The warlock insane (24 page)

"So far as Modwis knows, you have already left me to graze once, Rod—as Beaubras left his horse, outside High Dudgeon."

Rod nodded. "Good point." He dropped the reins and strolled away to hunt for firewood.

"There are pine boughs." Modwis took out a long knife. "I shall make our beds."

"Great," Rod called back, "and I'll get the fire going. Then it's my turn to hunt." He turned to the wolf. "I'll find dinner for Modwis and me, but you'd better go dig up a rabbit for yourself.''

The wolf grinned up into his eyes, then turned and trotted off into the underbrush. Rod watched him go, reflecting that he was being mean— but he had to play along with the boy's charade, didn't he? Either that, or reveal his own knowledge of it, which would no doubt dampen Magnus's spirits like an autumn rain.

Of course, he could have been mistaken—the wolf might have really been a wolf, though a fairie's pet. What then?

Well, then the wolf might not be back until late, or might not come back at all, for that matter. Rod felt a chill, and hoped it would come back.

Out of sight of the camp, the wolf's form fluxed; it turned back into Magnus. He slipped from trunk to trunk until he could see the camp clearly through a screen of branches, waited until Rod and Modwis were both facing the other way, then stepped out where Fess could see him, and waved. The great black horse lifted its head, and Magnus nodded, then stepped back into cover, satisfied that his father's other guardian knew of his own presence. He leaned back against a trunk and reached into his pouch for some dried beef. It wasn't going to be much of a dinner, but he didn't intend to let Papa out of his sight. Like father, like son—only now, it was Magnus's turn to be overprotective. Rod lay awake, listening to Modwis's deep, even breathing, and trying to imitate it. He kept telling himself he was being silly, that there was no way Magnus could come to harm. Nonetheless, he knew
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there was equally no way he was going to sleep until the wolf came back. He'd even saved him some stew, too…

Then he realized that the shimmering through the trees wasn't all moonlight. He tensed even more, staring off toward the south, weighing his worry about Magnus against the possibility that the boy might have run afoul of whatever was shedding that eldritch light—and wishing heartily that his son had not insisted on coming along into the wild. He finally decided that knowledge was better than worry. If Magnus came back while he was gone, Modwis would waken to take care of the lad—assuming the wolf disguise didn't bother him too much. Even if it did, there was always Fess. "I'm going to investigate that light," Rod murmured to the robot-horse. "Stay here and take care of the 'wolf,' will you?"

"Rod—the only light is that of the moon."

Rod shook his head. "No. I thought so, too, but I took a closer look, and there's another kind. It looks like moon-light, yes, but it's different. Hold the fort, Fess." And he slipped off into the forest. The robot hung poised between obedience and concern for his owner—but Rod had ordered him to stay, and there was no sign of an external threat, only Rod's own hallucination…

Which could be dangerous enough; but Rod had given an order. Fess heaved white noise and settled himself to wait—but he opened the channel to Rod's maxillary microphone, and boosted the gain. Magnus's head nodded heavily, and the jerk woke him from his doze. Blinking, he glanced toward the campfire—

And saw Rod's bedroll empty.

Instantly, the boy was alert. He scanned the campsite and saw Rod slipping into the trees on the far side. Magnus pulled himself together and set off around the clearing, being careful where he stepped, moving almost silently through the winter wood.

He was a quarter of the way around when something hard and blunt cracked into his skull just behind the ear, and he dropped, senseless.

The ground sloped up, and the light grew brighter, until Rod found himself thinking dawn was near. But that was silly, of course—it couldn't even be midnight; Magnus wasn't back yet, and he never stayed out that late.

Then he came out of the trees into a hilltop meadow, one not made by nature—for in its center was a castle, glowing with its own inner light. The walls were translucent. It looked like a child's night-light, or a Christmas-tree ornament.

An ornament sixty feet high and a hundred yards square.

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He came up to the drawbridge warily, but with determination—his son might be in there. After all, if it had drawn him, why might it not draw Magnus?

As he neared the drawbridge, the sight of the stone caught him. He stopped to take a closer look—and gazed at it, fascinated.

It was marble, all marble. By the subtle variations of shading, he could tell it was made of several different kinds of the stone—but all without a trace of grain. That was why it glowed—because it was completely pure.

No, not quite unmarked—there was something there, within the stone. He stepped nearer, went across the drawbridge to look more closely—and saw a man's torso and face, looking back at him. The stranger was surprisingly good-looking, and wore a doublet and cloak identical to Rod's own. It took him a few minutes to admit that it was his own image.

But not himself as he had ever seen himself, for every mirror had always showed him a homely stranger who looked very competent, but strangely lacking in self-confidence. This image, however, wasn't homely at all, but was very good-looking—and if the modesty was there, it was balanced by a certain hardness, almost ruthlessness. In fact, Rod found himself recoiling—this was a very dangerous man!

But dangerous, he saw, not just because of his abilities, but because of his morality. He was safe to anyone who followed his moral code—but to anyone who lived far enough outside that code, he could be a ruthless and efficient killer; for if anyone broke the Law this man lived by, that person was completely outside that Law's protection, and the murderer before him felt justified in unleashing the fullest of his mayhem.

Rod felt himself cringing inside, even though he couldn't look away; he had always thought of himself as a nice guy.

And not without reason, he saw—there was mercy in that man's eyes, and his savagery was tempered by humor. Yes, he could be sudden death to anyone who lived outside his own ethical code—but very few people lived so completely within that code that they could knowingly break it enough to give the murderer his moral excuse. Only occasionally did he encounter such a person, a man or woman that he could truly say was evil, and then…

He enjoyed what he did.

Rod felt his soul shrivel, but there was no denying it. This man before him was a cold-blooded killer who enjoyed practicing his craft. That was the spectre that had been haunting Rod since he left Maxima; that was why he had felt the compulsion to chain this beast in morality; that was why, in his heart of hearts, he knew he was unworthy of Gwen, and of the children.

His children. What would happen if one of them ever broke that man's rules? Not just broke them—but smashed them, trampled on them.

A fierce surge of paternal protectiveness swept him. Never, he vowed silently, never would he risk a single one of them coming to harm. He swore to himself that he would kill the lizard before he could raise a hand against those kids.

But how could he kill himself?

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Easy.

But he could see, behind the reflection, images of his children growing and striving in their own right, and felt reassured. They had been raised within his fence, and Gwen's. They might kick against it, they might break a rail or two in anger or resentment, but they would never try to tear it down. It was their protection as much as their prison.

But now that the scenes had begun, they continued— scenes of Rod's youth, not of the children. He saw himself again, among the mercenaries attacking a city guilty of no more than the urge to be free; he saw himself, a year later, struggling to atone by helping another band of patriots overthrow an off-planet tyranny. He watched himself duel with and kill the tyrant's bodyguard, while the locals swamped the tyrant himself. He saw himself between the stars, studying the history of the next planet Fess was taking him to in their asteroid-ship, saw himself strug-gling, manipulating, again and again, and all the time searching, hunting, for the love he knew he did not deserve.

He couldn't take his eyes off the pageant. Spellbound, he watched the scenes he remembered, but not as he remembered them; they were shown objectively, impartially. What he saw made him proud one instant and ashamed the next—exalted his spirit, but also left it humbled. As he watched spellbound, his enemies stole up behind him.

Rod couldn't have said what it was that warned him—a creak of leather, a heavy tread—some signal that filtered through to him and broke his trance. He spun around, whipping his sword out, just in time to see an ogre followed by a handful of trolls, all advancing across the drawbridge. The ogre was ten feet tall, with legs a foot and a half thick, foot-thick arms, massive chest and shoulders, and nothing but a twist of loincloth for clothing. He was hairy and filthy. His eyes were tiny and bright with greed, peering out from under shaggy eyebrows. His nose was a blob, and two long fangs thrust up from his jaw. His trolls shambled behind him, their faces brutal, their bodies formidable, their fingers sprouting talons. The ogre gave a little gloating laugh and slammed his club down at Rod. Rod shouted and leaped back; the club spun by him. Then he leaped in again, slamming a kick into the ogre's solar plexus; but the monster only grunted, and swung from the hip. Rod was just landing as the blow struck, still a little off balance; he leaped to the side, but not enough; the club caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, and his whole right arm went numb. He tumbled into the snow on the drawbridge and saw a troll pouncing on him, claws winking in the castle's glow. Rod scrabbled frantically for the sword and managed to get it up between the troll and himself, clumsily, left-handed. The troll couldn't stop; he skewered himself on the sword, knocking Rod backward onto the drawbridge. The monster screamed and died, but his flailing talons flexed in death, shredding Rod's doublet and chest. Blood welled, and his whole front blazed with pain. He yelled and struggled up, barely able to wrench his sword free in time to see the ogre towering over him, club high in both hands, trolls pressing in all about him, and the dead troll's scream still rang in his ears…

Only the scream was coming from behind the trolls, and something struck the ogre hard in the back. He stumbled and turned with a roar, and Rod saw Fess, reared up and lashing out with hooves and teeth. He lunged at a troll; the monster stumbled back and fell into the moat with a howl, where it began to dissolve. Another troll grabbed at Fess, bellowing; steel teeth reached for him, but the ogre was smashing out with the club, and Fess was trying to hit him with a hoof, rearing high and slamming down…

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Down stiff-legged, knees locked, head swinging between the fetlocks. He had had a seizure. And the ogre's club was slamming down.

Rod bellowed and barreled into the ogre with his full weight, driving into the small of his back. The ogre wobbled, swung around, and lashed out at Rod with a roar. Rod fell back, but the club caught him alongside the head, and his ears rang while stars danced before his eyes. He struggled to clear his head, waiting for the blow to fall, knowing he was doomed, hearing the roaring still…

Then the stars were gone, but the bellowing was still there. The ogre had turned away from him, and was battling something on his other side. Then one of the trolls lurched and fell into the river. Modwis rose up where he'd been, buckler on his arm, mace in his hand—and behind him, Beaubras battled the ogre with axe and sword while his charger guarded his back, lashing out at the trolls with hoof and tooth. Gasping for breath, Rod limped toward them. He couldn't let the knight die in his defense without at least helping, though Heaven only knew what Beaubras was doing alive again. The horse struck out, and the last troll fell into the moat with a wail of despair—but the ogre's club finally battered down Beaubras's guard, and a huge blow slammed the knight's own axe flat against his head. Beaubras reeled and fell, and the ogre swung up a huge foot, to stamp on him. Rod finally got there and stabbed the foot.

The ogre howled, flailing for balance on the edge of the moat. He almost recovered—but Modwis was there, throwing all his weight against a huge kneecap, and the ogre tottered and fell, with a roar of wrath that changed to terror. He hit the water with a huge splash, and his howl cut off. The moat heaved, and was still.

"Allergic to water, too, I guess," Rod muttered, and turned back to the knight, his own head whirling. Modwis was there before him, kneeling beside Beaubras, cradling the knight's head in the dwarf's arm. The knight looked up at him, and Rod saw the slick of blood that covered the whole side of his head.

"Do not weep for me, friend," he whispered, but Modwis's eyes were filled with tears, anyway.

"Hang in there," Rod grated. "You'll make it—somehow." Beaubras turned back to him with a sad smile. "Nay, Lord Gallowglass—though I thank Heaven I…

came in time."

"But how did you… I mean, you were…"

"Dead?" The knight gave him a weak smile. "Only gone—as I go now. You must act for both of us, Lord Gallowglass, for both of us together, in this world and your own. Yet fear not—for I shall come again. I shall always come again."

Then he sighed, and went limp.

Rod stared, aghast.

The knight's form rippled, thinned, and was gone.

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