The Warlock Enraged

by Christopher Stasheff

  Cordelia seized her broomstick and shot up into the sky. For a moment, all three boys disappeared. Then Magnus reappeared, far across the meadow, dimly seen in the moonlight. He disappeared again just as Geoffrey reappeared ten feet away, twenty feet in the air. Air shot outward with a pistol-crack, inward with firecracker-pop. The meadow resounded with reports, like miniature machine gun fire. Geoffrey disappeared with a dull boom, and a treetop nearby swayed with a bullwhip-crack as Gregory appeared in the topmost limbs.

  And stones kept falling, all over the meadow.

  “Husband!” Gwen’s voice was taut. “This enemy will mark us, too, ere long.”

  That jolted Rod. “I suppose so—if he doesn’t just pick on little kids. Better split up.”

  Gwen seized her broomstick and disappeared into the dark sky.

  That left Rod feeling like a sitting duck. He supposed he would be able to float up into the sky himself, if he just thought about it—but he’d never done it, and didn’t want to have to pay attention to trying to keep himself up while he was trying to find and annihilate an enemy. Capture, he reminded himself—capture, if you can.

  But he hoped he’d find he couldn’t.

  Magnus appeared ten feet away, shaking his head. “He doth cloak his thoughts well, Papa. I cannot…” Suddenly, his eyes lost focus. Geoffrey’s laugh caroled over the meadow, clear and filled with glee. Magnus disappeared with a pistol-crack. Rod leaped for Fess’s back and shot across the meadow, a living missile with a double warhead.

  He was just in time to see Geoffrey and Magnus shoot up out of the trees, carrying a young man stretched like a tug-of-war rope between them. He struggled and cursed, kicking and whiplashing about with his legs and torso, but the boys stretched his arms tight, laughing with delight, and pulling with far more strength than their little bodies could account for.

  The young man shut his mouth, and glared at Magnus.

  Foreboding struck, and Rod sprang from Fess’s back in a flying tackle.

  He smacked into the young man’s legs so hard they bruised his shoulder. Above him, the warlock yowled in pain.

  Then it was daytime, suddenly full noon. The glare stung Rod’s eyes, and he squinted against it. He could make out fern leaves closely packed above, and a huge lizardlike monstrosity staring at them from five feet away. Then its mouth lolled open in a needle-fanged grin, and it waddled toward them with amazing speed. Panic clawed its way up Rod’s throat, and he almost let go to snatch out his knife—but the enemy warlock panicked first.

  It was night again, total night. No, that was moonlight, wasn’t it? And it showed Rod water, endless waves heaving below him. One reached up to slap at his heels, and its impact travelled on up to hit his stomach with chilling dread. He could just picture himself falling, sinking beneath those undulating fluid hills, rising to thrash about in panic, clawing for land, for wood, for something that floated… Instinctively, he tightened his hug on the ankles.

  Then sunlight seared his eyes, the sunlight of dawn, and bitter cold stabbed his lungs. Beyond the legs he clung to, the world spread out below him like a map, an immensity of green. Jagged rocks stabbed up, only a few yards below his heels. It had to be a mountain peak, somewhere on the mainland.

  Darkness again, blackness—but not quite total, for moonlight filtered through a high, grated window, showing him blocks of granite that dripped with moisture, and niter webbing the high corners of the cramped chamber. Huge rusty staples held iron chains to the walls. A skeleton lounged in the fetters at the end of a pair of those chains. Another held a thick-bodied man with a bushy black beard. His brocade doublet was torn and crusted with dried blood, and a grimy bandage wrapped his head. He stared at them in total amazement. Then relief flooded his face, and his mouth opened…

  Limbo. Nothingness. Total void.

  There wasn’t any light, but there wasn’t any darkness, either—just a gray, formless nothingness. Rod felt an instant conviction that he wasn’t seeing with his eyes—especially when colors began to twist through the void in writhing streaks, and a hiss of white noise murmured in the distance. They floated, adrift, and the body in Rod’s arms suddenly began to writhe and heave again. A nasal voice cursed, “Thou vile recreants! I will rend thee, I will tear thee! Monstrous, perverse beasts, who…”

  Geoffrey cried out, “Abandon!”

  Suddenly Rod was hugging nothing; the legs were gone. He stared blankly at the space where they’d been. Then panic surged up within him, and he flailed about, trying to grasp something solid, anything, the old primate fear of falling skewering his innards.

  Then a small hand caught his, and Geoffrey’s voice cried, “Gregory! Art there, lad? Hold thou, and pull!”

  Gentle breeze kissed Rod’s cheek, and the scents of pine and meadow grass filled his head with a sweetness he didn’t remember them ever having, before. Moonlight showed him the meadow where they’d camped, and Gwen darting forward, to throw her arms about him—and the two boys who clung to him. “Oh, my lord! My bairns! Oh, thou naughty lads, to throw thyselves into such danger! Praise Heaven thou’rt home!”

  Cordelia was hugging Rod’s neck hard enough to gag him, head pressed against his and sobbing, “Papa! I feared we had lost thee!”

  Rod wrapped his arms around her, grateful to have something solid to hold on to. He looked up to see Geoffrey peeking at him over Gwen’s shoulder. Rod nodded. “I don’t know how you did it, son—but you did.”

  6

  “Twas not so hard as that.”

  The blankets were around their shoulders now, and a small campfire danced in the center of the family circle. Cordelia turned a spit over the fire from time to time, roasting a slow rabbit for breakfast.

  “ ‘Not so hard?’ ” Rod frowned at Geoffrey. “How could it have been anything but hard? That young villain had to be one of the best teleporters in the land! I mean, aside from you boys, the only warlock we’ve got who can teleport anything but himself, is old Galen—and nobody ever sees him!”

  “Save old Agatha,” Gwen murmured.

  “Nobody ever sees her either,” Rod retorted.

  “Save old Galen,” Cordelia reminded him.

  “He’s going to need it,” Rod agreed. He turned back to the boys. “Toby’s the best of our young warlocks, and he’s just beginning to learn how to teleport other objects. He’s almost thirty, too. So Alfar’s sidekick has to be better than Toby.”

  “Nay, not so excellent as that.” Magnus shook his head. “And he was a very poor marksman.”

  “For which, praise Heaven.” Rod shuddered. “But he was too good at teleporting himself—even over his weight allowance! I didn’t begin to recognize most of the places he took us to!”

  “Any child could do the same,” Magnus answered, annoyed.

  “I keep telling you, son—don’t judge others by yourself. Why didn’t he just disappear, though?”

  “He could not,” Geoffrey grinned. “We could tell where he would flee to, and fled there but a fraction of a second behind him.”

  “How could you tell where he was going?”

  “They held his hands,” Gwen reminded. “Thoughts travel more readily, by touch.”

  Magnus nodded. “We could feel, through his skin, where he meant to go next.”

  Rod stared at him for a moment, then sat back, shaking his head. “Beyond my comprehension. Thoughts can’t travel any FESSter just by touching—can they?”

  “No,” Fess’s voice murmured through the earphone implanted in the bone behind Rod’s right ear. “But there would be less signal-loss than with a radiated waveform.”

  Cordelia sighed, striving for patience with her dullard father. “Tis not that one doth hear faster, Papa—only that one doth hear more. With touch, even tinges of thought speak clearly.”

  “I bow to the guest expert.” Rod managed to keep the fond amusement out of his tone, giving the words a sour twist.

  Fess plowed on. “The neurons in the warlock’s hand did, in all probabili
ty, induce the signal directly into the neurons in the boys’ hands.”

  “He couldn’t hide his thought-traces from you.” Rod turned back to Geoffrey. “So you always had just enough clues to follow him. But how did you manage to bring me along?”

  Gregory shook his head, eyes round. “That, Papa, we cannot say.”

  “We thought thou couldst,” Magnus added.

  Rod scowled. “No… can’t say that I did. Except that I was bound and determined that I wasn’t going to let go of him…”

  The children stared at one another, then at their mother.

  “What’s the matter?” Rod demanded. “What am I—a monster?”

  “Nay, Papa,” Cordelia said softly, “thou’rt only a warlock—yet a most puissant one.”

  “You mean it was just my determination that took me wherever he went?”

  Magnus nodded. “Thy magic followed all else that was needful.”

  Rod was still, gazing at the fire for a few minutes while he tried to absorb that. It was unnerving to think that he was beginning to be able to work magic the way his wife and children did—just by thinking of it. Now he was going to have to watch his step, to make sure he didn’t do it accidentally. He could just hear a casual passerby asking, “How do you think the weather’s going to be today, Mr. Warlock?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I think it’s going to rain…” and, sploosh! They’d be drenched…

  He shook off the mood, and looked up to find the children’s gazes glued to him. They looked worried; he wondered what they’d been up to. “So. Finally, he took us into a dungeon.”

  “Twas the sorcerer Alfar’s dungeon,” Geoffrey explained, and Cordelia gasped.

  Rod nodded. “Convenient. If he could just have figured out some way to get rid of us, we’d be right there to hand for the jailers. But how did he figure he was going to be able to keep you there? How could he prevent you from teleporting out?”

  “I do not think he had thought that far,” Magnus said slowly.

  Rod was still nodding. “Makes sense. I wouldn’t be too good at the details, if I was trying to run from the enemy, but he was coming right along.”

  “He was not attempting that,” Geoffrey said, with conviction. “He meant only to take us to a place in which we would be unwilling to stay.”

  Rod smiled slowly. “Clever kid. Chose a nice one, didn’t he?”

  “Aye.” Magnus shivered. “I was well relieved, to be quit of that place.”

  “But how’re you so sure?” Rod asked Geoffrey.

  “Because we tried to hale him out, and he would not come.”

  Rod stared. Then he took a deep breath and said, delicately, “Little chancey, wasn’t it?”

  “Nay. We sought to bring him to Mama.”

  Gwen’s eyes gleamed. Rod glanced at her, and turned back to the boys with a shudder. “That’s what put us into Limbo?”

  “Where?” Magnus frowned. “Oh! Thou dost speak of the Void!”

  Rod didn’t like the familiarity with which he spoke of it. “Been there before, have you?”

  Magnus caught the look, and realized its significance. “Nay, not so often…‘Tis only that…”

  “Spells go awry sometimes, Papa,” Geoffrey explained. “Assuredly thou must needs realize that.”

  “That,” Rod said tightly, “is why you’re supposed to wait till Mama can supervise.”

  “She did, the first time.”

  “First… time?”

  “Peace, husband.” Gwen touched his arm. “ ‘Tis naught so dangerous as that.”

  “Aye,” Magnus said quickly. “When thou dost arrive in that place that is not a place, thou hast but to think of where thou dost wish to be, and lo! Thou art there indeed!”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Rod said grimly. He noticed that Cordelia was managing to hold her tongue, but she looked chartreuse with envy. He caught her hand, and she squeezed back. “So,” he said to Geoffrey, “how did we wind up in Limbo this time?”

  “Why, because we wished to bear him to Mama, and he did not wish to go.”

  “I don’t blame him, when she’s in that mood. So you were trying to go, and he was trying to stay, so…”

  “We went nowhere.” Geoffrey nodded. “I saw, then, that we could not win, so I sought safety.”

  “What was so tough about it?” Rod frowned. “I thought you only needed to think yourselves home!”

  “We did need some aid,” Geoffrey admitted, and he reached out to clap his three-year-old brother on the shoulder. “This one had followed us with his mind, where e’er we had gone. I had but to call out to him, and he helped pull us, and showed us the road to home.”

  “Yes…” Rod’s gaze fastened on his youngest. “He’s had some experience doing that.”

  Gregory looked totally blank.

  “Not that he’d remember it,” Rod explained. “He was a little young, at the time—eleven months old.

  “But! Here you are, safe at home—praise Heaven!” He gathered them all into his arms, and squeezed. They gave mock yells of dismay, and Rod relaxed, looking down into their faces. “And now—you can go home.”

  They let loose a squall that must’ve waked villagers for miles around.

  “Nay, Papa, not so soon!”

  “It was just beginning to be fun!”

  “We’re not ready, Papa!”

  “Boys get to do all the fun stuff,” Cordelia pouted.

  Geoffrey looked straight into Rod’s eyes. “There is no danger, Papa.”

  “No danger!” Rod exploded. “You have a maverick warlock raining cannonballs on you, and you tell me there’s no danger? You have a monster magus trying to conjure rock chunks into your bodies, and you tell me it’s safe? You have a felon enchanter, straight from the glass house, throwing stones at you, and you tell me it’s tame?”

  “But we are whole,” Magnus spread his hands. “Naught save a bruise or two.”

  “Chance! Sheer, freakish good fortune! You’re just lucky that sorcerer was a lousy shot!”

  “Yet we outnumber him, Papa!”

  “He outweighs you! And that’s just the human danger! What’s going to happen the next time you get into a tug-of-war with one of those sorcerer interns? You might be stranded out in that void with no way to get home!”

  “Surely not, Papa!” Geoffrey protested. “ ‘Tis as I’ve said—thou hast but to think of…”

  “Yeah, if you’ve got somebody tuned in to act as your safety line!”

  “But Gregory…”

  “Gregory might be with you!” Rod bawled.

  “Yet that doth not alright me, Papa,” the three-year-old cried. “That gray place doth please me! ‘Tis comforting, and…”

  “Makes you feel right at home, does it?” Rod felt a bitter stab of guilt. “You should; your mind spent enough time searching there, when you were a baby, trying to find out where Mama and I had gone.”

  “An thou sayest it. Therefore do I know my way. There is truly no dange—”

  “Now I say NO!” Rod roared, slamming his fist into the turf. Pain shot up his forearm, but his rage shoved it aside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, talking back to your father!” He snatched Magnus’s collar, and yanked the boy’s face up to his. “Think you’re getting big, do you? Let me tell you, you will never be old enough to argue with me!” He threw Magnus back, and whirled to catch at Geoffrey. The six-year-old ducked aside, automatically bringing his arm up to block, managing to knock Rod’s arm aside.

  Rod froze, eyes bulging, staring down at the boy, rigid as a board, white with rage, nostrils pinching in.

  Geoffrey flinched away. “Papa—I did not mean…”

  “I know what you meant!” Rod strode forward. “I know damned well what you…”

  But he bumped into something, and Gwen’s eyes were looking directly into his. Her voice bored through his fury, droning, demanding, “Come out! I know thee, Rod Gallowglass, born Rodney d’Armand. I know thee for m
y lover and husband, and know that thou art there, beneath this beastliness that overcomes thee. Come out, Rod Gallowglass! Let not this shell of anger overwhelm and overmaster thee. Ever hast thou been a caring husband, and a gentle father to my children. Thou art of Gramarye, not Tir Chlis! Thou art my treasure, and my children thy gems! Husband, turn! Come out to me, Rod Gallowglass!”

  Rod stared at her, fury mounting higher, but held by the truth of her words. An evil spell… He shuddered, and his rage fell into slivers, and ebbed. He sagged, his knees giving way for a moment, and stumbled—and Magnus was there beside him, shoulder under his father’s arm, staring up at Rod in fright and concern.

  Concern for his father’s safety—even after Rod had been so cruel! This son could not only forgive—he could even run to help! Remorse charged his anguish, and made him harsh. He recovered his balance and stood, stiffening. “Thank you.” But he clasped the boy’s shoulder firmly.

  Magnus winced, but stood steadfast.

  Rod held the boy’s shoulders with both hands, but his gaze held Gwen’s. “That was foolish, you know. Very risky. Likely to get you slugged.”

  Answering anger flared in her eyes—flared, and was smothered. “Twas worth the risk, my lord.”

  He gave her a brief, tight nod. “Yes. Thank you. Very much.” He shook his head. “Don’t do it again. It won’t work, again. When it hits me, just… go. Anywhere, as fast as you can. Just go.”

  “That, also, would be foolish,” she cried, almost in despair. “If we do flee, thou wilt pursue—and then thou wilt not hear, no matter what appeal I plead.”

  He stared at her, immobile.

  Finally, he closed his eyes, clenching his fists so tightly that they hurt. He took three slow, deep, even breaths, then looked up at her and said, “But you must. Not when I’m angry—no, you’re right, that would be dangerous.” He forced himself to say it: “For both of us.” It left an astringent taste behind. “But now. Now. It’s getting too wild up here. Alfar and his henchmen aren’t playing games. They’re too dangerous. I’m too dangerous. And if I don’t hurt the children, he will.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. The children were very silent.