Madwand (Illustrated) Read Free Page A

talons, to flap upward and merge with the kaleidescopic field which surrounded them, Pol saw the man cast the first blazing ball in his direction.
    Smiling, Pol shaped a tennis raquet and saw a look of puzzlement cross his adversary’s features as he regarded the unfamiliar instrument.
    He slammed the first ball back at the man just as the second was released. The sorcerer dropped the remaining balls and dove to the side to avoid the return. Pol batted the second one out-of-court as the man rolled forward and came to his feet, his right hand snapping outward, something long and black moving with it.

    He swung the raquet and missed as the whip caught him about the neck and jerked him forward. He felt himself falling. Dropping the raquet, he reached for the choking thing that held him, to seize it, unwind it—
    It jerked again and the world began to spin and darken. It continued to tighten, and he heard the sound of laughter, coming nearer . . . 
    “Not much of a contest,” he heard the other say.
    Then there was an explosion and everything went black.
     
    It was instructive to observe the exchange of forces between Pol and the visitor. Also, mildly unsettling, as it occurred to me that they might be inducing pain in each other. Yet, they had wanted to do it or they wouldn’t have. I was more interested in the manipulations than I was in their progressive wearing down of each other, because I felt that I might be able to engage in that sort of activity myself and I wished to be further informed. Its abrupt ending came as a surprise to me. Save for small, less complex creatures, I had not seen one being end another’s existence. Indeed, it had not occurred to me that these larger ones could be ended. I felt as if I should have taken a part in it, though on which side and in which direction, I could not say. I was also uncertain as to why I felt this way.
    Where there had been three there were now two. I did not understand why they had done it, nor how the lance of force had come from the statuette to terminate the stranger before Mouseglove’s projectile reached his head.
     
    Pol shook his head. His neck was sore. He rubbed it and opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor beside the desk. Slowly, he pushed himself into a seated position.
    The stranger lay upon his back near the door, right arm outflung, left across his breast. A piece of his forehead was missing and his right eye was a crimson pool.
    To his left, leaning against a bookshelf, Mouseglove stood rubbing his eyes. His right arm hung at his side and in his hand was the pistol he had carried away from Anvil Mountain. When he saw Pol move he dropped his left hand and smiled weakly.
    “Are you all right?” he asked.
    “I guess so. Except for a stiff neck. What about yourself?”
    “I don’t know what he hit me with. It affected my sight for awhile. When I came around, the two of you seemed to be pulsing into and out of existence. I wasn’t able to get a shot at him till the last time he came through.” He replaced the weapon in a holster behind his belt and moved forward, extending his hand. “Everything seems normal enough now.”
    Pol accepted his hand and rose. They both crossed the room and looked down at the dead man. Mouseglove immediately knelt and began searching him. After several minutes, he shook his head, unfastened the brown cloak and covered the man with it.
    “Nothing,” he said, “to tell who he is or why he came. I take it you have no idea?”
    “None.”
    They returned to their seats and the wine flask, Mouseglove restoring the fallen figurine on the way.
    “Either he had some reason for disliking you and came by to do something about it,” Mouseglove said, “or somebody else who feels that way sent him. In the first case, some friend of his might come along later to continue the work. In the second, another may be sent as soon as it is known that this one failed. Either way, it would appear that more trouble will be