“Aye. And now I’ll make those molecules move so fast they’ll meld one to another. Yet I must spring them into motion so quickly that their heat will not have time to spread through the rest of the metal to Papa’s hands, the whiles he doth press the broken edges together—for we’d not wish to burn him.”
“Definitely not,” Rod muttered.
Gregory watched intently.
So did Rod. He still couldn’t quite believe it, as he saw the metal spring into cherry-redness all along the crack, brighten quickly through orange and yellow to near whiteness. Metal flowed.
“Now quickly, cool it!” Magnus hissed, drops of sweat standing out on his brow, “Ere the heat can run to Papa’s hands!”
The glow faded faster than it had come, for Gregory frowned at it, too; this part was simple enough for a three-year-old.
Simple! When only witches were supposed to be telekinetic, not warlocks—and even the best of them could only move objects, not molecules.
But there the pot stood, round and whole! Rod sighed, and started tapping it lightly with the hammer, far from where the crack had been—just for appearances. “Thanks, Magnus. You’re a great help.”
“Willingly, Papa.” The eldest wiped his brow.
“Papa,” Gregory piped up, “Thou dost know that elves do ‘company us…”
“Yeah.” Rod grinned. “Nice to know you’re not alone.”
“Truth. Yet I’ve thought to have them ask for word from their fellows in the North…”
“Oh?” Rod tried not to show it, but he was impressed. Three years old, and he’d thought of something Tuan and Rod had both overlooked. “What did they say?”
“The goodwives no longer call warnings to the Wee Folk ere they empty garbage out upon the ground,” Gregory’s eyes were large in his little face. “They no longer leave their bowls of milk for the elves, by their doors. Each house now hath cold iron nailed up over its door, whether it be an horseshoe or some other form, and hearths go unswept at eventide.”
Rod felt a chill and glanced at a nearby tree, but its leaves were still. “Well, I guess no housewife there is going to find sixpence in her shoe. What are the elves doing about it?”
“Naught. There is some spell lies o’er the plowed land there, that pushes against all elfin magic. They have turned away in anger, and flitted to the forests.”
Rod struck the pot a few more times, in silence.
“Is this coil in the North so light as thou hast told us, Papa?” Gregory finally asked.
Rod reflected that, for a three-year-old, the kid had one hell of a good vocabulary. He put down his hammer and faced the child squarely. “There’s no real evidence, yet, that it’s anything major.”
“But the signs…” Magnus murmured.
“Are not evidence,” Rod answered. “Not firm evidence—but I’m braced. That’s why we’re travelling in disguise—so we can pick up any rumors, without letting people know we’re the High Warlock and Company.”
“Thou dost not wish our presence known, for fear the evil folk will hide till we’ve gone by?” Magnus asked.
“No, because I don’t want to walk into an ambush. Not that I expect to, mind—I just don’t want to take any chances.” He gave the pot a last tap and held it up to admire. “You boys did a good job.”
“We shall ever do our best, for thee,” Magnus responded. “Papa… if thou dost gain this firm evidence that thou speakest of… What then?”
Rod shrugged. “Depends. If it’s nothing major, we’ll fix whatever’s wrong, and go on to the northern seacoast for a couple of weeks of swimming and fishing. You’ve never tried swimming in the ocean, boys. Let me tell you, it’s very different from the little lake near our house.”
“I shall hope to discover it,” Gregory piped. “Papa… what if the evidence is of great wrongness?”
“Then you three boys will turn right around, and take your mother and your sister right home,” Rod said promptly.
“And thou…?”
“I’m the High Warlock, aren’t I?” Rod grinned at them. “They gave me the title. I’ve got to live up to it.”
Gregory and Magnus looked at each other, and locked gazes.
“I prithee, my lord, calm your heart,” Gwen eyed him anxiously as she laid the campfire. “ ‘Twas not the forester’s fault that we may not hunt.”
“Yeah—but the way he dragged Magnus in, as though he were some kind of criminal!” Rod folded a hand around his trembling fist. “He should only know how close he came to disaster! Good thing Magnus remembered his disguise.”
“ ‘Twas not the child’s self-rule that troubled me.” Gwen shuddered. “My lord, if thou couldst have but seen thine own face…”
“I know, I know,” Rod snapped, turning away. “So it’s not surprising he reached toward his knife. But so help me, if he had touched it…”
“He would have died,” Gwen said simply, “and men-at-arms would have caught us on the morrow.”
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t,” Rod said grimly. “They wouldn’t’ve dared touch the High Warlock!”
“Aye—and all the land would have known we ride north.” She sighed. “I rejoice thou didst throttle thy temper.”
“No, I didn’t, and you know it! If you hadn’t butted in and taken over, raining thanks and praise on the forester, as though you were a waterfall…”
Gwen shrugged. “ ‘Twas naught but his due. A less kind man would have beaten the child, and haled him off to his knight’s gaol.”
Rod stared, appalled.
Gwen nodded. “Oh, aye, my lord. And the law allows it. Nay, more; for this good warden who did find our son, might be censured if his lord did know of his forbearance.”
Rod shuddered. “I’m glad I let him go, then. But, my lord! It’s not as though the boy’d been trying to bring down a deer! All he was after was a rabbit!”
“Even so, the Forest Laws would say ‘twas theft,” Gwen reminded him. “Every hare and goose—nay, each mouse and sparrow—doth belong unto the manor’s lord; and to hunt them is to steal!”
“But how do these people live?” Rod cupped an empty hand. “We didn’t do badly today, for tinkers—we made a penny and a half! But we had to spend the penny for a chicken, and the half for bread! What would we live on, if nobody broke a pot?”
“The law…” Gwen sighed.
“Well, it won’t, for long.” Rod curled the hand into a fist. “I’m going to have a few words with Tuan, when we get back to Runnymede!”
“Do,” Gwen said softly, “and thou’lt have proved the worth of this journey, even an we find naught wrong i’ the North.”
“I’m afraid that’s not very apt to happen.” Mollified, Rod watched her stare at the kindling. It burst into flame, and he sighed, “I’d better see how the kids are coming along with their foraging.” He stiffened at a sudden thought, staring at her. “We are allowed to gather berries, aren’t we?”
Rod sat bolt upright with a hissing-in of breath, staring about him, wide-eyed.
The night breathed all around him, hushed. Far away, crickets and frogs wove counterpoint that darted harmony with the myriad of stars. The land lay deep in peace.
Rod sagged against the prop of his arm, relieved by reality. Adrenalin ebbed, and his hammering heart began to slow. He couldn’t even remember the nightmare—only that, vaguely, the face was Lord Kern’s.
This had to stop. Somehow, he had to break this spell. Somebody moaned; not surprising, the way he felt.
Then he stiffened, all his attention concentrated on his ears. Whoever had moaned, it hadn’t been him.
Then, who…?
The sound came again, louder and closer. It wasn’t a moan, really—more of a grinding sound. Not moving, Rod murmured, “Fess?”
“Here, Rod.” Being a robot, Fess never slept. In fact, he scarcely ever powered down.
“Hear anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes, Rod. The sound is that of rock moving against rock. When th
e frequency of its repetitions is accelerated, there is a discernible Doppler shift…”
“Coming, or going?”
“Coming—and rather rapidly, I should…”
Trees at the edge of the meadow trembled, and a huge, dark form came into sight. The silhouette was crudely human.
Rod was on his feet and darting over to Fess. He yanked a light out of the pack, aimed it at the dark form, and pressed the tab. “Gwen!”
Gwen raised her head just as the beam struck the huge figure.
If it was female, it was a caricature. If it had breasts, it also had shoulders like a fullback’s and arms like a gorilla’s. It did have long fingernails, though—and they glinted dangerously in the actinic glare. Its face was blue. It flinched at the sudden stab of light, lips drawing back in a snarl—revealing fangs.
“Black Annis!” Gwen gasped in horror.
The monster froze for a moment, startled by the beam—and Rod snapped, “Magnus! Cordelia! Wake the babies and get into the air!”
The elder children snapped out of sleep as though they’d been jabbed, galvanized by Gwen’s mental alarm. Geoffrey rolled up, sitting, knuckling his eyes and muttering. “Not a baby! Six!” But Gregory just shot straight into the air.
Then the monster roared, charging, and caught up Geoffrey with one roundhouse swipe. He squalled, but in anger, not fright, and wrestled his dagger out of its sheath. But Rod thundered rage, and the monster rose into the air, then slammed down onto its back. Geoffrey jabbed the huge hand with his dagger, and Black Annis howled, dropping him. He shot into the air, while Rod stalked toward the horror. Red haze blurred his vision, obscuring all but Black Annis struggling to its feet in the center of his field of view. The familiar roaring thundered in his ears, and power thrilled through every vein. One thought filled him, only one—to see the creature torn to bits.
Behind him, though, Gwen retreated, keeping her face toward the monster, pulling Magnus and Cordelia by their hands, along with her.
The monster floundered to its feet and turned toward Rod, its face contorted with hate, claws lifting to pounce; but Rod’s arm was raising, forefinger stiffened to focus his powers.
Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and her children squeezed their eyes shut.
Black Annis exploded into a hundred wriggling fragments.
Rod roared in rage, cheated of his revenge; but Gwen cried to her two youngest, “Rise and follow!”
For the wriggling fragments kept writhing and, as they fell to earth, ran leaping away, long-eared and puff-tailed, fleeing back toward the wood.
Rod clamped his jaw and ran after them.
But Gwen was beside him, pacing him on her broomstick, gripping his arm and calling to him through the blood-haze. Distantly through the roaring, he heard her: “My lord, it was not real! ‘Twas a phantom, made of witch-moss!”
That stung through; for ‘witch-moss’ was a fungus peculiar to this planet, telepathically sensitive. If a projective esper thought hard at a lump of it, it would turn into whatever he or she was thinking about.
Which meant there had to be a projective esper around.
Gwen was tugging at his arm, falling behind. “Softly, mine husband! Fall back, and wait! If this monster was made o’ purpose, ‘tis toward the purposer that these comes we’ve made from it do flee! Yet if that villain doth take sight of thee, he’ll flee ere we can seize him!”
“I’ll blast him into oxides,” Rod muttered, but sense began to poke through his battle-madness.
“A pile of dust cannot tell us what we wish to know!” Gwen cried, and, finally, Rod began to slow. The master who had made this monster, was nothing; what mattered was the one who’d pulled his strings. That was the ogre who’d threatened Rod’s children. “Black Annis eats babies,” he muttered, and the rage began to build again.
“Black Annis is an old wives’ tale!” Gwen’s voice whipped, and stung through to him. “In Tir Chlis she did truly live, mayhap, but not in Gramarye! Here, she’s only crafted out of witch-moss! Here, ‘tis a sorcerer who doth scorn babes!”
Rod halted, trembling, and nodded. “And it’s the sorcerer we’ve got to catch—yes! But to find him, we have to question the minion that sent the monster against us!” His lips pulled back against his teeth. “That questioning, I think I’ll enjoy!”
Gwen shuddered, and implored, “Hold thyself in check, I prithee! Knowledge is our goal, not joy in cruelty.”
“Just tell me where he is. Who’s spotting?… Oh. The kids.” He stilled, listening mentally for his children’s call—and muttering, “Fess, to me. When we need to ride, we’ll need full speed.”
The great black horse drummed up beside him, just as Cordelia’s cry came, “Here!”
Rod leaped astride Fess, and they tore off through the night. The robot’s radar probed the darkened landscape, and Fess hurdled fallen trunks and streams as though he rode a close-clipped steeplechase course. Gwen swooped above the trees; but Fess broke from cover as she began her downward strike.
Her target was a high-walled wagon with a roof. A woman stood in its open door, silhouetted by candlelight. She darted a glance at Gwen, then whirled, to stare first toward the north, and Cordelia, then toward the east, and Gregory, then toward Geoffrey, then Magnus. She darted back inside, slamming the door; but she reappeared at the driver’s seat, catching up the reins. Her horses lifted their heads and turned out into the meadow, pulling the caravan about…
And she stared, appalled, at the horde of rabbits who filled the meadow—and the great black horse who thundered up behind them.
Then both her arms snapped out straight, fingers pointing—The rabbits leaped together, melded, coalesced, metamorphosed—and a lion, wolf, and bear whirled about, to turn on Rod.
He howled in rage and glee as the blood-haze enfolded him again, obscuring all but the monsters. They were release; they were justification for lashing out with his power. He would blast them; then his path would be clear, to smear the woman over the meadow grass.
The wolf was gaunt, with eyes of fire, impossibly huge. The bear, shambling upright, had a human face; and the lion’s mane was flame, its teeth and claws were steel.
Rod hauled on the reins and Fess dug in his hooves, throwing his weight back, plowing up the meadow in his halt, as Rod rose in the stirrups, stiffened arm spearing out.
The wolf exploded.
Rod’s head pivoted deliberately.
The lion’s mane expanded, flame sweeping out to envelop its body. But the beast didn’t seem to notice; it bounded on toward Rod, roaring.
Rod’s eyebrows drew down, his brow furrowing.
The lion’s head whipped around in a full turn and whirled spinning away. Fess sidestepped, and the body hurtled on by, to collapse in a writhing heap.
Rod pivoted toward the bear, his sword hissing out of its sheath; then the beast was on him. A great paw slammed against the side of Rod’s head. For a moment, he was loose in space, the blackness shot with tiny sparks; then the earth slammed into his back, and his insides knotted, driving the breath out of him. But the blood-haze still filled his sight; he saw Fess rearing up to slam forehooves into the bear’s shoulder. It stumbled, but came on, manlike face contorted in a snarl.
Rod clenched his jaw, waiting for breath, and glared at his sword-blade. Flame shot down its tip, billowing outward as though it were a blowtorch with a three-foot blast.
The bear halted, and backed away, snarling.
Rod’s diaphragm unkinked, and he drew a labored breath, then thrust himself to his feet, staggering toward the bear.
It threw itself on him with a roar.
He swung aside, squinting against pain, glaring at it. It flared like magnesium; but it had barely begun its death-howl when its fires flickered, guttered, and went out. Where it had stood, only ashes sifted to the ground.
Rod stood alone in the darkness, swaying, as the haze that filled him darkened, faded, and retreated back within him. He began to realize that a breeze was blowing�
�
Fire.
He’d left a burning corpse. The breeze could spread that flame over all the meadow, and into the woods.
He swung toward the remains of the lion—and saw Gregory floating near it, ten feet away, staring at the charred hulk. Even as Rod watched, bits of it were breaking loose, and moving off through the meadow grass. He turned toward the bear, and saw Geoffrey turning it into a herd of toy horses, which galloped toward the wood.
“We cannot leave such large masses of witch-moss whole,” Gwen’s voice said softly behind him, “or the first old aunt, telling of a frightful tale, will bring it up unwittingly, in some horrible guise.”
“No.” The last of the anger ebbed, and remorse rushed in to fill its place. Rod spoke roughly to counter it. “Of course you couldn’t. What happened to the witch?”
“She fled,” Gwen said simply.
Rod nodded. “You couldn’t follow her.”
“We could not leave thee here, to fight unaided.” Cordelia clung to her mother, watching her father out of huge eyes.
“No.” Rod turned to watch his two youngest dismember the remains of what had been horrors. “On the other hand, if I hadn’t stayed to fight them, you could’ve just taken them apart, and still had time to follow her.”
Gwen didn’t answer.
“Where’s Magnus?” Rod sighed.
“He did follow the witch,” Cordelia answered.
Air blew outward with a bang, and Magnus stood beside them. Rod usually found his sons’ appearances and disappearances unnerving, but somehow, now, it seemed remote, inconsequential. “She got away?”
Magnus bowed his head. “She fled into the forest, and I could no longer see her from the air.”
Rod nodded. “And it would’ve been foolish for you to try to follow low enough for her to get at you. Of course, if I’d been following on Fess, it would’ve been another matter.”
Nobody answered.
He signed. “How about her thoughts?”
“They ceased.”
Gwen stared down at Magnus. “Ceased?” She looked up, eyes losing focus for a few seconds; then her gaze cleared, and she nodded affirmation. “Tis even as he saith. But how…?”
The Warlock Enraged Page 3