Madwand (Illustrated) (19 page)

Crossing the fire-scored pavement beside one of the fallen bridges, he ducked through a twisted door frame into a roofless building. Within, he passed the shriveled bodies of half-a-dozen of Mark’s diminutive subjects. (He resented the term “dwarf” by which the others referred to them, since he was approximately the same height himself.) He wondered as he went by what it might be like for any survivors of that engagement—to be raised from barbarism to a highly organized level of existence and then to be cast back down again to subsisting as in days gone by, all the machines stopped. Perhaps it had been too brief an interlude, he told himself. They would not yet have lost their primitive skills. This entire experience might merely turn to the stuff of legend among them one day.

But from somewhere—he was never to be certain where—he seemed to hear the sound of hammering; and twice, he heard the chuffing noises which made him think of attempts to start one of the great machines.

He located the stairwell he had been seeking and spent ten minutes clearing it for his descent. Below, he followed a series of twisting tunnels down into the mountain itself, the turnings as fresh in his memory as if he had traversed them but yesterday, despite the fact that he moved now through regions of absolute blackness—the generators which had provided their minimal lighting having long since failed. He moved with a certain deliberation, his pistol in his hand. But nothing threatened him here.

The door to the arsenal was locked, but he was able to pick it in the dark, his sensitive fingers faultlessly manipulating the small pieces of metal he had always with him. They had a memory of their own, his fingers, and he had opened this lock before.

Inside, then. And he crossed the room and sought the racks. He filled a grenade belt and slung it, pausing only to acquire an extra supply of cartridges for his pistol after this was done.

Departing the place, he halted, and for reasons not completely clear to himself, locked the door. Then he hurried back along the tunnels, gripping the pistol once again.

As he mounted the stair, a touch of panic—immediately suppressed—followed by a full measure of heightened alertness, came to him. What subliminal cues might have triggered this response, he did not know, but he trusted it fully because it had served him well in the past. He halted, pressed against the wall, then commenced moving slowly up the stairway, his footsteps grown soundless through deliberate placement.

When his head cleared floor level, he halted again and studied the interior of the wrecked room. Nothing stirred. The place seemed unchanged since his earlier passage.

He drew a deep breath, mounted the remaining steps quickly and headed toward the doorway.

There was a rapid movement to his right.

He halted when he saw that it was one of the short, heavily muscled aboriginals who had manned this place, emerged from behind a slanting piece of cracked ceiling material, moving so as to bar his way. The man had on the tattered remains of the uniform those in Mark’s service had worn.

Mouseglove raised the pistol and hesitated.

The dwarf was armed with a long, curved blade. But it was not the inequality of arms which stayed Mouseglove’s trigger finger. The man appeared to be unaccompanied, but if there were others about the sounds of gunfire might summon them.

“No problem,” Mouseglove ventured, lowering his weapon and thrusting it away. “I’m just leaving.”

Even before the other’s wide mouth shaped a grin, he’d a feeling that he would not be able to talk his way out of this one.

“You were one of them,” the man said, moving toward him, blade twitching. “Friend of the sorcerer . . .”

Mouseglove dropped into a crouch, his right hand falling upon the hilt of the dagger which protruded from his boot-sheath, his thumb unfastening the small strap which held it in place.

Still bent far forward, he took the weapon into his hand and began a sidewise, shuffling movement toward his right. The other advanced and slashed at his head with the curving blade. Mouseglove avoided it and raised his own weapon quickly, to nick the man’s forearm. He sidled faster and feinted twice toward the man’s chest, dodged a thrust he knew he would be unable to parry and produced a small laceration in the other’s brow above the right eye with the crosspiece of his own blade. It should have been a neat slash, but he had underestimated the man’s speed. The sudden contact with the horny brow-ridge threw him slightly off-balance and he retreated, stumbling.

He recovered his balance, but continued the stumbling movement to scoop up a handful of broken masonry.

Straightening, he cast the pieces at the other’s head, danced to the right and thrust. He attempted to twist the blade as it entered the man’s left side but found that he was unable to withdraw it.

The man pushed him away and swung his own blade. Mouseglove darted out of range, snatched up another piece of masonry, hurled it and missed. The man moved toward him, the dagger protruding from his side, his blade still raised, his face expressionless. Mouseglove could not tell how much strength remained with him. Another rush, perhaps . . . ? It would be too risky to turn his back on him now, or attempt to dart by—and he still effectively barred his way to the door. He considered simply attempting to avoid him until the injury took its toll. The man had not raised an outcry, and Mouseglove was still determined not to use the pistol unless all else failed or an alarm was given.

The other seemed to smile, tight-lipped, as he came toward him, and Mouseglove realized that he was being backed toward an outhouse-sized slab of roofing material.

“I will live,” the dwarf said. “I will recover from this. But you—”

He rushed, blade raised high, careless of any openings now.

Mouseglove gripped the heavy grenade belt which hung from his shoulders, dropped low and swung it with all of his strength toward the other’s legs.

The man toppled and Mouseglove moved. He did not spring, because the other had managed to raise his blade. But he seized the extended wrist and threw his weight upon it, covering the fallen man with his own body, pushing downward. With his other hand he caught hold of the other half of the blade and twisted, so that the cutting edge was turned.

As he leaned, pushing it toward the other’s throat, the man’s left hand clawed upward toward his face. He ducked his head and drew back; as he did this, he felt the other’s legs locking about him. They tightened almost immediately, achieving a painful pressure. As this occurred, the left hand assailed his face again, fingers raking toward his eyes.

He removed his right hand from the blade and raised it to fend off the attacking hand. As he did so, the right hand began to move upward against his pressure, the blade slowly turning. The other’s legs continued to tighten until he felt that his pelvis would surely crack. Now, slowly, teeth clenched, the man began to raise his wide shoulders from the ground.

Mouseglove dropped his defending right arm and drove the elbow down and back against the haft of his blade which protruded from the other’s side.

The man shuddered and fell back, the grip of his legs loosening. Mouseglove repeated the blow and a moan escaped the man’s lips.

Then Mouseglove’s right hand was upon the other’s blade again, as he dragged himself free and threw his weight forward. The blade sank rapidly, its cutting edge touching the other’s windpipe and continuing downward.

As the blood spurted, he dragged the weapon across the throat and still held tightly to it, afraid to let go until long after a series of spasms had shaken the man, to be followed by a stillness, despite the fact that his hands, arms and shirtfront were spattered and in places soaked by the other’s blood.

He wrenched the blade away then and cast it aside. He rose, and placing his foot upon the body, drew his dagger from it and wiped it upon the man’s garments. He sheathed it, picked up the grenade belt and slung it over his shoulder, drew his pistol again and departed the wrecked building.

Nothing barred his way as he headed for the crater, and he began feeling that his assailant had been a solitary survivor, half-crazed perhaps, scratching out a living and leading a reclusive life among the remains of the previous year’s debacle. But then he began hearing noises—a falling stone, a metallic creaking, a scratching, a shuffling sound—any one of which might, by itself, be taken as the action of settling, or wind, or rodents. Together, however, and coming upon the heels of his struggle, they acquired a more sinister aspect.

Mouseglove hurried, and the sounds seemed to follow him. He scrutinized every bit of cover as he went, but detected no one—nothing—of a threatening nature. The sounds, however, increased in frequency behind him.

He was running, however, by the time he reached the base of the cone, and he commenced climbing immediately, not even looking back. And though he scanned the rim of the crater, there was no sign of Moonbird at the top.

As he climbed, he heard the footfalls below, behind him. A backward glance took in six or eight of the small people, emerging from the ruins, running after him now. While they bore clubs, spears and blades, he was slightly relieved to see that none of Mark’s advanced weapons appeared to have survived for their use. Several of them, he noted, wore bits of machined metal, like amulets, about their necks. At that moment, he wondered how much they had really understood of the technology into and out of which they had been so quickly propelled. The speculation was only a fleeting thing, however, accompanied as it was by the acknowledgement that primitive weapons render one just as dead as the more sophisticated variety.

Climbing, he wondered then concerning the ghostly bond which permitted him to communicate with Moonbird. Their proximity and spell-involvement in the caves of Rondoval during the two decades of the spell’s effect had worked that linkage. He had never communicated with the dragon except at close range, though it occurred to him that now only a thin layer of rock might be all that separated them.

Moonbird! Do you hear me?
he cried out in his mind.

Yes,
came a distant-seeming reply.

Where are you?

Climbing. Still climbing.

I’m in trouble.

What kind of trouble?

I’m being pursued,
Mouseglove told him,
by those people who worked for Mark.

How many?

Six. Eight. Maybe more.

How unfortunate.

There is nothing that you can do?

Not from here.

What shall I do?

Climb fast.

Mouseglove cursed and looked back. All of his pursuers were nearing the cone’s base—and one heavily muscled man was drawing back his spear for a cast. Mouseglove drew his pistol and fired it at him. He missed, but apparently spoiled the other’s aim. The spear flew wide, clattering against the cone far off to his right.

He fired again, and this time the nearest of his pursuers dropped his club and clutched at his right shoulder.

What was that?

I had to shoot at a couple,
Mouseglove replied, remaining low, continuing up the slope.

Did you find what you sought?

Yes.
I have explosives. But my pursuers are too scattered to make them an effective weapon.

But you can use them from a distance?

Yes.

When you reach the top throw them down to the place you dug.

How far up are you?

That is not important.

They make quite a blast.

It should be amusing. Not worry.

Mouseglove looked back again. Three of his pursuers had reached the base of the cone and were beginning to climb. Halting, he took careful aim and fired at the foremost. The man fell.

He did not pause to assess the effect of this upon the others, but turned and put his full strength into his ascent. He was nearing the top now. His pursuers were strong and agile, but so was he. He also weighed less and was faster, so he had managed to acquire a good lead.

Finally, he reached the rim and mounted it, passing over its lip immediately, for cover. Only then did he look down. He made a soft noise at the back of his throat.

Moonbird, dragging his ponderous bulk slowly up the steep wall, had only succeeded in climbing about a quarter of the distance to the top.

I can’t throw these things,
he told the dragon.
You’re too near.

I have flown through thunderstorms,
came the reply,
when the heavens came apart all around. Yet I lived. Throw them.

I can’t.

We die if you do not. And Pol . . . 

Mouseglove thought of his pursuers, primed one of the grenades and hurled it down toward the now darkened area where he had been digging earlier. He covered his ears. He heard the blast and felt the vibration. Afterward, he heard the sounds of falling and shifting rocks.

Moonbird! Are you all right?

Yes. Throw another. Hurry!

Mouseglove complied and braced himself again. After the second explosion, he inquired:
Moonbird?

Yes.
Another.

The reply seemed slightly weaker, or could it but have been the roaring in his head, submerging it? He threw the third explosive, pressing himself back against the stone until the detonation occurred and the force of the aftershock had abated.

Moonbird?

There was no answer. He peered downward, through the clouds of dust and the shadows. The area where Moonbird had clung was now totally obscured.

Answer me, Moonbird!

Nothing.

As the ringing in his ears subsided, he thought that he heard scraping noises of ascent from the outer surface of the cone, though they could possibly have been the sounds of falling rocks. He dared not cast a grenade back over the lip of the crater because of its possible effects upon himself, there on the inside.