The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (34 page)

nothing but his enemy.

Alfar looked about him, and screamed, "We are lost!" Then he squeezed his eyes shut, and Rod caught the impulse toward someplace he didn't recognize. He countered grimly. Their bodies rocked, as though hit by a shock wave, but stayed put. "You're in the Void," Rod growled, "and you're not getting out!"

Alfar screamed, hoarse with terror and rage, and whirled to chop at him with the scimitar. But Rod yanked him close, caught his sword hand, and cracked it against his good knee. Pain shot through him, almost making him go limp—but Alfar was still screaming, in hoarse, panting caws, and the scimitar went whirling away through empty space. Rod slammed an uppercut into the sorcerer's face. He dodged, but the blow caught him alongside the jaw. His head rocked, but he slammed a knee into Rod's groin. Rod doubled over in agony, but clung to Alfar's arm and a shred of sense; his right hand slipped the dagger out of his boot, and he shot his last ounce of strength into a sudden stab into Alfar's belly. The blade jabbed up under the ribcage, and Alfar folded over it, arms flailing, eyes bulging in agony. Conscience smote; Rod yanked the dagger out and stabbed again, quickly, mercifully, into the heart. He saw Alfar's eyes glaze; then the body went limp in his hands. Rod held it a second, staring, unbelieving. Then chagrin hit, and he felt his soul quail at the reality of another manslaughter. "It was him or me," Rod grated; but no one heard except himself. He let go, shoving, and the body drifted away from him, 244

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turning slowly, trailing an arc of blood. It swung away, revolving, and faded into the mists, a thin red line tracing its departure.

Rod turned away, sickened. For a long, measureless instant, he drifted in space, numbed, absorbing his guilt, accepting the spiritual responsibility, knowing that it had been justified, had been necessary—and was nonetheless horrible.

Finally, the tide of guilt ebbed, and he opened his mind to other thoughts—Gwen, and the children! Had they all come through that melee alive? And what the hell had they been doing there, anyway? Never mind the fact that if they hadn't been, they'd be short one husband and father by now—nonetheless! What were they doing where it was so dangerous?

Helping him, obviously—and they'd have to help him again, or he'd never find how to get out of here. He wasn't scared of the Void; he'd been here before, between universes. And, of course, he'd get home the same way now. He closed his eyes, and listened with his mind. There—

Gregory's thought, unvoiced, a frightened longing for his father—the same beacon that had brought him home before. Rod sighed and relaxed, letting the boy's thought fill his mind. Then he willed himself back to his three-year-old son.

"Is that all of them?" Rod ground his teeth against a sudden stab of pain from his upper arm.

"Be brave, my lord," Gwen murmured. She finished binding the compress to his triceps. "Aye, every one of them has come—every witch and warlock of the Royal Coven. E'en old Agatha and Galen have come from their Dark Tower, to flit from hamlet to village, speaking with these poor peasants, who have waked to panic, and the loss of understanding."

"I don't blame 'em," Rod grunted. "If I all of a sudden came to my senses and realized that I'd been loyal to an upstart for the last few weeks while my duke was casually bumped off, I'd be a little disoriented, too. In fact, I'd be frightened as hell." He winced as Gwen bound his arm to his side. "Is that really necessary?"

"It must," she answered, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Yet 'tis but for a day or two, 'til the healing hath begun."

"And I didn't even notice I'd been sliced, there." Rod looked down at the bandage. "Well, it was only a flesh wound."

Gwen nodded. "Praise Heaven it came no closer to the bone!"

"Lord Warlock!"

Rod looked up.

They were in the Great Hall of Duke Romanov's castle. It was a vast stone room, thirty feet high, forty wide, and eighty long—and empty, for the moment, since all the boards and trestles had been piled against the walls at the end of the last meal, for the evening's entertainments. The High Table was still up, of course, on its dais, and Rod sat in one of the chairs, with Gwen beside him—though pointedly not in the Duke's and Duchess's places.

An auncient, still wearing Alfar's livery, came striding toward them from the screens passage, eyes alight with excitement.

"Did you lock up the traitors?" Rod demanded.

"Aye, milord." The auncient came to a halt directly in front of Rod. " 'Twas that to be said for the sorcerer's having used our bodies for his army, the whiles he lulled our souls into slumber—that when we waked, we knew on the instant which soldiers had been loyal to the usurper of their own wills, e'en though they'd remained wakeful." Rod nodded. "By some strange coincidence, the ones who had been giving the orders." There had been a few opportunistic knights who had been loyal to Alfar without benefit of hypnotism, too. Rod had had to lock them in a dungeon himself, medieval caste rules being what they were. One of them had resisted; but after the others saw what happened to him, they went quietly. It was just too embarrassing, being defeated by a bunch of children.... A couple of them, quicker to react, had escaped as soon as peasants started waking up all around them. That was all right; Rod 246 Christopher Stasheff

had a few thousand mortified soldiers on his hand, who needed something to do to appease their consciences. A hunt was just fine.

But the common soldiers who had allied with Alfar, could be left to the tender mercies of their erstwhile comrades—

once Rod had made it clear that he expected them to, at least, survive. "So you found the deepest, darkest, dungeon, and locked them in it?"

"Aye, milord." The auncient's eyes glowed. "We loosed its sole tenant." He turned toward the screens passage with a bow, and in limped the prisoner. His doublet and hose were torn, and crusted with dried blood; his face was smeared with dirt, and his hair matted. There was a great livid gash along the right-hand side of his face, scabbed over, that would leave a horrible scar; and he limped heavily, his limbs sodden with inactivity; but his back was straight, and his chin was high. Two knights were with him, blinking, dazed, as disoriented as any of the soldiers, but straight and proud. Simon followed after, looking perplexed.

Rod shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the searing protest from his wounded hip, and the auncient announced:

"Hail my lord, the Duke of Romanov!"

Rod stepped down from the dais to clasp his one-time enemy by the shoulders. "Praise Heaven you're alive!"

"And thee, for this fair rescue!" The Duke inclined his head. "Well met. Lord Warlock! I, and all my line, shall ever be indebted to thee and thine!"

"Well, maybe more the 'thine' than the 'thee.'" Rod glanced behind him at the children who sat, prim and proper, on the dais steps with their mother fairly glowing behind them. "When push came to shove, they had to haul my bacon out of the fire."

"Then I thank thee mightily. Lady Gallowglass, and thee, brave children!" The Duke inclined his head again. Blushing, they leaped to their feet and bowed.

When the Duke straightened, there was anxiety in his face. "Lord Warlock—my wife and bairns. Did they... escape?"

"They did, and my wife and children made sure they reached Runnymede safely." Rod turned to Gwen. "Didn't you?"

"Certes, my lord. We would not have turned aside from what we'd promised thee we'd do."

"Yes—you never did promise to stay safe, did you? But Alfar mentioned something about a dire fate in store for you...."

"Indeed!" Gwen opened her eyes wider. "Then it was never taken out from storage. I wonder thou wast so merciful in thy dealings with him."

"Well, I never did like lingering deaths." But Rod couldn't help feeling better about it all.

"He also implied that the Duchess and her boys didn't stay safe...."

"False again," Gwen said quickly, just as the Duke's anguish was beginning to show anew. "We saw them to Runnymede, where they bide safely, in the care of Their Royal Majesties."

"Yes... what are monarchs for?" But Rod noted the flash of shame that flitted across Romanov's features—no doubt in memory of his rebellion.

"We played with them not three hours agone, Papa," Geoffrey added.

The Duke heaved a sigh, relaxing. Then the father and host in him both took over. "Three hours? And thy children have not dined in that time?" He spun to the auncient. "Good Auncient, seek out the cooks! Rouse them from their dazes, and bid them bring meat and wine—and honeycakes." The children perked up most noticeably.

"Three hours agone." The Duke turned back to the children with a frown. "Was this in Runnymede?" The children nodded.

The Duke turned back to Rod. "How could they come to aid thee, then?"

"Nice question." Rod turned to Gwen again. "It was rather dangerous here, dear. Just how close were you, while you were waiting for me to need you?"

"The lads were in Runnymede, my lord, even as thou hast but now heard," Gwen answered. "They could bide there, sin' that they may travel an hundred leagues in the bat of an eyelash."

Rod had notion that their range was farther than that, much farther, but he didn't deem it wise to say so—es248 Christopher Stasheff pecially not where they could hear (or mind read).

"At the outset," Gwen continued, "Cordelia and I did bide with them, for we could attend to thy thoughts e'en from that distance, and fly to thine aid if thou didst come near to danger. It did greatly trouble me, therefore, when thy thoughts did so abruptly cease."

Cordelia nodded confirmation, her eyes huge. "She did weep. Papa."

"Oh, no, darling!" Rod caught Gwen's hands. "I didn't mean to..."

"Nay, certes." She smiled. "Yet thou wilt therefore comprehend my concern." Rod nodded slowly. "I'd say so, yes."

"I therefore did leave the boys in care of Their Royal Majesties, and Brom O'Berin, and flew northward again. I took on the guise of an osprey...."

Rod rolled his eyes up. "I knew, when I saw that blasted fish-hawk that far inland, that I was in trouble!" Of course, he knew that Gwen couldn't really shrink down to the size of a bird any more than a butterfly could play midwife to a giraffe. It was just a projective illusion, making people think that they saw a bird instead of a woman. "If I hadn't shielded my thoughts, I probably would've seen through your spell!"

"An thou hadst not shielded thy thoughts, I would not have had to fly near enough to see thee," Gwen retorted.

"And though thou hadst disguised thyself, I knew thee. Rod Gallowglass."

That, at least, was reassuring—in its way.

"Then," Gwen finished, " 'twas but a matter of hearkening to the thoughts of that goodman who did ride beside thee." Gwen turned to Simon. "I thank thee. Master Simon." The older man still looked confused, but he bowed anyway, smiling. "I was honored to be of service, milady—

e'en though I knew it not."

"And when thou wert taken," Gwen went on, "I did summon Cordelia to me, to bide in waiting, in a deserted shepherd's croft. Then, when thou didst burst forth from thy shield, I could not help but hear thy thoughts for myself."

"Not that you were about to try to ignore them," Rod murmured.

"Nay, certes!" Gwen cried in indignation. "Then, when thou didst come unto the tower chamber, I knew the moment of battle was nigh, and did summon Cordelia from her croft to fly to the tower; and when the unearthly device did cease to compel, and did commence to disenchant, I knew the time of battle had come. Then did I summon thy sons, that the family might be together once again."

"Very homey," Rod grinned. "And, though I was mighty glad to see you all, I don't mind saying I'm even gladder to know the kids were safe, right down until the last moment."

"Certes, my lord! I would not endanger them." Rod gave her the fish-eye. "What do you call that last little fracas we went through—homework?"

"Oh, nay! 'Twas far too great a delight!" Geoffrey cried.

"Homework's delight," Gregory lisped.

"Papa!" Cordelia cried indignantly; and Magnus's chin jutted out a quarter-inch further. " 'Twas scarce more than chores."

"We'd fought each of them aforetime," Geoffrey reminded him, "and knew their powers—save Alfar, and we left him to thee."

"Nice to know you have confidence in me. But there could've been accidents...."

"So there may ever be, with baims," Gwen sighed. "Here, at least, they were under mine eye. Bethink thee, husband, what might chance an I were to leave them in the kitchen, untended."

Rod shuddered. "You've made your point; please don't try the experiment." He turned to the Duke. "Ever begin to feel redundant?"

"Nay, Papa," Magnus cried. "We could only aid thee in the ending of this campaign."

"Truly," Gregory said, round-eyed, "we knew not enough to bring the sorcerer to bay."

But Rod had caught the sly glance between Magnus and Geoffrey. Under the circumstances, though, he deemed it wiser not to say anything about it.

"Now, mine husband." Gwen clasped his hands. "In this last battle, I did hear thy thoughts at all times. Thine anger was there, aye, but thou didst contain it. Hast thou, then, 250

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so much ta'en this goodman's advice to thine heart?" She nodded at Simon.

"I have," Rod confirmed. "It worked this time, at least."

"Dost thou mean thou wilt not become angry again. Papa?" Cordelia cried, and the other children looked up in delight.

"I can't promise that," Rod hedged, "but I think I'll have better luck controlling it. Why—what were you planning to do?"

Whatever they would have answered was forestalled by the cooks, stumbling in with dinner. They set down the platters on the table, and the children leaped in with joyful cries. Magnus got there first, wrenched off a drumstick, and thrust it at his father. "Here, Papa! "Tis thy place of right!"