The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (8 page)

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!"

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 moming." 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 peasant shook his head. "What greater mischief ha' such warlocks 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 peasant 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."

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 telepaths 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, "Generalizing 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

jarring his brain. Rage answered, and struggled against it. A bluish white light filled the hall, showing all the servants shocked upright, staring in fear and horror. Cordelia screamed, burying her face in Rod's midsection, and Gregory burrowed into Gwen's skirts.

Magnus and Geoffrey glared truculently upward, even as they backed away against the 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 bellowed. "'Tis in my hall thou dost stand! Wherefore hast thou come, and why hast thou disturbed my rest—mine, and all of my line's! Speak, sirrah! Now!"

The rage surged higher. "Speak with respect to thy betters, feeble ghost! Or from this place I shall banish thee, to leave thy wraith wailing in the void between worlds!" The ghost stared a moment, with the empty darkness of its eyes. Then its face creased, and broke open, and laughter spilled out—harsh, mocking laughter, that all the ghosts echoed, ringing from one to another, clamoring and sounding like brazen gongs, until all the Great Hall rang with it, while spectral fingers pointed at Rod.

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

"Why, then, mannikin, work thy will!" the ghost sneered.

"Hale me down, and grind me under! Work thy wonders!

Show us this power thou canst employ, against ghosts!" Steel hooves rang on stone, and the great black horse 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 outraged anger. "What beast is this thou dost summon! Hast thou no shred of courtesy within thee, that thou wouldst bring thine horse into a lord's hall?"

"Fess," Rod bellowed in agony, "What are they?"

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

"Seizure," Rod snapped. "They're real!" Arendel stared in disbelief for a moment; then he threw back his head, and his laughter rocked the hall. "Elf-shot!

He summons his great aid, his model of all that is powerful and perfect—and 'tis elf-shot!" And his merriment rolled forth, to batter against Rod's ears.

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

"Welcome, Father," Rod breathed, in a voice of dry ice. The priest blinked, seeking Rod out with watery eyes.

"But I was even now saying Matins, in the monastery chapel!

How came I here?"

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

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

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

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

Lord Arendel shrieked, and disappeared.

With a wave of wailing despair, the other ghosts faded. In the sudden, soft darkness, Magnus cried, "There!

Against the eastern wall! Nay, stop her, seize her! Mother, a light, I prithee!"

Sudden light slashed the darkness—a warm, yellow glow from a great ball of fire that hung just below the ceiling, and Magnus and Geoffrey were diving toward a woman in a blue, hooded cloak, who hauled out a broomstick and leaped onto it, soaring up through the air to leave them in a wake of mocking laughter. Magnus shouted in anger, and banked to follow her, but she arrowed straight toward the window, which was opened wide to the summer's night. She trilled laughter, crying, "Fools! Dost not know the witches are everywhere? Thou canst not escape 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.