The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (21 page)

"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 escaped thus far more by luck than skill—and, in comely truth, my daughter doth draw near to her confinement. Accordingly, 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 vengeance '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 execution." 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 mayest 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."

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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, goodman! 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? Efficient, 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, Auncient. 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 exasperation. "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 think752 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 bethink 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 conclusions, 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 balanced 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 territory, 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

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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."