The Warlock Enraged

by Christopher Stasheff

  Then, slowly, Gwen said, “An thou dost wish it, my lord, we will go. Yet I prithee, think again—for we are safer if we are with thee, as thou’lt be. For then can we ward one another’s backs. Yet if we are apart from thee—if we dwell back in Runnymede—then may thine enemies seek to strike at thee by hurting us—and thou wilt not be by us, to defend.”

  It was an excuse. It was a rationalization. It was specious and hollow, and Rod knew it.

  But he was scared. He was very scared of what might happen, inside him, if he started arguing with her. He was afraid for her, afraid for the children…

  But he was also afraid for them if Alfar ever realized that none of his henchmen could handle the Gallowglasses alone. When he did, he’d probably do the sensible thing—gang up on them, all his sorcerers together. And the children were powerful espers already, but they were still children.

  But he was more afraid of what might happen to them, if he lost his temper again.

  Abruptly, he bowed his head. “All right. Stay.”

  The children cheered.

  Their raucous clamor bounced off Rod’s ears. He stood in the midst of the rain of their sound, swearing under his breath that he would not let his temper turn against them again.

  He was still swearing the next day, inside his head, and searching frantically for a way to ensure their safety. Other than sending them home—he wasn’t going to argue with them about that, again. Arguments turned into rages.

  “Wilt thou not ride now, my lord?” Gwen sat up on Fess’s saddle, with Cordelia in front of her.

  Rod shook his head, mute, and plowed on.

  The children glanced at their mother, then back at him, and followed him silently.

  Around the curve ahead of them, a husky peasant and his equally husky wife came into view, with five children trudging wearily beside them—wearily, even though it was early in the morning. The husband pushed a handcart piled high with sacks and household belongings.

  “More refugees,” Rod grated. “How many is that, Delia?”

  “Fourteen, Papa.”

  Rod nodded. “Fourteen in how long?”

  “An hour and a half, Papa,” Gregory answered, glancing at the sun.

  Rod shook his head. “That’s real evil happening up there, children. People don’t leave their homes for mild likes and dislikes—not even for hates. They flee because of fear.”

  “We do not fear, Papa,” Magnus said stoutly.

  “I know,” Rod returned. “That’s what worries me.”

  They plodded on toward the peasant family. Then Geoffrey took a chance and said, “The sorcerer’s guards grow careless, Papa.”

  “Why?” Rod frowned. “You mean because they let these people pass?” He shook his head. “That’s not where they’re coming from. Here, I’ll show you.” He stepped over to the side of the road as the big peasant and his family came up. The man looked up at him, surprised, and scowled. Then weariness overcame him, and he relaxed, humbling himself to talk to someone who was below his station. “Hail, tinker! Dost thou travel north, then?”

  “Aye,” Rod answered. “Poor folk must seek their living where they can. Why, what moves in the North?”

  The peasant shook his head. “We know only what Rumor speaks. We ourselves have not seen it.”

  Rod frowned. “So fearsome? What doth Rumor say?”

  “That an evil sorcerer hath risen,” the peasant answered. “He hath overcome the Sire de Maladroit, the Baron de Gratecieux, and even the Count Lagorme.”

  Rod stared, incredulous. “Why? Who doth speak so?”

  Geoffrey looked unbelieving, too, at the idea that Alfar’s men could have let someone slip out to bear word.

  The big peasant shrugged wearily. “Rumor flies, tinker—and well thou shouldst know it, for ‘tis thy tradesmen that do carry such tidings, more often than not.”

  “Is it that, then?” Rod’s eyebrows lifted. “Only that a cousin told a neighbor, who told a gossip, who told an uncle, who told…”

  “Aye, belike.” The big peasant shrugged. “I know only what my god-sib Hugh son of Marl told unto me—and that the whiles he packed a barrow like to this, and set packs to the backs of his wife and sons. ‘Whither comes this word?’ quoth I; and spake he, ‘From Piers Thatcher…’ ”

  Rod interrupted. “Lives he on the Count’s estates?”

  The peasant shook his head. “Nay, nor on Gratecieux’s, nor on Maladroit’s. Yet he hath a cousin whose god-sib’s nephew hath a brother-in-law whose cousin hath a niece who doth live hard by the good Count’s manor—and thus the word doth run.”

  “Is’t so?” Rod glanced back at Geoffrey, then back to the peasant, bobbing his head and tugging a forelock. “I thank thee, goodman. We shall wend our way a little farther north—but we shall ponder well thy words.”

  “Do,” the big peasant advised, “and turn back toward the South.”

  “These things are not certain,” Gwen protested.

  “Nay,” the peasant’s wife agreed. “Yet we have heard this word again and, aye, again, for all these months of spring. First Rumor spoke of the Sire—but then of the Baron, and now of the Count. If Rumor doth begin to speak of the Duke, belike we’ll find we can not flee.” She shook her head. “Nay, an thou lovest thy little ones, chance not the truth of Rumor.”

  “Mayhap thou hast the right of it,” Gwen said, with a pensive frown. “I thank thee—and farewell.”

  “God be with thee, goodman.” Rod tugged at his forelock again.

  “God be,” the man returned, and took up the handles of his cart again.

  As the peasant and his family slogged away toward the South, Geoffrey spun toward his father and fairly exploded in a hissing whisper. “So easily, Papa! Is all the work of so many guards and sentries brought low so easily, by naught but gossip?”

  “Indeed it is,” Rod answered sourly. “Remember that when you command. The fence isn’t made, that can stop a rumor.”

  Geoffrey threw up his hands in exasperation. “Then why mount a watch at all?”

  “Proof.” Rod grimaced. “If none of the lords have proof, they won’t go to the expense of sending an army northward. After all, what did the King himself do, when he heard the unconfirmed word? Sent us!”

  “All this, to hold back proof?”

  Rod nodded. “Without that, anybody who wants to believe the news is false, can.”

  “Until the sorcerer and his minions overrun them,” the boy said darkly.

  “Yes,” Rod agreed, with a bleak smile. “That is the idea, isn’t it?”

  “Papa,” said Cordelia, “I begin to fear.”

  “Good.” Rod nodded. “Good.”

  Half an hour later, they saw a small coach in the distance, hurtling toward them. As it came closer, they saw that the horses were foaming and weary. But the woman who sat on the coachman’s box flogged them on, with fearful glances over her shoulder at the troop of men-at-arms who galloped after her on small, tough Northern ponies, and the armored knight who thundered at their head on a huge, dark war-horse that would have made two of the ponies.

  “What churlishness is this,” Gwen cried, “that armed men pursue a woman shorn of defense?”

  “Don’t blame ‘em too hard,” Rod snapped. “I don’t think they’re terribly much aware of what they’re doing.”

  “Thou must needs aid her, my lord!”

  “Yes,” Rod agreed. “It isn’t too hard to tell who the bad guys are, is it? Especially since we’ve seen their livery before. Ambush stations, kids.”

  “Magnus and Gregory, guard the left,” Gwen instructed. “Cordelia and Geoffrey, do thou ward the right. Flit toward them, as far as thou canst.” She turned to Rod. “How wouldst thou have them fell their foes, husband?”

  “One by one. Unhorse them.” Rod felt a warm glow at her support.

  Delia caught up her broomstick with a shout of glee.

  “How shall we fell them, Mama?” Geoffrey grinned. “Throw rocks at them?”
>
  Gwen nodded. “Aye—but take thou also thy belts of rope, and discover how thou mayst make use of them.”

  They all quickly untied the lengths of hemp that were lashed about their waists. “Mama,” said Magnus, “I think that I could make the nails to disappear from the horses’ shoes.”

  Rod nodded slow approval. “I pity the poor horses—but they shouldn’t be damaged. They will stop, though.”

  “Naught of these will avail against the knight,” Gregory pointed out.

  Rod gave him a wolfish grin. “He’s mine.”

  “Begone from sight now, quickly!” Gwen clapped her hands.

  The children dodged off the roadside into the underbrush, and disappeared.

  Gwen hopped down from Fess’s back, and caught her broomstick from its sling alongside the saddle. “Wilt thou need thine horse, my lord?”

  “Fraid so, dear. Can you manage without him?”

  “Why, certes.” She dimpled, and dropped him a quick curtsy. “Godspeed, husband.” Then she turned away to dive into the underbrush after her children.

  Rod sighed, jamming a foot into the stirrup. “Quite a woman I’ve got there, Fess.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if you truly appreciate her, Rod.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” Rod swung up into the saddle and pulled on the reins. “We’d better imitate them. Off the road, Steel Stallion.”

  Fess trotted off the shoulder and down into the underbrush. “What did you have in mind for the knight, Rod?”

  “About 120 volts. Got a spare battery?”

  Fess’s answer was lost in the racket, as the coach thundered by them.

  Rod looked up at the mounted squad. “A hundred yards and closing. Got some cable?”

  “Forward port compartment, Rod.” A small door sprang open under Fess’s withers.

  Rod reached in and pulled out a length of wire. He drew out his dagger and stripped the insulation off in a few quick strokes. “Where do I plug it in?”

  The horsehead turned back to look at him. “Simply place it in my mouth, Rod. I will route current to it. But are you certain this is ethical?”

  “Is the sword he’s carrying?” Rod shrugged. “A weapon is a weapon, Fess. And this one won’t do him any permanent damage—I hope. Okay, now!”

  They darted up out of the roadside as the squad pounded up. Rod swerved in alongside the knight. The helmet visor turned toward him, but the knight raised neither sword nor shield, no doubt flabbergasted at seeing a tinker riding up alongside him on a horse that would’ve done credit to a lord. Besides, what need was there to defend against a piece of rope?

  Rod jabbed the end of the wire at him, and a fat blue spark snapped across the gap; then the wire was in contact with the armor, and the knight threw up his arms, stiffened.

  Rod lashed out a kick, and the knight crashed off his horse into the dust of the road.

  Someone gave a shout of horror, behind him. Rod whirled Fess around, then darted off to the side of the road before the sergeant could get his thoughts together enough to start a try for retribution.

  Along the side of the road, three soldiers lay sprawled, one every hundred feet or so. Another four lined the verge on the far side. Some of the horses were grazing, very contentedly, next to their fallen masters. A few of the others, obviously more intelligent, were galloping away into the distance.

  As Rod watched, a small figure exploded into existence right in front of one of the remaining riders. Startled, the horseman flinched back, and his mount reared, whinnying. Geoffrey lashed out a kick to the man’s shoulder, and the soldier overbalanced, tipped, and fell. The child slapped the horse’s rump, and the beast turned to gallop away with a whinny.

  On the other side of the road, a length of rope shot flying through the air like a winged serpent, and wrapped itself around another soldier’s neck. He grabbed at it with both hands, then suddenly jolted backward, and slammed down onto the road, still struggling with the coil. With a gun-crack, Magnus appeared beside him, stick in hand. He swung downward, and the soldier went limp. The rope uncoiled and flew off to look for a new victim. Pocket thunder made a boomlet, and Magnus disappeared.

  Rod winced. “Bloodthirsty brood I’ve got, here.”

  “They are only doing as you told them, Rod—and taught them.”

  “Maybe I’d better revise the curriculum.”

  “Do not be overly hasty,” the robot murmured. “That soldier still breathes.”

  “I hope it’s widespread. Well, back to work.” Rod turned the horse back onto the road—and saw all the soldiers lying in the dust, unconscious. Already, Gwen knelt by the nearest, gazing intently at his face. Cordelia arrowed in to land beside her, and the boys began to appear, like serial thunder.

  “They work fast, too,” Rod muttered. He trotted up beside the family grouping, and leaned down to touch Magnus on the shoulder. The boy’s head snapped up in surprise. He saw his father, and relaxed, with a sigh of relief.

  “You did wonderfully.” Rod beamed with pride. “All of you. But keep an eye on the soldiers, son. A few of them might come to while you’re still trying to overhaul their minds.”

  Magnus nodded, glowing with his father’s praise. “I will ward them well, Papa.”

  “Stout fellow. I should be back before they wake up—but, just in case.” He straightened up, turning Fess southward.

  “Wither goest thou, Papa?”

  “To tell that lady she can stop panicking.” Rod kicked his heels against Fess’s sides. “Follow that coach.”

  The robot-horse sprang into a gallop. “Drumming your heels against my sides really serves no purpose, Rod.”

  “Sure it does—keeping up appearances. You wouldn’t want people to know you weren’t a real horse, would you?”

  “Surely you cannot be concerned about that with your own family. They all know my true nature.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got to stay in the habit. If I start trying to remember who knows about you and who doesn’t, I’ll start making little mistakes, and…”

  “I understand,” the robot sighed. “The coach approaches, Rod.”

  “Might be more accurate to say we approach the coach.”

  “I was under the impression that you had become a Gramaryan, not a grammarian.”

  Rod winced. “All right, already! I’ll go for the content, and stop worrying about the form.”

  “Then you would make a very poor critic…”

  “Oh, shut up and head off the coach.”

  Fess swerved in front of the coach horses, and the animals reared, screaming with fright. The woman hit the brake with frantic strength, then lashed out with the whip at Rod.

  “Hey!” He ducked, but too late; the lash cracked against the side of his head. The roadway tilted and circled, blurring; distantly, he heard the whip crack, again and again. Then the world levelled, and he began to see clearly. The familiar rage surged up in him. Appalled, he tried to remember her fear. The woman stood on the box, brandishing the whip for one more try.

  Rod held up a palm. “Whoa! Hold it! I’m on your side!” He pointed to his chest. “No uniform. See?”

  The woman hesitated, but anger and fear still held her eyes wide.

  Rod was working hard to stifle a huge flood of anger of his own; his head ached abominably. “You wouldn’t hit a poor, wandering tinker, would you?”

  “Aye, if he threatened me or mine.” But sanity began to return to the woman’s eyes. “And why would a poor tinker stop a noble Lady, if not to harm her?”

  “To tell you, you can stop running!” Rod cried. “We knocked out your enemies!”

  The woman stood frozen, but hope flared in her eyes.

  Rod pointed back along the road. ‘Take a look, if you doubt me!”

  She darted a quick glance back up the road, then glanced again. She turned back to him, joy beginning to flower in her face. Then her knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the box. “Praise Heaven! But how didst thou…”

  “
I had a little help,” Rod explained.

  She was instantly on her guard again. “From whom?”

  “My wife,” Rod explained, “and my children.”

  She stared. Then weariness filled her face. “I see them; they pick the corpses of the soldiers. Do not lie to me, fellow. How could a tinker and his bairns and wife, fare against an armored knight and a dozen soldiers?” She hefted the whip again.

  “Now, hold on!” Rod felt his anger mounting again, too. He took a deep breath, and tried to remember that the poor woman had been chased for most of the night—probably. “My wife and kids aren’t robbing bodies—they’re trying to break the enchantments that bind living men. Unconscious, but living—I hope. You see, we’re not quite what we seem to be.”

  “Indeed,” she hissed between her teeth, and forced herself to her feet again, swinging the whip up. “So I had thought!”

  “Not that way! This tinker outfit is just a disguise!” Rod straightened in the saddle, squaring his shoulders. “I am Rodney Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock of Gramarye—and that woman back there is the Lady Gwendylon.”

  She stared. Then her lips parted, and she whispered, “Give me a sign.”

  “A sign?” Exasperated, Rod bit down on his irritation and forced himself to imagine just how paranoid he’d be feeling in her place. He took another deep breath, expelled it. “Oh, all right!” Rod closed his eyes and let his mind go blank, concentrating. His usual haze of needs and responsibilities seemed to ebb and clear, till he could hear his children’s voices, as though they were right next to him. He singled out the one who looked least threatening and thought, Gregory! Come here!

  Air popped outward, and Gregory floated next to his shoulder. “Aye, Papa?”

  The woman stared.

  Then her knees gave way again, and she sat down, nodding weakly. “Aye. Thou art the High Warlock.”

  “Papa?” Gregory cocked his head to the side, frowning up at his father. “Why didst thou call?”

  “For what you just did, son.”

  The child stared. “What did I?”

  “You proved I’m what I said I was.” He turned back to the woman. “And whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”