"But I must return to the King in mere days!" Dor cried. "And to my own land-"
"Return without me. Perhaps I can render some service to the Zombie Master in return for his hospitality."
"But I must take the Zombie Master with me, to help the King!" Yet that, too, was an impasse; the Magician had already refused to get involved in politics.
The Zombie Master was there; in his distraction Dor had not been aware of his arrival. "Why did the men torment the spider?"
"I am alien to this world," Jumper chittered. "I am a natural creature, but in my enchantment in this realm of men I become a thing of horror. Only these friends, who know me-" His cluttering ceased abruptly; he was unconscious.
"A thing of horror, yet with sentience and courage," the Zombie Master murmured thoughtfully. He looked up. "I will care for this creature as long as he requires it. Egor, carry him to the guest chamber."
The ogre picked Jumper up again and tromped away.
"I wish there were some way to cure him faster," Dor said. "Some medicinal spell, like the healing elixir-" He snapped his fingers. "That's it! I know where there's a Healing Spring, within a day's journey of here!"
Now he had the Magician's attention. "I could use such elixir in my art," the Zombie Master exclaimed. "I will help you fetch it, if you will share the precious fluid with me."
"There's plenty," Dor agreed. "Only there's one catch. You can't act against the interest of the Healing Spring, or you forfeit its benefit."
"A fair stipulation." The Zombie Master showed the way to an inner courtyard. A monstrous zombie bird roosted there.
Dor stared. This was a roc! The largest of all birds, restored to pseudo-life by the talent of this Magician. The entire world of the dead was under the power of this man!
"Carry this man where he will," the Zombie Master directed the roc. "Return him safely with his burden to this spot."
"Uh, I'll need a jug or something-" Dor said.
The Magician produced two jugs: one for each of them. Dor climbed onto the stinking back of the roc, anchored himself by grasping the rotting stubs of two great feathers, and tied the jugs with a length of Jumper's silk left over from his last dragline.
The roc flapped its monstrous wings. The spread was so great, the tips touched the castle walls on either side of the courtyard. Grimy feathers flew wide, bits of meat sprayed off, and the bony substructure crackled alarmingly. But there was tremendous power remaining in this creature. A roc in its prime could carry an elephant-that was an imaginary creature the size of a small sphinx-and Dor weighed far less than that. So even this animated corpse could perform creditably enough.
They lumbered into the air, barely clearing the castle roof. There were so many holes in the great wings that Dor marveled that they did not fall apart, let alone have sufficient leverage to make flight possible. But the spell of the Zombie Master was a wondrous thing; no zombie ever quite disintegrated, though all of them seemed perpetually on the verge of doing so.
They looped above the castle. "Go east!" Dor cried.
He hoped he knew the terrain well enough by air to locate the spot. He tried to visualize the tapestry to orient himself-was he actually flying above it now?-but this world was too real for that.
Dor had only been to the Healing Spring once with his father Bink, who had needed elixir for some obscure adult purpose. On that trip Bink had reminisced about his adventures there: how he had met Dor's mother Chameleon, she being then in the guise of Dee, her normal phase, at such and such a spot, and how he had found the soldier Crombie at this other spot, wounded, and used the elixir to restore him to health. Dor and Bink had visited briefly with a dryad, a wood nymph associated with a particular tree, resembling a pretty girl of about Millie's present age. She had tousled Dor's hair and wished him well. Ah, yes, it had been a fine trip! But now, high in the air, Dor could not ask the objects of the ground where the Spring was, and there were no clouds close enough to hail-hail-call, that is, not hail-stone-and his memory seemed fallible.
Then he spied a channel of especially healthy jungle, obviously benefiting from the flowing water from the Spring. "Down there," he cried. "At the head of that stream."
The zombie roc dropped like a stone, righted itself, glided in for a landing, tilted a little, and clipped a tree with one far-reaching wing tip. Immediately the wing crumpled, and the roc's whole body swerved out of control. It was a crash landing that sent Dor tumbling from his perch.
He picked himself up, bruised but intact. The roc was a wreck. Both wings had been broken; there was no way the creature could fly now. How was he to get back in time to do Jumper much good? If he walked, it would take him a day in the best of conditions; carrying two heavy jugs it would be longer. Assuming he didn't get snapped up by a tangle tree, dragon, or other monster along the way.
He reconnoitered. They had missed the Spring, but there was a handsome tree nearby on the hillside. And-he recognized it. "Dryad!" he cried, running toward it. "Remember me, Dor?"
There was no response. Suddenly he realized: this was eight hundred years earlier! The dryad would not remember him-in fact there probably was no dryad here yet, and this was probably not the same tree. Even if the time had been correct, the nymph still would hardly have recognized him in his present body. He had been boyishly foolish. Yet again.
Disconsolately he trekked down the slope. Of course this was not the same tree! The real one had been some distance from the Spring, not right beside it. And an average tree of today would be an extraordinary tree by Dor's own time; even plants aged considerably in eight centuries. His hopes had really fouled up his thinking! He would have to find his own way out of this mess, without help from any dryad.
Well, not entirely without help. "What is the best route out of here?" he asked the nearest stone.
"Ride that roc bird out," the rock replied.
"But the roc's wings are broken!"
"So sprinkle it with some elixir, idiot!"
Dor stopped dead in his tracks. So obvious! "I am an idiot!" he exclaimed.
"That's what I said," the stone agreed smugly.
Dor ran up to the roc, got his jugs, and ran to the Spring. "Mind if I take some of your elixir?" he inquired rhetorically.
"Yes, I mind!" the Spring replied. "All you creatures come and steal my substance, that I labor so hard to enchant, and what recompense do I get for it?"
"What recompense!" Dor retorted. "You demand the stiffest price of all!"
"What are you talking about? I never made any demands!"
Something was wrong. Then Dor caught on. Again, that eight-hundred-year factor. The Spring had not yet developed its compensatory enchantment. Well, maybe Dor could do it a favor. "Look, Spring, I intend to pay you for your substance. Give me these two jugs full of elixir, and I will tell you how to get fair recompense from all other takers."
"Done!" the Spring cried.
Dor dipped the jugs full, noting how the bruises vanished from his body as he touched the water. This was the Spring, all right! "All you need is a supplementary enchantment, requiring that anyone who benefits from your elixir cannot thereafter act against your interests. The more your water is used, the more your power will grow."
"But suppose someone calls my bluff?"
"It will be no bluff. You will take back your magic. It will be as if he never was healed by you."