The bird plunged with a cry that filled the air—straight toward Gregory. The boy tried to dodge, but huge talons caught him up.
"Hit him!" Rod yelled, and his dagger shot through the air, with Magnus's and Geoffrey's right behind it, to bury themselves in the bird's breast. A storm of rocks and sticks shot up from Cordelia and Gwen, and Rod hurtled into the midst of them, sword first. The giant hawk screamed and tried to rise, but Rod slammed into it before it could lift more than a yard. The hawk slashed with its beak, and blood welled in a long gash on Rod's left arm, shoving him slightly off target. He howled with the pain but drove the sword in, then wrestled it out and stabbed again—and the bird's face was peppered with stones and sticks. It reeled, keeled over, and fell to earth with a thud. Gregory sprang free, and Gwen swept him up in her arms.
Rod sprang for the bird's head, but saw the eyes glaze. He stood, trembling, watching its last spasmodic shudder, muttering obscenities.
"Vile raptor, to prey upon children," Magnus spat, and slashed its throat.
"Well done, my son," Gwen said. "Thus may it be to all who seek to harm little ones! There, now, Gregory, thou art not hurted."
The boy's trembling slackened.
Rod stood looking down at the dead hawk.
Come away, Rod, Fess's voice said inside his head. It is dead.
"Yes." Rod's eyes were hidden under his brows. "I've just taken the life of a living being. Why don't I feel guilty?"
"Because it deserved to die!" Cordelia spat. "Be exalted, Father! It was evil!"
"Yes. It was, wasn't it?" Rod turned away. "Fess, what kind of bird was that, anyway?"
"A chicken hawk, Rod, though immensely gross."
"And evil." Gwen set Gregory free, and Magnus clapped him on the shoulder and took him aside. Gwen turned to Rod. "Now, husband, we must see to that wound. There is no telling what manner of foulness may have been in such a monster. We must use strong spells, to banish its corruption."
"We can try, anyway," Rod grunted.
Half an hour later, they were back on the trail. The blimp was only a smudge on the western sky, but it was still in sight.
"Look out!"
Rod reached out to catch Gregory ar_ound the middle and yanked him back just in time. A foot-thick boulder came crashing and banging down the hillside in front of the family, narrowly missing them. Rod let out a shaky breath. "Son, I keep telling you—when you're mulling over a problem, sit down! Don't go wandering around half-aware !"
Gregory swallowed. "Aye, Papa."
" 'Ware!" Gwen cried, and Rod looked up the hillside to see another small cannonball bowling toward them. He leaped back, hoisting Gregory high.
"Fly, Papa!" Magnus called.
Rod spat an impolite word; when would using his psi powers start becoming automatic for him? He concentrated on pushing the earth away, and the world grew dim; the rattling and bouncing of the boulders seeming distant. Then Gregory wriggled out of his arms, and Rod's concentration disappeared as he made a frantic grab for his son. But he saw that Gregory was floating ten feet off the ground, realized he himself was falling, and just barely managed to push the ground away in time to loft him above the trajectory of the next cannonball. Not quite high enough—it smacked him a wicked one on the great toe—but he managed to stifle a yelp, keep his concentration, and still observe the hillside, in a remote sort of way.
The first thing he noticed was that his wife and daughter were circling over it on their broomsticks. The next was that his sons were floating in the updrafts.
The third was that there were an awful lot of those spinning, jouncing stones.
"Why are they so round?" Cordelia called.
"Because they have rolled so far down the hillside, sister," Gregory answered. " 'Tis a very long hillside, and hard."
So it was—only a ten-degree slope, but it had to be a quarter of a mile long. That was a plateau up there, not a crest—and the hillside itself was rough and rocky, with glints of flint. "That's a long way to slide, once you start to slip," Rod said.
And totally barren, of course. Anything that had tried to grow there, the tumbling boulders had mashed flat.
Fess posed a question. "How long have they been rolling?"
Geoffrey retorted, "What made them start?"
Gregory's eyes lost focus again. "The hill slopes up toward the east. Belike there are soft rocks down here that split, and shoot their offspring up—and those that cannot fly past the ridge above come tumbling back down here."
A loud crack sounded. They looked up in surprise, and saw two rocks flying toward the top of the hill.
"Why," said Cordelia, "that was a rock that lodged in a cranny, until it was time for it to split!"
Rod nodded. "And thus they do eventually get up to the top; it's just that some of them probably go up that hill and come back down several times, before they're finally lucky enough to lodge against an outcrop that will hold them."
"But every time they start again," Gwen called, "they do so by splitting. Nay, of course there are so many here!"
"An excellent resolution," Fess carolled. "Really, Rod, your whole family fills me with pride! Though of course I cannot take any credit for Lady…"
"Wait a minute." Rod frowned. "That rock that mashed my toe wasn't so soft." ,
They all studied the rocks, struck by the notion.
Then Fess said, "Could it be that the long tumble back down the hill hardens them?"
"Of course!" Gregory cried. "As they roll, they compress!"
"And as they compress, they harden." Magnus nodded. "Yet how large they are!"
"They have been long here," Cordelia said. "Mayhap they swell as they wait."
"Or mayhap," said Gregory, " 'tis simply that we near the stones' source."
Rod had another question. "But why does becoming hard make their music so much more strident?"
Everybody was silent, trying to puzzle it out.
Finally, Fess said, "We have noticed constant mutation in the music, as though some force were ever striving to create some new form. But such evolution must surely be cultural, not physical."
"I take it you mean 'cultural' in the broadest sense." Rod scowled. "Look, can we move on, please? I'm getting a headache."
"Poor Papa!" Cordelia sympathized. "And surely we will lose the skycraft if we tarry longer."
"Aye. Away!" Gwen called. She banked toward the west, the boys swooping to follow her.
Or at least two of them did. "Magnus!" Rod called. "Snap out of it!"
Magnus looked up, startled. "What, Papa?" He looked around and saw his mother and younger brothers drifting away. "Oh, aye! Forgive my distraction!" Then he drove off after them—but his feet were still tapping the air, in time to the music of the hard rocks..
Someone else was still hovering about.
"Daughter," Rod intoned.
Cordelia looked up from the intricate routine she was trying to work out, involving the front end of the broomstick moving in circles while the bristles went up and down—and all, Rod could have sworn, in time to two different sets of beats coming from the same music. His daughter finally focused on his face, looked startled, glanced quickly around, then gave a little cry and peeled off after her mother.
Rod heaved a sigh and sailed off after her. "You coming, Fess?" he called out. "Fess!"
"Here, Rod. I had my audio amplification turned down. Yes, I am following along on the ground."
"That's reassuring, anyway." Rod glanced back at the hillside with trepidation. "So by the time any rock gets over that ridge, all those trips down the hillside have turned it hard."
"That is true, Rod."
"And that means that after a while, all the rocks east of here will be hard, too."
Fess was silent for a moment, then said, "I think not, Rod. There are already many soft rocks in the lands we have passed through, and they are multiplying. There is room for both types of rock in the East."
"I hope you're right." Rod lofted high
er, hoping the music would become fainter. It did, but not much. He sailed on west, with only one glance back at the hillside where the rolling stones developed into hard rock.
Chapter Eighteen
The children were beginning to stumble with weariness as the sun set, and Rod was about to call a halt if Gwen didn't; the metal blimp would just have to get away. But as the dusk gathered, the blimp slowed and stopped.
Gwen halted, eyes still fixed on its swollen form. "Doth it sleep?"
"It would seem so," Rod said slowly. "If it throws out a mooring line…"
An anchor swung down from the blimp and snagged in the top of a tree. Rod relaxed, nodding. "It's set for the night. Collapse, kids. I'll find the raw materials." As the youngsters sank down, he touched Gwen's hand. "You could rest a little, too."
"I thank thee." She smiled up at him. "Yet I'm not so tired as I might be."
"You're a wonder—it's been a long hike."
"I, too, could last some while longer, Papa."
Rod looked up at Magnus and decided they could both benefit from the lad's proving how tireless he was. "Okay— you go bag a couple of rabbits."
Magnus smiled, turning away and taking out his sling. "Will squirrels do?"
"Oh, no!" An unfamiliar voice called out. "Get back, get back!" They looked up, startled. A young man in glittering garments was coming out of the wood, manic energy in every step. "No, no!" he cried. "Be nice, be nice!"
Cordelia reached up to catch Gwen's hand. "Mama—his face!"
Gwen looked, then gasped. "Even so, daughter! Doth he mock?"
"He must," Cordelia said.
Geoffrey frowned. "What ails thee?"
"Why," said Cordelia, "that young man doth—for thus will Prince Alain look when he is grown."
Geoffrey swung back to stare, amazed. " Tis even so!" He leaped to his feet, sword flickering out. "Avaunt thee, pretender!"
"Avaunt!" the mimic mocked. "Get back, get back! Who gives orders? What a fool!"
Rod's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tongue!"
"Oh, great man!" The mimic held up his hands in mock horror. "Oh, shall I bow? No—thou shalt bow, to thy prince!"
"The true prince is only half thine age," Gwen snapped, "and thy mockery hath little of amusement in it."
"A joke, a joke! The lady doth smoke!"
"Nay, but thou shalt, if thou wardest not thy tongue." Magnus stepped forward. "Shall I slay rabbits as thou slayest humor?"
"A slayer, a butcher!" the man screamed. "Murdering thief! Get back! Get back!" He leaped at Magnus, foot lashing out in a kick.
Magnus ducked easily, but the mock prince slapped him as he went by, catching Magnus a sharp blow on the cheek. The young warlock's face reddened; he lashed out with his empty sling.
"A weapon!" the mock prince cried. "I have one, too!" He yanked off his doublet and hurled it at Magnus, who slapped it away and stepped in to swing at the man—but he caught a boot square in the eye. He howled in anger, ducked the next boot, and came up swinging—to catch the youth's hose right in his face. The mock prince hooted with delight and slashed another kick—but Magnus caught the foot, twisted, and shoved. The mock prince hopped backward with a howl and fell, but did a backward somersault and rose, hurling his singlet at Magnus and catching at his loincloth.
Cordelia stared, not believing what she was seeing—only for a split second, though, before her mother clapped a hand over her eyes.
But the mock prince had only pulled a knife out of his loincloth, and that was his undoing. He slashed at Magnus, who caught the wrist, whirled, and cracked the young man's arm backward across his knee, locking the mock prince's elbow in the crook of his own arm. The imposter howled, eyes bulging, and the knife dropped from his fingers.
"Wait, hold it right there!" Rod called. "He's in the ideal bargaining position!"
Magnus looked up. The bellowing imposter twisted, and Magnus reacted barely in time to tighten the elbow lock. "What can he know?"
"Only the item we're wanting most." Rod went over and caught the young man by the hair. As the mock prince jerked his head up to yell at Magnus, he howled. "Yeowtchl"
"Yes, that gives you a reason to hold your head still," Rod said. "Now, pay attention for a second."
"What for, big man?"
Magnus applied a little more leverage. The imposter groaned, eyes bulging.
"Now that we have a basis for discussion," Rod said, "maybe you can tell us where these music-rocks came from."
"Oh no, big man." The youth tried to shake his head, winced, and gave it up as a bad job. "Oh no, I can't. I only know they came one day—and never has my living life been dull a moment since."
"I wonder an he doth tell the truth." Magnus bore down,
and the young man yelped. "The dead! Only the dead know, only the dead! I mean it… YEOWTCH!"
"Magnus!" Gwen scolded. "What honor's in this? Thou hast reason to hold him still, naught more!"
Magnus looked up, realization dawning. "I cannot stay here all year, Mama."
"Mama, Mama," the young man mocked. "Oh, pretty honor, little b—OWWWW!"
"You shouldn't have made him angry," Rod explained. "Either control your mouth, or don't use it. As to your dilemma, son—we could put him to sleep."
Magnus shook his head. "He would but follow us when he waked, Papa."
"What dost thou intend!" Gwen said with indignation.
"I know not," Magnus confessed.
"Give him more of what he doth wish," Gregory suggested. •
"No can do, little man! I want everything!"
"Aye, but what dost thou want most?"
The imposter's eyes roved toward Cordelia, but his arm creaked, and he groaned. "Music. Most of all, music!"
"He shall have music, wherever he goes." Geoffrey shrugged.
"An excellent idea, brother!" Gregory caught up two rocks.
"What?" Geoffrey stared blankly. "What have I said?"
"That he should have music, wheresoe'er he doth go!" Gregory placed the two rocks over the youth's ears. Instantly, his eyes dulled and lost focus.
"Maybe, just maybe," Rod said thoughtfully.
"Bind them in place," Gregory suggested.
Geoffrey caught up the youth's singlet, tore off a strip, and tied it around his head, crown to chin. Then he tore another and bound it from nape to forehead. "They shall stay, unless he doth take them off."
"He won't, or I miss my guess," Rod said. "Let him go, son."
Magnus let go, and the young man fell like a stone.
Magnus looked down at him with disgust. "What, hast thou no pride? Rise and walk, man!"
The prince-mocker picked himself up, looking dazed, and ambled away. He walked right between Gwen and Cordelia, unseeing, and wandered into the wood.
Rod nodded with satisfaction. "Wonderful idea, boys! He's out of trouble for the rest of his life!"
"Or until someone doth take the rocks off from him," Geoffrey pointed out.
"By then, we shall be long gone," Magnus said with satisfaction, "and our trail grown very cold." Then he frowned. "What did he mean by saying, 'only the dead know'?"
"A metaphor," Gregory suggested, "to show that none living can have any idea of the rocks' origin."
"No." Rod was quite certain. "What started this whole exploration, son?"
Gregory looked up, startled. "Why… the dancing dead."
Rod nodded. "So if he says that only the dead know, those zombies might just be the dead he speaks of."
"But where," asked Cordelia, "shall we find the walking dead?"
"Somewhere between sunrise and dawn." Rod turned to pick up sticks. "But I, for one, am not minded to go searching just now. Fire and food, kids. We'll go hunting tomorrow. Maybe the blimp will show us."
"Aye," Gwen agreed. "For now, dinner and bed."
They managed to sleep well in spite of all the music—or perhaps because of it. Rod's last thought, as he drifted into sleep, was that maybe his ears were beginning to gr
ow numb.
Chapter Nineteen
The next day was a hard one. They followed the blimp from sunrise to sunset and beyond. Past dark, they came to a village.
"We truly ought to have stopped some while ago, husband, whiles there was still light."
"I know, dear, but you'd been talking about wanting to sleep in a real bed, and frankly, I just couldn't resist the notion. Besides, I thought you might appreciate not having to cook." Rod frowned down at the village below them in the gloaming. "But I'm beginning to wonder if this hamlet is big enough to have an inn."
"It hath a graveyard," Magnus noted.
They stood atop a ridge, with the village nestled in a bowl of trees below them, centered around a small church with a broad yard dotted with grave markers. Lights warmed the darkness here and there, but none bright enough to indicate an inn.
"Well, if there is an hostel, it'll be near the church," Rod noted. "We can always go on through and camp on the outskirts, if we come up dry."
"Papa…"
"Patience, Geoffrey," said Gwen. "If there is an inn, thou'lt have thy dinner straightaway."
The boy signed and followed his father down the hill.
But as they passed the churchyard, Gregory winced at the volume of sound. "Is this reverent, Papa? How can there be so much more noise here?"
"It is suspicious," Rod admitted with a glance toward the church, "almost as though someone were attacking the chapel…"
"We have seen a meadow where folk did throw music-rocks, to be rid of them," Magnus contributed.
Gwen frowned. "But wherefore would they throw stones at the church?"
Gregory jolted to a halt, staring.
Rod stopped. "What's the matter, son?"
"The graves," Gregory gasped, affrighted. "Papa… so many…"
In front of a score of tombstones there were gaping, ragged holes. Rod was aghast. "What is it?" he asked. "The plague?"
"No, Rod," Fess answered. "I am enhancing my night-vision, and can see that the holes are those of old graves. It is not the work of a sexton, though it might be the detritus of grave robbers."
"Or ghouls," Cordelia said, with a delicious shiver.
"I think not, Cordelia. From the pattern in which the dirt has fallen, I would say that the graves have been opened from within."
The Warlock Rock Page 16