The warlock insane (23 page)

"Ere thou dost wear thy guise again," Cordelia told him, "thou must needs learn to hold a pitch." Geoffrey's eyes narrowed. "Dost thou truly wish to burn?"

"Where is thy brother?" Gwen said sharply.

They looked up, startled. "We know not, Mama," Cordelia said after a moment. "How should we?"

"Belike hot afoot," Geoffrey said, scowling, "sin that his guise could not fly. He need not have stayed within it, though."

"An he had flown," Gregory pointed out, "Papa would ha' known him on the instant." Before Geoffrey could think up a comeback, the lean and hungry one leaped out of the evergreens, came bounding up to Gwen, and sat up and begged, whining.

"Oh, be done with thy jesting!" Cordelia said crossly.

" Tis no matter for mirth, my son," Gwen agreed.

The wolf sighed. His form blurred, stretched, flexed— and Magnus stood before them. "And I thought the form became me, too."

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" 'Tis thy very self," Cordelia assured him, "and that shall I tell all the lasses of the county." Alarmed, Magnus started to answer, but his mother's forefinger got in the way. "Hush. We must think what to do in regard to thy father."

"He would make the matter so involved," Cordelia pouted. "Wherefore could he not simply have accepted the fairie's company? Wherefore had he need to send her away?" A shadow crossed her face.

"Mama, now and again I wonder…"

"Do not," her mother assured her. "He hath the urge to hermitage within him, aye, but would not long abide the state."

"Doth he seek after holiness, then?" Gregory asked.

"Nay," Magnus answered. "In his heart, he doth think himself unworthy—and the greater we grow, the lesser doth he feel himself to be."

"Magnus!" Gwen gasped, scandalized, but Cordelia scoffed, "How couldst thou know such of him?"

"I am his son," Magnus answered simply.

His sister frowned, and his mother looked worried.

Then she shook her head and said, "Enough. His soul's his own, to care for. How shall we ward his body?"

"I was too slow," Geoffrey said with chagrin. "I should ha' slain the fellow outright." He turned to Magnus. "He cannot truly be a knight, can he?"

"Nay," Big Brother assured him, "and I doubt me not the King's Herald will ne'er have heard of his device. As to his armor, why! Any squire may wear a breastplate 'neath a robe, and carry a shield."

"What did Papa see him as?" Gregory wondered.

"He spoke of a sorcerer," Geoffrey reminded.

"Small wonder," said Cordelia, "sin that he is a warlock."

"A traitor!" Magnus's face was grim. "Would that I could ha' caught some shred of thought, of whence he did teleport himself!"

"He warded his mind well," Geoffrey agreed. " Tis no hedge-witch we face."

"At least, his henchmen will not follow Papa—they're affrighted." Cordelia sighed, shaking her head.

"Thy husband is too good, Mama. I could wish he'd left them dead."

"Do not," Gwen assured her. "The master may be an agent of thy father's enemies from Tomorrow, yet I doubt me not his henchmen are but poor, unlettered peasant men, who, like as not, followed a promise of riches. Still, some stay in the royal dungeons may enrich their souls."
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Magnus looked up in the castle's direction anxiously. "The soldiers should ha' come within the palisade, ere now."

"I doubt me not an they have," Gwen assured him. "Despite his troubles, the King was good as his word; his soldiers came as soon as we summoned, and have reaped a rich harvest of felons as they have followed in thy father's wake."

"As should we." Magnus's face was pinched with anxiety. "This false knight, Brume, may spring upon him at any moment."

"Not without an army at his back; he hath too much fear of Papa for that." But Geoffrey didn't exactly look sanguine, either.

"Here's a true how-de-do!" said Magnus. "His delusions are too deep for him to fare safely alone—yet an we throw over all to follow him, his enemies will hale down the Crown."

"And thy father's life's work with it," Gwen agreed. "Nay, that we cannot permit, either."

"Nor the grief that would come to all the poor folk, in the turmoil that would follow such a catastrophe," Cordelia added.

" 'Tis indeed a dilemma," Gregory agreed. "Yet are there not enough of us to do both?"

"Aye," Gwen said. "There is no aid for it. Magnus, thou shalt go back in thy guise to follow thy father, and protect him from any who seek to abuse him in his madness."

"And to protect any he might chance to abuse?" the young man returned.

"How now!" Geoffrey protested. "Wherefore doth this honor fall to Magnus, and not to me?"

"For that he's the eldest," Gwen said in a voice of steel that softened amazingly for the next sentence.

"Bide thy time, my son. When thou art come to thy young manhood, thou, too, shalt undertake such a quest alone. Yet for now, thou art still a boy. Come away!" She turned to kiss Magnus on the forehead.

"Fare thee well, my son—and call at the slightest sign of peril; thy brother Geoffrey, at least, may come to aid thee on the instant.''

"I shall be glad of his strong right arm, to ward my back," Magnus returned. "Godspeed, Mama—and thee, my sibs."

Cordelia took a quick peck at his cheek, too, while Geoffrey made a face, and Gregory watched, frowning faintly, as though he were puzzled. Then Magnus turned and loped off toward the forest, and Gwen turned to her younger three, saying, "Let us fly," and hopped on her broomstick. It wafted up and streaked away south, with Cordelia behind her and the boys to each side.

"Fess?"

"Here, Rod." The great black horse shouldered out of the underbrush and onto the road.

"I knew I could depend on you." But Rod felt very sheepish. "Sorry about that last outburst."

"There is no need for apology."

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"But there is—my own need, at least. Will you accompany me again?"

"Surely, Rod." The robot stepped up beside him.

Rob mounted. "That was nice of Gwen and the kids, to disguise themselves like that.''

The robot was still for a moment, which, for him, amounted to major shock. "You saw through their disguises, Rod?"

"Not really—so they did serve their purpose; they allowed me to accept their help, before I figured out who they were. But it didn't take much deduction, after the fighting was over." Rod smiled. "It gives me a very warm feeling, to know that they insist on watching over me—especially when I'd just been so vile to them. Doesn't say much for their confidence in me, though."

"It does, in its way, Rod. They understood that you were ill when you spoke."

"I don't deserve them. Or you, for that matter."

"Or myself?"

Rod looked down, startled, and saw the dwarf striding along beside him. He grinned. "Hey, Modwis!

Good of you to find me again! How'd you manage?"

"I but followed the sounds of clashing magics," the dwarf answered. "An thou wouldst wait for me, Lord Gallowglass, thou wouldst ease my toil."

"I will, I promise. Sure you want to come along on this quest, though?"

"I am still wroth that I missed my chance to battle Brume," the dwarf answered. "Whither goest thou?"

"North," Rod said, "until Brume finds me again. Feel like baiting the foe?" Modwis looked up quickly, then slowly smiled. "Aye, that I do. Let us march."

By midmorning, Rod was becoming acutely aware that they had set out on this jaunt without food or water. "Y'know, Modwis, I'm getting a mite peckish."

The dwarf took a sling from his pouch and unwound the strings. "Shall I seek us a brace of partridges?" Rod's mouth watered. "Sounds good. Know how to cook 'em?"

"Aye. 'Twill be some time, though—I must seek and bait them first."

"That's okay, I can use a break. Say, can I help?"

The dwarf flashed him a grin. "I shall hunt more quickly alone—yet I thank thee."
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"However you like." Rod reined in by a stream. "I'll get the fire going."

"An thou wilt." Modwis dismounted and tied his donkey to a bush. "Ere noon, we shall dine. Wish me a hunter's luck."

"Hunter's luck!" Rod called, and waved a hand as Modwis rode away into the wood. Then he went down to the stream.

"Be careful, Rod."

"I will, Fess—but I'm thirsty enough to drink water now." Rod took up a fallen branch and brought its end down sharply on the ice. It cracked through; water welled up, and Rod knelt to drink. And froze—for he saw the top of a shaven head with a knot of hair in the center, floating just below the water. He backed away, but the head rose up out of the ice, with a bull neck and a massive torso beneath it. It was a face with hard, narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and long, drooping black moustaches. Adrenaline tuned Rod's system. What's a Mongol doing here ?

Then he realized he could see through the man.

"I am come again." The apparition's voice was thin and whispery, but had the echo of a rotund basso.

"For the first time, as far as I'm concerned! Who the hell are youT '

"Aye, feign innocence! Thou knowest well I am the warrior Pantagre, whom thou didst most treacherously slay in battle—and am come now for revenge!"

The ghost suddenly lashed out with an arm, and Rod had no doubt that, if he'd really been the guilty party, that mean left hook would have managed to drag him down into the water. Because he was innocent, though, the ghost's hand went right through him.

The spectre stared at his palm. "How can this hand fail me!"

"Because I'm innocent," Rod explained. "Look, I don't know who killed you—but it wasn't me."

"Thou dost lie! 'Twas thee, or thy very likeness!"

"That's not impossible—I seem to have a lot of duplicates running around—but it wasn't me." The ghost's eyes narrowed. "Art bold enough to prove thy claim?"

"Generally, yes."

The ghost reached up to a low-hanging branch of the oak tree above them, and plucked a sprig of mistletoe. He pulled off one of the little white globes, then held the sprig out to Rod. "My hands cannot grasp thee, yet thine can serve. Take thou this berry, and eat, as I eat. Whiche'er doth lie shall sink."

"Sink?" Rod asked. "I can understand what that means for you—but what does it mean if / sink?"

"That thou wilt die, and become a ghost, as I am— whereupon we may fight on equal terms."
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Rod's scalp prickled as his hair tried to stand up. It might have looked like mistletoe, but the berry he held was poison.

"Art afeard?" the ghost jeered. "Dost own to thy guilt?"

"Never," Rod snapped. He opened his mouth and lifted the berry…

With a howl, a wolf shot from the brush and leaped on him.

Rod shouted and rolled aside—and the wolf caught the berry in his mouth and barreled on past Rod. He landed and wheeled toward the ghost with a manic growl.

The ghost wailed in dismay and sank from sight.

Rod stared. What kind of ghost was afraid of a wolf? And what kind of wolf would charge a ghost?

A young one. The beast turned to Rod, tongue lolling out—and Rod could have sworn he was smiling. Slowly, he let his own mouth curve, too. "So. Mirabile left a guardian over me, did she?" The wolf nodded and came right up to Rod, sat down, and held up a paw. Rod took it with a grave bow. "Delighted to have the opportunity to further our acquaintance, Sir Wolf." Then he looked up in alarm. "Hey, wait a minute! If that berry was poison, we'd better take you and get your stomach pumped!" Every protective instinct in him screamed—he might play along with the charade, but he knew who the wolf was!

But White Fang shook his head, still smiling, and Rod realized, Of course . If Big Tom was right, the berry was made of witch-moss—and if the wolf was who he knew it was, then the berry wouldn't hurt it. Just the opposite, if anything.

Either that, or the wolf meant it had had the sense to spit the berry out. For a moment, Rod was tempted to ask it, then decided he didn't want to hear the animal speak. Why weaken the illusion? "Okay, Fang—and thanks for the vote of confidence. I knew I was innocent, but it's nice to have somebody confirm it."

When Modwis came back, he stepped into the clearing and dropped the partridges, staring in alarm. Rod looked up from the fireside and smiled, resting a hand on the wolf's head. "Hi, Modwis. Meet my friend."

He hoped he was right.

They traveled together all the next day, and Rod and Modwis found the young wolf to be remarkably good company. But when the sun's rays were stretching the shadows of the trees halfway up their neighbors' trunks, Rod finally admitted, "We're not going to find an inn tonight."

"Even so," Modwis said.

Rod sighed. "Time to find a campsite." He turned to the wolf. "Want to run ahead and find us a clearing?"

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The wolf grinned, then loped off ahead among the trees.

"Art thou certain 'tis safe to have him with us?" Modwis asked.

"That particular young wolf, I would trust with my life," Rod answered. Fess, of course, said nothing.

The wolf came loping back, still grinning, slewed to a halt on its haunches, and jerked its head back over its shoulder, as though pointing.

"Right ahead, huh?" Rod nodded. "Well, let's see." The clearing was only about twenty feet across, and would have been fully roofed with leaves in summer—but now the darkening sky showed clearly through the bare branches. Modwis tethered his donkey and hung its oat bag over its ears. Rod watched him, muttering under his breath, "Just how conspicuous should we be, Alloy Ally?"