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Mouseglove fell into step beside him.
"I wonder how the centaurs are doing?" he said.
Pol shrugged.
"I hope they get the message soon that we made it safely. If the two who brought us hurry, they will. Then they can lay off and return to the woods."
"If you really meant that oath, perhaps you ought to send something particularly nasty upstairs to clear the halls."
"Why?"
"I've seen how centaurs fight. They're tough, but they also get kind of frenzied after awhile. I've a hunch they won't be falling back."
"Really? I didn't know that."
"Oh, yes. So, surely you could spare a dragon or an ogre or two, to clean house and protect your new friends."
"I guess I should."
They walked on for a time, following the pale light. At several points they had to climb down over rocky irregularities.
"Uh, I guess well be parting company soon," Mouseglove said as they entered the first of a series of larger caverns. "I've done what I came back to do, and I promised myself I'd never set foot on Anvil Mountain again."
"I didn't expect you to accompany me there," Pol replied, "and it's not your fight. What have you in mind to do now?"
"Well, after your servant's made it safe for the likes of me upstairs, I'll head in that direction. Be sure to tell him that I'm okay. I'll borrow some fresh garments, if that's all right with you, clean up, have a nap and be moving on."
They passed a large, winged, sleeping form.
"You have my permission, my thanks and my blessing," Pol said. "Also my ogre, to clear your way."
Mouseglove chuckled.
"You are a difficult young man to gull. I'm actually coming to like you. Pity, we'll probably never meet again."
"Who knows? I'll ask the Seven when I get a chance."
"I'd rather you didn't remind them of me."
The next cavern they entered was even larger, though more level. Pol looked at the humped and massed bodies among which they made their way. There seemed to be no way of estimating their number, though the strands ran thick and numerous through the gloom.
As they trudged on, coming at last into the major cavern and starting across it, Pol finally glimpsed the soft glow of the master spell at its farther end.
"Tell me," he asked, "do you see any light in that direction?"
"No. Just the one we're following."
Pol gestured and seized a strand. Soon it took on a pale color and something of incandescence.
"See that?"
"A line of light, ru
"Good. I'll give you one of that sort to follow out. What is that thing in your hand?"
"A pistol I've carried since I left Mark's place."
"I thought so. You won't need it here."
"It comforts me."
After a considerable interval, they stood before the pied globe. Pol held the scepter as he faced it.
"I hope this works as I'd anticipated," he remarked.
"I feel some force, but I see nothing special. ..."
"Go and stand over in that niche." He gestured, and for a moment the scepter blazed like a captive star. "I will tell you when it is safe to depart. There is your strand." He gestured again, and a line of pale fire grew in the air before the niche. "Good luck!"
"To you, also," Mouseglove replied, clasping Pol's hand and turning.
He moved quickly and backed into the opening, unable to take his eyes from the spectacle of the younger man, who had already begun a series of seeming ritual movements, his silhouette distorted by guitar case and flapping cloak, his face pale and mask-like in the blaze of the rod, beneath the dark, silver-splashed wings of his hair. Mouseglove clutched the pistol more tightly as the slow dance of the hand and the rod progressed, for he felt a chill followed by a wave of warmth, another chill ... and now he had momentary flashes of vision, as of a massive, burning ball of yarn being unwound.
Pol moved his hand deftly, in and out, unwinding unravelling, and old words trapped within the fabric of the structure, came to him and he spoke them as he worked, and the waves of heat came more frequently, till finally he saw through to the center, the core, the end....
He thrust the scepter into the heart of the spell and spoke the final words.
A great wash of forces swept by him and he swayed, striving to keep his balance. The strands now clung to the scepter, obscuring it completely to Pol's vision. His right arm seemed to take fire as he laid his will upon it.
A moaning rose within the cavern, growing to a mighty chorus of sounds, which echoed and reechoed about him, followed by rustling, scraping noises and the falling of stones.
"...Arise! Arise! and follow me to battle!" he sang, and now there were larger movements within the darkness.
The moaning died down and ceased. The snorts, snarls, roars and rattles diminished. Now the sounds of heavy breathing came to him from every direction.
He plucked a single strand, and soon a huge, gray form moved past him on two legs, hunched forward, arms dragging on the ground, yellow eyes burning within the darkness of a triangular face, scales rustling with each stride. It paused before Mouseglove, who raised the pistol and waited, but it turned and moved on an instant later.
"Give it an hour," Pol stated, "and the upstairs should be cleared. It knows you now and will not harm you."
Mouseglove nodded, realizing as he did that the movement could not be seen, but unable to control his voice. Brief bonfires flared and died at all distances as dragons tested their flames.
Pol turned away, directing all his attention to impressing his identity and his commands upon the awakening creatures.
Arise, I say! We fly south to destroy the city atop Anvil Mountain! Those of you who ca
He cast about for only a moment, and then his fingers moved unerringly to catch at a dark green strand drifting near him.
Dragon! he called. Name yourself!
I am called Smoke-in-the-Skies-at-Evening-against-the-Last-Pale-Clouds-of-Autumn-Day, came a proud feminine reply.
In the interest of ready communication, I shall refer to you as 'Smoke.'
That is agreeable to me.
Come to me now. We must lead the others.
For a time, nothing occurred, as he realized that Smoke had slept within one of the farther caverns. All of the stirring sounds grew louder as the other creatures stood, stretched, mounted. Finally, he heard a noise like a rising wind rushing toward him, and a piece of darkness detached itself from the distant shadows, to sweep in his direction and settle silently before him.
Greetings, Pol Detson. I am ready, she said.
He released the strand and moved to touch her neck.
Greetings, Smoke. If I may mount now, we will be on our way.
Come up. I am ready.
Pol climbed toward her shoulders and settled into position. He raised the scepter and lights danced throughout the cavern.
Follow! he ordered. Then, to Smoke, Now! Let us go!
Smoke was smaller than Moonbird but seemed fester. In a matter of moments, they were airborne and moving ahead quickly. Pol looked back once. He could not distinguish Mouseglove in his niche, but he saw that dark forms were rising like ashes in his wake.
You will sing us a battle-song? Smoke asked.
Pol was surprised to find it already upon his lips.