The warlock insane (22 page)

"So I can't go help fight." Rod turned slowly, eyes narrowed. "Did you come here only to gloat?"

"Thou dost know I did not. Yet I bid thee cure thyself ere thou dost return."

"Look, I don't know how long it will take for these chemicals to pass out of my system, but by the time I've purged myself, the war will be over!"

"Mayhap," Big Tom said judiciously, "or mayhap thou canst learn to master the witch-moss." Rod stilled, gazing at him intently.

" 'Tis witch-moss, after all," Big Tom explained, "and thou hast crafted the stuff aforetime. Canst thou not assert dominion o'er it even now, when 'tis within thee?"

"I might be able to learn," Rod said slowly, "but how will I know if I have or not? It couId just be hallucination!"

Big Tom shook his head. "Thou dost speak as though thou art truly crazed. I tell thee, thou art not. 'Tis but a substance in thy system."

"A substance that has changed my ability to see the world as it really is. No, Big Tom—that's a description of a crazy man. Just because the madness is artificially induced doesn't make it any less a madness."

The ghost shrugged. "Mayhap. Yet an thou art beset by delusions, mayhap thou canst counter them with illusions."

Rod pondered. "Why, how do I do that?"

"I cannot say." Big Tom sighed and shoved himself to his feet. "Thou must needs find those who know the manner of dealing with such unbonded imagery."

"A poet, you mean?"

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"A poet, or a priest—or both. A doctor of the arts who is also a doctor of the soul."

"Great," Rod said with a sardonic smile. "Where do I find somebody with that combination?"

"I ken not. Yet thou canst, at least, take arms against the illusions thou dost know to be false."

"Wait a minute," Rod protested. "You're saying that I'm not really crazy—I'm just going to have to learn a new way of thinking?"

"In some fashion. Thou must needs learn to think in lifelike images, to oppose these false illusions with counterillusions. Thy wife and bairns were born to this mode of thought, and have no difficulty in dealing with it—yet to thee, 'tis alien."

"Then I'm not so much poisoned, as simply having had my mind fouled," Rod said slowly, "and I have to learn to deal with the foulness in its own terms." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."

"Then strive until it doth," Big Tom said. "Thy subconscious hath emerged into the perceptions of thy conscious mind, which cannot deal with its wild and rampant nature. As a beginning, take arms against those illusions thou canst be sure are only that—or are truly evil things."

"You mean Brume." Rod nodded. "Yes, I think I can go up against him with a clear conscience. He's either a total hallucination, or an esper who's out to victimize the whole countryside."

"Therefore," said Big Tom, "let us strike."

Somewhere there was a banshee howl, and a myriad of imps descended on them out of some nameless dimension.

Big Tom looked up with disgust. "The sorcerer Brume hath heard my thought, and hath called up his minions." He turned, setting his arms akimbo, and bellowed, "Avaunt!" The imps halted in a hollow globe around them, shocked. Then their faces creased with anger, and their mouths opened in yowling.

"I bade thee hold!" Big Tom thundered, and their tentative advance halted. The yowling took on a definite halfhearted tone.

"They dare not strike whiles I am nigh," Big Tom said aside to Rod. "Do thou ope the door, whilst I hold them at bay."

"Good division of labor," Rod agreed, and he turned to the door, letting his mind drift into a trance, reaching out to the lock, probing, finding, pulling…

The bolt slid back.

Rod hauled the door open. "Care to join me?"

"Aye, and gladly." Big Tom stepped up to the doorway with a grin. The gibbering chorus started up again behind them, and the big ghost called back, without even looking at them, "Follow, an thou durst."
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And to Rod, "I doubt me not Brume hath penned them in here, to torment his enemies. Let them now come loose!"

A lone torch burned in the hallways outside the cell, illuminating a curving stair that rose up into gloom. As they started climbing, the gibbering behind them grew louder. By the time they'd reached the top of the stair, it was turning into yowling again, with the occasional manic giggle. They came out of the stairwell into the Great Hall, and the imps spilled free in their wake, filling the hall with batwings and howling.

The sorcerer was ready for them—whatever kind of psionic warning system he had, had worked perfectly. The first fireball hit before they were five steps from the stairwell. Rod dodged aside, but the fireball swerved to follow, and swords yanked themselves off the walls to come arrowing toward Rod. He saw them through clear syrup, for he was in a trance, willing entropy—and the fireball faded and died before it reached him. His own blade was out, parrying, and with a thought, he wrenched a shield off the wall. It flew to interpose itself between Rod and the other two swords, hovering as he slipped his arm through the old, stiff straps.

Then the floor heaved under his feet and, on top of everything else, he had to frantically levitate. The distraction was enough—one sword shot past his guard. He parried frantically, but it nicked his chest before he could swat it down.

Then the imps hit Brume, and the swords fell to the floor as the sorcerer shifted his attention to the little devils. They burst into flame, filling the air with shrieks of agony. Rod set himself and marched toward the throne.

Brume glanced up, saw him, and a knife flicked itself from his belt, flying straight toward Rod. Rod caught it on his shield, batted it out of the air—and the other knife he hadn't seen flashed before his eyes. He recoiled, falling back, and the blade shot by—but it opened his forehead on its way, and blood welled up. Rod bellowed with anger and leaped back to his feet, charging toward Brume through a rain of charred imps.

Brume turned to glare at him, and Rod quickly averted his eyes—he wouldn't be caught with the projected migraine again! But flame exploded all around Rod, and every nerve in his body screamed with pain. He ran toward the sorcerer, trying to break through the wall of fire, but it stayed with him, and he couldn't breathe, the flames had swallowed the oxygen…

Through the sheet of fire, he saw Big Tom's ghost towering over the sorcerer, fist slamming down toward the bald head. But the sorcerer's hands were sawing the air, and Big Tom disappeared like a soap bubble on the breeze.

Rod shouted in rage; a huge surge of anger tore out of him, and his envelope of flames scattered in shreds. He leaped up to the dais, his sword high…

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Brume turned, hand flashing out as though throwing something, and a ball of force slammed into Rod's belly, knocking him down. For a moment, the world turned dim, the sorcerer's mocking laughter rang in his ears…

The laughter turned abruptly into a scream of pain and fear. Rod caught his breath, could see again—and saw a living torch, darting here and there at the sorcerer's head. Brume fended it off, but it came again, and again—and while it did, a lean young wolf clawed at his midriff, jaws snapping for his throat. A broadsword flashed through the air, cutting and slashing as it sang a song of bloodlust, filling all the room with its high, clear tone. The sorcerer had gained a shield somehow, but was hard put to block the sword cuts, the more so as a ball of lightning danced and dodged about him, seeking for an opening through the magical screen that he had managed to build, that glimmered about him like an aura. Behind them stood their animating force—a fairy lady, impossibly tall, impossibly slender, an elongated woman with a coronet binding her silver rain of hair, her eyes hard and pitiless. Brume fell back before her onslaught. He couldn't do anything else; he was barely able to keep his guard up, let alone strike.

Rod closed in, narrow-eyed but silent.

The sorcerer glanced his way, saw him, and howled in anger and frustration. Suddenly, flames sprang up around him —a veil of green fire, billowing up to hide Brume, then slackening and thinning into a green fog. It dimmed and diminished, thinned, and was gone.

So was the sorcerer.

Rod stood staring, amazed. "That is one trick that no esper has ever been able to do!" Or had he? Brume might have teleported, under cover of his green fire. That was why it had dimmed and thinned, instead of dying down.

Or had he seen nothing but what really happened? That was the tricky part, the word "really."

"Am I in Grama-rye or Granclarte?"

"What is Granclarte?"

It was the fairy lady who spoke. Her voice was rich and melodious, and her eyes had become more human, but were still guarded and remote.

"Why, it is a fancy," Rod said slowly, turning to her, "or is at least just a figment of imagination. I thank you, lady, for your timely rescue. I doubt that I could have lived through that onslaught, without your aid."

" 'Twas given gladly, Lord Warlock—yet thanks is also due these instruments of mine." Her hand rested on the young wolf's head, her other hand cupping the ball of lightning. The torch flared by her side, and the singing sword balanced itself before her.

"Thanks due to things of enchantment, to your creations?" Rod frowned. "Well, if you say so. Sir Wolf—I thank you." Rod inclined his head and shoulders in a small bow. "And you also, Lightning, Torch, and Sword—I thank you all. Without your aid, I might have been a cinder."
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The ball of lightning crackled in approval, and the torch flared brighter. The sword's pure tone rose to a high, clear pitch that rang on through the hall after the sword itself had ceased to sound.

"Though I greatly appreciate your assistance," Rod said, "I cannot help but wonder at it. What am I to you, milady, that you should aid me so?"

The wolf's jaw lolled as though it were laughing, but the lady only said, in cold, clear tones, "This vile sorcerer did cast awry the balance of Water, Earth, Air, and Fire within my domain. Therefore did I wish to move against him. Yet with all my force, I still could not break through his wards. Then thou didst come into his castle as though naught did prevent thee—and when thou didst come out from the dungeon, why, thou wast already within. Thou didst then so catch and hold the sorcerer's mind that I could come in past his wards, and these mine helpers. Thus did we come; thus were we right glad to aid thee.

"Yet he hath escaped," she went on, face hard, "and therefore must we beware. He will come again, I doubt not."

"He will," Rod agreed, "or I'm totally wrong about what he is." The faerie tossed her head impatiently. " 'Tis plainly seen."

"Quite," Rod agreed. "Still, 1 don't think we should wait here for him to return. We should leave, milady, before he can bring back reinforcements."

The wolf sniffed and wrinkled its nose as it peered about into the gloom.

"Well said," the faerie agreed, "and the more so for that there may be all manner of venomous spirits that the sorcerer hath called up, but left here without restraint or ward, now that he hath fled. Aye, certes we should be out from this place."

Rod turned toward the portal. "And since you're leaving, could I ask a favor of you? Would you go toRunnymede , and see how Their Majesties fare? I'm afraid the rebellion might be too much for them, without supernatural aid."

The wolf stopped, staring, and the sword hummed with surprise. The faerie asked, "How didst thou know of the uprising?"

Rod shrugged. "Stood to reason." He didn't say whose. He ushered them out under the portcullis and came after them over the drawbridge. "It's probably nothing they can't handle—but they have some enemies who keep springing some nasty surprises on them."

"We shall go, then." The faerie frowned. "Yet I must profess concern for thee, mine ally. How wouldst thou fare an the sorcerer should come upon thee alone?"

"Oh, I have another ally who will forgive my last outburst, and come back to protect me, never fear. His patience and forgiveness are unlimited."

"Thou hast most amazing trust in thy deity."

"Only ultimately—I don't see much of a guarantee for immediate needs. But I had a different ally in mind."

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"An thou sayest it." But the lady hesitated. "Still, an thou hast need, but cry aloud my name, and we will come."

"What name is that?" Rod asked politely.

"Mirabile."

"I thank you, Lady Mirabile." Rod bowed. "Be assured that I will call."

"Then for thy sake, I shall rescue thy monarchs." Mirabile drifted up into the air. "Farewell!" Rod waved as she sped south, flanked by the ball of lightning and the torch, sword arrowing on ahead of her. The wolf looked up at Rod as though doubting his sanity (animals can be very perceptive), then gave a snort and turned away to lope south after his mistress.

Rod watched them go with a smile.

Then he turned back, to say goodbye to the one spirit that he was sure had not been raised by the sorcerer.

Mirabile and her ensemble flew down into a stand of pine trees. The faerie looked back over her shoulder, saw that Brume's castle was hidden from view, and said, "Well enough, children. We may come down to earth, and shed these forms." She suited the action to the word, drifting earthward like thistledown. As her toes touched, her form wavered and shimmered, and the faerie turned into a mother. She hopped off her broomstick with a sigh as the torch settled down beside her and turned into Cordelia. The ball of lightning resolved itself into Gregory; the singing sword keened down the scale to a snort, and turned into Geoffrey.