Madwand (Illustrated) (4 page)

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 Suhuy, 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.”

“And now that you do . . . ?”

“You are headed for the meeting at Belken?”

“Yes.”

“I will speak with my master, who no doubt will invite you to accompany us.”

“Go ahead.”

“Who shall I tell him sends greetings?”

“Pol Detson—and this is Mouseglove.”

“Very well.”

He turned and moved to catch up with the bearers. Pol and Mouseglove followed.

Looking over the apprentice’s shoulder, Pol glimpsed the old sorcerer himself before the man addressed him. Swathed in blue garments, a gray shawl over his shoulders, a brown rug upon his lap, it was difficult to estimate his size, though he gave the impression of smallness and fragility. His nose was sharp, his eyes pale and close-set; his cheeks and forehead were deeply creased, the skin mottled; his hair was thick, long, very black and looked like a wig—for his beard was sparse and gray. His hands were out of sight beneath the rug.

“Come nearer,” he hissed, turning his head toward Pol and squinting.

After he did so, Pol held his breath, becoming aware of the other’s.

“Detson? Detson?” the man asked. “From where have you come?”

“Castle Rondoval,” Pol replied.

“I thought the place deserted all these years. Who is lord there now?”

“I am.”

There was a stirring beneath the brown coverlet. A big-jointed, dark-veined hand emerged. It moved slowly toward Pol’s right wrist and plucked at the sleeve.

“Bare your forearm, if you please.”

Pol reached across and did so.

Two fingers extended, Ibal traced the dragonmark. Then he chuckled and raised his eyes, staring at Pol, past him.

“It is as you say,” he remarked. “I did not know of you—though I see now that you are troubled by more than one lingering thing from out of Rondoval’s past.”

“That may well be,” said Pol. “But how can you tell?”

“They circle you like swarms of bright insects!” Ibal said, still looking past him.

Pol consciously shifted into his second mode of seeing, and while there were many strands in the vicinity, he detected nothing which resembled a circling swarm of insects.

“I fail to observe the phenomenon myself . . . ”

“Most certainly,” the other replied, “for it has doubtless been constantly with you—and it would of course seem different to you than it does to me, anyway, if you could detect it at all. You know how sorcerers’ perceptions vary, and their emphasis upon different things.”

Pol frowned.

“Or do you?” Ibal asked.

When Pol did not reply, the old sorcerer continued to stare, narrowing his eyes to tight slits.

“Now I am not so certain,” he said. “At first I thought that the disorganization of your lights was a very clever disguise, but now—”

“My lights?” Pol said.

“With whom did you serve your apprenticeship—and when did you undergo initiation?” the other demanded.

Pol smiled.

“I grew up far from here,” he replied, “in a place where things are not done that way.”

“Ah, you are a Madwand! Preserve us from Madwands! Still . . . You are not
totally
disorganized—and anyone with that mark—” He nodded again at Pol’s right arm “—must possess an instinct for the Art. Interesting . . . So why do you travel to Belken?”

“To learn . . . some things.”

The old sorcerer chuckled.

“And I go for self-indulgence,” he said. “Call me Ibal, and accompany me. It will be good to have someone strange to talk with. Your man is not a brother of the Art?”

“No, and Mouseglove is not really my man—he is my companion.”

“Mouseglove, did you say? I seem to have heard that name before. Something to do with jewels, perhaps?”

“I am not a jeweler,” Mouseglove replied hastily.

“No matter. Tomorrow I will tell you some things that may be of interest to you, Detson. But it is still over half a league to the place where I intend to camp. Let us move on. Upward! Forward!”

The servants raised the litter and moved ahead with it. Pol and Mouseglove took up positions behind it and followed.

That night they camped amid the ruins of what might once have been a small amphitheatre. Pol lay troubled for a long while, in fear of the dreams that might come to him. He still had not spoken of these, for in daytime the things of sleep seemed far away, but when the stillness descended and the fire dwindled the deeper places of shadow seemed filled with faces, as if some ghostly audience capable of seeing beyond the cowl of sleep had come together here to watch his journey into the place of baleful lights and screaming winds and cruelty. He shuddered and listened for a long time, his eyes darting. He knew of no magic to affect the content of his dreams. And he wondered again as to their significance, partly with the mind of one whose culture would have seen them in psychopathological terms, partly with the freshly tuned awareness that in this place another explanation could as readily apply. Then his thoughts began to drift, back to the encounter with the sorcerer who had tried to kill him at Rondoval. The dreams had begun almost immediately after that, and he wondered whether there could be a connection. Had the other laid a spell upon him before he had died, to trouble his sleep thereafter? His mind moved away, lulled by the steady creaking of insects in the distant wood. He wondered what Mark would have done. Looked for some drug to block it all out, perhaps. His mind drifted again . . . 

The movement. Now a familiar thing. The fear was gone. There was only anticipation within the rapid and disjointed series of images by which he moved. There was the Gate, and . . . 

It stopped. Everything stopped. He was frozen before the image of the partly opened Gate. It was fading, insubstantial, going away, and there was a hand upon his shoulder. He wanted to cry out, but only for a moment.

“It’s all right now,” came a whisper, and the hand left him.

Pol tried to turn his head, to sit up. He found that he could not stir. A large man, his face more than half-hidden in the shadow of his cowl, was rising from a kneeling position beside him, passing through his field of vision. Pol thought that he glimpsed part of a pale moustache and—impossibly—a shining, capped tooth.

“Then why can’t I move?” he whispered through clenched teeth.

“It was far easier for me to lay a general spell upon this entire camp than to be selective about it. Then I needed but arouse you and leave the others unconscious. The paralysis is, unfortunately, a part of it.”

Pol suspected that this was a lie but saw no way to test it.

“I saw that your sleep was troubled. I decided to grant you some relief.”

“How can you see that a man’s sleep is troubled?”

“I am something of a specialist in that matter which confronts you.”

“That being . . . ?”

“Did your dream not involve a large door?”

Pol was silent for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said. “It did. How could you know this unless you induced it yourself?”

“I did not cause your dream. I did not even come here for purposes of releasing you from it.”

“What, then?”

“You journey to Belken.”

“You seem to know everything . . . ”

“Do not be impertinent. As our interests may be conjoined, I am trying to help you. I understand more than you do about some of the forces which are influencing you. You make a serious mistake, wandering about the world announcing yourself at this point in your career. Now, I have just taken great pains to remove the memory of your name and origin from the minds of Ibal and everyone in his party. In the morning, he will only recall you as a Madwand traveling to Belken. Even your appearance will be a confusion to him. If he should ask your name again, have another one ready, and use it in Belken, also. Rondoval still has its enemies.”

“I gathered something of this with the attempt on my life.”

“When was this? Where?”

“A little over a week ago. Back home.”

“I was not aware of this. Then it has begun. You should be safe for a time, if you remain incognito. I am going to rinse your hair with a chemical I have here, to conceal that white streak. It is too distinctive. And then we must hide your dragonmark.”

“How?”

“A relatively simple matter. How do you see manifestations of the Powers when you are working a spell?”

Pol felt moisture upon his scalp.

“Usually as colored strands—threads, strings, cords.”

“Interesting. Very well, then. You can imagine me as wrapping your forearm with flesh-colored strands—so closely as to entirely mask the mark. It will in no way interfere with your workings. When you wish to uncover it you need but go through an unwrapping ritual.”

Pol felt his arm taken, raised.

“Who are you?” he asked. “How do you know all these things?”

“I am the sorcerer who should never have been, and mine is a peculiar link with your House.”

“We are related?”

“No. Not even friends.”

“Then why are you helping me?”

“I feel that your continued existence may serve me. There. Your arm is nicely disguised.”