Changeling (Illustrated) (29 page)

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:

It is no coincidence.

“Why, then?”

Now the second flame flickered.

It is a recurring thing, this struggle. Ages ago, the world was split by it, giving birth to the one in which you were raised, where we are legend, and making that one a legend to this. It is an undying conflict and its time has come again. You
are the agent of preservation; Mark, the champion of the insurgency. One of you must be utterly obliterated.

“Has he allies such as you?”

The third replied:

Beneath that shrine, far below, is an ancient teaching machine. He bears a small unit within his body which keeps him in constant communication with it.

Pol immediately disengaged a force and directed it against the shrine, with instructions to destroy everything beneath it as well.

“Do you already know the outcome here?” he asked.

It is still undecided,
said the fourth.

We distract you,
said the fifth.

 . . . 
And your full attention is still required here,
said the sixth.

 . . . 
And so we depart,
said the seventh, as they faded and dwindled to nothing.

Pol was immediately beset by a fresh artillery barrage, and had to fly to a new vantage while directing attacks against the guns.

Strong fumes reached him before very long and he had to move again, seeing now that the opening below had become a glowing crater, its smoke rising to smudge the sky. Its rumbles continued to grow, also.

Much later, he realized that no one was shooting at him any longer. Suicide fliers had attacked for a time, but he had destroyed them with blasts from the scepter until, finally, they had ceased.

The fighting below had grown more and more disorganized, as both sides suffered massive casualties. The battle for the shrine, far down below the slopes, continued. A remarkably powerful defense had seemed to arise from almost nowhere, and Pol had diverted more forces to deal with it.

 . . . 
And Nora thought herself a pawn,
he reflected.
What am I? I exercise all the functions of command, yet I am no freer than any of those below. Unless . . . 

Up, Smoke! Big circles!

I, too, serve,
came the reply, and they were rising, turning.

The third time around, he saw them—Nora and Mark atop a high building across the avenue from the crater. It was a flash of sunlight gleaming upon a red lens turned in his direction that drew his eyes to their position.

Over there, Smoke! It still may not be too late to talk to him! If I can just make him see what is happening!

Smoke turned and beat toward the rooftop. Pol waved his dirty handkerchief, doubting that the gesture meant anything in this place, but willing to try anything he knew to gain conversation with the other.

“Mark!” he shouted. “I want to talk! May I come down?”

The other lowered a small unit into which he had been speaking and gestured for him to land.

As soon as Smoke touched the roof, Pol leaped down and headed toward the tall figure with the yellowing eye lens.

“I am only now beginning to realize what we are doing,” Pol said, while he was still moving. “It was an encounter such as this, between science and magic, which destroyed a high culture in this land ages ago, which split the continuum into parallel parts. We are doing it again! We are both victims! We’ve been manipulated. This battle is affecting the land itself! We have to—”

An explosion at his back caused him to stumble forward. Whether the great cry from Smoke was mental or verbal, he never knew.

“Damn you, Mark!” he called as he got to his feet, not even looking back, already knowing what he would see. “I came here to save your life, to stop this thing—”

“How considerate,” Mark stated. “In that case, I accept your surrender.”

“Don’t be an ass!” Pol staggered to the edge of the shuddering building. “Surrender what? Look down there! Both of our armies are almost finished. We can still stop it. Right here. We can still save something. Both science and magic do work here—so it is not an either/or proposition in this place. They must both be special cases of some more general law. Let’s work out something compatible. Let’s not go the way we’re being pushed. If the continuum must be split again, let’s split it our way. I’ll work with you. But look down there! Look what’s happening! Do you want that?”

Mark moved to the low, partly shattered parapet, followed by Nora. Pol saw that he held her wrist in a powerful grip. He looked down again himself, to where a fiery river now flowed along the avenue, away from the still growing crater almost directly below them. Mark’s lens flashed green through the smoke and and felling ash. Even at this height, Pol could feel heat upon his face.

“If I have slain your dragon, you have destroyed my shrine,” Mark said softly, “just now.”

With a sudden movement of his arms, he drew Nora to the edge and held her there. His lens flashed red again.

“I reject your mad offer,” he stated. “If I let you go, you can acquire more supernatural assistance and attack me again one day.”

“It works both ways,” Pol replied. “You can rebuild again—better, stronger. I’m willing to take that chance.”

“I’m not,” Mark said, twisting Nora’s arm. “That rod you hold seems to be the key to your power. Throw it down into the crater or I’ll throw her. Try using it against me now and I’ll take her along with me.”

Pol looked at the rod for only a moment, then cast it out over the edge. Mark watched it fall. Pol did not.

“Let her go,” he said.

Mark pushed her back and down, so that she stumbled and fell to the rooftop.

“Now I can face you,” he said.

Pol raised his fists and moved forward.

“I am not such a fool,” Mark said, sliding an oblong case from a pocket upon his right thigh. “I remember that you’ve had training with your hands. Try this!”

Suddenly, Pol was able to see the roar from the nascent volcano below, yellow and black-streaked, washing about him. The rooftop buckled beneath his feet, emitting musical tones like spikes, as the sky tipped, becoming a funnel, its terminus his head, down which the sharp-edged clouds and swirls of smoke were pouring. His feet were far away—perhaps in Hell—yes, burning, and when he tried to move, he dropped to one knee and the firmament shuddered and his eyes were moist with gems which sliced his cheeks apart as they descended. Smooth blue notes emerged from his mouth like escaping birds. Mark was laughing purple rings and his orange eye was a rushing headlight. The thing he held before him tore shimmering holes in the air, and—

—and from one of the holes emerged seven wings of flame.

Your guitar,
said the first.

Get the case off your back,
said the second.

Get it out of the case,
said the third.

Play it,
said the fourth.

Your hands know the way,
said the fifth.

Get the case,
said the sixth.

Open it,
said the seventh.

A black mountain flew past him, as his hands—unfamiliar things themselves—performed operations they alone understood. Blue sparks flew from three points upon the blackness. A strange and dangerous object was rising out of the shadows before him . . . 

His hands made it move to his knee and began doing things they alone knew . . . 

Constellations bloomed before his eyes. A throbbing began down near the place of movement . . . 

Attack!
said the first.

Drive back that which assails you,
said the second.

Let him see as you see now,
said the third . . . 

Hear as you hear,
said the fourth.

You lulled the minotaur,
said the fifth.

 . . . 
This one you shall drive beyond the bounds of reason,
said the sixth.

Destroy him,
said the seventh.

Suddenly, he heard the music. The distortions still played about him, but he pushed them farther off. He changed the beat. He rose slowly to a standing position. The waves from the jumble-box washed over him and reality was troubled each time a portion of the broadcast broke through, reached him. But his vision cleared for longer and longer periods of time. He saw Mark, holding the box, pointing it at him, perspiration like a mask of glass upon his face. His lens was flashing wildly through the entire spectrum. He swayed. The music drowned even the rumbling below, though the smoke came and went between them. Nora knelt, head bowed, hands covering her face. Pol put more force into his strumming, driving the beat into his adversary’s brain. Mark took a swaying step backward and halted. Pol advanced a step, colors swirling intermittently in the air before him. Mark retreated another pace, his lens flashing faster and faster from color to color. When the building shook again, slanting beneath their feet, Mark staggered and dropped the box. His lens went black for several pulsebeats. He put out his hands for support, took another step . . . A cloud of smoke swept over him. He fell against the parapet, and it gave way . . .