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"We were not going to dispense with it entirely," he said. "But perhaps you are right, since this is the traditional spot."
He turned toward the place where the others had stood to perform the final ritual function.
"Pol! Do you at least understand me?" Mouseglove said.
Larick turned back.
"I am certain that he does," he told him. "But, technically, he should not address anyone until he has finished with this part of things. You can see in a few minutes what his response will be."
He led Pol over to the place, speaking softly and rapidly to him. Mouseglove shifted about, glancing in every direction. A little later, he saw Pol raise his arms and lift his face toward the light in the east. As Pol began to mutter, Larick moved a short distance away from him. Mouseglove watched carefully, hands beneath his cloak.
When Pol had completed a hurried version of the sun-rite, he turned toward the smaller man.
"It may not be all that serious," he said then. "But I must go away with Larick for a time. I can afford to take no chances in something like this."
"How long?"
"I do not know. For as long as is necessary."
"It could take a week or two," Larick put in. "Possibly even longer."
"Where is it that you are taking him? I'm going with you."
"I couldn't tell you that until I have conferred with some experts. Perhaps he can be treated here. Then again, he may have to go away."
"Where?"
"That remains to be determined."
"Pol," Mouseglove said, "are you certain that this is what you want to do?"
"Yes," Pol replied.
"Very well. We will go and find out. If it is to be here, I will wait. If it is to be elsewhere, I will accompany you."
"That will not be necessary," Pol said, and he turned away. "I don't need you."
"Nevertheless ..."
"You are an encumbrance!" Larick said, and he raised his hand.
Mouseglove moved, but not fast enough. All strength and sensation fled his limbs. He fell, his hand still gripping the butt of the pistol he had been unable to draw.
For some time before he opened his eyes, Mouseglove was marginally aware of a slow, intermittent, shuffling sound. When finally he did open them, his field of vision was occupied by a small, gray, mossy rock and a scattering of gravel. He noted that the day had grown perceptibly brighter.
He moved his left hand slowly, placing its palm flat upon the ground near to his shoulder. It remained there for long seconds before he became aware of the coldness of the stone. The shuffling sound came again and he raised his head a few inches, suddenly aware of a stiffness in his neck. He pushed hard with the hand, heaving himself upward, rolling into a seated position, fighting a tendency to slump forward. As his gaze moved across the area, passing the place where Pol and Larick had stood, his memory of the morning's events poured into his mind. He turned his head to the east. The station of the sun told him that an hour or more had passed since that encounter. He rehearsed the entire exchange, seeking clues as to what had occurred within the mountain and what might now be afoot. He resolved that the next time he argued with a sorcerer he would have the weapon drawn and pointed at its target.
A series of small sounds reached him from within the cave, turning itself into several rapid footfalls and then halting. He drew one knee beneath him and pushed himself up into a crouch. He rose slowly as the footfalls came again, nearing the mouth of the cave. He drew the weapon and pointed it at the opening, the hammer making a clicking sound as he set it.
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 sca
"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."