Stile raised his right hand to point at the dragon. Then he put the Flute to his mouth again, to intensify the magic and keep his complex spell operating at full strength. The dragon folded its wings and dived at the field. Folded, it was much smaller. It crashed headfirst into the chewed turf and exploded. This was the “death” of his spell. Teeth flew out in a splash, to land all across the field; the rest of the dragon puffed away in smoke. Where each tooth fell, something sprouted. This was the “bloom.” As Stile continued to play the Flute, the teeth grew into leafy vines. Each vine fruited in a gourd, and each gourd hatched into a human baby, and each baby grew rapidly into an armed soldier. This was the “birth to youth” sequence. The soldiers formed into a phalanx, marched once around the field, shifted into a sinuous formation that suddenly sprouted wings and flew as a mass into the sky. It was the original dragon, departing as it had come. In moments it was a mere speck in the sky, and then it was gone.
The unicorns stood in silence. They had just been shown that they could no longer restrict the magic of the Blue Adept, even when their force was greatest. The Adepts, too, were riveted; not one of them could match this performance. Was one of them the murderer he sought? Stile hoped that one was quaking, now, for fear of the vengeance of Blue. Most magic was fun to Stile, but in this regard it was deadly serious.
The Herd Stallion, however, had not budged. Stile had feared this would be the case. He had fashioned a demonstration of magic that was spectacular enough to enable the Stallion to withdraw without shame; obviously no ordinary creature could prevail against power like this. But the Stallion was stubborn; he would not back off regardless. He might face impossible odds but he would not yield to opposition. Stile respected that; he was that way himself. It was another reason why he was going to so much trouble to avoid humiliating the fine animal. How fortunate that the vampire had been available for advice!
Stile sang another spelclass="underline" “Flute of class, grant equalmass.” Suddenly a giant appeared, in Stile’s own image, standing in his footprints, towering above him. The giant’s mass was equal to that of the Herd Stallion; anyone could see that. Then the giant shrank in on Stile until at last it disappeared in Stile. He now had the mass of the unicorn, though he remained his own size and felt no different. He held the Flute—which was now the broadsword. The Herd Stallion stepped forward. He certainly under-stood; Stile was using his magic only to make the contest even. It depended only on their skills. If the Stallion was good with his natural weapon, he might outfence Stile and win. If not. Stile would prevail. The nullification of shame could go no further than this. Vampire Vodlevile’s advice had taken them to this stage; what followed would follow. The Stallion seemed to be proceeding with guarded confidence. Stile could guess why; Stile was known to be inexpert with the rapier. Neysa had had to drill him in its use, and he had been an apt student, but a few lessons could not bring him to the level of the Herd Stallion. Stile, however, was not now holding a rapier. He was holding an excellent broadsword, perfect in weight and length and temper and balance and all the subtleties of general feel, and with this weapon he was proficient. He had trained with this type of sword for a dozen years, and won many Proton-frame Games with it. While he could not match the Stallion’s protection against being disarmed, he could, if he had to, throw his blade at his opponent. So it was reasonably even. That was the way he wanted it. Vodlevile had shown him how to ease his crisis of conscience.
They met in the center of the arena and ceremoniously crossed weapons. Then each took a step back. Now it began.
The Stallion lunged. The horn shot forward. Stile jumped aside, his point jabbing to tag the unicorn’s shoulder—but the animal was not to be caught that way, and was out of range.
Now Stile lunged. The Stallion’s horn parried his thrust powerfully. Had Stile not possessed equal mass, he could have been disarmed then; as it was, sparks flew from the colliding weapons and both parties felt the impact.
So much for the feeling-out. Stile valued surprise, without sacrificing good technique. He fenced with the Stallion’s horn, setting himself up for disarming, and when the Stallion made the move. Stile slipped by his guard and sliced at his neck. The unicorn, suckered, shifted instantly to man-form so as to duck under it, then back to equine form. He had a sword in man-form, but lacked Stile’s mass; there was no conservation of mass, in magic. Stile wheeled to engage the Stallion again. He knew now that he was the superior swordsman, but he guarded against overconfidence. This shape-changing—that could be tricky.
Indeed it was. Suddenly he faced a small flying dragon. The creature spread batlike wings and flew over Stile’s head, out of reach of his sword.
Well, Stile was also out of reach of the dragon’s talons. It was a standoff, for the moment. Since he didn’t really want to hurt the Herd Stallion, that was all right. Then the dragon shot fire from its mouth. Stile dived out of the way. This was more complicated than he had thought! Evidently the unicorn had built up some heat in the course of the match, and was able to use that to fuel his dragon-form.
The dragon oriented for another shot. Stile raised his sword—and it was a shiny, mirror-surfaced shield. It caught the jet of fire and bounced it back at the dragon. The creature took evasive action.
Stile could bring the dragon down by magic—but he remained unwilling to do that. He wanted to win as he was. His weapon could change according to his need; the Stallion could change his shape. They remained even. Except that Stile could not reach the dragon. Or could he? Suddenly his weapon became an eighteen-foot pike. Stile heaved it upward at a sharp angle, poking at the dragon. The creature squawked with a sound like an accordion—which was the tone of the Stallion’s horn—and flapped higher. Another jet of fire came down, but petered out short of the mark. Stile’s pike was keeping the dragon beyond flame-range.
Standoff. Neither could hurt the other. Unless—Stile’s spike became a powerful platinum bow, with a long, sharp arrow. He aimed it at the dragon—but already the creature was diving to earth, changing back to the unicorn, who formed in midcharge toward Stile. Stile’s weapon shifted back to broadsword, and the fencing resumed. Stile was the better swordsman, but every time he pressed his advantage the Stallion changed shape and they went through a quick series of animal and weapon forms before returning to the more conventional fray.
It became apparent to the audience that there was unlikely to be a winner here; neither party could hurt the other. Stile was satisfied with that; they could negotiate a reasonable extension of Neysa’s time.
Stile outfenced the Stallion again, the Stallion shifted to dragon-form. Stile’s sword became the bow ... And the dragon became the man-form, who plummeted toward Stile. Stile flung himself aside, his grip on his weapon slackening, and the man-form snatched it from Stile’s grasp. He hurled it far across the arena. In air, the bow reverted to its natural state, the Flute, and bounced on the grass. Stile had been careless, and abruptly disarmed. His first impulse was to run for the Flute, for he had no chance without it. His mass had reverted to normal the moment he was separated from the Flute. The ring of unicorns now deprived him of his magic. How foolish he had been not to retain his grip; he could never have been disarmed had he willed himself not to be. A large hand caught his shoulder. The man-form was preventing him from going after the weapon. Stile reacted instantly. He caught the hand on his shoulder, whirled about, and applied pressure to the man-form’s elbow joint. It would have been a submission hold, ordinarily—but the form shifted back to equine and the hold was negated.