'Pol?' the bird croaked.
'Henry... ?'
And then Prodromolu struck, overwhelming the slower, human personality within. Talkne writhed in the sudden spasm of his talons, but the dark wings were already shrugging water as they beat with a sound like wet sails aluff, and the serpent was rolled onto her back, tail thrashing, as Prodromolu mounted the air and strove to raise the other into his own element.
Talkne fought back, heaving coil after coil toward the bird. But Prodromolu avoided them or slashed with his beak, never missing a beat with his pinions as he commenced a slow movement in the direction of the land, dragging the serpent after him, half-in, half-out of the water.
The bird uttered a triumphant cry as his velocity increased and more and more of Talkne's bulk was drawn into the air, dangling and writhing. After a time, the mountains came into view, and the world-city upon their slopes. It was then that the serpent struck again.
Talkne's head flashed upward, mouth wide. But the fangs closed only on feathers. The tail swung then like a great club, battering the bird. Prodromolu reeled and jerked at the blow but did not lose altitude. Three times the serpent attempted to catch him in a coil and three times foiled. Again, the head came up and back, but Prodromolu parried the strike with his beak and strove for a greater altitude.
They mounted higher into the streak-shot air. The land was nearer now, and Talkne's weight hung limp and heavy in the dark bird's claws. The wing-beat tempo increased and a steady wind fanned the snake.
'Out of the water,' Prodromolu said, 'you are nothing but a stuffed skin, a sausage.'
Talkne did not reply.
'I am Opener of the Way,' he said after a time. 'I go to throw wide the Gate, to bring the breath of fresh life.'
'You will not depart this world,' Talkne hissed.
Prodromolu swept on toward the land, its music and incense now reaching him across the water, a crowd of its orange-robed inhabitants waiting near the shoreline to be slain, singing and swaying as his shadow drew near. He opened his beak again and cried out to them.
As he approached the land he chose the spot with care, fled across the lower terraces and opened his claws as he banked and commenced a wide circle.
The serpent body writhed, twisting as it descended upon the city. Where it struck, buildings collapsed and people and demons were crushed, fountains were broken and fires sprang forth from the rubble. Prodromolu's head dropped and his wings swept back. He plunged toward his fallen adversary.
As he struck with his talons, Talkne's still body suddenly responded like a broken spring. A coil fell across his back and tightened immediately. Off balanced, one wing pinned, feathers flying, Prodromolu was wrenched to one side and then over, and over again. More of the buildings collapsed, statues toppled, as they turned, rolled, fell. They descended the terraces, the ground shaking beneath them.The singing grew louder as they dropped toward the lowest level.
As the constriction of Talkne's body increased, Prodromolu tightened his own grip upon it and continued to strike and tear with his beak. Their blood mingled and spread in a series of coin-like pools. Orange-clad bodies lay all about them as the bird continued to hammer at the scaly form which imprisoned him in massive bands. At last there came a slight loosening of the serpent's coils, and the bird struck with renewed energy, tearing out chunks of flesh and dashing them aside into a small ornamental garden of silver-leafed shrubs.
He felt the serpent go limp. Dragging himself free, he struck once again, then threw back his head and uttered a piercing shriek. Then he spread his wings slowly, painfully, and lifted himself into the air.
The head of the serpent flashed upward and the mouth snapped shut upon his right leg. With a whiplike movement, Talkne cast Prodromolu through the air and into the water, not letting go the leg, slithering immediately after to wind about the dark bird again.
'You will not depart this world,' Talkne repeated, driving them out into deeper water.
'Pol!' said the other, suddenly. 'You don't know what you're doing. ...'
There was a long pause, as the serpent dragged him even farther away from the shore. Then, 'I know,' came the reply.
Talkne dove, bearing Prodromolu along with him.
The bird tore partway free for an instant and drove his beak down upon the back of the serpent's head a bare instant before the fangs found the side of his neck and closed there.
As the waters roiled about him and the blow from that great beak fell upon the head of the serpent, Pol felt his consciousness fading and then everything seemed distant. Even as he locked his fangs more tightly upon the other, he felt insulated from the event, as if it really involved two other parties....
Thrashing frantically, he could not free himself from the grip upon his neck. As he was drawn ever more deeply beneath the water, Henry Spier felt the blackness rising and covering him over. He wanted to cry out. He reached to summon his powers, but he was gone before the necessary movement of Art could be completed.
XX
He was walking. The mists were rolling all about him and the figures came and went. There was one very familiar one, with a message...
It was cold, very cold. He wanted a blanket, but something else was thrust into his hands. A warmth seemed to flow from it, however, and that was good. The moaning sounds ceased. He had barely been aware of them until then. He clutched more tightly at the object he held and something of strength came into him from it.
'Pol! Come on! Wake up! Hurry!'
The message...
He was aware that his face was being slapped. Face?
Yes, he had a face.
'Wake up!'
'No,' he said, his grip continuing to tighten upon the staff.
Staff?
He opened his eyes. The face before him was out of focus, but there was something familiar about it even then. It moved nearer to his own and the blurring vanished from its features.
'Mouseglove...'
'Get up! Hurry!' the small man enjoined him. 'The others are stirring!'
'Others? I don't... Oh!'
Pol struggled to sit up and Mouseglove assisted him. As he did so, he saw that it was his father's scepter which he held clutched in his hands.
'How did you come by this?' he asked.
'Later! Take it and use it!'
Pol looked about the chamber. Larick had rolled onto his side, facing him. His eyes were open, though his expression was not one of comprehension. Across the chamber, near the door, Ryle Merson was moaning and beginning to move. From the corner of his eye, Pol saw that Taisa's arm was rising. He remembered Spier's words concerning a lapse of will, and he stared at the man, just as Spier began to sit up.
'Are they all enemies?' Mouseglove asked. 'You'd better do something to the ones who are--fast!'
'Get out of here,' Pol said. 'Hurry!'
'I'll not leave you now.'
'You mustl However you came in--'
'Through the window.'
'Back out it then. Go!'
Pol got up onto one knee and raised the scepter before him, staring at Henry Spier across it. Mouseglove moved out of sight, but Pol could not tell whether he had fled or only retreated. From somewhere, the smell of dragons came to his nostrils.
His arm was already throbbing, and he gave a grateful shudder that the power had not again deserted him. The
