The Warlock Enraged

by Christopher Stasheff

  She tilted her chin up and turned to her sons. “And bear thy manners in mind, for we sleep in company, here.”

  The children stared at her, then frowned at one another in puzzlement, then turned back to her. “Why wouldst thou think we might not?” Magnus asked. Geoffrey piped in, “We’re good boys, Mama!”

  “Aye,” Gwen answered, turning to Rod, “and so must thou all be.”

  In the middle of the night a low groan began, swelling in volume and bouncing back and forth between the stone walls, until it filled the whole hall.

  Rod shot bolt upright, panic clamoring up inside him jarring his brain. Rage answered, and struggled against it.

  A bluish white light filled the hall, showing all the servants shocked upright, staring in fear and horror. Cordelia screamed, burying her face in Rod’s midsection, and Gregory burrowed into Gwen’s skirts.

  Magnus and Geoffrey glared truculently upward, even as they backed away against the wail.

  Above them all, the great hall was filled with a throng of pale, glowing spectres in antique gowns and ancient armor, all blue-white, and translucent.

  And facing the Gallowglass family.

  The male closest to them lifted an arm with the weight of centuries, and his voice rolled out, thundering, “Thou! ‘Tis thou who dost disturb our rest, thou and thy get! Name thyself, and step forth from thy craven guise!”

  Gwen laid a restraining hand on Rod’s arm, but the rage was building, and he shrugged her off, incensed that she should dare to remonstrate with him. He glared up at the ghost, throwing his shoulders back and issuing his words one by one. “I am Rodney Lord Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! And who are you, who dares so address me?”

  “I am Arendel, first Count of Drulane!” the ghost bellowed. “Tis in my hall thou dost stand! Wherefore hast thou come, and why hast thou disturbed my rest—mine, and all of my line’s! Speak, sirrah! Now!”

  The rage surged higher. “Speak with respect to thy betters, feeble ghost! Or from this place I shall banish thee, to leave thy wraith wailing in the void between worlds!”

  The ghost stared a moment, with the empty darkness of its eyes. Then its face creased, and broke open, and laughter spilled out—harsh, mocking laughter, that all the ghosts echoed, ringing from one to another, clamoring and sounding like brazen gongs, until all the Great Hall rang with it, while spectral fingers pointed at Rod.

  And the rage built to fill him, striving to master him; but he held himself rigid against it and, in a last attempt to avoid it, cried, “Fess! To me, now! In the great hall!”

  “Why, then, mannikin, work thy will!” the ghost sneered. “Hale me down, and grind me under! Work thy wonders! Show us this power thou canst employ, against ghosts!”

  Steel hooves rang on stone, and the great black horse charged into the hall, rearing to a halt bare inches from a peasant couple, who scrambled away in panic.

  Arendel turned his wrathful gaze on Fess, staring in outraged anger. “What beast is this thou dost summon! Hast thou no shred of courtesy within thee, that thou wouldst bring thine horse into a lord’s hall?”

  “Fess,” Rod bellowed in agony, “What are they?”

  “Rrr… Rrrodd… th-they awwrr…” Suddenly, Fess’s whole body heaved in one great convulsion, neck whiplashing; then his head plummeted down to swing between his fetlocks. He stood spraddle-legged, each knee locked stiff.

  “Seizure,” Rod snapped. “They’re real!”

  Arendel stared in disbelief for a moment; then he threw back his head, and his laughter rocked the hall. “Elf-shot! He summons his great aid, his model of all that is powerful and perfect—and ‘tis elf-shot!” And his merriment rolled forth, to batter against Rod’s ears.

  Then Rod’s own natural fury broke loose, his indignation that anyone should mock disability, make a joke of the truest companion he had known from earliest memory—and that fury poured into the building rage to boil it over the dam of Rod’s willed control. The red haze enveloped him, and the icy, insane clarity stilled his thoughts, ringing one clear idea: Ghosts could be exorcised. Rod bent his brows, eyes narrowing, and a thunderclap exploded through the hall, crashing outward from a short, balding man wearing spectacles and a green chasuble over a white robe. He blinked about him, stupefied. “I was… What… How…”

  “Welcome, Father,” Rod breathed, in a voice of dry ice.

  The priest blinked, seeking Rod out with watery eyes. “But I was even now saying Matins, in the monastery chapel! How came I here?”

  “Through my magic,” Rod grated, “in response to the ill manners of this churlish dead lord! Exorcise him, Father—for his soul’s barred from Heaven whiles he lingers here!”

  The ghost roared with rage, and his fellows all echoed him, with screechings and roarings that made the priest wince and cry, “ ‘Tis a foretaste of Hell!”

  “Banish them,” Rod cried, “ere they linger to damn themselves!”

  The priest’s face firmed with resolve. “Tis even as thou sayest.” And he held up one palm toward the ghosts while he fumbled in a pocket with the other, beginning a sonorous Latin prayer.

  Lord Arendel shrieked, and disappeared.

  With a wave of wailing despair, the other ghosts faded.

  In the sudden, soft darkness, Magnus cried, “There! Against the eastern wall! Nay, stop her, seize her! Mother, a light, I prithee!”

  Sudden light slashed the darkness—a warm, yellow glow from a great ball of fire that hung just below the ceiling, and Magnus and Geoffrey were diving toward a woman in a blue, hooded cloak, who hauled out a broomstick and leaped onto it, soaring up through the air to leave them in a wake of mocking laughter. Magnus shouted in anger, and banked to follow her, but she arrowed straight toward the window, which was opened wide to the summer’s night. She trilled laughter, crying, “Fools! Dost not know the witches are everywhere? Thou canst not escape Alfar’s power, nor hope to end it! Hail the Lord Sorcerer as thy master, ere he doth conquer thee—for Alfar shall rule!”

  With a firecracker-pop, Gregory appeared, directly in front of her, thrusting a stick toward her face. It burst into flame at its tip. The witch shrieked and veered to the side, plummeting toward the open door, but Cordelia swirled in on her broomstick to cross the witch’s path, hurling a bucketful of water. The fluid stretched out into a long, slender arrow, and splattered into the witch’s face. She howled with rage and swirled up and around the great hall while she dashed the water from her eyes with one swipe of her hand. Magnus and Geoffrey shot after her, closing in from either side. At the last second, the witch clutched at a great whorl of an amulet that hung on her breast, cried, “Hail, Alfar,” and disappeared in a clap of thunder.

  The hall was silent and still.

  Then a low moan began, and spread around the outside of the chamber. It rolled, building toward a wail.

  Magnus hung in the center of the hall, beneath the great fireball, his eyes like steel. Slowly, his mouth stretched wide.

  Gwen’s voice cut like a knife blade. “Nay, Magnus! Such words are forbidden thee, for no gentleman may use them!”

  For an instant, shocked stillness fell again. Then one woman began to giggle incredulously. Another gave a little laugh, but another laughed with her, then another, and another, and the horror in the hall turned into full-throated laughter—with an hysterical edge to it, perhaps, but laughter nonetheless.

  Then the Count of Drulane stood on the dais with his quaking wife behind him, gazing out about his hall silently.

  One by one, his servants and thralls saw him, and fell silent.

  When the whole hall was quiet, the Count turned to a waiting servant. “Light fires, that we may thank this lady for her good services, and be done with her flaming light.”

  The servant turned to the task, and others leaped to join him.

  The Count turned to the priest and said gravely, “I must thank thee, reverend Father, for thy good offices.”

  The priest bowed. “My office it
was, and there was small need to thank me.”

  “Naetheless, I do. Still, Father, I own to some concern, for these were the spirits of mine ancestors. Are their souls destroyed, then?”

  “Nay, milord.” The priest smiled. “I’ troth, I misdoubt me an a soul can be annihilated. Yet even an ‘twere, ‘twould not be now; for I saw no need for exorcism. Nay, I merely did bless this hall, and pray for the souls of all who have dwelt here, that they might find rest—which they did.”

  “And I had feared thou wouldst attempt to blast them with power of thine own,” Gwen said softly to her husband. “How is’t thou didst think of the clergy?”

  But the rage had ebbed, and Rod was filled with guilt and remorse. He shrugged impatiently. “Just an odd fact.”

  “It was, i’ truth, for thou hast never been greatly pious. Where didst thou learn it?”

  The question poked through Rod’s miasma; he frowned. Where had he learned that ghosts could be banished by clergy? “Common knowledge, isn’t it?” He glowered at her. “Just came to me, out of the blue.”

  “Nay,” said little Gregory, reaching up to catch his hand. “ ‘Tis not from the blue…”

  “Who asked you?”

  Gregory flinched away, and self-disgust drowned Rod’s irritation. He reached out to catch the child around the shoulders and jam him against a hip. “Oh, I’m sorry, son! You didn’t deserve that!”

  The priest was still reassuring the Count. “They have fled back to their graves, milord—and, I hope, to their well-earned afterlives.”

  “For some, that will be a blessing,” the Count said non-comittally.

  Rod looked up from the shame filled ashes of his wrath. “Shall I send you home now, Father?”

  The priest looked up, appalled, and the Count said quickly, “Or, an thou dost wish it, Father, we can offer thee hospitality and, when thou art rested, guardsmen and a horse, to escort thee south, to thy monastery.”

  “I thank thee, milord,” the priest said, not managing to hide his relief.

  The Count inclined his head. Then, slowly, he turned to Rod; and he spoke softly, but his words cut like fire. “ ‘Twas ungentlemanly of thee, Lord Warlock, to come, unannounced and disguised, into mine household.”

  Rod met his gaze, despite the shame that permeated him. He’d lost his head in fear and panic, and aimed at the wrong enemy—and now, to top it off, the Count was right.

  How dare he be!

  It worked; he summoned up enough indignation to raise his chin. “Deeply do I regret the need for such deception, milord Count—but need there was.”

  “What?” The Count frowned. “Need to wake mine ancestors from their sleep?”

  Rod answered frown for frown. “Be mindful, milord—that raising was no work of ours. ‘Twas the doing of a vile wi—uh, sorceress.”

  “Aye.” The Count seemed embarrassed. “ ‘Tis even so, milord; I had forgot.”

  “But the witch would not ha’ been here,” Geoffrey whispered, “had we not been.”

  “Shut up, kid,” Rod muttered.

  “I prithee, judge not all us witches by her,” Gwen pleaded. “There be only a few such wicked ones. And, as thou hast seen, ever will they flee the might of the Royal Coven.”

  The peasants didn’t seem all that much reassured.

  “Make no mistake,” Rod advised. “The Tyrant Sorcerer, Alfar, does send his agents out to prepare his conquests—and, as you’ve seen, he has come this far to the South already.” He turned back to Count Drulane. “That is why we have come in disguise—to learn all we can of Alfar’s doings.”

  The Count gazed at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. “Aye, I am captain enough to understand the need of that.”

  “I thank you for your understanding,” Rod gave him a slight bow. “But we must not trouble your keep further this night. The witch has fled, and we have learned all that we can.” Especially now that our cover’s blown. “We will thank you for your hospitality, and take our leave.”

  The count returned the bow, not quite managing to hide his relief.

  Rod smiled, turned, and marched toward the door.

  Magnus blinked, then jumped to follow his father, shoulders squared and chin high.

  The other children looked about them, startled, then hurried after Magnus, with Gwen shooing them along.

  The peasants pressed back, making way for them.

  Rod stopped by Fess and reached under the saddle for the reset switch. He threw it, and the robot’s head came up slowly. Rod caught the reins and led the black horse away with them.

  They came out into the open air, and Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Clean!” Cordelia gasped.

  Rod was silent for two paces; then he nodded. “Yes. You did want to sleep outdoors, didn’t you?”

  “Crickets be more musical than snores,” Magnus assured him.

  “And if I must needs sleep with animals, I had liefer they be large enough to see clearly.” Gwen brushed at her skirts. “Faugh!”

  “No argument there,” Rod assured her. “Come on; we’ll just go a quarter-mile or so past the gate, and bed down for the rest of the night.”

  They passed through the gatehouse, across the drawbridge, and out into the night.

  After a few paces, Rod let a sigh explode out. “Now! Next time you disagree with me, Gregory, please wait until we’re alone! Because you never know, I might be right.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the little boy said, in a little voice.

  Rod frowned. “I don’t mean to be hard, son—but there’s a very good chance that, if that witch hadn’t been there to harry us, there might’ve been another one of Alfar’s crew, to try to spy out the territory and spread rumors that’d worry the folk. I mean, all that worried dinner-table talk was probably genuine—but it is strangely convenient for Alfar, isn’t it?”

  Gregory was silent.

  To cover his guilt feelings, Rod turned to Fess, muttering, “Recovered, Circuit Rider?”

  “Nearly,” answered the robot’s voice. “I had never encountered convincing evidence of the existence of a medium, before this night.”

  “Well, maybe you still haven’t,” Rod mused.

  “Who hath not what?” Magnus looked up with a frown. “Oh! Thou didst speak with Fess.” He nodded, satisfied; the children had long ago learned that they could not hear Fess’s thoughts, unless he wanted them to.

  “Mayhap he still hath not what?” Cordelia asked.

  “Seen a medium,” Rod explained, “a person who can talk to ghosts, or make them appear.”

  “Oh.” Cordelia nodded. “Thou speakest aright, Papa. He hath not.”

  “Oh, really? Those ghosts looked genuine, to me.”

  “They were not,” Magnus assured him. “They had no greater thought than a mirror.”

  Rod frowned. “Odd simile.”

  “Yet ‘tis apt,” Gwen affirmed. “They had no true thoughts of their own; they mimicked what was there laid down for them.”

  “Laid down?” Rod still frowned. “By whom?”

  “By the witch,” Magnus explained. “She did call up the memories laid in the stones, and throw them out to us.”

  Rod stared. After a few seconds, he said, “What?”

  “Some witches there be, milord,” Gwen explained, “who can lay a hand on a ring, and gain the full sense of the person who wore it, even to the pattern of his or her thoughts.”

  Rod gazed off into space. “Yeah… I think I’ve heard of that. They call it ‘psychometry,’ don’t they?”

  Gwen shrugged. “I know not, my lord; such are the words of thy folk, not ours.”

  “Tis all one,” Cordelia added.

  “Thanks for the lesson,” Rod said sourly. “But how did you know about this, Magnus?”

  The boy reddened. “I did not wish to trouble thee, Papa…”

  “Oh, really?” Rod looked the question at Gwen; she shook her head. “Didn’t want to worry Mama either, I gather. Which is fine, u
ntil we find out about it. From now on, we’ll always be worried—that you’ve discovered a new way to use your power, and are trying dangerous experiments without letting us know.”

  Magnus looked up, startled. “I had not meant…”

  “I know. So don’t. Worry me, son—that’s what I’m here for.” For a second, he wondered if that was truer than he knew.

  Magnus sighed. “Well enough, then. I have found thoughts in things people have used, Papa.”

  Rod nodded. “Let Mama be near next time you experiment with it, okay? So much for the ‘calling up’ part. I take it the ‘throwing out’ is talking about projective telepathy?”

  “By that,” Gwen explained to the children, “he doth mean a witch or warlock who can send their thoughts out to folk who have not witch power.”

  “Oh!” Cordelia nodded. “Such she was, Papa. What she saw in her mind, she could make others see, also.”

  Rod nodded. “So we weren’t seeing real ghosts—just reflections of the memories ‘recorded’ in the rocks of that hall… uh, Gwen?”

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “Remember those ghosts we met, way back when, in Castle Loguire?”

  “Aye, my lord. Mayhap they were, at first, raised in just such a manner.”

  “Why the ‘at first’?”

  “Why, for that they endured after the witch who raised them—long after, by accounts.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Rod nodded. “That’s right—that castle was supposed to have been haunted for a century or two, wasn’t it?” He glared at the sudden gleam in Magnus’s eye. “Don’t go trying any surprise visits. Those ghosts weren’t harmless.”

  “Save for thy father.” Gwen couldn’t resist it.

  Rod gave her a glower. “That was diplomacy, not necromancy. And, come to think of it, this witch of Alfar’s wasn’t too bad at persuasion, herself.”

  “Aye,” Gwen agreed. “Her words, when we had unmasked her, were meant more for Count Drulane and his folk, than they were for us.”

  “Trying to boil up all the old fears of witches, to boost their Reign of Terror,” Rod growled. “Never mind what the peasants might do to the witches in the rest of the kingdom.”