1

This book is an Ace Science Fiction original edition,
and has never been previously published.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

An Ace Science Fiction Book/published by arrangement with
the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace Science Fiction edition/December 1985

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1985 by Christopher Stasheff
Cover art by Stephen Hickman
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-87340-5

Ace Science Fiction Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For some time now, I've been getting worried about the
steadily increasing number of hopeful historians on this Isle
of Gramarye. There weren't any when I came here—none
that I was aware of, anyway. Then Brother Chillde started
keeping his chronicles, and, first thing I knew. there were
five more just like him. Not that this is all bad, of course—
Gramarye'II be much better off if it has an accurate record
of its history. What bothers me is that each one of these
young Thucydideses is conveniently forgetting all the events
that make his own side look bad, and definitely overdoing
it more than a bit, about the happenings that make his side
look good. I'm mostly thinking of the Church here, of course,
but not exclusively—for example, I know of one young
warlock who's taken to keeping a diary, and a country lord's
younger son who's piling up an impressive number of jour-
nals. So, in an effort to set the record straight, I'm going
to set down my version of what happened. Not that it' II be
any more objective, of course; it'll at least be biased in a
diff-

" 'Tis my place, Delia!"

"Nay, Geoffrey, thou knowest 'tis not! This end of the
shelf is mine, for the keeping of my dolls!"

" 'Tis not! I've kept my castle there these several weeks!"




2 Christopher Stasheff

Rod threw down his quill in exasperation. After three
weeks of trying, he'd finally managed to get started on his
history of Gramarye—and the kids had to choose this mo-
ment to break into a quarrel! He glared down at the page...

And saw the huge blot the quill had made.

Exasperation boiled up into anger, and he surged out of
his chair. "Delia! Geoff! Of all the idiotic things to be
arguing about! Gwen, can't you..."

"Nay, I cannot!" cried a harried voice from the kitchen.
"Else thou'lt have naught but char for thy.... Oh!" Some-
thing struck with a jangling clatter, and Rod's wife fairly
shrieked in frustration. "Magnus! How oft must I forbid
thee the kitchen whiles I do cook!"

"Children!" Rod shouted, stamping into the playroom.
"Why'd I ever have 'em?"

"Di'nit, Papa." Three-year-old Gregory peeked over the
top of an armchair. "Mama did."

"Yeah, sure, and I was just an innocent bystander.
Geoffrey! Cordelia! Stop it!"

He waded into a litter of half-formed clay sculptures,
toys, and pieces of bark twisted together with twigs and bits
of straw that served some fathomless and probably heathen
purpose known only to those below the age of thirteen.
"What a mess!" It was like that every day, of course. "Do
you realize this room was absolutely spotless when you
woke up this morning?"

The children looked up, startled, and Cordelia objected,
"But that was four hours ago. Papa."

"Yeah, and you must've really worked hard to make a
mess like this in so short a time as that!" Rod stepped down
hard—into a puddle of ocher paint. His foot skidded out
from under him; he hung suspended for a split second, arms
thrashing like the wings of a dodo trying to fly; then his
back slammed down to the floor, paralyzing his diaphragm.
For an instant of panic, he fought for breath, while Cordelia
and Geoffrey huddled back against the wall in fright.

Then Rod's breath hissed in and bounced back out in a
howl of rage. "You little pigs! Can't you even clean up after
yourselves!"

The children shrank back, wide-eyed.

Rod struggled to his feet, red-faced. "Throwing garbage

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       3

on the floor, fighting over a stupid piece of shelf space—
and to top it off, you had the gall to talk back!"

"We didn't... We..."

"You just did it again!" Rod levelled an accusing fore-
finger. "Whatever you do, don't contradict me! If I say you
did it, you did it! And don't you dare try to say you didn't!"

He towered over them, a mountain of wrath. "Naughty,
stupid, asinine brats!"

The children hugged each other, eyes huge and fright-
ened.

Rod's hand swept up for a backhanded slap.

With a crack like a pistol shot, big brother Magnus ap-
peared in front of Cordelia and Geoffrey, arms outspread to
cover them. "Papa! They didn't mean to! They..."

"Don't try to tell me what they were doing!" Rod shouted.

The eleven-year-old flinched, but stood up resolutely
against his father's rage—and that made it worse.

"How dare you defy me! You insolent little..."

"Rod!" Gwen darted into the room, wiping her hands on
her apron. "What dost thou?"

Rod whirled, forefinger stabbing at her. "Don't you even
try to speak in their defense! If you'd just make your children
toe the line, this wouldn't happen! But, oh no, you've got
to let them do whatever they want, and just scold them, and
that's only when their behavior's really atrocious!"

Gwen's head snapped back, stung. "Assuredly, thou'rt
scarce mindful of what thou sayest! 'Tis ever thou who dost
plead leniency, when I do wish to punish..."

"Sure, when!" Rod glared, striding toward her. "But for
the thousand and one things they do that deserve spanking,
and you let them off with a scold? Use your head, woman—
if you can!" His gaze swept her from head to toe, and his
lip lifted in a sneer.

Gwen's eyes flared anger. "'Ware, husband! Even to
thine anger, there doth be a boundary!"

"Boundaries! Limits! That's all you ever talk about!" Rod
shouted. '"Do this! Do that! You can't do this! You can't
do that!' Marriage is just one big set of limits! Will you
ever..."

"Peace!" Magnus darted between them, holding out a
palm toward each. "I prithee!" His face was white; he was

Christopher Stasheff

4              oniioiu^nu. _.__

trembling. "Mother! Father! I beg thee!"
Rod snarled, swinging his hand up again.

Magnus stiffened; his jaw set.

Rod swung, with his full weight behind it...

... And shot through the air, slamming back against the

wall.

He rolled to his feet and stood up slowly, face drained

of color, rigid and trembling. "I told you never to use your
'witch powers' on me," he grated, "and I told you why!"
He straightened to his full height, feeling the rage swell

within him.

Geoffrey and Cordelia scurried to hide behind Owen's

skirts. She gathered Magnus to her, but he kept his face
toward his father, terror in his eyes, trembling, but deter-
mined to protect.

Rod stared at them, all united against him, ready to pick

him up with their magic and hurl him into his grave. His
eyes narrowed, pinning them with his glare; then his eyes
lost focus as he reached down inside himself—deep down,
reaching across an abyss—to the psi powers that had lain
so long dormant, but which had been awakened by the
projective telepathy of Lord Kem, in another universe, one
in which magic worked. His powers weren't as readily ac-
cessible as his family's; he couldn't work magic just by
willing it, as easily as thinking, but once he'd drawn them
up, his were at least as great as theirs. He called those
powers up now, feeling their strength build within him.
"Mother," came Magnus's voice, across a huge void,

"we must..."

"Nay!" Gwen said fiercely. "He is thy father, whom thou

dost love—when this fit's not on him."

What did that mean! The powers paused in their build-
ing...

A smaller figure entered his blurred field of vision, to

the side and a little in front of the family group, gazing up
at him, head tilted to the side—three-year-old Gregory.

"Daddy is'n' there," he stated.

That hit Rod like a bucketful of cold water; the complete,

calm, sanity of the child's tone—so open, so reasonable—
and the totally alien quality of the words. His eyes focused

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       5

in a stare at his youngest son, and fear hollowed his vitals—
fear, and a different anger under it; anger at the futurians
who had kidnapped him and the rest of his family away
from this child while Gregory was still a baby. The deser-
tion, Rod feared, had totally warped the boy's personality,
making him quiet, indrawn, brooding, and sometimes, even
weird. His gaze welded to Gregory's face, his fear for Gregory
burying his anger at the rest of the family; it ebbed, and
was gone.

"Who's not there?" he whispered.

"Lord Kem," Gregory answered, "that Daddy like thee,
in that Faerie Gramarye thou'st talk of."

Rod stared at him.

Then he stepped closer to the boy. Magnus took a step
toward Gregory, too, but Rod waved him away impatiently.
He dropped to one knee, staring into the three-year-old's
eyes. "No... no. Lord Kem isn't anywhere—except, maybe,
in his own universe, that Faerie Gramarye. But why should
you think he was?"

Gregory cocked his head to the other side. "But didst
thou not, but now, reach out to touch his mind with thine
own, to draw upon his powers?"

Rod just gazed at the boy, his face blank.

"Gregory!" Gwen cried in anguish, and she took a step
toward him, then drew back for Rod still knelt staring at
the child, his face blank.

Then he looked up at Gwen, with an irritated frown.
"What am I—a bear? Or a wolf?" He raked the children
with his glare. "Some kind of wild animal?"

They stared back at him, eyes huge, huddled together.

His face emptied again. "You think I am. You really
think I am, don't you?"

They stared back, wordlessly, eyes locked on him.

He held still, rigid.

Then he swung up to his feet, turning on his heel, and
strode to the door.

Cordelia darted after him, but Gwen reached out and
caught her arm.

Rod paced out into the bleakness of a day veiled by
clouds. A chill wind struck at him, but he didn't notice.




6             Christopher Stasheff
•   •   •

Rod finally came to a halt at the top of a hill, a mile
from home. He stood, staring down at the broad plain below,
not really seeing it. Finally, he sank down to sit on the dry
grass. His thoughts had slowed in their turmoil as he walked;

now, gradually, they sank away, leaving a blank in his mind.
Into that, a niggling doubt crept. Softly, he asked, "What

happened, Fess?"

The robot-horse answered, though he was a mile away
in the stable. Rod heard him through the earphone embedded
in his mastoid process, behind his ear. "You lost your tem-
per, Rod."

Rod's mouth twitched with impatience. The robot's horse
body might be a distance away in the stable, but the old
family retainer could see into him as well as if they were
only a foot apart. "Yes, I do realize that much." The mi-
crophone embedded in his maxillary, just above the teeth,
picked up his words and transmitted them to Pess. "But it
was more than simple anger, wasn't it?"

"It was rage," Fess agreed. "Full, thorough, open wrath,

without any restraints or inhibitions."

After a moment. Rod asked, "What would have happened
if my family hadn't been able to defend themselves so well?"

Fess was silent. Then he said, slowly, "I would hope that
your inborn gentleness and sense of honor would have pro-
tected them adequately. Rod."

"Yes," Rod muttered. "I would hope so, too."

And he sat, alone in his guilt and self-contempt, in si-
lence. Even the wind passed him by.

Quite some while later, cloth rustled beside him. He gave
no sign of having heard, but his body tensed. He waited,
but only silence filled the spaces of the minutes.

Finally, Rod spoke. "I did it again."

"Thou didst," Gwen answered gently. Her voice didn't
blame—but it didn't console, either.

Something stirred within Rod. It might have risen as
anger, but that was burned out of him, now. "Been doing

that a lot lately, haven't I?"

Gwen was silent a moment. Then she said, "A score of

times, mayhap, in the last twelvemonth."

Rod nodded, "And a dozen times last year, and half-a-

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       7

dozen the year before—and two of those were at the Abbott,
when he tried his schism."

"And a third with the monster which rose from the fens..."
Rod shrugged irritably. "Don't make excuses for me. It
still comes down to my losing my temper with you and the
kids, more than with anyone else—and for the last three
months, I've been blowing up about every two weeks, haven't
I?"

Gwen hesitated. Then she answered, "None so badly as
this, my lord."

"No, it never has been quite as bad as this, has it? But
every time, it gets a little worse."

Her answer was very low. "Thou hast offered hurt to us
aforetime...."

"Yes, but I've never actually tried it have I?" Rod shud-
dered at the memory and buried his head in his hands. "First,
I just threw things. Then I started throwing them without
using my hands. Today, I would've thrown Magnus—if
Gregory hadn't interrupted in time." He looked up at her,
scowling. "Where in Heaven's name did you get that boy,
anyway?"

That brought a hint of smile. "I did think we had, may-
hap, borne him back from Tir Chlis, my lord."

"Ah, yes!" Rod stared out over the plain again. "Tir
Chlis, that wonderful, magical land of faeries and sorcerers,
and—Lord Kem."

"Even so," Gwen said softly.

"My other self," Rod said bitterly, "my analog in an
alternate universe—with magical powers unparalleled, and
a temper to match."

"Thou weit alike in many ways," Gwen agreed, "but
temper was not among them."

"No, and witch powers weren't either—but I learned
how to 'borrow' his wizardry, and it unlocked my own
powers, powers that I'd been hiding from myself."

"When thou didst let his rage fill thee," Gwen reminded
gently.

"Which seems to have also unlocked my own capacity
for wrath; it wiped out the inhibitions I'd built up against
it."

"Still—there were other inhibitions that thou didst leam




8             Christopher Stasheff

to lay aside, also." Gwen touched his hand, hesitantly.

Rod didn't respond. "Was it worth it? Okay, so I had
been psionically invisible; nobody could read my mind.
Wasn't that better than this rage?"

"I could almost say the sharing of our minds was worth
the price of thy bouts of fury," Gwen said slowly, "save
that..."

Rod waited.

"Thy thoughts grow dim again, my lord."

Rod only sat, head bowed.

Then he looked up. "I'm beginning to hide myself away
from you again?"

"Hast thou not felt it?"

He stared into her eyes; then he nodded. "Is that any
surprise? When I can't trust myself not to explode into
wrath? When I'm beginning to feel as though I'm some sort
of subhuman beast? Sheer shame, woman!"

"Thou art worthy of me, my lord." Her voice was soft,
but firm, and so was her hand. "Thou art worthy of me,
and of thy children. I' truth, we are fortunate to have thee."
Her voice shook. "Oh, we are blessed!"

"Thanks." He gave her hand a pat. "It's good to hear.
... Now convince me."

"Nay," she murmured, "that I cannot do, an thou'lt not
credit what I say."

"Or even what you do." Rod bowed his head, and his
hand tightened on hers. "Be patient, dear. Be patient."

And they sat alone in the wind, not looking at each other,
two people very much in love but very much separated,
clinging to a thin strand that still held them joined, poised
over the drop that fell away to fallow lands below.

Magnus turned away from the window with a huge sigh
of relief. "They come—and their hands are clasped."

"Let me see, let me see!" The other three children shot
to the window, heads jammed together, noses on the pane.

"They do not regard one another," Cordelia said du-
biously.

"Yet their hands are clasped," Magnus reminded.

"And," Cordelia added, troubled, "their thoughts are
dark."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       9

"Yet their hands are elapsed. And if their thoughts are
dark, they are also calm."

"And not all apart," Gregory added.

"Not all—not quite," Cordelia agreed, but with the full,
frank skepticism of an eight-year-old.

"Come away, children," a deep voice bade them, "and
do not leap upon them when they enter, for I misdoubt me
an they'd have much patience now with thy clasping and
thy pulling."

The children turned away from the window, to a foot
and a half of elf, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, and
pug-nosed, in a forester's tunic and hose, wearing a pointed
cap with a rolled brim and a feather. "Geoffrey," he warned.

The six-year-old pulled himself away from the window
with a look of disgust. "I did but gaze upon them, Robin."

"Indeed—and I know that thou'rt anxious. Yet I bethink
me that thy parents have need of some bit more of room
than thou'rt wont to accord them."

Cordelia flounced down onto a three-legged stool. "But
Papa was so angered. Puck!"

"As thou hast told me." The elf's mouth tightened at the
comers. "Yet thou dost know withal, that he doth love thee."

"I do not doubt it...." But Cordelia frowned.

Puck sighed and dropped down cross-legged beside her.
"Thou couldst scarce do otherwise, if he did truly become
as enraged as thou didst tell." He turned his head, taking
in all four children with one gaze. "Gentles, do not repre-
hend; if you pardon, he will mend."

They didn't look convinced.

"Else the Puck a liar call!" the elf cried stoutly.

The door opened, and the children leaped to their feet.
They started to back away, but Puck murmured, "Softly,"
and they held their ground—warily.

But their father didn't look like an ogre as he came in
the door—just a tall, dark, lean, saturnine man with a
rough-hewn face, no longer young; and he seemed dim next
to the red-haired beauty beside him, who fairly glowed,
making the question of youth irrelevant. Still, if the children
had ever stopped to think about it, they would have remarked
how well their parents looked together.

They did not, of course; they saw only that their father's




10 Christopher Stasheff

face had mellowed to its usual careworn warmth, and leaped
to hug him in relief. "Papa!" Magnus cried, and "Daddy!"
Geoffrey piped; Cordelia only clung to his arm and sobbed,
while Gregory hugged the other arm, and looked up gravely.
"Daddy, thou hast come back again."

Rod looked into the sober gaze of his youngest, and
somehow suspected that the child wasn't just talking about
his coming through the door.

"Oh, Papa," Cordelia sniffled, "I do like thee so much
better when thou'rt Papa, than when thou'rt Lord Kern!"

Rod felt a chill along his spine, but he clasped her shoul-
der and pressed her against his hip. "I don't blame you,
dear. I'm sure his children feel the same way." He looked
up over the children's heads, at Puck. "Thanks, Robin."

"Now, there's a fair word!" Puck grinned. "Yet I mis-
doubt me an thou wilt have more such; for there's one who
doth attend thee." He jerked his head toward the kitchen.

"A messenger?" Rod looked up, frowning. "Waiting in-
side the house?... Toby!"

A dapper gentleman in his mid-twenties came into the
room, running a finger over a neatly trimmed mustache.
Hose clung to well-turned calves, and his doublet was re-
splendent with embroidery. "Hail, Lord Warlock!"

Gwen's face blossomed with a smile, and even Rod had
to fight a grin, faking a groan. "Hail, harbinger! What's the
disaster?"

"Nay, for once, the King doth summon thee whiles it's
yet a minor matter."

"Minor." The single word was loaded with skepticism.
Rod turned to Gwen. "Why does that worry me more than
his saying, 'Emergency?'"

" 'Tis naught but experience," Gwen assured him. "Shall
I 'company thee?"

"I'd appreciate it," Rod sighed. "If it's a 'minor' matter,
that means social amenities first—and you know how
Catharine and I don't get along."

"Indeed I do." Gwen looked quite pleased with herself.
Catharine the Queen may have spread her net for Rod, but
it was Gwen who had caught him.

Not that Catharine had done badly, of course. King Tuan
Loguire had spent his youth as Gramarye's most eligible

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       11

bachelor—and it must be admitted that Rod had been a
very unknown quantity.

Still was, in some ways. Why else would Gwendylon,
most powerful witch in circulation, continue to be interested
in him?

Rod looked up at Puck. "Would you mind. Merry
Wanderer?"

The elf sighed and spread his arms. "What is time to an
immortal? Nay, go about the King's business!"

"Thanks, sprite." Rod turned back to Gwen. "Your broom,
or mine?"

Gwen bent over the hanging cradle swathed in yards of
cloth-of-gold, and her face softened into a tender smile.
"Oh, he is dear!"

Queen Catharine beamed down at the baby. She was a
slender blonde with large blue eyes and a very small chin.
"I thank thee for thy praise... I am proud."

"As thou shouldst be." Gwen straightened, looking up
at her husband with a misty gaze.

Rod looked around, hoping she was gazing at someone
else. On second thought, maybe not....

Catharine raised a finger to her lips and moved slightly
toward the door. Rod and Gwen followed, leaving the child
to its nanny, two chambermaids, and two guards.

Another two stood on either side of the outer doorway,
under the eagle eye of the proud father. One reached out to
close the door softly behind them. Rod looked up at King
Tuan, and nodded. "No worries about the succession now."

"Aye." Gwen beamed. "Two princes are a great bless-
ing."

"Well I can think of a few kings who would've argued
with that." Rod smiled, amused. "Still, I must admit they're
outnumbered by the kings who've been glad of the support
of their younger brothers."

"As I trust our Alain shall be." Tuan turned away. "Come,
let us pass into the solar." He paced down the hall and into
another chamber with a wall of clerestory windows. Rod
followed, with the two ladies chattering behind him. He
reminded himself that he and Gwen were being signally
honored; none of the royal couple's other subjects had ever

12 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 13

been invited into their majesties' private apartments.

On the other hand, if Gwen had been the kind to brag,
they might not have been invited in, either.

And, of course, there was old Duke Loguire. But that
was different; he came under the alias of "Grandpa." And
Brom O'Brien; but the Lord Privy Councillor would, of
course, have access to the privy chambers.

On the other hand. Rod tried not to be too conscious of
the honor. After all, he had known Tuan when the young
King was an outlaw; exiled for courting Catharine; and
hiding out in the worst part of town, as King of the Beggars—
and unwitting party to the forming of a civil war. "As long
as they grow up friends," he reminded Tuan, "or as much
as two brothers can."

"Aye—and if their friendship doth endure." A shadow
crossed Tuan's face, and Rod guessed he was remembering
his own elder brother, Anselm, who had rebelled against
their father, and against Queen Catharine.

"Then must we take great care to ensure their friendship."
Catharine hooked her arm through Tuan's. "Yet I misdoubt
me, my lord, an our guests did come to speak of children
only."

"I'm sure it's a more pleasant subject than whatever he
had in mind," Rod said quickly.

"And 'twould have been cause enow, I do assure thee,"
Gwen added.

Catharine answered with a silvery laugh. "For thou and
I, mayhap—but I misdoubt me an 'twould interest our hus-
bands overlong."

"Do not judge us so harshly," Tuan protested. "Yet I must
own that there are matters of policy to be discussed." He
sighed, and turned away to a desk that stood beneath the
broad windows, with a map beside it on a floor stand.
"Come, Lord Warlock—let us take up less pleasant mat-
ters."

Rod came over, rather reassured; Tuan certainly didn't
seem to feel any urgency.

The young King tapped the map, on the Duchy of
Romanov. "Here lies our mutual interest of the hour."

"Well, as long as it's only an hour. What's our bear of
a Duke up to?"




'"Tis not His Grace," Tuan said slowly.

Rod perked up; this was becoming more interesting;

"Something original would be welcome. Frankly, I've been
getting a bit bored with the petty rebellions of your twelve
great lords."

"Art thou so? I assure thee," Tuan said grimly, "I have
never found them tedious."

"What is it, then? One of his petty barons gathering arms
and men?"

"I would it were; of that, I've some experience. This,
though, is a matter of another sort; for the rumors speak of
foul magics."

"Rumors?" Rod looked up from the map. "Not reports
from agents?"

"I have some spies in the North," Tuan acknowledged,
"yet they only speak of these same rumors, not of events
which they themselves have witnessed."

Rod frowned. "Haven't any of them tried to track the
rumor to its source?"

Tuan shrugged. "None of those who've sent word. Yet
I've several who have sent me no reports, and mine em-
issaries cannot find them."

"Not a good sign." Rod's frown darkened. "They might
have ridden off to check, and been taken."

"Or worse," Tuan agreed, "for the rumors speak of a
malignant magus, a dark and brooding power, who doth
send his minions everywhere throughout the North Country."

"Worrisome, but not a problem—as long as all they do
is spy. I take it they don't."

"Not if rumor speaks truly. These minions, look you, are
sorcerers in their own right; and with the power they own,
added to that which they gather from their sorcerer-lord,
they defeat the local knights ere they can even come to
battle. Then the sorcerers enthrall the knights, with their
wives and children, too, and take up lordship over all the
serfs and peasants of that district."

"Not too good a deal for the knights and their families,"
Rod mused, "but probably not much of a difference, to the
serfs and peasants. After all, they're used to taking orders—
what difference does it make who's giving them?"

"Great difference, if the first master was gentle, and the

14            Christopher Stasheff

second was harsh," Tuan retorted. His face was grim. "And
reports speak of actions more than harsh, from these new

masters. These sorcerers are evil."

"And, of course, the peasants can't do much, against
magic." Rod frowned. "Not much chance of fighting back."

Tuan shuddered. "Perish the thought! For peasants must
never resist orders, but only obey them, as is their divinely

appointed role."

What made Rod's blood run cold was that Tuan didn't

say it grimly or primly, or pompously, or with the pious air
of self-justification. No, he said it very matter-of-factly, as
though it were as much a part of the world as rocks and
trees and running water, and no one could even think of
debating it. How could you argue about the existence of a
rock? Especially if it had fallen on your toe...

That was where the real danger lay, of course—not in
the opinions people held, but in the concepts they knew to

be true—especially when they weren't.

Rod shook off the mood. "So the chief sorcerer has been
knocking off the local lordlings and taking over their hold-
ings. How far has his power spread?"

"Rumor speaks of several baronets who have fallen 'neath
his sway," Tuan said, brooding, "and even Duke Romanov,

himself."

"Romanov?" Rod stared, appalled. "One of the twelve

great lords? How could he fall, without word of it reaching

us?"

"I could accomplish it—and I am no wizard." Tuan

shrugged. "'Tis simplicity—close a ring of iron around his
castle under cover of night, then hurl an army 'gainst his
barbican, and siege machines against his towers. Invest the
castle, and trust to thy ring of knights and men-at-arms to
see that not a soul wins free to bear off word."

Rod shuddered at Tuan's sangfroid. "But he had a couple
ofesp- uh, witches, guesting in his tower!"

"More than 'guesting,' as I hear it," Tuan answered, with
a grim smile. "They were thoroughly loyal to Milord Duke,
for he had saved them from the stake and embers. They've
been of great service tending to the ill and injured and, I
doubt not, gathering information for him."

Rod frowned. "They must have been very discreet about

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       15

it. We make it a practice, in the Royal Coven, not to pry
into the minds of anyone except your enemies."

"Or those who might become so," Tuan amended. "Who's
to say his witches did more? Nay, once Catharine showed
them the way of it, and thou and thy good wife did aid her
in forming that band into a battle-weapon, all the lords did
leam, and followed suit."

"And Romanov's witches couldn't give him enough ad-
vance warning?" Rod pursed his lips. "This sorcerer is ef-
fective. But speaking of mental eavesdropping, that's a way
to check on the rumors. Did you ask any of the Royal
Witchforce to try and read Romanov's mind?"

"I did. They could not find him."

"So." Rod pursed his lips. "What minds did they hear,
to the North?"

Tuan shrugged. "Only what should be. The plowman
followed his oxen, the milkmaid coaxed her swain—naught
was there to bring alarm, save that the warlock who listened,
could not find the minds of any knights or barons."

"How about vile thoughts, from evil sorcerers?"

Tuan turned his head slowly from side to side.

"So." Rod's gaze strayed back to the map. "On the face
of it, nothing's wrong; it's just that the Duke of Romanov
seems to have taken a vacation to parts unknown, with all
his aristocratic retainers."

"Thou dost see why I do suspect."

Rod nodded. "Sounds fishy to me, too... not that I can't
understand why the noble Duke would want to take off for
a while, though. I've been feeling a bit too much stress
lately, myself.... Gwen?" He turned, to find Gwen standing
near. "Been listening?"

"I have." She smiled. "And I do think thou dost make
a great coil of naught."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say we're making a lot of fuss."
Rod locked gazes with Tuan. "Where's the weeping and
wailing? The yelling and hair-tearing?"

'"Tis even as thou sayest," Tuan turned to Gwen. "I do
not see great danger here. Lady Gwendylon—only the abuse
of witch-power, over those who have it not."

"And witches ganging up on normals," Rod added. "But
that can all be cured by even more witches—from the good

76            Christopher Stasheff

guys. After all, we have a vested interest in the public's
opinion of witches, dear."

"In truth," Gwen said firmly, "and we cannot have the
folk afeard that witches will seek to govern by force of

magic,"

"Of course not," Rod mumured, "especially when every

right-thinking individual knows it has to be done by force

of arms."

Tuan frowned. "How didst thou speak?"

"Uh, nothing." Rod turned to Gwen. "How about it,
dear? A family vacation, wandering toward the North?"
When Gwen hesitated, he added, "I don't really think there's
any danger—at least, none that you and I can't handle

between us."

"Nay, surely not," Gwen agreed, but her brow was still

furrowed.

"What, then? The kids? I really don't think they'll mind."
"Oh, certes they will not! Yet hast thou considered the

trials of shepherding our four upon the road?"
"Sure." Rod frowned. "We did it in Tir Chlis."
"I know," Gwen sighed. "Well, an thou sayest 'tis for

the best, my husband, we shall essay it."

2

Rod turned the key in the lock, pulled it out, set it in Gwen's
palm, and wrapped her hand around it. "Your office, 0
Lady of the House." He studied her face for a second and
added gently, "Don't worry, dear. It'll still be here when
you get back."

"I know," she sighed, "yet 'tis never easy to leave it."

"I know." Rod glanced back at the house. "I'll get half-
way down the road, and start wondering if I really did put
out the fire on the hearth."

"And thou dost, but call it out, and an elf shall bear word
to me," Brom O'Berin rumbled beside them. "Mere minutes
after thou hast uttered it, an elf shall spring out of the
ingelnook to douse thy hearth—if it doth need."

"I thank thee, Brom," Gwen said softly.

The dwarf scowled, becoming more gruff. "Nay, have
no fear for thine house. Elves shall guard it day and night.
Ill shall fare the man who doth seek to enter."

Rod shuddered. "I pity the footpad Puck catches! So
come on, dear—there's nothing to worry about. Here, any-
way. Time for the road." He grasped her waist, and helped
her leap to Fess's saddle.

"May we not fly. Papa?" Cordelia pouted. Her hands
were clasped behind her back, and a broomstick stuck out
from behind her shoulder.

17




18            Christopher Stasheff

Rod smiled, and glanced at Gwen. She nodded, almost
imperceptibly. He turned back to Cordelia. "As long as you
stay near your mother and me—yes."

Cordelia gave a shout of joy and leaped onto her broom.
Her brothers echoed her, drifting up into the air.

"Move out. Old Iron," Rod murmured, and the great
black robot-horse ambled out toward the road. Rod fell into
step beside him, and turned back to wave to Brom.

"A holiday!" Geoffrey cried, swooping in front of him.
"'Tis ages since we had one!"

"Yeah—about a year." But Rod grinned; he seemed to
feel a weight lifting off his shoulders. He caught Gwen's
hand and looked up at her. "Confess it, dear—don't you
feel a little more free?"

She smiled down at him, brightening. "I do, my lord—
though I've brought my lock and bars along."

"And I, my ball and chain." Rod grinned. "Keep an eye
on the links, will you?... Magnus! When I said, 'Stay near,'
that meant altitude, too! Come down here right now!"

The tinkers strolled into the village, gay and carefree,
smudged and dirty. Their clothes were patched, and the pots
and pans hanging from their horse's pack made a horrible
clattering.

"This is rather demeaning. Rod," Fess murmured. "Ad-
ditionally, as I have noted, no real tinker family could afford
a horse."

"Especially not one fit for a knight. I know," Rod an-
swered. "I'll just tell them the last stop was a castle, and
the lord of the demesne paid us in kind."

"Rod, I think you lack an accurate concept of the financial
worth of a war-horse in medieval culture."

"Hey—they had a lot of pots." Rod grinned down at his
own primitive publicity agents. "Okay, kids, that's enough.
I think they know we're here."

The four little Gallowglasses slowed their madcap danc-
ing, and gave their pots and pans one last clanging whack
with their wooden spoons. "You spoil all the fun. Papa,"
Cordelia pouted as she handed him the cookware.

"No, just most of it. Magnus? Geoff? Turn in your weap-
ons, boys. Gregory, you, too—ah, a customer!"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       19

"Canst mend this firkin, fellow?" The housewife was
plump, rosy-cheeked, and anxious.

Rod took the little pot and whistled at the sight of the
long, jagged crack in the cast iron. "How'd you manage
that kind of break?"

"My youngest dropped it," the goodwife said impatiently.
"Canst mend it?"

"Yeah," Rod said slowly, "but it'll cost you a ha'penny."

The woman's face blossomed in a smile. "I have one,
and 'twill be well worth it. Bless thee, fellow!"

Which sounded a little odd, since "fellow" was a term
of semicontempt; but Rod blithely took out a hammer and
some charcoal, laid a small fire, and got busy faking. Magnus
and Gregory crouched on either side of him, obstensibly

watching.

"This is the manner of the Grafting of it, Gregory," big
brother Magnus said softly. "Let thy mind bear watch on
mine. The metal's made of grains so small thou canst not
see them..."

"Molecules," Rod supplied.

"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 bum 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 white-
ness. 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 tele-
kinetic, not warlocks—and even the best of them could
only move objects, not molecules.

20 Christopher Stasheff

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 evi-
dence—but I'm braced. That's why we're travelling in dis-
guise—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.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       21

"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."

22            Christopher Stasheff

"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, star-
ing 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

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       23

reality. Adrenalin ebbed, and his hammering heart began to
slow. He couldn't even remember the nightmare—only that,
vaguely, the face was Lord Kem'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, "Pess?"

"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 the 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 hu-
man.

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 dan-
gerously 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.

24 Christopher Stasheff

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 frag-
ments.

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 broom-
stick, 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 pe-
culiar 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 conies

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       25

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 ba-
bies," 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 scor-
cerer 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

26 Christopher Stasheff

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 thun-
dered up behind them.

Then both her arms snapped out straight, fingers point-
ing—The rabbits leaped together, melded, coalesced, me-
tamorphosed—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 re-
lease; 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 en-
velop 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.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      27

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 disap-
pearances unnerving, but somehow, now, it seemed remote,
inconsequential. "She got away?"

28            Christopher Stasheff

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 sighed. "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... ?"

"Why not?" Rod shrugged. "I was telephathically invis-
ible for years, remember? Sooner or later, somebody was
bound to learn how to do that whenever they wanted."

"My lord," Gwen said softly, "I think there is more dan-
ger in these Northern witches, than we had thought."

Rod nodded. "And, at a guess, they're better mind read-
ers than we gave them credit for—'cause they certainly
knew we were coming."

Gwen was silent, digesting that.
Rod shrugged, irritably. "Oh, sure, it's possible this one
sorceress has a hatred for tinkers, especially when they come
in families—but, somehow, I doubt that. Conjuring up a
Black Annis for the average wanderer is a bit elaborate,

No, they've spotted us."

He straightened his shoulders and clapped his hands. "All
right, so much for our night's adventure! Everybody back

to bed."

The children looked up, appalled.

"Don't worry, Mommy'11 give you a sleep spell." Gwen's
lullabies were effective projective telepathy; when she sang,
"Sleep, my child," they really did.

"My lord," Gwen said softly, "if they do know of our

presence..."

"We'd better post sentries. Yes." Rod sat down cross-
legged. "I'll take first watch. I haven't been sleeping well
lately, anyway."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       29

When the night noises prevailed again, and the only
child-sound was deep and even breathing. Rod said softly,
"They're being very good about it—but the fact is, I blew
it."

"But it is distinctly improbable that you could have caught
the projective, in any event," Fess's voice answered him.
"Banished her, certainly—possibly even destroyed her,
though that certainly would have been quite dangerous. But
attempting to immobilize an esper, without killing her, would
be ten times more dangerous."

Rod frowned. "Come to think of it, why didn't she just
hop the next broomstick?" He had a sudden, vivid vision
of Gwen in an aerial dogfight, and shuddered.

"Why leave her caravan, if she did not have to?" Fess
countered.

Rod winced. "That hurts—that my rage hamstringed
things so much that she didn't even have to strain to get
away!"

"Still, that is only a blow to your pride," Fess reminded
him. "The object was accomplished; the danger was ban-
ished."

"Only temporarily," Rod growled, "and the next time, it
might banish us, if I let my rage block off my brain again."

"That is possible," Fess admitted. "And the danger must
be considered greater, now that there is reason to believe
the enemy knows your identities and direction."

"And can guess our purpose," Rod finished. "Yes, we
can be sure they'll attack again, and as soon as possible.
... Fess?"

"Yes, Rod?"

"Think it's time yet to send Gwen and the kids home?"

The robot was silent for a moment; then he answered,
"Analysis of available data does not indicate a degree of
danger with which your family, as a unit, cannot cope."

"Thank Heaven," Rod sighed. "I don't think they'd be
very easy to send home, just now."

"Your children have become intrigued."

"Children, my eye! It's Gwen I'm worried about—her
dander's up!"

Fess was silent.




T

30            Christopher Stasheff

Rod frowned at the lack of response; then his mouth
tightened. "All right, what am I missing?"

The robot hesitated, then answered, "I don't think they

trust you out alone. Rod."

3

"We're getting pretty close to the Romanov border now,
aren't we?"

"Aye, my lord. 'Tis mayhap a day's journey further."
Gwen was holding up bravely, but she did seem tired.

Rod frowned. "Look—they know we're coming; there's
no point in keeping our disguise. Why're we still walking?"

"To save fright. Papa," Gregory looked down at his fa-
ther, from his seat on Fess's pack. "If the good peasant folk
see us flying north, they would surely take alarm."

Rod stared at his youngest for a moment, then turned to
Gwen. "How old did you say he was? Three, going on
what?"

But Gwen frowned suddenly, and held up a hand. "Hist!"

Rod frowned back. "The same to you."

"Nay, nay, my lord! 'Tis danger! Good folk come, but
flee toward us in full terror!"

Rod's face went neutral. "What's chasing them?"

Gwen shook her head. "I cannot tell. 'Tis human, for I
sense the presence—yet there's a blank where minds should
be."

Rod noted the plural. "All right, let's prepare for the
worst." He put two fingers to his mouth, and blasted out a
shrill whistle.

31

32            Christopher Stasheff

Like tandem firecrackers, Magnus and Geoffrey popped
out of nowhere, and Cordelia swooped down to hover behind
them. "Why didst thou not but think for us. Papa?" Magnus

inquired.

"Because we're up against an enemy that can hear thoughts

farther than whistles. All right, kids, we've got to set up
an ambush. I want each of you high up in a tree, doing
your best imitation of a section of bark. Your mother and
I'll take the ground. When the enemy shows up, hit 'em
with everything you've got."

"What enemy. Papa?"

"Listen for yourself. Mama says it's human, but nothing

more."

All four children went glassy-eyed for a moment, then

came out of their trances with one simultaneous shudder.
"Tis horrible," Cordelia whispered. "'Tis there, but—'tis

not!"

"You'll know it when you see it," Rod said grimly, "and

just in case you don't, I'll think 'Havoc!' as loudly as I

can. Now, scoot!"

They disappeared with three pops and a whoosh. Looking
up. Rod spotted three treetops suddenly swaying against the
wind, and saw Cordelia soar into a fourth. "Which side of

the road do you want, dear?"

Gwen shrugged. "Both sides are alike to me, my lord."
"What do you think you are, a candidate? Okay, you

disappear to the east, and I'll fade into the left. I keep trying,

anyway."

Gwen nodded, and squeezed his hand quickly before she

sped off the road. Leaves closed behind her. Rod stayed a
moment, staring north and wondering; then he turned to the
underbrush, muttering, "Head north about ten yards, Pess."

The robot sprang into a gallop, and almost immediately
turned off the road onto Rod's side.

The leaves closed behind him, and Rod turned to face
the roadway, peering through foliage. He knelt, and let his
body settle, breathing in a careful rhythm, watching the dust

settle.

Then, around the curve of the roadway, they came—a
dozen dusty peasants with small backpacks and haunted

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

33

faces. They kept glancing back over their shoulders. The
tallest of them suddenly called out, jerked to a halt. The
others hurried back to him, calling over their shoulders to
their wives, "Go! Flee!" But the women hesitated, glancing
longingly at the road south, then back at their husbands.
The men turned their backs and faced north, toward the
enemy, each holding a quarterstaff at guard position, slant-
wise across his body. The women stared at them, horrified.

Then, with a wail, one young wife turned, hugging her
baby, and hurried away southward. The others stared after
her; then, one by one, they began to shoo their children
away down the road.

Then the men-at-arms strode into sight.

Rod tensed, thinking, "Ready!" with all his force.

They wore brown leggings with dark green coats down
to midthigh, and steel helmets. Each carried a pike, and a
saffron badge gleamed on every breast. It was definitely a
uniform, and one Rod had never seen before.

The soldiers saw the peasants, gave a shout, and charged,
pikes dropping down level.

Rod thought the word with all his might, as he muttered
it to Fess: "Havoc!"

He couldn't have timed it better. Fess leaped out of the
underbrush and reared, with a whinnying scream, just as
the last soldiers passed him. They whirled about, alarmed,
as did most of their mates—and Rod leaped up on the
roadway between peasants and soldiers, sword flickering
out to stab through a shoulder, then leaping back out to dart
at another footman even as the first screamed, staggering
backward. Two soldiers in the middle of the band shot into
the air with howls of terror, and slammed back down onto
their mates, as a shower of rocks struck steel helmets hard
enough to stagger soldiers, and send them reeling to the
ground.

Rod threw himself into a full lunge, skewering a third
soldier's thigh, as he shouted to the peasants, "Now! Here's
your chance! Fall on 'em, and beat the hell out of 'em!"

Then a pike-butt crashed into his chin and he spun back-
ward, vision darkening and shot through with sparks; but a
roar filled his ears and, as his sight cleared, he saw the




34 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 35

peasant men slamming into the soldiers, staves rising and
falling with a rhythm of mayhem.

Rod gasped, and staggered back toward them; there was
no need for killing!

Then another thought nudged through: they needed pris-
oners, for information.

He blundered in among the peasants, took one quick
glance at the remains of the melee, and gasped, "Stop!
There's no need... They don't deserve..."

"Thou hast not seen what they've done," the peasant next
to him growled.

"No, but I intend to find out! Look! They're all down,
and some of 'em may be dead already! Stand back, and
leave them to me!"

A rough hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around.
"I' truth? And who art thou to command, thou who hast
not lost blood to these wolves?"

Rod's eyes narrowed. He straightened slowly, and knocked
the man's hand away with a sudden chop. It was ridiculous,
and really shouldn't have made any difference to anybody—
but it would work; it'd get their cooperation. "I am the High
Warlock, Rod Gallowglass, and it is due to my magic and
my family's, that you men stand here victorious, instead of
sprawling as buzzard's meat!"

He didn't have to add the threat; the man's eyes widened,
and he dropped to one knee. "Your pardon. Lord! I... I
had not meant..."

"No, of course you didn't. How could you tell, when
I'm dressed as a tinker?" Rod looked around to find all the
peasants kneeling. "All right, that's enough! Are you men
or pawns, that you must kneel? Rise, and bind these animals
for me!"

"On the instant, milord!" The peasants leaped to their
feet, and turned to begin lashing up the soldiers with their
own belts and garters. Rod caught the belligerent one by
the shoulder. "How are you called?"

Apprehension washed his face, and he tugged at his
forelock. "Grathum, an it please thee, milord."

Rod shrugged. "Whether or not it pleases you, is a bit
more important. Grathum, go after the women, and tell them
the good news, will you?"

The man stared, realization sinking in. "At once, your
lordship!" And he sped away.

Rod surveyed the knot-tying party and, satisfied every-
thing was well under way with the minimum of vengeful
brutality, glanced up at the trees and thought. Wonderful,
children! I'm a very proud daddy!

The branches waved slightly in answer. Rod could have
bent his mind to it, and read their thoughts in return; but it
still involved major effort for him, and he couldn't spare
the concentration just now. But he turned toward the
underbrush, and thought. Thanks, dear. It was nice to see
you throwing somebody else's weight around for a change.

"As long as 'tis not thine, my lord? Thou art most surely
welcome!"

Rod looked up, startled—that was her voice, not her
mind. Gwen came marching up, with the women and chil-
dren behind her. Grathum hurried on ahead, face one big
apology. "'Ere I could come unto them, milord, thy wife
had brought word, and begun their progress back."

She had obviously run the message on her broomstick;

the wives were herding their children silently, with covert
glances at her, and the children were staring wide-eyed.

Rod turned back to Grathum. "Any more of these apes
likely to be following you?"

The peasant shook his head. "Nay, milord—none that
we know of. There were more bands—but they chased after
others who fled. Only these followed the high road, when
we who escaped to it so far as this, were so few."

"'Others who fled?'" Rod frowned, setting his fists on
his hips. "Let's try it from the beginning. What happened,
Grathum? Start back before you knew anything was wrong."

"Before... ?" The peasant stared at him. " 'Tis some
months agone, milord!"

"We've got time." Rod nodded toward the north. "Just
in case you're worried, I've got sentries out."

Grathum darted quick looks about him, then back at Rod,
fearfully. Rod found it unpleasant, but right now, it was
useful. "Several months back," he prompted, "before you
knew anything was wrong."

"Aye, milord," Grathum said, with a grimace. He heaved
a sigh, and began. "Well, then! 'Twas April, and we were




36 Christopher Stasheff

shackling our oxen to the plows for the planting, and a
fellow hailed me from the roadway. I misliked his look—
he was a scrawny wight, with a sly look about him—but
I'd no reason to say him nay, so I pulled in my ox and
strode up to the hedge, to have words with him.

'"Whose land is this?' he did ask me; and I answered,
'Why, o' course, 'tis the Duke of Romanov's; but my master,
Sir Ewing, holds it enfeoffed from him.'

"'Nay,' quoth this wight, ' 'tis not his now, but the Lord
Sorcerer Alfar's—and I hold it enfeoffed from him.'

"Well! At this I became angered. 'Nay, assuredly thou
dost not,' I cried. 'An thou dost speak such treason, no man
would blame me!' And I drew back my fist, to smite him."

Rod's mouth tightened. That sort of fit in with his overall
impression of Grathum's personality. "And what'd he do
about it?"

"Why! He was gone ere I could strike—disappeared!
And appeared again ten feet away, on my side of the fence!
Ah, I assure thee, then fear did seize my bowels—but I
ran for him anyway, with a roar of anger. Yet up he drifted
into the air, hauling a thick wand out from his cloak, and
struck down at me with it. I made to catch it, but ever did
he seem to know where I would grasp next, and ever was
his stick elsewhere; and thus did he batter me about the
head and shoulders, till I fell down in a swoon. When I
came to my senses, he stood over me, crowing, 'Rejoice
that I spared thee, and used only a wooden rod—nor tossed
a ball of fire at thee, nor conjured a hedgehog into thy
belly!'... Could he do such, milord?"

"I doubt it highly," Rod said, with a dry smile. "Go on
with your story."

Grathum shrugged. "There's little more to tell of that
broil. 'Be mindful,' quoth he, 'that thou dost serve me now,
not that sluggard Sir Ewing.' The hot blood rushed to my
face, to hear my lord so addressed; but he saw it, and struck
me with the wand again. I did ward the blow, but he was
behind me on the instant, and struck me from the other
side—and I could not ward myself, for that the arm that
should have done it, was beneath me. 'Be mindful,' quoth
he again, 'and fear not Sir Ewing's retribution; ere the har-
vest comes, he'll not be by to trouble thee further.' Then

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       37

he grinned like to a broad saw, and vanished in a crack of
thunder."

Rod noted that all this junior wizard seemed to have
done, was teleport and levitate—but he had used them to
give him an advantage in a fight!

"This worm of a warlock was fully lacking in honor,"
Gwen ground out, at his elbow.

"Totally unethical," Rod agreed, "and, therefore, totally
self-defeating, in the end. If witches and warlocks went
around behaving like that, the mobs would be out after them
in an instant—and how long could they last then?"

"Forever," Grathum said promptly, "or so this Lord
Sorcerer and his sorcery-knights do believe. They fear no
force, milord, whether it come from peasants or knights."

The fright in his tone caught at Rod. He frowned. "You
sound as though you're talking from experience. What hap-
pened?" Then he lifted his head as he realized what someone
like Grathum might have done. "You did report this little
incident to Sir Ewing, didn't you?"

"I did." Grathum bit his lip. "And I wish that I had not—
though it would have made little difference, for each and
every other plowman on Sir Ewing's estates told him like-
wise."

"The same warlock in each case?"

"Aye; his name, he said, was Melkanth. And there was
no report of him, from any other manor; yet each had been
so visited by a different warlock or witch. Naetheless, 'twas
our Sir Ewing who did rise up in anger and, with his dozen
men-at-arms, rode forth to seek out this Melkanth."

Rod clamped his jaw. "I take it Sir Ewing found him."

Grathum spread his hands. "We cannot think otherwise;

for he did not come back. Yet his men-at-arms did; but they
wore this livery thou seest on those who pursued us." He
jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the heap of bound
soldiers. "Aye, they came back, these men that we'd known
since childhood; they came back, and told us that Sir Ewing
was no more, and that we served His Honor Warlock
Melkanth now."

Rod stared, and Gwen caught at his arm. That jarred
Rod back into contact with reality; he cleared his throat,
and asked, "Anything odd about 'em? The way they looked?"

T

l
i

38

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

39

"Aye." Grathum tapped next to his eye. '"Twas here,
milord—in their gazes. Though I could not say to thee what
'twas that was odd."

"But it was wrong, whatever it was." Rod nodded.
"What'd the soldiers do? Stay around to make sure you kept
plowing?"

"Nay; they but told us we labored for Melkanth now,
and bade us speak not of this that had happed, not to any
knight nor lord; yet they did not say we could not speak to
other peasant folk."

"So the rumor ran?"

"Aye. It ran from peasant to peasant, till it had come
closer by several manors to our lord. Count Novgor."

Rod kept the frown. "I take it he's vassal to Duke
Romanov."

"Aye, milord. The Count called up his levies—but scarce
more than a dozen knights answered his call; for the others
had all marched forth to battle the warlocks who challenged
them."

"Oh, really! I take it rumor hadn't run fast enough."

Grathum shrugged. "I think that it had, milord; but such
news only angered our good knights, and each marched out
to meet the warlock who claimed his land, thinking his force
surely equal to the task."

"But it wasn't." Rod's lips were thin. "Because they went
out one knight at a time; but I'll bet each one of them ran
into this Lord Sorcerer and all his minions, together."

Grathum's face darkened. "Could it be so?"

Rod tossed his head impatiently. "You peasants have got
to stop believing everything you're told, Grathum, and start
trying to find out a few facts on your own!... Oh, don't
look at me like that, I'm as sane as you are! What happened
to Count Novgor and his understrength army?"

Grathum shook his head. "We know not, milord—for
fear overtook us, and we saw that, if the sorcerer won, we
would be enslaved to fell magic, and our wives and bairns
with us. Nay, then we common folk packed what we could
carry and sin' that we would not have the chance to fight,
fled instead, through the pasture lanes to the roadway, and
down the roadway to the High Road."

"So you don't know who won?"

"Nay; but early the next morning, when we'd begun to
march again, word ran through our numbers—for it was
hundreds of people on the road by then, milord; we folk of
Sir Ewing's were not alone in seeing our only chance to
stay free—and word ran from the folk at the rear of the
troupe, to us near the van, that green-coated soldiers pur-
sued. We quickened our pace, but word came, anon, that a
band of peasants had been caught up by soldiers, and taken
away in chains. At that word, many folk split away, village
by village, down side roads toward hiding. But when we
came to high ground, we looked back, and saw squadrons
of soldiers breaking off from the main host, to march down
the side roads; so we turned our faces to the South, and
hurried with Death speeding our heels—for word reached
those of us in the van, that the soldiers had begun slaying
those who fought their capture. Then did we take to a byway
ourselves; but we hid, with our hands o'er our children's
mouths, till the soldiers had trooped by, and were gone from
sight; then back we darted onto the High Road, and down
toward the South again. Through the night we came, bearing
the wee ones on litters, hoping that the soldiers would sleep
the whiles we marched; and thus we came into this morning,
where thou hast found us."

Rod looked up at the sky. "Let's see, today... yesterday
... This would be the third day since the battle."

"Aye, milord."

"And you, just this little band of you, are the only ones
who made it far enough south to cross the border?"

Grathum spread his hands. "The only ones on the High
Road, milord. If there be others, we know not of them...
and had it not been for thee and thy family, we would not
be here, either." He shuddered. "Our poor Count Novgor!
We can only pray that he lives."

Air cracked outward, and Gregory floated at Rod's eye
level, moored to his shoulder by a chubby hand.

The peasants stared, and shrank back, muttering in hor-
ror.

"Peace." Rod held up a hand. "This child helped save
you from the sorcerer's soldiers." He turned to Gregory,
nettled. "What is it, son? This wasn't exactly a good time."

"Papa," the boy said, eyes huge, "I have listened, and..."




40

Christopher Stasheff

Rod shrugged. "Wasn't exactly a private conversation.
What about it?"

"If this Count Novgor had won, these soldiers in the
sorcerer's livery would not have been marching after these
peasant folk."

The folk in question gasped, and one woman cried, "But
the baim can scarcely be weaned!"

Rod turned to them, unable to resist a proud smirk. "You
should see him think up excuses not to eat his vegetables.
I'm afraid he's got a point, though; I wouldn't have any
great hopes for Count Novgor's victory."
The peasants sagged visibly.

"But it should be possible to get a definite answer." Rod
strode forward.

The peasants leaped aside.

Rod stepped up to the bound soldiers. He noticed that
one or two were struggling against their ties. "They're be-
ginning to come to. I think they might know who won."
He reached out to yank a soldier onto his feet, then turned
to the peasants. "Anybody recognize him?"

The peasants stared and, one after another, shook their
heads. Then, suddenly, one woman's finger darted out, to
point at the soldier on top of the third pile. "But yonder is
Gavin Arlinson, who followed good Sir Ewing into battle!
How comes he to fight in the service of his lord's foe?"

"Or any of them, for that matter? Still, he'll do nicely
as a representative sample." Rod gave the soldier he was
holding, a slight push; the man teetered, then fell back down
onto his comrades. Rod caught him at the last second, of
course, and lowered him the final inch; then he waded
through the bound men, to pull Gavin Arlinson onto his
feet. He slapped the man's face gently, until the eyelids
fluttered; then he called, "Magnus, the brandy—it's in Fess's
pack."

His eldest elbowed his way through to his father, holding
up a flask. Rod took it, noting that nobody seemed to wonder
where Magnus had come from. He pressed the flask to
Arlinson's lips and tilted, then yanked it back out quickly.
The soldier coughed, spraying the immediate area, choked,
then swallowed. He squinted up at Rod, frowning.

Just the look of the eyes made Rod shiver. Admittedly,

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       41

the glassiness of that stare could be due to the head knock
he'd received; but the unwavering, unblinking coldness was
another matter.

Rod pulled his nerve back up and demanded, "What
happened to Sir Ewing?"

"He died," the soldier answered, his tone flat. "He died,
as must any who come up against the might of the Lord
Sorcerer Alfar."

Rod heard indignant gasps and muttering behind him,
but he didn't turn to look. "Tell us the manner of it."

"'Tis easily said," the soldier answered, with full con-
tempt. "He and his men marched forth to seek the warlock
Melkanth. They took the old track through the forest, and
in a meadow, they met him. But not Melkanth alone—his
brother warlocks and sister witches, all four together, with
their venerable Lord, the Sorcerer Alfar. Then did the war-
locks and witches cause divers monsters to spring out upon
Sir Ewing and his men, while the witches cast fireballs. A
warlock appeared hard by Sir Ewing, in midair, to stab
through his visor and hale him off his mount. Then would
his soldiers have fled, but the Lord Sorcerer cried out a
summoning, and all eyes turned toward him. With one glance,
he held them all. Then did he explain to them who he was,
and why he had come."

"I'll bite." Rod gave him a sour smile. "Who is he?"

"A man bom with Talent, and therefore noble by birth,"
the soldier answered tightly, "who hath come to free us all
from the chains in which the twelve Lords, and their lackeys,
do hold us bound."

"What chains are these?" Rod demanded. "Why do you
need freeing?"

The soldier's mouth twisted with contempt. "The 'why'
of it matters not; only the fact of enslavement's of import."

"That, I can agree with—but not quite the way you meant
it." Rod turned to his wife. "I call it hypnosis—instant
style. What's your diagnosis?"

"The same, my lord," she said slowly. "'Tis like to the
Evil Eye with which we dealt, these ten years gone."

Rod winced. "Please! Don't remind me how long it's
been." He submitted to a brief but intense wave of nostalgia,
suddenly feeling again the days when he and Gwen had

42 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 43

only had to worry about one baby warlock. And, of course,
a thousand or so marauding beastmen....

He shook off the mood. "Can you do anything about it?"

"Why... assuredly, my lord." Gwen stepped up to him,
looking directly into his eyes. "But dost thou not wish to
attempt it thyself?"

Rod shook his head, jaw clamped tight. "No, thanks. I
managed to make it through this skirmish without rousing
my temper—how, I'm not sure; but I'd just as soon not
tempt fate. See what you can do with him, will you?"

"Gladly," she answered, and turned to stare into the sol-
dier's eyes.

After a minute, his lips writhed back from his teeth. Rod
glanced quickly at the thongs that held his wrists, then down
to his lashed ankles. His muscles strained against the leather,
and it cut into his flesh, but there was no sign it might break.
He looked back up at the soldier's face. It had paled, and
beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Suddenly, he stiffened, his eyes bulging, and his whole
body shuddered so violently that it seemed it would fall
apart. Then he went limp, darting panicked glances about
him, panting as though he'd run a mile. "How... Who..."

Gwen pressed her hands over her eyes and turned away.

Rod looked from her to the soldier and back. Then he
grabbed Grathum and shoved the soldier into his arms.
"Here! Hold him up!" He leaped after his wife, and caught
her in his arms. "It's over, dear. It's not there anymore."

"Nay... I am well, husband," she muttered into his
doublet. "Yet that was... distasteful."

"What? The feel of his mind?"

She nodded, mute,

"What was it?" Rod pressed. "The sense of wrongness?
The twisting of the mind that had hynotized him?"

"Nay—'twas the lack of it."

"Lack?"

"Aye." Gwen looked up into his eyes, a furrow between
her eyebrows. "There was no trace of any other mind within
his, my lord. Even with the beastmen's Evil Eye, there was
ever the sense of some other presence behind it—but here,
there was naught."

Rod frowned, puzzled. "You mean he was hypnotized

and brainwashed, but whoever did it was so skillful, he
didn't even leave a trace?"

Gwen was still; then she shrugged. "What else could it
be?"

"But why take the trouble?" Rod mused. "I mean, any
witch who knows more than the basics, would recognize
that spell in a moment."

Gwen shook her head, and pushed away from him. " 'Tis
a mystery. Leave it for the nonce; there are others who must
be wakened. Cordelia! Geoffrey, Magnus, Gregory! Hear-
ken to my thoughts; leam what I do!" And she went to kneel
by the bound soldiers. Her children gathered about her.

Rod watched her for a moment, then turned back to
Ariinson, shaking his head. He looked up into the man's
eyes, and found them haunted.

The soldier looked away.

"Don't blame yourself," Rod said softly. "You were un-
der a spell; your mind wasn't your own."

The soldier looked up at him, hungrily.

"It's nothing but the truth." Rod gazed deeply into the
man's eyes, as though staring could convince him by itself.
"Tell me—how much do you remember?"

Ariinson shuddered. "All of it, milord—Count Novgor's
death, the first spell laid on us, the march to the castle, the
deepening of the spell..."

Rod waited, but the soldier only hung his head, shud-
dering. "Go on," Rod pressed. "What happened after the
deepening of the spell?"

Arlinson's head snapped up, eyes wide. "What more was
there!"

Rod stared at him a moment, then said slowly, "Nothing.
Nothing that you could have done anything about, soldier.
Nothing to trouble your heart." He watched the fear begin
to fade from the man's eyes, then said, "Let's back it up a
bit. They—the warlocks, I mean—marched you all to the
castle, right?"

Ariinson nodded. "Baron Strogol's castle it had been,
milord." He shuddered. "Eh, but none would have known
it, once they'd passed the gate house. 'Twas grown dank
and sour. The rushes in the hall had not been changed in a
month at the least, mayhap not since the fall, and each




44 Christopher Stasheff

window and arrow slit was shuttered, barring the daylight."

Rod stored it all away, and asked, "What of the Count?"

Arlinson only shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving
Rod's.

Rod leaned back on one hip, fingering his dagger. "How
did they deepen the spell?"

Arlinson looked away, shivering.

"I know it's painful to remember," Rod said softly, "but
we can't fight this sorcerer if we don't know anything about
him. Try, won't you?"

Arlinson's gaze snapped back to Rod's. "Dost thou think
thou canst fight him, then?"

Rod shrugged impatiently. "Of course we can—but I'd
like to have a chance of winning, too. Tell me how they
deepened the spell."

The soldier only stared at him for a time. Then, slowly,
he nodded. '"Twas done in this manner: They housed us
in the dungeon, seest thou, and took us out from our cage,
one alone each time. When my turn came, they brought me
into a room that was so dark, I could not tell thee the size
of it. A lighted candle stood on a table, next to the chair
they sat me in, and they bade me stare at the flame." His
mouth twisted. "What else was there?"

Rod nodded. "So you sat and stared at the flame. Any-
thing else?"

"Aye; some unseen musicians played a sort of music I
never had heard aforetime. 'Twas a sort of a drone, seest
thou, like unto that of a bagpipe—yet had more the sound
of a viol. And another unseen beat on a tambour..."

"Tap it out," Rod said softly.

The soldier stared, surprised. Then he began to slap his
thigh, never taking his eyes from Rod's.

Rod recognized the rhythmn; it was that of a heartbeat.
"What else?"

"Then one who sat across from me—but 'twas so dark,
I could tell his presence only by the sound of his voice—
one across from me began to speak of weariness, and sleep.
Mine eyelids began to grow heavy; I remember that they
drooped, and I fought against drowsiness, yet I gave into
it, finally, and slept—until now." He glanced down at his

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       45

body, seeming to see his clothing for the first time. "What
is this livery?"

"We'll tell you after you've taken it off," Rod said shortly.
He slapped the man on the shoulder. "Be brave, soldier.
You'll need your greatest courage when you find out what's
been happening while you were, uh... while you 'slept.'"
He turned to Grathum. "Release him—he's on our side
again." And he turned back to Gwen, just in time to see
the children, as a team, wake the last soldier, while Gwen
supervised closely. "Gently, Magnus, gently—his mind
sleeps. And Geoffrey, move slowly—nay, pull back! Re-
treat! If thou dost wake him too quickly, thou'lt risk driving
him back into the depths of his own mind, in shock of his
waking so far from his bed."

The soldier in question blinked painfully, then levered
himself up on one elbow. He looked down and stared at his
bound wrists. Then he looked up, wildly—but even as he
began to struggle up, his eyes lost their wildness. In a few
seconds, he sank back onto one elbow, breathing deeply.

"Well done, my daughter," Gwen murmured approvingly.
"Thou didst soothe him most aptly."

Rod watched the man growing calmer. Finally, he looked
about him, wide-eyed. His gaze anchored on Gwen, then
took in the children—then, slowly, tilted up toward Rod.

"All are awake now, husband, and ready." Gwen's voice
was low. "Tell them thy condition, and thy name."

"I am named Rod Gallowglass, and I am the High Warlock
of this Isle of Gramarye." Rod tried to match Gwen's pitch
and tone. "Beside me is my lady, Gwendylon, and my
children. They have just broken an evil and vile spell that
held you in thrall." He waited, glancing from face to face,
letting them take it in and adjust to it. When he thought
they'd managed, he went on. "You have been 'asleep' for
three days, and during that time, you have fought as soldiers
in the army of the Lord Sorcerer, Alfar."

They stared at him, appalled. Then they all began to fire
questions, one after another, barking demands, almost howl-
ing in disbelief.

They were building toward hysteria. It had to be stopped.

Rod held up his hands, and bellowed, "Silence!"

46 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 47

The soldiers fell silent, as military discipline dug its
hooks into their synapses. But they were primed, and ready
to explode, so Rod spoke quickly. "What you did during
those days was not truly your doing—it was the 'Lord'
Sorcerer's and his minions. They used your bodies—and
parts of your minds." He saw the look that washed over the
soldiers' faces, and agreed, "Yes. It was foul. But remember
that what you did was their crime, not yours; there is no
fault of yours in it, and you cannot rightly be blamed for
it." He saw their foreboding. Well, good—at least they'd
be braced, when Grathum and his peasants told them what
had been happening. He glanced from face to face again,
holding each set of eyes for a moment, then breathed, "But
you can seek justice."

Every eye locked onto him.

"You have pursued these goodfolk, here..." Rod jerked
his head toward the peasants. "... southward. You have
passed the border of Romanov, and are come into Earl
Tudor's land. Wend your way on to the South, now, with
the folk you did chase—only now, be their protectors."

He saw resolve firm the soldiers' faces.

Rod nodded with satisfaction. Southward you go, all in
one body, to King Tuan at Runny mede. Kneel to him there,
and say the High Warlock bade you come. Then tell him
your tale, from beginning to end, even as Gavin Arlinson
has told it to me. He will hear you, and shelter you—and,
if you wish it, I doubt not he will take you into his army,
so that, when he marches North against this tyrant sorcerer,
you may help in tearing him down."

Rod glanced from face to face again. He hadn't said
anything about guilt or expiation, but he could see remorse
turn into fanaticism in their expressions. He turned to
Grathum. "We can trust them. Strike off their bonds."

Grathum eyed him uncertainly, but moved to obey.

Rod felt a tug at his belt, and looked down.

"Papa," said Gregory, "will the guards allow them to
speak to the King?"

"I'll have to see if I can get you a job as my memory."
Rod turned away to fumble in Fess's pack, mumbling, "We
did bring a stylus and some paper, didn't we?"

"We did," the robot's voice answered, "but it is at the
bottom, under the hardtack."

"Well, of course! I wasn't expecting a booming corre-
spondence on this jaunt." Rod dug deep, came up with
writing materials, and wrote out a rather informal note,
asking that the bearer be allowed to speak with Their
Majesties. He folded it, tucked the stylus away, and turned
to Cordelia. "Seal, please."

The witchlet stared at it, brow puckering in furious con-
centration. Then she beamed, and nodded.

"All done?" Rod tested it; the paper was sealed all around
the edges; molecules from each half of the sheet had wan-
dered in among the other half's. Rod grinned. "Thanks,
cabbage." He turned to Grathum, handing him the letter.
"Present this to the sentry. Not being able to read, he'll call
the captain of the guard, who'll call for Sir Maris, who'll
probably allow only two of you to come before Their
Majesties—and even then, only when you're surrounded
by ten of the Queen's Own Bodyguard. Don't let them
bother you—they'll just be decoration." He pursed his lips.
"Though I wouldn't make any sudden moves, when you're
in the throne room..."

Grathum bobbed his head, wide-eyed. "E'en as thou dost
say, milord." Then he frowned. "But... milord..."

"Go ahead." Rod waved an expansive gesture.

Grathum still hesitated, then blurted, "Why dost thou
call thy lass a 'cabbage?'"

"'Cause she's got a head on her shoulders," Rod ex-
plained. "Off with you, now."




4

The family watched the little company march off southward.
When they had disappeared into the woodland. Rod turned
back to his family. "Thank you, children. I was very proud
of you."

They blossomed under his praise. Cordelia caught his
hand and returned, "And / was proud of thee. Papa, that
thou didst not lose thy temper!"

Rod fought to keep his smile and said only, "Yes. Well,
every little improvement counts, doesn't it?"

He turned to sit on a convenient rock. "We could use a
little rest, after all that excitement."

"And food!" Geoffrey plopped himself down on the grass
in front of Rod. "May I hunt. Papa?"

"No," Rod said slowly, "there are those laws against
poaching, and this tinker disguise still seems to be useful."

"But it doth not deceive the sorcerer and his coven,"
Magnus said, folding himself down beside Geoffrey.

"True, but it does seem to make the folk we encounter
more willing to talk. Grathum said things to the tinker, that
he was careful to hold back from the Lord High Warlock."

"Indeed," Gwen confirmed. "He was .so overawed that
his true feelings did not even come into his mind, when he •
knew thou wert noble."

48

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       49

"Which I still don't believe," Rod noted, "but he did.
That's what's important. So we remain a tinker family, on
the surface."

"Then, no hunting?" Geoffrey pouted.

"Yes," Rod nodded. "No."

"But we're hungry!" Cordelia complained.

"There is an answer to that." Gwen opened a bundle and
spread it out. "Biscuits, cheese, apples—and good spring
water, which Magnus may fetch."

Magnus heaved a martyred sigh and went to fetch the
bucket.

"I know," Rod commiserated. "It's not easy, being the
eldest."

Magnus set the bucket down in the center of the family
ring and scowled at it. With a sudden slosh, it filled with
water.

Rod gazed at it, then lifted his eyes to his eldest. "I take
it you remembered the last brook we crossed?"

Magnus nodded, folding himself down cross-legged.
"Though milk would be better."

"You may not teleport it out," Rod said sternly. "How
do you think the poor cow would feel? Besides, it'd take
too long to cool, after Mama pasteurized it."

"She could heat it in the cow," Cordelia offered.

"Haven't we done that poor beast enough meanness al-
ready?"

"Rabbit would be better," Geoffrey groused.

Gwen shook her head. "There is not time to roast it. We
must yet march northward a whiles this day, children."

Geoffrey sighed, and laid a slice of cheese on a biscuit.

"Will we cross into Romanov this night. Papa?" Magnus
asked.

"Not if I can help it. That's one border crossing I want
to make in daylight."

"There are surprises enough, under the sun," Gwen
agreed. "We need not those of the moon, also."

Cordelia shrugged. "We know the range of witch-powers.
What new thing could they smite us withal?"

"An we knew of it," Gwen advised her, "'twould not be
surprise."

50 Christopher Stasheff

"Besides," Rod said thoughtfully, "I don't like what your
Mama said, about that depth-hypnosis not having any feel
of the mind that did it."

The children all stared up at him. Magnus voiced for
them. "What dost thou think it may be. Papa?"

But Rod shook his head. "There are too many factors
we don't know about."

"We do know that the Tyrant Sorcerer is aged," Gregory
piped up.

The others stared at him. "What makes thee say so?"
Cordelia demanded.

"I heard the soldier speak thus, when he told Papa of the
battle with Count Novgor."

"Such as it was." Rod searched his memory, and realized
Gregory was right. But it was such a slight reference! And
"venerable" didn't necessarily mean "old." He glanced at
Gwen, and found her eyes on him. He turned back to Gregory.
"Very good, son. What else do we know?"

"That he has gathered other witches and warlocks about
him!" Cordelia said quickly.

"That they are younger than he," Magnus added, "for
Grathum did not mention age when he spoke of the warlock
Melkanth."

"He did not say Melkanth was young, though," Gregory
objected, "and neither he nor the soldier said aught of the
other sorcery folk."

Magnus clamped his jaw, and reddened. "Other than that
there were more than a few of them—and enough to defeat
a dozen armed men!"

"Well, he did use the plural," Rod temporized, "and
Grathum and Arlinson both probably would've mentioned
it, if they'd been old."

Magnus glanced up at his father gratefully.

"Still..." Rod glanced at Gregory, whose face was dark-
ening into obstinacy. "... that is something we've guessed,
not something we know. We've got to be ready to change
that opinion in a hurry."

Gregory's expression lightened.

"We know there is a crafter of witch-moss among them,"
Gwen said slowly, "and I would presume 'tis the one we
met with two nights agone."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       51

"Probably," Rod agreed, "and at least one of their witches
is good enough at telekinesis, to come up with fireballs."

"That doth take skill," noted Gwen, who could light both
a match and a bam a mile off.

"And a projective who can manage a quick hypnotic
trance that's good enough to hold a dozen demoralized sol-
diers," Rod mused. "Presumably, that's the tyrant himself."

"Thou dost guess. Papa," Gregory reminded.

Rod grinned. "Good boy! You caught it."

"And one among them can plan the use of all these
powers, in such wise as to easily defeat an armed force,"
Geoffrey said suddenly.

Rod nodded. "Good point—and easy to miss. What was
their strategy?"

"To gobble up first the peasants, then the knights,"
Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "They began with the small and
built them into strength, then used them to catch something
larger. They should therefore attack Duke Romanov and,
after him, some others of the Great Lords—Hapsburg and
Tudor, most likely, sin' that they are nearest neighbors. Then
they might chance attack on the King and Queen, sin' that
they'll have the Royal Lands encircled—or, if they doubt
their own strength, they might swallow up Bourbon,
DiMedici, and Gloucester ere they do essay King Tuan."

The family was silent, staring at the six-year-old. Rod
reflected that this was the child who hadn't wanted to leam
how to read, until Rod had told him the letters were march-
ing. "That's very good," he said softly, "very good—es-
pecially since there wasn't much information to go on. And
I did say strategy, when I really meant tactics."

"Oh! The winning of that one battle?" Geoffrey shrugged.
"They sent witch-moss monsters against the armed band,
to busy them and afright them. Then, the whiles the mon-
sters held their attention, the other warlocks and witches
rained blows on them from all sides. 'Twas simple—but
'twas enow; it did suffice."

"Hm." Rod looked directly into the boy's eyes. "So you
don't think much of their tactician?"

"Eh, I did not say that. Papa! Indeed, he did just as he
should have—used only as much force as was needed, and
when and where it was needed. I doubt not, had Count

52 Christopher Stasheff

Novgor proved stronger than he'd guessed, he'd have had
magical reserves to call upon." Geoffrey shook his head.
"Nay, I could not fault him. His battle plan in this skirmish
may have been, as thou hast said, simple—but he may also
be quite able to lay out excellent plans for elaborate battles."
He shrugged. "There is no telling, as yet."

Rod nodded slowly. "Sounds right. Any idea on the num-
ber of subordinate warlocks and witches?"

"Four, at the least—one to craft witch-moss, and direct
her constructs; one to fly above, and drop rocks; two, at
least, who did appear and disappear, jumping from place to
place within the melee, wreaking havoc and confusion. There
may be a fifth, who threw fireballs; and also a sixth, who
did cast the trance spell."

"Hypnosis," Rod corrected.

"Hip-no-siss." Geoffrey nodded, with intense concentra-
tion. "As thou sayest. And, of course, there was the Tyrant-
Sorcerer, this Alfar; it may have been he who cast the trance
spell, which would make his lesser warlocks and witches
only the five."

Rod nodded. "So. We can be sure there're Alfar, and
four subordinates—but there may be more." He checked
his memories of Gavin Arlinson's account, but while he
was checking, Gregory confirmed, "'Tis even as Geoffrey
doth say. Word for word, he hath counted them."

Geoffrey cast him a look of annoyance. "Who did ask
thee, babe?"

Gregory's face darkened.

"Children!" Gwen chided. "Canst thou not allow one
another each his due share of notice?"

Cordelia sat up a little straighter, and looked virtuous.

Rod leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky.
"Well! I didn't know we knew all that much! I expected
you children to help out on the odd jobs—but I didn't expect
this!" He looked down at his brood, gloating. "But—if
they've got all that going for them—why did they worry
about some escaping peasants? Why did they send their
brand-new army to chase them down?"

"Why, 'tis simply said!" Geoffrey looked up, startled.
"'Twas done so that they might not bear word to Duke
Hapsburg, or Earl Tudor—or e'en Their Majesties!"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       53

They were quiet again, all staring at him.
Geoffrey looked from face to face. "But—'tis plain! Is't

not?"

"Yes, now that you've told us," Rod answered. "But

what bothers me, is—why doesn't Alfar want anyone to

know what he's doing?"

"Why, 'tis even plainer! He means to conquer the Duke,

and doth not wish any other Lord to send him aid!"
His brothers and sister watched him, silent.
Rod nodded, slowly. "Yes. That's what I was afraid you

were going to say."

Count Drulane and his lady rose, and all their folk rose
with them. At the farthest end from their dais, the family
of tinkers rose, too—though Gwen had to prod Geoffrey
into putting down his trencher long enough to remember
his manners.

"A good night to you all, then," the Count intoned. "May
your dreams be pleasant—and may you wake in the mom-
ing."

The habitual phrase fell rather somberly on their ears,
considering the tenor of the table conversation. The Count
may have realized it; certainly, his departure through the
door behind the dais, with his lady, was a bit brusque.

Gwen leaned over to Rod and murmured, "Is such fear
born only of silence?"

Rod shrugged. "You heard what they said. The peasants
are used to meeting Romanov peasants at the markets, and
suddenly, they're not there. And the Count and Countess
are used to the occasional social call—but there haven't
been any for two. weeks, and the last one before that brought
rumors of the Romanov peasants being upset about evil
witches."

"/ would fear," said Magnus, "if such visits stopped so
suddenly."

"Especially if you had relatives up there," Rod agreed,
"which most of them seem to. I mean, who else are the
knights' daughters going to meet and marry?" He clasped
Magnus's shoulder. "Come on, son. Let's help them clean
up."

"Geoffrey, now!" Gwen said firmly and the six-year-old

54 Christopher Stasheff

wolfed the last of his huge slice of bread as he stepped back
from the table. Then he reached out and caught his wooden
cup just as Rod and Magnus lifted the board off its trestles
and turned it sideways, to dump the scraps onto the rushes.

" 'Tis not very cleanly. Papa," Cordelia reminded.

"I know, dear—but when you're a guest, you do what
your hosts do. And make no mistake—the Count and
Countess are being very kind, to let a family of poor tinkers
spend the night in their castle."

"Especially sin' that their own smith doth mend their
pots," Magnus added, as he turned to carry the board over
to the wall. Rod followed, and they waited their turn to
drop their board onto the growing stack.

"It must be that the witches have done it," the serf in
front of them was saying to his mate. "When last I saw
Horth—mind thou, he that is among Sir Orlan's hostlers?—
he did say an evil warlock had come among the peasants,
demanding that they pay him each a penny ere Midsummer."

"And Midsummer hath come, and gone." The other peas-
ant shook his head. "What greater mischief ha' such war-
locks brewed, ere now?"

As they dropped their board, Magnus looked up at Rod.
"Such words strike greater fear into my breast than doth the
silence itself. Papa."

"Yes," Rod agreed, "because it threatens us, personally.
That's the real danger, son—and not just to us." He clasped
Magnus around the shoulder as they went back. "The peas-
ant reaction. Your mother and I, and Queen Catharine, with
Tuan's help, were beginning to build up the idea that espers
could be good guys—but one power-grabber can undo all
that, and send the peasants out on witch-hunts again." He
broke off, grinning at the sight of Cordelia and Geoffrey,
struggling toward him with one of the trestles between them.
"Hold it, you two! You're just not big enough to handle one
of those things, yet—with just your hands, anyway!"

Cordelia dropped her end and glared up at him, fists on
her hips. "I'm a big lass. Papa!"

"Not yet, you're not—and you won't be, for at least five
more years." Under his breath. Rod added. God willing.
"But you're a real sweetheart, to try and help. Mama needs
you, though, to help clean a spot for our blankets."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       55

Cordelia shuddered, and Geoffrey pointed out, "It'd be
more pleasant outside. Papa."

"We're after gossip, not comfort." Rod turned him around
and patted him on his way. "Go help Mama; she needs
someone to talk a cat into staying near us all night."

Geoffrey balked.

"Cats fight rats," Rod reminded.

Geoffrey's eyes gleamed, and he scurried back toward
Gwen.

Rod picked up his end of the trestle. "Okay, up!"

Magnus hoisted his end, and turned toward the wall.
"E'en an witches could conquer all ofGramarye, Papa, they
could not hold it—against such peasant fear and hate." He
shrugged. "We number too few."

"Watch the personal references." Rod glanced quickly
about, but none of the peasants were close enough to have
heard. "Good thing none of them wants to be seen near a
tinker.... No, son, an evil esper, such as this Alfar, could
hold power—but only by a very harsh, cruel, absolute rule."

Magnus scowled. "'Tis as bad as witch-hunts."

"Worse, for my purposes—because it'd stifle any chance
of democracy on this planet. And I want Gramarye's tele-
paths to be the communications system for an interstellar
democracy, some day." Rod straightened, eyes widening.
"So that's it!"

Magnus looked up, startled. "What, Papa?"

"Where the futurians come in—you know, the villains
who kidnapped us all to Tir Chlis?"

Magnus's face darkened. "I mind me of them—and of
the peril they placed us in. But what sign of them is there
in this coil. Papa? I see naught but an aged wizard, who
hath at long last struck out in bitterness and sense of being
wronged."

"That's what they want you to see. Okay, son, up onto
the stack—heave!" They swung the sawhorse up onto the
top of the stack, and turned away to go get the other one.
"But if there's the likelihood of a repressive government
showing up, there's a high probability of totalitarians from
the future, being behind it."

Behind his ear, a methodical voice intoned, "General-
izing from inadequate data..."

56 Christopher Stasheff

"But surely that is not enough sign of their presence,"
Magnus protested, "only the harshness of Alfar's rule!"

"You've been talking to Fess again," Rod accused. "But
keep your eyes open, and you'll see more signs of their
hand behind Alfar. Myself, I've been wondering about what
your mother said—that there's no trace of a mind, behind
that 'instant' hypnosis spell Alfar used on these soldiers."

Magnus stared in consternation. "But... Papa... how
could that..."

"Up with the trestle," Rod reminded, and they bent to
pick it up, and started toward the wall again. "Think, son—
what doesn't? Think, that is. What can do things, but doesn't
think?"

Magnus was silent as they hoisted the trestle to the top
of the stack. As they turned away, he guessed, "A machine?"

"You have been talking to Fess, haven't you?" There was
a brief, nasty buzz behind his ear. "I'd call that a good
guess."

"But only a guess," Magnus reminded him.

"Of course." They strolled up to Gwen where she knelt,
just finishing spreading their blankets out over the rushes.
"Managed to banish the vermin, dear?"

"Indeed." She glanced at him. "Cordelia and I did think
to gather fresh rushes the whiles we were on our way here,
so we'll sleep sweetly enow."

Something about the phrase caught Rod's attention. He
stared down at the blanket, then lifted his gaze slowly to
look deeply into Gwen's eyes.

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

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       57

jarring his brain. Rage answered, and struggled against it.

A bluish white light filled the hall, showing all the serv-
ants 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 wall.

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
ofGramarye! And who are you, who dares so address me?"

"I am Arendel, first Count of Drulane!" the ghost bel-
lowed. "'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 bet-
ters, 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 sound-
ing 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

58 Christopher Stasheff

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 out-
raged 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 whiplash-
ing; 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 spec-
tacles 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. Fa-
ther—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 them-
selves!"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       59

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 Atfar'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

60 Christopher Stasheff

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 an-
other, and the horror in the hall turned into full-throated
laughter—with an hysterical edge to it, perhaps, but laugh-
ter 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 hod 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..."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       61

"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 hos-
pitality 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, unan-
nounced 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 an-
cestors 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 whis-
pered, "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

62            Christopher Stasheff

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 leam 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, shoul-
ders squared and chin high.

The other children looked about them, startled, then hur-
ried 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."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       63

They passed through the gatehouse, across the draw-
bridge, 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 en-
countered convincing evidence of the existence of a me-
dium, 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
Pess'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

64 Christopher Stasheff

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 'psychometery,' 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, until 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 experi-
ments 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 experi-
ment 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."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       65

"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 harm-
less."

"Save for thy father." Gwen couldn't resist it.

Rod gave her a glower. "That was diplomacy, not nec-
romancy. 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 un-
masked 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."

"Nay, do mind it!" Gregory cried. "For if they take fright,
and are hurted enough to become bitter and hateful, might
they not flee to Alfar, and swell his strength?"

Rod thought about it, then slowly nodded. "I hate to
admit it, son, but you're right." He turned a somber gaze
on Gwen, then dropped his gaze to look at his children, one
at a time.

"What thoughts dost thou engender, husband?" Gwen
asked softly.

Rod lifted his gaze to her again. "This mission has def-
initely turned dangerous, darling. Time for you and the
children to go home."

The night was silent for a moment. Then: " 'Tis not fair!"
Cordelia cried.

"Only now doth it gain interest!" Gregory protested.

"Nonetheless..." Rod began.

"'Tis the tactics of magic!" Geoffrey cried. "Assuredly,
Papa, thou'lt not deny me the chance to witness such!"

"You're apt to get hurt!" Rod snapped. "And preventing
that, is my main job in life!"

"Then wither wouldst thou be, without us?" Magnus
demanded, catching at his sleeve.

"Lonely," Rod snapped, "but effective. A lot more ef-
fective than if I'm worrying about you while I'm in the
middle of a fight!"

"Yet thou hast no need to fear for us!" Cordelia cried.

66 Christopher Stasheff

"Send an army 'gainst us, ere thou dost fear!" Geoffrey
howled.

"Yeah." Rod's jaw tightened. "You'd just love to have
an army to box with, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, it just
might have a stronger arm than you, and..."

"Husband." Gwen's low voice bored through his building
anger. "Thou didst say, even now, that thou didst protect
them."

Rod's head snapped up, indignation flaring. "Are you
implying... ?"

But Gwen was already talking to the children, rapidly.
"Thy father has said there is danger in this; and if thou dost
believe thyselves strong, only think—how wouldst thou
fare if thou didst confront a grown warlock, at the height
of his powers, an thou wert alone? If thou hadst been split
away from thy brothers and sister—how then?"

Geoffrey started to answer.

Gwen pressed a hand over his mouth. "Nay, do think
carefully ere thou dost speak! There is a thrill of pleasure
in it, aye—but only till thou dost truly fear! Then all of
thy joy in it doth die a-boming." Her gaze came up to meet
Rod's. "'Tis even as thy father doth know, for he hath been
in peril. Nay, if he saith 'tis dangerous, then assuredly the
danger could strike deepest fear in thee, could kill thee."

The children stared up at her gravely, thinking they under-
stood.

"Yet, husband, be mindful." Gwen looked straight into
Rod's eyes. "The foes Alfar hath sent against us thus far,
have scarce begun to tax our powers. Were Alfar to send
all his force against us, 'twould be great danger, aye; but I
misdoubt me an he would risk more than a moiety of his
force, when he knoweth not the true depth or breadth of
our power. Were he to send an army, in truth, we ought
then to flee; yet if he sends only witches, the High Warlock
and his family have little to fear."

"Only enough to make it fun, eh?" Rod managed a harsh
smile.

"I could not deny it," Gwen admitted. " 'Tis but exercise,
for a brood such as ours."

"Yes..." Rod frowned. "He's testing us, isn't he?"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       67

Geoffrey spun around, wide-eyed. "Papa! Wherefore did
I not see that?"

"Experience," Rod assured him. "But that means the
attacks will become stronger, until he thinks he knows our
limits. Then he'll hit us with twice the force he thinks he
needs, just to make sure."

Geoffrey had a faraway look in his eyes. "Therefore...
it doth behoove us to use as little power as we must, to
defeat them."

Rod nodded. "Which we haven't exactly been doing, so
far."

"We may stay then?" Cordelia cried, jumping up and
down.

Rod fixed them all with a glare.

They pulled themselves into line, hands clasped in front
of them, heads bowed a little—but looking up at him.

"Do I have your absolute promise that you'll all go right
home, without any argument, the next time I say to?"

"Oh, yes. Papa, yes!" they cried. "We will flee, we will
fly!" Cordelia avowed.

"We wouldn't want to stay, if this sorcerer really were
dangerous. Papa," Magnus assured him.

"But you don't believe he could be, eh?" Rod fixed his
eldest with a glare.

"Well..."

"That's all right." Rod held up a palm. "I've got your
promises. It's okay—you're still on board, at least until the
next attack. And if it's too close to being dangerous, home
you go!"

"Home," they averred.

"Still don't believe me, eh?" Rod looked up at Gwen.
"How about you? Promise?"

"I shall heed thee as strongly as ever I have done, my
lord," she said firmly.

"That's what I was afraid of," Rod sighed. "Well, I sup-
pose I'll have to be content with that. C'mon kids, let's set
up camp."

Gwen threw her head back with a happy sigh. "Ah, 'tis
good to be aloft again."

68 Christopher Stasheff

"I'm glad for you." Rod gripped the broomstick tighter
and swallowed heavily. His idea of flying was inside a nice,
warm spaceship, with a lounge chair and an autobar. "This
shooting around on a broomstick is strictly for the birds.
On second thought, strike that—even the birds wouldn't
touch it."

"Oh, certes, they would. Papa." Cordelia shot up along-
side, matching velocities. A robin sat on the tip of her
broomstick, chirping cheerily.

Rod gave the bird a jaundiced glance. "Odd friends you're
making, up here."

Gregory shot past them, flipping over onto his back to
look back and wave bye-bye.

"Show-off," Rod growled, but his heart sang at the sight
of a smile on the face of his sober little son. It was good
to see him be a child again.

"Regard thy way," Gwen called after him. Gregory nod-
ded cheerfully and flipped over onto his tummy again.

Magnus swung up alongside. "I thank thee. Papa! We
are free again!"

"Delighted." Rod tried to mean it. "Might as well, since
Alfar knows who we really are, anyway."

"Yonder." Magnus pointed ahead. Rod looked up, and
saw a line of hills, blued by distance. Magnus informed
him, "'Tis the Titans' Rampart."

"The Romanov boundary." Rod felt his stomach suddenly
grow hollow. "Somehow, I find myself less than eager to
cross it."

"But 'twill be exciting. Papa!" Geoffrey cried, flying up
on his port side.

"That's a kind of excitement I think I can live without.
Besides, I'm hungry. Darling, what do you say we find a
town large enough to have an inn, this side of the boundary?"

"I misdoubt me an they'd welcome folk so poorly dressed
as we, my lord."

"Yeah, but they'd let us sit in the innyard, if we buy our
food with real silver."

"Hot sausage!" Geoffrey cried.

"Stew!" Magnus caroled.

"Toasted cheese!" Cordelia exulted.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       69

"Hungry children," Gwen sighed. "Well, husband, an
thou dost wish it."

"Great. Land us in a nice little copse, about half a mile
out, will you? Tinkers they might accept in the innyard, but
not if they use it for a landing strip." He stared ahead
hungrily. "Terra firma!"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       71

5

As they came into the town, Cordelia gave a happy little
sigh. "Tis so nice that the nasty old sorcerer knows we
come toward him!"

"Oh, indeed yes," Rod muttered. "This way, he can have
a wonderful reception all ready for us! Why do you like it,
dear? Because you can fly?"

"Oh, aye!"

"I dislike disguise. Papa," Geoffrey explained.

Rod gave his son a measuring stare. "Yes, I suppose you
would—even when you see it's necessary."

"As 'tis, I know," the little boy sighed. "Yet doth it

trouble me. Papa."

"I understand." Rod frowned. "What bothers me, is trying
to figure out how Alfar saw through our disguises."

The family walked on in brooding silence—for a few
seconds. Then Gwen said," 'Tis widely known that the High
Warlock doth have a wife, and four baims—and that one
is a lass, and the other three lads."

Rod scowled. "What are you suggesting—that they had
their illusionist attack every family who came North?" His
gaze wandered. "Of course, I suppose there aren't that many
families coming North... and the kids' ages are pretty much
a matter of public record..."

70

"It doth seem unlikely," Gwen admitted.

"And therefore must be seriously considered. But we
would have heard about it, wouldn't we? Monsters, attack-
ing families..."

"Not if the witch and her monsters won out," Geoffrey
pointed out.

"But no sooner would they have attacked, than the witch
would have seen the families had no magical powers!"
Cordelia protested. "Surely she would then have called off
her monsters."

Geoffrey's eyes turned to steel. "She would not—if she
wished to be certain no word reached the King."

"That does seem to be their strategy," Rod agreed.

"But—to kill bairns?" Cordelia gasped.

"They are not nice people," Rod grated.

The children were silent for a few minutes, digesting an
unpleasant realization. Finally, Gregory pointed out, "We
do not know that. Papa."

"No, but I wouldn't put it past them. Still, it does seem
a little extravagant."

"Mayhap they did post sentries," Geoffrey suggested.

Rod nodded. "Yes, well, that's the most likely way—
but what kind of sentries? I mean, we haven't seen any
soldiers standing around in Alfar's livery. So his sentries
must be disguised, if he has them. And I suppose they'd
have to know what we looked like...."

"Eh, no!" Magnus cried, grabbing Rod's wrist. "They
need only be..."

"Telepaths!" Rod knocked his forehead with the heel of
his hand. "Of course! Just station mind readers on each of
the main roads—and maybe even out in the pastures, if
you're the suspicious type—and they'd be almost impos-
sible to spot! They could be anybody—the farmer who
passes in his cart, the varlet in the kitchens, the merchant
and his draymen..."

The children looked around them, suddenly alert.

"... and they'd be almost impossible to spot," Rod fin-
ished, "since all they have to do is sit there, with their minds
wide open for every stray thought!"

"We could have masked our minds," Geoffrey mused.




72 Christopher Stasheff

"Yes, but we didn't." Rod shook his head. "Besides, it's
not as easy as it sounds. You're all beginning to get pretty
good at it..." He caught Gwen's glance. "... every time
you're doing something you don't want Mama and me to
know about."

The children exchanged quick, guilty glances.

"Of course. Mama and I are getting even better at probing
behind the masks," Rod went on, "so I suppose it's very
good training for all of us. In fact... that might not be a
bad idea." He flashed a grin at each of them. "Start poking
around inside minds here and there, kids."

Instantly, all four faces turned blank, their eyes losing
focus.

"No, no! Not now! I mean, if they have been listening
to us, they'll have heard us, and just wiped their minds and
started thinking disguise thoughts! You've got to catch them
when they're not ready, take them by surprise. Listen and
probe for them whenever you just happen to think of it, at
odd moments."

"But will they not always be masked to us. Papa?"
Cordelia protested.

"Not when they're trying to listen to your thoughts," Rod
explained. "They can't do both at the same time—mask
and listen. You've tried it yourselves—you know."

This time, the glance the kids exchanged was startled—
and worried. Just how much did Daddy know, that they
didn't know he knew?

"Try to catch them unaware," Rod urged.

The children sighed philosophically.

"I know, I know," Rod growled, "this unpredictable
Daddy! First he tells you to do it, then he tells you not to!
So balance it—sometimes you do it, and sometimes you
don't." He looked up. "Gee, that's a nice looking horse,
up there. I think I'll steal it."

The children gasped with shock, and looked—and gave
their father a look of disgust. "Thou canst not steal him,
Papa," Gregory said sternly. "He is already thine."

"Makes it more convenient that way, doesn't it?" Under
his breath. Rod muttered, "Nice of you to come ahead to
meet us. Old Iron. How about I ride you, on the next leg
of the trip?"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       73

"Motion sickness. Rod?"

But it was Gwen and Cordelia who rode, at least as far
as the inn, and the innkeeper was very obliging—once Rod
caught his attention.

It wasn't easy. Rod left the family at the door and stepped
inside, bracing himself for an unpleasant scene. He saw a
tall, wiry man with a stained apron tied around his waist,
setting a double handful of mugs on a table and collecting
coppers from the diners. As he turned away from the table,
his gaze fell on Rod. "Be off with you," he ordered, but
he didn't even stop turning. "We've no alms to give." By
the time he finished the sentence, he was facing the kitchen
again, and had started walking.

"I've got money!" Rod called.

The man kept on walking.

Rod dodged around him and leaped into his path, shoving
his purse under the innkeeper's nose and yanking it open.
The man stopped, frowning. Slowly, his eyes focused on
the purse.

Rod shook a few coins out onto his palm. "See? Silver.
The real thing."

The innkeeper scowled at the coins as though they were
vermin. Then his expression lightened to musing, and he
pinched up one of the coins, held it in front of his nose to
stare at it as though it were some new variety of bug, then
methodically set it between his teeth and bit.

Rod couldn't resist. "Hors d'oeuvres?"

'"Tis silver." The innkeeper seemed puzzled.

"Genuine," Rod agreed.

The man focused on Rod. "What of it?"

Rod just stared at him for a second. "We'd like something
to eat."

"We?" The innkeeper turned his head from side to side,
inspecting the walls and comers.

"My wife and children," Rod explained. "I didn't think
you'd want us inside."

The innkeeper thought that one over for a while, then
nodded, frowning. Rod wondered how the man ever man-
aged to make a profit. Finally, the innkeeper spoke. "Wise."
He kept nodding. "Wise." Then he focused on Rod again.
"And what food dost thou wish?"

74 Christopher Stasheff

"Oh, we're not choosy. A big bowl of stew, a plateful
of sausage, a couple of loaves of bread, a pitcher of milk,
and a pitcher of ale should do us. Oh, and of course, six
empty bowls. And six spoons."

The innkeeper nodded judiciously. "Stew, sausage, bread,
milk, and ale." He turned away, still nodding. "Stew, sau-
sage, bread, milk, and ale." He headed for the kitchens,
repeating the formula again and again.

Rod watched him go, shaking his head. Then he turned
away to find Gwen and the kids.

He found them sitting under an old, wide oak tree with
a huge spread of leaves. "Will they have us, husband?"
Gwen didn't really sound as though she cared.

"Oh, yeah." Rod folded a leg under him and sat down
beside her, leaning back against the trunk. "He was very
obliging, once he tasted our silver and found out it wasn't
pewter."

"What troubles thee, then?"

"Frankly, my dear, he didn't really give a d-" Rod glanced
at the eager faces around him, and finished, "... dam."

"Assuredly, Tudor doth lack in gallantry," said a large
man, walking into the inn with a companion.

"Aye; it doth pain me to say it, but our noble Earl hath
ever been clutch-fisted," answered his companion. "This
sorcerer Alfar, now—all one doth hear of him, doth confirm
his generosity."

They passed on into the inn. Rod sat frozen, staring into
space.

Magnus put it into words for him. "Do they speak against
their own lord?"

"They do," Gwen whispered, eyes huge.

"And in public!" Rod was flabbergasted. "I mean, peas-
ants have spoken against their rulers before—but never out
in the open, where a spy might overhear them. For all they
know, we could be..." He ran out of words.

"Yet the lord would have to be greatly wicked, for his
own folk to complain of him!" Cordelia cried. "Could they
break faith with him so easily?"

"Not ordinarily," Rod said grimly. "But we didn't come
up here because things were normal."

A maid came ambling up to them, bearing a tray of food.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       75

Her face was smudged, and her apron was greasy—from
the scullery. Rod guessed. He braced himself for the con-
tempt he'd grown used to from the peasants, and reminded
himself that everybody had to have somebody they could
look down on. Maybe that was what they really needed
tinkers for.

But the maid only held the tray down where they could
reach it, shaking her head and marvelling, "Tinkers! Why
doth the master spare good food for tinkers?"

Rod took a plate warily, and sniffed at it. A delighted
grin spread over his face. "Hey! It is good!"

"May I?" Magnus sat still, with his hands in his lap. So
did the other children, but their eyes fairly devoured the
tray.

"Why... certes." The scullery maid seemed surprised
by their politeness.

Magnus seized a bowl. "May I?" Cordelia cried, and the
younger two chorused, "May I?" after her.

"Certes," the wench said, blinking, and three little hands
snatched at bowls.

Rod handed the plate to Gwen and lifted down a huge
bowl of stew, then the pitchers. "Take your cups, children."
Gwen scooped up the remaining two flagons, and the spoons.

The kitchen wench straightened, letting one edge of the
tray fall. A furrow wrinkled between her eyebrows. "Strange
tinkers ye be."

She was trying to think. Rod realized—and she'd have
been trying very hard, if some mental lethargy hadn't pre-
vented her. "Still wondering why your master is serving us
more than kitchen scraps?"

Enlightenment crept over her face. "Aye. That is what
I be thinking."

"Best of reasons," Rod assured her. "We paid in silver."

She lifted her head slowly, mouth opening into a round.
"Oh. Aye, I see." And she turned away, still nodding, as
she began to amble back to the kitchen.

"Why doth she not ask how mere tinkers came by silver
money. Papa?" Magnus watched her go.

"I expect she'll think that one up just as she gets to the
kitchen...."

"Why is she so slow. Papa?" Cordelia seemed concerned.

76 Christopher Stasheff

Rod shook his head. "Not just her, honey. That's what
the innkeeper was like, too." He gazed after the scullery
maid, frowning.

Two men in brocaded surcoats with grayed temples
strolled past them toward the inn door. "Nay, but our Earl
doth seek to rule all our trade," the one protested. "Mark
my words, ere long he will tell to us which goods we may
not sell, for that he doth grant patents on them to those
merchants who toady to him."

"Aye, and will belike tax the half of our profit," the other
agreed, but he spoke without heat, almost without caring.

They passed on into the inn, leaving Rod rigid in their
wake. "That is the most blatant lie I've heard since I came
here! Earl Tudor is so laissez-faire-mmded, you'd almost
think he just doesn't care!"

"Folk will believe any rumor," Gwen offered.

"Yeah, but businessmen check them out—and those two
were merchants. If they stray too far from the facts, they
go bankrupt."

A string of donkeys plodded into the innyard, heads
hanging low, weary from their heavy packs. Their drovers
bawled the last few orders at them, as the inn's hostlers
strolled past the Gallowglass family toward the donkeys,
chatting. "They say the sorcerer Alfar is a fair-minded man."

"Aye, and generous withal. Those who come under his
sway, I hear, need never be anxious for food or drink."

The first shook his head, sadly. "Our Earl Tudor doth
care little for the poor folk."

"Are they crazy?" Rod hissed. "Tudor is practically a
welfare state!"

"'Tis e'en as thou dost say," the second mused. "Yet at
the least, our Earl doth not tax his peasants into rags and
naught for fare but bread and water, as Duke Romanov
doth."

"Oh, come on, now!" Rod fumed. "Nobody ever claimed
Romanov was a walking charity—but at least he realizes
the peasants can't produce if they're starving."

But Gregory had a faraway look in his eyes. "Papa—I
mislike the feel of their minds."

Gwen stopped ladling stew and gazed off into space. She
nodded, slowly. "There is summat there..." Then her eyes

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       77

widened. "Husband—it doth press on me, within mine
head!"

Instantly, the children all gazed off into space.

"Hey!" Rod barked in alarm. He clapped his hands and
snapped, "Wake up! If there is something messing with
people's minds here, it could be dangerous!"

They all started, blinking, then focused on their father.
'"Tis as Mama doth say. Papa," Magnus reported. "Some-
thing doth press upon the minds of all the people here—
and at ours, too. Only, with us, it cannot enter."

"Then it knows all it really needs to know about us,
doesn't it?" Rod growled. He frowned, and shrugged. "On
the other hand, it already did. Here, I've got to have a feel
of this."

It wasn't as easy for him as it was for Gwen and the
kids. They'd grown up with extrasensory power; they could
read minds as easily as they listened for birdsongs. But
Rod's dormant powers had just been unlocked three years
ago. He had to close his eyes, concentrating on the image
of a blank, gray wall, letting his thoughts die down, and
cease. Then, when other people's thoughts had begun to
come into his mind, he could open his eyes again, and see
while he mind read.

But he didn't have to look about him this time. He could
feel it, before he even heard another person's thoughts.
When he did, he realized that the thoughts resonated per-
fectly with the pressure-current. It was a flowing wave,
rocking, soothing, lulling; but modulated on that lethargic
mental massage was a feeling of vague unease and suspi-
cion—and riding within that modulation, as a sort of har-
monic, was the central conviction that the sorcerer Alfar
could make all things right.

Rod opened his eyes, to find his whole family staring at
him—and for the first time on this trip, fear shadowed the
children's faces.

Rage hit, hot and strong. Rod's whole nervous system
flamed with it, and his hands twitched, aching for the throat
of whatever it was that had threatened his children.

"Nay, husband." Gwen reached out and caught his hand.
"We need thy wisdom now, not thy mayhem."

He resented her touch; it pushed his anger higher. But

78 Christopher Stasheff

he heeded her words, and concentrated on the feel of that
beloved hand, whose caresses had brought him so much of
comfort and delight. He let it anchor him, remembering
how his rage had made him do foolhardy things, how his
wrath had played into the hands of the enemy. He took slow,
deep breaths, trying to remember that he was really more
dangerous when he was calm, trying to regain the harmony
of his emotions. He concentrated on his shoulders, relaxing
them deliberately, then his back, then his upper arms, then
his forearms, then his hands. Anger wouldn't help anybody
now; anger would only destroy—everything but the enemy.
He shivered as he felt the rage loosen, and drain away; then
he swallowed, and closed his eyes, nodding. "I'm... all
right, now. Thanks, darling. Just... be careful about grab-
bing me when I'm like that, okay?"

"I will, my lord." She released him, but held his gaze
with her own.

"Okay." He took a deep breath, and looked up at the
children. "You know what hypnosis is."

"Aye, Papa." They stared at him, round-eyed.

"Well, that's what we're facing." Rod's lips drew back
into a thin, tight line. "Somebody's sending out a mental
broadcast that's putting everybody's conscious minds asleep.
This whole town is in the early stages of mass hypnosis."

The children stared, appalled.

Rod nodded. "Someone, or something, up there, is a
heck of a lot more powerful a projective telepath, than we've
ever dreamed of."

"But it hath not the feel of a person's mind, my lord!"
Gwen protested. "Oh, aye, the thoughts themselves do—
but that lulling, that pressure that doth soothe into mind-
lessness—'tis only power, without a mind to engender it!"

Rod had a brief, lurid memory of the genetically altered
chimpanzee he'd had to fight some years ago. Actually, it
was its power he'd had to fight; the poor beast had no mind
of its own. The futurians, who were continually trying to
conquer Gramarye, had just used it as a converter, trans-
forming minute currents of electricity into psionic power-
blasts that could stun a whole army. When they'd finally
found the chimp, it had been one of the ugliest, most obscene
things he'd ever seen—and one of the most pitiable. Rod

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       79

shuddered, and looked into his wife's eyes. "I don't know
what it is—but I don't like the climate. Come on—eat up,
and let's go."

They turned back to their food, with relief. But after a
bit, Cordelia looked up. "Not hungry. Papa."

"I know the feeling," Rod growled, "but you will be.
Choke down at least one bowlful, will you?" He turned to
Gwen. "Let's take the bread and sausage along."

She nodded, and began to wrap the food in his hand-
kerchief.

Rod turned back to his children—and frowned. There
was something wrong, some flaw in their disguise...

Then he found it. "Don't forget to bicker a little, children.
It's not normal, to go through a whole lunch without being
naughty."

They passed the last house at the edge of the village.
Rod muttered, "Not yet, kids. Another hundred yards; then
we're safe."

For a moment, Geoffrey looked as though he were going
to protest. Then he squared his shoulders like his siblings,
gritted his teeth, and plowed on for another three hundred
feet. Then Rod stopped. "Okay. Now!"

With one voice, the whole family expelled a huge sigh
of relief. Cordelia began to tremble. "Papa—'tis horrid!"

Gwen reached to catch her up, but Rod beat her to it.
He swept the little girl into his arms, stopping her shuddering
with a bear hug. "I know, I know, baby. But be brave—
there'll be worse than this, before we're done with Alfar."
Or he's done with us; the thought fleeted through his mind,
but he helped it fleet on out; a father whose children could
read minds couldn't afford defeatist thinking. Talk about
thought control.... Rod cast an appealing glance over
Cordelia's shoulder, at Gwen. "Don't you think it's time
for you folks to go home now?"

Gwen's chin firmed and lifted. Below her, three smaller
chins repeated the movement. "Nay, my lord," she said
firmly. "'Tis eerie, and doth make one's flesh to creep—
yet for us, there is, as yet, no greater danger than we saw
last night, and thou mayest yet have need of our magics."

"I can't deny that last part," Rod sighed, "and I suppose

80 Christopher Stasheff

you're right—that village may have been nasty, but it wasn't
any more dangerous than it was last night. Okay—we go
on as a family."

The boys broke into broad smiles, and Cordelia sat up
in Rod's arms and clapped her hands together. Rod set her
down, set his fists on his hips, and surveyed his children
with a stem eye. "You do realize what's going on back
there, don't you?"

They all nodded, and Magnus said, "Aye, Papa." Geoffrey
explained, "Alfar doth prepare the town for conquest."

Rod nodded, his gaze on his second son. "How will he
take them?"

The boy shrugged. "In peace. He will march in, and they
will acclaim him as their friend and master, and bow to
him—and all of this without a ever a drop of blood shed."

There was a definite note of admiration in his voice. Rod
shook his head. "Good analysis—but be careful, son. Don't
start thinking that ability implies goodness."

"Oh, nay. Papa! Ne'er could I think so! He is a worthy
enemy—but that's just to say, he would not be worthy an
he were not able; but he would not be an enemy were he
not evil."

Rod took a deep breath and stilled, with his mouth open,
before he said, "We-e-e-11... there are enemies who might
not be really evil—they'd just be trying to get the same
thing you're trying to get."

But Geoffrey shook his head firmly. "Nay, Papa. Such
be rivals, not enemies."

Rod stilled with his mouth open again. Then he shrugged.
"Okay—as long as you make the distinction." He took a
deep breath, looking around at his family. "So. I think we've
got a better idea, now, about how Alfar works. First he
takes over most of the population with long-range hypnosis.
Then he sends his minions in to intimidate anybody who
didn't hypnotize easily."

"There be such. Papa?" Cordelia asked in surprise.

Rod nodded. "Oh, yes, dear. That particular kind of
magic isn't exactly foolproof; there'll always be a few peo-
ple who aren't terribly open to letting somebody else take
over their minds—I hope."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       81

"And there be those who will not bow to him from fear,
either," Geoffrey said stoutly.

"Oh, yes. And if any of those happen to be knights, or
lords, and march against him with their men-at-arms—by
the time they get to Alfar, he'll have most of the soldiers
convinced they don't want to win."

"Aye. 'Tis the way of it." Geoffrey looked up at his
father with a glow of pride.

"Thanks, son." Rod smiled, amused. "Just adding things
up." Then his smile faded. "But what the heck kind of
projective telepath does he have, that can reach out over a
hundred miles to hypnotize a whole village?"

They set up camp, with trenches for beds and pine boughs
for mattresses. The kids rolled up in their blankets, and
were instantly asleep—at. least, as far as Rod could see.

He didn't trust them. "What child is this who, laid to
rest, sleeps?" he asked Gwen.

She gazed off into space for a moment, listening with
her mind. He decided to try it, himself, so he closed his
eyes and blanked his mind, envying the ease with which
she did it. After a few seconds, he began to hear the chil-
dren's low, excited, mental conversation. He rolled his eyes
up in exasperation and started to get up—but Gwen caught
his arm. "Nay, my lord. Let them speak with one another,
I prithee; 'twill lull them to sleep."

"Well..." Rod glanced back at her.

"Yet what will lull us?" she murmured.

He stared down at her, drinking in her beauty. Her fem-
ininity hit him with physical force, and he dropped back
down beside her, one arm spread out in return invitation.
"I'm sure I'll think of something, dear—but it takes some
creativity, when the kids are watching."

She turned her head to the side, watching him out of the
comers of her eyes. "Their lids are closed."

"But not their minds." Rod pressed a finger over her lips.
"Hush up, temptress, or I'll put you back in your teapot."

"And what wilt thou do with me, once thou hast me
there?" she purred, nestling up against him.

The contact sent a current coursing through him. His

82 Christopher Stasheff

breath hissed in. "I said a teapot, not a pumpkin shell!"
He reached out to caress her gently, and it was her turn
to gasp. He breathed into her ear, "Just wait till they fall
asleep...."

"Beshrew me! But they have only now waked from sev-
eral hours' rest!" Gwen gazed up at him forlornly.
"Hmm!" Rod frowned. "Hadn't thought of that..."
"Aye di me!" Gwen sighed, snuggling a little closer.
"E'en so, the comfort of thy presence will aid me greatly,
my lord."

"Fine—now that you've made sure / won't sleep!"
"Yet must not a husbandman be ever vigilant?" she mur-
mured.

"Yeah—waiting for my chance!" He rested his cheek
against her head. "Now I know why they call you a witch...."

"Papa-a-a-a!"

Rod waked instantly; there'd been tears in that little voice.
He opened his eyes and saw Gregory leaning over him
clutching his arm, shaking him. "Papa, Papa!" Tears were
running down the little boy's cheeks. Rod reached up an
arm to snake around him and pull him down, cradling him
against his side. The little body stayed stiff, resisting com-
fort. Rod crooned, "What's the matter, little fella? Bad
dream?"

Gregory gulped, and nodded.

"What was it about?"

"Nasty man," Gregory sniffled.

"Nasty?" For some reason. Rod was suddenly on his
guard. "What was he doing?"

"He did creep upon us." Gregory looked up at his father,
eyes wide. "Creeping up, to hurl things at us."

Rod stared into his eyes for a second, then began to pat
his back gently. "Don't worry about it. Even if the nasty
man did sneak up on us, your brothers and sister would
gang up on him before he could do much damage." He
smiled, and saw a tentative, quivering lift at the comers of
Gregory's mouth. He tousled the boy's hair and turned to
look at his wife. He saw a large pair of eyes staring back
at him. "Kind of thought you'd wake up, if one of the kids
had a problem."




THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       83

"I did hear him," Gwen said softly. "I did see his dream.
And, my lord..."

Rod couldn't help feeling that being on his guard was
just the thing for the occasion. "What's wrong?"

"Gregory's mind would not conjure up so mild a phan-
tasm, nor one so threatening."

The tension was building inside Rod. Anger began to
boil up under it. Rod tried to hold it down, reminding
himself that he and Gwen could probably handle any attempt
to hurt them. But the mere thought that anyone would dare
to attack his children, to plant nightmares in their sleeping
minds...!

Magnus, Cordelia, and Geoffrey suddenly sat bolt-upright.
"Papa," Cordelia gasped, "what dost thou?"

"Is it that bad already? I'm trying to hold my temper."

"Thou dost amazingly." Magnus blinked the sleep out of
his eyes and leaned closer, on hands and knees, to peer at
his father. "In truth, thou dost amazingly. I would never
guess thy rage, to look at thee. Papa, what..."

The night seemed to thicken a few feet away from the
children. Something hazy appeared, coalesced, hardened,
and shot to earth, slamming into the ground a few feet from
Magnus's hand. His head snapped around; he stared at a
six-inch rock. Cordelia's gaze was rivetted to it, too, in
horror; but Geoffrey leaped to his feet. "Ambush!"

The night thickened again, just over Magnus's head.
Something hazy appeared...

... and began to coalesce...

"Heads up!" Rod dove for his son. His shoulder knocked
Magnus sprawling, and a foot-thick rock crashed down,
grazing Rod's hip. He bellowed with pain—and anger at
the monster who dared attack his children. His full rage cut
loose.

"Ware!" Magnus cried. The children were already look-
ing up, as their father had bade them, so they saw the rocks
materializing—two, three, all plummeting to earth as they
became real.

"Dodge ball!" Magnus shouted. Instantly, he and his
brothers and sister were bounding and bobbing back and
forth, Cordelia weaving an aerial dance that would've given
a computer tracker a blown fuse, the boys appearing and

84 Christopher Stasheff

disappearing here, there, yonder, like signal lights in a storm.
Through their flickering pavane, Magnus called in sup-
pressed rage, "Art thou hurted. Papa?"

"Nothing that a little murder won't cure," Rod yelled
back. "Children—seek! Discover and destroy!"

The children seemed to focus more sharply, and stayed
visible for longer intervals.

Gwen was on her feet, still, her eyes warily probing the
night above them.

Then Geoffrey hopped to his left, just as a small boulder
materialized right where his chest had been.

Rod stood rigid with horror. If the boy hadn't happened
to jump aside, just at that instant... "Somebody's trying to
teleport rocks into the kids' bodies!"

"'Twould be instant death." Gwen's face was pale, but
taut with promised mayhem.

Rod stood tree-still, his eyes wide open; but the night
blurred around him into a formless void as his mind opened,
seeking....

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 moon-
light. 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 re-
sounded 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

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       85

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 carolled 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, claw-
ing for land, for wood, for something that floated.... In-
stinctively, 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

86 Christopher Stasheff

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 comers 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 in-
stant conviction that he wasn't seeing with his eyes—es-
pecially 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 for-
ward, 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

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       87

him, head pressed against his and sobbing, "Papa! I feared
we had lost thee!"

Rod wrapped his arms around her, grateful to have some-
thing 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, roast-
ing 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 leam 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

88

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       89

allowance! I didn't begin to recognize most of the places
he took us to!"

"Any child could do the same," Magnus answered, an-
noyed.

"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 im-
planted 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 probability, 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...."

90            Christopher Stasheff

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 war-
lock—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 chil-
dren's gazes glued to him. They looked worried; he won-
dered what they'd been up to. "So. Finally, he took us into
a dungeon."

"'Twas the sorcerer Alfar's dungeon," Geoffrey ex-
plained, 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 con-
viction. "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."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       91

"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, deli-
cately, "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 shoul-

92            Christopher Stasheff

der. "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 war-
lock 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, throw-
ing 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.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       93

"Yet that doth not afright 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 my
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.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

95

94           Christopher Stasheff                   ;

Concern for his father's safety—even after Rod had been
so cruel! This son could not only forgive—he could even      I
run to help! Remorse charged his anguish, and made him      i
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 Owen'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 de-
spair. "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 chil-
dren, he will."

She stared at him for a long moment. The children were

very silent.

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 Runny mede—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."




96            Christopher Stasheff

They plodded on toward the peasant family. Then Geoffrey
took a chance and said, "The sorcerer's guards grow care-
less, 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 1st 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

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       97

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 be-
lieve the news is false, can."

"Until the sorcerer and his minions overun 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."




98

Christopher Stasheff

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 churiishness 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.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED       99

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 under-
brush. "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 thun-
dered 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.

100           Christopher Stasheff

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 near-
est, 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 be-




THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      101

side 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 south-
ward.

"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

702 Christopher Stasheff

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. Uncon-
scious, but living—I hope. You see, we're not quite what
we seem to be."

"Indeed," she hissed between her teeth, and forced her-
self to her feet again, swinging the whip up. "So I had
thought!"

"Not that way! This tinker outfit is just a disguise!" Rod

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      103

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 respon-
sibilities 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, nod-
ding 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?"

Now it was her turn to pull herself together and remember
her dignity. "I am Elyena, Duchess of Romanov."

7

Rod steered the tottering horses off the road and into the
meadow near Gwen, holding up the Duchess with his left
arm. As he pulled them to a halt, she raised her head, looking
about, then crowded closer to him. "The soldiers..."

Rod turned, and saw all the soldiers gathered in a knot
under a low tree. Most of them held their heads in their
hands. Some had lifted their gazes and were looking
around, blinking, their faces drawn and uncertain. The
knight lay by them with his helmet off. Gwen knelt over
him.

"Don't worry," Rod said, trying to sound reassuring.
"They feel as though they've just awakened from a bad
dream. They're on your side again." He jumped down from
the box. "Just stay there."

She did, huddling into herself—and not looking at all
reassured.

Rod sighed, and thought sharply, Cordelia!

The little girl leaped up halfway across the meadow and
looked around. She located her father and jumped on her
broomstick, zooming straight over to him. "Aye, Papa?"

Rod noticed the Duchess staring. Well, at least she was
distracted. "Cordelia, this lady needs..."

But Cordelia was staring past him, toward the windows

104

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      105

of the coach, and a delighted grin curved on her lips. "Chil-
dren!"

Rod turned, suprised.

Two little faces filled one of the windows, looking about
with frank curiousity.

Cordelia skipped past Rod, hands behind her back. The
Duchess's children watched her warily. Cordelia stopped
right below them and cocked her head to the side. "I am
hight Cordelia."

They didn't answer; they just stared.

Rod touched her shoulder. "They've been having some
bad scares lately, honey."

The elder boy looked up in indignation. "Was not scared!"

"Yeah, sure, you were calm as a mill pond. Just go easy,
honey."

"Oh, Papa!" she said, exasperated. "Can they not see I
wish them no harm?" Before he could answer, she whirled
away to the Duchess. "May I play with them?"

The Duchess stared down at her. Then, slowly, she said,
"Why... an they wish it... certes."

That they would wish it. Rod did not doubt; he knew his
daughter. Already, the two boys were watching her with
marked interest.

"Oh, good!" Cordelia spun back to the children. "I have
brothers, too. Thou mayst play with them also, an thou dost
wish it."

The two boys still looked wary, but Cordelia's friendli-
ness was infectious. The younger opened the coach door,
and stepped out. "I," he said, "am Gaston."

Rod turned away, quite certain the Duchess's attention
would be fully occupied for a while, and went over to his
wife.

As he came up, she sat back on her heels, gazing down
at the knight and shaking her head. Instantly, Rod was alert.
"What's the matter? Is the hypnosis too strong?"

Gwen shook her head again. "I have broke the spell, my
lord. Yet I can bring him no closer to life than this."

Rod turned, staring down at the knight. He saw a lined
face and bald head, with a fringe of gray hair. His skin was
gray, and covered with a sheen of sweat. Guilt swept through




706 Christopher Stasheff

Rod. He knelt beside the knight. "But it was only 120 volts!
Only fifteen amperes! And I only hit him with it for a few
seconds!"

Gwen shook her head. "It may have as easily been the
fall, my lord. His heart had stopped, and I labored to make
it begin to beat again."

"Heart attack?" Rod took a closer look at the knight.
"He's middle-aged—and he's let himself sag out of shape."
He shook his head, looking up at Gwen. "There was no
way I could tell that. He had his helmet on, and the visor
was down."

"In truth, thou couldst not," she agreed, "and anything
thou hadst done to stop him, might have hurt him this badly."
She lifted her eyes, gazing into his. "Yet, my lord, I mis-
doubt me an 'twas any action of thine that did strike him
down. He had ridden too many miles in harness."

Rod nodded slowly. "Whoever sent him out to lead a
troop in full armor, at his age, must've seen him only as a
thing, not a person. Who... ? No, cancel that. Of course—
who else? Alfar."

"We will tend him, milady."

Gwen looked up, and saw the sergeant kneeling across
from her.

"Sir Verin is old, but dear to us," the soldier explained.
"How he came to this pass, we know not. We will tend
him." He lifted his head, showing haunted eyes. "Lady—
what have our bodies done, the whiles our souls slept?"

"Naught that is any fault of thine." She touched his hand,
smiling gently. "Trouble not thine heart."

Geoffrey darted up beside her. "Mama! There are chil-
dren! May we go play?"

Gwen looked up, startled. "Why..."

"We've got company," Rod explained.

A short while later, the parents sat around a hasty camp-
fire while the children played nearby. The Duchess sat,
shivering in spite of the sun's midday warmth. Gwen had
fetched a blanket from Fess's pack and wrapped it around
her, but the poor lady still shivered with reaction. She gazed
at the children, who were winding up a raucous game of
tag. "Ah, bless them! Poor mites." Tears gathered at the

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      107

comers of her eyes. "They know not the meaning of what
hath happed."

"Thou hast not told them, then?" Gwen said softly.

The Duchess shook her head. "They know what they
have seen, and no more." She looked up at Rod, a hard
stare. "And I will not tell them until I know."

Rod stared back, and nodded slowly. "Why not? Your
husband could still be alive. It's even possible that he's
well."

The Duchess nodded slowly, maintaining the glare. But
she couldn't hold it long, and her head dropped.

Nearby, the children collapsed in a panting tangle.

"Nay, but tell!" Cordelia cajoled. "Didst thou truly see
the evil sorcerer?"

"Nay," said the youngest; and "We saw naught," said the
eldest. "Naught save the inside of our keep. Mother penned
us there, and would not even let us go so far as the window."

"Yet thou didst come in a coach," Magnus reminded.
"Didst thou see naught then?"

The boys shook their heads, and the youngest said, "We
knew only that Mother bade us follow her down to the
courtyard, and placed us in the coach. Through the gate
house, we heard the clash of arms afar off; yet she drew
the curtains closely, and bade us open them not."

The oldest added, "We could hear the rumble of the
wheels echoing about us, and knew that we passed through
the gatehouse. Then the portcullis did crash down behind
us, and the noises of war began to grow nearer."

Geoffrey's eyes glinted.

"Then they began to grow fainter, till they were lost
behind us," the eldest went on, "and we heard naught but
the grating of the coach's wheels."

The youngest nodded. "When at last we did part the
curtains, there was naught to see but summer fields and
groves."

The Duchess pressed her face into her hands, and her
shoulders shook with more than shivering. Gwen tucked the
blanket more tightly around her, murmuring soothing in-
anities. She glanced at Rod and nodded toward the children.

Rod took the cue. "Uh, kids—could you maybe change
the subject?"

708 Christopher Stasheff

"Eh?" Cordelia looked up and took in the situation at a
glance. "Oh!" She was instantly contrite. "We are sorry,
Papa." She turned to the other children, catching the hands
of the Duchess's sons. "Come, let us play at tracking."

The fatuous look they gave her boded well for her teen-
aged future, and ill for Rod's coming peace of mind. But
they darted away, calling to one another, and Magnus hid
his face against a large tree, and began to count.

The Duchess lifted her head, turning it from side to side
in wonder. "They so quickly forget such ill!"

"Well, yes—but you haven't really told them the bad
parts," Rod said judiciously. "For all they know, their fa-
ther's winning the battle. And can you really say he didn't?"

"Nay," she said, as though it were forced from her. "Yet
I did not flee till I looked down from the battlements, and
saw that the melee had begun to go against him—even as
we had feared." Then she buried her face in her hands, and
her shoulders heaved with sobbing. Gwen clucked over her,
comforting, and Rod had the good taste to keep quiet until
the Duchess had regained some measure of control over
herself. She lifted her head, gazing out over the meadow
with unseeing eyes. "When first the reeves began to bring
us tales of villages suborned, we dismissed them with laugh-
ter. Who could come to rule a village, whiles its knight
stood by to shield it? Yet the first tale was followed by a
second, and a second by a third, then a fourth, then a fifth—
and ever was it the same: that a sorcerer had made the people
bow to him. Then it was a witch who forced the homage,
with the sorcerer's power supporting her; then a warlock."

"How'd they do it?" Rod asked. "Did the reeves know?"

The Duchess shook her head. "They had heard only ru-
mors of dire threats, and of bams bursting into flame, and
kine that sickened and fell. Yet for the greater part, there
had been only surliness and complaining from the peasants,
complaining that swelled louder and louder. Then the witch
or warlock stepped amongst them, and they turned with
joyful will to bow to him or her, and the sorcerer whose
power lay 'neath. My lord did bid one of his knights to ride
about his own estates, and visit the villages therein. The
knight returned, and spoke of peasant mobs that howled in

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      109

fury, brandishing scythes and mattocks, and hurling stones.
When he charged, they broke and ran; yet when he turned
away, eftsoons they gathered all against him once again."
Her mouth hardened. "Thus were they bid, I doubt not."

"Sudden, rabid loyalty." Rod glanced at Gwen. "Would
you say they didn't really seem to be themselves? The peas-
ants, I mean."

"Nay, assurdly not!" The Duchess shuddered. "They were
as unlike what they had been, as Maytime is from winter.
Such reports angered milord, but not greatly. They angered
his vassal, the Baron de Gratecieux, far more; for, look you,
the greater part of Milord Duke's revenues was yielded to
him by his counts, who gained theirs from their barons. Yet
the barons gain theirs from their knights."

Rod nodded. "So a knight's village resisting payments
is a little more serious to the baron than to his duke."

The Duchess nodded too. "He did implore Milord Duke
for arms and men, which my lord did give him gladly. Then
rode the Baron 'gainst the sorcerer."

She fell silent. Rod waited.

When she didn't go on. Rod asked, "What happened?"

The Duchess shuddered. "Eh, such reports as we had
were horrible, in truth! The Baron's force did meet with a
host of magics—fell creatures that did pounce from the air,
fireballs and rocks that appeared among them, hurtling;

arrows that sped without bows or archers, and war-axes and
maces that struck without a hand to bear them. Then peasant
mobs did charge upon them, howling and striking with their
sickles. Yet far worst of all was a creeping fear, a sense of
horror that overcame the Baron's soldiers, till they broke
and ran, screaming hoarsely in their terror."

Rod met Gwen's eyes, and her words sounded in his ears
alone: / count a witch-moss crofter, and the warlock who
doth hurl stones 'mongst us; and there be witches who do
make the weapons fly. Yet what's this creeping horror?

Rod could only shake his head. He looked down at the
Duchess again. "What happened to the Baron?"

The Duchess shuddered. "He came not home; yet in later
battles, he has been seen—leading such soldiers as lived,
against the sorcerer's foes."

110           Christopher Stasheff

Rod caught Gwen's eye again; she nodded. Well, they'd
met that compulsive hypnosis already. "How many of the

soldiers survived?"

"There were, mayhap, half a dozen that lived to flee, of

the threescore that marched to battle."

Rod whistled softly. "Six out of sixty? This sorcerer's
efficient, isn't he? How many of the defeated ones were
following Baron de Gratecieux in the next battle?"

The Duchess shrugged. "From the report we had—may-
hap twoscore."

"Forty out of sixty, captured and brainwashed?" Rod

shuddered. "But some got away—the six you mentioned."

"Aye. But a warlock pursued them. One only bore word
to us; we know not what happened to the other five."

"It's a fair guess, though." Rod frowned. "So right from
the beginning, Alfar's made a point of trying to keep word
from leaking out." Somehow, that didn't smack of the me-
dieval mind. "You say you learned this afterwards?"

The Duchess nodded. "It took that lone soldier a week
and a day to win home to us."

"A lot can happen in a week."

"So it did. The sorcerer and his coven marched against
the Castle Gratecieux; most of the household acclaimed
Alfar their suzerain. The Baroness and some loyal few ob-
jected, and fought to close the gates. They could not prevail,
though, and those who did acclaim the sorcerer their lord,
did ope the gate, lower the drawbridge, and raise the port-
cullis."

Rod shrugged. "Well, if they could make whole villages

switch allegiance, why not a castleful?"

"What did the sorcerer to the Baroness?" Gwen asked,

eyes wide.

The Duchess squeezed her eyes shut. "She doth rest in

the dungeon, with her children—though the eldest was
wounded in the brawling."

Gwen's face hardened.

"How did you leam this?" Rod tried to sound gentle.

"Servants in Gratecieux's castle have cousins in my kitch-
ens."

"Servants' network." Rod nodded. "So Alfar just took

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      111

over the castle. Of course, he went on to take over the rest
of the manor."

"Such villages as did not already bow to him, aye. They
fell to his sway one by one. At last, the other barons did
take alarm, and did band together to declare war upon him."

"Bad tactics." Rod shook his head. "The hell with the
declaration; they should've just gone in, and mopped him
up."

The Duchess stared, scandalized.

"Just an idea," Rod said quickly.

The Duchess shook her head. "'Twould have availed
them naught. They fought a sorcerer."

Rod lifted his head slowly, eyes widening, nostrils flar-
ing. He turned to Gwen. "So he's got people thinking they
can't win, before they even march. They're half defeated
before they begin fighting."

"Mayhap," the Duchess said, in a dull voice, "yet with
great ease did he defeat the barons. A score of sorcerer's
soldiers did grapple with the barons' outriders, on the left
flank. The scouts cried for a rescue, and soldiers ran to aid
them. The sorcerer's men withdrew; yet no sooner had they
vanished into the forest, than another band attacked the
vanguard of the right flank. Again soldiers ran to bring aid,
and again the sorcerer's men withdrew; and, with greater
confidence, the barons' men marched ahead."

Even hearing the story. Rod felt a chill. "Too much con-
fidence."

The Duchess nodded, and bit her lip. "When they came
within sight of Castle Gratecieux, a wave of soldiers broke
upon them from the forest. At t'other side of the road, rocks
began to appear, with thunder-crashes, and also from that
side came a swarm of thrown stones—yet no one was there
to throw them. The soldiers recoiled upon themselves, then
stood to fight; yet they fell in droves. Three of the five
barons fought to the last with their men, and were lost. The
other two rallied mayhap a score, and retreated. The sor-
cerer's army pressed them hard, but well did they defend
themselves. Naetheless, a half of the men fell, and one of
the barons with them. The other half won through to the
High Road, whereupon they could turn and flee, faster than




112           Christopher Stasheff

the sorcerer's men could follow. A warlock followed them,
and rocks appeared all about them; yet he grew careless
and, of a sudden, an archer whirled and let fly. The arrow
pierced the warlock, and he tumbled from the sky, scream-
ing. Then away rode the baron and his poor remnant—and
thus was the word brought to us. And I assure thee, mine
husband did honor that archer."

"So should we all," Rod said. "It always helps, having
a demonstration that your enemy can be beaten. Didn't your
husband take these rumors of danger seriously before then?"

"Nay, not truly. He could not begin to believe that a band
of peasants could be any true danger to armored knights
and soldiers, even though they were witches. Yet when the
Baron Marole stood before him and told him the account
of his last battle, my lord did rise in wrath. He summoned
up his knights and men, and did send his fleetest courier
south, to bear word of all that had happed to Their Royal
Majesties."

Rod frowned. "He sent a messenger? How long ago?"

The Duchess shrugged. "Five days agone."

Rod shook his head. "He should have been in Runnymede
before we left."

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes widening,
haunted. "He did not come."

"No," Rod answered, "he didn't."

The Duchess dropped her gaze. "Alas, poor wight! Need
we guess at what hath happed?"

"No, I think it's pretty obvious." Rod gazed north along
the road. "In fact, he might even have dressed himself as
a peasant, in hopes he'd be overlooked. In any case, he's
probably the reason Alfar sent his new army out to cut down
refugees."

"Refugees?" The Duchess looked up, frowning. "What
are these?"

"Poor folk, who flee the ravages of war," Gwen ex-
plained.

Rod nodded. "Usually because their homes have been
destroyed. In this case, though, the only ones who've been
heading south are the ones who realized what was coming,
and got out while they could."

"You've seen such folk, then?"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      113

Rod nodded. "A few. I'd say we've been running into
one every mile or so."

The Duchess shook her head slowly. "I marvel that they
'scaped the sorcerer's soldiers!"

"They started early enough, I guess—but I'm sure the
soldiers caught up with plenty of other bands. And, of
course, we did manage to, ah, interfere, when a squad of
men-at-arms was trying to stop a family we bumped into."

The Duchess studied his face. "What had this family
seen?"

"Not a dam thing—but they'd heard rumors."

"And were wise enough to heed them." The Duchess's
mouth hardened. "Yet will Their Royal Majesties send an
army north, after naught but rumor?"

Rod shook his head. "Not a chance."

She frowned. "Yet how is it thou dost..." Then she
broke off, eyes widening in surprise, then hope. "Yet thou
dost come, thou!"

Rod answered with a sardonic smile. "Quick-witted, I
see. And yes, the King sent us—to find out the truth of the
rumors."

"And thou dost lead thy wife and baims into so vile a
brew of foulness?" the Duchess cried. She turned on Gwen.
"Oh lady, nay! If thou dost thy children love, spare them
this horror!"

Gwen looked up at Rod, startled.

Like a gentleman. Rod declined the unexpected advan-
tage. He only said, "Well... you'll understand that my wife
and children are a bit better equipped to deal with evil
witches than most might be—so they're not really in so
great a danger."

It earned him a look of warmth from Gwen, but the
Duchess cried, "Danger enow! Lord Warlock, do not let
them go! Thou dost not comprehend the might of this fell
sorcerer!"

"We've had a taste of it."

"Then let that taste make thee lose thine appetite! A
fulness of his work will sicken thy soul! 'Tis one thing to
see a mere squadron of his victims, such as these poor
folk..." She waved toward the soldiers. "Yet when thou
dost see them come against thee by the hundreds, thine heart

114 Christopher Stasheff

shall shrink in horror! Tis not that his magic is so fell—
'tis the purely evil malice of his soul!"

Rod's eyes gleamed. "You've seen him yourself, then?"

She dropped her eyes. "Aye, though only from a dis-
tance. 'Twas enow." She shuddered. "I could feel his hatred
washing o'er me, as though I stood 'neath a cloudburst of
dirtied water. Methought that I should ne'er again feel clean!"

"But how could the Duke let you come so near the battle!"

"He fought against it, I assure thee—yet the battle did
come nigh to me. For when he had dispatched the courier
southwards, and his knights had come up with all their men,
he donned his armor and rode forth to meet the sorcerer."

Rod nodded. "Sounds right. I never would've accused
Duke Romanov of hesitating—or of the slightest bit of
uncertainty."

"Error, though?" The Duchess looked up, with a sardonic
smile. "I know mine husband. Lord Warlock. Dearly though
I love him, I cannot help but be aware of his rashness. Yet
in this matter, I believe, even full caution would have im-
pelled him to battle—for 'twas fight or flee, look you, and,
as Duke, he could not flee—for he was sworn to the pro-
tection of his people. 'Twas his duty, then, to fight—and
if he must needs fight, 'twas best to fight just then, when
the sorcerer and his forces were newly come from battle,
and would therefore be weakened with battle losses."

"But strengthened with the men he'd captured." Rod
frowned. "Or didn't you realize..." He gazed at her, and
let the words gel in his mouth.

"What?" She frowned.

Rod cleared his throat, and shifted from one foot to the
other. "Well, uh... where he recruited his men from. His
army, I mean."

"Ah." She smiled bitterly. "From those he had defeated,
dost thou mean? Aye, that word was brought to us with the
news of Baron Gratecieux's lost battle. The soldier who
came back, did tell us of old friends he'd seen who, he
knew, had fought in the train of one of Gratecieux's vassal
knights."

"Well, at least it's not a surprise now," Rod sighed. "I
suppose it would take Alfar a little while to process his new
recruits..."




THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      115

"To bind them under his spell?" The Duchess shook her
head. "I know not. I know only that my lord did march out
toward the castle that had been Gratecieux's—and I went
up to the highest turret, to see them go."

Rod lifted his head a little. "Could you see all the way
to Gratecieux's castle?"

"Aye; his towers are taller even than those of Their Royal
Majesties. We can see only the battlements—yet we can
see that much. Not that I had need to."

Rod frowned. "You mean they didn't even get that far?"

The Duchess nodded. "The sorcerer had marched out to
meet him. Even when my lord set out, the sorcerer's forces
already stood, drawn up and waiting, by a ravine midway
betwixt the two castles. 'Tis as though he knew aforetime
of my lord's coming."

"He did," Rod growled. "All witches and warlocks here
are mind readers."

The Duchess looked up, surprised. Then her mouth tight-
ened in exasperation. "Aye, certes. And I knew it. I had
but to think—and I did not."

"It matters not," Gwen said quickly.

"Truth. What aid could I provide?" The Duchess spread
her hands helplessly. "I could but watch. Yet though the
sorcerer had magics, my lord the Duke had guile."

"Oh, really? You mean he managed to escape the am-
bush?"

"Aye, and drew them onto ground of his choosing. For
they waited on the road, look you, with a wooded slope to
the left, and a bank strewn with boulders on the right."

Rod nodded. "Good ambush country. What'd your hus-
band do about the roadblock?"

"He saw it afar off, and marched his force off the road
ere the slopes had begun to enfold it. Out into the open
plain they went, and away toward Castle Gratecieux."

"Oh, nice." Rod grinned. "Go knock on the door while
the army's out waiting for you." His opinion of Duke
Romanov went up a notch. No matter; it had plenty of room.

"The sorcerer did not appreciate his wisdom," the Duchess
assured Rod. "He marched his men posthaste out into the
plain, to once again block my lord's path, and more men
than had bestrode the road, burst from the trees and rock."

116 Christopher Stasheff

"Of course. Your husband knows an ambush point when
he sees one—and it is nice to be proven right now and
then, isn't it?"

The Duchess exchanged a wifely glance with Gwen.
Rod hurried. "I gather they did manage to cut him off."
"They did indeed; yet my lord's troops were drawn up
in battle array, and fresh, whiles the sorcerer's straggled
hard from a chase. Then they met, with a fearful clash of
arms and a howling of men, that I could hear clearly over
the leagues. And, at first, my lord's forces bore back the
sorcerer's. Little could I see from my tower; but the coil of
men did move away, and therefore did I know that the
sorcerer retreated, and my lord did follow."
"Delightful! But I take it that didn't last?"
"Nay." She spread her hands. "I cannot tell why, or what
did hap to change the tide of battle. I only know that the
coil began to grow again, and swelled far too quickly. Thus
I knew that my husband's forces did flee—in truth, that I
did witness a rout. I stayed to see no more, but flew down
to gather up my boys, and bundle them into the coach. I
bade them keep the curtains close, and lie upon the floor;

then turned I to old Peter, the groom, and I did cry, "The
coachman hath gone to fight by my lord's side! Up, old
Peter, and aid us in our flight!' Yet he did not stir; he only
glowered up at me, and spat at my feet. 'Not I,' he growled.
'Ne'er again shall I serve a lordling!'"

Rod didn't speak, but flint struck steel in his gaze.
Gwen saw, and nodded. "'Twas even so. The sorcerer's
spells had reached out to entrap his mind."
"What did you do?" Rod asked the Duchess.
"I fled," the Duchess said simply. "I did not stay to seek
another coachman, lest old Peter's surliness turn to malice.
I had no wish to have spellbound creatures seek to drag me
down. Nay, I sprang up on the box myself, and seized the
whip. I attempted to crack it over the horses' heads, but it
only whistled past them; yet that was enow, and they trotted
forward. Through the gates and over the drawbridge I drove,
with my heart in my throat, for fear the team would seize
the bits, and run wild away; yet they trotted obediently, and
I found that I had moved in barely ample time. For even
as my coach's wheels roared onto the drawbridge, the port-

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

117

cullis shot down behind me with a crash, and the bridge
beneath me began to tremble. As soon as I was clear, I did
look back, and, surely, did see the bridge begin to rise."
"Yet thou wast free!" Gwen breathed.
The Duchess shook her head. "Nay, not yet. For as I
raced away from the castle, I did see my lord's soldiers
charging towards me with the sorcerer's men-at-arms hot
on their heels. I knew I must pass near to their flight ere I
could win free to the southward road; I prayed that our
faithful men, seeing me, would turn to fight, and gain us
that last vital moment in which to escape. Yet were my
hopes dashed, for as they came nigh me, fire kindled in
their eyes, and a dozen of them ran to catch my horses'
reins, howling for my blood and my children's heads—
they, who but minutes before had fought in our defense!"
She buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Gwen wrapped an arm around her, and murmured, "They
did not know. I have broke this spell from two bands of
men now, and thus can tell thee how it is: Their minds are
put to sleep, and the thoughts that float above that slumber
are not theirs. The men themselves, who swore thee faith
and served thee well, do keep the faith they swore! If they
are waked, and learn what their bodies did while their minds
slept, they will be heart-struck, even as these." She nodded
toward the soldiers gathered under the tree.

"Heart-struck, as am I!" the Duchess sobbed. "For when
they are waked from their enchantment, what shall I say to
them? "That scar upon thy cheek is my own doing, but I
did not truly mean to do it?' For, look thee, as they threw
themselves at the horses' bits, I struck out with the whip,
and scored them wheresoe'er I might—on their hands, then-
arms, their chests or, aye, even their faces! And they fell
back, then they fell back..." Her voice dissolved into weep-
ing again.

"You had no choice." Rod's voice was harsh.
"No choice, in truth!" Gwen cried. "Wouldst thou have

let them drag thine horses to a halt, wrench ope thy carriage,

and drag out thy baims, to take to Alfar?"

The Duchess shuddered. "'Tis even as thou dost say."

She caught her breath, swallowed, and nodded. "'Tis even

so. I could not let them triumph."

118

Christopher Stasheff

"But Alfar did?"

"Oh, aye, of that am I certain—and my lord doth lie in
the sleep of death! Or, if I am blessed, only battered and
bloody, but alive in a dungeon! Ah, how shall I look into
his eyes again, if ever he is freed, if ever we do meet again?
For which, pray Heaven! Yet what shall I say? For I was
not there to hold his castle against his return!"

"He was probably in chains before he came anywhere
near home." Rod carefully didn't mention the alternative.
"If I know Duke Romanov, he probably didn't even start

the return trip."

Gwen nodded. "All the land doth know that thy husband
would sooner die than flee, milady. Belike they dragged
him down fighting, and bore him away to prison."

"Aye." She took a deep breath, and squared her shoul-
ders. "Aye, that is most likely. He would not have even
known his men had fled. And they would seek to capture
him, no matter the cost—would they not? For surely, an
imprisoned Duke is a mighty weapon! Yet I did flee."

"And thus he would have bade thee do!"

Rod nodded. "Yes, he would have. If he'd thought you
might have stayed to fight against an enemy like that, he'd
have been in a panic—and a less effective fighter for it;

his fear for you would have shackled his sword arm." He
shook his head. "No, knowing that you'd do everything you
could to get the children to safety, if he lost the battle, was
all that gave him a clear enough mind to fight the battle."

The Duchess sat still, head bowed.

"'Tis even as milord doth say," Gwen murmured, "and
thou dost know it to be true. Thou art thyself the daughter
of noblemen."

Slowly, then, the Duchess nodded. "Aye, 'tis true. I have
done naught but my duty."

"And your lord will praise you for it," Rod assured her.
"Bewail his loss—but don't bewail your own conduct. You
know you did exactly as you should have."

The Duchess sighed, straightening and poising her head.

"Indeed, 'tis true—yet I did need to hear one speak it
anew. I thank thee. Lady Gallowglass—and thou. Lord
Warlock." But her eyes were on Gwen's when her sudden
smile showed.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      119

Rod heaved a sigh of relief. "I take it you've been driving
without a rest."

"Aye, the poor horses! Though I slowed to a walk as
often as I dared—yet are the poor beasts near to founder-
ing."

"They lasted." Rod turned to glance at the horses grazing.
A couple had already dozed off. "It's a wonder, though—
they must've been going for a whole day and night."

The Duchess nodded. "Less a few hours. We began our
flight late in the afternoon."

Gwen caught Rod's eye, with a covert smile. He didn't
hear her thoughts, but he didn't have to; they no doubt
would've been something along the lines of: Subtle as a
nuclear blast.

"Papa! PapaPapaPapaPapaPapa!"

Rod looked up, glad of the reprieve.

The children came pelting across the meadow—or at
least, the Duchess's two did. Rod's brood behaved more
like spears.

"Papa!" Javelin Geoffrey struck into him, and clung. Rod
staggered back a step, caught his breath, and said, "Yes.
What's so important that it can't wait a second?"

"Illaren's papa!" Geoffrey crowed. "We saw him!"

Illaren, the elder of the Duchess's children, nodded ea-
gerly.

His mother sat galvanized.

"You what?" Rod caught his son under the shoulders
and held him at arm's length. "Now, be very careful what
you say, son. Remember, you could hurt people's feelings
very badly, if you're making a mistake.... Now. You don't
mean to tell me you just saw Duke Romanov here, do you?"

"Oh, no. Papa!" Geoffrey cried in disgust; and Magnus
exploded. "'Twas last night. Papa—when we chased the
warlock!"

v "The nasty one, who threw rocks," Gregory chimed in.
"Art thou mindful, Papa, of when he took thee to the dun-
geon?"

"Yes, I remember." Suddenly, vividly, in his mind's eye,
Rod saw the prisoner shackled to the wall again. "You mean
... the man in chains... ?"

"Aye! Wouldst thou not say, Papa, that he was..." He

720           Christopher Stasheff

turned to Illaren, nose wrinkling. "How didst thou picture

thy father?"

"A great bear of a man," Illaren supplied.
"Aye!" Geoffrey whirled back to Rod. "With hair of so

dark a brown 'twas near to black. And richly clad, with

gilded armor!"

Rod nodded, faster and faster. "Yes... yes! Yes on the

armor, too—what there was left of it, anyway."
"But that is Father!" cried the younger boy.
"Art thou certain!" The Duchess came to her feet, stag-
gering,

Geoffrey stilled, staring at her, eyes huge. "In truth, we

are."

"Dost thou truly mean..."

"They're right." Rod turned a grave face to her. "I didn't
recognize him, at the time—but I should have. It was your
husband, my lady Duchess. I'm sure of it."

She stood rigid, staring at him.

Then her eyes rolled up, and she collapsed.

Gwen stepped forward, and caught her in an expert grip.
"Be not affrighted," she assured the two boys. "Thy mother
doth but swoon—and 'tis from joy, not grief."

"But Illaren's papa is sorely hurted. Papa!" Magnus re-
minded Rod.

"Yes." Rod fixed his eldest with an unwavering stare.

"He was hurt—and imprisoned. Remember that."
Magnus stared up at him, face unreadable.
"A Duke." Rod's tone was cold, measured. "With all his
knights, with all his men-at-arms, with all his might, he
was sorely wounded, captured, and imprisoned." He turned
his head slowly, surveying his children. "Against a power
that could do that, what could four children do? And what

would happen to them?"

"But we are witches!" Cordelia cried.

"Warlocks!" Geoffrey's chin thrust forward.

"So," Rod said, "are they."

"They have come against us," Geoffrey cried, "and we

have triumphed!"

"Yes—when there were six of us, and one of them.

What's going to happen if we meet all of them together?"
He stared into Geoffrey's eyes. "As the Duke did."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      121

"We will no? go back!" Cordelia stamped her foot.

Rod stiffened, his face paling. "You... will... do... as
... I... tell you!"

Magnus's face darkened, and his mouth opened, but
Gwen's hand slid around to cover it. "Children." Her voice
was quiet, but all four stilled at the sound. Gwen looked
directly into Rod's eyes. "I gave thy father my promise."

"What promise?" Cordelia cried.

"That if he did insist, we would go home." She raised
a hand to still the instant tumult. "Now he doth insist."

Rod nodded slowly, and let his gaze warm as he looked
at her.

"But, Afama..."

"Hush," she commanded, "for there is this, too—these
horrors that the Duchess hath spoke of to me. Nay, children,
'tis even as thy father hath said—there is danger in the
North, horrible and rampant. Tis no place for children."

Cordelia whirled on her. "But you. Mama..."

"Must come with thee, to see thee safely home," Gwen
said, and her tone was iron. "Or dost thou truly say that I
have but to bid thee 'Go,' and thou'It return to Runnymede
straightaway? That thou wouldst truly not seek to follow
thy father, and myself, unseen?"

Cordelia clenched her fists and stamped her foot, glaring
up at her mother with incipient mutiny, but she didn't an-
swer.

Gwen nodded slowly. " 'Tis even as I thought." She lifted
her gaze to Rod. "And there is this, too—I do not believe
the Duchess and her sons are safe yet."

Rod nodded. "Very true."

Gwen nodded too, and turned back to the children. "We
must needs guard them."

"But the soldiers..."

"Did lately chase them," Gwen reminded. "Who is to
say the sorcerer's power may not reach down from the North
to ensnare them again, and turn them 'gainst the Duchess
and her boys?"

Illaren exchanged a quick, frightened look with his brother.

"But, Mama..." Geoffrey cried.

"Thou wilt do as thou art bid," Gwen commanded, "and
thou wilt do it presently. Thou, whose care is ever the

722 Christopher Stasheff

ordering of battles—wilt thou truly deny that the course of
wisdom is to guard this family, and take them to King Tuan,
to bear witness?"

Geoffrey glowered back up at her, then said reluctantly,
"Nay. Thou hast the right of it. Mama."

"Doesn't she always," Rod muttered; but nobody seemed
to hear him.

She turned to him. "We shall go, husband—even as thou
dost wish."

"But Papa won't be safe!" Cordelia whirled to throw her
arms around his midriff.

Rod hugged her to him, but shook his head. "I've faced
danger without you before, children. There was even a time
when I didn't have your mother along to protect me."

Magnus shook his head, eyes wide with alarm. "Never
such danger as this. Papa. A vile, evil sorcerer, with a whole
army of witches behind him!"

"I've gone into the middle of an army before—and I
only had a dagger against all their swords, and worse. Much
worse."

"Yet these are witches!"

"Yes—and I've got more than a mental dagger, to use
against them." Rod held his son's eyes with a grave stare.
"I think I can match their sorcerer, spell for spell and power
for power—and pull a few tricks he hasn't even dreamed
of, since he was a child." He hauled Magnus in against
him, too. "No, don't worry about me this time. Some day,
I'll probably meet that enemy who's just a little too much
stronger than I am—but Alfar isn't it. For all his powers
and all his nastiness, he doesn't really worry me that much."

"Nor should he."

Rod looked up to see his youngest son sitting cross-
legged, apart from the huddle. "I think thou hast the right
of it. Papa. I think this sorcerer's arm is thickened more
with fear, than with strength."

"An that is so," said Geoffrey, "thou must needs match
him and, aye, e'en o'ermatch him. Papa."

"Well." Rod inclined his head gravely. "Thank you, my
sons. Hearing you say it, makes me feel a lot better." And,
illogically, it did—and not just because his children had,
when last came to last, become his cheering section. He

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      123

had a strange respect for his two younger sons. He wondered
if that was a good thing.

Apparently, Cordelia and Magnus felt the same way.
They pried themselves away from Rod, and the eldest nod-
ded. "If Gregory doth not foresee thy doom. Papa, it hath
yet to run."

"Yes." Rod nodded. "Alfar's not my Nemesis." He turned
back to Gregory. "What is?"

The child gazed off into space for a minute, his eyes
losing focus. Then he looked at his father again, and an-
swered, with total certainty, "Dreams."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      125

8

The Duchess slapped the horses with the reins, and the coach
creaked into motion as they plodded forward. They quick-
ened to a trot, and the coach rolled away. Gwen turned back
from her seat beside the Duchess, and waved. Four smaller
hands sprouted up from the coach roof, and waved franti-
cally too.

Rod returned the wave .until they were out of sight, feel-
ing the hollowness grow within him. Slowly, he turned back
toward the North, and watched the soldiers moving away,
bearing their wounded knight on a horse-litter. They had
decided to go back into the sorcerer's army, disguised as
loyal automatons. Gwen had told them how to hide their
true thoughts with a surface of simulated hypnosis—think-
ing the standardized thoughts that all Alfar's army shared.
She had also made clear their danger; Alfar would not look
kindly on traitors. They understood her fully, every single
man jack of them; but their guilt feelings ruled them, and
they welcomed the danger as expiation. Rod watched them
go, hoping he wouldn't meet any of them again until the
whole rebellion had been squelched.

Somehow, he was certain that it would be. It was assinine
to place faith in the pronouncements of a three-year-old—
but his little Gregory was uncanny, and very perceptive.

124

Acting on the basis of his predictions would be idiocy—
but he could let himself feel heartened by them. After all,
Gregory wasn't your average preschooler.

On the other hand, just because he had a ten-year-old's
vocabulary, didn't mean he had a general's grasp of the
situation. Rod took his opinions the way he took a palm
reading—emotionally satisfying, but not much use for help-
ing decide what to do next. He turned to Fess, stuck a foot
in the stirrup, and mounted. "Come on. Alloy Animal!
Northward ho!"

Fess moved away after the departing squadron. "Where
are we bound. Rod?"

"To Alfar, of course. But for the immediate future, find
a large farmstead, would you?"

"A farmstead? What do you seek there, Rod?"

"The final touch in our disguise." But Rod wasn't really
paying attention. His whole being was focused on the dev-
astating, terrifying sensation of being alone, for the first
time in twelve years. Oh, he'd been on his own before
during that time—but never for very long, only a day or
two, and he'd been too busy to think about it. But he had
the time now—and he was appalled to realize how much
he'd come to depend on his family's presence. He felt shorn;

he felt as though he'd been cut off from his trunk and roots,
like a lopped branch. There seemed to be a knot in his chest,
and a numbing fear of the world about him. For the first
time in twelve years, he faced that world alone, without
Gwen's massive support, or the gaiety of his children—not
to mention the very considerable aid of their powers.

The prospect was thoroughly daunting.

He tried to shake off the mood, throwing his shoulders
back and lifting his chin. "This is ridiculous, Fess. I'm the
lone wolf; I'm the man who penetrated the Prudential Net-
work and overthrew its Foreman! I'm the knife in the dark,
the vicious secret agent who brings down empires!"

"If you say so. Rod."

"I do say so, damn it! I'm me. Rod Gallowglass—not
just a father and a husband!... No, damn it, I'm Rodney
d'Armand! That 'Gallowglass' is just an alias I took when
I came here, to help me look like a native! And Rodney




726           Christopher Stasheff

d'Armand managed without Gwen and the kids for twenty-
nine years!"

"True," Fess agreed. "Of course, you lived in your fa-
ther's house for nineteen of them."

"All right, so I was only on my own for ten years! But
that's almost as long as I've been married, isn't it?"

"Of course."

"Yes." Rod frowned. "On the other hand, it's only as
long—isn't it?"

"That, too, is true."

"Yeah." Rod scowled. "Habit-forming little creatures,
aren't they?"

"There, perhaps, you have touched the nub of it," Jie
robot agreed. "Most people live their lives by habit patterns,
Rod."

"Yeah—but they're just habits." Rod squared his shoul-
ders again. "And you can always change your habits."

"Do you truly want to, Rod?"

"So when I get home, I'll change them back! But for the
time being, I can't have them with me—so I'd better get
used to it again. I can manage without them—and I will."

"Of course you will. Rod."

Rod caught the undertone in Fess's voice and glared at
the back of his metal skull. "What's the 'but' I hear in there,
Fess?"

"Merely that you will not be happy about it...."

"Rod, no! This is intolerable!"

"Oh, shut up and reverse your gears."

The robot heaved a martyred blast of white noise and
stepped back a pace or two. Rod lifted the shafts of the cart
and buckled them into the harness he'd strapped onto Fess
in place of a saddle.

"This is a severe debasement of a thoroughbred, Rod."

"Oh, come off it!" Rod climbed up to the single-board
seat and picked up the reins. "You used to pilot a spaceship,
Fess. That's the same basic concept as pulling a cart."

"No—it is analagous to driving a cart. And your state-
ment is otherwise as accurate as claiming that a diamond
embodies the same concept as a piece of cut plastic."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      127

"Hairsplitting," Rod said airily, and slapped Fess's back
with the reins.

The robot plodded forward, sighing, "My factory did not
manufacture me to be a cart horse."

"Oh, stuff it! When my ancestors met you, you were
piloting a miner's burro-boat in the asteroid belt around Sol!
I've heard the family legends!"

"I know; I taught them to you myself," Fess sighed,
again. "This is merely poetic justice. Northward, Rod?"

"Northward," Rod confirmed, "on the King's High Way.
Hyah!" He slapped the synthetic horsehide with the reins
again. It chimed faintly, and Fess broke into a trot. They
swerved out of the dirt track onto the High Road in a two-
wheeled cart, leaving behind a ragged yeoman gazing hap-
pily at the gold in his palm, and shaking his head at the
foolishness of tinkers, who no sooner came by a bit of
money, than they had to find something to spend it on.

As they trotted northward, Fess observed, "About your
discussion with your wife, Rod..."

"Grand woman." Rod shook his head in admiration. "She
always sees the realities of a situation."

"How are we defining 'reality' in this context. Rod?"

"We don't; it defines us. But you mean she was just
letting me have my own way, don't you?"

"Not simply that," Fess mused. "Not in regard to any-
thing of real importance."

"Meaning she usually talks me into doing things her
way." Rod sat up straighter, frowning. "Wait a minute! You
don't mean that's what she's done this time, too, do you?"

"No. I merely thought that you achieved her cooperation
with remarkable ease."

"When you start using so many polysyllables, I know
you're trying to tell me something unpleasant. You mean it
was too easy?"

"I did have something of the sort in mind, yes."

"Well, don't worry about it." Rod propped his elbows
on his knees. "It was short, but it wasn't really easy. Not
when you consider all the preliminary skirmishes."

"Perhaps... Still, it does not seem her way..."

"No... If she thinks I'm going to lose my temper, she

728 Christopher Stasheff

stands firm anyway—unless she sees good reason to change
her mind. And I think having given me a promise is a pretty
good reason. But at the bottom of it all, Fess, I don't think
I'm the one who convinced her."

"You mean the Duchess?"

Rod nodded. "Mother-to-mother communication always
carries greater credibility, for a wife and mother."

"Come, Rod! Certainly you don't believe yourself in-
capable of convincing your wife of your viewpoint!"

"Meaning I think she won't listen to me?" Rod nodded.
"She won't. Unless, of course, I happen to be right...."

It wasn't hard to tell when they reached the border; there
was a patrol there to remind him of it.

"Hold!" the sergeant snapped, as two privates brought
their pikes down with a crash to bar the road.

Rod pulled in on the reins, doing his best to think like
a crochety old farmer—indignant and resentful. "Aye, aye,
calm thysen! I've held, I've held!"

"Well for thee that thou hast," the sergeant growled. He
nodded to the two rankers. "Search." They nodded, and
went to the back of the cart, to begin probing through the
cabbages and bran sacks.

'"Ere! 'Ere! What dost thou?" Rod cried, appalled. "Leave
my cabbages be!"

"Tis orders, gaffer." The sergeant stepped up beside
him, arms akimbo. "Our master. Duke Alfar, demands that
we search any man who doth seek to come within the borders
of Romanov."

Rod stared, appalled—and the emotion was real. So
Alfar had promoted himself! "Duke Alfar? What nonsense
is this? 'Tis Ivan who is Duke here!"

"Treason!" another private hissed, his pike leaping out
level. Rod's fighting instincts impelled him to jump for the
young man's throat—but he belayed them sternly, and did
what a poor peasant would do: shrank back a little, but
manfully held his ground. He stared into the boy's eyes,
and saw a look that was intense, but abstracted—as though
the kid wasn't quite all here, but wherever he was, he cared
about it an awful lot.

Hypnoed into fanaticism.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      129

The sergeant was grinning, and he had the same sort of
shallow look behind the eyeballs. "Where hast thou been,
gaffer? Buried in thy fields, with thine head stuck in a clod?
Ivan is beaten and gaoled, and Alfar is now Duke of Ro-
manov!"

"Nay, it cannot be!" But Rod eyed the soldiers' uniforms
warily.

The sergeant saw the glance, and chuckled in his throat.
"Aye. 'Tis Alfar's livery." He scowled past Rod. "Hast thou
not done yet? 'Tis a cart, not a caravan!"

Rod turned to look, and stared in horror.

"Aye, we've done." The troopers straightened up.
"Naught here, Auncient."

"Nay, not so," Rod snapped. "I've still a few turnips
left. Hadst thou not purses large enow for all on't?"

"None o' yer lip," the sergeant growled. "If thou hast
lost a few cabbages, what matter? Thou hast yet much to
sell at the market in Korasteshev."

"Why dost thou come North?" demanded one of the men-
at-arms—the one with the quick pike.

Rod turned to him, suddenly aware of danger. He gazed
at the trooper, his eyes glazing, as the world he saw became
a little less than real, and his mind opened to receive impres-
sions. What was really going on behind the soldier's face?

He felt a pressure, almost as though someone were press-
ing a finger against his brain. Mentally, he stilled, becoming
totally passive. He sensed the differences in the minds around
him; it was like smelling, as though each mind gave off its
own aroma.

But four of them were all thinking the same thought:

Stop those who flee, to make Alfar stronger and greater.
However, someone coming into the Duchy was very boring.
He was no threat—just more potential, just one more mind
that would help magnify Alfar's glory.

But the fifth mind was alive and alert, and teeming with
suspicion. A dozen questions jammed up at its outlet, de-
manding to be asked. Underneath them lay the suspicion
that the stranger might be a spy or, worse, an assassin. And
at the bottom of the mind writhed a turmoil of unvoiced
thoughts, all rising from a brew of emotions: ambition,
suspicion, shame, anger, hatred. Rod carefully suppressed

130           Christopher Stasheff

a shudder, and bent all his efforts toward thinking like a
peasant fanner. He was a rough, unlettered country man,
who labored twelve hours a day on his lord's fields, and
four hours a day on his own—the four to raise a cash crop
that could all be fitted into one small cart. Of course, he
tried hard to get the most money he could, for all that
work—the small, additional amount that would make the
difference between poverty, and an adequate living for him-
self and his family during the winter. What did these ar-
rogant bastards mean by trying to keep him from Duke
Romanov's fat market in Korasteshev! And where did they
get the idea to act so high and mighty? Just because they
were wearing leather armor and carrying pikes! Especially
when anyone could see that, under the green and brown
uniforms, they were dirt peasants, like himself—probably
less. Probably mere serfs, and the sons of serfs.

The soldier shifted impatiently. "Tell, peasant! Why dost
thou seek to come into—"

"Why, t' sell m' bran 'n' cabbages 'n' turnips," Rod
answered. "Dosta think I'd wast m' horse for a day's plea-
sure?"

The sentry ignored the question. "You're Earl Tudor's
man," he growled. "Why not sell in Caernarvon? Why come
North all the way to Korasteshev?"

" 'Tis not 'all the way,'" Rod snorted. "I live scarce three
leagues yon." He nodded toward the road behind him.
"Korasteshev is closer for me." He glared at the trooper—but
he let his mind dwell hungrily on the thought of the prices he
could get in Korasteshev. Everyone knew Duke Romanov's
barons were fighting among themselves—and the more fool
the Duke, for letting them! And every peasant knew that, when
armies fought, crops got trampled. Nay, surely the folk in Ko-
rasteshev would be paying far more for cabbages than those
in Earl Tudor's peaceful Caernarvon!

The soldier's face relaxed. So, the cranky old codger's
greedy! Well and good—greed, we know how to deal with....

Rod just barely managed to restrain a surge of indigna-
tion. Old?!? Codger, okay—but, old? He diverted the im-
pulse into suspicious fuming: Who was this bare-cheeked
brat, to be asking him questions? Why, he was scarcely done
suckling his mother's milk!

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      131

He was gratified to see the young man redden a little—
but the boy's suspicion wasn't quite finished yet. He ran a
trained eye over Fess. "How comes a poor dirt farmer to
have so fine a horse?"

Panic! Anxiety! The one thing that men might really
blame him for. Rod had been caught. And hard on the heels
of that emotion, came a surge of shame. He glanced at Fess.
Eh, my wife was beautiful, ten years agone! Small wonder
that Sir Ewing took notice of her....

He turned back to the young man. "Sir Ewing gave him
to me, saying he was too old to bear an armored knight
still."

The suspicion was still there in the young soldier's mind;

it just changed direction. The young man was trying to find
a flaw in the story. "Why would a knight give even a cast-
off charger to a poor peasant?"

The shame again. Rod let it mount, burning. "Why, for
... favors... we did him, me and mine." Mostly 'mine.'
There was a brief, lurid image of a strapping, tow-headed
man in bed with a voluptuous young woman, with chestnut
hair—not that you could see much else of her... and the
vision was gone. But the shame remained, and rage mounted
under it. "For favors." Rod's face had turned to wood. "Not
that 'tis any affair of thine."

"'Affair,' is it?" The young man let a mocking grin spread.
"Aye, thine 'affair' now, is only the selling of thy cabbages,
I warrant." He turned to the sergeant. "Why do we linger,
wasting time on this peasant, Auncient?"

"Why, for that he hath not set his horse to going," the
sergeant growled. "Be off with thee, fellow! Get thy cart
out from our station! Get thee hence to the market!"

"Aye—and I thank thy worships," Rod said sourly. He
turned away and slapped the reins on Fess's back—but very
gently, to avoid the metallic ring. Fess started up again,
plodding away.

Rod kept a tight rein on his thoughts. It was such a huge,
aching temptation to indulge himself in speculation! But he
was certainly still in range of the young telepath, and would
be for several miles at least—even if the kid's powers were
weak. And if they were strong... No, Rod kept a steady
mental stream of embarrassment and anger seething. That

732           Christopher Stasheff

the young bastard should have subjected him to such per-
sonal questions! What a filthy mind he must have! And
where did such a low-born serf's son get any right to be
questioning him, old Owen, about his comings and goings?

Underneath that surface spate, in bursts of pure thought
not encoded into words, boiled the host of questions. In-
teresting, that the ranker had asked the questions, and the
sergeant hadn't even seemed to notice that his authority was
being usurped. Interesting, that the sorcerer's sentries would
pose as underlings; they had, at least, some craftiness in
their disguises. That the young warlock was one of those
who had volunteered to work for Alfar, completely will-
ingly, Rod had no doubt; the youngster clearly had the
inferiority complex and paranoia of the persecuted witchling
grown to manhood—and the ambition that stemmed from
it. Inwardly, Rod shuddered—if he'd been Alfar, he'd never
have been able to sleep easily, knowing that his underlings
would very cheerfully have sliced him to bits and taken his

place.

On the other hand, the fact that they hadn't indicated

that Alfar was either an extremely powerful old esper, or
was surrounded by a few henchmen who were genuinely

loyal. Or both.

But the chance that telepaths were constantly running

surveillance over the duchy, was just too high. Rod couldn't
afford to take chances. His concentration might falter at just
the moment that one of the sentry-minds happened to be
listening to the area he was in. He had to take more thorough

mental precautions.

Accordingly, he let the tension from the confrontation at
the border, begin to ebb away, and began to relax—as "old"
Owen, of course. What does it matter, what the fuzz-cheeked
brat said? I'm in Romanov—and I can sell my crop for
that much greater price! But my, it's been a long day! He'd
been up before dawn, Owen had—as he always was, of
course; but travelling was more wearying than threshing.
His eyelids were sagging. How nice it would be, to nap for
a bit—just a little bit! Maybe the half of an hour, or so. In
fact, he was beginning to nod. It wasn't safe, driving when
he was so sleepy. Nay, surely he'd better nap.

So he steered the cart off to the side of the road, reined

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

133

the horse to a stop, lashed the reins to the top bar of the
cart, clambered over the seat into the back, and found him-
self a small nest among his baskets. The boards weren't too
much harder than his pallet at home—and at least he could
lean back.

He let his head loll, eyes closing, letting the drowsiness
claim him, letting his thoughts darken and grow still....

"Rod."

Rod jolted upright, blinking, hauling his mind out of the
fringes of the web of sleep. "Huh? Wha? Wha's'a mattuh?"

"Did you intend to doze. Rod?"

"Who, me? Ridiculous!" Rod snorted. "Just putting on
a very good act. Well... okay, maybe I got carried away...."

"As you wish. Rod." Fess was peacefully nibbling at the
roadside grass. Rod made a mental note to dump the robot's
wastebasket. For the time being, of course, Fess's act was
as necessary as Rod's.

Of course, he did have to keep it an act. He lay back
against a bran sack, closed his eyes, and let drowsiness
claim him again, let the surface of his mind flicker with the
images of Owen's imaginary day.

Underneath, he tried to remember what had happened
inside his head when he had first come to Gramarye, how
it had felt.

He remembered the shock when he had found out that
someone was reading his mind. He had been eyeing one of
the teenaged witches with admiration, speculating about her
measurements, when she had gasped, and turned to glare
at him. He remembered how embarrassed he'd been, and
the clamoring panic inside as he realized someone could
read his mind. Worse, that any of the Gramarye "witches"
could—and that there were dozens of them, at least!

But by the time he'd met Gwen, only a week or so later,
she hadn't been able to read his thoughts. For nine years,
that had been the one mar on an otherwise blissful marriage.
There had been spats, of course, and there had been the
constant, underlying tension that always stems from two
people trying to make one life together; but the loving re-
assurance she'd had every reason to look forward to, the
warmth of being able to meld her mind with her husband's,
just hadn't been there. That had put a continuing, unspoken

134           Christopher Stasheff

strain on the marriage, with Gwen hiding feelings of having
been cheated—not by Rod, but by life—and Rod trying
less successfully to bury his feelings of inferiority.

Then, when the family had been kidnapped to the land
ofTir Chlis in an alternative universe. Rod had encountered
his analog, the alternate High Warlock, Lord Kem—who
was very much like Lord Gallowglass, enough so to be
Rod's double. But there had been some major differences
under the skin—such as Kern's roaring temper. And huge
magical powers—one of which was the ability to blend his
mind with Rod's, to lend him Kem's powers. That had
wakened Rod's own slumbering esper powers—and af-
flicted him with a hair-trigger temper. Fortunately, it had
also roused a mind reading ability he'd never suspected he'd
had. And, suddenly, Gwen had been able to read his mind;

he'd no longer been telepathically invisible.

So, if he had been open to mind reading when he came
to Gramarye, but had been telepathically invisible when he'd
met Gwen, his mind had probably closed itself off in that
first panic of embarrassment, finding out that somebody
could read his thoughts when he most definitely hadn't
wanted her to.

Of course, when the girl got done looking indignant, she
hod looked rather pleased....

He tried to remember how he had felt at that moment,
and caught it—exposed, vulnerable. Being so open was
intolerable; he couldn't allow other people to know so much
about him, that they might be able to use to hurt him. He
couldn't let them have the advantage of knowing what he
was going to do, before he did it.

He could feel himself pulling back, withdrawing, pulling
inward, politely but firmly closing himself off, locking out
the rest of the world. He would smile, he would still interact
with them—but they could not, would not, know his inner

self....

He came out of the reverie with an inward shudder. With
an attitude like that, it was amazing his marriage had lasted
the first nine years. On second thought, knowing Gwen, it
was understandable; he hoped he'd made it up to her, since

then.

By turning into a howling demon whenever a few things

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      135

went wrong all at the same time?

Be fair, he told himself, frowning. If she'd rather have
him emotionally open, she had to accept everything that
implied. Could he help it if, underneath the mask, he wasn't
really a very nice guy?

Now he was being unfair to himself. Wasn't he? Surely
there had to be a way to be open, without going berserk
every so often.

There had to be, and he'd get busy searching for it—as
soon as the current crisis was out of the way.

He stilled, suddenly remembering that his technique might
not have worked. He might not have managed to regain his
telepathic invisibility; he might still be exposed to passing
telepaths.

So he sat very still, letting his mind open up, eyes still
closed in mock slumber. He let his thoughts slumber, too,
let them idle into dreams, while his mind opened up to all
and any impressions.

He didn't hear a thought.

He would've believed there wasn't a thinking being for
a hundred miles—and it wasn't just human thoughts that
were missing, either. When he concentrated on mind reading
this way, he always heard a continuing background murmur
of animal minds—simple, vivid emotions: hunger, rage,
desire. Even earthworms radiated sharp, intense little spikes
of satisfaction as they chewed their way cheerfully through
the dirt.

But not now. Either the worms had plowed into sandy
soil, or his mind was closed off from both directions. He
couldn't hear anything—not the background murmur, not
the defiance of a skylark, nothing. He felt as though a vital
part of him had been chopped off, that he was less than he
had been. After three years as a telepath, this was a sudden,
devastating impoverishment.

But it was necessary. Without it, he'd very quickly be
detected and, shortly thereafter, be dead.

He felt a little better, after that realization. No, he de-
cided, mental deafness was definitely preferable to per-
manent sleep. Besides, the 'deafness' was only temporary.

He hoped.

He shrugged off the thought, and cranked his eyelids open

736           Christopher Stasheff

just enough to see through the lashes. The road was clear, as
far as he could see. Of course, someone might be coming up
behind him, so he kept up the act: He sat up slowly, blinking
around him as though he couldn't remember where he was.
Then he lifted his head, as though remembering, smiled,
yawned, and stretched. He leaned forward, elbows on knees,
and blinked at the scenery around him while he waited for his
body to come awake. Finally, Owen reached down to untie
the reins, sat up, and clucked to his horse, giving his back a
light (very light) slap. The horse lifted his head, looked back
to see his master awake, then turned front again and leaned
into the horsecollar. The wagon creaked, groaned, and clat-
tered back onto the High Road again.

As the wooden wheels rolled away on the paving stones,
Rod worked at fighting down a rising fear—that, when this
struggle with renegade espers was over, he might not be
able to come out of his shell again, might be permanently
maimed mentally, and never again able to be fully with his
family. "It's done, Fess. I've closed my mind off. The rest
of the world is telepathically invisible to me."

"And you to it?" Fess sounded surprised. "Wasn't that a

bit drastic. Rod?"

"Yes—but in a land of hostile telepaths, I think it was

necessary."

The robot was silent for a few hoofbeats, then nodded
slowly. "It is a wise course, Rod. Indeed, I would have

counselled it, if you had asked me."

Rod caught the implied reproach. "I couldn't, though—
not while an enemy telepath might have been able to read
my mind." He was silent for a few seconds, then added,

"It's scarey, Fess."

"I can understand that it would be, Rod, after three years

as a telepath. But I should think Alfar would be even more

frightening."

"What, him?" Rod shrugged. "Not really. I mean, if

worst comes to worst and I don't come back, Tuan will start

marching."

"A rather gruesome interpretation. What do you fear,

Rod?"

"Being stuck here, inside myself." Rod shuddered. "And

not being able to unlock my mind again."

9

The sun was low, ahead and to the left, bathing the road,
and the dusty leaves that bordered it, in an orange glow that
made the whole world seem somewhat better than it really
was—and Rod began to relax as he gazed at it. It was a
magical road, somehow, twisting away through gilded leaves
to some unguessable, wonderful faery world ahead.

Around the turn, a man cried out in alarm, and a chorus
of bellowing shouts answered him. Quarterstaves cracked
wood on wood, and clanked on iron.

Rod stared, snapping out of his reverie. Then he barked
"Charge!" and Fess sprang into a gallop. The cart rattled
and bumped behind him, melons and cabbages bouncing
out into the roadway. Rod swerved into the turn with one
wheel off the ground—and saw a gray-haired man whirling
a quarterstaff high, low, from side to side, blocking the
furious blows of three thick-bodied, shag-haired thugs with
five-day beards. Two of them had iron caps—which was
just as well, since they weren't very good with their staves.
Even as Rod watched, the gray-head managed to crack his
staff down on one of their skulls. The man howled and
flinched back, pressing a hand to his head; then, reassured
that he wasn't injured, he roared and leaped back into the
fight, flailing a huge, windmilling arc of a blow that would
737




138           Christopher Stasheff

have pulverized anything in its way. But the older man's
staff snapped out at an angle, blocking the blow—and the
thug's stick shot down the smooth wood, straight toward
the victim's knuckles. The traveller's staff pushed farther,
though, coming around in a half circle, and the thug's stick
plowed into the ground. By that time, the other end of the
older man's staff was swinging up to block a short, vicious
blow from the thug on the other side.

Anger flared in Rod, the smoldering resentment of in-
justice. "Anybody that good has earned help!" Rod snapped.
"We can't let him be killed just because he's outnumbered!

Never!"

Pess's hooves whipped into a blur that no real horse could
have managed. Rod swung his whip back, fighting against
his own anger to withhold the blow until the right moment.

A handful of soldiers broke through the screen of brush
at the roadside, riding into view from a woodland track.

Rod hauled on Fess's reins—not that the horse needed
it; but it helped Rod to force down his anger, contain the
frustration at not striking out. "Hold it, Fess! Company's
coming. Maybe we'd better leave this goodman to natural

processes."

The sergeant saw the fracas, swung his arm in an over-
hand circle that ended pointing toward the thugs, and shouted
as he kicked his mount into a gallop. His troopers bellowed
an answer, and their horses leaped into a charge.

The thugs were making too much noise to hear, until the
soldiers were only thirty feet away. Then one of them looked
up and shouted. The other two turned, stared for one mo-
ment of panic, then whirled and plunged into the underbrush

with howls of dismay.

The sergeant reined in just in front of the older man.
"I thank thee, Auncient." The traveler bowed, leaning

on his staff. "They'd have stripped me bare and left me for

wolf-meat!"

"Nay, certes! We could not allow such work, could we,

then?" The sergeant grinned to his men for a chorus of
agreement, and turned back to the traveler. "Such goods as
wayfarers own, are ours to claim." He leaned down, shoving
an open palm under the traveler's nose. "Thy purse, gaffer!"
The older man stared at him, appalled. Then he heaved

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      139

a sigh, and untied his purse from his belt. He set it in the
sergeant's hand. "Take it, then—and surely, I owe thee
what I can give, for thy good offices."

"Dost thou indeed?" The sergeant straightened, opening
the purse with a sly grin. But it faded quickly to a scowl
of indignation, as he looked into the little bag. He glared
down at the traveler. "Here, now! What manner of jest is
this?"

"Why, naught!" the traveler said, surprised. "What few
coins I have, are there!"

"Few indeed." The sergeant upended the purse, and five
copper coins clinked into his palm. He growled and tossed
them into the dust. "Come, then! None take to the road
without a few shillings at least, to provide for themselves."

The older man shook his head. "I had no more—and
my daughter's near to term with her first. I must be there;

she'll have need of me."

"She will, indeed," the sergeant growled, "and thou'lt
be wanting." He nodded to his men. "Strip him, and slash
his clothes. We'll find shillings, though they be within his
flesh."

The traveler stepped back, horrified, as the soldiers
crowded in, chuckling. Then his face firmed with resig-
nation, and his staff lifted.

"Seize him!" the sergeant barked.

"So much for natural processes." Rod's anger surged up,
freed. "Now, Fess!"

The great black horse sprang forward.

One of the soldiers chopped down at the traveler with
his pike; but his victim's quarterstaff cracked against the
pike-shaft, and it swerved, crashing into the shield of the
trooper next to him. "Here now!" the man barked, and
swung his own axe.

"Nay, nay!" the sergeant cried in disgust. "Is one lone..."

A bellow of rage drowned him out, and his eyes bulged
as Rod's whip wrapped itself around his throat. Rod yanked
back as Fess crashed into a trooper, and the sergeant shot
out of his saddle. The trooper screamed as his horse went
flying. Fess slammed into another horse, reaching for its
rider with steel teeth, as Rod turned to catch up a club he'd
hidden among the grain sacks, and whirled it straight-armed




140           Christopher Stasheff

down at the steel cap of a third trooper with a bellow of
fury. The blow rang like the parish bell on a holy day, and
the soldier slumped to the ground, his helmet flying off.
Fess tossed his head as he let go of the second trooper's
arm, and the man spun flying to slam into a tree. Rod turned,
just as the fourth trooper hit the ground. The traveler's staff
rose, and fell with a dull thud. Rod winced, his rage ending
as suddenly as it had begun, transmuting into leaden chagrin.
He looked about him at the three fallen men. He fought
against it. He'd been right, damn it! And none of them were

really hurt. Nothing permanent, anyway...

Then he turned, and saw the older man looking up, pant-
ing, eyes white-rimmed, staff leaping up to guard again.

Rod dropped the reins and held his hands up shoulder-
high, palms open. "Not me, gaffer! I'm just here to help!"

The staff hung poised as the battle tension ebbed from
the traveler's muscles. Finally, he lowered his guard, and
smiled. "I give thee thanks, then—though I'm no one's

'gaffer.'"

"Not yet, maybe—but you will be, soon." Rod forced

a weak smile. "I couldn't help overhearing."

"Nay, I think thou didst attempt such hearing—and I
thank thee for it." The traveler grounded the butt of his

staff, and held out his hand.

"I am called Simon, and my village is Versclos."
"I am, uhhh..." Rod leaned down to shake Simon's
hand, groping frantically to remember the name he'd used
for his "old farmer" act. "Call me Owen. Of Armand."
"Owen of Armand?" Simon lifted an eyebrow. "I've not

heard of that village."

"It's far from here—to the south." Galactic south, any-
way.

"I thank thee for thy good offices, Owen of Armand."

Simon's handclasp was warm and firm. "Indeed, had it not
been for thee..." He broke off suddenly, staring.

Rod frowned.
Simon lifted his head with a jolt and gave it a quick

shake. "Nay, pardon! My mind wanders. Had it not been
for thee, these liveried bandits would have stripped me
bare—and sin' that there were no shillings for them to

find..."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      141

Rod's mouth thinned and hardened. "They probably would
have stripped you down to your skin, then used their knives
to look for pockets."

"I do not doubt it." Simon turned toward the soldiers.
"Yet 'tis not their doing. They labor under a wicked en-
chantment. Come, we must attend to them." And he turned
away, to kneel down by one of the troopers, leaving Rod
with a puzzled frown. That had been rather abrupt—and,
polite though he was, Simon had very obviously been trying
to change the subject. What had he suddenly seen in Rod,
that had so offended him? "Odd victim we have, here," he
muttered.

"Odd indeed," Fess agreed. "To judge by his vocabulary
and bearing, one would think him too well-qualified to be
a road wanderer."

Rod lifted his head slowly. "Interesting point... Well,
let's give him a hand." He lashed the reins around the top
bar of the cart and swung down to the ground.

Simon was kneeling by the sergeant, hand on the man's
shoulder, but still holding to his staff with the other. He
stared into the man's face, frowning, head cocked to the
side, as though he were listening. Rod started to ask, then
saw the abstracted glaze in Simon's eyes, and managed to
shut his mouth in time to keep the words in. He'd seen that
same look in Gwen's face too many times to mistake it—
especially since he'd seen it in all his children's faces, too,
now and then—especially Gregory's. Exactly what was
going on. Rod didn't know—but it was certainly something
psionic.

The sergeant's eyes opened. He blinked, scowling against
pain, then sat up, massaging his throat. "What hast thou..."
Then his eyes widened in horror. "Nay, I! what have / done
to thee?"

Rod relaxed, reassured. The sergeant had his conscience
back.

The man's eyes lost focus as he took a quick tour back
through memory. "I have... nay, I have oppressed... I have
murdered! Eh, poor folk!" He squeezed his eyes shut, face
clenched in pain. "I have seen these hands cut down fleeing
peasants, then steal what few coins they had! I have heard
mine own voice curse at villagers, and hale forth their sons

r

742 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 143

to serve in the sorcerer's army! I have..."

"Done naught." Simon spoke sternly, but without anger,
his voice pitched and hardened to pierce the sergeant's re-
morse. "Be of good cheer, Auncient—for thou didst labor
under enchantment. Whilst thy mind slumbered, ensorceled,
thy body moved at the bidding of another. His commands
were laid in thee, and thy body remembered, and governed
its actions by his orders. Whatsoe'er thou dost recall thine
hands doing, or thy voice crying, 'twas not thine own doing,
but Alfar's."

The sergeant looked up, hope rising in his gaze.

Rod held his face carefully impassive. Interesting, very
interesting, that Simon knew the nature of the spell. Even
more interesting, that he could break it.

Which meant, of course, that he was a telepath. And
which meant that the startled look he had given Rod, was
because he saw a man before him, but didn't sense a mind
to go with it. Rod could understand his amazement; he'd
felt the same way a few times, himself....

It also raised the interesting question of how Simon had
escaped Alfar's dragnet. Or did the sorcerer routinely leave
witches and warlocks free to roam about the countryside,
even though they hadn't signed up with him? Somehow,
Rod doubted it.

The sergeant gave Simon a glance up from the depths of
despair. "What nonsense dost thou speak? When could so
vile a spell have been laid upon me?"

"Why, I cannot tell," the traveler answered, "for I was
not there. Yet, think—'twas in all likelihood hard after a
battle, when thou hadst been taken prisoner."

The sergeant's eyes widened, and he turned »way, but
he was not seeing the roadside, nor the trees. "Aye, the
battle... Our gallant Duke led us against the sorcerer's vile
army, and they fought poorly, advancing on us with pikes
lowered, but with their gazes fixed. 'Twas daunting, for
their pikes never varied, nor the even tread of their feet;

but our Duke cried, 'Why, they are puppets! And they can
do only what their master wills, when he pulls their string.
Onward, brave hearts—for he cannot govern a thousand
separate fights!' And he lowered his lance, charging straight
toward the foe. We took heart with a shout and followed,

and 'twas even as he said, for we had but to sidestep the
pikes. Though the men behind them sought to follow, we
could move faster, and step through to stab and cut. Thus
the sorcerer's army began to give ground—not through
retreat, but through being forced back bodily.

"But something vile and huge struck at us from the sky
with a scream and, of a sudden, the air was filled with flying
rocks. Sheets of fire enveloped our army, and we cried out
in fear. Daunted, we gave ground, and the sorcerer's troops
strode after, to follow.

"Then, of a sudden, the man in front of me turned, with
a strange look in his eye—eerie and fey. 'Turn, man!' I
cried, and stabbed past him with my pike, knocking aside
a blow that would have slain him. 'Turn, and fight for thy
Duke!' 'Nay,' quoth he, 'for what hath the duke done ever,
save to take from us as much, and return as little, as he
might? I shall fight for the sorcerer now!' And he raised
his pike to strike at me. Yet whatever spell held him, it had
slowed him. I stared in horror at what I had heard him say,
then saw his pike sweeping down at me. I struck it aside;

but all about me, the Duke's soldiers in the front of the
army were turning to strike at their comrades behind. In an
instant, I was hard put to defend myself—yet 'twas from
men of mine own livery! Distant behind them, I saw the
Duke on his tall horse, surrounded by pikes; yet those at
his back, that jabbed at his armor, were held by his own
men! He turned, roaring in rage, and his sword chopped in
a half circle, reaping pike-heads like corn; yet a dozen
sprang up for every one that fell.

"Then, of a sudden, there was a fellow who floated in
midair, above the Duke, who dropped a noose about our
lord and cast loops of rope to follow it, binding his arms
to his sides. He roared in anger, but the warlock shot away
from him, jerking him from his horse. He crashed down
below the hedge of pikes, and I cried out in despair, striking
out with my own pike, blocking the blades about me; yet
a heaviness crept over me. I struggled against it and, praise
Heaven, felt anger rise to counter; yet even so, the heaviness
grew greater and greater. I scarce seemed to feel the pike
in my hands. Then all darkened about me, as though I had
fallen asleep." Slowly, he lifted his head, looking up at




144           Christopher Stasheff

Simon. "I recall no more of the battle."

Simon nodded. "Belike thou, in thy turn, didst turn upon
thy comrades behind. Yet be of good cheer; for they, belike,
fell also under the spell. What else dost thou recall?"

"Why..." The soldier turned away again, his eyes glaz-
ing. "Only brief snatches. I am mindful of marching in the
midst of a troop, a thousand strong or more. The sorcerer's
livery bounded its rim, with those of us who wore the Duke's
colors within; and in our center rode our great Duke himself,
his helmet gone, a bloody rag tied about his head—and his
arms bound behind him!" He squeezed his eyes shut, bowing
his head. "Alas, my noble lord!"

"Buck up!" Rod reached out to clasp the man's shoulder.
"At least he's still alive."

"Aye, verily! For he did glare about him, cursing!" The
sergeant's eyes glittered. "Ah, gallant Duke! Him the spell
could not entrap!"

"He's a strong-willed man," Rod agreed. "What else do
you remember?"

"Why ... coming home." The sergeant's mouth tight-
ened. "Eh, but what manner of homecoming was this? For
I saw an armed band haling milord Duke away to his own
dungeons. Then, with wild cheering, all soldiers turned, to
welcome the sorcerer Alfar as he rode through the gates in
a gilded coach—and I, I was one of them!"

"What did he look like?" Rod demanded.

The sergeant shook his head. "I cannot truly say. 'Twas
naught but a brief glimpse 'twixt the curtains of a rolling
coach, as he went by. A slight man, with a flowing beard
and a velvet hat. No more could I tell thee."

Simon nodded. "And after that?"

"After? Why—the guardroom. And those of us who
wore the Duke's livery had no weapons. Yet we played at
dice, and quaffed wine, the whiles they who wore the sor-
cerer's livery took us, one by one, away, and brought us
back wearing Alfar's colors." His face worked; he spat.

"What happened when you were taken away?" Rod asked
gently.

The sergeant shrugged. "I went willingly; wherefore not?
The sorcerer was all-wise and good; assuredly his folk could
not harm me!" His mouth tightened, as though he'd tasted

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      145

bitterness. "They took me, one soldier on either side, their
pikes in their hands, though there was no need for such."

"And wither did these two take thee?"

"To the chamber of the Captain of the Watch; yet 'twas
not he who waited there within. And I would not have known
the place, for 'twas darkened, and filled with sweet aromas.
A candle burned on a table, and they sat me in a chair beside
it, the whiles the door closed behind. 'Twas all dark then,
and I could see that one sat across from me; yet I could not
tell his face nor colors, for they were lost in shadow. 'Sleep,'
he bade me, 'sleep well. Thou hast fought hard; thou hast
fought bravely. Thou hast earned thy reward of slumber.'

Thus he spake; and truly, mine eyes did close, and dark-
ness folded about me, and 'twas warm and comforting."
He looked up, blinking. "The rest, thou hast heard. I have
but now waked from that slumber. What I remember, I recall
as though 'twere a dream."

"What was the dream?" Rod frowned, intent. "What
happened after they hyp-, uh, put your mind to sleep?"

The sergeant shrugged. "Naught, We lazed about the
guardroom for a day, mayhap two, and all the talk was of
the excellence of the sorcerer, and how well-suited to the
duchy would be his rule.

"Then, of a sudden, the captain cried, 'To horse!' and
we ran for our weapons. 'The peasant folk flee,' cried he.
'They have taken to the roads; southwards they wander, to
bear treacherous words to Earl Tudor and King Loguire.
Out upon them, barracks scum! Out upon them, and haul
t'.>;m back or slay them were they stand!' And out we rushed,
to horse and to road, and away to the South we thundered,
galloping, seeking poor folk to slaughter." He squeezed his
eyes shut, pressing his hand over his eyes. "Alas, poor souls!
What guilt was theirs? Only that they sought to shield their
wives and baims from war and evil! What fault was theirs,
that earned so harsh a reward?" He lifted his gaze to the
traveler, and his eyes were wide and haunted. "For we found
them, a single family; and we found a dozen such, one by
one; and one by one, we slew them. Our swords whirled,
cleaving through blood and bone, flinging wide a spray of
crimson. Then, when all the corpses lay pooling all their
scarlet gore together in a single pond, we did dismount, slit

146 Christopher Stasheff

their purses, and search their bodies, to carry away what
few coins they had hoarded, to bear back to Alfar the sor-
cerer." He buried his face in his hands. "Ay me! How shall
I live, with such pictures seared upon my brain?" He turned
to Rod. "But we have plunder—aye, booty rich indeed!
For every peasant family had a coin or two—and we have
thirty shillings! A pound, and half again! Wealth indeed, to
hale home to Alfar!" He threw back his head, and howled,
"A curse upon the man, and all his minions! A curse upon
one who could do such evil to his fellow man! And curses,
too, upon the witches who do serve him—on all witches,
for surely such evil lies in all their hearts!"

"Nay, not so!" Simon spoke sternly. " Tis only this hand-
ful of miserable recreants who do evil to their fellow men!
Belike they are unable to gain fellowship of other men and
women, and blame their loneliness'not on themselves, but
on the other folk, who do not befriend them. I doubt me
not an they do tell themselves the goodfolk envy them their
magic, and therefore spurn all witches. Thus do they reason
out some license for themselves to steal, and lord it over
other folk."

Rod was impressed. He hadn't expected such insight, in
an average yeoman.

Neither had the sergeant. He stared up at Simon, wide-
eyed. "How well thou dost know them!"

"As well I should." Simon's mouth tightened at the cor-
ners. "For I am myself a warlock. But!" He held up a palm,
to stop the sergeant's startled oath. "But like the greater
number of my fellows, I have learned the ways of hiding
all my powers, and deal with other folk as well as any man.
I have had a wife who was not a witch. Together, we reared
children who, though they had some Power, learned well
to hide it, and have grown up in the liking of their fellows.
We do not seek for power; we do not seek for wealth. We
have already what we most care for—the good regard of
others."

The sergeant's mouth went crooked. "An thou hast so
deep a regard for we humble common folk, why canst thou
not ward us from these evil ones?"

"Why, so they did," Simon answered, "those warlocks
and witches who had real power. I knew one crone who

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      147

was a healer—many had she mended in both mind and
body; and I have known warlocks, gentle men who did speak
with those whose minds were laboring in confusion, or
disarranged, and led them out into the light of sanity again.
But I myself?" He shrugged. "My powers were never so
great. I have known warlocks who can disappear, and appear
again some miles distant, and I have heard of some who
can make their thoughts be heard in others' minds—aye,
even those who are not witches. But I?" He shook his head,
with a sad smile. "I am none of these. I have power, aye;

yet it is weak and feeble—enough to prevent my being a
man, like other men, yet not enough to make me a warlock
like to other warlocks. Neither fish nor flesh, I know not
where to nest. Oh, I can hear what others think if they are
near to me—but that is all. I did not know I could do
more..." his smile hardened, "... until Alfar did bind with
his spell, boys from mine own village—and they did drop
their hoes, and turn to march away toward his castle, for
his army, I doubt not. I ran after one, and caught him by
the arm. 'Whither dost thou go?' I cried; but he turned
sneering to me, and raised his fist, to strike me away. Yet..."
and Simon's lips curved in a small smile, "... I have some
skill in arms. I fended off his blow, and struck ere he could
draw his fist again, and I did stretch the poor lad senseless
upon the road. And whiles he lay thus, unwillingly in slum-
ber, I knelt beside him, frantic in my need, crying out to
him, 'Wake! Dost'a not see thou art ensorceled?' For this
was my neighbor's son, look you, who had been my chil-
dren's playfellow. I could not stand aside to let the sorcerer
take him while breath yet passed within my lungs. With
every grain of my poor, puny witch power, I did seek to
reach and wake his slumbering mind, where it lay 'neath
Alfar's spell."

The sergeant stared at him, round-eyed. "And did he
waken?"

Simon nodded, closing his eyes. "He did. Praise Heaven,
for he did. And when his body likewise woke, he sat up
bewildered, for he'd no notion how he'd come to be there,
lying in the midroad, half a league from home. I took him
back to his father; yet I bethought me that what I could do
for one, I might so hap to do for others. Thus, when any

148 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 149

boy from our village did gain that far-off gaze and wander
toward the High Road in a trance, I followed, struck him
down, and woke his mind; and when the spell began to
wrap itself around my neighbors' minds also, I waited till
night fell, and they slumbered, then passed from house to
house, standing against the wall and seeking to wake them
from their enchantments. At length I fell ill from exhaus-
tion—but my village held, alone free from the weird.

"And so, at last—two days agone—a warlock came
himself, a meager, pimply-faced lad, but with soldiers at
his back. Then I could do naught; the boys all marched
away; yet, at the least, their parents saw they were com-
pelled."

"Yet did the warlock not seek thee out?"

Simon shrugged. "He did attempt it; for with a whole
village yet free-minded, he knew there must needs be a
witch or warlock who had prevented it. Yet as I've told
thee, my power's weak; I can only hear thoughts. And that
I was adept at hiding what little force I had. I was careful
not to think of witch powers, or spell breaking; I thought
only of suspicion, and how much I did resent Alfar's do-
minion." He shook his head slowly. "He could not find me;

for every mind in all that hamlet thought as I did."

"And this was but two days agone?" the sergeant cried.

"Two days," Simon confirmed.

"Then 'tis months that thou hast held thy neighbors'
minds 'gainst Alfar's spell!"

"It is. Yet in all comely truth, 'tis not till now that Alfar's
had soldiers to spare for such an errand."

"Aye." The sergeant's face hardened again. "Yet with
the Duke captured, he could spare the men, and the time—
for all present threats were laid."

"I doubt it not. Yet I assure thee, I did tremble with relief
when that warlock passed from our village.

"Then I bethought me that I'd cheated Death quite long
enow. Nay, I reasoned that I'd done my part, and had es-
caped thus far more by luck than skill—and, in comely
truth, my daughter doth draw near to her confinement. Ac-
cordingly, I sought the better part of valor, and turned my
steps southward, hoping I might break from his evil-seized,
ensorceled realm into the free air of Earl Tudor's county."

He turned to Rod. "And I have come near—so near! 'Tis
but a half day's journey now, is't not?"

Rod nodded. "Guards at the border, though. You'd have
trouble getting across."

Simon smiled, amused. "Not I."

"Aye." The soldier gave him an appraising glance. "Thou
hast something of the look of the wild stag about thee. I
doubt not an thou couldst find thy freedom through the forest
trails, where no sentry's eye doth watch."

"Just so. Yet I think I must not go."

"Nay!" The sergeant leaned forward. "Go thou must!
Make good thine escape whilst thou may!"

"And if I do? Wilt thou?"

The sergeant lowered his gaze. "I must go back—for
I've blood on mine hands, and must atone."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Simon snorted. "These deaths were
Alfar's doing, and none of thine. Do thou make thine escape,
to join King Tuan's army, and march back to take thy ven-
geance 'gainst the sorcerer."

The sergeant shook his head. "Nay. 'Twould take too
long. And... if we journey north again, my men and I, and
take our places amidst the sorcerer's force—then there will
be peasant lives spared, when next they send out to sweep
the roads. And when King Tuan comes, there will be swords
to fight for him, within the sorcerer's ranks."

"'Tis worthy," Simon mused.

"And stupid!" Rod snorted. "The first warlock who runs
a security check on the army, listening for traitorous thoughts,
will find you out. All you'll accomplish is an early exe-
cution."

The sergeant glared at him, then turned back to Simon.
"Canst thou not teach us the way of hiding our thoughts?"

"I can tell thee the way of it," Simon said slowly, "yet
'tis not quickly learned. It will require constant practice—
and never mayest thou relent. Such vigilance is well-nigh
impossible, for one who hath but newly learned. Thou may-
est quite easily be found out."

"Then give them choice," the sergeant said. "Wake them
from their spellbound sleep, and say to them what thou hast
said to me. I doubt me not an all of them will choose as I
do—to ride back North."




150

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

151

Simon smiled, and shrugged. "Can I do less? I, who am
practiced at such dissimulation? Nay. I shall be a half day's
ride behind thee."

"That," Rod said, "is just a form of suicide. The only
thing that's uncertain about it, is the date."

Simon looked up, in mild surprise. "Yet thou dost journey
northward."

"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "But I have duty involved.
It's required of me—never mind why."

"As it is of me—no matter why." Simon gave him the
sardonic smile and rose to his feet, standing a little taller,
a little straighter. "Craven was I, to ever flee. My work
remains. I must turn back, and set my face against the North,
that I may go to aid more souls who labor in enchanted
sleep, the whiles their bodies wake."

"Nay, thou must not!" The sergeant stepped forward,
alarmed. "In truth, thou hast done all any man should ask
of thee!"

"'Tis good of thee, to speak so." Simon smiled with
gentle warmth. "Yet I'm beholden to them—for look you,
these are my people, and have been all my life. They have
aided me in all the daily trials that a poor man undergoes,
and tended me and mine in illness, and consoled us in
bereavement—as I have done for them. Such bonds are not
severed only for reason that I'm the only one able to give
aid now. Nay, i* truth I played the craven, when that I did
flee."

"Thou didst not," the sergeant asserted. "What will it
profit them, for thou to turn back? Thy spell-breaking will
but draw the warlock to thee again—and when he hath
taken thee, thy folk will rest spellbound once more."

Simon fairly beamed, but shook his head. "I may escape
his notice, as I've done already. Nay, I'll not again play
coward."

The sergeant sighed. "Thou wast not craven to be afeared;

for certes, thou hast much to fear. Therefore, an thou wilt
wake my men from this foul spell, we all shall company
thee."

"And make the danger greater!" Rod stepped forward,
frowning. "How much chance do you think you boys would
have against a squad of twenty, Auncient?"

The sergeant hesitated, frowning.

Rod pressed the point. "One civilian, going North with
five armed men? Alfar's witch-sentries would smell a rat,
even if they didn't have noses."

Simon's face lit with a delighted smile. "Yet think, good-
man! They could say I was their prisoner!"

Rod gave the sergeant a jaundiced eye. "Do you have
any orders about taking prisoners?"

"Nay," the sergeant admitted. "We were commanded to
but slay and rob."

"You'd stand out like a haystack in a cornfield." Rod
shook his head. "Pleasant fellow, isn't he, this Alfar? Ef-
ficient, though. Nasty, but efficient."

"Nay; he's most plainly evil," the sergeant growled.

"Yeah, but you don't fight evil by standing out in front
of a full army and declaring war on them. At least, not
when you're only a handful."

Simon gave the sergeant a sad nod. " 'Tis even so, Aun-
cient. Thou and thy men were best to fare on southward."

The sergeant's jaw tightened; he shook his head. "I will
not choose to go—nor, I think, will even one of my men."

"Well, if you're bound and determined," Rod sighed,
"let's make your lives as expensive as possible. Even just
a handful of men can do an amazing amount of damage."

"Indeed?" The sergeant turned to him eagerly. "How dost
thou mean?"

"You could be guerillas," Rod explained. "The word
means 'little war,' and that's just what you do—make little
wars within a big war. Most of the time, you see, you'd be
riding along like good little Alfarites—but whenever there's
a chance, you can turn into raiders."

The sergeant clamped his lips, turning away in exasper-
ation. "What use are bandits, 'gainst an army?"

"A lot, if you choose the right targets. For example, if
you break into the armoury and steal all the crossbow bolts,
or even break all the arrows..."

The sergeant lifted his head, eyes lighting. "Aye—that
would hamper an army's fighting, would it not?"

"Some," Rod agreed, "though there are still spears, pikes,
and swords. At this level of technology, commandoes have
a tougher time hurting the main army. Actually, I was think-




752 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 153

ing of you getting into the kitchens and pouring a few
bucketfuls of salt on the food."

Slowly, the sergeant grinned.

"It'll work even better if you can link up with the other
groups who've had their spells broken," Rod added.

The sergeant stared. "There be others?"

"There will be." Simon's eye glittered.

Rod glanced at him, and tried to suppress a smile. He
turned back to the sergeant. "Yes, uh, a Southern witch,
yesterday—she broke the spell on another squad, like yours,
and they opted to go back North, too."

"Allies!" the sergeant cried, then frowned in doubt. "But
how shall we know them? We cannot ask every soldier in
the sorcerer's army, 'Art thou of the band whose spell is
broke?'"

"Scarcely," Rod agreed. "But any bands Simon frees
from now on, he can give secret names—ones you can say
aloud for everyone to hear, but that only the ones whose
spells are broken will recognize. For example, from now
on, you'll be, um... Balthazar." He turned to Simon. "And
you can name the auncients of the next two groups you
free, 'Melchior' and 'Casper.'"

"What use is this?" the sergeant demanded.

"Well, if another soldier comes up to you, and says he
has a message from Auncient Melchior, you can exchange
information, because you'll know he's a part of the freedom
movement. But you shouldn't get together, mind you. The
bigger your force, the easier you'll be to find."

"Then what use this sending of messages?"

"So you can all agree to hit the same target at the same
time. For example, you might want to make a big enough
raid to actually take over a castle, or something. And, of
course, when King Tuan's army marches North, you can
all meet just behind the sorcerer's army, and hit them from
the back while he hits 'em from the front."

"Doth he come, then?" The sergeant fairly pounced on
the idea.

"Oh, he'll come," Rod said, with more certainty than he
felt. "A message went South, yesterday."

Simon and the sergeant both stared at him.

With a sinking heart. Rod realized he'd made a bad slip.

"I couldn't help overhearing," he added, lamely.

"Certes, thou couldst not," Simon murmured. "Yet I be-
think me thou'rt not the humble yeoman farmer that thou
dost seem."

"Aye," the sergeant agreed. "Thou'rt a man of arms, by
thy knowledge. What rank hast thou? What is thy station?"

"Proxima Centauri Terminal," Rod answered. "And as
to my rank, just take my word for it—I've got enough to
know what I'm talking about. And as to the name, call me,
uh—'Kem.'"

Instantly, he knew it was a bad choice. If people call you
Kern, said his id, from its morass of superstitious fear, you'll
lose track of who you are. You'll start thinking you are
Kern, and you'll be absorbed into him.

Ridiculous, his ego responded. Kern's will can't reach
across universes. The name's just a word, not a threat to
your identity.

His superego surveyed the two, came to its own conclu-
sions, and declared it a draw.

Rod swallowed, firmed his jaw, and stuck to his story.
"Kem," he said again. "That's all you need to know. Just
take it and go with it as far as you can, Auncient."

"Indeed I will. Yet why ought I not to know who it is
who doth command me?"

"Not command," Rod pointed out. "I'm just giving you
advice. It was your idea to go back North, not mine. If you
want a command, I'll tell you to go South."

"Nay," the sergeant said quickly. "Yet I thank thee for
thy good, um, 'advice.'"

"My pleasure, I'm sure. And, of course, if the worst
should happen, and they should capture you..."

"I will not betray thee," the sergeant said firmly. "Let
them bring hot irons; let them bring their thumbscrews. I
shall breathe no word."

"You won't have to. All they'll have to do is read your
mind. You may be able to keep from saying it aloud, but
you can't keep from thinking about it."

The sergeant looked doubtful.

Rod nodded. "So the whole idea is to not know anything
more than is absolutely necessary. But—just in case we
should be able to get something moving, mind you..."




154 Christopher Stasheff

"Aye!"

"If someone should come to you, and say that Kem says
to attack a given place at a given time, you'll know what
to do."

The soldier lifted his head, with a slow grin. "Aye. I
shall indeed now. And I swear to thee, I will execute what
thou dost command."

"Good man." Rod slapped him on the shoulder. "Now—
let's get to waking up your men." He turned to Simon. "If
you would, Master Simon? The sooner we can split up and
hit the road, the better."

Simon nodded, with a smile, and turned away to the
fallen troopers.

"Well done," Fess's voice murmured behind Rod's ear.
"You excel as a catalyst. Rod."

"Oh, I'm great at knocking over the first domino," Rod
muttered back. "Only trouble is, this time I have to set them
up, too."




10

The osprey circled above them, its wings dipping as it bal-
anced in the updraft. Rod scowled up at it, wondering if its
eyes were green, like Owen's. "Simon, how far are we from
the coast?"

"Mayhap a day's ride." Simon followed Rod's gaze. "Ah,
I see. 'Tis a fish-hawk, is't not?"

"Far as I know. But if the ocean's only twenty miles off,
it's probably genuine." Rod turned to his companion.
"Thought you were a dirt farmer. How would you know
what a fish-hawk looks like?"

Simon shrugged. "As I've said, the ocean's not so far."

Which was true enough. Rod reflected. He didn't really
have anything to be suspicious about—but in enemy ter-
ritory, he couldn't help it. He wasn't that far from suspecting
the nearest boulder might be a witch in disguise.

"Then, too," Simon said, amused, "I've never claimed
to be a farmer."

Rod looked up, surprised. "True enough," he said slowly.
"I did just assume. After all, what other occupations would
there be, in a small village?"

'"Tis hard by the King's High Way," Simon explained.
"I keep an inn."

Rod lifted his head, mouth opening before the words

755

756 Christopher Stasheff

came. "Oh." He nodded slowly. "I see. And quality folk
stop in frequently, eh?"

"Mayhap twice in a month. There was ever a constant
coming and going with the castle of Milord Duke. I did
hearken to their speech, and did mimic it as best I could,
the better to please them."

He'd hearkened to a lot more than their speech. Rod
reflected. The aristocrats would no doubt have been aghast,
if they'd known a mind reader served them. And, of course,
Simon couldn't have had too many illusions left, about the
lords.

So why was he still loyal?

Probably because the alternative was so much worse. "I
don't suppose they taught you how to read?"

"Nay; my father sent me to the vicar, for lessons. He
kept an inn before me, and knew 'twould be useful for an
innkeeper to read and write, and cast up sums."

So. Unwittingly, Rod had stumbled into one of the local
community leaders. "An enlightened man."

"Indeed he was. And what art thou?"

Every alarm bell in Rod's head broke into clamor. Ad-
mittedly, he'd made a pretty big slip; but did Simon have
to be so quick on the uptake? "Why... I'm a farmer. Do I
look so much like a knight, as to confuse you? Or a Duke,
perhaps?" Then his face cleared with a sudden, delighted
smile, and he turned to jab a finger at Simon. "/ know! You
thought I was a goldsmith!"

Simon managed to choke the laugh down into a chuckle,
and shook his head. "Nay, goodman. I speak not of thine
occupation, but of what thou art—that thou art there, but
thou'rt not."

Rod stared, totally taken aback. "What do you mean,
I'm not here?"

"In thy thoughts." Simon laid a finger against his fore-
head. "I have told thee I can hear men's thoughts—yet I
cannot hear thine."

"Oh." Rod turned back to the road, gazing ahead, mus-
ing—while, inside, he virtually collapsed into a shuddering
heap of relief. "Yes... I've been told that before...." Glad
it's working...

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      157

Simon smiled, but with his brows knit. " 'Tis more than
simply not hearing thy thoughts. When my mind doth 'lis-
ten' for thee, there is not even a sense of thy presence. How
comes this?"

Rod shrugged. "I can guess, but that's all."

"And what is thy guess?"

"That I'm more worried about mind readers than your
average peasant."

Simon shook his head. "That would not explain it. I have
known some filled with morbid fear their thoughts would
be heard—and I think they had reason, though I sought to
avoid them. Still, I could have heard their thoughts, an I
had wished to. Certes, I could sense that they were there.
Yet with thee, I can do neither. I think, companion, that
thou must needs have some trace of witch power of thine
own, that thy will doth wrap into a shield."

"You trying to tell me I'm a witch?" Rod did a fairly
good imitation of bristling.

Simon only smiled sadly. "Even less than I am. Nay, I'd
not fear that. Thou canst not hear thoughts, canst thou?"

"No," Rod said truthfully—at least, for the time being.

Simon smiled. "Then thou'rt not a witch. Now tell me—
why dost thou come North? Thou must needs know that
thou dost drive toward danger."

"I sure must, after you and the auncient finished with
me." Rod hunched his shoulders, pulling into himself. "As
to the danger, I'll chance it. I can get better prices for my
produce in Korasteshev, than I can in all of Tudor's county!
And my family's always hungry."

"They will hunger more, an thou dost not return." Simon's
voice dropped, full of sincerity. "I bid thee, friend, turn
back."

"What's the matter? Don't like my company?"

Simon's eamestness collapsed into a smile. "Nay—thou
art a pleasant enough companion...."

Personally, Rod thought he was being rather churlish.

But Simon was very tolerant. "Yet for thine own sake,
I bid thee turn toward the South again. The sorcerer's war-
locks will not take kindly to one whose mind they cannot
sense."

758

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

159

"Oh, the warlocks won't pay any attention to a mere
peasant coming to market." At least. Rod hoped they
wouldn't.

"The prices in Romanov cannot be so much better than
they are in Tudor." Simon held Rod's eyes with a steady
gaze. It seemed to bum through his retinas and into his
brain. "What more is there to thine answer?"

Reluctantly, Rod admitted, "There is more—but that's
all you're going to get."

Simon held his gaze for a minute.

Then he sighed, and turned away. "Well, it is thy fate,
and thou must needs answer for it thyself. Yet be mindful,
friend, that thy wife and baims do depend upon thee."

Rod was mindful of it, all right. For a sick instant, he
had a vision of Gwen and the children waiting weeks, with-
out word of him. Then he thrust the thought sternly aside,
and tried to envision the look on his boys' faces if he aban-
doned his mission and came back to be safe. "You have
obligations to the people of your village. Master Simon. So
have I."

"What—to the folk of thy town?"

"Well, to my people, anyway." Rod had the whole of
Gramarye in mind, not to mention the Decentralized Dem-
ocratic Tribunal. "And once you've accepted an obligation
of that sort, you can't put it aside just because it becomes
dangerous."

"Aye, that's so," Simon said, frowning. '"Tis this that
I've but now come to see."

Rod turned to him, frowning too. "But you've already
done your part, taken your risks. No one would call you a
coward for going South now!"

"I would," Simon said simply.

Rod looked directly into his eyes for a moment, then
turned away with a sigh. "What can I say to that, goodman?"

"Naught, save 'gee-up' to thine horse."

"Why?" Rod asked sourly. "This cart may be pulled by
a horse, but it's being driven by a pair of mules."

Sundown caught them still on the road, with grainfields
at either hand. "Nay," Simon assured Rod, "there is no town
near."

"I was afraid of that," Rod sighed. "Well, the earth has
been my bed before this." And he drove off the road, pulling
Fess to a stop in the weeds between the track and the field.
He was cutting vegetables into a small pot before Simon
could even volunteer.

The innkeeper eyed him quizzically, then asked, "Dost
ever have a pot with thee?"

"I was a tinker once. Habits stick."

Simon smiled, shaking his head, and leaned back on an
elbow. "I think such travels are not wholely new to thee."

"We're even," Rod snorted. "I get the feeling spell-
breaking isn't all that new to you."

Simon was still for a moment, but his eyes brightened.
"Almost could I believe thou didst read minds."

"If I did, I'd need to have yours translated. So when did
you start spell-breaking?"

Simon sat up, hooking his forearms around his shins,
resting his chin on his knees. "The men of the village came
oft to mine inn for drinking of beer, which they took as
part-price for the produce they brought. Anon would come
one whose heart was heavy, with thoughts in turmoil, to
drink and be silent—mayhap in hopes that beer would quiet
his unrest."

Rod nodded. "Strange how we keep trying that solution.
Especially since it never works."

"Nay; but speaking thy thoughts to a willing ear, can
help to calm them; and the troubled ones would talk, for I
would hearken, and give what sympathy I could. Yet one
there came who seemed like unto a wall in winter—like to
spring apart at the first freeze. He could not talk, but huddled
over his flagon. Yet the jumble of his thoughts rode upon
such pain that they fairly screamed. I could not have shut
my mind to them, even had I wished to—and brooding
over all was the shadow of a noose."

Rod looked up sharply. "The kid was suicidal?"

"Aye. And he was no child, but in his thirties. 'Tis these
passages from one state to another that do wreak their havocs
within us, and his children all had grown."

Rod couldn't understand the problem; but he had Gwen
for a wife. "What could you do about it?"

"Fill another flagon, and one for myself, and go to sit




760 Christopher Stasheff

by him. Then, 'neath the pretext of conversing—and 'twas
very much a pretense, for I alone did speak—I felt through
the snarl of his thoughts, found the sources of his pain and
shame, then asked aloud the questions that did make him
speak them. And 'twas not easy for him thus to speak—
yet I encouraged, and he did summon up sufficient reso-
lution. I meant only to have him thus give me pretext to
discuss his secret fears, to tell him they were not so fear-
some—yet I found that, once he had spoken them aloud,
and heard his own voice saying them, these secrets then
lost half their power. Then could I ask a question whose
answer would show him the goodness within him that could
counter his hidden monsters, and, when we were done, he'd
calmed tolerably well."

"You saved his life," Rod accused.

Simon smiled, flattered. "Mayhap I did. I began, then,
to give such aid to all such troubled souls that I encountered.
Nay, I even sought them out, when they did not come into
my inn."

"Could be dangerous, there," Rod pointed out. "Just so
much of that hauling people back from the edge, before the
neighbors decided you had to be a witch to do it. Especially
since you were poaching on the parish priest's territory."

Simon shook his head. "Who knew of it? Not even those
I aided—for I gave no advice nor exhortation. And look,
you, 'twas a village. We all knew one another, so there was
naught of surprise should I encounter any one of them, and
chat a while. Yet withal, the folk began to say that troubled
souls could find a haven in mine inn."

Definitely poaching on the priest's territory," Rod mut-
tered. "And that was an awful lot of grief to be taking on
yourself."

Simon shrugged, irritated. "They were my people. Mas-
ter Owen. Are, I should say. And there were never more
than three in a year."

Rod didn't look convinced.

Simon dropped his gaze to the campfire. "Thus, when
Tom Shepherd lapsed into sullenness, his brothers brought
him to my taproom. In truth, they half-carried him; he could
no longer even walk of his own." He shook his head. " 'Twas
an old friend of mine—or should I say, an old neighbor."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      161

"What was the matter with him?"

Simon turned his head from side to side. "His face was
slack; he could not move of his own, and did but sit, not
speaking. I drew a stool up next to his, and gazed into his
face, the whiles I asked questions, which he did not answer;

yet all the while, my mind was open, hearkening at its
hardest, for any thought that might slip through his mind."

"Sounds catatonic." Rod frowned. "I shouldn't think there
would've been any thoughts."

"There was one—but only one. And that one did fill
him, consuming all his mind and heart with a single grave-
yard knell."

"Suicidal, again?"

Simon shook his head. "Nay. 'Twas not a wish to die,
look thou, nor even a willingness, but a sureness, a certainty,
that he would die, was indeed that moment dying, but slowly."

Rod sat very still.

"I labored mightily 'gainst that compulsion. Yet I could
but ask questions that would recall to mind the things that
would make him wish to live—wife, and baims, and careful
neighbors; yet naught availed." He shook his head. "One
would have thought he had not heard; for still throughout
him rang the brazen knell of death." Simon sighed, turning
his head slowly from side to side. "In the end, I could but
bid his brothers take him to the priest, but the good friar
fared no better than I." He shrugged. "I could not cast into
his mind thoughts to counter that fell compulsion. The power
was not in me."

Rod nodded, understanding. Simon was only a telepath,
not a projective.

Simon picked up a stick, and poked at the fire. "He died,
in the end. He ate not, nor drank, and withered up like a
November leaf. And I, heartsick, began to wonder how
such a doom came to burden him. For he'd ever been a
cheerful fellow, and I could see that one had laid a spell
upon him. Aye, I pondered how one could be so evil as to
do so fell a deed.

"So I commenced long walks throughout the county till
at length I found that same wholehearted, whole consump-
tion of a mind—yet 'twas not one mind, but a score; for I
came into a village, and found that half the folk who lived

762

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

163

there were bewitched. Oh, aye, they walked and spoke like
any normal folk—but all their minds were filled with but
one single thought."

"Death?" Rod felt the eenness creeping over the back of
his skull.

"Nay." Simon shook his head. "'Twas praise of Alfar."

"Oh-h-h." Rod lifted his head slowly. "The sorcerer's
enchantment team had been at work."

"They had—and, knowing that, I went back to mine
own village and, in chatting with my fellow villagers, asked
a question here, and another there, and slowly built up a
picture of that which had occurred to Tom Shepherd. He'd
met a warlock in the fields, who had bade him kneel to
Alfar. Tom spat upon the ground, and told that warlock that
his Alfar was naught but a villein, who truly owed allegiance
to Duke Romanov, even as Tom Shepherd did. The warlock
then bade him swear loyalty to Alfar, or die; but Tom laughed
in his face, and bade him do his worst."

"So he did?"

"Aye, he did indeed! Then, knowing this, I went back
to the village where half had been of one thought only, and
that thought Alfar's. I found only ten of a hundred still free
in their thoughts, and those ten walking through a living
nightmare of fear; for I spoke with some, and heard within
their thoughts that several of them had defied the warlocks,
and died as Tom Shepherd had. Even as I stood there, one
broke beneath his weight "of fear, and swore inside himself
that he'd be Alfar's man henceforth, and be done with terror."
Simon shuddered. "I assure thee, I left that village as quickly
as I might."

He turned to look directly into Rod's eyes, and his gaze
seemed to bore into Rod's brain. "I cannot allow such ob-
scenities of horror to exist, the whiles I sit by and do naught."
He shook his head slowly. "Craven was I, ever to think I
could walk away and leave this evil be."

"No," Rod said. "No, you can't, can you? Not and still
be who you are."

Simon frowned. "Strangely put—yet, I doubt me not,
quite true."

The campsite was quiet for a few minutes, as both men
sat watching the flames, each immersed in his own thoughts.

Then Rod lifted his head, to find Simon's gaze on him.
"Now," said the innkeeper, "'tis thy turn. Is't not?"

"For what?"

"For honesty. Why dost thou go North?"

Rod held his gaze for a few moments, then, slowly, he
said, "Same reason as yours, really—or one pretty much
like it. I've seen some of Alfar's work, and it's sickened
me. I can't call myself a man if I let that happen without
fighting it. At the very least, I've got to help keep it from
spreading—or die trying."

"As indeed thou mayest," Simon breathed. "Yet that is
not the whole of thine answer, is it?"

"No—but that's all you're going to get."

They gazed at one another for several heartbeats, the
blade of Rod's glare clashing off the velvet wall of Simon's
acceptance. Finally, the innkeeper nodded. "'Tis thine af-
fair, of course." He sounded as though he meant it.

He turned back to the fire. "Thou art mine ally for this
time. I need know no more than that the sorcerer's thine
enemy."

"Well, that—and that the stew's ready." Rod leaned over
to sniff the vapors. "Not bad, for field rations. Want some?"

When Simon rolled up in his cloak to sleep. Rod went
over to curry Fess. The job wasn't really stage dressing at
all—Fess's horsehair may have owed more to plastic than
to genetics, but it still collected brambles and burrs on
occasion.

"So." Rod ran the currycomb along Fess's withers. "Alfar
started out with nothing but feelings of inferiority, and a
grudge against the world."

"An ordinary paranoid personality," Fess noted.

"Yeah, except that he was an esper. And somewhere
along the line, he all of a sudden became a lot more powerful
than your average warlock." He looked up at Fess. "Maybe
just because he managed to talk some other witches into
joining him?"

"Perhaps." The robot sounded very skeptical. "I cannot
help but think there is more to the matter than that."

"Probably right, too... So. Alfar had a sudden boost in
power, and/or got together a gang. Then he started leaning




f64           Christopher Stasheff                    \

on the local citizenry, like any good gangster."                i
"The process seems to begin with intimidation," Fess     '

noted.                                                        ;

Rod stopped currying for a minute. "Maybe... Even the

soldiers were scared, when they were marching against
him...." He shrugged. "Hard to say. In any event, he's
finally able to mass-hypnotize whole villages—though from
the soldier's account, it needs to be redone in depth, on an

individual basis."

"The soldiers' mass hypnosis was done during the heat

of battle. Rod, and very quickly. The peasant villages seem
to have been done more leisurely, by Simon's statement—

over a period of days, perhaps even weeks."

"True—so it would be more thorough. Though, appar-
ently, some are harder to hypnotize than others." He looked
up at Fess again. "And espers appears to be immune."
"So it would seem, to judge by Simon."
"Yes..." Briefly, Rod wondered about that. Then he
shrugged it off. "Anyhow. When Alfar'd built enough of a
power base, one of the local knights got worried, and tried
to knock him down before he grew too big. But he was

already too big."

"Indeed," Fess agreed. "He was already powerful enough

to overcome a knight with his village force."

Rod nodded. "And by the time he was big enough to
worry the local baron, he'd absorbed the forces of several
knights. So the baron fell, and the chain reaction began—
the baron, then the count, then finally the duke himself—

and it doesn't end there, does it?"

"Certainly not, Rod. After all, he now has the resources

of a duchy to draw on."

"Yes. We all know what he's going to do now, don't

we?"

"But surely Gwendylon and the children have already

borne word to Tuan and Catharine, Rod—and the Duchess's
personal account must certainly have been very persuasive.
I doubt not that Tuan is already gathering his forces."
"Gathering them, yes. But it's going to be at least a week

or two before he can march North."

"Surely Alfar cannot consolidate his newly won forces

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED        165
with sufficient speed to enable him to carry the attack to

Tuan!"

"Oh, I don't think he would, anyway." Rod looked up

into Fess's imitation eyes. "All the Duke's horses and all
the Duke's men aren't quite enough to take on the King's

army."

"True," the robot conceded. "Therefore, he will attack

Earl Tudor."

"You really think he'd dare strike that close to Tuan?"

"Perhaps not. Perhaps he will seek to conquer Hapsburg

first."

"It's just great, having outgoing neighbors ... and if he

manages to swallow Hapsburg, he'll have to digest him

before he can take on Tudor."

"I doubt that he would try. He might be able to defeat

the Earl quickly, but he must surely need a week or two to
complete the indoctrination of the captured soldiers."

"And while he's digesting, he's right next to Tuan. No,
you're right. He'd try to march through Tudor, and attack
Tuan right away. Which means our job is to keep him from
being able to attack another baron, before Tuan attacks him."

"What methods do you propose. Rod?"
Rod shrugged. "The usual—hit and run, practical jokes,

whispering campaigns—nothing sensible. Keep him off-
balance. Which shouldn't be too hard; he's going to be

feeling pretty insecure, right about now."

"He will indeed. And, being paranoid, he will seek to
eliminate whatever enemies he does see, before he turns his

attention to attack."

"Maybe. But a paranoid also might decide to attack be-
fore the next baron can attack him, and start his own secret
police to take care of internal enemies." Rod clenched a fist
in frustration. "Damn! If only you could predict what a

single human being would do!"

"Be glad you cannot," Fess reminded, "or VETO and its

totalitarians could easily triumph."

"True," Rod growled. "Truer than I like. And speaking

of our proletarian pals, do you see any evidence of their

meddling in this?"

"Alfar's techniques do resemble theirs," Fess admitted.

166           Christopher Stasheff

"Resemble? Wish fulfillment, more likely! He's got the
kind of power they dream of—long-distance, mass-
production brainwashing! What wouldn't any good little
dictator give for that?"

"His soul, perhaps?"

"Are you kidding? Totalitarianism works the other way.
around—everybody else gives their souls to the dictator!"

"Unpleasant, but probably accurate. Nonetheless, there
is no evidence of futurian activity."

"Neither totalitarians nor anarchists, huh?"

"Certainly not. Rod."

"Not even the sudden, huge jump in Alfar's powers?"

"That ability does bother me," Pess admitted. "A pro-
jective telepath, who seems to be able to take on a whole
parish at one time... Still, there's no reason to believe the
totalitarians would be behind it."

"Oh, yes there is," Rod countered. "From everything
Simon's told me, and it just backed up what Gwen said—
the trance these people seem to walk around in, is thoroughly

impersonal."

"Almost depersonalized, you might say? I had, had
something of the same thought too. Rod. I recognize the

state."

"Yes—mechanical, isn't it?"
"True. But that is not conclusive evidence of futurian

meddling."

"No—but it does make you wonder." Rod gave the syn-
thetic horsehair a last swipe with the brush. "There! As new
and shiny as though you'd just come from the factory. Do
you mind a long tether, just for appearances?"

"I would mind not having it. It is certainly necessary,

Rod."

"Must keep them up, mustn't we?" Rod reached into the

cart, pulled out a length of rope, tied one end to Fess's
halter and the other to a convenient tree branch. "Besides,
you can break it easily, if you want."

"I will not hesitate to do so," Fess assured him. "Sleep
while you can. Rod. You will need the rest."

"You're such an optomist." Rod pulled his cloak out of
the cart and went back to the campfire. "I'm not exactly in

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      167

a great mood for emptying my mind of the cares of the
day."

Try," the robot urged.

"If I try to sleep, I'll stay awake." Rod lay down and
rolled up in his cloak. "How about trying to stay awake?"

"Not if you truly want to sleep. I could play soft music,
Rod."

"Thanks, but I think the nightbirds are doing a pretty
good job of that."

"As you wish. Good night. Rod."

"I hope so," Rod returned. "Same to you, Fess." He
rolled over toward the fire...

... and found himself staring into Simon's wide-open,
calm, and thoughtful eyes.

"Uh.. .hi, there." Rod forced a sickly grin. "Say, I'll
bet you're wondering what I was doing, rambling on like
that—aren't you?"

"Not greatly," Simon answered, "though I do find thy
conversation to be of great interest."

"Oh, I'm sure." Rod's stomach sank. "Does it, uh, bother
you, to, uh, hear me talk to my horse."

"Not at all." Simon looked faintly surprised. "And 'tis
certainly not so desperate as talking to thyself."

"That's a point..."

'"Tis also scarcely amazing." Simon favored him with
a rather bleak smile. "Be mindful, I'm an innkeeper, and
many carters have stopped at my inn. Every one I've known,
has spoken to his horse."

"Oh." Rod hoped his surprise didn't shown in his face.
"You mean I'm not exactly unusual?"

"Only in this: thou'rt the first I've heard who, when he
spoke to his horse, made sense."

Rod supposed it was a compliment.

11

They were up at first light, and on the road by dawn. With
the main issues out of the way, the two of them chatted
together easily—Simon the innkeeper, and Owen the farmer.
And if, as morning wore on, Owen's tales of his children
bore a startling resemblance to the experiences of Rod
Gallowglass, it can scarcely be surprising. On the other
hand, all the stories had nothing to do with juvenile witch
powers; Rod stayed sufficiently on his guard not to make

that particular slip.

It wasn't easy. Rod found they had a lot in common—
wives, and children. He also found Simon to be surprisingly
refreshing. Instead of their usual dire predictions about the
horrors of adolescence that lay in store for the unwary father,
Simon restricted his anecdotes to childhood disasters—
though, when pressed, he admitted that all his children were
grown, and the tale of his daughter's impending first birth
was quite true. Rod immediately began insisting, all over
again, that Simon turn back to the South and his daughter,
the more so because Simon had mentioned earlier that his
wife had died quite a few years ago; but the innkeeper merely
informed Rod that his daughter really lived north of his
home village—wherefore, he had been doubly cowardly to
flee. There wasn't much Rod could say to that, so he relaxed

768

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      169

and enjoyed Simon's company. So, by the time they came
to the first village. Rod was feeling in fine form—which
was fortunate, because they were greeted by a mob.

The peasants stormed out of the village, howling and
throwing stones and waving pitchforks—but not at Simon
and Rod. Their target was a small man, who sprinted madly,
managing to stay a dozen yards ahead of them.

"Slay the warlock!" they cried. "Stone him!" "Stab him!
Drain his blood!" "Burn him! Bum him Bum Him BURN
HIM!"

Simon and Rod stared at each other, startled. Then Simon
snapped, "He could not be of Alfar's brood, or soldiers
would even now be cutting down these peasants! Quickly,
Owen!"

"You heard him!" Rod cracked the whip over Fess's head,
keeping up the act. "Charge!"

Fess leaped into a gallop. Cartwheels roared behind him.

Rod pulled up hard as they passed the fleeing warlock,
and Simon shouted, "Up behind, man! For thy lifeblood's
sake!"

The running man looked up, startled, then jumped into
the cart, as Simon rose to his feet and cried out, in a voice
that seared through the crowd's shouting:

"I, too, am a magic worker! Two warlocks face thee
now! Dost thou still wish wood to kindle?"

The crowd froze, the words of violence dying on their
tongues.

Simon stood relaxed, but his face was granite. Slowly,
he surveyed the crowd, picking out individual faces here
and there. But he didn't say a word.

Finally, a fat little man stepped forward, shaking a club
at Simon. "Step aside, fellow! Withdraw thy cart and horse!
Our quarrel's with this foul warlock, not with thee!"

"Nay," Simon answered. "To the contrary; every war-
lock's business is every other's, for there are few of us
indeed."

"Every warlock?" the fat man bleated in indignation. "Is
Alfar's business also thine?"

His words set off an ugly murmur that increased in ug-
liness as it built.

770           Christopher Stasheff

"Alfar's business ours?" Simon's eyes widened. "Why

would it not be?"

The noise cut off as the crowd stared at him, frozen.

Then the people began to mutter to one another, worried,
a little fearful. One scrawny warlock by himself was one
thing—but two together, with Alfar's backing...

Simon's voice cut through their hubbub. "'Twould be
better an thou didst now go back unto thine homes."

"What dost thou speak of!" the fat little man cried. "Turn
to our homes? Nay! For we have one who must be punished!
What dost thou think thyself to..."

His voice ran down under Simon's stony glare. Behind
him, the crowd stared, then began to whisper among them-
selves again. Rod heard snatches of "Evil Eye!" "Evil Eye!"
He did the best he could to reinforce the idea, staring at the
fat little leader with his eyes narrowed a little, teeth showing

in a wolfish grin.

"Thou wilt go," Simon said, his voice like an icepick.
Rod could scarcely believe the transformation. He
could've sworn Simon was at least two inches taller and
four inches broader. His eyes glowed; his face was alive
and vibrant. He fairly exuded power.

Cowed, the crowd drew in upon itself, muttering darkly.
Simon's voice rose above. "We have shown thee plainly
wherein doth lie the true power in this land—but it need
not be turned against thee. Go, now—go to thine homes."
Then he smiled, and his aura seemed to mellow—he seemed
gentler, somehow, and reassuring. "Go," he urged, "go

quickly."

The crowd was shaken by the transformation. Their emo-
tions had been yanked back and forth; they didn't know
whether to resent Simon, or be grateful to him. For a mo-
ment, they stood, uncertain. Then one man turned away,
slowly. Another saw him, and turned to follow. A third saw
them, and turned, then a fourth. Then the whole crowd was
moving back toward the village.

The fat little man glanced at them, appalled, then back
toward Simon. "Retribution shall follow," he cried, but fear
hollowed his voice. "Retribution, and flames for all witches!"

Rod's eyes narrowed to slits, and he gathered himself;

but Simon laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      171

mildly, "Go whilst thou may—or retribution there shall be
indeed, and I shall not lift one finger to stay it."

The little man glanced at Rod in sudden terror, then
whirled about, and hurried to follow the villagers back to-
ward the houses.

Rod, Simon, and the stranger only watched him, frozen
in tableau till he'd disappeared among the buildings. Then,
the moment he was out of sight, Simon heaved a long sigh,
going limp.

"I should say," Rod agreed. "You do that kind of thing
often?"

"Nay." Simon collapsed onto the board seat. "Never in
my life."

"Then you've got one hell of a talent for it." Privately,
Rod had a strong suspicion that Simon was at least a little
bit of a projective, but didn't realize it.

Even with his nerves a-jangle from facing down a mob
for the first time, Simon remembered the fugitive. He turned,
looking back into the cart. "Art thou well, countryman?"

"Aye," the stranger wheezed, "thanks to thee, goodmen.
And thou hadst not come, there had been naught but a bloody
lump left of me. E'en now I tremble, to think of them!
From the depths of my soul I thank thee. I shall pray down
upon thee one blessing, for every star that stands in the sky!
I shall..."

"You shall live." Rod couldn't repress the grin. "And
we're glad of it. But if you're a warlock, why didn't you
just disappear?" Then a sudden thought hit him, and he
turned to Simon. "Is he a warlock?"

"Aye." Simon nodded, his eyes on the stranger. "There
is the feeling I've had, twice aforetime, when I've met
another warlock and heard his thoughts—that feeling of
being in a mind enlarged, in a greater space of soul."

Rod knew the feeling; he'd met it himself. With a variant
form and intensity, it was one of the great benefits of being
married to another esper—and one of the curses of being
an esper himself, when he was near another telepath whom
he didn't like. He'd decided some time ago that it was mental
feedback—but controlled feedback. It must've been, or it
would've torn both minds apart. The bom witch, he thought,
must develop a perceptual screen in infancy, a sort of block-




772           Christopher Stasheff

ing mechanism that would reduce the recycled mental en-
ergy to comfortable levels.

"He is a warlock," Simon said again. "Why, therefore,

didst thou not disappear, goodman?"

"Why, for that I could not." The stranger smiled apolo-
getically, spreading his hands and cocking his head to the
side. "What can I say to thee? I am a very poor warlock,
who can but hear others' thoughts, and that only when
they're hard by me. E'en then, I cannot hear them well."

"I, too," Simon said, with a sad smile. "I can but hear
one that's within the same house as I."

"And I, only when they are within a few yards," the
stranger said, nodding. "But so little as that is enough, I
wot, so that, now and again, summat of others' thoughts
do come into mine head, unknowing—the thought comes
that so-and-so is a-love with such-and-such, or that this one
wishes the other dead. And, again and now, I let slip an
unguarded word or two, and the one I'm speaking to doth
stare at me, in horror, and doth cry, 'How couldst thou know
of that? None have heard it of me; to none have I spoken

of it!'"

"So they figured out what you were." Rod nodded.
"Aye; and it cost me what few friends I had, from my
earliest years; yet it made me no enemies; for I am, as I've
said, a most powerless warlock, and all, thankfully, knew
that I meant no one harm."

Rod could believe it. The stranger was short, slump-
shouldered and concave-ctiested, flabby, with a little pot-
belly. His hair was dun-colored. He had large, pale eyes, a
snub nose, and a perpetual hangdog look about him. He
couldn't have been much over thirty, but already his cheeks
were beginning to sag. In a year or five, he'd have jowls.
A schlemiel. Rod decided, a poor soul who would never
intentionally hurt anybody, but would always be clumsy,
both physically and socially. "Nobody really wanted you
around, huh? But they didn't mind you, either."
"Aye," the stranger said, with a rueful smile.
"I know the way of it," Simon sighed. "There was such

a lad in my village."

"There always is," Rod said. "It's a necessary social

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      173

function. Everybody needs somebody whose name they can't
quite remember."

"Well said." Simon smiled. "And thou dost touch my
conscience. How art thou called, goodman?"

"Flaran," the stranger answered, with the same smile.

"Flaran," Simon repeated, thoughtfully. "Tell me,
Flaran—when Alfar the sorcerer began to rise to power,
did thy fellows expect thee to hail him?"

Plaran's smile gained warmth. "They did that. Thou hast
endured it thyself, hast thou not?" And, when Simon nod-
ded, he chuckled. "So I thought; thou hast spoke too much
of what I have seen myself. Aye, all my neighbors did think
that, solely because I've a touch of the Power, I should cry
that Alfar was the greatest hope this duchy hath ever seen.
Yet I did not. In truth, I said I did not trust the man."

Simon nodded. "Yet they thought thou didst give them
the lie."

"They did," Flaran agreed. "Straightaway, then, mine
old friends—or neighbors, at least—began to mistrust me;

in truth, as Alfar's fame and power have grown, they have
doubted me more and more."

"Still, thou'rt of them." Simon frowned. "When last came
to last, thou wert of their clan and kind. I would think they
would not hound and stone thee."

"Nor did I—and still I misdoubt me an they would have.
But folk began to pass through our village, pushing hand-
carts and bearing packs upon their backs; and, though we
did not have great store of food or ale, 'Stay.' we urged
them. 'Nay,' they answered, 'for the sorcerer's armies do
march, and we do flee them. We dare not bide, for they'll
swallow up this village also.' Then they turned, and marched
on toward the South."

Rod and Simon exchanged a quick glance. Simon nodded
in corroboration. Rod understood; Simon had been one of
the ones who had come marching through the village, and
had not stayed. "And this small ball of a man with the great
mouth?" Simon turned back to Flaran. "Was he of thy vil-
lage, or of the strangers?"

"Of the strangers," Flaran answered, "and he did come
into our village crying doom upon all who had any powers.




174           Christopher Stasheff

None could be trusted, quoth he, for all witch folk must
needs hate all common men, and must needs fight them;

therefore, any witch or warlock must needs be an agent of
Alfar's."

Simon's eyes burned. "Indeed? Would I could have done
more than send him back to thy village."

"Nay, friend. Thou wouldst but have made my neighbors
certain in their hatred. Even as 'twas, he did turn my fellows
against me—though, in all truth, the news from the North
had made them so wary, they needed little turning. I came
into the inn for a pint, but when I stood near to the landlord,
I heard his thoughts, his rage and mistrust, his secret fear
that the fat little stranger might be right, that mayhap all
witch folk should be stoned. Nay, I dropped my flagon and
fled."

"And, of course, they all ran after you." Rod reflected
that the pack instinct must have taken over.

Flaran shuddered. "Tis even as thou dost say. 'Twas
not even an hour agone. I dodged and hid, then dodged and
ran. At last they found me out, and I could hide no longer.
Nay, I fled off down the road—but I was wearied, and must
needs fight to stay running. Heaven be praised that thou
didst come up the High Road then, or I had been a paste
of a person!"

Simon reached out to clap Flaran on the shoulder. "Cour-
age, friend—this bloodlust shall fade, as it hath aforetime.
Ever and anon have they come out hunting witches—and
ever and anon hath it passed. This shall, also."

Flaran braved a small smile, but he didn't look con-
vinced.

Rod wasn't, either—the whole thing had too much of
the deliberate about it. It was preplanned, well-organized
whipping-up of sentiment, and there was only one group
organized enough to do the whipping-up—but why would
Alfar be trying to work up antiesper sentiment?

The answer hit him like a sap, in instant balance to the
question: Alfar would whip up the witch hunt to eliminate
his competition. After all, the only force in the duchy that
could stand against him, were the witches who hadn't signed
up with him. Left alone long enough, they just might band

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      175

together in self-defense—as Simon and Flaran were doing,
even now. If they organized a large enough band of fugitive
witches and warlocks, they would constitute a power that
might actually unseat him. And what better way to eliminate
the independents, than the time-tried old witch hunt?

When you looked at it that way, it made excellent sense—
especially since the unaligned espers would tend to be op-
posed to him; they'd be the most sensitive to his kind of
hypnotic tyranny. "Say, uh—did either one of you ever feel
one of Alfar's men trying to take over your mind?"

Both men looked up, startled. Then Simon nodded,
gravely. "Aye. It was..." he shuddered, "... most obscene,
friend Owen."

"I could barely feel it," Haran added, "yet it turned my
stomach and made my gorge to rise. And it raised such a
wave of fear in me, that I thought it like to shake me to
pieces. To feel fingers of thought, stroking at thy mind..."
He broke off, looking queasy.

"Try not to think of it," Rod said, cursing his impul-
siveness. "Sorry I brought it up." And these two, he re-
flected, were the gentle kind. What would happen when
Alfar's men tried to take on a warlock who had a bit more
arrogance? Or even just one who liked to fight? He would
have flown into a rage, and gone hunting for Alfar.

And Rod couldn't blame him. The thought of someone
meddling with his mind started the sullen flow of anger. He
recognized it, and tried to relax, let it drain away—but the
image of Gwen and the children rose up in his mind, with
the instant thought of some overbearing young warlock trying
to touch their minds—and the rage exploded with a sud-
denness that left him defenseless against it, shaking his body
with its intensity, wild and searing, searching for a target,
any target, striving to master Rod, to make him its instru-
ment. He held himself still, fighting to contain it, to keep
it inside himself, to keep it from hurting anyone else.

But both warlocks were staring at him. "My friend,"
Simon said, wide-eyed, "art thou well?"

Such a mild question, and so well-intentioned! But it
broke the fragile membrane of Rod's control.

He hurled himself away from the cart, off the road and

776

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

177

into the field beside. Don't hurt them. Let it blow, but don't
hurt them. He needed some way to channel the anger, some
way to let it spend itself harmlessly, and running was as
good as anything else.

A boulder loomed up ahead of him, a rock outcrop four
feet high, with smaller boulders around the base. Rod seized
one about a foot across, hefting it up above his head with
a grunt of agony. He stood for a moment, poised, glaring
at the boulder, then hurled his rock with all his might,
shouting, "Blast you!"

The rock hit the boulder with a crack like a gunshot.
Stone chips flew, and the smaller rock split and clattered to
the base of the boulder.

"Bum in your own magic!" Rod screamed at it. "Fall
down a rathole, and forget how to teleport! Jump into the
sky, and don't come back down!" He raged on and on, a
five-minute stream of incoherent curses.

Finally, the anger ebbed. Rod sank to one knee, still
glaring at the boulder. Then, slowly, he bowed his head,
gasping for breath, and waited for the trembling to stop.

When his heartbeat had slowed, he stood up, swaying a
little. Then he forced himself to turn back toward the cart,
fifty yards away—and saw Flaran staring at him.

But Simon stood near him, leaning on his staff, waiting,
watching him with gentle sympathy.

That was what stung—the sympathy. Rod winced at the
sight; it magnified his chagrin tenfold. He turned away,
muttering, "Sorry about that. I, uh... I don't do that too
often." / hope.

"Thou didst only as I did feel," Simon assured him.

"Well... thanks." That didn't really help. "I just get
outraged at the thought of someone trampling on other peo-
ple, without even thinking about them!"

Simon nodded. "And when the object of thy wrath is not
nigh thee, 'tis harder to forebear. Indeed, thou didst well
to seek a thing of stone unfeeling, to wreak thy vengeance
on."

"But the force of it's wasted—is that what you're think-
ing? Why spend all that energy, without hurting the thing
I'm angry at?"

Simon scowled. "I had not thought that—but aye, now
that thou dost say it. 'Tis better husbandry, to contain thine
anger till thou canst use its force to right the wrong that
angers thee."

"Easy enough to say," Rod said, with a sardonic smile.
"But how do you contain your anger? I know it sounds
simple—but you should try it, sometime! You would..."
He broke off, staring at Simon. Slowly, he said, "You have
tried it, haven't you?" Then, nodding, "Yes. I think you
have. That last line had the ring of experience behind it."

"'Tis even so," Simon admitted.

"You had a temper? You flew into rages? You? Mr. Nice
Guy himself? Mr. Calmness? Mr. Phlegmatic? You?"

"Indeed," Simon admitted, and, for the first time, his
smile was tinged with irony. " 'Tis not so easy, friend Owen,
to hide thy knowledge of others' thoughts. 'Tis most tempt-
ing, in moments of anger, to use those thoughts against
them—to say, 'Me a coward? When thou didst face the
battle with panic clamoring through thy veins, and would
have fled, had thy captain not stood behind thee with his
sword?' For indeed, he had marched forward, and none
who saw him would have thought him less than brave. Yet
I knew, I—and was fool enough to speak it aloud. Then,
to another, 'How canst thou call me a lecher. Father, when
thou hast thyself lusted after Tom Plowman's wife?"

Rod whistled. "You don't take on the clergy!"

"Aye, but in my youthful pride, I thought that I had
power o'er all—for I had but newly learned that I could
hear other's thoughts and, in my delight and careless strength,
did hearken to the thoughts of all about me. No person in
that town was free from my thought-hearing. When one did
sneer at me, I used my hoarded knowledge of his darkest
secrets and proclaimed his shame for all to hear! He did
swell up with rage, but durst not strike where all might see,
and know the truth of what I'd said. Nay, he could only
turn away with snarls—and I would gloat, rejoicing in my
newfound power."

Rod frowned. "How long did you get away with that?"

"Thrice." Simon grimaced, shaking his head. "Three times
only. For when the anger passed, the folk I'd wronged began




778 Christopher Stasheff

to ponder. They knew they'd never spoken of their secret
fears or lusts to any person living. By chance, they spoke
to one another...."

"By chance, my rabbit's foot! You'd insulted each one
publicly; they knew who to compare notes with!"

"Like enough," Simon sighed. "And once they all knew
that I'd spoken things none of them had ever said aloud,
'twas but a small step to see that I must needs be a warlock,
and one who would not hesitate to use what knowledge I
gained, from others thoughts to their harm. They spread
that word throughout the town, of course..."

" 'Of course' is right," Rod murmured, "especially with
the village priest in there. Who'd doubt his word? After all,
even if he did covet his neighbor's wife, at least he didn't
do anything about it."

"Which is more than could be said for most of his flock,"
Simon said, with a tart grimace. "Aye, he too did speak of
my 'fell power'—and the rumor ran through all the town,
to harry all my neighbors out against me." His face twisted
with bitterness. "I' truth, 'twas no more than my desert;

yet I felt betrayed when they came against me as a mob,
screaming, "Thought thief!' 'Slanderer!' and 'Sorcerer!'
—betrayed, for that most of them had gossiped 'gainst
me, one time or another—yet I'd forgiven them."

"Yes—but you had a weapon they couldn't use."

"Aye—not 'wouldn't,' but 'couldn't.'" Simon's grimace
turned sardonic. "And for that reason, they did raise the
hue and cry, and harried me from their town." He shuddered,
closing his eyes. "Ah, praise Heaven that I have no powers
other than thought-hearing! For in mine anger, I would have
turned and hurled great stones at them, fireballs, sharp knives;

I would have raised these folk up high, and slammed them
to the earth!" He shuddered again, and his eyes sprang open,
staring.

Rod could see the anger rising in him again, and spoke
quickly, calmly. "Easy, easy. It was a long time ago."

"And the wrong's been righted. Aye." Simon managed
to dredge up his smile again. "I did leam the error of my
ways; I did repent, and did full pennance. For when I fled
my native village, I wandered, blind with rage, immersed
in bitterness, neither knowing nor caring whither my steps

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      179

progressed. Forty leagues, fifty leagues, an hundred—till
at last, worn out with hatred, I sank down in a cave and
slept. And in my slumber, a soothing balm did waft to me,
to calm my troubled spirit. When I waked, I felt refreshed,
made new again. Wondering, I quested with my mind, to
seek out the agency that had wrought this miracle. I found
a well of holy thought which, in my slumber, I had drawn
upon, unwitting. 'Twas a company of holy brothers and,
by great good fortune, the cave I'd tumbled into was scarce
an hundred yards from their community." Simon gazed off
into the distance. "My soul did seek their solace, and did
lead my steps unto them."

"Possible," Rod agreed. "But I thought there was only
one monastery in this land—the Abbey of St. Vidicon,
down South."

"Nay; there's another, here in Romanov, though 'tis not
overlarge."

Rod nodded, musing. He knew that the main monastery
was a conclave of espers, who knew about the outside uni-
verse and modem technology, and who were continually
experimenting with their psi powers, trying to find new ways
to use them. Could this northern monastery be the same
type of thing? Maybe not, if they hadn't noticed Simon's
troubled spirit so close by.

On the other hand, maybe they had... "So just being
near the monks, healed your soul."

Simon nodded. "Indeed, their peace pervaded me. I made
a broom, and swept the cave; I made a bed of branch and
bracken. As the days passed, I made a cozy house there,
and let the friars' peace still my rage, and fill my soul." He
smiled, gazing off into the past. "Their serenity abides within
me still, so deeply did it reach." He turned to Rod. "After
some weeks, I did begin to ponder at their peace and calm-
ness. What was its source? How did they come by it? I
hearkened more carefully to their thoughts. And of them
all, I found most wondrous were those that dwelt on herbs
and their effects. So I commenced to spend much time
within the minds of the monks who labored in the stillroom,
distilling liquors and elixers. I drank up every fact, each
notion.

As the leaves turned toward winter, I built a door to my

780           Christopher Stasheff

cave; I tanned furs and made a coat, then sat down by my
fire and hearkened all the more closely; for the monks were
pent up for the winter. The snows lay deep; they could not
venture forth. Then even friends could grate each upon the
other's nerves. The brotherhood was ripe for rifting. Quar-
rels did erupt, and I hung upon their every shout, eager to
see if they might still be holy. Yet I was amazed; for, even
when their tempers flared, the monks remembered their
devotions. They forgave each other, turned away!" Simon
sighed, shaking his head. "How wondrous did it seem!"
"Damn straight!" Rod croaked. "How'd they do it?"
"By their devotion to their God," Simon said, with a
beatific smile, "and by being ever mindful that He, and His
Way, were more important than themselves, or their pride—
or, aye, even their honor."

"Their honor?" Rod stiffened, staring. "Hey, now! You
can't mean they thought that God wanted them to be hu-

miliatied!"

Simon shook his head. "Nay, quite the contrary! They

trusted their God to prevent such!"

Rod felt a certain foreboding creeping over him. He
turned his head to the side, watching Simon out of the
comers of his eyes. "How was He supposed to do that?"

"By giving them to know, within themselves, which deeds
were right to do, and which were wrong. Then, even though
a man forebore to do some deed that other men did expect
of him, he might yet know himself to be worthy, even though
his fellows did jeer. Thus might he turn aside in pride,
without a trace of shame—for look thou, when all's said
and done, humiliation is within thee, not something visited
upon thee by thy fellows."

Rod frowned. "Are you trying to tell me a man can save
face, even though everybody else is pointing the finger of

scom at him?"

Simon shook his head. "There was never need to. For if
any man stepped aside from a quarrel, and another ridiculed
him for it, the first had but to say, 'My God doth not wish
it,' and the other would comprehend, and only respect him
for his forebearance. Indeed, 'twas not even needful for the
first man to say aught aloud; 'twas only needful that he say

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      181

unto himself, in his heart, 'My God hath commanded me
to love my neighbor,' and he would not think less of himself
for retreating." He looked directly into Rod's eyes. "For
this 'honor' that thou dost hold dear, this 'face' thou speakest
of, is most truly but thine own opinion of thyself. We com-
monly suppose that 'tis what others think of us, but 'tis not
so. 'Tis simply that most of us have so little regard for
ourselves, that we believe others' opinions of us to be more
important than our own. Therefore have we the need to save
our countenances—our 'faces,' which term means only what
others see of us. Yet we know that only by what they say
they think of us—so our 'faces,' when all is truly said, are
others' opinions of us. We feel we must demand others'
respect, or we cannot respect ourselves." He shook his head,
smiling. "But 'tis false, dost thou see."

"Surprisingly, I think I do." Rod frowned. "If any man
really has a high opinion of himself, he won't care what
others think of him—as long as he knows he's good."

In the cart, Flaran shifted impatiently. He had been fol-
lowing the conversation from a distance and seemed dis-
pleased by its direction.

Simon nodded, eyes glowing. "'Tis true, 'tis true! Yet
few are capable of that. Few are so sure of themselves, that
their own opinion can matter more to them than all the rest
of their fellows' regard—and those few who are, be also
frequently insufferable in their arrogance."

"Which means," Rod pointed out, "that they really don't
have much faith in themselves—or they wouldn't have to
make such a show of their supposed superiority."

"'Tis true, by all accounts. Nay, most of us, to have any
sure sense of worth, must needs rely on some authority
that's above us all, that doth assure us we are right. It will
suffice, whether it be law, philosophy—or God. Then, should
tempers flare, and thou dost draw back thine hand to smite
me, and I, in wrath, set mine hand upon my dagger—one
of us must needs retreat, or there will be mayhem sure."

"Yes," Rod agreed, "but what happens if neither of us
is willing to? We'd lose face, we'd lose honor."

Simon nodded. "But if I can say, 'I will not strike, be-
cause my Lord hath commanded me to love mine enemy'—




782           Christopher Stasheff

why, then can I sheathe my dagger, step back, withdraw,
and think myself no less a man for the doing of it." His
smile gained warmth. "Thus may my God be 'the salvation

of my countenance.'"

Rod nodded slowly. "I can see how that would work—

but you'd have to be a real believer."

"Indeed." Simon sighed, and shook his head. "'Tis the
work of a saint, friend Owen—and I am certainly none

such."

Well, Rod had his own opinion about that.
"Yet there was sufficient of the monks' peace that did
invest me so that, when the seasons turned to spring, and
a villager came to beseech me for a cure for his cow, which
was a-calving, but had taken ill—why, in my lone-ness, I
delighted in his company, even for so short a while. I did
distill the herbs that he did need, and sent him on his way.
Some weeks later, another came—then another, and an-
other. I welcomed their company, and strove to gain their
liking—yet I minded me what I had learned of the good
brothers—that the folk themselves were of greater import
than their actions, or careless words. Thus did I leam to
contain mine anger, and never reveal in wrath aught that I
might have learned from their thoughts. Eh, but there were
times it was not easy; for though their lips spoke courteously,
their minds could hold insults grievous about the weird
wood-hermit whose aid they sought. He smiled, amused at
the memory of himself, the staunch innkeeper, as a wild-
eyed anchorite. "Yet I was mindful that they were my fellow
men, and of infinite worth thereby. Sorely tried I was, from
time to time, to utter words that would have blasted pride—
the hidden truths about themselves that would have made
them shrink within. Yet I forebore, and was ever mindful
that they were for cherishing. I served them all, from the
poor peasant to the village priest, who first felt me to be a
challenge yet finally came to respect me."

Rod smiled, amused. "Yes. I suppose if you can deal
with those who wear their authority like mantles, you can

deal with anything."

"Aye." Simon frowned, leaning forward. "And even as

I have done, so mayest thou do also."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      183

Rod stared at him a minute, then turned away. He started
back toward the roadway, to avoid having to meet Simon's
gaze. "What—withhold my anger, even against such a sink
of corruption as Alfar?" He shook his head. "I can't
understand how you can do that, with someone who's caused
so much misery to so many people!"

At the mention of Alfar's name, Haran climbed out of
the cart, and came to join them wfiere they stood.

"Loose anger at the deeds," Simon murmured, "but with-
hold it from the man."

Rod ground his teeth. "I hear your words, but I can't
comprehend their meaning. How can you separate the man
from his actions?"

"By being mindful that any human creature is a precious
thing, and can turn aside from his own evil, if he can but
recognize it."

"Can, sure." Rod's shoulders shook with a heave of inner
laughter. "But, will? What are the odds on that. Master
Simon?"

"Any person may be misled."

Rod shook his head. "You're assuming that Alfar's bas-
ically good—just an ordinary man, who's given in to the
temptation for revenge, discovered he can actually gain
power, and been corrupted by it."

"Certes." Simon peered up at him, frowning. "Is it not
ever thus, with those who wreak wrong?"

"Maybe—but you're forgetting the possibility of evil.
Actual, spiritual evil." Rod looked up, and noted Flaran's
presence. He weighed what he was about to say, and decided
that he didn't mind Flaran's hearing it. "Sure, all human
souls have the potential for goodness—but in some, that
potential is already buried before they're two years old. And
it's buried so deeply that it's almost impossible to uncover
it. They grow up believing that nobody's really capable of
giving. They themselves can't love, or give love—and they
assume everybody who talks about it is just putting on an
act." He took a deep breath, and went on. "Though it's not
really necessary to talk about that. All you really need is
the word 'corruption.' Alfar succumbed to the temptation
to do something he knows is wrong, because he loved the




184           Christopher Stasheff

idea of being powerful. And now that he's tasted power,
he'll do anything rather than give it up. No matter who he
has to hurt, how many he has to kill, how much suffering
he causes. Anything's better than going back to being what
he really is—just an ordinary, humdrum human being, who
probably isn't even very well-liked."

Flaran's eyes were huge; he stood frozen.

"Yet be mindful, he's human," Simon coaxed. "Hath that
no meaning for thee, friend Owen?"

Rod shook his head. "Don't let the fact that he's human,
make you believe that he thinks yo« are. He can't—he's
treating people as though they were bolts for a crossbow—
something to use, then forget about. He tramples through
other minds without the slightest thought. Doesn't he realize
these are real, feeling people, too?" He shook his head. "He
can't, or he wouldn't be doing it. He's got to be totally
without a conscience, totally calloused—really, actually,
evil."

"Yet he is a person withal," Flaran piped up, timidly.
"Even Alfar is not a devil. Master Owen."

"Not in body, maybe," Rod grunted. "I can believe he
doesn't have horns, or a barbed tail. His soul, though..."

"Yet he doth have a soul," Flaran pleaded. "Look you,
he may be an evil man—but he's a man nonetheless."

Rod drew a deep, shaky breath, then let it out slowly.
"Friend Flaran... I beg you, leave off! I've seen Alfar's
works, and those of his minions. Let us not speak of his
humanity."

Flaran was silent, but he stared at Rod, huge-eyed.

Rod steeled himself against the look and picked up the
reins. He slapped them on Fess's back, and the robot-horse
started forward.

When the silence had grown very uncomfortable. Rod
asked, "That fat little loudmouth, who was leading that
mob—how did he figure out that Flaran was a warlock?"

"Why... he heard my neighbors speak of it. I would

guess...."

"Doesn't seem likely," Rod said, frowning. "He was a
stranger, after all. How would he find out about the local
skeletons, so quickly?"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      185

"I think," Simon said, "that Alfar doth have adherents,
minor witches and warlocks who can do little but read minds,
salted here and there about the duchy—and their prime duty
is to espy those of Power."

"Oh?" Rod held himself still, kept his tone casual. "How'd
you hear about that?"

"I did not; but now and again, I've felt the touch of a
mind that quested, but did not seek anything, or anyone,
of which it was certain. And, anon, I've caught snatches
of thought clearly between warlocks, warning that such-
and-such had some trace of Power."

"How did they not espy thee?" Flaran asked, surprised.

Simon smiled. "I am, as we've said, rather weak at
warlockery. And, too, I've learned to hide what poor weak
powers I have, thinking like one who hath none at all,
keeping the surface of my thoughts ever calm, and quite
ordinary. "Tis the key to not letting slip the odd comment
that doth reveal thee—to think like an ordinary man; then
you'll speak and act like one."

Flaran nodded, gaze locked onto Simon's face. "I will
hearken to that. I will heed thee."

"Do so; 'twill save thee much grief. Nay, begin to think
like John Common even now, for we never know when
Alfar's spies may be listening."

Flaran started, darting a quick glance over each shoulder,
then huddled in on himself.

"And, friend Owen, there's naught to fear for thee,"
Simon reassured Rod, "no spy would even know thou'rt
there!"

Flaran looked up, astounded. "Why! How is that?"

"Oh, I'm, er, uh—invisible. To a mind reader." Rod said
it as nonchalantly as he could, and tried to throttle down a
burst of anger. How dare Simon let slip information about
him! Serves you right, he told himself, in an attempt at
soothing. And it was true; he should've known better than
to confide in a stranger. But Simon was so damn like-
able. ...

"Ah, if only I could so hide me!" Flaran cried. "Nay,
then, tell! How dost thou do it?"

"Nice question," Rod grated. "I really couldn't tell you.




186 Christopher Stasheff

But I think it has something to do with my basic dislike of
all human beings."

Flaran stared at him, shocked.

"When you really get down to it," Rod admitted, "I guess
I just don't really like people very well."

That rather put a damper on the conversation for a while.
They rode on northward, each immersed in his own thoughts.

For his part. Rod couldn't help feeling that both of his
companions were trying to become immersed in his thoughts,
too. Not that they didn't both seem to be good people—
but Rod was beginning to be very suspicious. The talk about
mental spies had made him nervous, and he found himself
remembering that Simon and Flaran were both strangers,
after all.

A wave of loneliness hit him, and he glanced up at the
skies. In spite of the longing, he was relieved to see the air
clear, with a singular dearth of winged wildlife. At least his
family was safe from getting mixed up in the mess.

Odd, though. He wasn't used to having Gwen listen to
him.

12

He did notice the squirrel peering at him from the branches,
and the doves stopping their preening to watch him from
the roof of the inn, as they pulled the cart into an innyard.
Rod climbed down and stood, surprised how much his joints
ached from the four-hour ride. He tied the reins to a hitching
post, and turned back to see Flaran climbing down from the
cart also, and Simon stretching his legs carefully.
"Don't worry," Rod assured him, "they still work."
Simon looked up, and smiled. "The question is, do I
wish they wouldn't?"

"Just at a guess, I'd say you're still having fun." Rod
turned into the inn. "Shall we see what the kitchens hold?"

The question was as much good business as hunger; Rod
was able to trade a bushel of produce for three lunches.
Flaran insisted on paying Rod the penny he'd been planning
to spend on beer, and Simon matched him. Rod protested,
but wound up accepting.

Dinner came with a liberal supply of gossip. "Ye come
off the road?" the landlord asked, as he set their plates in
front of them. "Then say—is't true, what they say ofAlfar?"

"Uh—depends on what you've heard," Rod said, feeling
wary. "Myself, I've heard a lot about the man."

"Why, that he has dropped from sight!" A peasant leaned

787




188

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

189

over from another table. "That none have seen him since
he took Castle Romanov."

"Oh, really?" Rod perked up noticeably. "Now, that's
one I hadn't heard!"

" Tis most strange, if 'tis true," the peasant said. "Here's
a man who hath appeared from nowhere, conquered most
of the duchy—and vanished!"

"Ah, but there's reason, Doln," an older peasant grinned.
"Some say he was stole away by a demon!"

"Eh, Harl—there's some as says he is a demon," chirped
a grandfather.

"Well, that would certainly explain why he appeared out
of nowhere," Rod said, judiciously.

The third peasant caught the note of skepticism, and
looked up with a frown. "Dost'a not believe in demons?"

"Dunno," Rod said, "I've never seen one."

"Such talk of demons is nonsense, Kench," Doln scoffed.
"Why would demons take him away, when he's doing good
demons' work?"

"Some say he's roaming the land, clad as a peasant,"
Harl grunted.

"Wherefore should he not?" Kench grinned. "He is a
peasant, is he not?"

"Aye, but he's also a warlock," Harl reminded, "and
they say he seeks through the land for folk who would aid
him well in his governing."

Doln looked up, with a gleam in his eye. "That, I could
credit more easily."

"Thou wilt credit aught," Kench scoffed.

"Belike he doth prowl unseen," Harl mused. "Would he
not seek out traitors?"

Flaran and Simon stiffened, and Rod could feel little cold
prickles running up his spine.

The peasants didn't like the idea, either. They glanced
quickly over their shoulders, twisting their fingers into charms
against evil. "How fell it is," Harl gasped, "to think that
one could spy on thee, and thou wouldst never know it!"

Rod thought of mentioning that spies usually tried very
hard to make sure nobody noticed them, but decided not

to.

"Take heed of those rumors, and thou dost wish it," the

landlord chuckled. "For myself, I note only that the land is
well-run."

The others turned to look at him, lifting their heads slowly.

"That's so," Doln nodded. "Dost'a say, then, that Alfar's
still in his castle?"

"Belike," the landlord shrugged. "'Tis that, or his cap-
tains govern well in their own rights."

"That, I doubt." Rod shook his head. "I never yet heard
of a committee doing any really effective governing. There
has to be one man who always has the final say."

"Well, then." The landlord turned to Rod with a grin. "I
must needs think Alfar's in his castle." And he turned away
to the kitchen, chuckling and shaking his head. "Rumor!
Only fools listen to it!"

"In which case, most people are fools," Rod said softly
to Simon and Plaran. "So, if there's a rumor going around
that you don't want people to believe, the thing to do is to
set up a counter-rumor."

"Which thou dost think Alfar hath done?" Simon had his
small smile on again.

"No doubt of it. Just look at the results—anybody who
might 'been thinking of a counter-coup while Alfar was
gone, would be thoroughly scared off. On the other hand,
he might really be roaming the countryside in disguise."

"Would that not make witch folk loyal to him?" Flaran
grinned. "For would he not be most likely to choose his
own kind, to aid him in his governing?"

With his usual unerring social grace, he had spoken a
bit too loudly. Harl looked up, and called out, "All witch
folk would be loyal to Alfar. Wherefore ought they not to
be?"

Flaran and Simon were instantly on their guard.
Rod tried to pull the sting out of it. He turned to Harl,
deliberately casual. "For that matter, wouldn't every peasant
be loyal to him? The rumor's that he's looking for talented
people for his, uh, reign."

"Why... 'tis so." Harl frowned, suddenly doubtful.
Doln looked up, eyes alight. "Aye! He could not find
witches enough to do all the tasks that are needed in gov-
erning, could he?"

"No." Rod repressed a smile. "He certainly couldn't."




790           Christopher Stasheff

Doln grinned, and turned to discuss the possibility with
Harl and Kench. Rod reflected, with some surprise, that
even a Gramarye peasant could have ambition. Which, of
course, was perfectly natural; he should have foreseen it.
He'd have to discuss the issue with Tuan when he went
back to Runnymede; if it wasn't planned for, it could become

dangerous.

He turned back to Flaran. "We can't be the only ones

who've figured this out. Now, watch—the common people
will all of a sudden start being really loyal, to Alfar—
because they're going to think they have a chance to rise

in the world."

"Indeed they may." Flaran grinned. "Would not the low-
born have opportunity under the rule of an upstart?"

Rod frowned; the comment was a little too Marxist for
his liking. "Yeah, if they happen to be the lucky ones out

of thousands, the ones he wanted."

"Yet I should think that he has these by him already,"
said Simon. "He hath chosen his people ere he began this
madcap climb. I would not look for him to place any great

trust in those new to his banner."

Flaran frowned; he had definitely not wanted to hear that.
"But the hope of it could make a lot of people like him,"
Rod pointed out. "Just the idea that a lowborn peasant's son
has come to rule a duchy, will pull an amazing amount of

support to him."

"Can rumor truly do so much?" Flaran breathed.
"That, and more," Rod said grimly. "Which is the best

reason of all for thinking Alfar's still in his castle."

Flaran stared. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head,

and opened them again.

"I, too, am puzzled." Simon frowned. "How can a rumor
mean..." His voice trailed off as his face cleared with

understanding.

Rod nodded. "All he has to do is stay inside the castle
and make sure the rumor gets started. Once it's running,
it's going to keep building peasant loyalty on the one hand,
and make everybody a little more wary about thinking dis-
loyal thoughts, or doing any plotting, on the other—for
fear Alfar himself might be listening in."

Flaran shuddered, and glanced quickly about the room—

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      191

and, suddenly. Rod had a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Alfar could indeed be in that very taproom, could be one
of the peasants, could be the landlord, lying in wait for one
of Tuan's agents to come by—such as Rod himself. He
could be about to spring the trap on Rod, any second....

Then chagrin hit, and hard on its heels, anger. This was
just what Alfar wanted Tuan's agents to be thinking. It was
called "demoralization," and it had almost worked. Rod's
respect for the sorcerer went up, as his animosity increased.
He was amazed that a medieval peasant could be so de-
vious.

On the other hand, maybe he had some help....

Simon leaned over to Rod and murmured, "Do not look,
or disguise it if thou must—but yon wench hath kept her
eye on us, since we came through the door."

"That is a little odd," Rod admitted. "None of us is
exactly what you'd call a model of masculine pulchritude."

"True enough," Simon answered, with a sardonic smile.
"Yet 'tis not with her eyes alone that she's kept watch over
us."

"Oh, really?" All of a sudden Rod's danger sensors were
tuned to maximum—not that they'd done much good so
far. He pulled out a coin, flipped it—and made sure it
"accidentally" flipped her way. As he turned to pick it up,
he managed a quick glance at her, and decided it wasn't
much of a surprise that he hadn't noticed her sooner. She
was average size, no heavier than she ought to be, with a
pretty enough face and dark blond hair.

Rod picked up the coin and turned back to Simon. "Not
exactly your stereotyped witch, is she?"

Simon frowned. "A very ordinary witch, I would say."

"That's a contradiction in terms. She's also not very
experienced at hiding her interest."

"Oh, she doth well enough," Simon demurred. "Yet I've
more experience at this sort of hiding than most, Master
Owen—and, when one of us doth say that which doth amaze
her, her shield doth slip."

Rod frowned. "Then why didn't she head for the door
as soon as we started talking about her?"

"Because thy mind is hid, let alone thy thoughts—and
for myself, I'm thinking one thought and saying another."




192           Christopher Stasheff

He grinned at Rod's surprise. "Be not amazed—what women
can do, we men may learn to do also. As for Flaran, I speak

so softly that he cannot hear."

Rod glanced quickly at the klutz; he was looking rather

nettled. Rod turned back to Simon. "Then there's no real

danger, is there?"

"Oh, there is alarm in her." Simon glanced at the serving-
wench, then back at Rod. "We had best be on our way,
Master Owen, and quickly, ere she calls another who doth

serve Alfar."

Rod turned toward the girl, considering risks and coming

to a quick decision. "No, I don't think that's really neces-
sary." He beckoned to the wench. Fear leaped in her eyes,
but she had no reason for it, and did need to keep her cover
while she studied them—so she came. Slowly, as though
she were being dragged, but she came. "What may I offer,

goodmen? Ale? Or more meat?"

"Neither, just now." Rod plastered on a friendly smile.

"Tell me—does it bother you that I'm not here, when I

really am?"

She stared at him in shocked surprise, and Simon mut-
tered, "Well done; she is quite disarmed. Certes, Alfar's her

master. She holds watch for witches."

Rod's dagger was out before Simon finished the first
sentence, its point touching the wench's midriff. She stared

at the naked steel, horrified.

"Sit." Rod kept the smile, but it had turned vicious.
"Sir," she gasped, gaze locked on the blade, "I dare not."
"Dare not disobey me? No, you don't. Now sit."
Trembling, she lowered herself to the empty stool. Rod
took her hand, gave her a glowing smile. "Simon, dig around
and see what you can find." He let the smile turn fatuous,
clasped both hands around hers, and leaned forward, croon-
ing, "Now, pretty lass, sit still and try to pay no heed to
the fingers you'll feel in your mind—and if their touch
disgusts you, be mindful that you would have spoken words
with your mind, that would have sent soldiers to slay us."
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, then beamed at her
again. "I know—you feel like nothing so much as leaping
up and screaming. But if you do, my knife is close at hand—
and do not think that you can snatch it with your mind faster




THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      193

than I can stab—for, in this case, the hand is quicker than
the mind." He saw her glance at the knife, and warned, "I
assure you, I've dealt with witches before." Which, he
reckoned, was his understatement for the year.

Her gaze darted back to his face, terrified. "But... why
dost thou kiss mine hand, when thou'rt mine enemy?"

"So that anyone watching... there, young Doln is staring
at me—no, don't look!—and his gaze is anything but
friendly. In fact, I think he favors my heart for the main
course. No, don't hope—I assure you, I'm a better fighter
than he, far better." He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes,
and decided to press it. "Sit very still, now. You wouldn't
want me to hurt him, would you?"

"Oh, do not!" she cried. Then, realizing she'd given away
more than military secrets, she blushed and dropped her
eyes.

"Aye, well done," Simon purred. "Gaze at the tabletop,
there's a good lass, and naught else; think of naught but its
grain, and its color... Now!"

The girl stiffened with a gasp, head flung back, eyes
shut; then she slumped in her chair.

"Stand away from her!" Doln was on his feet, knife out.
Rod stood slowly, his grin turning wolfish, knifepoint
circling. "Why, it shall be as you say—I shall stand away
from her. Shall I stand toward you, then?"

Harl scowled and stood up behind Doln, but the youth's
eyes showed doubt. He stood his ground, though—swal-
lowing hard, but he stood.

"Gently, now, gently," Simon soothed. "She sleeps, lad—
she but sleeps."

Doln glanced at him, then at the unconscious girl, and
the white showed all around his eyes.

"Softly, lad." Rod followed Simon's lead. "We're not
hurting her." He darted a quick glance at Simon. "Nay,
unless I mistake, my friend seeks to aid her."

"What manner of aid is this, that steals away her sense?"
Doln cried.

"What manner indeed!" Flaran huddled back in his chair,
eyes wide with terror.

Kench's glare would have killed a viper, and Harl gath-
ered himself and stepped up behind Doln.

Christopher Stasheff

194

The girl sighed, and her head rolled back.
"Ask her," Rod said softly. "She'll be awake in a minute."
Doln's gaze darted to her. Her eyelids fluttered, then
opened. She looked around her, uncomprehending, then
suddenly realized where she was, and her eyes widened;

she gasped.

"Marianne!" Doln dropped to one knee, clasping her

hand. "What have these fellows done to thee!"

Her gaze darted down to him; she shrank away. Then
she recognized him, and relaxed a little. She looked around,
and her gaze centered on Rod. Slowly, it turned to Simon,
then back at Doln, and her lips quivered with a smile. "Nay,
be not af eared for me, good Doln. I am well—aye, more
well than I have been for some weeks." She turned back to
Simon, frowning, then back to Doln. "These goodmen have

aided me."

Doln looked from one to another wildly, "What manner

of aid is this, that makes thee to swoon?"

"That, thou dost not need know," Simon advised. "Stand
away, now, I beg thee, for we must have further converse

with thy Marianne."

"I am not his," she said, with a touch of asperity, then

instantly balanced it with a dazzling smile at Doln. "I did

not know thou hadst concern of me."

Doln swallowed heavily, and stood, but his eyes were
still on her. "I... I do care for thy welfare, Marianne."

"I know it, now—and I thank thee." Her color had come
back completely, now. She clasped his hand, and looked up
at him through long lashes. "Most deeply do I thank thee.
Yet I prithee, do as this goodman doth bid thee, and stand
away, good Doln, for truly must I speak with them."

Reluctantly, Doln backed away from the table—and
bumped into Harl, who muttered a curse, and turned away
to his stool. Doln did, too, gaze flicking from Simon to
Marianne, then to Rod, then back to Marianne again. Then
Kench muttered something, and Doln turned to him, frown-
ing, then fell to muttering with Harl and the gaffer, casting

frequent glares at Rod and Simon.

He didn't notice Flaran. But then, who ever did?
Marianne turned back to Simon with a happy smile,




THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      195

patting her hair into place. "I must needs thank thee for
more things than one. Nay, ask what thou wilt. I will most
gladly answer."

Rod rubbed a hand over his face to cover a smile, then
turned to Simon. "Mind telling me what went on there?"

"Only what thou hast seen aforetime," Simon answered.
"She labored under a spell. I have broken it."

"A spell?" Rod stared at Marianne, appalled. "A
witch!.'?.'"

"Even so." The girl bowed her head in shame. "I see
now that I must have been."

Simon reached out and caught her hand. "There's no
shame in it, lass. 'Tis no fault of thine, that thou wert

enchanted."

"But it is!" She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "For I hid
my witch power from the goodfolk, full of guilt and em-
barrassment—till I began to believe that I was better than
they, for I could read minds and make things move by mere
thought, whilst they could not. Nay, it did come to seem
to me that we witch folk were the true nobility, the new
nobility, who could and should rule the world—aye, and
better than the lords do!"

"This, thou dost count fault of thine own?" Simon asked,
with a smile.

"Is't not?" She blushed, and looked down. "Alas, that
ever I thought so! Yet I did—and no other witch did seem
to feel as I did, no honest one; for I listened for their
thoughts, and heard them afar. Nay, none thought to lead
the witches to their rightful place—not even within the
Royal Coven. Thus, when Alfar began to reach out for
vassals, declaring he would lead the witch folk on to glory
and to rule, I declared him my leader on the instant, and
pledged him my fealty. All that he asked, I swore I would
do."

"And the service that he asked of thee?"

"Only this." She gestured around at the inn in disgust.
"Here is my glory and rule! To work as I had done, and
watch, then speak to them of any witchfolk I found who,
in either deed or thought, did struggle 'gainst Alfar. So I
did—and most joyously." She plunged her face into her

196           Christopher Stasheff

hands, "Eh, what a bitch I have been, what a vile, dastardly
traitor! For three witches have I delivered unto them—poor,
weak souls, who only sought to flee to safety!" She lifted
tragic eyes to gaze at Simon. "Yet truthfully did it seem to
me that any witch who did not acclaim Alfar, must needs
be a traitor to her own kind. Therefore did I summon aid
from Alfar's coven, and soldiers came, under the command
of a warlock, to take those witches away, and..." She
buried her face in her hands again. "Aiee! What did they

to those poor folk!"

Her shoulders shook with weeping. Simon reached out

to touch her, clasping her shoulder. "Nay, be not so grieved!
For thou didst these things not of thine own free will and

choice!"

Her gaze leaped up to his, tears still coursing down her

cheeks. "Yet how could it be otherwise?"

"When first thou didst begin to think thyself greater than
thy neighbors, the sorcerer's folk had already begun their
vile work on thee." Simon's smile hardened. "These first
thoughts, that witches ought to govern by right of birth,
were not truly thine. But they were oh, most gently and
skillfully worked in, among thoughts of thine own, that thou

mightst think them so."

'Truly?" she gasped, wide-eyed.

Simon nodded. "Be sure. I have myself slipped through
thy thoughts, witch—I must ask they pardon—and I know."

"Oh, the pardon is instantly given!" she cried. "How can
I thank thee, for breaking this spell?" Then her face lit up,
and she clapped her hands. "I know! I shall wander north-
ward, and myself seek to break spells that bind goodfolk!"

Rod darted a quick glance at Simon, and saw the fore-
boding in his face. He turned back to Marianne. "Uh—I
don't think that would be the best idea."

Her face fell. "Would it not? What, then..."

"Well, basically the same thing—just do it right here."
Rod managed to smile. "What Alfar was having you do,
but for our side. Keep working as a servingwench, and spy
out witch folk who're going south. But when you find them,
don't report them to Alfar's henchmen."

"But that is so small an aid!" she cried, disappointed.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      197

"Those whom thou dost save will not think it so," Simon
assured her.

"But they would be just as much saved if I were not here
at all."

"Not so." Rod shook his head. "If you left this post,
Alfar's men would find it out quickly enough, and they'd
send some other witch here to do the job. The only way
you can protect the fugitives, is to stay here and cover for
them."

"Assuredly there must be work of greater import I can
do!"

An imp pricked Rod with temptation. He grinned, and
succumbed. "There is, now that you mention it. You can
find another witch or two, who plan to stay."

"Others?" She stared, amazed. "How will that aid?"

"Because each of them can find two other witches," Rod
explained, "and each of those, two more, and so on and
on—and we can build up a network of witches opposed to
Alfar, all throughout the duchy of Romanov."

She frowned, shaking her head. "What aid will that be?"

"King Tuan will march North, sooner or later. When he
does, we'll send word through the net, for the witches to
gather where the battle's going to be, to help."

"Help in a battle?" Her eyes were round. "How?"

"Well send word about that, too. Just be ready to do it."

Slowly, she nodded. "I do not fully comprehend—yet I
do trust in thee. I shall do as thou dost bid."

"Good lass! And don't worry, you'll understand plenty.
It won't be very complicated—just to gather at a certain
place, and attack whatever part of the sorcerer's army you're
assigned."

"An thou sayest it." She still seemed doubtful. "But how
shall I know what to do, or when?"

"Someone will tell you. From now on, your name is,
uh, 'Esmeralda,' to anyone else in the anti-Alfar network.
So, if someone comes in and says he has word for
Esmeralda, from Kem..." Again, Rod wished he hadn't
chosen that name. "... you'll know it's a message from
me."

"But wherefore ought I not to be called Marianne?"

198           Christopher Stasheff

"So nobody can betray you. This way, if they tell Alfar
or his men they've a traitor named 'Esmeralda,' they won't

know who it really is."

"And 'Kem' is thy false name?"

/ sure hope so. "It's as good a name as any. The whole
idea is that we don't know each other's real names, remem-
ber. Will you do it—be Esmeralda, and watch for witches

to not report?"

Slowly, she nodded. "Aye—if thou dost truly believe

this is the greatest aid I can offer."

"Good lass!" Rod clasped her hand, relieved—she was
too young, and really too sweet, to wind up in Alfar's torture
chambers. Better to leave her where it was safe. "Now,
uh—would you please go reassure your friend Doln, there?
I can't help this feeling that he's just dying to shove a knife

between my ribs."

"Certes." She flushed prettily, and stood. "I thank thee,

goodman." She turned away, becoming shy and demure as

she neared her swain.

"I think she hath forgot thee quite," Simon said, with

his small smile.

"Yes. And that's the way it should be, isn't it?" Rod was

watching Doln, whose gaze was riveted to Marianne's face.
He caught her hand, and Rod turned back to Simon and
Flaran with a sigh. "Young love! Isn't it wonderful?"

"In truth." Simon watched the young couple over Rod's
shoulder. "Yet I cannot help but think, friend Owen, that
there's some truth to her words—not that her thoughts of
overweening greatness were her own, nay, but that, shall

we say, Alfar's seeds fell on fertile ground?"

"Oh, well, sure! People can't be hypnotized if they really

don't want to be—and this particular kind of long-range
telepathic hypnosis couldn't have worked so well if she
didn't already have a bit of that resentful attitude—it's

called 'feelings of inferiority.'"

"Inferiority?" Flaran stared. "Yet how can that be? Witch

power makes us greater than other folk!"

Rod didn't miss the 'us.' "Yeah, but they don't feel that
way. All they know is that they stand out, that they're
different, and that if people find out just how different,
nobody'll like them." He shrugged. "If nobody likes you,

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      199

you must be inferior. I know it doesn't really make sense,
but that's how our minds work. And, since nobody can
stand to think so little of themselves pretty soon, the warlock
starts telling himself that he's not really inferior—it's just
that everybody's picking on him, because they're jealous.
And, of course, people do pick on witches—they've been
doing it, here, for hundreds of years."

"Aye!" Flaran seized the thought. "'Tis not merely a
matter of our telling ourselves others bully us—'tis true!"

"Oh, yeah, it's easy to feel persecuted, when you really
are. But that must mean you're worse than inferior." He
made a backwards arc with his forefinger. "If people're
picking on you, and they're nice people, ones you ordinarily
like, and all of a sudden, they're picking on you—then you
must be worse than second-rate; you must be evil! But who
can stand thinking they're outright evil?"

"Evil folk," Flaran answered quickly.

"And there you have it." Rod spread his hands. "Instead
of saying, 'I'm second-rate,' they're saying, 'I'm evil'—
they'd rather be first-rate evil than second-rate good."

Flaran stared, lost.

"Or!" Rod held up a forefinger. "Or you decide that
you're not evil, and you're not second-rate, either—they're
just picking on you because they're jealous. So their picking
on you proves that you're better than they are. They're just
afraid of the competition. They're out to get you because
you're a threat to them."

Flaran's head lifted slowly, and Rod could see his eyes
clearing with understanding.

Rod shrugged. "All the witch folk probably have that
attitude to some degree—it's called paranoia. But they keep
it under control; they know that even if there're wisps of
truth attached to the notion, there's more truth in thinking
of their neighbors as being basically good folk—which they
are. And if the witch has even a grain of humility, she's as
much aware of her faults as she is of her powers—so they
manage to keep their feelings of persecution under control.
It's a sort of a balance between paranoia and reality. But it
does make them ready, even eager, victims, for Alfar's style
of brainwashing—uh, persuasion."

Flaran turned away, staring at the table. The color had




200           Christopher Stasheff

drained out of his face, and his hands trembled.

Rod watched him, shaking his head with a sad smile.
The poor kid, he thought, the poor innocent. In some ways,
Raran probably would have preferred to just go along from
day to day for the rest of his life, feeling inferior and picked-
on. And it must've been very demeaning, to find out that
his feelings were, if not normal, at least standard for his
condition—it was bad enough being born an esper, but it
was worse finding out you weren't even exceptional.

He turned away, to catch Simon's eye. The old man had
a sympathetic look, and Rod smiled back, nodding. They
both knew—it was rough, learning the facts of life.

Back on the road. Rod and Simon tried to strike up a
cheerful family topic conversation again; but the mood had
changed, and it was an uphill fight all the way. When they
each realized that the other guy was trying just as hard, they

gave it up.

Of course, the ambiance wasn't helped much by Flaran
riding along on Rod's other side sunk in gloom, glowering

at the road.

So they rode along in silence, the unease and tension

growing, until Rod'd had about as much as he could take.
"Look Flaran, I know it's hard to accept the idea that Alfar's
turning the whole population into puppets—but that is what
he's doing. So we have to just admit it, and try to go beyond
it, to figure out what we can do about it. See? Feeling lousy

won't do anybody any good."

Flaran looked up at Rod, and his attention came back,
as though from a great distance. Slowly, his eyes focused.
"Nay. Nay, 'tis not that which hath me so bemused, friend

Owen."

Rod just looked at him for a moment.

Then he said, "Oh." And, "Really?"

He straightened in his seat and tilted his head back,
looking down at Flaran a little. "What is bothering you?"

"These thoughts which the servingwench hath uttered."

"What—about witches being naturally superior?" Rod

shook his head. "That's nonsense."

"Nay, 'tis good sense—or, if not good, at least sense."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      201

Raran gazed past Rod's shoulder at the sky. "Truly, witches
should rule."

"Oh, come off it! Next thing I know, you'll be telling
me how Alfar's really a good guy, and is really freeing the
peasants, not conquering them!"

Raran's eyes widened. "Why—that is true." He began
to nod, faster and faster. "In truth, 'tis all true. He doth free
the peasants from the rule of the lords."

Rod turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed
heavily. He looked up at Simon. "Check him, will you?
Give him the once-over. He sounds as though the spell's
beginning to creep over him."

"Oh, nay!" Raran said in scorn, but Simon frowned,
gazing off into space for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"I do not read even so much as he doth utter. Master Owen—
only thoughts of how goodly seem the fields about us, and
the face of the wench who served us." His eyes focused on
Rod's again. "Still, those are not the thoughts of a spell-
bound mind."

"Spellbound? Nay, certes!" Raran cried. "Only because
I speak truth, Master Owen?"

"Truth?" Rod snorted. "Somebody must have warped
your mind, if you think that's truth!"

"Nay, then—lay it out and look at it!" Raran spread his
hands. "It doth seem the common people must needs have
masters..."

"I could dispute that," Rod growled.

"But not gainsay it! From all that I have seen, 'tis true!"
Raran craned his neck to look over Rod's shoulder at Simon.
"Wouldst thou not say so. Master Simon?"

"Someone must govern," Simon admitted reluctantly.

"And if one must govern—why, then, one must be mas-
ter!" Raran slapped his knee. "And is it not far better for
the peasant folk to have masters who were born, as they
were, peasants? Who know the pain of poverty, and the
grinding toil of the common folk? Is that not far better for
them than the rule of those who are born to silver plates
and ruby rings, in castles, who have never known a hard
day's work, nor a moment's want? Nay, these lords even
look down from their high towers, and speak of we poor

202           Christopher Stasheff

folk as though we were chattels! Things to be owned! Cattle!

Not men and women!"

Rod stared, horrified. "Where'd you hear that line of

rubbish?"

Flaran reddened. "Can there be truth in rubbish?"
"I don't know who you've been talking to," Rod said,
"but it sure wasn't a lord. Most of 'em don't say things like
that—and where would you have had a chance to hear 'em

talking, anyway?"

"Mine ears do be large. Master Owen. I may be foolish
in my speaking, but I am wise in my listening. I have spoken
with folk who serve the lords, and thus have I learned how
they speak of us. And, too, I have hearkened to my neigh-
bors , to their groans and cries of grief under the lords' rule —
and I cannot help but think that they do not serve the best
of masters." Plaran shook his head. "Nay, the words of that
servingwench do make most excellent sense—for who could
better know the people's wants, than those who can hear
their thoughts? And who can better guard them in their
labors, than one who knows what it is to labor so?"

"Excuses," Rod growled. He turned away, and saw, in
the distance, a party of peasants coming out of a side road,
clad in rough homespun and bowed under the weight of
huge packs. "There!" He stabbed a finger at them. "That's
the kind of sense you've been making! Poor people, wan-
dering the roads, lost and alone, because their homes have
been destroyed in battle! Folk bereft, whose villages still
stand, but who have packed what they can carry and have
fled, because they fear the rule of an upstart they don't

trust!"

"Yet peasants' homes do ever bum in wars," Flaran cried,

"ever and aye, when the lords do seek to resolve some
private quarrel with their armies! This time, at the least, the
war may bring them some benefit, for he who wins will

have been born among them!"

"Excuses," Rod said again, "rationalizations!" He turned
to look squarely at Flaran. "Let me tell you what that is—
a rationalization. It's giving something the appearance of
rationality, of reason, when it doesn't have the reality of
it. It's finding a way to justify what you want to do, any-
way. It's finding an excuse for something you've already

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

203

done—a way to make it seem to be good, when it really
isn't. That's all you're doing here—trying to find a way to
make the wrong things you want to do, seem right. All your
arguments really boil down to, 'I want power, so I'm going
to take it.' And the real reasons are envy and revenge!"

He noticed, out of the comer of his eye, that the peasants
had stopped, staring up at them, on both sides of the cart.
All the better—let witnesses hear it!

"Yet how canst thou speak so?" Flaran frowned, cocking
his head to the side. "Thou hast thyself an enormous power!"

Rod froze. How had he let his cover slip? "What...
power... is... that?"

"Why, the talent of not being seen by the mind! Our
friend Simon hath said it—to a thought-hearer, thou dost
not seem to be here at all!"

"Nay, then!" the younger man cried, "even I have noticed
it, weak though my powers are!"

Rod shrugged; that was explanation enough, for the mo-
ment.

"How great a talent that is!" Flaran cried. "What great
advantage must it needs give thee, if one doth seek thee
with evil intent! If thou wert of Alfar's band, he would
surely create thee Duke of Spies!" He smiled, leaning for-
ward, eyes glittering. "Would that not be most excellent,
Master Owen? Wouldst thou not be delighted to be a duke?"

"I'd say it would be horrible," Rod grated. "Do you
realize what that would mean? I'd be helping to enforce one
of the harshest tyrannies humanity has ever known! Stop
and think!" He held up a forefinger. "Even under the tightest
dictatorships Old Terra ever knew, people have still been
able to have one thing that was theirs, alone to themselves—
their minds. At least their thoughts were free. But Alfar's
trying to change that; he's trying to set up a tyranny so
complete that nobody can even call his thoughts his own!"

"How small a thing that is!" Flaran waved away the
objection. "Thoughts are naught, Master Owen—they are
gossamer, mere spiders' webs! What are free thoughts against
a filled belly, and an ease of grinding toil? What is freedom
of thought, against freedom from want? What worth hath
the secrecy of the mind, when weighed against the knowl-
edge that the King doth hold every least peasant to be his




204           Christopher Stasheff

own equal? But think!" He gazed off into space, eyes glit-
tering. "Think how sweet this land could be, an witches
ruled it! What an earthly paradise we could make here for
ourselves, an folk of good heart could labor freely with their

minds, to build it!"

Rod stared, astounded by the younger man's enthusiasm.
Then he leaned back, letting his mouth twist to show his

skepticism. "All right—tell me."

"Why! What could they not do, an witches could use
their power openly? Never would there be drought or flood,
for witches could move the storms about so as to water all
the land! Never would murrain slay cattle or other stock,
for witches could be open in their curing! Nor, for that
matter, would folk need to die from illness, when witch-
physicians could be by to aid them! Never would the peas-
ants go hungry, to give their substance unto their lord, that
he might deck himself with finery, or gamble through the
night! Never would the people grumble in their misery,
unheard, for a warlock would hear their thoughts, and find
a means of ending that which troubled them!"

"Yeah, unless those peasants were grumbling because the
king-warlock was doing something they didn't like! Then
he'd just shut them up, by hypnotism!"

"Oh, such would be so few!" Flaran gave him a look of
disgust. "Why trouble thyself for a mere handful of mal-
contents? Ever will some few be discontented with their

lot!"

"Right—and Alfar's one of them! But it wouldn't be

just a few malcontents, if the witch folk ruled—it'd be the
vast majority, the normals, who'd be feeling like half-humans,
because they didn't have any witch power! And they'd resent
the governing ones who did—but they'd know the witches
would wipe out anybody who dared utter it! So they'd keep
quiet, but live in terror, and their whole lives would be one
long torture! Just ordinary people, like these men around
us!" He gestured at the peasants, who were pressing close
all about them, eyes burning. "Better move along, boys.
I'm having trouble keeping my temper; and when warlocks
fight, bystanders may get hit with stray magic."
"Ah, art thou a warlock, then?" Flaran cried.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      205

Rod ground his teeth in frustration, furious with himself
for the slip he'd made; but he made a brave try at covering.
"According to you, I am. Didn't you just say my invisible
mind was a great talent?"

"In truth I did—and if thou art a warlock, then art thou
also a traitor!" Flaran leaped to his feet, face dark with
anger, suddenly seeming bigger—almost a genuine threat.

Rod wasn't exactly feeling pacific, himself. "Watch your
tongue! I'm a King's man, and loyal to the bone!"

"Then art thou a traitor to witchhood!" Flaran stormed.
"Naught but a tool for hire, and the King's pay is best! Nay,
thus art thou but a tool of the lordlings, a toy in their
games—but it is we who are their pawns and moved about
the land for their mere amusement! And thou dost abet them!
Thou, who, by blood, ought to join with Alfar and oppose
them! Nay, thou'rt worse than a traitor—thou'rt a shameless
slave!"

"Watch your tongue!" Rod sprang to his feet, and the
cart rocked dangerously. But Flaran kept his footing easily,
and, for some reason, that ignited Rod's anger into a blow-
torch. "Beware who you're calling a slave! You've fallen
so far under Alfar's spell that you've become nothing but
his puppet!"

"Nay—his votary!" Flaran's eyes burned with sudden
zeal. "Fool thou art, not to see his greatness! For Alfar will
triumph, and all witch folk with him—Alfar will reign, and
those self-sold witches who do oppose him, will die in
torments of fire! Alfar is the future, and all who obstruct
him will be ground into dust! Kneel, fool!" he roared, leap-
ing up onto the cart-seat, finger spearing down at Rod.
"Kneel to Alfar, and swear him thy loyalty, or a traitor's
death shalt thou die!"

The thin tissue of Rod's self-control tore, and rage erupted.
"Who the hell do you think you are, to tell me what to
swear! You idiot, you dog's-meat gull! He's ground your
ego into powder, and there's nothing left of the real you!
You don't exist anymore!"

"Nay—I exist, but thou shall not!" Flaran yanked a
quarterstaff from the peasant next to him and smashed a
two-handed blow down at Rod.




206           Christopher Stasheff

Rod ducked inside the swing, coming up next to Flaran
with his dagger in his hand, but a dozen hands seized him
and yanked him back, the sky reeled above him, framed by
peasant faces with burning eyes. He saw a club swinging
down at him—and, where the peasants' smocks had come
open at the necks, chain mail and a glimpse of green-and-

brown livery.

Then pain exploded through Rod's forehead, and night

came early.

13

A blowtorch, set on "low," was burning its way through
Rod's brain. But it was a very poor blowtorch; it seemed
to go over the same path again and again, in a regular,
pulsing rhythm. He forced his eyes open, hoping to catch
the bastard who was holding the torch.

Blackness.

Blackness everywhere, except for a trapezoid of flick-
ering orange. He frowned, peering more closely at it, squint-
ing against the raging in his head, and figured out that it
was the reflection of a flame on a rock wall. There were
stripes up and down—the shadows of bars, no doubt. There
were a couple of other stripes, too, zigging and zagging—
the trails of water droplets. Then Rod became aware of
fragile orange webs, higher up—gossamer niter, lit by the
firelight.

He added it all up, and enlightenment bloomed—he was
in a dungeon again. The firelight was a guard's torch, out
in the hall, and the trapezoid was the shadow of the little
barred grille in the door.

He heaved a sigh and lay back. This kept happening to
him, time and again. There'd been the gaol in Pardope, the
Dictator's "guest chamber" in Caerleath, the dungeon under

207




208 Christopher Stasheff

the House of Clovis, and the cell in the Duke's castle in Tir
Chlis, where Father Al had taught him how to use his ESP
talents... and the list went on. He frowned, trying to re-
member back to the first one, but it was too much for his
poor, scrambled brain.

He put the list away, and very slowly, very carefully,
rolled up onto one elbow. The blowtorch shot out a fiery
geyser that seemed to consume his whole head, right down
his backbone, but only for a few moments; then it subsided,
and fell into perspective as a mere headache. A real beaut,
Rod had to admit—those soldiers hadn't exactly been deft,
but they'd made up for it with enthusiasm. He pressed a
hand to his throbbing forehead, remembering the chain mail
under the peasant tunics. It was a very neat little trap he'd
walked into—but he couldn't imagine a less appetizing bait
than Flaran.

Not that it hadn't worked, though.

He lifted his head slowly, looking around him. Compared
to the other dungeons he'd been in, this one was definitely
second-rate. But, at least he had a couple of roommates,
manacled to the wall across from him—though one of them
had lost quite a bit of weight over the years; he was a pure
skeleton. Well, not "pure"—he did have some mold patches
here and there. The other one had some patches, too, but
they were purple, shading toward maroon. It was Simon,
and his chin was sunk on his chest.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the head-
ache, trying to think. Why should Simon be here? He wasn't
a spy. Rod considered the question thoroughly, till the brain-
storm struck: He could ask. So he cleared his throat, and
tried. "Uh... Simon..."

The other man looked up, surprised. Then his face re-
laxed into a sad smile. "Ah, thou dost wake, then!"

"Yeah—kind of." Rod set both palms against the floor
and did a very slow push-up. The headache clamored in
indignation, and he fell back against the wall with a gasp—
but victorious; he was sitting up. The headache punished
him unmercifully, then decided to accept the situation and
lapsed into the background. Rod drew in a long, shuddering
breath. "What... what happened? You shouldn't be here—
just me. What'd Flaran have against you?"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      209

"He knew me for what I was," Simon sighed. "When
the soldiers had felled thee, young Flaran turned on me,
raging. "Who was this 'Owen?' Thou, vile traitor, will
speak! Wherefore did this false, unminded man march north-
ward into our domain?"

"Our?" Rod frowned.

Simon shrugged. "By good chance, I did not know the
answers he sought. I said as much, and he whirled toward
the soldiers, pointing back at me, screaming, 'Torture him!
Hale him down now, and break his fingers, joint by joint!'
'Nay,' I cried, 'I have naught to hide,' and I abandoned all
pretence of cloaking my mind, casting aside all shields and
attempts at hiding."

"What good could that do? As mind readers go, he was
barely literate."

"Oh, nay! He was a veritable scholar!" Simon's mouth
tightened. "Thou, my friend, wert not alone in thy decep-
tions. I felt naught, but I saw his face grow calm. Then his
eyes lit with excitement—but they soon filled with disap-
pointment, and he did turn away to the soldiers in disgust.
"There's naught here—naught but an old man, with some
talent for spell-breaking. He could have gone free but, more's
the fool, he hath come back North to seek to undo our
work.' Then the auncient said, 'He's a traitor, then,' and
the look that he gave me was venomed—yet there was that
strange emptiness behind it."

Rod nodded. "Spellbound."

"Indeed. Then the auncient said further, 'Shall we flay
him?' and cold nails seemed to skewer my belly. But Flaran
gave me a measuring glance, and shook his head. 'Nay. He
may yet prove useful. Only bind him and bring him.' Then
he did fix his gaze upon me, and his eyes did seem to swell,
glowing, to bum into my brain. 'An thou dost seek to break
spells on these soldiers,' he swore. 'I will slay thee.'"

"So." Rod lifted his eyebrows. "Our young klutz wasn't
quite the fool he seemed to be, was he?"

"Nay. In truth, he did command. He bade the soldiers
march home, and all did turn to take up the journey. Some
hundreds of yards further, we came to tethered horses. The
soldiers untied them and mounted—and there were pack
mules for myself and for thee, and a great chestnut charger




270          Christopher Stasheff

with a saddle adorned with silver for Raran."

Rod watched Simon for a moment, then said, "Not ex-
actly an accident we ran into them, was it?"

Simon smiled, with irony. "In truth, 'twas quite well-
planned."

"Even to the point of rigging up a peasant mob to be

chasing Flaran, at just the right time to run into us on the
road." Rod's mouth tightened. "He knew that was a sure
way to make us take him in. And he stayed with us just
long enough to make sure we were what he thought we
were, before he turned us over to his bully boys."

"He did give us the opportunity to turn our coats to Alfar's

livery," Simon pointed out.

"Yes. Generous of him, wasn't it?" Rod scowled. "But

how did he catch onto us?"

Simon sighed, and shook his head. "I can only think that
some spy of his must have sighted us, and followed unbe-
knownst."

"Yeah—that makes sense." With a sudden stab of guilt,

Rod realized that Alfar had probably had spies watching
him from the moment he crossed the border. After all, he'd
certainly had Rod in sight before then. Rod just hadn't
counted on the sorcerer's being so thorough.

Nothing to do about it now. Rod shook himself—and
instantly regretted it; the headache stabbed again. But he
thrust it all behind him, and asked, "How far did they ride?"

"All the rest of the day, and far into the night," Simon

answered.

"But it was only mid-moming." Rod frowned. "That

must have been... let me see..." He pressed a hand against
his aching head, and the clank of the wrist-chain seemed to
drive right through from ear to ear. But he absorbed the
pain and let it disperse through his skull, trying to think.
"Sixteen hours. And I was out cold all that time?"

Simon nodded. "Whenever thou didst show sign of wak-
ening, Flaran bade his soldiers strike thee again."

"No wonder my head's exploding! How many times did

they hit me?"

"More than half a dozen."

Rod shuddered. "I'm just lucky I don't have a fracture.
On the other hand..." He frowned, and lifted a hand to

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      211

probe his skull, then thought better of it. "I guess I'll have
to hope. Why didn't he want me awake?"

"He did not say; yet I would conjecture that he did not
wish to chance discovery of the range of thy powers."

Rod felt an icicle-stab. "Powers? What're you talking
about? I just happen to be invisible to any listening witches,
that's all."

"Mayhap; yet in this, I must needs admit that, in Flaran's
place, I would have done as he did. For whether thou dost
shield thy mind by chance, or by intention, truly matters
not—such shielding bespeaks great witch power. Nay, thou'rt
a true warlock. Master Owen, whether thou dost know it
or not—and a most puissant one, to be able to hide thy
mind so thoroughly." Simon leaned back against the wall.
"And there is ever, of course, the chance that thou dost
know it indeed, and dost hide thy thoughts by deliberation.
And if that were the case, and if I were thine enemy, I would
not wish to gamble on the extent of thy powers. I, too,
would not chance thy waking."
Rod just gazed at Simon.

Then he looked away, with a sigh. "Well, I can't fault
your logic—or his wisdom. But why did he bring you
along?"

Simon shrugged. "Who can say? Yet I doubt not he'll
seek to force thee to answer certain questions, whether thou
dost know them or not—and if thine own pain is not enough
to make thee speak, mayhap he'll think that mine will."
Rod shivered. "That boy's a real charmer, isn't he?"
"In truth. He did turn to me, jabbing with a finger. 'Do
not seek to hide thy thoughts,' he cried, 'nor to disguise
them, or I shall bid them slay thee out of hand.' I assured
him I would not, the more so since I saw no point in such
disguising. For what could he learn from my mind, that's
of any import?"

"And that he didn't learn from traveling with the two of
us." Rod was glad that the light was too dim for Simon to
see his face burning. "Or that he couldn't find out by, let
us say, more 'orthodox' means? For example, if he's keeping
tab on your thoughts, he knows I'm awake now."
"Aye. I doubt me not an we'll see him presently."
"No doubt at all; I'm sure he's still in charge of our case.




272            Christopher Stasheff
... So he was giving the orders, huh? To the soldiers, I

mean."

"Aye. There was no doubt of that."
Rod nodded. "Then he's probably the one who arranged

the ambush."

Simon gazed at him for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"That would be likely."

"So he's not exactly the simple half-telepath he claimed

to be."

Simon's lips curved with the ghost of his smile. "Nay,

Master Owen. He is certainly not that."

"He didn't happen to let out any hints about his real self,

did he?"

Simon shook his head. "The surface of his thoughts stayed

ever as it had been. For aught that I could hear from him,
his name was ever Flaran; yet his thoughts were all extolling
Alfar, and how greatly advantaged the land was, since he'd

taken power."

Rod frowned. "Nothing about the job at hand?"
"Aye; he did think how greatly thy capture would please

Alfar."

"I should think it would." Rod closed his eyes, leaning

his head back against the wall, hoping the cold stone might
cool the burning. "No matter what else we might say about
our boy Plaran, we've got to admit he was effective."

A key grated in the lock. Rod looked up at a slab of
dungeon warder with a face that might have been carved
out of granite. He didn't say a word, just held the door open
and stepped aside to admit a lord, gorgeously clad in brocade
doublet and trunk-hose, burgundy tights and shoes, fine lace
ruff, and cloth-of-gold mantle, with a golden coronet on his
head. His chin was high in arrogance; he wore a look of
stem command. Rod had to look twice before he recognized
Flaran. "Clothes do make the man," he murmured.

Plaran smiled, his lips curving with contempt. "Clothes,
aye—and a knowledge of power."

The last word echoed in Rod's head. He held his gaze
on Flaran. "So the rumor was true—Alfar was wandering
around the country, disguised as a peasant."

Flaran inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Well, 0 Potentate Alfar." Rod leaned back against the

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      213

wall. "I have to admit you did a great job of disguising
yourself as a peasant. Could it be you had experience to
draw on?"

Alfar's eyes sparked with anger, and Simon seemed to
shrink in on himself in horror. The sorcerer snapped. "In-
deed, I was numbered 'mongst the downtrodden till a year
agone."

"But that's all behind you now, of course."

His voice was a little too innocent. Alfar's gaze hardened.
"Be not mistaken. Think not that I'm a peasant still—for
thou dost lie within my power now, and thou wilt find it
absolute."

Rod shrugged. "So you're a powerful peasant. Or did
you honestly think you could be something more?"

"Greatly more," Alfar grated, "as thou wilt discover."

"Oh?" Rod tilted his head to the side. "What, may I
ask?"

"A duke—Duke Alfar, of the Northern coast! And thou,
slave, shall address me as such!"

"Oh." Rod kept his lips pursed from the word. "I'm a
slave now, am I?"

"Why?" Alfar's eyes kindled. "What else wouldst thou
call thyself?"

Rod watched him for a second, then smiled. "I'm a
peasant, too. Aren't I?"

"Assuredly," Alfar said drily. "Yet whatsoever thou art,
thou art also a most excellent thought-hearer, an thou hast
been able to probe 'neath my thoughts to discover who I
truly am."

"Oh, that didn't take mind reading. None at all. I mean,
just look at it logically: Who, in all the great North Country,
would be the most likely one to go wandering around dis-
guised as a schlemazel peasant, supporting Alfar's policies
with great verve and enthusiasm, and would have authority
to command his soldiers?"

"One of my lieutenants, mayhap," Alfar said, through
thinned lips.

Rod shook his head. "You never said one word about
having to refer a decision to someone higher up—at least,
not from Simon's reports about what happened while I was
out cold. But you did mention 'our' domain, which meant




214           Christopher Stasheff

that you were either one of the lieutenants, viewing himself
as a partner—and from what I'd heard of Alfar, I didn't
think he was the type to share power..."
"Thou didst think aright," Flaran growled.
"See? And that left the 'or' to the 'either'—and the 'or'
was that the 'our' you'd used was the royal 'our.' And that
meant that Flaran was really Alfar." Rod spread his hands.

"See? Just common sense."

"Scarcely 'common.'" Alfar frowned. "In truth, 'tis a

most strange mode of thought."

"People keep telling me that, here," Rod sighed. He'd
found that chains of reasoning were alien to the medieval
mind. "But that was the royal 'our,' wasn't it? And you are
planning to try for the throne, aren't you?"

Alfar's answer was an acid smile. "Thou hast come to
the truth of it at last—though I greatly doubt thou didst

find it in such a manner."

"Don't worry, I did." Rod smiled sourly. "Even right
now, with you right next to me, I can't read your mind.

Not a whisper."

"Be done with thy deception!" Alfar blazed. "Only a

warlock of great power could cloak his thoughts so com-
pletely that he seems not even to exist!"

Rod shrugged. "Have it your way. But would that mighty
warlock be able to read minds when his own was closed

off?"

Alfar stared.
Then he lifted his head slowly, nodding. "Well, then."

And, "Thou wilt, at least, not deny that thou art Tuan's

spy."

"King Tuan, to you! But I agree, that much is pretty

obvious."

"Most excellent! Thou canst now tell to Tuan every small-
est detail of my dungeon—if ever thou dost set eyes upon

him again."

For all his bravado, a shiver of apprehension shook Rod.

He ignored it. "Tuan already knows all he needs."
"Indeed?" Alfar's eyes glittered. "And what is that?"
"That you've taken over the duchy, by casting a spell

over all the people—and that you'll attack him, if he doesn't

obliterate you first."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      215

"Will he, now! Fascinating! And how much else doth he
know?"

Rod shrugged. "None of your concern—but do let it
worry you."

Alfar stood rigid, the color draining from his face.

Then he whirled, knife whipping out to prick Simon's
throat. "Again I will demand of thee—what information
hath Tuan?"

His gaze locked with Rod's. Simon paled, but his eyes
held only calm and understanding, without the slightest trace
of fear.

Rod sighed, and capitulated. "He knows your whole ca-
reer, from the first peasant you intimidated, up to your battle
with Duke Bourbon."

"Ah," Alfar breathed. "But he knoweth not the outcome.
Doth he?"

"No," Rod admitted, "but it was a pretty clear guess."

"'Twas the Duchess, was it not? She did escape my
hunters. Indeed, my spies in Tudor's county, and in Runny -
mede, attacked her, but were repulsed by puissant magics."
His gaze hardened. "Magics wielded by a woman and four
children."

Inwardly, Rod went limp with relief, hearing his family's
safety confirmed. But outwardly, he only permitted himself
a small smile.

"Yet thou wouldst know of that, wouldst thou not?" Alfar
breathed. "Thou didst dispatch them on that errand, didst
thou not?"

Rod looked at the drop of blood rising from the point of
the dagger, considered his options, and decided honesty
wouldn't hurt. "It was my idea, yes."

Alfar's breath hissed out in triumph. "Then 'twas thy
wife and bairns who did accompany the Duchess and her
brats, whilst yet they did live!"

Alarm shrilled through Rod. Did the bastard mean his
family was dead? And the anger heaved up, rising.

Oblivious, Alfar was still speaking. "And thou art he
who's called Rod Gallowglass, art thou not?"

"Yes. I'm the High Warlock." Rod's eyes narrowed, red-
dening.

Simon stared, poleaxed.




276           Christopher Stasheff

Alfar's lips were parted, his eyes glittering. "How didst
thou do it? Tell me the manner of it! How didst thou cease
to be, to the mind, the whiles thou wert apparent to the

eye?"

"You should know," Rod grated. "Weren't you eaves-
dropping?"

"Every minute, I assure thee. I held thy trace the whiles
thou didst buy a can and didst drive out to the road. Then,
of a sudden, there were no thoughts but a peasant's."

"Quite a range you've got there."

"More than thirty leagues. How didst thou cloak thy

thoughts?"

"I didn't—not then." Rod throttled the rage down to a
slow bum, keeping his mind in control, floating on top of
the emotion. "I just started thinking like a peasant."

Alfar stared.

Then he frowned. "Then thou dost counterfeit most ex-
cellently."

"I had some acting lessons." And they were coming in
handy, helping him keep the rage under control. "I didn't
pull the real disappearing act until I was across the border."
Privately, he found it interesting that Alfar could have been
so thoroughly deceived. Either he wasn't very good at read-
ing thoughts in depth, or Rod was even better at believing
himself to be somebody fictitious than he had thought.

"Ah, 'twas then? Tell me the manner of it." But his knife
hand was trembling.

Nonetheless, Simon was staring at Rod, not Alfar, and
with awe, not fear.

And he'd been friendly to Rod, and he was an innocent

bystander...

Rod shrugged. "I withdrew, that's all. Pulled back into
my shell. Decided nobody was worth my trouble."

Alfar stared at him.

Then he frowned. "Canst say no more than that?"

Rod shrugged. "Details. Techniques. Remembering times
in my past when I wanted to get away from people, and
letting the feeling grow. None of it could teach you how to
do it. The first time, it just happens."

Alfar watched him, eyes narrowed.

Then he straightened, sliding the knife back into its sheath,

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

217

and Simon almost collapsed with a sigh of relief.

Rod felt a little relief, too, but the anger countered it.
"Tis even as I've thought," Alfar said, with grim sat-
isfaction. "From aught I've heard of thee, thy chivalry ex-
ceeds thy sense."

"Would you care to explain that?" Rod's voice was vel-
vet.

"Why, 'tis plainly seen! Would a sensible captain risk
his own pain, or mayhap even life, on a perilous mission?
Nay! He would send a spy, and let the underling be racked
and torn! But thou, who dost pride thyself on thine honor..."
he made the word an obscenity, "... wouldst rather waste
thine hours spying out the enemy thyself!"

Now Rod understood the man—and he didn't bother
hiding his contempt. "Just sit back in Runnymede and read
through intelligence reports, huh?"

"That would be wise." Alfar stood, arms akimbo, smirk-
ing down at him. "Or dost thou truly believe thou couldst
accomplish more in thine own person?"

Rod studied the sorcerer—cocky stance, chip on the
shoulder, the whole arrogant air (and didn't overlook the
menace, or the sadistic glitter at the back of the eye) and
wondered why he didn't feel more fear. He did know, though,
that he'd better not let Alfar know that.

So he stuck his chin out just that little bit farther, and
made his tone defiant. "I only know this: by the time I
realized that it was really dangerous, it was too much a
hazard to let anyone else go in my place."
"How gallant." Alfar's scorn was withering.
"It seems I was right." Rod held his gaze on Alfar's eyes.
"If you could catch onto me, you could catch onto anybody
I might send. How'd you see through my disguise?"

A slow smile spread over Alfar's face. He lifted his head,
chest swelling, and stepped toward Rod, almost strutting.
"I did sense danger when my spies sent word that the High
Warlock did journey northward. Yet sin' that thou didst come
with thy wife and bairns, it might well have been naught
but a pleasure jaunt. Naetheless, he did note that thou hadst
but lately spoken with Tuan and Catharine."

Rod shrugged. "I do that all the time." But his interest
was piqued. "So your man couldn't eavesdrop on my con-




278           Christopher Stasheff

versation with Their Majesties, huh?"
Alfar flushed, glowering.
"Well." Rod leaned back against the wall. "Nice to know

my wife's noise-shield works so well."

"Is that how thou dost manage it!" Alfar's eyes gleamed.
"In truth, their thoughts are well-nigh impossible to single
out from all that buzzing hum of thoughts that doth surround
them." He nodded, with a calculating look. "Thy wife hath

talent."

Rod quailed at the threat his tone implied—especially

since Gwen hadn't held a shield around the royal couple.

"Just be glad I sent her back."

"Mayhap I had ought to be. Mayhap 'tis fitting that what

my lieutenants could not accomplish, mine actions could."
"'Lieutenants?'" Rod stared in disbelief, then let a slow
smile grow. "You mean that lousy marksman was one of

your best?"

Alfar's gaze darkened. "'Twas purposely done. I bade

him discourage thee, not slay thee or thine."

"Wise." Rod nodded. "If you had, I'd've broken off the
spy mission right there, and shot back to Runnymede to tell
Tuan to call out the army. But you did a great job of warning

us you were there."

"Aye—and did secure a gauge of the range and strength

of thy powers, and thy wife's and bairns'. Wherefore did I
send mine other lieutenants to afright thee a second, then a
third time, that I might leam thy pattern of attack, and its
weaknesses. Nay, if thy wife and baims had come north
farther, I would have known well how to deal with them."

The chill had settled around Rod's backbone, and wasn't
leaving. "I did have some notion that it was getting a little
too thick. So when the Duchess and her boys came along,
I took advantage of the excuse to send my family back

South, to safety."

Alfar nodded. "And went on northward thyself. Then
thou didst stop by a farmstead, where thou didst buy a
horsecart and peasant garb—and my man lost trace of thee,
the whiles thou didst don thy smock and buskins."

Very interesting! Rod hadn't gone invisible until he'd
crossed the border, "Let me guess: that's when you decided
you'd better get involved on the personal level."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      219

Alfar nodded. "Even as thou hadst, I did don peasant
garb, and took the southward road, afoot and unguarded."
He smiled, amused, as though to say. Why would Alfar need
guards?

Rod resolved to take the first possible opportunity to
demonstrate exactly why. Aloud, he said, "Why didn't you
ride to the border first? You could have intercepted me
there."

"Oh, I was certain I would discover thee as I went! Thou
hadst, after all, no need to use aught but the High Road—
and good reason not to, for thou wouldst then have been
most strikingly noticed, in byways where only villagers do
journey. Yet long ere I encountered thee, I did come upon
a troop of guardsmen, and something about them caught
my notice. I did look deeply into their auncient's eyes and
thoughts and, 'neath the surface, discovered that he was no
longer spellbound! That, even though they wore my colors!"
His smile was not pleasant. "I found occasion to journey
with them, begging their protection and, as we walked,
wove my spell about each one in turn. When only the aun-
cient remained disenchanted, I bade his troopers seize him;

so they did. Then did I pose him questions, the whiles I
hearkened to the answers that rose within his mind, un-
spoken."

Rod decided he'd better find a new interrogation tech-
nique; this one was obviously so easy to invent that it boded
fair to becoming common.

"From his mind," Alfar went on, "I gained the image of
the man who'd broke his spell...." He nodded toward
Simon. "And I saw, to my surprise, that he was accom-
panied, by a most ill-favored, surly peasant."

Rod straightened in indignation. "Hey, now!"

Alfar smiled, satisfied that his barb had drawn blood.
"But 'twas easily seen that the spell-breaker must needs be
the High Warlock. Why, he had so great a look of dignity!"

Simon looked up, startled.

Alfar's eye glinted. "And his serving man had so churlish
a look!"

But Rod wasn't about to bite on the same bait twice. He
shrugged. "I won't argue. When it comes to churls, you
should know what you're talking about."

220           Christopher Stasheff

Alfar flushed, and dropped a hand to his dagger.
Rod leaned back lazily. "What did you do with the sol-
diers?" He was tense, dreading the answer.

Alfar shrugged. "What ought I to do? I enchanted the

auncient too, and sent them on northward to rejoin mine

army."

Rod lifted his head, surprised. "You didn't punish them?

No racks, no thumbscrews? No crash diets?"

Alfar looked equally surprised. "Dost thou punish an
arrow that has fallen to earth, if thine enemy hath picked
it up, and set it to his bowstring? Nay; thou dost catch it
when he doth loose it at thee, and restore it to thy quiver.
Oh, I sent them on northward. I did not wish to chance their
beholding thee again—or, more's to the point, thy spell-
breaker. But at the next guardpost, I showed my badge
of authority..." He fingered the medallion on his breast.
"... and bade the soldiers disguise themselves as peasants,
to wait in ambush where a country way joined the High
Road. Then I summoned a lesser warlock to abide with
them, in readiness to transmit orders to march, when he
should receive a thought-code—Alfar's greatness, and why
all witches ought to join with him." He smiled, vindictively.

Rod knew better than to withhold ego-oil when the one
with the inferiority complex held the knife. "So that's why

the sudden diatribe, eh?"

"Certes." Alfar's eyes danced. "There's method in aught
I do. Then did I march southward, my thoughts ranging
ahead of myself, till I heard Simon's. I found a village
warlock, then, and bade him lead his people out to chase

me...."

"The little fat guy. But of course, you made sure all their

rocks would miss, and they wouldn't catch you."

"Why, certes." Alfar grinned, enjoying the account of
his own cleverness. "And as I had foreknown, thou couldst
not forebear to save a poor weakling, beset by human

wolves."

"Yes." Rod's mouth twisted with the sour taste of his

own gullibility. "We fell right into it, didn't we? Just picked
you up, and carried you right along."

"Thou wast, in truth, most gracious," Alfar said, with a

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      221

saccharine smile. "'Twas but a day's work to discover that
'twas Simon broke the spells, yet that he could do little
more—and that thou must needs be the High Warlock."

"My natural greatness just shone through those peasant
rags, huh?"

"Oh, indubitably. Yet 'twas more truthfully thy face."

"Naturally noble, eh?"

"Nay, only familiar. Mine agents had borne me pictures
in their minds, more faithful than any painter could render.
Oh, thou hast disguised thyself somewhat, with peasant's
smock and grime; yet I know something of deception my-
self, and can look past surface features to those that underlie
them. Yet I knew thee even ere I'd set eyes upon thy face;

for thou wast there to mine eyes, but not to my mind, and
only a most puissant warlock could shield himself so thor-
oughly."

Rod shrugged. "I seem to have had that knack before I
started doing any of what you call magic.... But, go on."

"Pay heed!" Alfar held up a forefinger. "Even then, I
offered thee thine opportunity to join with me and mine!
And only when thou didst refuse, and that with such force
that I knew thou couldst not be persuaded, did I seize thee."
His gaze intensified, locked on Rod's eyes. "E'en now, an
thou dost wish to join with me, I will rejoice, and welcome
thee!"

"Providing, of course, that I can prove I mean it."

"Of course. What use art thou, if I cannot rely on thee
to the uttermost?" His eyes glittered, and his mouth quivered
with suppressed glee. "Indeed, I've even now the means to
insure thy loyalty."

Dread shot through Rod and, hard after it, anger. He
throttled it down and growled, "What means?"

"Thou hast no need to know. Thou dost not, after all,
wish to ally thy fortunes with mine."

The rage surged up, and Rod let it rise. "I'll grind your
head under my heel, if I can ever find a forked stick big
enough to hold your neck down!"

Alfar went white, and sprang at Rod, his knife slipping
out. Fear shot through Rod, like a spark to gunpowder and
the anger exploded, shooting through his every vein and




222 Christopher Stasheff

nerve, smashing out of him in reaction.

Alfar slammed back against the far wall and slid to the
floor, dazed.

Rod's chains jangled as they broke apart, and fell.

He thrust himself away from the wall, rising to his feet,
borrowed rage-power filling every cell of his body. The
headache throbbed through him, darkening all he saw except
for an oval of light that contained Alfar, crumpled in a heap.
Rod waded toward the fallen man, feeling anger envelop
him, pervading him, as though Lord Kem's spirit reached
across the void between the universes, to take possession
of him. His finger rose with the weight of all his man-
slayings, pointing out to explode the sorcerer.

Then Alfar's eyes cleared; he saw Rod's face, and his
eyes filled with terror. Rod reached out to touch him—but
thunder rocked the cell, and the sorcerer was gone.

Rod stood staring at the empty space where the sorcerer
had been, finger still pointing, forgotten. "Teleported," he
choked out. "Got away."

He straightened slowly, thrusting outward with his mind,
exploding his mental shield, opening himself to all and every
sense impression about him, concentrating on the human
thoughts. Nowhere was there a trace of Alfar.

Rod nodded, perversely satisfied; Alfar hadn't just tele-
ported out of the cell—he'd whipped himself clean out of
the castle, and so far away that he couldn't be "heard."

14

Rod sagged back, sitting against the cell wall as the biggest
reason for his anger abated. His emotions began to subside,
but still within him there was an impulse toward violence,
a lust for battle that kept the anger and built it, filling his
whole body with quaking rage.

That scared Rod. He tried to force the mindless rage
down; and as he did, Simon's voice bored through to him:

"Owen! Owen! Lord Gallowglass! Nay, I'll call thee as I
knew thee!" A hand clasped his wrist; fingers dug in. "Mas-
ter Owen! Or Rod Gallowglass, whichever thou art! Hast
thou lost thyself, then?"

"Yes," Rod grated, staring at the wall, unseeing. "Yes.
Damn near."

Simon groaned. "Is there naught of the High Warlock
left in thee?"

"Which one?" Rod growled. "Which High Warlock?"
Simon answered in a voice filled with wonder. "Rod

Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! What other High

Warlock is there?"

"Lord Kem," Rod muttered, "High Warlock of the land
ofTir Chlis." He rose to his feet, and stood stock-still, stood
against the humming in his mind, the thrumming in his
veins. Then he forced the words out. "What is he like—
this High Warlock?"

223




V

Christopher Stasheff

224

"Which one?" Simon cried.

"Yes." Rod nodded. "That's the question. But tell me of
this Rod Gallowglass."

"But thou art he!"

"Tell me of him!" Rod commanded.

Simon stared, at a loss. But no matter what he thought
of the oddness of Rod's question, or the irrationality of what
he did, Simon swallowed it, absorbed it, and gave what

was needed.

"Rod Gallowglass is the Lord High Warlock."

"That doesn't help any," Rod growled. "Tell me some-
thing different about him."

Simon stared for a moment, then began again, "He is
somewhat taller than most, though not overmuch..."

"No, no! Not what he looks like! That doesn't help at
all! What's he like inside?"

Simon just stared at him, confounded.

"Quickly!" Rod snapped. "Tell me! Now! I need an an-
chor, something to hold to!"

"Hast thou lost thyself so truly, then?"

"Yes!"

Finally, the actuality of the emergency struck home to
Simon. He leaned forward and said, earnestly, "I have not
known thee overiong. Rod Gallowglass, and that only in
thy guise as old Owen. Yet from what I've seen of thee,
thou art... well, aye, thou art surly. And taciturn. Yet art
thou good-hearted withal. Aye, thou hast ever the good of
thy fellows at heart, at nearly every moment." He frowned.
"I've heard it said of thee, that thou hast a wry humor, and
dost commonly speak with wit. Yet I've not seen much of
that in old Owen, save some bites of sarcasm—which are
as often turned against himself, as against any other."

"Good." Rod nodded. "Very good." He could feel the
anger lessening, feel himself calming. But underneath it,
there was still fury, goading him to action, any action. Lord
Kem. "Tell me..." Rod muttered, and swallowed. "Tell
me something about myself, that doesn't apply to Kem—
for most of what you've said might be true of him, too, I
don't know; I scarcely met the man. It might, though. Tell
me something about me, that's definitely mine alone, that
couldn't be his!"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      225

"Why..." Simon floundered, "there is thy garb. Would
he go about as a peasant?"

"Possible. Try again."

"There is thy horse..."

"Yes!" Rod pounced on it. "Tell me about him!"

" 'Tis a great black beast," Simon said slowly, "and most
excellent in his lines. Indeed, 'twas the one great flaw in
thy guise; for any could see that he was truly a knight's
destrier, not a common cart horse." He frowned, gazing off
into space. "And now I mind me, thou dost call him 'Fess.'"

"Fess." Rod smiled. "Yes. I could never forget Fess, no
matter what. And Lord Kern couldn't possibly have one
like him. He's been with me as long as I've been alive—
no, longer. He's served my family for generations, did you
know that?"

"Assuredly, I did not." Simon watched him, wide-eyed.

"He's not what he seems, you know."

"Aye, certes, he's not!"

"No, not just that way." Rod frowned. "He's, uh, mag-
ical. But not your kind of magic—mine. He's not really a
horse of any kind. He could be anything."

"A pooka," Simon murmured, unable to tear his gaze
away.

"No, not that way! He's cold iron, underneath that horse-
hair—well, an alloy really. Plus, he's got a mind that's
really a thing apart." Rod remembered how easily he could
take the basketball-sized sphere that held Fess's computer-
brain out of the horse-body and plug it into his starship, to
astrogate and pilot. "I mean, his brain's really a thing apart.
But he's always calm—well, almost always. And su-
premely logical. And always has good advice for me." The
core of anger was shrinking; it had almost disappeared, and
Rod could feel the last tendrils of rage withdrawing into it.
If Lord Kern really had reached across the void between
the universes in response to Rod's anger, he had lost his
grip. And if it was really just his own bloodlust driving him
toward violence, it was under control again now. Rod's
mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. "Thank you. Milord.
I appreciate your assistance, and will call upon it frequently,
when there is need. But for now, I am myself again, and
must trace this foul sorcerer in the ways which I deem best,




226           Christopher Stasheff

in this world in which horses may be of metal, with machines

for brains."

Simon cocked his head, trying to hear, but not quite

catching Rod's words.

Rod felt Kem's presence—or the bulk of his own anger,
whichever it was—ebb. Whether "Kern" was real, or just
a projection of his subconscious, it was now as thoroughly
gone as it could be. He heaved a sigh, and turned to Simon.
"Thank you. You pulled me out of it."

"Gladly," Simon said, "though I misdoubt me an I com-
prehend."

"It's really very simple. You see, there's another High
Warlock, in another kingdom, far, far away—extremely far
away; there isn't even a way to measure it. It's in another
universe, if you can believe that."

"Believe it, aye. Understanding it's another matter."

"Just try and drink it in," Rod advised. "We won't have
an examination in this course. Now, this other High Warlock
is my analog. That means that he corresponds to me in every
detail; what he does in his universe, what I do in mine. I
visited his country for a while, and had occasion to borrow
his powers; he channelled them through me, of course. But
now it seems that was habit-forming; he keeps trying to
reach across to this universe, and take up residence in my

body."

Simon paled. "Surely he cannot!"

Rod shrugged. "Maybe not. Maybe it's just my own lust
for violence, the temptation to commit mayhem, and I'm
labelling it 'Lord Kern' to try to separate the actions I believe
to be wrong, from my conscience." He glowered off into
space. "That doesn't really work, of course. The respon-
sibility's mine, no matter what illusion I create as an excuse.
Even if I say Lord Kem did it, it'll really be me who
committed the deed. It'll still be me, even if I try to disguise
it." He turned to Simon with a bleak smile. "But I seem to
be able to lie to myself very convincingly. I'm thoroughly
capable of persuading myself that I'm somebody else, when

I want to."

"So." Simon frowned. "I have convinced thee that thou

art thyself again?"

Rod nodded. "More importantly, you've shown me that

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      227

I can restore myself to my real personality, instead of the
make-believe one, welding my thoughts and my actions
back into a whole again. It's a matter of remembering who
I am. Fess was the key; Fess was the final thing that did
it. Because, you see..." He quirked a smile. "... Fess
couldn't exist in Lord Kem's universe."

Simon frowned. "I do not understand why not; yet will
I accept thine assurance." Then his eyes sparked, and wid-
ened. "Yet mayhap I do comprehend. Thine horse doth stand
for thee, doth he not? For if he could not be, in this Lord
Kem's land, then neither couldst thou!"

"Not without being imported, no." Then Rod stiffened,
turning aside from Simon, feeling as though an electric
current were passing through him. "Yes... he does stand
for me in a lot of ways, doesn't he?" The computer mind
in the horsehair body was rather symbolic of technological
Rod in Gramarye's medieval culture....

But of himself...?

"I think 'tis so," Simon was saying. "And even as thine
horse is the key to returning thee to control of thine actions,
so thine anger is the key to summoning this 'Lord Kern'
which, thou dost say, thou hast created, to take responsibility
for thine own fell deeds, that thou mayest give thyself the
lie that 'tis no fault of thine own."

Rod stood still for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes.
And it is a lie." He dropped down, to sit on his heels. Simon
sat by him. "Ever since I came back from Lord Kern's
universe, I've been flying into rages—and it's scary, very
scary."

"So." Simon's eyes glinted. "Thou hast been afraid to
draw on thine own powers, for fear of summoning him."

Rod stared at him for a while. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yes, that would make sense, wouldn't it? Association.
Using magic for the first time, resulted in Lord Kem's being
a house guest within my skull; so using them again, should
bring him back. A certain illogical sort of reason to it, isn't
there?"

"It doth sound so, when thou dost say it."

"Yes—but stating it also makes me able to see that it
doesn't make sense." Rod grinned. "I have to draw on my
powers, though. There have been times when they came in




228

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

229

almighty handy. Just now, for example—Alfar had his dag-
ger at my throat, so I had nothing to lose." He shuddered.
"And 'Lord Kem' almost took over completely, this time."

"Aye." Simon smiled. "Thou didst fear, didst thou not?
To use thy powers, for fear of summoning 'Lord Kem.'"

Rod nodded, chagrined. "Even if he's just an illusion I
made up. Yeah. I'd still be afraid of it."

"Yet thou dost wish to use these powers." Simon raised
a forefinger. "Whether they be Lord Kem's, or but thine
own magics, that thine anger doth conjure up, thou dost
fear to use them, lest thou shouldst yield to temptation, and
let thine hands do what thou dost abhor."

Rod nodded slowly. "Nicely said. Separating the thought
from the action. Yes. I have always been a bit schizoid."

"Then contain the power thou dost conjure up," Simon
urged. "Thus thou mayst reunite thy thoughts with thine
action, by containing thine active part within the pen thy
thoughts do make. Contain 'Lord Kem,' even as thou dost
contain thine anger. Assuredly thou hast not forgot our con-
versation, touching on that point? 'Twas directly after
thou..."

"After I beat up on that poor, unsuspecting, defenseless
rock. Yes." Rod nodded, lips tight with chagrin. "Yeah, I
remember it. But I still don't understand how you keep the
lid on your anger."

"Nay, I do not!" Simon frowned, shaking a finger at
Rod. "If the anger rises, do not attempt to bury it, nor to
pretend that it's not there. Let it be in thine awareness, and
do not seek to throttle it—but contain it."

Rod frowned. "And how do you manage that?"

"By distancing thyself from the person who doth anger
thee," Simon answered. "'Tis not easily done, I know—
for when the folk of the village had come to like me, and
their priest had become my friend, I did come from out
mine hermitage, to live among them. I built myself mine
inn—with their aid. And, in good time, I found myself a
wife." His head lifted, gazing off into the past again. "She
bore me bonny bairns, and together we labored to rear

them."

"That's right—you do have a daughter."

"Two—and a son. Who, by Heaven's grace, went for a
soldier in the last war, and remained in the South, to serve
Lord Borgia. Beshrew me, but I love him! Yet whilst he
grew, he tried me sorely!"

"I wouldn't say I know all about that," Rod growled,
"but I'm sure learning. How did you deal with it?"

"By holding in my mind, and never letting go, the notion
that 'twas not me his anger aimed at, but at that which I
stood for."

"Authority," Rod guessed. "Limits on his actions."

"Aye—and the tree from which he needed to separate
himself, the shoot, or he'd not be a being in his own right.
Yet 'twas more than that—'twas that he was not angry at
me, but at what I'd done or said."

"That doesn't make much sense." Rod frowned. "What
you're trying to say is, it was anger, not hatred."

Simon gazed off into space. "Mayhap that is the sense
of it. Yet whether it be anger or hatred, anger at thee or at
what thou hast done, be mindful that, if worst comes to
worst, thou hast but to recall that this person, this event, is
but a part of thy life, not the whole of it—a part with which
thou mayest have to deal but, when the dealing's done,
canst lock out from thy life."

"What if you can't?" Rod exploded. "What if you're
tied to them? What if you have to deal with them continually,
every day? What if you love them?"

Simon sat, grave and attentive. He nodded. "Aye. 'Tis
far more easy to hold thy temper with one whom thou dost
see for but an hour or two each day, for thou canst go to
thine home, shut the door behind thee, and forget them."
His face eased into a gentle smile. "Be mindful that these
you love are people too, and deserving of as much respect
and care as those with whom thou dost deal for but an hour
or two each day. If thou dost not treat thy family well,
pretend they're friends."

The thought gave Rod an icy chill. "But they're not!
They're inextricable parts of my life—parts of myself!"

"Nay!" Simon's eyes blazed, and his face was the coun-
tenance of a stern patriarch. "Never must thou believe them
so! For look you, no one else can be a part of thee; they




230           Christopher Stasheff

are themselves withal, and are apart from thee!"

Rod just stared, astounded by the intensity of Simon's

emotion.

Simon shook his head slowly. "Never think that, simply

because thou dost love a person, or she doth love thee, that
she is no longer her self, a separate thing, apart."

"But... but... but that's the goal of marriage!" Rod

sputtered. "For two to become one!"

"Tis a foul lie!" Simon retorted. '"Tis but an excuse
for one to enslave another, then make her cease to be! Thy
wife is, withal, one person, contained within her own skin,
and is, and ought to be, one whole, of which all the parts
are fused together, a being, separate, independent—one
who loves thee, yet who is apart." Suddenly, he smiled,
and his warmth was back. "For look you, an she were not
a separate person, thou wouldst have none to love thee."

"But... but, the word marriage! Isn't that what it means—
two people, being welded together into a single unit?"

Simon shook his head impatiently. "That may be what
the word doth mean. Yet be not deceived; two cannot be-
come one. 'Tis not possible. I confess it hath a pretty sound—
but doth its beauty suffice to make it right?"

Rod stared at Simon, astounded by the older man's words.

"What of thee?" Simon demanded. "Would it be right
for one to attempt to make thee someone other than thou

art?"

"No! I'm me, damn it! If anybody tried to make me

somebody else, he'd eliminate me!"

"Then 'tis wrong for thee to attempt to make another
become part of thee!" Simon stabbed at him with a fore-
finger.

Rod frowned, thinking it over.

"An two folk do wed," Simon said softly, "they should
take pleasure in one another's company—not essay to be-
come one another." He smiled again, gently. "For how canst
thou become a part of someone else, save by erasing either

themselves, or thee?"

Rod lifted his head, then slowly nodded. "I see your
point. And as it is with my family, so it is with Lord Kem,
isn't it? He keeps trying to become Lord Gallowglass—and
if he did. Rod Gallowglass would cease to exist."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

231

"Ah, then!" Simon's eyes lit. "Dost thou, then, mislike
this notion of thyself and Lord Kem merging together, fus-
ing, growing, into something larger and greater?"

"I'd kill the man who tried to wipe me out that way!"
Rod leaped to his feet in anger. "That's not making me
bigger and better—that's stealing my soul!"

Simon only smiled into Rod's wrath, letting its force pass
him by, untouched. "Yet if the thought so repels thee with
this Lord Kern—who, thou hast told me, is thine other
self—how can it be right if the 'other half is thy wife?"

Rod stared, poleaxed, his anger evaporated.

"Is it thy wife, or thy bairns—or the fear of ceasing to
be?"

Rod dropped down to sit crosslegged again, leaning for-
ward intently. "Then why do I only get angry when they
oppose me? Why don't I get angry when they agree with
me?"

"For that, when they oppose thee, there is danger of thy
self being digested; but when they agree with thee, 'tis they
who may be merged into thee."

Rod mulled that over. "So it's a threat. I get angry when
there's a threat."

"Certes," Simon said, surprised. "What else is anger's
purpose?"

"Yes—self-preservation," Rod said slowly. "It's the im-
pulse to fight—to get rid of a threat." His mouth quirked
into a sudden smile, and his shoulders shook with a silent,

internal laugh. "My lord! Me threatened, by my three-year-
old son?"

"Art thou not?" Simon said softly.

Rob sobered. "It's ridiculous. He couldn't possibly hurt
me."

"Oh, he can," Simon breathed, "in thy heart, in thy
soul—most shrewdly."

Rod studied his face. Then he said, "But he's so little,
so vulnerable!" Then he scowled. "But, damn it, it is hard
to remember that when he's coming up with one of those
insights that make me feel stupid!"

Simon nodded, commiserating. "Thou must, therefore,
be ever mindful, and tell thyself again: 'He doth not lessen
me.' For that is what we truly fear, is it not? That our selves




232           Christopher Stasheff

will be diminished, and, if 'tis diminished too much, 'twill
cease to exist. Is that not what we resist, what anger guards

against?"

"But it's so assinine," Rod breathed, "to think that such

a small one could hurt big me!"

"Aye—and therefore must thou bring it to mind anew,

whenever thou dost feel the slightest ghost of anger." Simon
sat back, smiling. "And as 'tis with thy baims, so 'tis with

Lord Kem."

Rod just sat, spellbound, then, slowly, he nodded. "So

that's the key to holding my temper? Just remembering that

I'm myself?"

"And that Lord Kern is not Rod Gallowglass. Just so."

Simon closed his eyes and nodded. "Yet 'tis not so easily
done. Lord Warlock. To be mindful of thyself, thou must
needs accept thyself—and to do that, one must be content
with his self. Thou must needs come to believe that Rod

Gallowglass is a good thing to be."

"Well, I think I can do that," Rod said slowly, "Especially

since I've always felt Rod Gallowglass is an even better
thing to be, when he's with his wife Gwen."

"Thy wife?" Simon frowned. "That hath a ring of great
wrongness to it. Nay, Lord Warlock—an thou dost rely on
another person for thy sense of worth, thou dost not truly
believe that thou hast any. Thou shouldst enjoy her company
because she is herself, and is pleasing to thee, is agreeable
company—not because she is a part of thee, nor because
the two of thee together make thy self a worthwhile thing

to be."

Rod frowned. "I suppose that makes sense, in its way.

If I depend on Gwen for my own sense of worth, then,
whenever she finds me less than perfect, or finds anything
at all wrong with me, I'll believe I'm not worth anything."
Simon nodded, his eyes glittering, encouraging.

"And that would feel to me, as though she were trying
to destroy me, make me less than I am—which'll make me
angry, because I'll feel that I need to fight back, for my

own survival."

Simon still nodded. "'Tis even as it happed to me—'til

I realized why, with my wife and myself, each quarrel was

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      233

worse than the last—for, of course, she felt even as I did—
that she must needs attack me, to survive." He shook his
head, like a cautioning schoolteacher. '"Tis wrong of thee,
to make her the custodian of thy value. That is thine own
burden, and thou must needs accept it."

Rod nodded. "Learn to like being inside my own skin,
eh?"

"Aye." Simon smiled, amused. "And do not seek to so
burden thine horse, either."

"Yeah—Fess." That jolted Rod back to the issue. "He
was the symbol that pulled me back to my own identity.
Does that mean I'm closer to my horse, than to my wife?"

"I think not." Simon throttled a chuckle. "For when all's
said and done, a horse is a thing, not a person. It may have
a temperament all its own, and some quirks and snags of
mood, just as a person hath; and each horse may be as
unique and separate as each human is from another—yet
when all's said and done, it hath not an immortal soul, and
cannot therefore challenge thee in any way that will truly
make thee feel any less. It cannot lessen thy sense of self,
any more than a shoe or a shovel can."

Rod nodded slowly. That made sense—more than Simon
knew; for Fess wasn't a living horse, but a computer in a
body full of servo-mechanisms. Sure, the computer pro-
jected a personality by its vocodered voice—but that per-
sonality was only an illusion, a carefully-crafted artifact,
albeit an intangible one. Fess was, really, only a metal
machine, and his identity was as much an illusion as his
ability to think. "My horse is like a sword, in a way," he
said thoughtfully.

Simon laughed softly. "In truth, he doth seem to be some-
what more than a shoe or a shovel."

"No, I was thinking of mystique. For a knight, his sword
was the symbol of his courage, his prowess—and his honor.
Each sword was a separate, unique, individual thing, to the
medieval mind, and its owner invested it with a full-fledged
persona. He even gave it a name. Sometimes, in the legends,
it even had a will of its own. You couldn't think of a famous
sword, without thinking of the knight who owned it. Ex-
calibur evoked the image of King Arthur, Durandal evoked




r

234 Christopher Stasheff

pictures of Roland, Gram brought to mind Siegried slaying
Fafnir. The sword was the symbol of the knight who bore

it."

"As thine horse is the symbol of thee?"

Rod frowned. "That doesn't quite feel right, somehow—
but it's close. Metaphorically, I suppose Fess is my sword."

"Then use him." Simon's eyes glowed. "Draw thy blade,
and go to slay the monster who enslaves us."

Rod sat still a moment, feeling within him for fear—
and, yes, it was there; but so was the courage to answer it.
But courage wouldn't do much good, really; in this case,
it'd just let him go ahead into a situation that was too
dangerous for him to survive. How about confidence, though?
Could he summon Lord Kem, let himself fill with anger,
and not be mastered by it? He thought of Fess, and all the
qualities in himself that Fess represented, and felt calm
certainty rising in response to the mental image. He nodded.
"I'm up to it. But if I start to fall in, pull me out, will you?"

"Gladly," Simon answered, with a full, warm smile.

"Then hold on." Rod stood, grasped Simon's shoulder,
and thought of Alfar, of his arrogance, his insolence, and
the threat he represented to Rod and his children. Hot anger
surged in answer, anger building toward rage. Rod felt Lord
Kern's familiar wrath—but he was aware of it, now, as
something that was a part of him, truly, not implanted from
someone else—and, being of himself, it was as much under
his control as his fingers, or his tongue. He opened his
mind, concentrating on the world of thought. The world of
sight dimmed, and his blood began to pound in his ears.
Only the thoughts were real—the darting, scheming thoughts
of the warlocks and witches; the dulled, mechanical plod-
ding thoughts of the soldiers and servants—and the cease-
less background drone that had to be the projective telepath,
who had hypnotized a whole duchy. What else could it be,
that emitted such a constant paen of praise, such a continual
pushing of thought against mind?

Whatever it was. Rod was suddenly certain that it was
the key to all the pride and ambition that was Alfar's con-
quest. He scanned the castle till he found the direction in
which it was strongest, then willed himself to it.

15

It was a small room, a round room, a room of gray stone
blocks with three tall, skinny windows. But those windows
were sealed with some clear substance, and the air of the
chamber was unnaturally cool—climate-controlled. Every
alarm bell in Rod's head screamed. He glanced at Simon.
The older warlock tottered, dazed. Rod held him up, growl-
ing, "Steady. That's what happens when a warlock dis-
appears."

"I had... ne'er had the opportunity aforetime," Simon
gasped. He looked around him, whites showing all around
his eyes. Finally, he turned back to Rod, awe-struck. "Eh,
but thou'rt truly the Lord Warlock, thou."

"The same," Rod confirmed, "but nonetheless your pupil
in fathering and husbandry."

"As I am to thee, in wizardry." Simon pointed a trembling
finger at the metal box in the center of the room. It sat on
a slender pedestal at chest height, and had a gray, irridescent
cylinder atop one end. The other sprouted a cable that dropped
down to the floor, ran over to the wall and up it, to a window,
where it disappeared—probably to a transmitting antenna,
Rod decided. "What," Simon asked, in a voice that shook,
"is that spawn of alchemy?"

"Probably," Rod agreed. "It's a machine of some sort,




r

236           Christopher Stasheff

anyway." He could feel the insistent pounding of the mes-
sage, extoling Alfar's virtues over and over again. It was
much stronger than it had been when he was in the dungeon.
It belabored him, convincing, persuading by sheer repeti-
tion. Alfar was master, Alfar was great, Alfar was rightful
lord of all that was human.... "I think I know what it is,
Simon—or, at least, what it does. If I'm right, the last time
I saw one of these, it was alive."

"How?" Simon stared, horrified. "A living thing cannot

be a machine."

"No more than a machine can be a living thing. But this
one sure seems to be. If you didn't know better, wouldn't
you swear that thing's thinking at us?"

"Wh... this?" Simon pointed at the contraption, features
writhing with revulsion. "Assuredly it doth not!"

"Assure me again—I could need it." Under his breath,
Rod murmured, "Fess. Where are you?"

"Here, Rod, in the castle stables," Fess's voice answered

from behind his ear.

"Close your eyes," Rod growled, "and don't worry about
what's happening." He closed his eyes, envisioning Fess,
and the stable he was in. In excellent repair, probably, since
it had been Duke Romanov's just a week ago—but slipping
a bit now. The straw surely needed changing, for example,
and the manure needed clearing. But he needed Fess, needed
him badly, right here.... He made the thought an imper-
ative, an unworded summons, sharp, demanding.

Thunder rocked the little room, and Fess was there,
looking about him wildly. Rod saw as he opened his eyes
again. The robot's voice came out slurred. "Whhhaddt
... wherrre... I have... have I... telllepo..." Suddenly
his head whipped up, then slammed down. All four legs
spraddled out, stiff, knees locked. The neck was stiff, too,
pointing the head at the floor; then it relaxed, and the head
began to swing between the fetlocks.

"Seizure," Rod explained. "It always happens, when he

can't avoid witnessing magic."

But Simon didn't answer. He was staring at the electronic
gizmo, and his eyes had glazed. He took a stumbling step
toward it. Of course. Rod thought. This close to the gadget

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      237

... He grabbed Simon by the shoulders, and gave him a
shake. "Simon! Wake up!" He clapped his hands sharply,
an inch in front of Simon's nose. Simon started, and his
eyes came back into focus. "What... Lord Warlock! For
the half of a minute, I thought... I could believe..."

"That the background noise is right, and Alfar's a good
guy." Rod nodded, mouth a thin, straight line. "Not sur-
prising. Now I'm sure what that weird device is—but let's
confirm it." He turned back to Fess, felt under the pommel
of the saddle for an enlarged vertebra, and pushed it. It
clicked faintly. After a moment, Fess's head lifted slowly
and turned to look at Rod, the great plastic eyes clearing.
"I... had a... seizure, Rrrod."

"You did," Rod confirmed. "But let me show you some-
thing you can cope with." He took a step toward the ped-
estal, pointing. "There's a background thought-message,
constantly repeating, Fess. Over and over, it praises Alfar
to the skies—and it's much stronger here than anywhere
else."

The robot's head tracked him. Then Fess stepped closer
to the metal box. The great horsehead lifted, looking at the
box from the top, then from the front, then the back. Finally
Fess opined, "There is sufficient data for a meaningful con-
clusion, Rod."

"Oh, ducky! What's it add up to?"

"That the futurian totalitarians are supporting Alfar's con-
quests."

"Are they really," Rod said drily. "Care to confirm my
guess as to what it does?"

"Certainly. It's a device that converts electricity into
psionic power. I would conjecture that the large, rectangular
base contains some sort of animal brain in a nutrient so-
lution, with wires carrying power from an atomic pack into
the medulla, and leads from the cerebrum carrying power
at human thought frequencies into a modulator. The cylinder
at the rear of the machine would seem to perform that
function. This modulated message is fed out through the
cable, which presumably goes up to an antenna on the roof
of this tower."

"Thanks." Rod swallowed against a suddenly queasy
stomach. "Nice to have my guess confirmed—I suppose.




r

238

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

239

Their technology has improved since we met the Kobold,
hasn't it?"

"The state of the art advances constantly, Rod."
"Relentlessly, you might almost say." Rod turned to
Simon. "It projects thoughts. Not a living thought, you
understand—a recorded one, made as carefully as people
make chairs, or ships, or castles, but just as thoroughly
made. Then that thought is set down, as you'd write a
message in ink, almost—and sent out from this machine,
to the whole of the duchy, again and again, drumming itself
into people's heads. Warlocks and witches can at least realize
they're being bombarded—but the average peasant in the
field has no idea it's happening. But warlock or witch, it
doesn't seem to matter—it converts them all."
"Who placed it here?" Simon's voice trembled.
"People from the future." Rod's face was set, stony.
"People who want the whole universe to be ruled by one
single power." He glared around at the blank stone walls.
"Where're its builders? Hiding somewhere, out of harm's
way, while Alfar and his coven do their dirty work for them.
But I must admit I'm disappointed—I was hoping to find
a few of them here, keeping guard." He could feel indig-
nation spurring his anger higher; he began to tremble.

"Peace, peace." Simon grasped his forearm. "Wherefor
would they? Why guard what none know of, and none need
tend?"

"Yeah—it's fully automatic, isn't it? And just because
I expected them to be here, doesn't mean they should feel
obligated to show up. But I was at least expecting a human
witch or warlock to be doing the thinking! Maybe hooked
up to a psionic amplifier—but nonetheless one of Alfar's
henchmen, taking it in relays! But... this is it!" He spread
his hands toward the machine. "This is all there is! Here's
the spectacular sorcerer—here's the arch-magus! Here's your
rebel warlock warlord, fantastically powerful—until its bat-
tery runs down!"

"'Twill suffice," Simon said, beside him.
"Damn straight it will!" Rod turned to rummage in Fess's
saddlebag. "Where's that hammer I used to carry?"

"May I suggest that it would be more effective, and more
immediate, to turn the machine off. Rod?"

Rod shrugged. "Why not? I'm not picky—I'll wreck it
any way I can!" He turned to the machine, looking it up
and down. "Where's the off switch?"

"I detect a pressure-pad next to the cylinder," Pess said.
"Would you press it, please. Rod?"

"Sure." Rod pressed the cross-hatched square. The ma-
chine clicked, whirred for a second, then pushed one end
of the cylinder toward Rod. He lifted it off, holding it warily
at arm's length. "What is it?"

"From the circuitry. Rod, I would conjecture that the
cylinder is the transducer. This disc, therefore, would be
the recorded message."

"Oh, is it, now!" Rod whipped his arm back for a straight
pitch, aimed at the wall.

"Might I also suggest," Fess said quickly, "that we may
find a use for the disc itself?"

Rod scowled. "Always possible, I suppose—but not very
satisfying." He dropped it into his belt-pouch. "So we've
stopped it from mass-hypnotizing the population. Now, how
do we wake them up?"

"Why not try telepathy?" the robot suggested. "The mes-
sage is recorded thought, placed in contact with the trans-
ducer; presumably it will function just as well, from contact
with living thought."

Rod turned to his friend with a glittering eye. "Oh, Master
Simon..."

In spite of himself, the older man took a step backward.
But, stoutly, he said, "Wherein may I aid. Lord Warlock?"

"By thinking at the machine." Rod tossed his head toward
the gadget. "But you'll have to put your forehead against

Simon's eyes bulged; his face went slack in horror.
"Oh, it won't hurt your mind," Rod said quickly. "That
much, I'm sure of. This end of the machine can only receive
thoughts—it can't send out anything." He turned, bowing,
and pressed his forehead against the transducer. "See? No
danger."

"Indeed," Simon breathed, awestruck. "Wherefore dost
thou not give it thine own thoughts?"

"Because I don't know how to break Alfar's spell." Rod
stepped back, bowing Simon toward the machine. "Would




f

240

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

241

you try it, please? Just press your forehead against that round
plate, and pretend it's a soldier who's been spellbound."

Simon stood rigid for a few seconds. Then he took a
deep breath, and stepped forward. Rod watched him place
his forehead against the transducer, with admiration. The
humble country innkeeper had as much real courage as a
knight.

Simon closed his eyes. His face tensed as he began his
spell-breaking thought sequence.

Rod stiffened as the 'message' hit him, full-strength. It
had no words; it was only a feeling, as though someone
very sympathetic was listening to him, listening deeply, to
everything Rod could tell, down to his very core—then,
kindly, gently, but very firmly, contradicting. Rod shook his
head and cleared his throat. "Well! He's certainly getting
across, isn't he?" He turned to Fess. "How'11 we know
whether it works or not?"

"By Alfar's reaction. Rod. He doubtless detected our
disabling his message, but refrained from attacking us, wary
of your power."

Rod's head lifted, "I... hadn't... thought of that."

"I consider it a distinct possibility," Fess mused. "Now,
however, Alfar must realize that we are destroying the very
base of his power—that he must attack us now, or lose all
he has conquered."

Quintuple thunder roared in a long, ripping sequence,
and Alfar was there with three witches and a warlock at his
back, chopping down at Rod with a scimitar.

Rod leaped back with a whoop of delight. The sword's
tip hissed past him, and he and Fess instantly jumped into
place between Simon and the sorcerer's band. One of the
witches stabbed a hand at them, all five fingers stiff and
pointing, and a dozen whirling slivers of steel darted toward
them.

Fess took a step to his left, blocking Rod and Simon
both. The darts clanged against his horsehide, and he stepped
back—just in time to step on the witch's foot. She screamed
and careened away, hobbling as Alfar lashed at Rod with
the scimitar again. But this time. Rod leaped high and kicked
the sword out of his hand as Fess reared, lashing out at the
other warlock and witch with his forehooves. Rod sliced a

karate chop at Alfar, and the sorcerer leaped back, but not
quite quickly enough—Rod's fingertips scored his collar-
bone, and Alfar howled in pain. The witch was staring at
Fess, wild-eyed, backing away slowly, and Rod could
feel a crazy assortment of emotions crashing through
him—anger, fear, confusion, love. She was the emotional
projective, hitting Fess with everything she had, totally
confounded by his complete lack of response.

Which reminded Rod who he was, and that the emotions
were illusions. He managed to ignore them as Alfar wound
up for a whammy. But he didn't have time; a stone leaped
out of the wall, and slammed straight at Rod. He side-
stepped, but the block caught him on the shoulder. Pain
shot through him, and his temper leaped up in response.
He slumped back against the wall, striving frantically to
reign in his temper, trying to channel it, knowing that rage
would slow his reflexes; they'd get under his guard, and
chop him down. Another block shot straight at him and he
dropped to a crouch, ducking his head. The block cracked
into the wall behind; Another whirled tumbling and slammed
into Fess's hindquarters. Rod galvanized with alarm—if
that boulder had hit Fess in the midriff, it might've staved
in his armored side, and damaged his computer-brain!

That was just distraction enough. He saw the stone com-
ing, and spun away—but not fast enough. Its comer cracked
into his hip, and agony screamed through his side, turning
his whole leg into flame. His knee folded, and he fell.

And Alfar was above him with his scimitar again, chop-
ping down with a gloating grin.

Rod rolled at the last second. The huge blade smashed
into the stone floor, and twisted out of Alfar's hands. One
of the fallen stones shot up off the floor, straight at his face.
Alfar screamed in shock, and stepped back—and tripped
over something, crashing down onto his back.

Rod was up on one knee, trying frantically to force him-
self to his feet. He stared at the obstacle Alfar had stumbled
over, and it stared back for a fraction of a second—Geof-
frey! The boy grinned just before he leaped to his feet, his
eighteen-inch sword whipping out to stab down at the fal-
len sorcerer, who just barely managed to twist out of the
way in time. His hand flailed about the floor till it found




242 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 243

the scimitar's hilt, and wrapped fast around it.

A block of stone smashed at Geoffrey. He dodged, but
Rod roared with rage when he saw how closely the block
had come. He sprang at the telekinetic—but Alfar jumped
into his path, slashing with the scimitar again. Rod leaped
back, letting the blow whistle past him, then lunged over
it with a chop. Alfar just barely managed to twist aside.

The telekinetic was surrounded by blocks of stone smash-
ing into each other. Her lips were drawn back in a feral
snarl, and drops of sweat beaded her forehead. Geoffrey
ducked in under the hedge of stone and stabbed upward.
The telekinetic screamed and jumped back, stumbled over
Gregory, and fell. Magnus's cudgel whacked her at the base
of her skull and she went limp.

Cordelia crouched glaring at the other witch—but be-
tween them was a storybook witch, complete with cone hat,
broomstick, hooked nose, warts, and insane cackle, hands
clawing at the child. A ghost materialized beside her, moan-
ing, and something huge, flabby, and moist, with yellow,
bloodshot eyes, lifted itself up off the floor, extruding pseu-
dopod tentacles toward the little girl. But Cordelia spat,
"Aroint thee, witch! Dost thou think me a babe?" and threw
her broomstick at the illusionist. It speared through the
storybook witch and arrowed toward the illusionist, who
screamed and threw up her hands to ward it off—and the
ghost, witch, and monster disappeared. But the broomstick
whirled and whipped about, belaboring the woman from
every side faster than she could block, whacking her about
the head and shoulders. She screamed, and darted toward
the chamber door—and Gwen's full-sized broomstick swung
down from the ceiling and cracked into her forehead. Her
eyes rolled up, and she crumpled.

Rod twisted aside from Alfar's scimitar and reached out
to brace himself against the wall, just as his burning leg
tried to give out under him again. He shoved against the
stone, shifting his weight onto his good leg, and drew his
sword just in time to parry another cut. He riposted and
thrust, faster than Alfar could recover. The sorcerer darted
back, just an inch farther than Rod's thrust, and saw two
of his lieutenants on the floor. He was just in time to see

Fess's hoof catch the emotional projective a glancing blow
on the temple. She folded at the knees and hit the flagstones,
out cold. He shrieked, and Rod leaped, catching the sor-
cerer's arm with his left hand to steady himself. Alfar whirled,
saw Rod's sword chopping down, screamed again—and
Rod caught the unspoken image of another place. He closed
his eyes and willed himself nor there, just as Alfar teleported
toward it. Dimly, Rod heard a thunder-boom, and knew
Alfar had managed to disappear from the tower room. His
eyes sprang open—and he found himself still clinging to
the sorcerer's arm, in the midst of formless grayness, lit
by dim, sourceless light. There was nothing, anywhere—
nothing but his enemy.

Alfar looked about him, and screamed, "We are lost!"
Then he squeezed his eyes shut, and Rod caught the impulse
toward someplace he didn't recognize. He countered grimly.
Their bodies rocked, as though hit by a shock wave, but
stayed put. "You're in the Void," Rod growled, "and you're
not getting out!"

Alfar screamed, hoarse with terror and rage, and whirled
to chop at him with the scimitar. But Rod yanked him close,
caught his sword hand, and cracked it against his good knee.
Pain shot through him, almost making him go limp—but
Alfar was still screaming, in hoarse, panting caws, and the
scimitar went whirling away through empty space. Rod
slammed an uppercut into the sorcerer's face. He dodged,
but the blow caught him alongside the jaw. His head rocked,
but he slammed a knee into Rod's groin. Rod doubled over
in agony, but clung to Alfar's arm and a shred of sense; his
right hand slipped the dagger out of his boot, and he shot
his last ounce of strength into a sudden stab into Alfar's
belly. The blade jabbed up under the ribcage, and Alfar
folded over it, arms flailing, eyes bulging in agony. Con-
science smote; Rod yanked the dagger out and stabbed again,
quickly, mercifully, into the heart. He saw Alfar's eyes
glaze; then the body went limp in his hands. Rod held it a
second, staring, unbelieving. Then chagrin hit, and he felt
his soul quail at the reality of another manslaughter. "It was
him or me," Rod grated; but no one heard except himself.

He let go, shoving, and the body drifted away from him,




244

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

245

turning slowly, trailing an arc of blood. It swung away,
revolving, and faded into the mists, a thin red line tracing
its departure.

Rod turned away, sickened. For a long, measureless in-
stant, he drifted in space, numbed, absorbing his guilt,
accepting the spiritual responsibility, knowing that it had
been justified, had been necessary—and was nonetheless
horrible.

Finally, the tide of guilt ebbed, and he opened his mind
to other thoughts—Gwen, and the children! Had they all
come through that melee alive? And what the hell had they
been doing there, anyway? Never mind the fact that if they
hadn't been, they'd be short one husband and father by
now—nonetheless! What were they doing where it was so
dangerous?

Helping him, obviously—and they'd have to help him
again, or he'd never find how to get out of here. He wasn't
scared of the Void; he'd been here before, between uni-
verses.

And, of course, he'd get home the same way now. He
closed his eyes, and listened with his mind. There—
Gregory's thought, unvoiced, a frightened longing for his
father—the same beacon that had brought him home before.
Rod sighed and relaxed, letting the boy's thought fill his
mind. Then he willed himself back to his three-year-old
son.

"Is that all of them?" Rod ground his teeth against a
sudden stab of pain from his upper arm.

"Be brave, my lord," Gwen murmured. She finished
binding the compress to his triceps. "Aye, every one of
them has come—every witch and warlock of the Royal
Coven. E'en old Agatha and Galen have come from their
Dark Tower, to flit from hamlet to village, speaking with
these poor peasants, who have waked to panic, and the loss
of understanding."

"I don't blame 'em," Rod grunted. "If I all of a sudden
came to my senses and realized that I'd been loyal to an
upstart for the last few weeks while my duke was casually
bumped off, I'd be a little disoriented, too. In fact, I'd be

frightened as hell." He winced as Gwen bound his arm to
his side. "Is that really necessary?"

"It must," she answered, in a tone that brooked no ar-
gument. "Yet 'tis but for a day or two, 'til the healing hath
begun."

"And I didn't even notice I'd been sliced, there." Rod
looked down at the bandage. "Well, it was only a flesh
wound."

Gwen nodded. "Praise Heaven it came no closer to the
bone!"

"Lord Warlock!"
Rod looked up.

They were in the Great Hall of Duke Romanov's castle.
It was a vast stone room, thirty feet high, forty wide, and
eighty long—and empty, for the moment, since all the boards
and trestles had been piled against the walls at the end of
the last meal, for the evening's entertainments. The High
Table was still up, of course, on its dais, and Rod sat in
one of the chairs, with Gwen beside him—though pointedly
not in the Duke's and Duchess's places.

An auncient, still wearing Alfar's livery, came striding
toward them from the screens passage, eyes alight with
excitement.

"Did you lock up the traitors?" Rod demanded.
"Aye, milord." The auncient came to a halt directly in
front of Rod. " 'Twas that to be said for the sorcerer's having
used our bodies for his army, the whiles he lulled our souls
into slumber—that when we waked, we knew on the instant
which soldiers had been loyal to the usurper of their own
wills, e'en though they'd remained wakeful."

Rod nodded. "By some strange coincidence, the ones
who had been giving the orders." There had been a few
opportunistic knights who had been loyal to Alfar without
benefit of hypnotism, too. Rod had had to lock them in a
dungeon himself, medieval caste rules being what they were.
One of them had resisted; but after the others saw what
happened to him, they went quietly. It was just too embar-
rassing, being defeated by a bunch of children.... A couple
of them, quicker to react, had escaped as soon as peasants
started waking up all around them. That was all right; Rod




246 Christopher Stasheff

had a few thousand mortified soldiers on his hand, who
needed something to do to appease their consciences. A
hunt was just fine.

But the common soldiers who had allied with Alfar, could
be left to the tender mercies of their erstwhile comrades—
once Rod had made it clear that he expected them to, at
least, survive. "So you found the deepest, darkest, dungeon,
and locked them in it?"

"Aye, milord." The auncient's eyes glowed. "We loosed
its sole tenant." He turned toward the screens passage with
a bow, and in limped the prisoner. His doublet and hose
were torn, and crusted with dried blood; his face was smeared
with dirt, and his hair matted. There was a great livid gash
along the right-hand side of his face, scabbed over, that
would leave a horrible scar; and he limped heavily, his limbs
sodden with inactivity; but his back was straight, and his
chin was high. Two knights were with him, blinking, dazed,
as disoriented as any of the soldiers, but straight and proud.
Simon followed after, looking perplexed.

Rod shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the searing pro-
test from his wounded hip, and the auncient announced:

"Hail my lord, the Duke of Romanov!"

Rod stepped down from the dais to clasp his one-time
enemy by the shoulders. "Praise Heaven you're alive!"

"And thee, for this fair rescue!" The Duke inclined his
head. "Well met. Lord Warlock! I, and all my line, shall
ever be indebted to thee and thine!"

"Well, maybe more the 'thine' than the 'thee.'" Rod
glanced behind him at the children who sat, prim and proper,
on the dais steps with their mother fairly glowing behind
them. "When push came to shove, they had to haul my
bacon out of the fire."

"Then I thank thee mightily. Lady Gallowglass, and thee,
brave children!" The Duke inclined his head again.

Blushing, they leaped to their feet and bowed.

When the Duke straightened, there was anxiety in his
face. "Lord Warlock—my wife and bairns. Did they...
escape?"

"They did, and my wife and children made sure they
reached Runnymede safely." Rod turned to Gwen. "Didn't
you?"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      247

"Certes, my lord. We would not have turned aside from
what we'd promised thee we'd do."

"Yes—you never did promise to stay safe, did you? But

Alfar mentioned something about a dire fate in store for
you...."

"Indeed!" Gwen opened her eyes wider. "Then it was
never taken out from storage. I wonder thou wast so merciful
in thy dealings with him."

"Well, I never did like lingering deaths." But Rod couldn't
help feeling better about it all.

"He also implied that the Duchess and her boys didn't
stay safe...."

"False again," Gwen said quickly, just as the Duke's
anguish was beginning to show anew. "We saw them to

Runnymede, where they bide safely, in the care of Their
Royal Majesties."

"Yes... what are monarchs for?" But Rod noted the flash
of shame that flitted across Romanov's features—no doubt
in memory of his rebellion.

"We played with them not three hours agone, Papa,"
Geoffrey added.

The Duke heaved a sigh, relaxing. Then the father and
host in him both took over. "Three hours? And thy children
have not dined in that time?" He spun to the auncient. "Good
Auncient, seek out the cooks! Rouse them from their dazes,
and bid them bring meat and wine—and honeycakes."

The children perked up most noticeably.

"Three hours agone." The Duke turned back to the chil-
dren with a frown. "Was this in Runnymede?"

The children nodded.

The Duke turned back to Rod. "How could they come
to aid thee, then?"

"Nice question." Rod turned to Gwen again. "It was
rather dangerous here, dear. Just how close were you, while
you were waiting for me to need you?"

"The lads were in Runnymede, my lord, even as thou
hast but now heard," Gwen answered. "They could bide
there, sin' that they may travel an hundred leagues in the
bat of an eyelash."

Rod had notion that their range was farther than that,
much farther, but he didn't deem it wise to say so—es-




248 Christopher Stasheff

pecially not where they could hear (or mind read).

"At the outset," Gwen continued, "Cordelia and I did
bide with them, for we could attend to thy thoughts e'en
from that distance, and fly to thine aid if thou didst come
near to danger. It did greatly trouble me, therefore, when
thy thoughts did so abruptly cease."

Cordelia nodded confirmation, her eyes huge. "She did
weep. Papa."

"Oh, no, darling!" Rod caught Gwen's hands. "I didn't
mean to..."

"Nay, certes." She smiled. "Yet thou wilt therefore com-
prehend my concern."

Rod nodded slowly. "I'd say so, yes."

"I therefore did leave the boys in care of Their Royal
Majesties, and Brom O'Berin, and flew northward again. I
took on the guise of an osprey...."

Rod rolled his eyes up. "I knew, when I saw that blasted
fish-hawk that far inland, that I was in trouble!" Of course,
he knew that Gwen couldn't really shrink down to the size
of a bird any more than a butterfly could play midwife to
a giraffe. It was just a projective illusion, making people
think that they saw a bird instead of a woman. "If I hadn't
shielded my thoughts, I probably would've seen through
your spell!"

"An thou hadst not shielded thy thoughts, I would not
have had to fly near enough to see thee," Gwen retorted.
"And though thou hadst disguised thyself, I knew thee. Rod
Gallowglass."

That, at least, was reassuring—in its way.

"Then," Gwen finished, " 'twas but a matter of hearken-
ing to the thoughts of that goodman who did ride beside
thee." Gwen turned to Simon. "I thank thee. Master Simon."

The older man still looked confused, but he bowed any-
way, smiling. "I was honored to be of service, milady—
e'en though I knew it not."

"And when thou wert taken," Gwen went on, "I did
summon Cordelia to me, to bide in waiting, in a deserted
shepherd's croft. Then, when thou didst burst forth from
thy shield, I could not help but hear thy thoughts for myself."

"Not that you were about to try to ignore them," Rod
murmured.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      249

"Nay, certes!" Gwen cried in indignation. "Then, when
thou didst come unto the tower chamber, I knew the moment
of battle was nigh, and did summon Cordelia from her croft
to fly to the tower; and when the unearthly device did cease
to compel, and did commence to disenchant, I knew the
time of battle had come. Then did I summon thy sons, that
the family might be together once again."

"Very homey," Rod grinned. "And, though I was mighty
glad to see you all, I don't mind saying I'm even gladder

to know the kids were safe, right down until the last mo-
ment."

"Certes, my lord! I would not endanger them."
Rod gave her the fish-eye. "What do you call that last
little fracas we went through—homework?"

"Oh, nay! 'Twas far too great a delight!" Geoffrey cried.

"Homework's delight," Gregory lisped.

"Papa!" Cordelia cried indignantly; and Magnus's chin

jutted out a quarter-inch further. " 'Twas scarce more than
chores."

"We'd fought each of them aforetime," Geoffrey re-
minded him, "and knew their powers—save Alfar, and we
left him to thee."

"Nice to know you have confidence in me. But there
could've been accidents...."

"So there may ever be, with baims," Gwen sighed. "Here,
at least, they were under mine eye. Bethink thee, husband,

what might chance an I were to leave them in the kitchen,
untended."

Rod shuddered. "You've made your point; please don't
try the experiment." He turned to the Duke. "Ever begin to
feel redundant?"

"Nay, Papa," Magnus cried. "We could only aid thee in
the ending of this campaign."

"Truly," Gregory said, round-eyed, "we knew not enough
to bring the sorcerer to bay."

But Rod had caught the sly glance between Magnus and
Geoffrey. Under the circumstances, though, he deemed it
wiser not to say anything about it.

"Now, mine husband." Gwen clasped his hands. "In this
last battle, I did hear thy thoughts at all times. Thine anger
was there, aye, but thou didst contain it. Hast thou, then,

250

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

251

so much ta'en this goodman's advice to thine heart?" She
nodded at Simon.

"I have," Rod confirmed. "It worked this time, at least."

"Dost thou mean thou wilt not become angry again. Papa?"
Cordelia cried, and the other children looked up in delight.

"I can't promise that," Rod hedged, "but I think I'll have
better luck controlling it. Why—what were you planning
to do?"

Whatever they would have answered was forestalled by
the cooks, stumbling in with dinner. They set down the
platters on the table, and the children leaped in with joyful
cries. Magnus got there first, wrenched off a drumstick,
and thrust it at his father. "Here, Papa! "Tis thy place of
right!"

"Why, thank you," Rod said, amused. "Nice to know I
have some rank around here."

"I shall have the other." Cordelia reached for the other
drumstick.

"Nay; thou hast never favored the legs of the fowl!"
Geoffrey's hand darted out, and grabbed the bone before
hers.

"Loose that!" Cordelia cried. " 'Twas my claim was first!"

"As 'twas my hand!"

"Yet I came to the bird before either of thee!" Magnus
laid a hand on the bone of contention. "My remembrance
of our father, doth not bar me from this choice!"

"Uh, children," Rod said mildly, "quiet down, please."

"'Tis mine!"

"Nay! 'Tis mine!"

"I am eldest! My claim is first!"

"Children!" Rod hiked his volume a bit. "Cut it out!"

Gwen laid a restraining hand on his arm. That did it; his
temper leaped.

Cordelia turned on her brothers. "Now, beshrew me an
thou art not the most arrogant, ungentlemanly boys the world
hath ever..."

"Wherefore beshrew thee? Thou art a shrew already!"

And the discussion disintegrated into wild shouts of ac-
cusation and counter-accusation.

Rod stood rigid, trying to contain his soaring anger. Then
Simon caught his eye. Rod stared at the older man's calm,

level gaze, and felt a measure of strength that he hadn't
known he had. He took a deep breath and reminded himself
that their bickering might make them look childish (as it
should), but not him—if he didn't start shouting with them.
The thought checked his anger and held it. He was himself,
Rod Gallowglass—and he wasn't any the less himself, nor
any less important, nor any less in any way, just because
his children didn't heed him.

But he did know how to get their attention. He reached
out, grasped the last drumstick, and twisted it loose.

The children whirled, appalled. "Papa!" "Nay! Thou hast
no need!" "Thou already hast one. Papa!"

" 'Tis not justice," little Gregory piped, chin tucked in
truculently over folded arms.

"But it does settle the argument," Rod pointed out. He
turned to Gwen, presenting the drumstick with a flourish
and a bow. "My dear, you saved the day. Your glory is as
great as mine."

"But, Papa!" Cordelia jammed her fists on her hips,
glowering up at him. "Thou'rt supposed to be a nice daddy
now!"

"Why," Rod murmured, "wherever did you get an idea
like that?"