Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 2 - Madwand

"The Curse of Rondoval is upon you, Henry Spier!"

The flame-headed demon-form lurched forward, and Spier--all color fled from his lace--turned and seized the statuette, which he raised before him.

"I have served you!" he cried. "Now it's your turn! Now, or never!"

There came a flash of light from Vonnie's mirror, directed toward Spier, simultaneous with a heavy scraping sound from the direction of the table.

The light from the mirror did not reach Spier. Somewhere in the vicinity of the figurine--at arm's length before him--it appeared to be absorbed. The jewels in the statuette suddenly shone like tiny, colored fires.

A dark shape rushed forward, racing the demon-form toward Spier. It passed the creature--a heavy wooden armchair from beside the table--passed Spier also, pivoted in midair, dropped and pushed forward, striking Spier behind the knees.

The sorcerer collapsed into the chair, still clutching the blazing icon.

The chair tilted backward and levitated rapidly, just as the Curse of Rondoval sprang toward it. It swung in a wide arc about the room and the fire-crowned avenger bounded after it.

It rushed at the wall, banked suddenly, then shot directly toward the window.

Belphanior recovered his balance, turned, and sprang after it, talons extended. He caught the edge of Spier's long yellow cloak which trailed behind.

The chair jerked and Spier made a gagging sound, clawing at his throat with one hand. Then its clasp tore loose and the cloak fell away. The chair resumed its forward motion, picking up speed, and passed out through the window.

Pol heard a startled cry followed by a dragon's roar. A moment later, there were gunshots. Then he heard Mouse-glove cursing. He propped himself with one stiff arm and started to sway. He felt Ryle's hand upon his shoulder, steadying him.

"Easy ..." Ryle said. "He's been checked. We're safe."

Ryle helped him into a sitting position, then looked toward Taisa, Larick, Vonnie.

The old woman was sitting upon the floor, the mirror at her side. She held Ibal's head in her lap and was speaking softly, almost crooning, above him. When she felt Ryle's gaze, she raised one hand to cover her face. Ryle quickly looked away.

Larick was stirring again. Ryle rose slowly, ponderously, to his feet and made his way toward his daughter. Pol caught only one brief glimpse of his face.

"Accursed master," Belphanior said then, prostrating himself before him. "I have answered your summons. I apologize that the man escaped my wrath."

"What--who are you?" Pol asked, moving his suddenly warm foot back from the bowed, avocado to pale green-flamed head. "And please rise."

"Belphanior, the Curse of Rondoval, your servant," he said, raising himself into a semi-erect stance.

"Really?"

"Yes. You called and I answered. I would have dismembered him for your delight, save for that unfair chair trick."

"Perhaps you'll have another opportunity one day," Pol said. "But thank you for this service. It was timely, and well done."

Belphanior handed him the yellow cloak.

"Your own garments are in need of repair. Perhaps the sorcerer's robe ..."

"Thanks."

Pol took it into his hands. The light fabric felt strange, yet at the same time familiar. There was a small patch of white on the inside, below the collar. He raised it and looked more closely.

CUSTOM-MADE IN HONG KONG ran the words upon it.

He almost dropped the cloak as he was taken by a sudden chill.

"May I assist you, accursed master?"

"No. I'll manage."

He drew it about his shoulders and fastened it at the neck. He straightened his legs painfully, rising upon them. The ache in his left side grew stronger. Larick, too, was attempting to rise. He extended his hand. Larick looked at it for a moment, then took it and pulled himself up. He did not release it for a moment, however, but continued to stare at the dragonmark. Then he looked up at Pol's hair.

"I never knew," he said at last.

"I only learned at the last possible moment mysetf," Pol said.

Over his shoulder, Pol saw that Mouseglove was seated upon the windowsill, staring. A moment later, the small man shouted something out the window and dropped to the floor.

"Moonbird couldn't follow the chair," he called out. "It was moving too fast"

Pol nodded. As Mouseglove came toward him, he saw that Ryle and Taisa were also approaching.

Larick turned toward the woman, smiling. She moved past him, placed her arms about Pol's neck and kissed him.

"Thank you," she said, at last. "I thought this day would never come, till wandering in spirit I saw you brought here. I knew somehow that you would free me."

As he gazed past her, Pol saw a peculiar look pass over Larick's face. He disentangled himself quickly, pushed her gently back and bowed despite his aching side.

"I am pleased to have helped," he said, "but it was hardly my doing alone. It was simply--circumstance."

"You are modest."

Pol turned away.

"We'd best see to Ibal and Vonnie immediately."

The old sorcerer looked young again but was still unconscious. Vonnie's beauty had for the most part returned and its enhancement continued as Pol watched. She smiled up at him.

"He'll be all right," she said. "I just wanted to keep him from awakening until the cosmetic spell was in place. We can repair the rejuvenation spells later."

She picked up the magic mirror and regarded herself in it. She smiled.

"Vanity, I know," she said. "Delightful thing."

"Let us," Ryle said, coming up beside them, "repair to more congenial quarters. Perhaps your servant can bring Ibal, Pol."

"That will not be necessary," Vonnie answered, holding the mirror before Ibal's face.

Ibal's eyes opened. He considered his reflection, then began to rise.

"Lead on," she said. "We will follow."

Night had fallen. In a large chamber in the castle Avinconet, six jeweled figurines were grouped at the center of a series of concentric circles painted upon the floor; among these circles and about them various Words and Signs had also been executed. It had taken the entire day to situate them so, for every possible thing that could have gone wrong--from spilled paint, mispronounced Words, incorrectly drawn figures, a series of earth tremors and troops of marauding vermin who had marred the pattern--had gone wrong.

At last, however, the final spell had been pronounced, the final line drawn, the final gesture executed. Immediately, the interference had ceased. The Keys were contained.

Now Pol, Larick, Ibal, Vonnie, Ryle, Taisa, Mouseglove and Belphanior sat, reclined, stood, paced, drifted as an invisible cloud, took refreshment, rested and conferred at the farther end of the large room.

"...Then I don't understand why they didn't help Spier," Mouseglove was saying.

"I believe that they were helping Spier all along," Ryle replied, "but we finally exhausted them, too, for a little while. Long enough, though. Almost."

"You say that, theoretically, he could still open the Gate with the one Key?" Mouseglove asked.

"He told Pol that he could, and I believe that he's right. It would probably take a lot of effort, though. I just don't know for certain. He's the greatest living authority."

"What now?" Larick asked, from where he sat beside Taisa who was looking at Pol who was looking at the book he held in his lap.

"They're neutralized now, but I will not rest until all seven Keys are destroyed," Ryle said. "They could still be stolen or freed somehow and the thing could start all over again."

"I can guard them against mortal thieves for a time," Mouseglove offered.

...And I against those of the other variety, Belphanior said from somewhere,

"But can they be destroyed?" Taisa asked. "After everything we tried on them earlier ..."