"Bah!" Skarn bared his teeth in a thoroughly unpleasant smile. "The time for acting is past. I mean to have Kryppen's potion. Where have you concealed it?"
Flax appeared genuinely puzzled. "Kryppen's potion? I do assure you that I have no idea what that might be. I frequently make up Kraffen's poultice for drawing out boils, and of course, there's Warpin's pitch for sealing leaky vessels, but as for Kryppen's…"
"Silence, you garrulous old fool!" bellowed Skarn. "Do you realize how much trouble you have caused me? So far, I have had to kill four men and one demon to trace the path of this precious potion to your door."
"My door?" Flax shook his head. "I fear you must have been misled. I have no such item."
"Ha! You can't deceive me. Master Kryppen created it twenty years ago, and I have sought it for ten. You have hidden it!" Skarn glared at the jumble of items he had already disarranged. "I know it is somewhere here, and I intend to find it."
"But I have never heard of Master Kryppen," Flax objected.
Skarn ignored the assertion as he impatiently scrabbled through a file of dusty bottles on a desk shelf. "He sold some of it to Nementh of Goor, whose lackwitted nephew gambled it away. Never mind its trail over the years-it came to you after you performed some service for Mistress Wryfern, who, not knowing what she had, gave it to you."
"Dear Mistress Wryfern," exclaimed the wizard with genuine warmth. "I do hope she fares well nowadays."
"She's as hard to pry news from as a clam embedded in stone," rasped Skarn. "Still, I determined what she had done, and I have come to claim my prize."
"Why?" inquired Flax.
"What do you mean, 'why'?" retorted Skarn. The wizard sighed, employing his most patient tone, familiar to Drop from his reading instruction. "I mean, why do you consider it your prize? If this particular potion had been given to me as a token of gratitude, why should you claim it as yours?"
"Because I know how it should be used," snapped Skarn. "In my hands," he added with gleeful satisfaction, "it could slay hundreds… thousands."
"Nonsense!" said Flax stoutly. "I distinctly recall that particular potion now. Mistress Wryfern described it to me clearly as a mere entertainment for parties-a prank potion."
Skarn guffawed. "No doubt that was as far as that fool Kryppen could envision a use for it. But consider the possibilities on a battlefield or against the crowded populace of an enemy city-when I applied my mind to that aspect, I was quite inspired. I thought of the rot-flesh fungus almost at once."
Drop saw all trace of color drain from the wizard's face.
Evidently appalled, Flax blurted in a strained voice, "Skarn-you would not. You could not!"
Skarn rubbed his hands together. "Oh, but I could, and I did. Just ponder the glorious combination-start with an innocent potion that spreads your intended effect from person to person by touch. What merriment at a party to have first one guest brush another, who touches a third, and each one commences to sneeze or laugh or twitch-most amusing, wouldn't you say? Picture that multiplying effect transferring the activity of the rot-flesh fungus. You will have seen what happens to any luckless animal who brushes against those fungal growths from the far southern swamps? Something like the action of quicklime, or general corruption, only much accelerated."
"You could not loose such a plague," said Flex hoarsely. "You would yourself be caught up in the contamination."
Skarn bobbed his head, smirking as if pleased by his listener's insight. "And so I would, should I be demented enough to be present-but I do not intend to be present. Someone else will be my agent. They will necessarily perish, of course, but then every great plan has its minor costs."
The wizard's pale face seemed stricken, but he also appeared to have come to a decision. "Drop," he said quietly, "you did well to summon me. This is far worse than a case of mere thievery." His voice hardened with resolve. "Skarn-if that be your true name-you are contemplating murder on a hideous scale. You shall not have that potion."
"Ah, but I do have it within my very grasp," purred Skarn. "Is that not the private seal of Mistress Wryfern on that quaint little blue glass bottle I have just uncovered at the back of your desk?"
Throughout this confrontation between Skarn and the wizard, Drop's sense of unease and alarm had been mounting. It was clear to him that Skarn was a dangerous creature who must be prevented from stealing Master Flax's property. Giving no advance warning sound, Drop leaped toward Skarn, hoping to bear him to the floor, away from the desk.
Skarn, however, whirled at the initial movement, and pronounced some harsh sounds. Instantly, Drop found his forward thrust jolted to a stop, and his limbs immovable.
"Relying on a one-handed lad to defend you, eh, Woostrom?" crowed Skarn. "My binding spell will deal with him."
"Deal then with me!" roared Flax, raising both hands. As he intoned a spate of awesome sounds, great thick ropes formed in the air and spiraled around Skarn, pinning his arms to his sides.
Drop felt greatly relieved, until Skarn spat other sounds, at which the ropes withered away to mere threads he cast contemptuously to the floor.
"You dare to oppose me?" he sneered. "I am Skarn the sorcerer! No man stands before my wrath." Flinging up his hands, he conjured a gust of murky flame that blasted toward Flax, but it was quenched in mid-flight by an equally fierce geyser of conjured water sent by the wizard. Spells and counterspells erupted in the quivering cottage, clashing between the magical combatants.
Literally spellbound, Drop watched, his mind racing. There had to be some way he could aid Master Flax… but first he had to be able to move. Skarn had mistakenly assumed that Drop was a normal human lad; but Drop was not merely that. A binding spell meant to restrain a lad might not necessarily fully bind a magically transformed cat. Drop cautiously endeavored to move his toes… they responded slowly, leadenly, but they did move. Now for one arm, then the other… very slowly. He could not afford to attract Skarn's attention. Fortunately, Skarn's attention was most fully engaged by Flax's magical assaults.
As light-bolts blazed, sounds crashed, and weird smells curdled the air of the study, Drop realized that he might possibly call on two other allies for Flax. The very floor boards had been shuddering beneath their feet for some time, and Drop now distinguished one particularly broad bar of shadow near his own feet. It was Cyril the snake, understandably disturbed by the bizarre lights and upheaval, who had abandoned his table base to seek the cause. Drop eased his bandaged hand down until he could tap on Cyril's questing head. One, two, three, four-there. Cyril should now be alerted to the danger to Flax.
For the last short while, Drop had also become dimly aware of a persistent clicking sound. In a brief lull between spells, he suddenly located the source: Ghost, who had been dozing as usual on a high shelf, had been awakened by the wild activity below, and was snapping his beak in decided disapproval. Drop recalled what Flax had said about Ghost and loud noises. His desperate plan lacked only one other element.
While Skarn and Flax were totally absorbed in their duel by magic, Drop edged quietly toward the desk. At first, he couldn't locate the tawny bottle he sought, then he recognized it over to one side, where Skarn had thrust it during his search. Extending his free hand, Drop extracted a Keep-Shape lozenge. He succeeded just in time, for Skarn produced a wave of force that flung Flax bodily against a bookcase, temporarily dazing the wizard.