Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 1 - Changeling

They swept on toward the line of defenders and shortly the firing began. A little while after that, dragon vomit fell like rain upon the sky boats. Fires dotted the ground, wreckage and falling bodies filled the air. There were a great many of the ships, but their crews could not reload the guns quickly and their accuracy was far less than perfect. After several minutes of combat, it was clear that Pol's forces would not be halted here. When they finally passed on toward Anvil Mountain, their force was diminished but the air fleet was broken.

As they came within range of the flat-topped mount, the artillery fire began. But Pol had spread his formation even more thinly by then, having seen evidence of heavy artillery on his earlier visit to the place.

Still, the great guns fired with deadly effect for several minutes, until two of them toppled, one exploded and others began firing wildly.

Sweeping even nearer, through the morning light, Pol saw that the entire mountain was shaking.

It is a mighty magic you wield, Smoke remarked.

That is not my doing, he replied.

A dragon can feel magic, and that which leads to the earthquake I feel upon my back.

I do not understand.

The answer hangs at your belt.

The figurines?

I know not what they are, only what they are bringing to pass.

Good! I'll take all the help I can get!

Even if they control you?

Either way, I have no choice now but to try to win, do I?

They broke through the openings in the artillery screen, dragons landing and discharging the non-winged creatures which immediately turned and sought the defenders. Tanks rumbled along the shaking streets, some of them spewing flames back at the dragons.

A steady crackling of gunfire rose above the city. The metallic worms were out, wrestling with the attackers. Here and there, blades flashed in the hands of men as ammunition was exhausted. The howling, bounding lesser beasts of the caverns tore through the city, killing and being killed. A crack opened, diagonally, in one of the main avenues and noxious fumes rose out of it.

Pol looked about, searching rooftops and opened bunkers, hoping to catch sight of the red-haired man with the eye of many colors. But Mark was nowhere in sight.

He sought altitude again, and he directed Smoke to take him in a wide circle above the city. The screams grew fainter as they rose, and the designs of the buildings and the overall layout of the city impressed themselves upon him for the first time. The place was efficiently disposed, extremely factional, logically patterned and relatively clean. He realized that he felt a grudging admiration for a country boy capable of materializing such a dream--and in such a brief while--whether his world wanted it or not. He wished once again that he could have sent Mark back to the place where he himself had been so long the misfit.

They landed upon the vacant roof of a tall building; and there, without dismounting, Pol raised the scepter with both hands and laid his will upon his forces below. They required organization now, not skirmishing. It was time to create groups and direct their efforts toward specific objectives. His wrist pulsed, the rod pulsed, the strands pulsed as he began. There was usually a feeling of elation as he worked with the power. But this time, while the feeling was present, there was little joy accompanying it. He had never wished to be the destroyer of another man's dreams.

He saw tanks torn apart by his creatures, but he also saw dragons beset and hacked apart by the small folk, who, having moved from the wilds to this existence in the span of a few years, still possessed the instincts of pack hunters when reduced to the bloody basics of life. He felt something of an admiration for them, also, though this in no way affected his tactics. He grew more and more dispassionate as the sun climbed and the conflicts progressed. Moving each time artillery pieces were repositioned to bring him down, directing strike forces toward the most troublesome emplacements, he hurled other assaults against what appeared to be nerve centers, breaking down walls and spreading fires, wondering the while whether Mark occupied some similar position elsewhere, and with radio communication directed his forces into the surprising patterns of resistance which kept developing. Most likely. Things were still too closely balanced to permit him to desert his command post and seek the other out, however.

The casualties were heavy on both sides. Pol felt he now had the edge, though, in that he was destroying more and more of his adversary's capabilities as the day progressed, whereas his own forces were not dependent upon things outside themselves. He was slowly reducing them to reliance upon the simplest of weapons, and when this reduction had reached the proper point, a parity of forces would represent no equality whatsoever and the battle would be near to its end.

The mountain gave another shudder, and the opening in the ground grew larger. Steam had emerged from it for a long while, earlier, but with the enlargement flames and pieces of stone shot forth, the buildings nearby suffered partial collapse of their facades and a roaring noise came up, growing until it smothered all the sounds of the fighting.

Pol's aching hands tightened even more upon the scepter, as he said aloud, "Only a fool could call it coincidence. If I've an unseen ally, make yourself known!"

Immediately, seven large flames hovered in the air before him, unsupported by any burning medium. The one to his left flickered, and the reply seemed to come from that source:

It is no coincidence.

"Why, then?"

Now the second flame flickered.

It is a recurring thing, this struggle. Ages ago, the world was split by it, giving birth to the one in which you were raised, where we are legend, and making that one a legend to this. It is an undying conflict and its time has come again. You are the agent of preservation; Mark, the champion of the insurgency. One of you must be utterly obliterated.

"Has he allies such as you?"

The third replied:

Beneath that shrine, far below, is an ancient teaching machine. He bears a small unit within his body which keeps him in constant communication with it.

Pol immediately disengaged a force and directed it against the shrine, with instructions to destroy everything beneath it as well.

"Do you already know the outcome here?" he asked.

It is still undecided, said the fourth.

We distract you, said the fifth.

...And your full attention is still required here, said the sixth.

...And so we depart, said the seventh, as they faded and dwindled to nothing.

Pol was immediately beset by a fresh artillery barrage, and had to fly to a new vantage while directing attacks against the guns.

Strong fumes reached him before very long and he had to move again, seeing now that the opening below had become a glowing crater, its smoke rising to smudge the sky. Its rumbles continued to grow, also.

Much later, he realized that no one was shooting at him any longer. Suicide fliers had attacked for a time, but he had destroyed them with blasts from the scepter until, finally, they had ceased.

The fighting below had grown more and more disorganized, as both sides suffered massive casualties. The battle for the shrine, far down below the slopes, continued. A remarkably powerful defense had seemed to arise from almost nowhere, and Pol had diverted more forces to deal with it.

...And Nora thought herself a pawn, he reflected. What am I? I exercise all the functions of command, yet I am no freer than any of those below. Unless...

Up, Smoke! Big circles!

I, too, serve, came the reply, and they were rising, turning.

The third time around, he saw them--Nora and Mark atop a high building across the avenue from the crater. It was a flash of sunlight gleaming upon a red lens turned in his direction that drew his eyes to their position.