All those braided areas look menacing.”

  “Braided areas? What do you mean?”

  “There is some sort of spell protecting it. You stand guard while I find out what it does.”

  “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

  He took a single step forward. A pulse of light raced about the loops, the knotted junctions, leaping from figure to figure. He took a second step.

  Hold, came a command he was certain that Nora could not hear. It seemed to beat upon him from the sudden vibrations of all the strands, passing down them from the shadowy figure behind the stone.

  Why? he sent back immediately, deciding that it was no time to be shy.

  He halted, to see what the reaction would be. The figure actually seemed to deliberate for a moment. Then, You approach a thing I guard, presumably to remove it, it replied. I will not permit it.

  You refer to the section of rod on the stone before you?

  That is correct.

  I
confess that I would like to have it. Does your charge permit you to make any sort of deal whatsoever for it?

  No.

  Pity. It would make life so much simpler for both of us.

  I see that you are a young sorcerer, but recently come to the Art. If you were to live, you would probably become a great one. If you depart immediately, you will have that opportunity. I will let you go unmolested.

  Pol took another step forward.

  That is your answer?

  I’m afraid so.

  The jackal-headed figure raised its right arm, pointed a finger. The hovering dragon-light went dark. Pol felt a shock in his wrist. His vision seemed unimpaired, however, as if he viewed the chamber in the light of all the strands.

  “Pol! What happened?” Nora cried.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Stay put.”

  He decided against resummoning the glowing image. That did not seem terribly imaginative, and it would probably just be put out again. It seemed that some measure of variety and originality should govern in these matters.

  He sent the power that throbbed in his wrist out along the jade strand, causing the rod-section itself to begin glowing where it lay upon the table of stone. He pictured himself turning a lamp switch for a three-way light bulb, willing more wattage, raising the glow. The chamber brightened on a mundane level.

  “Better?” he asked Nora.

  “Yes. What is happening?”

  “A conflict seems to have begun—with the forces which guard here. Hold on.”

  Young man, do you think you are the first to come here, to seek the rod?

  The figure raised both arms, spreading them. The light Pol had summoned trebled in intensity. Dim forms, which he had taken for rubble—on the floor, in corners, near the statues—were suddenly clearly illuminated. He saw many strewn bones. He counted four skulls.

  All those who came remained.

  Pol felt his fingers twitch toward a yellow strand, but he suppressed the impulse to seize it. It drifted nearer. He knew that his magical sense was showing him a weapon, and for the first time he overrode it—his reason telling him that its employment had better be a matter of careful timing.

  The strand doubled and redoubled, looping back upon itself, hovering near his shoulder.

  Uh—is it possible, Pol inquired, edging forward, simply to borrow it and bring it back later? I’ve an excellent guitar I could leave for security—

  This is not a pawnshop! I am a guardian and you are a thief!

  That is not true. It belonged to my father.

  There came another pulse of light, and the beast to his right and ahead began to move, slowly at first, taking a step toward him. The other blinked and twitched its ears.

  Now it belongs here, came the reply.

  Pol reached up and seized the bunched yellow strands. With a jerk and a burst of power that ran along his arm, he tore them down and back, then brought them forward like a lash across the face of the advancing beast. It snarled and cried, drawing back, and he struck again. The third time that he hit it, it cringed, lowering its belly to the floor. At that moment, he noticed that the second jackal was about to spring.

  Even as he turned and drew back his arm, he realized that he would not be able to strike in time . . .

  * * *

  Moonbird’s view of the west was partly blocked by the pyramid, so that he did not see the bird-things dark against the brilliant sky until their van was near. Several began to dive as he raised his head, but they pulled up sharply and continued on.

  Then he saw the falling object, and superimposed upon it came the image out of his dream. He spread his wings immediately to take to the air.

  By the time the bombs struck, he was fifteen meters above them and climbing. He felt the heat building within his stomachs. Above him, he counted eight of the fliers. Good, he acknowledged. He had been waiting for an opportunity to meet them when he was unencumbered with passengers.

  The bright flames were faded to smoke beneath him. Above, the formation had already begun its turn. Extending his neck and plowing the sky with his wings, he rose to meet them.

  * * *

  . . . And as he turned to strike at the leaping form, Pol saw Nora’s blade fall upon it—a two-handed, overhead blow that landed upon its right shoulder behind the neck. Crying out, the creature twisted, giving Pol the opportunity to sidestep and bring his magical whip lashing soundlessly down upon it.

  He moved ahead and to the right as it fell, writhing to the floor. The strands of his yellow weapon cut it again, across the face. Nora had withdrawn her blade and moved back to heft it for another swing . . .

  Continuing his advance into a position very near to the altar, he brought his whip-arm out and around to deliver another, heavier blow . . .

  He was almost pulled from his feet as the figure at the back of the altar extended its arm and seized the falling strands that he wielded. At that moment, it seemed that the ground shook beneath him.

  The strands were torn from his grip as his momentum sent him spinning, catching at the edge of the stony table. Realizing where the fall was bearing him as he plunged before that awesome presence, and certain that its next move would be to extinguish his life if he did not act immediately, he reached out with his right hand and seized the section of rod that rested on the cushion nearby. It responded with the immediate surge of energy he had felt might be present, a force his new sensitivity recognized as utilizable.

  He turned the end of the rod upward the moment he caught hold of it, channeling the power from its manifold connections into a white, flame-like burst of power that shot against the animal-headed figure’s inclined breast.

  No!

  He saw it driven backward even as he slipped to the floor. From his hand, the glow of the rod still illuminated the entire chamber.

  Rolling to the side, he saw that both jackals lay still nearby. He felt Nora’s hand take hold of his left arm, helping him to his feet.

  “You’re all right?”

  “Yes. Yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked back. The strands still billowed about the stone, but were now in total disarray, their patterns undone. The shadowy figure was far dimmer but seemed in the process of reassembling by attraction several portions of itself which had dispersed. He held his new weapon before him and backed away, Nora at his side.

  When they reached the doorway to the next chamber, they turned and fled through it. Rounding the altar, they continued on. The air seemed much dustier here than it had been earlier. When they had mounted the stair and were traversing the forward passageway, a crashing sound came to them from outside.

  Racing toward the light, they emerged to view a crumpled flier beyond the first column to their left. There were two large craters ahead and to the right. One statue was upset and broken and a column had fallen across the way. Farther along, there were two more wrecked fliers.

  Pol heard a sound from overhead and looked upward. There was nothing in view in the sky. Turning, he then saw that two more of the birds were shattered against the side of the pyramid. As he stared, another circled into and out of view above that mountain of stone. Since Moonbird was no longer where he had left him, he was not surprised, moments later, to see his great green and bronze form wheel into view over the top of the monument. Two of the fliers then came into sight, circling, diving at the dragon. As their positions continued to shift, Pol saw that there was a third. He thought, too, that he detected an occasional puff and the echo of a small report from the machines. If they did have guns, they at least did not appear to be rapid-fire automatic weapons. Their main tactic seemed to consist of darting attempts to slash at their larger, slower opponent with their spear-like beaks and the fore-edges of their wings. They were closing with him again even as Pol watched.

  Not knowing what he might be able to do at this distance, he sought strands. They seemed to be everywhere, just awaiting the proper act of discernment and manipulation . . . Indeed!
They became visible to him—an orange trail leading upward. He reached for them and they drifted toward him, along with an enormous feeling of separation and the formula for electrical resistance, which he had learned one summer while working for his stepfather. He took this as an indication that he was not going to be able to do much to help Moonbird. Then the rod-segment jerked in his hand and he wondered. He studied it for the first time in full light.

  It was of a light, heavily tarnished metal—possibly an alloy of some sort; and if so, far too technologically sophisticated for anything he had seen here, save for Mark’s creations—and this seemed old, felt old, as his special sense measured things. It was about eight inches long and opened at one end, presumably to accommodate the succeeding section; its other end was a simple hemisphere, possibly of a different metal. About the shaft itself was chased a pattern of stylized flames within which a rich variety of demons danced and engaged in peculiar acts.

  He raised it—it seemed that it might be some sort of magical battery, or transformer—and, with a rapid twisting motion, he twined an orange strand about it. Nora, who had been about to speak, realized from his gesture and his intent expression that he was conjuring and she remained silent, eyes fixed upon the shaft.

  Suddenly, the distance seemed telescoped, and he found himself working with the far end of the strand, weaving, looping, turning it into a wide net before a diving flier. To affect something of that mass and velocity, at that distance, he realized that an enormous amount of power would have to flow upward. He felt it go out of him as he willed it, and the rod jerked within his grip.

  The flier sped into the trap he had attempted to lay, and it did not seem impeded by it. It rushed on toward Moonbird’s flank, as Pol felt weak from willing energy into his snare.

  Then, all at once, it veered crazily—one wing held high, the other low. It seemed frozen in that position, spinning ahead, slowing in a dropping, drooping trajectory that bore it beneath the dragon, turning until it was headed downward. It rotated all the way to the ground, where it stopped. Even before it struck, another followed it, blazing, target of Moonbird’s fiery regurgitations.