The steps grew stronger, steadier. A moment later, a small, red-haired man appeared within the opening. He was wearing a dirt-streaked white robe. He leaned against the rock, eyes rolling and blinking, head turning. When his gaze swept over Mouseglove, it did not pause. His complexion was dead white. He twitched and jerked, as though he were having a minor seizure.
Mouseglove watched him closely for a long while before he spoke.
"What is the matter?" he asked, weapon still steady.
The head rolled again, the eyes passing over him, then back again, back again, their orbit narrowing, a rapid scanning motion. At last, they seemed to focus upon him, but the look they held caused him to suppress a shudder.
"What is the matter?" he repeated.
The man took a step forward, raised a pale hand, opened his mouth and inserted the fingers. He made a gargling noise, then withdrew his fingers slightly, pinching the tip of his tongue. He took another step, released the tongue, held both hands at shoulder level. He took another step, and another, his right hand moving from side to side, gradually reaching forward. He continued to make gasping, rattling noises, and his tread grew more steady.
"Hold it!" Mouseglove said. "What do you want?"
The man roared at him and rushed forward.
"Stop!" Mouseglove cried, and when the man did not he pulled the trigger.
The round struck the man in the left arm, turning him sideways. He swayed for a moment, then dropped to his knees, making no effort to reach for the area of impact. He rose again almost immediately, turning back toward Mouseglove, voicing a new series of gutturals.
"Don't make me shoot again," Mouseglove said, setting the hammer. "I recognize you. I know you're one of the candidates. Just tell me what you want."
The man kept coming, and Mouseglove fired again.
The man jerked and was turned sideways again, but this time he did not fell. He straightened and resumed his progress, his steady stream of sounds acquiring more and more inflection.
"Aaalll riight..."he said.
Mouseglove licked his lips as he readied the weapon once more.
"For gods' sakes, stop!" he cried. "I don't want to do this to you!"
"Not im--por--tant. Listenlistenlistenlisten," the other said, face totally devoid of expression, eyes still rolling, hands still extended and twitching.
Mouseglove backed off three paces, but the other hastened once more, Mouseglove hafted then and shot him squarely in the chest.
The man was jolted by the blow. He fell backward, caught himself in a seated position and began to rise again.
"No!" Mouseglove cried. "Please! Stop!"
"Stop," the man repeated without emotion. "Listen, listen, listen. Pol. Im--por--tant. You."
"Pol?" Mouseglove said, cocking the weapon again. "What about him?"
"Yes. Pol. Yes. You un-der-stand--me--now. Yes?"
"Then stay put and tell me! Don't come any nearer!"
Slowly, the other rose again, and something which had registered without Mouseglove's realizing it, came into his consciousness at that moment.
The man was not bleeding from any of his wounds. The garment was torn, darkened, slightly damp-looking where each round had penetrated--but there were no bright red splotches.
"Stay--put?" he said. "Stand--here?"
"Yes. You make me very nervous. I can hear you clearly. Tell me from there. What about Pol?"
"Pol ..." said the other, swaying. "In trouble, Mouse-glove. Listen."
"I am listening. What sort of trouble is it?"
"Larick--placed him--under a spell."
"What sort of spell? I'll find someone who can lift it."
"Not necessary. It has been removed. But Larick--does not--know this."
"Then Pol's mind is all right?"
"As always."
"But Larick thinks he is under a spell?"
"Yes. As Pol wishes."
"Where is he taking him?"
"Castle Avinconet"
"That's Ryle Merson's place! I might have known. I will go there and help him in whatever he is about. "
"Not yet. You would be of little help and likely be destroyed. There is a better course of action."
"Name it."
"Go to Pol's patron."
"That one. Tell him what has occurred. Ask him for speedy transportation back to Rondoval."
"Say he grants it. What then?"
"You can speak with dragons."
"I'm afraid so."
"Tell the old one--Moonbird--to take you to the dead crater on Anvil Mountain and there help you to recover the magical tool."
"The scepter?"
"Yes."
"Say this can be done."
"Then take it to Pol at Avinconet. "
"He will be all right in the meantime?"
"They may see fit to destroy him at any time. I do not know. If they do not, however, he may well need it soon."
"Who are you?"
"I do not know."
"How do you know all these things?"
"I was there. "
"Why do you wish to help Pol?"
"I am uncertain."
"How is it that I could not kill you?"
"A corpse cannot die."
"Now it is I who do not understand."
"You know enough. Good-bye."
The red-haired man collapsed and lay still. Mouseglove approached him cautiously. There was no sign of breathing, and he considered the man's waxy pallor at closer range. He reached out and touched a cheek. It was cold.
He raised the right hand. It was cold, also; and a certain stiffness had already come into the limb. He pressed upon the fingernails one after the other. They all grew white and remained so. Finally, he leaned forward and lay his ear upon the chest near to the bullet hole. He discovered it to be a quiet place.
He arranged the body, crossing the arms upon the breast. He drew the white cowl up over the head and down across the face. He rose and moved away.
Crossing to the place where Pol and Larick had stood, he located their tracks and began following them. They disappeared quickly, however, in the rocky terrain. He halted there and spent several minutes pondering. Then he turned to the city of illusion and began his descent toward its flickering towers.
VIII
Wind whistling past him, cloak flapping behind him, Pol leaned forward upon the shoulders of the lesser dragon--a lithe, brown creature of similar mien and considerably less mass than the giant beasts of Rondoval--his legs gripping the sides of its back-ridge, hands upon a leather harness it wore. Twenty meters to his left and a few higher, Larick was similarly mounted upon one of the leathern-winged creatures. He glanced occasionally at Pol, who maintained an impassive attitude. A number of bright strands, visible at the second seeing, ran between them. Pol wondered how difficult it might be to kill the other when the time finally came. He decided that magic was too slow and uncertain a thing when employed against another sorcerer. He decided to strike quickly, with full violence and without warning once he had learned what he needed to know and could afford to dispense with the man. It would be foolhardy to leave enemies of his sort alive.
The sun was about to cut the throat of another day in the west and the moon had long since risen--a pale rag tossed above cloud-crests, brightening now over rough and shadowed land--as north and west they headed, long necks of their dark mounts extended, vanes outstretched and occasionally booming against gusts.
They had changed mounts four times during the day, finding the fresh ones magically tethered at a series of high locales. Pol's shoulder and leg muscles had long before ached themselves to the point of numbness. He stole a glance at Larick, who seemed tireless, bent forward and urging his mount to greater efforts. He stared ahead as if trying to burn holes through the darkening air.