Changeling (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page A

last number, exposing his birthmark. But still, why should it cause such alarm?
    “Detson!”
    A shock went through him at that last word. He instantly recalled old Mor’s telling him that his name was actually Pol Detson. But—
    The next stone struck him on the forehead. He dropped the guitar into the case and snapped it shut, to protect it. Another stone struck him. The crowd was on its feet.
    He felt a terrible anger rise within him, and his wrist throbbed as it never had before. Blood was running down his brow. His chest was sharply struck by another cast stone.
    He stumbled as he attempted to raise the case and turn away. Something struck him on the neck, something sounded against the case’s side . . . 
    The crowd had begun to move forward, past the lanterns, up the hill, slowly, stopping to grope for missiles.

     
    Away! He was not aware whether he had shouted it or sounded it only in his mind, accompanied by a broad, sweeping motion of his right arm.
    People stumbled, fell, tripped over lanterns. All of the other lanterns seemed to topple spontaneously. There were dark shapes in the air, but none of them struck him. The grasses at the foot of the knoll began to take fire. The cries that now came up to him seemed less angry than frustrated, or frightened.
    Away!
    He gestured again, his entire arm tingling a sensation of warmth flowing through his hand, out his fingertips. More people fell. The flames spread about them.
    Clutching his guitar case, he turned and fled down the rear of the hill, leaping over sprawled forms and low fires, his breath almost a sob as he tore across the field, heading toward the dark wood to the north.
     
    The anger subsided and the fear grew as he ran. His last glance back before he entered the trees seemed to show him the beginnings of pursuit. Supposing they fetched horses? They knew their own country and he had no idea where he was headed. There might be all sorts of places where they could cut him off, and then—
    Why ? he wondered again, dodging about trees, crashing through underbrush, wiping spiderwebs from his face, blood from his eyes. Why had they suddenly turned on him when they had seen the mark? What could it mean to them?
    After stumbling for the third or fourth time, he halted and stood panting, resting his back against the bole of a large tree. He could not be certain how near his pursuers might be, unable to distinguish other sounds over his breathing and the heavy beating of his heart. But this wild rushing was doing him no good. He was hastening exhaustion in addition to leaving a well-defined trail. To move cautiously, to expend his energies more economically . . . Yes. He would have to proceed differently.
    Mor had addressed him as the possessor of some power, and he was not blind to the feet that he had just exercised it in a wild fashion in escaping. Back home, save for mainly playful interludes in smoky, late-night clubs, he had always striven to suppress it, to keep it under control. Here, though, he already had the name of witch or wizard, and if there were some way that that power could serve him further, he was ready to learn it, to use it to the confusion of his enemies.
    His thoughts turned to the obvious connection, the mark upon his wrist, as his breathing became more even. Immediately, he felt the warmth and the heightened sense of his pulsebeat.
    He continued to dwell upon it in his mind. What is it, specifically, that I need? he wondered.
    A safe way out of here, to a place of safety, he decided. The ability to see where I am going and not run into things . . . 
    As he attempted to order this, he felt the forces within him stir, then saw the dragonmark clearly, despite the darkness. It seemed to move, brightening, then drift away from his arm to hover in the air before him, glowing faintly.
    It passed slowly to the left and he followed it, its pale light dimly but surely illuminating his way. He lost all track of time as he pursued its