Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 2 - Madwand

Panting now, Pol fended off the return of the flames, his dragonmark feeling as if it were itself afire. He knew that without the scepter he would be dead in the face of the present onslaught. Spier seemed to be increasing even in stature now, as he recovered, an aura of poise and command growing about him.

"As I said, there is no reason for this," Spier continued. "I am willing to forgive our archetypal struggle beyond the Gate and what passed between us here before then, I feel that you still do not understand. I am also more convinced than ever of your suitability as an ally." He took a step backward and the pressure diminished. "A sign of my good faith," he said. "I have made the first move toward our easing away from this in stages. Let us call a halt and work together to our mutual benefit. Ill even teach you some unusual things about that staff you hold. I--"

Pol screamed and fell to his knees as his entire left side was seized and twisted by a hideous series of spasms. He thought that he felt his lower ribs give way.

Summoning all of his remaining energy, he drove it toward Spier in a gigantic psychic wedge, powered by fear, hate, a sense of betrayal, shame at his own gullibility...

"It wasn't me!" Spier cried--half in anger, half in surprise--as he was driven, tripping, back against the wall.

"Larick! Stop it..." came a weak voice from off to the right, as Ryle Merson struggled to his feet.

Instantly, the seizure halted, though its aftereffects left Pol kneeling, aching, shaking.

"Help him! Damn you!" Ryle cried, advancing. "That's Spier he's got against the wall!"

The fat man suddenly moved quickly and placed his hand upon the scepter below Pol's own. Immediately, Pol felt a partial easing of the tension which had held him for so long.

Spier's eyes, which had been wide, suddenly narrowed. Larick came up beside Pol on the left, his hand, also, coming to rest upon the scepter.

"You say I would use you," Spier said, "and this is true. But they are also guilty--of the same thing."

Pol bore down with his will, augmented by the others'. The flame leaped forward again--and halted, as if it had met an invisible wall.

He strove to increase his efforts and felt the others doing likewise, yet the situation remained unchanged. In fact, Spier was smiling--a small, almost sad smile.

"What's happening?" Pol said in a hoarse whisper.

"He's holding us," Ryle replied.

"All three of us?" Pol asked. "I almost had him myself before!"

"My little serpent," Spier said from across the chamber. "Although you surprised me several times, I was but testing your strength and letting things run long enough to give me the opportunity to speak with you. I see now that I have failed, and I must conclude things, though it really does my heart sore to see you put to waste. Good-bye--until some more agreeable life, perhaps."

He began to walk toward them. Immediately, the scepter became burning hot in Pol's grip. He clung to it despite this, however, and directed all of their energies toward halting the man, who now seemed the embodiment of strength and assurance. He felt some resistance, but Spier did not stop, and the smell of burning flesh came to his nostrils. His head swam, and for an instant the mists seemed to roil about him and the figure to his right was no longer Ryle Merson. What was he saying?

Spier doubled forward as if experiencing a sudden stomach cramp. He waved both his hands in small circles, frantically, the right before him, the left far out to the side.

After a moment, he straightened, the hand movements continuing but becoming more regular now, the circles growing. He looked ahead and then to the left.

"They're coming out of the woodwork now," he said ruefully.

Pol, who could no longer tell whether the scepter was hot, cold or lukewarm, turned his head toward the chamber's entrance.

Ibal and Vonnie stood there. He bore a white wand. She held what appeared to be a brass hand mirror, crosswise and close to her breast.

"You've roused the bloody geriatrics ward," Spier added, glaring now and appearing fully recovered. "Well just have to retire them again."

His left hand changed its pattern, altered its rhythm. The metal mirror flashed as Vonnie swayed. Ibal laid a hand upon her shoulder and displayed his wand like an orchestra conductor at the opening of Brahms' Second Symphony.

"There was a time when you were good, old man," Spier said. "But you should have stayed retired..."

He flicked his right hand suddenly and Ryle Merson cried out and fell.

"A little misdirection never hurts," he said. "And then there were four ..."

But his face showed signs of strain, and the mirror flashed again.

"Damned witch!" he muttered, retreating a step.

A needle-tine line of white light fled from the tip of Ibal's wand and pierced Spier's right shoulder. Spier bellowed as the arm fell to his side and a wave of fire and force from the scepter swept over him.

Clothing smouldering, he gestured wildly and the scepter was torn from Pol's and Larick's grip, spinning across the room and striking Ibal about the chest and shoulders as it turned. The white wand dropped to the floor as the sorcerer fell, his face already twenty years older.

The mirror flashed again and Spier seemed to catch its light with his left hand, from whence it was reflected upon Pol and Larick.

Pol felt it as a blow and was momentarily blinded. Falling, he struck against Larick, who was not strong enough to hold him. Both of them went down as Spier, his arm dripping blood, hair and eyebrows singed, face bright red, cloak smoking, turned toward the woman. He was muttering--whether profanity or the beginning of a spell, she was not certain.

"My dear lady," Spier said, advancing upon Her, swaying. "It is all over."

Distantly, Pol heard her reply: "In that case, behold yourself."

He heard Spier's scream and thought that she had finished him. But then, at an even greater distance, he heard the man's weak answer: "Good. But not good enough."

But Pol was already walking through the place of mists, the form of the man so like himself at his side, telling him something, something to remember, something important...

"Belphanior!" he said aloud, half-raising his head.

And then he slumped and the mists rolled over him.

My world was torn apart and reassembled in an instant. Possibly I, too, was subjected to the same process. My existential yearnings were redefined and satisfied by that single gesture. The perturbations of my spirit subsided. Everything--for the first time in my existence--was made clear to me. I reveled in the moment.

"Belphanior!"

Belphanior. Yes, Belphanior. It fit so beautifully, like an exquisite garment tailored just for me. I turned before the mirrors of my spirit, admiring the cut and the material.

I had been hurriedly assembled from the raw stuff of creation in this world by the sorcerer Det Morson on the day of his death--almost within minutes of it, actually. So rushed had he been by the unusually speedy advance of his enemies that he had been unable properly to conclude the work, to charge me in full with all of the necessary restrictions, compulsions and promptings. He rushed off to tend to his death without quite completing his spell and setting into motion all of those reflexes he had instilled. Or telling me who I was. Conscientious in the extreme, I realized, I had been trying to figure these matters out for myself.

It is very pleasing to learn of one's importance in the scheme of things.

And it is a good thing, in a very real sense, to have made one's own way in the world, unlike those others who came full-furnished with stocks of intellectual and emotional equipment suiting them for their comfortable niches in life and requiring never a second thought. Consider...