Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 2 - Madwand

As the constriction of Talkne's body increased, Prodromolu tightened his own grip upon it and continued to strike and tear with his beak. Their blood mingled and spread in a series of coin-like pools. Orange-clad bodies lay all about them as the bird continued to hammer at the scaly form which imprisoned him in massive bands. At last there came a slight loosening of the serpent's coils, and the bird struck with renewed energy, tearing out chunks of flesh and dashing them aside into a small ornamental garden of silver-leafed shrubs.

He felt the serpent go limp. Dragging himself free, he struck once again, then threw back his head and uttered a piercing shriek. Then he spread his wings slowly, painfully, and lifted himself into the air.

The head of the serpent flashed upward and the mouth snapped shut upon his right leg. With a whiplike movement, Talkne cast Prodromolu through the air and into the water, not letting go the leg, slithering immediately after to wind about the dark bird again.

"You will not depart this world," Talkne repeated, driving them out into deeper water.

"Pol!" said the other, suddenly. "You don't know what you're doing. ..."

There was a long pause, as the serpent dragged him even farther away from the shore. Then, "I know," came the reply.

Talkne dove, bearing Prodromolu along with him.

The bird tore partway free for an instant and drove his beak down upon the back of the serpent's head a bare instant before the fangs found the side of his neck and closed there.

As the waters roiled about him and the blow from that great beak fell upon the head of the serpent, Pol felt his consciousness fading and then everything seemed distant. Even as he locked his fangs more tightly upon the other, he felt insulated from the event, as if it really involved two other parties....

Thrashing frantically, he could not free himself from the grip upon his neck. As he was drawn ever more deeply beneath the water, Henry Spier felt the blackness rising and covering him over. He wanted to cry out. He reached to summon his powers, but he was gone before the necessary movement of Art could be completed.

He was walking. The mists were rolling all about him and the figures came and went. There was one very familiar one, with a message...

It was cold, very cold. He wanted a blanket, but something else was thrust into his hands. A warmth seemed to flow from it, however, and that was good. The moaning sounds ceased. He had barely been aware of them until then. He clutched more tightly at the object he held and something of strength came into him from it.

"Pol! Come on! Wake up! Hurry!"

The message...

He was aware that his face was being slapped. Face?

Yes, he had a face.

"Wake up!"

"No," he said, his grip continuing to tighten upon the staff.

Staff?

He opened his eyes. The face before him was out of focus, but there was something familiar about it even then. It moved nearer to his own and the blurring vanished from its features.

"Mouseglove..."

"Get up! Hurry!" the small man enjoined him. "The others are stirring!"

"Others? I don't... Oh!"

Pol struggled to sit up and Mouseglove assisted him. As he did so, he saw that it was his father's scepter which he held clutched in his hands.

"How did you come by this?" he asked.

"Later! Take it and use it!"

Pol looked about the chamber. Larick had rolled onto his side, facing him. His eyes were open, though his expression was not one of comprehension. Across the chamber, near the door, Ryle Merson was moaning and beginning to move. From the corner of his eye, Pol saw that Taisa's arm was rising. He remembered Spier's words concerning a lapse of will, and he stared at the man, just as Spier began to sit up.

"Are they all enemies?" Mouseglove asked. "You'd better do something to the ones who are--fast!"

"Get out of here," Pol said. "Hurry!"

"I'll not leave you now."

"You mustl However you came in--"

"Through the window."

"Back out it then. Go!"

Pol got up onto one knee and raised the scepter before him, staring at Henry Spier across it. Mouseglove moved out of sight, but Pol could not tell whether he had fled or only retreated. From somewhere, the smell of dragons came to his nostrils.

His arm was already throbbing, and he gave a grateful shudder that the power had not again deserted him. The statuette still stood in position upon the diagram, facing the Gate. He rose to his feet and sent his will into the scepter. There was an answering tingle in the palms of his hands. A sensation as of a protracted, subauditory organ note passed through him.

He felt no doubt whatsoever that Spier must die. If he let him live, he decided that he would be guilty of a greater offense than if he killed him, becoming himself responsible for any evil the man would work.

With a sound like a thunderclap, a sheet of almost liquid flame leapt from the scepter's tip to fall upon Henry Spier. The chamber was brilliantly illuminated and shadows ran relay races about the uneven walls.

Then the flame parted like a forked tongue, to reveal Spier standing beyond the bifurcation, right arm upraised.

"How'd you manage to get your hands on that thing?" he said, above the fire's roar.

Pol did not reply but bent all of his efforts to closing the fiery gap. Like a bloody pair of scissors in a shaky hand, it commenced swaying toward, then away from the man in its midst. Pol felt the counterpressure growing and then waning, as Spier mustered his forces with occasional lapses.

"Your dragon outside the window, eh?" Spier said. "Must have him well-trained. Can't stand dragons myself. Smell like stale beer and rotten eggs."

The flames suddenly flew wide apart, like a letter Y, then a T. They began retreating toward Pol, the arms of the T slowly curving back around in his direction.

Pol gritted his teeth, and the flames' progress toward him was halted. He was seized with the sickening realization that even with his powers augmented by the scepter, Spier seemed to hold the edge. And Spier's strength was continuing to grow as he recovered, whereas his own appeared to have reached its limit. The flames began to sway again, but they were edging closer toward him. He knew that it was too late to shift to a different mode of attack, and he knew also that it would not make any difference if he could.

"It is a powerful tool that you hold," Spier stated slowly, as if reading his mind. "But a tool, of course, is only as good as the man who uses it. You are young, and but recently come into your powers. You are not sufficient to the task you have set yourself." He took a step forward and the flames roared ominously. "But then, I doubt that any man in this world is."

"Shut up!" Pol cried, and he tried to banish the flames, but they remained.

Spier took another step and halted as a surge of effort accompanying Pol's anger flicked them back a span in his direction.

"There can be only one outcome if you persist," Spier went on," and I do not want that. Listen to me, boy. If you are good enough to give me as much trouble as you have, you are very good. I would regret very much having to destroy you, especially when there is no reason for it."

There came a loud report from the direction of the window, and a bullet richocheted about the chamber. Spier glanced in that direction at the same time Pol did.

Mouseglove, standing outside, had rested his elbows upon the wide, stony sill. The pistol, pointed toward Spier, still smoked in his hand. He seemed to stiffen, and he slid away out of sight, the weapon clattering against stone as it fell.

Pol turned back in time to see Spier completing an almost casual gesture.

"Had I a moment or so more, I would have made him turn it against himself," he said. "But I can do that afterwards. Firearms are such a barbaric intrusion in this idyllic place, don't you think? I approve of your actions at Anvil Mountain, by the way. The Balance must be tipped toward more magic, where we will be supreme."