Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 02 - Madwand

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MADWAND

By Roger Zelazny

I am not certain.

It sometimes seems as if I have always been here, yet I know that there must

have been a time before my advent.

And sometimes it seems as if I have only just lately arrived. From where I

might have come, I have no idea. Recently, I have found this vaguely

troubling, but only recently.

For a long while, I drifted through these halls, across the battlements, up

and down the towers, expanding or contracting as I chose, to fill a room--or a

dozen--or to snake my way through the homes of mice, to trace the sparkling

cables of the spider's web. Nothing moves in this place but that I am aware of

it.

Yet I was not fully aware of myself until recently, and the acts I have just

recited have the dust of dreams strewn over them, myself the partial self of

the dreamer. Yet--

Yet I do not sleep. I do not dream. However, I seem now to know of many things

which I have never experienced.

Perhaps it is that I am a slow learner, or perhaps something has recently

stimulated my awareness to the point where all the echoes of thoughts have

brought about something new within me--a sense of self which I did not

formerly possess, a knowledge of separateness, of my apartness from those

things which are not-me.

If this is the case, I would like to believe that it has to do with my reason

for being. I have also recently begun feeling that I should have a reason for

being, that it is important that I have a reason for being. I have no idea,

however, as to what this could be.

It has been said--again, recently--that this place is haunted. But a ghost, as

I understand it, is some non-physical survival of someone or something which

once existed in a more solid form. I have never encountered such an entity in

my travels through this place, though lately it has occurred to me that the

reference could be to me in my more tangible moments. Still, I do not believe

that I am a ghost, for I have no recollection of the requisite previous state.

Of course, it is difficult to be certain in a matter such as this, for I lack

knowledge concerning whatever laws might govern such situations.

And this is another area of existence of which I have but recently become

aware: laws--restrictions, compulsions, areas of freedom... They seem to be

everywhere, from the dance of the tiniest particles to the turning of the

world, which may be the reason I had paid them such small heed before. That

which is ubiquitous is almost unnoticed. It is so easy to flow in accordance

with the usual without reflecting upon it. It may well be that it was the

occurrence of the unusual which served to rouse this faculty within me, and

along with it the realization of my own existence.

Then, too, in accordance with the laws with which I have become aware, I have

observed a phenomenon which I refer to as the persistance of pattern. The two

men who sit talking within the room where I hover like a slowly turning,

totally transparent cloud an arm's distance out from the highest bookshelf

nearest the window--these two men are both patterned upon similar lines of

symmetry, though I become aware of many differences within these limits, and

the wave disturbances which they cause within the air when communicating with

one another are also patterned things possessing, or possessed by, rules of

their own. And if I attend very closely, I can even become aware of their

thoughts behind, and sometimes even before, these disturbances. These, too,

seem to be patterned, but at a much higher level of complexity.

It would seem to follow that if I were a ghost something of my previous

pattern might have persisted. But I am without particular form, capable of

great expansions and contractions, able to permeate anything I have so for

encountered. And there is no special resting state to which I feel constrained

to return.

Along with my nascent sense of identity and my ignorance as to what it is that

I am, I do feel something else: a certainty that I am incomplete. There is a

thing lacking within me, which, if I were to discover it, might well provide

me with that reason for being which I so desire. There are times when I feel

as if I had been, in a way, sleeping for a long while and but recently been

awakened by the commotions in this place--awakened to find myself robbed of

some essential instruction. (I have only lately learned the concept "robbed"

because one of the men I now regard is a thief.)

If I am to acquire a completeness, it would seem that I must pursue it myself,

I suppose that, for now, I ought to make this pursuit my reason for being.

Yes. Self-knowledge, the quest after identity... These would seem a good

starting place. I wonder whether anyone else has ever had such a problem? I

will pay close attention to what the men are saying.

I do not like being uncertain.

Pol Detson had arranged the seven figurines into a row on the desk before him,

A young man, despite the white streak through his hair, he leaned forward and

extended a hand in their direction. For a time he moved it slowly, passing his

fingertips about the entire group, then in and out, encircling each

gem-studded individual. Finally, he sighed and withdrew. He crossed the room

to where the small, black-garbed man sat, left leg crooked over the arm of his

chair, a wineglass in either hand, the contents of both aswirl. He accepted

one from him and raised it to his lips.

"Well?" the smaller man, Mouseglove by name, the thief, asked him when he

lowered it.

Pol shook his head, moved a chair so that his field of vision took in both

Mouseglove and the statuettes, seated himself.

"Peculiar," he said at last. "Almost everything tosses off a thread, something

to give you a hold over it, even if you have to fight for it, even if it only

does it occasionally."

"Perhaps this is not the proper occasion."

Pol leaned forward, set his glass upon the desk. He flexed his fingers before

him and placed their tips together. He began rubbing them against one another

with small, circular movements. After perhaps half a minute, he drew them

apart and reached toward the desk.

He chose the nearest figure--thin, female, crowned with a red stone, hands

clasped beneath the breasts--and began making a wrapping motion about it,

though Mouseglove could detect no substance to be engaged in the process.

Finally, his fingers moved as if he were tying a series of knots in a

nonexistent string. Then he moved away, seating himself again, drawing his

hands slowly after him as if playing out a line with some tension on it.

He sat unmoving for a long while. Then the figure on the desk jerked slightly

and he lowered his hands.

"No good," he said, rubbing his eyes and reaching to recover his wineglass. "I

can't seem to get a handle on it. They are not like anything else I know

about."

"They're special, all right," Mouseglove observed, "considering the dance they

put me through. And from the glimpses they gave you at Anvil Mountain, I have

the feeling they could talk to you right now--if they wanted to."

"Yes. They were helpful enough--in a way--at the time. I wonder why they won't

communicate now?"

"Perhaps they have nothing to say."

I found myself puzzled by the manner in which these men spoke of those seven

small statues on the desk, as if they were alive. I drew nearer and examined

them. I had noted lines of force going from the man Pol's fingertips to them,

shortly after he had spoken of "threads" and performed his manipulations. I

had also detected a throbbing of power in the vicinity of his right forearm,

where he bore the strangely troubling mark of the dragon--a thing about which

I feel I should know more than I do--but I had seen no threads. Nor had I

noted any sort of reaction from the figures, save for the small jerking

movement of the one as the shell of force was repelled.

I settled down about them, contracting, feeling the textures of the various

materials of which they had been formed. Cold, lifeless. It was only the words

of the men which laid any mystery upon them.

Continuing this commerce of surfaces, I grew even smaller, concentrating my

attention now upon that figure which Pol had momentarily bound. My action then

was as prompt as my decision: I began to pour myself into it, flowing through

the miniscule openings--

The burn! It was indescribable, the searing feeling that passed through my

being. Expanding, filling the room, passing beyond it into the night, I knew

that it must be that thing referred to as pain. I had never experienced it

before and I wanted never to feel it again.

I continued to seek greater tenuosness, for in it lay a measure of

alleviation.

Pol had been correct concerning the figure. It was, somehow, alive. It did not

wish to be disturbed.

Beyond the walls of Rondoval, the pain began to ease. I felt a stirring within

me ... something which had always been there but was just now beginning to

creep into awareness....

"What was that?" Pol said. "It sounded like a scream, but--"

"I didn't hear anything," Mouseglove answered, straightening. "But I just felt

a jolt--as if I'd been touched by someone who'd walked across a heavy rug,

only stronger, longer ... I don't know. It gave me a chill. Maybe you stirred

something up, playing with that statue."

"Maybe," Pol said. "For a moment, it felt as if there were something peculiar

right here in the room with us."

"There must be a lot of unusual things about this old place--with both of your

parents having been practicing sorcerers. Not to mention your grandparents,

and theirs."

Pol nodded and sipped his wine.

"There are times when I feel acutely aware of my lack of formal training in

the area."

He raised his right hand slightly above shoulder-level, extended his index

finger and moved it rapidly through a series of small circles. A book bound in

skin of an indeterminate origin appeared suddenly in his hand, a gray and

white feather bookmark protruding from it.

"My father's diary," he announced, lowering the volume and opening it to the

feather. "Now here," he said, running his finger down the righthand page,

pausing and staring, "he tells how he defeated and destroyed an enemy

sorcerer, capturing his spirit in the form of one of the figures. Elsewhere,

he talks of some of the others. But all that he says at the end here is, 'It

will prove useful in the task to come. If six will not do to force the wards I

shall have seven, or even eight.' Obviously, he had something very specific in

mind. Unfortunately, he did not commit it to paper."

"Further along perhaps?"

"I'll be up late again reading. I've taken my time with it these past months

because it is not a pleasant document. He wasn't a very nice guy."

"I know that. It is good that you learn it from his own words, though."

"His words about forcing the wards--do they mean anything at all to you?"

"Not a thing."

"A good sorcerer would find some way to learn it from the materials at hand,

I'm sure."

"I'm not. Those things seem extremely potent. As for your own abilities, you

seem to have come pretty far without training. I'd give a lot to be able to

pull that book trick--with, say, someone's jewelry. Where'd you get it from,

anyway?"

Pol smiled.

"I didn't want to leave it lying around, so I bound it with a golden strand

and ordered it to retreat into one of those placeless places between the

worlds, as I saw them arrayed on my journey here. It vanished then, but

whenever I wish to continue reading it I merely draw upon the thread and

summon it."

"Gods! You could do that with a suit of armor, a rack of weapons, a year's

supply of food, your entire library, for that matter! You can make yourself

invincible!"

Pol shook his head.

"Afraid not," he said. "The book and the jumble-box are all I've been keeping

there, because I wouldn't want either to fall into anyone else's hands. If I

were traveling, I could add my guitar. Much more, though, and it would become

too great a burden. Their mass somehow gets added to my own. It's as if I'm

carrying around whatever I send through."

"So that's where the box has gotten to. I remember your locating it, that day

we went back to Anvil Mountain ..."

"Yes. I almost wish I hadn't."

"You couldn't really hope to recover his body or your scepter from that

crater."

"No, that's not what I meant. It was just seeing all that--waste--that

bothered me. I--"

He slammed his fist against the arm of his chair.

"Damn those statues! It sometimes seems they were behind it all! If I could

just get them to--Hell!"

He drained his glass and went to refill it.

The sensation ebbed. I did not like that experience. The room and its

inhabitants were now tiny within the cloud of myself, and more uncertainties

were now present: I did not know what it was that had caused me pain, nor how

it produced that effect. I felt that I should learn these things, so as to

avoid it in the future. I did not know how to proceed.

I also felt that it might be useful for me to learn how to produce this effect

in others, so that I could cause them to leave me alone. How might I do this?

If there were a means of contact it would seem that it could go either way,

once the technique were mastered....

Again, the stirring of memory. But I was distracted. Someone approached the

castle. It was a solitary human of male gender. I was aware of the distinction

because of my familiarity with the girl Nora who had dwelled within for a time

before returning to her own people. This man wore a brown cloak and dark

clothing. He came drifting out of the northwest, mounted upon one of the

lesser kin of the dragons who dwell below. His hair was yellow, and in places

white. He wore a short blade. He circled. He could not miss the sign of the

one lighted room. He began to descend, silent as a leaf or an ash across the

air. I believed that he would land at the far end of the courtyard, out of

sight of the library window.

Yes.

Within the room the men were talking, about the battle at the place called

Anvil Mountain, where Pol destroyed his step-brother, Mark Marakson. Pol, I

gather, is a sorcerer and Mark was something else, similar but opposite. A

sorcerer is one who manipulates forces as I saw Pol do with the statue, and

the book. Now, dimly, I recalled another sorcerer. His name was Det.

"...You've been brooding over those figures too long," Mouseglove was saying.

"If there were an easy answer, you'd have found it by now."

"I know," Pol replied. "That's why I'm looking for something more

complicated."

"I don't have any special knowledge of magic," Mouseglove said, "but it looks

to me as if the problem does not lie completely in that area."

"What do you mean?"

"Facts, man. You haven't enough plain, old-fashioned information to be sure

what you're up against here, what it is that you should be doing. You've had a

couple of months to ransack this library, to play every magical game you can

think of with the stiff dolls. If the answer were to be found that way, you'd

have turned it up. It's just not here. You are going to have to look somewhere

else."

"Where?'" Pol asked.

"If I knew that, I'd have told you before now. I've been away from the world I

knew for over twenty years. It must have changed a bit in that time. So I'm

hardly one to be giving directions. But you know I'd only intended to remain

here until I'd recovered from my injury. I've been feeling fine for some time

now. I've been loathe to leave, though, because of you. I don't like seeing

you drive yourself against a crazy mystery day after day. There are enough

half-mad wizards in the world, and I think that's where you may be

heading--not to mention the possibility of your setting off something which

may simply destroy you on the spot. I think you ought to get out, get away

from the problem for a time. You'd said you wanted to see more of this world.

Do it now. Come with me--tomorrow. Who knows? You may even come across some of

the information you seek in your travels."

"I don't know ..." Pol began. "I do want to go, but--tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

"Where would we be heading?"

"Over to the coast, I was thinking, and then north along it. You can pick up a

lot of news in port cities--"

Pol raised his hand and cocked his head. Mouseglove nodded and rose to his

feet.

"Your warning system still working?" Mouseglove whispered.

Pol nodded and turned toward the door.

"Then it can't be any--"

The sound came again, and with it the form of a light-haired man appeared in

the doorway, smiling.

"Good evening, Pol Detson," he stated, raising his left hand and jerking it

through a series of quick movements, "and good-bye."

Pol fell to his knees, his face suddenly bright red. Mouseglove rounded the

desk. Picking up one of the statuettes and raising it like a club, he moved

toward the brown-cloaked stranger.

The man made a sudden movement with his right hand and the thief was halted,

spun and slammed back against the wall to his left. The figurine fell from his

grip as he slumped to the floor.

As this occurred, Pol raised his hands beside his cheeks and then gestured

outward. His face began returning to its normal color as he climbed to his

feet.

"I might ask, 'Why?' " he said, his own hands moving now, rotating in opposite

directions.

The stranger continued to smile and made a sweeping movement with one hand, as

if brushing away an insect.

"And I might answer you," said the other, "but it would take some coercion."

"Very well," said Pol. "I'm willing."

He felt his dragonmark throb and the air was alive with strands. Reaching out,

he seized a fistful, shook them and snapped them like a lash toward the

other's face.

The man reached out and caught them as they arrived. A numbing shock traveled

up Pol's arm and it fell limply to his side. The density of the strands

between them increased to a level he had never before witnessed, partly

obscuring his view of his opponent.

Pol made a large sweeping motion with his left hand, gathering in a ball of

them. Immediately, he willed it to fire and cast the blazing orb toward the

other.

The man deflected it with the back of his right hand and then flung both arms

upward and outward.

The light in the room began to throb. The air became so filled with the lines

of power that they seemed to merge, becoming huge, swimming, varicolored

patterns obscuring much of the prospect, including the stranger.

As the pulse in his dragonmark overcame the numbness in his right arm, Pol

sent his will through it, seeking a clearer image of his adversary.

Immediately, the form of the other man began to glow, as the rainbow-work wove

itself to closure. The room disappeared, and Pol became aware that his form,

too, had become luminiscent.

The two of them faced one another across a private universe built entirely of

moving colors.

Pol saw the man raise his hands, cupping them before him. Immediately, a green

serpent raised its head from within them and slithered forth, moving in Pol's

direction.

Pol could feel a raw creation force moving all about him. He reached out and

up, beginning a rapid series of shaping movements. A huge, gray bird came into

being between his hands. He laid his will upon it and released it. It flashed

forward and dove upon the snake, catching at it with its talons, striking with

its beak. The serpent twisted its body and struck at the bird, missing.

Looking past this contest, Pol saw that the man was now juggling a number of

balls of colored light. Even as the bird rose, bearing the struggling snake in

its talons, to flap upward and merge with the kaleidescopic field which

surrounded them, Pol saw the man cast the first blazing ball in his direction.

Smiling, Pol shaped a tennis raquet and saw a look of puzzlement cross his

adversary's features as he regarded the unfamiliar instrument.

He slammed the first ball back at the man just as the second was released. The

sorcerer dropped the remaining balls and dove to the side to avoid the return.

Pol batted the second one out-of-court as the man rolled forward and came to

his feet, his right hand snapping outward, something long and black moving

with it.

He swung the raquet and missed as the whip caught him about the neck and

jerked him forward. He felt himself falling. Dropping the raquet, he reached

for the choking thing that held him, to seize it, unwind it--

It jerked again and the world began to spin and darken. It continued to

tighten, and he heard the sound of laughter, coming nearer...

"Not much of a contest," he heard the other say.

Then there was an explosion and everything went black.

It was instructive to observe the exchange of forces between Pol and the

visitor. Also, mildly unsettling, as it occurred to me that they might be

inducing pain in each other. Yet, they had wanted to do it or they wouldn't

have. I was more interested in the manipulations than I was in their

progressive wearing down of each other, because I felt that I might be able to

engage in that sort of activity myself and I wished to be further informed.

Its abrupt ending came as a surprise to me. Save for small, less complex

creatures, I had not seen one being end another's existence. Indeed, it had

not occurred to me that these larger ones could be ended. I felt as if I

should have taken a part in it, though on which side and in which direction, I

could not say. I was also uncertain as to why I felt this way.

Where there had been three there were now two. I did not understand why they

had done it, nor how the lance of force had come from the statuette to

terminate the stranger before Mouseglove's projectile reached his head.

Pol shook his head. His neck was sore. He rubbed it and opened his eyes. He

was lying on the floor beside the desk. Slowly, he pushed himself into a

seated position.

The stranger lay upon his back near the door, right arm outflung, left across

his breast. A piece of his forehead was missing and his right eye was a

crimson pool.

To his left, leaning against a bookshelf, Mouseglove stood rubbing his eyes.

His right arm hung at his side and in his hand was the pistol he had carried

away from Anvil Mountain. When he saw Pol move he dropped his left hand and

smiled weakly.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I guess so. Except for a stiff neck. What about yourself?"

"I don't know what he hit me with. It affected my sight for awhile. When I

came around, the two of you seemed to be pulsing into and out of existence. I

wasn't able to get a shot at him till the last time he came through." He

replaced the weapon in a holster behind his belt and moved forward, extending

his hand. "Everything seems normal enough now."

Pol accepted his hand and rose. They both crossed the room and looked down at

the dead man. Mouseglove immediately knelt and began searching him. After

several minutes, he shook his head, unfastened the brown cloak and covered the

man with it.

"Nothing," he said, "to tell who he is or why he came. I take it you have no

idea?"

"None."

They returned to their seats and the wine flask, Mouse-glove restoring the

fallen figurine on the way.

"Either he had some reason for disliking you and came by to do something about

it," Mouseglove said, "or somebody else who feels that way sent him. In the

first case, some friend of his might come along later to continue the work. In

the second, another may be sent as soon as it is known that this one failed.

Either way, it would appear that more trouble will be forthcoming."

Pol nodded. He rose and removed a book from a shelf high on the lefthand wall.

He returned to his seat and began paging through it.

"This one got through all of your alarm spells without giving warning,"

Mouseglove continued.

"He was better than I am," Pol said, without looking up from the book.

"So what is to be done?"

"Here," Pol said, locating the page he sought and reading silently for a time.

"I had been wondering about this for some time," he went on. "Every four years

there is a gathering of sorcerers at Belken, a mountain to the northwest. Ever

hear of it?"

"Of course--as a good thing to stay away from."

"It will begin in about two weeks. I've decided to attend."

"If they're all like this fellow--" Mouseglove nodded toward the form upon the

floor. "--I don't think it would be a very good idea."

Pol shook his head.

"The description makes it sound rather peaceful. Advanced practicioners

discuss theory with one another, apprentices are initiated, rites involving

more than one sorcerer get tried out, exotic articles are traded and sold, new

effects demonstrated ..."

"The person behind this attempt on your life may be there."

"Exactly. I'd like to settle this quickly. It may all be some sort of

misunderstanding. After all, I haven't been around long enough to have made

any real enemies. And if the one I seek isn't there, I may learn something

about him--if there is such a person. Either way, it makes it seem

worthwhile."

"And that will be your only reason for going?"

"Well, no. I also feel the need for some formal training in the Art. Perhaps I

can pick up a few pointers at something like that."

"I don't know, Pol ... It sounds kind of risky."

"Not going may prove even more dangerous in the long run."

They heard a scraping noise and a popping sound from the courtyard. Both rose

and moved to the window. Looking downward, they saw nothing. Pol seemed to

stroke the air with his fingertips.

"The man's mount," he said finally. "It's freed itself of whatever restraints

he'd laid upon it and is preparing to depart." He moved his hand rapidly,

raising the other one as well, "Maybe I can get a line on it, trace it back to

where it came from."

The lesser kin of the dragon rose in the northeast and swept through a wide,

rising arc, leftward.

"No good," Pol said, lowering his hands. "Missed him."

Mouseglove shrugged.

"I guess you won't be going with me," he said, "if you'll be heading for that

convocation, in the other direction."

Pol nodded.

"I'll leave tomorrow, too, though. I'd rather be moving about than staying in

one place between now and then. So we can take the trail for a little way

together."

"You won't be riding Moonbird?"

"No, I want to see something of the countryside, too."

"Traveling alone also has its hazards."

"I'd imagine they are fewer for a sorcerer."

"Perhaps," Mouseglove replied.

The dark form of the dragon-mount dwindled against the northern sky, vanished

within a mountain's shadow.

That night, as I permeated the dead man's body, seeking traces within his

brain cells, I learned that his name had been Keth and that he had served one

greater than himself. Nothing more. As I slid into and out of higher spaces,

as I terminated a rat in a drainage channel in the manner I had recently

learned, as I threaded my way among moonbeams in the old tower and slid along

rafters in search of spiders, I thought upon the evening's doings and on all

manner of existential questions which had not troubled me previously.

The energies of the creatures which I had taken had a bracing effect upon my

overall being. I wandered through new areas of thought. Other beings existed

in multitudes, yet I had never encountered another such as myself. Did this

mean that I was unique? If not, where were the others? If so, why? From whence

did I come? Was there a special reason for my existence? If yes, what could it

be?

I swirled across the ramparts. I descended to the caverns far below and passed

among the sleeping dragons and the other creatures. I felt no kinship with any

of them.

It did not occur to me until much later that I must possess some particular

attachment to Rondoval itself, else I might long ago have wandered off. I

realized that I did prefer it and its environs to those other portions of the

countryside into which I had ventured. Something had kept calling me back.

What?

I returned to Pol's sleeping form and examined him very carefully, as I had

every night since his arrival. And I found myself, as always, hovering above

the dragonmark upon his right forearm. It, too, attracted me. For what reason,

I could not say. It was at about the time of this man's arrival that I had

begun the movement which had culminated in my present state of self-awareness.

Was it somehow his doing? Or--the place having been deserted for as long as it

had been--would the prolonged presence of anyone have worked the same effect

within me?

My desire for purpose returned to me strongly. I began to feel that my

apparent deficiency in this area might have been accidental, that perhaps I

should possess a compulsion, that there was something I should be doing but

had somehow lost or never learned. How significant, I wondered, was this

feeling? Again, I was uncertain. But I began to understand what had produced

my present attitude of inquiry.

Pol would be departing on the morrow. My memories of a time before his time

had already become dim. Would I return to my more selfless state when he left?

I did not believe so, yet I was willing to concede that he had played some

part in my awakening into identity.

I realized at that moment that I was trying to make a decision. Should I

remain at Rondoval or should I accompany Pol? And in either case, why?

I tried to terminate a bat in flight but it got away from me.

The two of them took the northern trail on foot that morning, traveling

together through the pass and downward to the spring-touched green of the

forest to the place of the crossroads Pol had marked upon the map he bore.

They rested their packs against the bole of a large oak, still darkly damp

with the morning dew, and considered the mists which dwindled and faded even

as they watched, while the sun became a bright bulge upon the slope of a

mountain to their right. From somewhere behind them the first tentative notes

of birdsong were commenced and then abandoned.

"You will be out of the hills by evening," said Pol, looking to the right. "It

will be a few days before I get down, and then I'll have to climb again later.

You'll be basking in the sea breeze while I'm still shivering my ass off.

Well, good luck to you and thanks again--"

"Save the speech." said Mouseglove. "I'm coming along."

"To Belken?"

"All the way."

"Why?"

"I allowed myself to get too curious. Now I want to see how it all ends."

"It may well end indeed."

"You don't really believe that or you wouldn't be going. Come on! Don't try to

talk me out of it. You might succeed."

Mouseglove raised his pack and moved off to the left. Shortly, Pol joined him.

The sun looked over the mountain's shoulder and the gates of dawn were opened.

Their shadows ran on before them.

That night they camped within a stand of pine trees, and Pol had a dream which

felt like no dream he had ever known before. There was a clarity and a quality

of consciousness involved which spun it past his inner eye with a disturbing

simulation of reality, while in all aspects it was invested with a foreboding

air of menace and yet possessed him with a certain dark joy.

Seven pale flames were moving in slow procession widdershins about him, as if

summoning him, spirit fashion, to appear in their midst. He rose up slowly out

of his body and stood like a bloodless image of himself. At this, they halted

and left the ground. He followed them to treetop height and beyond. Then they

escorted him northward, moving higher and faster beneath a sky filled with

palely illuminated clouds. Grotesque shapes seemed to fill the trees below,

the mountains about him. The wind made a whining sound and black forms flirted

out of his way. The terrain rippled in dark waves as his speed increased. The

wind became a howling thing, though he felt neither cold nor pressure from it.

At last, a huge, dark form loomed before him, set halfway up a mountainside,

dotted here and there with small illumination; walled, turreted, heavy, high,

it was a castle at least the size of Rondoval and in better condition.

There followed a break in his dream-awareness from which he recovered after an

eon or a moment to a feeling of cold, of dampness. He stood before a massive

double-door, heavily ironbound and hung with huge rings. It was inscribed with

the figure of a serpent, spikes driven through it; the crucified form of a

great bird hung above it. Where it was located, he had no idea, but it seemed

suddenly familiar--as though he had glimpsed it repeatedly in other dreams,

forgotten until this instant. He swayed slightly forward, realizing as he did

that the chill he experienced hung about the Gate itself like an invisible

aura, increasing perceptibly with each tiny movement he made toward it.

The flames burned silently, sourcelessly, at either hand. He was overwhelmed

with a desire to pass through the Gate, but he had no idea as to how this

might be accomplished. The doors looked for too formidable to yield to the

strength of any solitary mortal....

He awoke cold and wondering, pulling his covering higher and drawing it more

tightly about him. The next morning he remembered the dream but did not speak

of it. And that night it was partly repeated....

He stood again before the dusky Gate, with the recalled sensations but few

specific images of his journey to the place. This time he stood with his arms

upraised, pleading in ancient words for them to open before him. With a mighty

creaking they obeyed, moving outward a short distance, releasing a small

breeze and an icy chill along with tendrils of mist and a sound of distant

wailing. He moved forward to enter....

On each night of that first week on the road, he returned to that dream and

traveled further into it, losing his flame-like companions when he passed

beyond the Gate. Alone, he drifted across a blasted landscape--gray and

bronze, black and umber--beneath a dark, red-streaked sky where a barely

illuminated, coppery orb hung still in what could be the west. It was a place

of shadow and stone, sand and mist, of cold and wailing winds, sudden fires

and slow, crawling things which refused to register themselves upon his

memory. It was a place of sinister, sentient lights, dark caves and ruined

statues of monstrous form and mien. Some small part of him seemed to regret

that he took such pleasure in the prospect....

And the night that he saw the creatures--scaled, coarse monstrosities;

long-armed, hulking parodies of the human form--sliding, hopping, lurching in

pursuit of the lone man who fled before them across that landscape. He looked

down with a certain anticipation.

The man ran between a pair of high stone pillars, cried out when he found

himself in a rocky declivity having no other exit. The creatures entered and

laid hold of him. They forced him to the ground and began tearing at him. They

beat at him and flayed him, the ground growing even darker about them.

Abruptly, one of the creatures shrieked and drew back from the ghastly

gathering. Its long, scaly right arm had been changed into something short and

pale. The others uttered mocking noises and seized upon it. Holding the

struggling creature, they returned their attention to the thing upon the

ground. Bending forward, they wrenched and bit at it. It was no longer

recognizable as anything human. But it was not unrecognizable.

It had altered under their moist invasions, becoming something larger,

something resembling themselves in appearance, while the beast they held to

witness had shrunken, growing softer and lighter and stranger.

Nor was it unrecognizable. It had become human in form, and whole.

Those who held the man pushed him and he fell. In the meantime, the demonic

thing upon the ground was left alone as the others drew back from it. Its

limbs twitched and it struggled to rise.

The man scrambled to his feet, stumbled, then raced forward, passing between

the pillars, howling. Immediately, the dark creatures emitted sharp cries and,

pushing and clawing against one another, moved to pursue the fleeing

changeling, the one who had somehow been of a substance with him joining in.

Pol heard laughter and awoke to find it his own. It ended abruptly, and he lay

for a long while staring at moonlit clouds through the dark branches of the

trees.

They rode one day in the wagon of a farmer and his son and accompanied a

pedlar for half a day. Beyond this--and encounters with a merchant and a

physician headed in the opposite direction--they met no one taking the same

route until the second week. Then, a sunny afternoon, they spied the dust and

dark figures of a small troop before them in the distance.

It was late afternoon when they finally overtook the group of travelers. It

consisted of an old sorcerer, Ibal Shenson, accompanied by his two

apprentices, Nupf and Sahay, and ten servants--four of whom were engaged in

the transportation of the sedan chair in which Ibal rode.

It was to Nupf--a short, thin, mustachioed youth with long, dark hair--that

Pol first addressed himself, since this one was walking at the rear of the

retinue.

"Greetings," he said, and the man moved his right hand along an inconspicuous

arc as he turned to face him.

As had been happening with increasing frequency when confronted with

manifestations of the Art, Pol's second vision came reflexively into play. He

saw a shimmering gray strand loop itself and move as if to settle over his

head. With but the faintest throb of the dragonmark he raised his hand and

brushed it aside.

"Here!" he said. "Is that the way to return the greeting of a fellow

traveler?"

A look of apprehension widened the other's eyes, jerked at his mouth.

"My apologies," he said. "One never knows about travelers. I was merely acting

to safeguard my master. I did not realize you were a brother in the Art."

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MADWANDByRogerZelaznyIIamnotcertain.ItsometimesseemsasifIhavealwaysbeenhere,yetIknowthattheremusthavebeenatimebeforemyadvent.AndsometimesitseemsasifIhaveonlyjustlatelyarrived.FromwhereImighthavecome,Ihavenoidea.Recently,Ihavefoundthisvaguelytroubling,butonlyrecently.Foralongwhile,Idriftedthroughthes...

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Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 02 - Madwand

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