They had stopped too soon; Sinister was lunging toward them full-strength, with Dexter digging in his heels and pulling back—and their whole body pivoted, swinging around in a huge arc with Sinister's head at the end of it, jaws open wide, shooting right toward Rod.
Rod still had his sword out. He brought it up to guard position—and the huge head flinched away, trying to avoid the blade. Sinister overbalanced, and the body stumbled forward a step; Sinister's head caught Rod side-on, slamming him head over heels into the fir tree.
"Let that learn ya!" Sinister crowed. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the tremor in his voice, though, possibly occasioned by Fess leaping in between the creature and his masters with a screaming whinny, rearing back to lash out with his hooves. Sinister flinched away.
Which was just as well, because Rod came scrambling back out of the fir tree with blood in his eye. "You chuckle-headed lumpish fugitive from an overloaded nightmare! You crumb! Of ill-digested cheese! You…"
"Please!" Dexter protested, wounded. "I tried my best!"
"Not you—your… Well, him!" Rod aimed his sword at Sinister, who flinched back.
The doppelganger had his sword up, too, but gave Rod a knowing look and lowered his blade. Reluctantly, so did Rod. Fess saw, and snorted as he stepped aside.
That was all the opening Sinister needed. "Scared, huh?" he cried in glee, and leaped—or at least, the left-hand side of the body did. The right-hand side planted itself firmly—and the monster tripped over its own feet. Bellowing, it rolled heads over heels down the slope beside the trail, crashing through twigs and underbrush, and caroming off tree trunks.
"The poor beast," Rod whispered.
"Poor, my aunt Fanny!" his doppelganger snapped. "He's rubber—he bounces! Our job is to get out of here before Sinister manages to get his side moving enough to drag Dexter back up to the trail. Come on—run!"
They stopped after a mile, staggering up against tree trunks and wheezing for breath. The chill winter air stabbed their lungs like tiny knives. Fess slowed and stopped behind them.
"Must be getting—outa shape," Rod gasped. "A mile never did this to me… before."
"Yeah, but this mile… was through foot-deep snow," the doppelganger answered.
"I would have carried you, Rod," Fess reproached him.
"I didn't want to take the time to… mount." Rod forced himself back to his feet, looking around. "Well… better keep… going. Which way… now?"
"Good… question," the doppelganger puffed, pushing himself away from the tree.
They found themselves staring at a fork in the trail.
"Which branch?" Rod murmured.
"Dexter, or Sinister?" his doppelganger responded.
"You have but to ask."
They looked around, staring.
A trunk detached itself from the trees and stepped forward between the two arms of the fork. They discovered, with starts of surprise, that it was a man. He was a foot taller than either of them, and his clothes were the dark gray of bark. The same fabric shrouded his head in a cowl.
Rod exchanged a wary look with his double. The doppelganger nodded and sidled around the stranger, loosening his sword in its sheath.
The bark-man folded his cowl back.
Rod stared—the man's whole face seemed to curve upward on the sides. His mouth was a grin, and the corners of his eyes tilted up. His bunched cheeks were so red they could have been spots of paint. He looked as though the mere idea of sadness had never even touched him.
"He's a happy-face," Rod said.
"No, he's not," the doppelganger contradicted. "You should see him from the back! He's a sad-face."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" The stranger lifted both hands in appeal. "I am both—Comedy before and Tragedy after!"
Rod didn't like what that said about the man's view of life. "And I'm supposed to ask you which path to take to my future?'
The stranger shrugged and said gaily, "Why trouble yourself with the future?" From behind, the same voice said, with dire tones, "To me, all futures are past."
Rod decided the man would have done well in commodities.
"Wherever you go," counseled Mirth, "there is much to enjoy; for there is beauty in all things, and vividness in every experience."
"Experience is a history of pain," answered Tragedy, "for ugliness and squalor prevail."
The doppelganger cocked an eyebrow in skepticism. "You boys really can't agree on anything, can you?"
"Aye," said Mirth, "on Unity!"
"We concur on Duality," Tragedy explained.
"They can't even agree on what they agree on," Rod said to the doppelganger, exasperated.
"Oh, they do, if you look at it the right way." The doppelganger tilted his head way to the side. "I mean, after all, the Duality is just the two aspects of Eternity."
"Not you, too," Rod groaned. "Look, can we get down to basics here?" He turned back to the two-faced man. "Which way should we go?"
"To the right," said Mirth; so of course:
"To the left," said Tragedy.
"Got a coin?" Rod asked the doppelganger.
"Why?"
" 'Cause I'm ready to flip."
"Chance brings disaster," Tragedy intoned.
"Chance may bring happiness," Mirth responded.
"Why did I know that was coming?" Rod muttered. He looked up at Fess. "Can you make sense out of all this?"
"Not readily," Fess answered. "However, I do detect a slight depression in the snow between the two paths of the fork."
Rod whirled, staring."I don't see anything."
"It is a matter of averaging the bumps in the snow, Rod."
"I'll take your word for it." Rod stepped forward toward the center.
"Back!" cried Mirth.
"You must not go there!" cried Tragedy.
"At last," muttered the doppelganger, "something they agree on."
Both faces whirled toward him at the same moment—or tried to. The only real result was that the two-faced man lurched aside, and Rod dodged past him.
"Stop!" shrieked Mirth.
"Avoid moderation!" lamented Tragedy.
But Rod was kicking the snow aside, and discovered a very faint, but discernible, track. "Come on," he said to the doppelganger, who jumped to follow him.
The two-faced man lumbered into motion, following them with the ungainly stride of a man who is of two minds about an issue, reaching out with clumsy arms. "The Middle Way is forbidden!"
"There is nothing amusing in synthesis!"
Fess took two leaps and stood astride the trail between the two Rods and the two-faced man, who blundered into him with a loud "Oo/!" and rebounded, falling over his own feet and collapsing. He was scrabbling back up in a minute, but Fess had turned away, and the guardian of extremes found himself facing a horsetail.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned back to face the single trail again.
Rod had to kick his way through leafless ground vines, last year's leaves and fallen sticks, to find the path. He was glad he favored stout boots, and kept them heavily waxed. "I assume this will take us someplace."
"Someplace not overly favored by those who search for fame and fortune, at a guess," the doppelganger returned.
"Well, yes," Rod agreed, "but not too many of those find either one, do they?"
The doppelganger shrugged. "Myself, I wouldn't know. I keep trying for obscurity."
Rod nodded. "I know the feeling. All I want is a calm, peaceful, quiet, contented existence."
"Wonder why we never get it?" the doppelganger mused.
"Because we want it, of course… Whoa! What's this?"
Rod had parted a screen of brush, and they found themselves staring out at a broad road on top of a ridge.
"It's the King's Highway." said the doppelganger softly.
Rod grinned. "Of course. We go looking for a quiet life, and what do we find?"
"I'll take the low road," the doppelganger said quickly.
It was out onto the highway then with Fess scrambling up behind them. They mounted the great iron steed and set off down the middle of the road.
The chill deepened as the sky darkened. To make matters worse, the trees began to crowd in at either side of the road.
"Maybe we ought to stop and consider digging in for the night," the doppelganger suggested.
"Just what I was thinking." Rod shivered. "A nice campfire and some roasting pheasants…"
A huge snarling yowl tore the stillness, and six strapping figures leaped out of the woods, three on each side, muscles rippling under fur. They stood upright like men, but had the heads of cats. Their feet were encased in boots, but their arms ended in genuine hands, albeit fur-covered and clawed; and they wore knee-length mail-shirts, criscrossed by weapons belts.
They attacked with feline screams, two of them leaping for Fess's bridle; but the great black horse tossed his head, knocking one of them aside, and struck the other away with a hoof.
Rod spun around on the horse's rump, drawing his sword and dagger, setting his back against the doppelganger's. A huge cat-man sprang up on the horsehair, scimitar swinging down. Rod parried, just barely managing to keep his blade intact, and riposted. The point struck a leather belt, skidded, and scored through fur. The cat shrank back, screaming—and slipped off the rump. Another landed in its place, splitting and snarling, sword flashing around in a flat arc. Rod ducked and lurched forward, hooking upward with his dagger. A tremendous shock jarred him, but he held his place, and the cat screamed, its eyes beginning to dull even as it slipped back and away.
Then, suddenly, it was over. Two dead cats lay staining the snow with their blood, and the other four were fleeing back into the trees, spitting and snarling. Rod stared in surprise, then turned with a grin. "I don't know what you managed to do to them, O alter ego, but you…"
The doppelganger slumped, slipped out of the saddle, and sprawled on the ground.
Rod stared in shock.
"Rod?" Fess asked. "What has happened?"
"Can't you seeT' Rod leaped down and knelt beside his own huddled form. "Where'd they get you? Quick! Maybe I can staunch the flow!"
"Too… late…" the doppelganger gasped. "Carotid… cut…"
It was true. The whole front of his doublet was soaked in blood.
"What happened? No, don't answer—one of them got past your guard. With those claws, one swipe would do it." Rod leaped up and dug through the saddlebag frantically. "Got to be something in here! Fess, I told you we should have packed some plasma!"
"Don't… trouble…"the doppelganger gasped.
"Don't trouble!" Rod whirled back down, staring at his own wan visage. "I can't let you die!"
"Do," the doppelganger urged. "Don't… trouble… I'll be back when… you need…"
His voice trailed off, and his eyes dulled.
Rod stared, kneeling, frozen in the snow.
"Rod."
"Not now!" Rod glanced up at Fess in irritation, but when he turned back to the doppelganger, he was gone. There wasn't even a hollow in the snow to show where he had been.
Rod stared.
"What has happened, Rod?"
"Six cat-men just attacked us,'' Rod heard himself explaining. "We killed two…" He glanced around. "I don't see them, either… And we chased off the rest. But one of them slit my double's throat."
"I had surmised as much," the robot sympathized. "But how shall we bury him, when the ground is frozen?"
'Rod glanced up at him in irritation. "Come off it! You know he wasn't really there."
Then he stopped, startled by his own words.
"Neither were the bandits," Fess told him. "There were only two peasants, dressed in remarkably well kept brown jerkins and leggins. You drove them off."
But Rod wasn't listening. He was staring at the barren, unstained snow and muttering, "All the monsters we meet can't do more damage than cat-men do. Damn! Just when I thought I was getting to know myself, too!"
He sighed, mounted Fess, and turned away from the road, riding deeper into the forest.
Chapter Four
It was one of those nights that seem to last forever. As soon as Rod realized that, he developed suspicions. "Fess, how long has it been since I left the family?"
"Approximately three hours, Rod."
"Is that all?" Rod was appalled to realize how much had happened in so short a time. "Is something wrong with my time sense?"
"Perhaps," the robot said slowly, "since you have experienced a multiplicity of events during that period."
"Well how long has it been since I found Granny Ban with her arm stuck in that tree?"
"Was that her difficulty? From the sound, I thought perhaps she had been ensnared by a troop of bandits."
"Not that I saw." Rod frowned. "Or should I say, 'That's not what / saw.' Anyway, how long?"
"Two hours and forty-three minutes have elapsed, Rod."
"You're kidding! That was two hours, if it was a minute!"
"It was more than a minute, Rod, but considerably less than two hours. It is nearly midnight."
"I could have sworn it was the wee hours, not the hours of wee folk. Y'know, I should be feeling sleepy by now."
"Perhaps you will be when the adrenaline ebbs."
" 'If,' not 'when.' What's that light up ahead?"
Fess expanded his video image. "I see no light but the moon's reflection, Rod."
"Not another hallucination! Well, I suppose I might as well get it over with." Rod dismounted. "Stay close, okay? And don't let me hurt anybody."
"I will endeavor to prevent damage, Rod—but I believe there is no cause for concern. I see absolutely nothing."
"Wish I could say that." Rod turned away, gathering his cloak about him, but he still shivered as he plowed his way through the snow toward the glow ahead.
In the distance, the bells of the Runnymede cathedral chimed midnight.
Rod stopped on the edge of a little clearing. In its middle, a campfire burned—a tiny campfire, its flames guttering. A man knelt before it, his back to Rod, wearing a cowled cloak. Rod wondered what a monk was doing out at this time of night, then remembered that foresters' cloaks looked very much like monks' robes—especially when you couldn't make out colors. Whoever he was, he was racked with shivers as he groped in the snow. At last, he brought up a small branch, knocked the snow off it, and threw it on the fire.
There had been enough light for Rod to see the boniness of the hand. There was no doubt that the man was old, quite old. Rod felt a surge of sympathy and stepped out into the clearing, kicking up the snow, bending to pick up fallen branches and sticks. "Here, Grandfather!" He stepped past the old man and knelt by the fire, holding one of the smaller sticks in the flame till it caught, then laying it carefully on the coals and setting a small branch over it. "We'll have it burning merrily in no time."
"It is good of you," the old man whispered, sitting back on a fallen tree.
"Glad to help. Glad of the warmth, too." Rod put a three-inch branch over the others, then turned to the oldster. "There you go, Grandfather."
He froze, staring.
"Thank you, Grandson." From under the hood, the old eyes glinted with amusement. "But then, you always were a generous, warmhearted boy. I am glad to see you have grown into so fine a man."
"Grandfather," Rod whispered again. "My real grandfather. "
And it was—Count Rory d'Armand, in the flesh. Or seemingly.
"You can't be real." But Rod stretched out a hand anyway. "You died twenty-six years ago."
Count Rory winced. "Hardly generous of you, my boy."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Grandfather! But how did you get here? I mean, Gramarye is light-years and light-years away from this solar system!"
"Why, I came with you, Rodney." The old eyes glowed into his. "In your genes—for surely, as long as you l
ive, so does part of me. And in your heart and mind, too, I would like to think!"
"Oh, be sure of that! If the foundation of my personality is Mother and Father, you're the foundation of the foundation!"
"The sub-basement, eh?" Rory smiled, amused. "And all that I have thought and dreamed, Rodney—what of that?"
"I can't say 'all,' " Rod said honestly, "but a large part of it—yes. I think your ideals are within me, too—for they're embedded in the stories you told me, and those stories will always be with me."
"Ah. My stories, yes." The Count nodded, turning his gaze to the fire. "And if you live within my stories, then Rodney, you certainly can have no question as to how I came to be here."
"What?" Rod frowned. "I think I missed something."
"Why, I am Rory, Lord Chronicler." The old man lifted his gaze to Rod's again. "For surely we are in the realm of Granclarte."
Rod stared at him.
"Yes, surely," he said softly. "Why didn't I realize ^hat?"
"Because you had not thought of it," the Lord Chronicler said, smiling. "Yet did I not tell you the tales of this magic kingdom would ever be your shield and your refuge?"
"Why, so they have been, in metaphor," Rod said slowly, "but I never thought they could be so, in actuality."
Rory tossed his head impatiently. "There is a sickness of the soul upon you, my boy, a darkness of the spirit. Where else could you shelter from that night, except in the Courts of Great Light?"
"Yes." Slowly, Rod sat down beside the old man, on the log. "God bless you, Grandfather, for giving my soul a shield against its own lances."
"Be not so sure they are its own, my boy, for you have many enemies, with many weapons. Yet do be sure that, in the realm of Granclarte, you shall find a magic guardian to shield you from any of them."
"I'll remember that," Rod said fervently. "But Grandfather, I've gone mad on Gramarye. How can I be in the realm of Granclarte?"
"Because you inherited it from me, Rodney, inherited it within your soul, just as your body inherited my genes. The events and ideals within its Chronicles are part of the sub-structure of your personality, of the way you see the universe around you. It is yours now—I bequeath it to you."
The Warlock Insane Page 5
