statuette still stood in position upon the diagram, facing the Gate. He rose to his feet and sent his will into the scepter. There was an answering tingle in the palms of his hands. A sensation as of a protracted, subauditory organ note passed through him.
He felt no doubt whatsoever that Spier must die. If he let him live, he decided that he would be guilty of a greater offense than if he killed him, becoming himself responsible for any evil the man would work.
With a sound like a thunderclap, a sheet of almost liquid flame leapt from the scepter's tip to fall upon Henry Spier. The chamber was brilliantly illuminated and shadows ran relay races about the uneven walls.
Then the flame parted like a forked tongue, to reveal Spier standing beyond the bifurcation, right arm upraised.
'How'd you manage to get your hands on that thing?' he said, above the fire's roar.
Pol did not reply but bent all of his efforts to closing the fiery gap. Like a bloody pair of scissors in a shaky hand, it commenced swaying toward, then away from the man in its midst. Pol felt the counterpressure growing and then waning, as Spier mustered his forces with occasional lapses.
'Your dragon outside the window, eh?' Spier said. 'Must have him well-trained. Can't stand dragons myself. Smell like stale beer and rotten eggs.'
The flames suddenly flew wide apart, like a letter Y, then a T. They began retreating toward Pol, the arms of the T slowly curving back around in his direction.
Pol gritted his teeth, and the flames' progress toward him was halted. He was seized with the sickening realization that even with his powers augmented by the scepter, Spier seemed to hold the edge. And Spier's strength was continuing to grow as he recovered, whereas his own appeared to have reached its limit. The flames began to sway again, but they were edging closer toward him. He knew that it was too late to shift to a different mode of attack, and he knew also that it would not make any difference if he could.
'It is a powerful tool that you hold,' Spier stated slowly, as if reading his mind. 'But a tool, of course, is only as good as the man who uses it. You are young, and but recently come into your powers. You are not sufficient to the task you have set yourself.' He took a step forward and the flames roared ominously. 'But then, I doubt that any man in this world is.'
'Shut up!' Pol cried, and he tried to banish the flames, but they remained.
Spier took another step and halted as a surge of effort accompanying Pol's anger flicked them back a span in his direction.
'There can be only one outcome if you persist,' Spier went on,' and I do not want that. Listen to me, boy. If you are good enough to give me as much trouble as you have, you are very good. I would regret very much having to destroy you, especially when there is no reason for it.'
There came a loud report from the direction of the window, and a bullet richocheted about the chamber. Spier glanced in that direction at the same time Pol did.
Mouseglove, standing outside, had rested his elbows upon the wide, stony sill. The pistol, pointed toward Spier, still smoked in his hand. He seemed to stiffen, and he slid away out of sight, the weapon clattering against stone as it fell.
Pol turned back in time to see Spier completing an almost casual gesture.
'Had I a moment or so more, I would have made him turn it against himself,' he said. 'But I can do that afterwards. Firearms are such a barbaric intrusion in this idyllic place, don't you think? I approve of your actions at Anvil Mountain, by the way. The Balance must be tipped toward more magic, where we will be supreme.'
Panting now, Pol fended off the return of the flames, his dragonmark feeling as if it were itself afire. He knew that without the scepter he would be dead in the face of the present onslaught. Spier seemed to be increasing even in stature now, as he recovered, an aura of poise and command growing about him.
'As I said, there is no reason for this,' Spier continued. 'I am willing to forgive our archetypal struggle beyond the Gate and what passed between us here before then, I feel that you still do not understand. I am also more convinced than ever of your suitability as an ally.' He took a step backward and the pressure diminished. 'A sign of my good faith,' he said. 'I have made the first move toward our easing away from this in stages. Let us call a halt and work together to our mutual benefit. Ill even teach you some unusual things about that staff you hold. I--'
Pol screamed and fell to his knees as his entire left side was seized and twisted by a hideous series of spasms. He thought that he felt his lower ribs give way.
Summoning all of his remaining energy, he drove it toward Spier in a gigantic psychic wedge, powered by fear, hate, a sense of betrayal, shame at his own gullibility...
'It wasn't me!' Spier cried--half in anger, half in surprise--as he was driven, tripping, back against the wall.
'Larick! Stop it...' came a weak voice from off to the right, as Ryle Merson struggled to his feet.
Instantly, the seizure halted, though its aftereffects left Pol kneeling, aching, shaking.
'Help him! Damn you!' Ryle cried, advancing. 'That's Spier he's got against the wall!'
The fat man suddenly moved quickly and placed his hand upon the scepter below Pol's own. Immediately, Pol felt a partial easing of the tension which had held him for so long.
Spier's eyes, which had been wide, suddenly narrowed. Larick came up beside Pol on the left, his hand, also, coming to rest upon the scepter.
'You say I would use you,' Spier said, 'and this is true. But they are also guilty--of the same thing.'
Pol bore down with his will, augmented by the others'. The flame leaped forward again--and halted, as if it had met an invisible wall.
He strove to increase his efforts and felt the others doing likewise, yet the situation remained unchanged. In fact, Spier was smiling--a small, almost sad smile.
'What's happening?' Pol said in a hoarse whisper.
'He's holding us,' Ryle replied.
'All three of us?' Pol asked. 'I almost had him myself before!'
'My little serpent,' Spier said from across the chamber. 'Although you surprised me several times, I was but testing your strength and letting things run long enough to give me the opportunity to speak with you. I see now that I have failed, and I must conclude things, though it really does my heart sore to see you put to waste. Good- bye--until some more agreeable life, perhaps.'
He began to walk toward them. Immediately, the scepter became burning hot in Pol's grip. He clung to it despite this, however, and directed all of their energies toward halting the man, who now seemed the embodiment of strength and assurance. He felt some resistance, but Spier did not stop, and the smell of burning flesh came to his nostrils. His head swam, and for an instant the mists seemed to roil about him and the figure to his right was no longer Ryle Merson. What was he saying?
Spier doubled forward as if experiencing a sudden stomach cramp. He waved both his hands in small circles, frantically, the right before him, the left far out to the side.
After a moment, he straightened, the hand movements continuing but becoming more regular now, the circles growing. He looked ahead and then to the left.
'They're coming out of the woodwork now,' he said ruefully.
Pol, who could no longer tell whether the scepter was hot, cold or lukewarm, turned his head toward the chamber's entrance.
Ibal and Vonnie stood there. He bore a white wand. She held what appeared to be a brass hand mirror, crosswise and close to her breast.
'You've roused the bloody geriatrics ward,' Spier added, glaring now and appearing fully recovered. 'Well just have to retire them again.'
His left hand changed its pattern, altered its rhythm. The metal mirror flashed as Vonnie swayed. Ibal laid a hand upon her shoulder and displayed his wand like an orchestra conductor at the opening of Brahms' Second Symphony.
'There was a time when you were good, old man,' Spier said. 'But you should have stayed retired...'
He flicked his right hand suddenly and Ryle Merson cried out and fell.
'A little misdirection never hurts,' he said. 'And then there were four ...'
But his face showed signs of strain, and the mirror flashed again.
'Damned witch!' he muttered, retreating a step.
A needle-tine line of white light fled from the tip of Ibal's wand and pierced Spier's right shoulder. Spier
