Falcons of Narabedla (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

When the Dreamers Wake

Of course I understood, even while I fought, dizzy and reeling, to loose the deathgrip I had put on my own body. I was—back, I was Mike Kenscott again—Adric loosed his hands of his own will, and stepped away, breathing hard. “Thank you,” he said in the raw voice that had been mine for so long, “I myself could hardly have done better.” With a swift movement he snatched something from a little recess in the wall—pointed—and fired point-blank. A lance of grey mist stabbed out at me—

To my amazement, only a pleasant heat warmed me. I had enough split-second reasoning reflex left to fall in a slumped huddle to the ground. I knew that was what he expected. Adric fumbled in his pockets, took out the little mirror I had taken from Evarin, still wrapped in its protective silk. I watched, breathless, between narrowed eyelids. If he would only open it—but instead he gave a shudder of disgust and flung it straight at me. With a braced, agonizing effort I made myself lie perfectly still, without flinching to avoid the blow. The mirror struck my forehead. I felt blood break to the surface and trickle wetly down my face. I heard Adric moving; heard receding steps and the risp of a closing door. He was gone.

I moved. To this day I am not sure how I escaped death from Adric's weapon; but I think it was because I was in my own body. After I had touched Adric the first time, I was immune to Earth electricity. In this world, I think, I was immune to their force. I wiped the blood from my temple. Good Lord, there was Narayan—waiting with Cynara—I forgot that I had plotted against Narayan, remembering only that I had liked the man. I couldn't let Adric get to them—

I grabbed the mirror, crammed it into a pocket. Against the nightmare haste that drove me I ran to the closet, quickly, from the racks of weapons, chose a short ugly knife. I didn't need swordsman's training to use that. Thank God, I knew my way around, I could remember everything I'd done when I was Adric—but wait! I could also “remember” what he had done when
he
was
me
! That meant Adric could “remember” everything I had done and planned with Narayan! This crazy business of Identity! Even now, could I be sure which of us was who?

I dashed out of the room, ran down the endless stairs three at a time. At the entrance to Gamine's blue tower, a dangerous whirring of wings beat around me; I staggered, almost fell backward. One of the murderous falcons—the one in blue—darted, hanging poised in the stair-well above me. I backed against the wall, hoping the bird would not attack. Gamine had not flown falcon with the others.

The strong wings flapped in the closed space; I saw the dart of the vicious little beak. Blindly I struck upward with the knife, shielding my eyes with the other hand, and was rewarded with a splatter of thin burning blood and a scream of unbirdlike agony. I ducked beneath the thrashing wings, and ran on up the stairs; behind me the dying falcon flapped, threshed and rolled down the stairs, a tangle of wings, landing far below with a flailing thump.

I was not quite sure what I meant to do. As I climbed, I thought swiftly. Gamine was no friend to Adric, I knew that. Adric had known much of Gamine and Rhys, and I drew on that knowledge, but even Adric had not known much of the spell-singer cloaked in that blurred halo of invisibility. Had he ever seen Gamine?

What was Adric doing now? I had served him well; won him Narayan's trust, then turned him loose again in his own body, to destroy, betray them! I hated Adric as I hope I may never hate again.

And yet, I could not hate him wholly. To know all is to forgive much, and I had lived for three days and nights in Adric's body and brain; knowing his strengths and his weaknesses, his dreams and torments, I could not condemn him utterly. A man may be forgiven much that he does for a woman's bewitchments, and few men could be blamed for allowing Karamy to enslave them. Adric had done good, once, too; he had freed the Dreamer, he had loved—but he had trapped me here, and for that, my hate would make him pay—thoroughly!

A shadow flitted across my sight; the robed Gamine barred my way, an air of cold amusement around the poise of the hood and the blurred invisible head. The spell-singer laughed, mocking. “How like you this body, Adric? You are beaten now, for sure! The stranger works with Narayan—in your body, Adric!”

“I'm not Adric,” I shouted. “Adric's in his own body again! He's going after Narayan—”

“You expect me to believe that?” Contempt stung me in Gamine's clear, sexless voice.

“Let me by to Rhys,” I begged. “He'll know I'm telling the truth—damn it, let me by!” Infuriated by the mocking laughter, I thrust my arm to move Gamine forcibly from my path. Whatever Gamine was—man, woman, imp or boy—it was not human. Steel wires writhed between my hands. I struggled impotently in that bone-breaking grip; then with a swift impulse thrust my hand quickly at the blurred invisibility where Gamine's face should have been.

Gamine screamed—a thin cry of horror. Suddenly I knew where I had been those two weeks I lay in the hospital—when Adric lay, in my body, gone mad, in the hospital in my place. An instinct I had grown to trust warned me to pull away sharply from Gamine's relaxed grip. I shouldered by and ran like hell.

Halfway up the stairs I heard the spell-singer's feet running behind me, and I quickened my stride and sprinted for the heavy door that barred my way. I could feel Rhys' presence behind the door. I threw my weight against the door, twisting the handle frantically.

The door was locked.

Behind me, I heard the padding tread of Gamine. Hopelessly, I put my back to the door, pulling my knife out again, and defied the creature.

Behind me the door suddenly opened and I was flung backward, sprawling, into the room within. “Well, Mike,” the old tired voice of Rhys said, “Gamine is a fool, but you are no better. Yes, I knew you were coming, I knew Adric is going, I know where Narayan is and I know what they plan to do. There is only one person who can stop all this, Mike Kenscott. You.”

Gaping stupidly, I picked myself up from the floor. The old Dreamer, his wrinkled face serene under the peaked hood, watched me placidly. “What—how—” I stammered.

“Gamine is a prescient. And I am not a complete fool.” Rhys smiled wearily. The dreamy look of the very old or the very young was on his face. “I cannot help you; but I will make Gamine help.”

The spell-singer came into the room, and I could almost see resentment through that strange halo of nothingness. “Gamine,” Rhys said, “it is time. You, and Narayan, must go with him to the Dreamer's Keep.”

“No—” Gamine whispered in protest, “Narayan—cannot go! His—his—talisman was destroyed! Only outside the tower—he cannot go in!”

“There is still—mine. Give it to him.” At Gamine's cry of dismay, Rhys' voice was suddenly a whip-lash. “Give it to him, Gamine! I still have power to—compel that! What does it matter what happens to me? I am old; it is Narayan's turn; your turn.”

“I'll—keep it for Narayan—” Gamine faltered.

“No!” Rhys spoke sharply. “While you keep it—and I am bound to you—there is still the bondage. Give it to him!”

Gamine sobbed harshly. From the silken veils she drew forth a small jewelled thing; wrapped in insulating silk like Evarin's mirror. She untwisted the silk. It was a tiny sword; not a dagger, but a perfectly modelled sword, a Toy. Evarin's too; but different. I recalled that Evarin had called himself Toy-Maker. Gamine clung to it, the robed shoulders bent.

“Mike must take it,” Rhys' voice was gentler. “If you keep it, I am still bound to you. If Adric had it, it would bind Narayan again. If Mike keeps it—
near
Narayan—Narayan is free. Free to go where he will, even in the Dreamer's Keep. Give it to him, Gamine.” Rhys sat down, wearily, as if the effort of speech had tired him past bearing. I stood and listened with a rebellious patience; I was eager to be gone. But my eyes were on the little jewelled Toy in Gamine's hands. It winked blue. It shimmered. It pulsed with a curious heartbeat, hypnotic. Rhys watched, too, his tired face intent and almost eager. “Gamine; if Adric had seen you, had remembered—”

“I want him to remember!” Gamine's low wail keened weirdly in the silent room. Rhys sighed.

“I am Narabedlan,” he said at last, “I could not destroy my own people. Gamine is not bound—nor you, Mike Kenscott. I suppose I am a traitor; but when I was born Narabedla was a fair city—without so many crimes on its head. Go and warn Narayan, Mike.”

Gamine hovered near me, intent, jealous, the shrouded eyes fixed on Rhys. The old man spoke on in a fading voice. “My poor city—now, Gamine. Now. Give it to him and let me rest. Stand away from me, Mike; well away; I do not want the bondage again from you.”

I did not understand and stood stupidly still. Gamine gave me an angry push. “Over there, you fool!” I reeled, recovered my balance, stood about six feet from the couch where Rhys half-sat, half-lay. The old man laid one wrinkled hand on the toy sword Gamine held. He took his hand away.

“Now,” he said quietly.

Gamine thrust the sword into my hand, and I felt a sudden stinging shock, like electric current, jolt my whole body. I saw Gamine's robed body shiver with the same jolt. The Toy in my hand was suddenly heavy; heavy as if it were made of lead, and the tiny winking in the hilt was darkened. The peaked hood of Rhys drooped until it covered the face.

Gamine caught my arm roughly and the steel of those narrow fingers bit to the bone as they hauled me almost bodily from the room. I heard the echo of a sob in the spell-singer's whispering croon.

Rhys—Farewell!

The next thing I knew we were racing side by side down flight after flight of stairs. Together we fled through the subterranean passages of Rainbow City. Outside, in the pillared court, a man ran toward us. His brown tunic was ripped and torn; his blond hair was rumpled. A smudge of blood reddened his forehead. I gasped “Narayan!”

The man whirled—saw us—pulled his weapon from his belt. There was no time for explanations. I threw myself at his knees in a flying tackle no football coach would approve, but it did the trick. Narayan went down under me, kicking. Gamine was not one to stand aside in a fight; the robed figure rocketed forward, flung itself on the prone Narayan, holding him motionless with that steely strength. I wrenched the electrorod from Narayan's relaxed fingers. “Listen—” I urged, “I'm not one of Karamy's men—Gamine, let him up!”

“He's got Cynara—” the Dreamer muttered dizzily, “Cynara—who in Zandru's hells are you?” He picked himself up, gazing at me with a stunned, blank look. “My name's Kenscott,” I said briefly. Suddenly, feeling it was the best way to establish my good-faith, I pulled out the Toy Gamine had put in my hand. “I've seen Rhys. He sent—this.”

Narayan stared at the thing in my hand, a double grief in his young face. “Rhys—” he muttered, “I felt he was—gone!” With bent head, he reached out to take the small thing from me.

In his hand it came alive. The small jewelled Toy seemed suddenly brilliant, flaring, dazzling with a wild burst of faceted light, blue, golden, crimson, flame-color. Gamine's low sweet voice breathed “In the Dreamer's hands!”

“In my hands,” Narayan murmured in a choked, almost a tranced ecstasy. I broke in on their raptures rudely. “Here, Narayan! Is it Adric who's got Cynara?”

He gulped; swallowed hard; thrust the Toy into a pocket and came back to himself, but that light was still in his eyes. He spoke with a hard restraint. “Yes. Adric surprised me—knocked me out. When I came to, they were gone.” He blinked once or twice; rubbed his eyes; then, resolutely fumbled for the little Toy and extended it to me. “Here. Keep this till we get to the Dreamer's Keep.”

I took it without comment. Gamine slipped away; came back, leading horses. “I couldn't find a single guard,” the cold voice murmured, “I wonder where they are?”

“Adric knows,” said Narayan, tight-lipped.

We mounted.

The wind was rising. Above us the moons swung slowly in an indigo sky. Sparks flew from our hooves against the frosty stones. We were racing against time, and a nightmare panic had me while I gripped the saddle of my racing horse. It took all my concentration to stick on the animal's back, but I was acquiring balance and a feel for riding. The ill wind was blowing some good, I thought inanely. Narayan's blond hair was frosty pale in the moonlight, and the eerie Gamine was a nightmare ghost, a phantom from nowhere. Far away we heard the spatter of gunfire, the screams of dying men, the ring of swords and spears. Thinly Gamine chanted in the night. Narayan's face looked haunted. “There are the guards—attacking—” he jerked out over the hoof-noises.

The scream of falcons rang swiftly above Gamine's chant. The too-familiar beat of wings slapped around my head, and I flung up my arm to knock away one serpentine neck. My terrified horse plunged and I rocked in the saddle nearly falling. Another bird swooped down on Narayan—another—then there were swarms of them, gold and purple and green, crimson, blue, flame-color. The air was thick with their wings. Gamine screamed; I saw Narayan beat the air with his cloak. The veiled spell-singer, crouched in the saddle, was lashing at them with the whip from her saddle. The lash kept the falcons at bay, but the razor talons caught at the blue shroudings. Narayan, whip in one hand, sword in the other, beat round him in great arcs, and I heard one bird's death-cry sending ringing echoes to the sky. I flung round me with my knife—

“The mirror—” screamed Gamine, “Evarin's mirror! Quick, they're coming by millions!”

They were coming in scores—hundreds, whirling and screeing. These were not the soul-falcons, belled and elaborately endowed with the intelligence and cunning of their launcher. These were—machines. Alive, yes, but not a life we knew. Only the nightmare freak of a science gone mad could produce—or control—these hateful things that were filling the clean air, groping for us with needle beaks and talons and wild wings. Only Evarin—