"Vile," Rod agreed. "I'm under something of the same enchantment, myself."
Modwis stared at him in sudden surprise, which was reassuring, as did the knight. "Thou hast a glamour about thee?"
"I wouldn't have thought so," Rod muttered, "but I do seem to be seeing things that aren't there." For a moment, the spell thinned, and he saw only an open road before him, bound with fog under a leaden sky, with deep ruts in the snow heaped high upon it.
" 'Tis the sorcerer hath cast this dimness o'er thy sight," Modwis averred, "the foul sorcerer, who doth seek to blind thee to such things as are real!"
The sun shone again, on a dusty road amid summer greenery, and the knight was back. Rod relaxed and explained, "But the only illusions I see are of people and monsters." A lingering regard for truth made him add, "And seasons. I don't seem to be having trouble with geographical features."
The knight grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we are well met, thou and I! I shall see the folk aright, and thou shalt see the terrain! Come, let us march against this fell sorcerer, and root him from the land!"
The grin was infectious; Rod couldn't help but return it. "And just in case I'm fooled, Modwis will check us. And my horse, of course—he's very good at discerning reality." He ignored the buzz behind his ear. "What sorcerer is this?"
"Some country churl, and a weak-kneed 'prentice of a magic-worker, I doubt not," the knight answered with disdain. "None have e'er heard of him aforetime, nor shall after, I warrant."
"But his name?" Rod insisted.
"He doth call himself 'Saltique,' " the knight answered, "and I trust we shall salt him indeed."
It was a strange name, right enough, which was odd, because Rod knew all the Chronicles of Granclarte by heart.
"Your grandfather's ghost did say that you were to continue the saga, Rod," Fess murmured behind his ear.
"Salt him away for future use?" Rod pretended dismay. "Why not just put him out of business permanently?"
"I warrant we'll send him to his just reward," the knight answered. "Yet first, we must needs discover his lair."
"I have heard summat of him," Modwis grated. "We must track him to the Wastelands, milords."
"Why, we are nearly there!" the knight cried, and clapped Modwis on the shoulder. "How can we fail, with a true guide before us? To horse, milord! And away!"
They mounted and rode out, heading down into the valley—and Fess couldn't avoid the realization that his master was riding back into his childhood.
"Fess, just think of it!" Rod burbled. "I'm riding with him! I'm actually riding with him!"
"It is a rare honor indeed." Fess was growing increasingly concerned, even more so now that Rod had begun talking to himself. That was bad enough, but it was worse that he was making perfect sense.
Rod sobered, some of his exuberance absorbed into the robot's caution. "Where's the worm in the apple, huh? Y'know, he looks almost familiar… hauntingly familiar…"
"Should he not?"
"Well, yeah, he should look the way I've always pictured him." Rod frowned at the tall, broad figure riding straight in the saddle in front of him. "But then he should look familiar, period. Why this niggling reminder of someone I once knew?"
"It is entirely natural."
"Yeah, I guess my childish mind built him after some adult I'd met."
Fess kept silent.
"Just think—riding with him, on his quest!" Rod felt his spirits bubble up again. "I may never go back to the real world!"
"That," said Fess, "may be exactly what your enemies are hoping for."
"Oh, don't be a killjoy! Ho, for adventure! I ride in quest of the Rainbow Crystal, with the great knight Beaubras!"
Chapter Seven
They had traveled some time before Rod thought to ask, "Where do you wish to go, Sir Knight?"
"To the rescue of my fair lady Haughteur, Lord Gal-lowglass," the knight replied.
Great. But not quite as helpful as Rod needed. "Where is she imprisoned?"
The knight shook his head in sorrow. "Not bound in a prison, Lord Gallowglass, but in a glamour. She dwells within the keep of High Dudgeon, in the sway of Lady Aggravate."
A new one again, an element not in Grandfather's saga. Rod frowned.
"Where is High Dudgeon?" Modwis asked.
Nice to know it was new to him, too.
"Hid within the clouds at the top of Mount Sullen," Beaubras answered. " 'Tis a keep nigh eighty feet tall— yet for the first sixty of those feet, it hath not one single opening. Nay, not so much as an arrow-slit."
"Quite secure," Rod said. "Yet not the most sensible arrangement for defense, to say nothing of aesthetics. Any particular reason for the lack of windows?"
"So that all within may look down on those beneath them—as they believe everyone to be, who doth not view the world from High Dudgeon."
Rod said slowly, "I take it they like to have everyone beneath them."
"Aye. None come there who do not—sad to say." The knight hung his head. "My lady is the fairest in the land, but many among us hath a weakness—and this is hers."
"But you don't seem to think going there was entirely her doing."
Beaubras rode in thought for a while, then nodded. "There may be truth in that—for, though she may have come willingly, the glamour may also have been wrapped about her aforetime."
"Therefore she may have wished to come, because she had been enchanted." Rod nodded; it was ever the way of young girls and high living. Still, he took Sir Beaubras's point—the lady had to find the glamour tempting, for the glamour to ensnare her. "The chatelaine, Lady Aggravate— she is something of a magician."
"She is a sorceress entire, sir, who doth gain her strength by sapping the vitality of the young folk she doth call to her. The mark of her corruption may be seen in her abhorrence of the cleansing touch of water."
"No water?" Rod stared. "What do her people drink?"
"Only wine, and brandy wine, which doth render them the more susceptible to her whims."
"Good grief!" Rod turned away, shaken. "How can they stand to be near each other?"
"Oh, she doth ever fill her halls with sweet aromas, by the burning of fragrant gums and resins, so that those who dwell within her courts cannot sense the corruption about them."
"You mean the people who dwell in High Dudgeon are always incensed?" Rod gave his head a shake. "No, what's the matter with me? Of course they are." He shuddered. "A grim and awful keep indeed, Sir Beaubras! You must not go alone against such a horrible castle!"
"I cannot ask thee to accompany me into so fell a place, Lord Gallowglass.''
"You didn't—I volunteered. Unless you think I'll be in the way, of course."
The knight turned, a smile making his countenance radiant. "Of a certainty, thou shalt not! Thou art a wizard, art thou not? And assuredly, thou shalt be of most timely aid against this sorceress Aggravate!"
Rod hoped he was right.
The sun was just past noon, and Rod was on the watch for an inn, when Modwis brought them up with a raised hand. They reined in, and the knight frowned. "What stirs, friend?"
"I mislike the sense of this place." Modwis scowled at the roadway ahead of them. The farmlands narrowed, then gave way to tall, dark oaks and elms that overhung the road. "There have been bandits here in times gone by."
"Like enough; 'tis well suited to an ambush." Beaubras lifted his head, baring his teeth in a grin. "So much the worse for them, then. How good of thee, Modwis, to find that with which to cheer me! Lord Gallowglass, an there do be bandits, I doubt me not they warrant punishment. What sayest thou?"
"Mostly surely," Rod said bravely, but his spine crawled with apprehension as they rode under the boughs. He wished he could be as delighted at the prospect of…
A roar like a score of locomotives let loose at once, and a handful of bandits leaped out from the trees. They were scruffy but stocky, their clothes as ragged and dirty as their weapons were bright. Two of them ha
d halberds; two had swords; one had only a club. But the club was huge and had a spike, and the spike was swooping toward Rod's temple. He ducked, shouting a totally unnecessary warning to his companions. Fess dodged, and between the two of them, he only got hit with the side of the club as it shot past. But the blow hit a lot harder than a five-and-a-half-foot malnourished thug should have been able to manage; Rod flew from the saddle and landed, hard, on his back. It knocked the wind out of him and paralyzed his diaphragm; he struggled to pull in a breath at the same time as he struggled to get up. Fess screamed a threat and warning, and leaped to stand over him, shielding Rod with his own steel body from the ministrations of the club-wielder and a sword-swinger who swerved over to join in. Fess tried to lash out with a front hoof and a back hoof simultaneously, and promptly had a seizure, legs locking stiff over his master, head dropping to swing between his fetlocks.
But he had given Rod enough time to thrash his way up on one elbow and get a look at the bandits, through the tears in his eyes. They looked wobbly and out of focus— but they also looked to be moving inside vague, hulking, translucent outlines that were half again as tall as they were, and much more misshapen. Then he blinked away the tears, and saw only bandits again—but the clue was enough. "Trolls!" he shouted to his companions. "They're really trolls in disguise!"
It was enough for Beaubras. He changed his style of attack on the instant, aiming a ringing blow two feet above the head of the nearest bandit.
The blow rang indeed, and struck sparks, too. The bandit gave a scream and fell back a pace, shocked.
As well he might be. Beaubras's magic blade, Coupetou, had carved a gash out of the troll's granite hide. For all that Rod could see, the sword hadn't come anywhere near the bandit—but a gash had opened in the air above him, welling bright green ichor, and Beaubras was slashing at it again.
Not that Rod had time to look. He had spared a quick glance before he turned to block the next blow, dodging aside from it as he thought Long! at his dagger. It sprouted amazingly, shooting out like a switchblade.
Behind him, Coupetou rang like an alarm bell, and Modwis underscored its melody with a percussion of dull thuds as he laid about him with an iron club.
Rod thought Hard! and his sword's edge glittered like a diamond.
In fact, it was diamond, as the next bandit found out when Rod sidestepped and chopped right through his club. The "man" stared at the sheared stub in surprise, and Rod scored a line across the air directly above his head.
The bandit screamed and fell back, but his mate with the sword stepped in—and toppled as Modwis straightened up, holding the bandit's ankle. Rod didn't pause to debate points of chivalry—he chopped while he could. The blade clanged and rebounded, vibrating so hard it stung his hands. Bright green lined the air above it and the bandit screamed like a factory whistle, rolling to his feet and pelting back toward the forest. His mate with the stub of club joined him, and Rod started to run after them, then thought of confronting them on their home territory, and slowed to a halt. He turned back, and saw right away that Beaubras and Modwis had done considerably better than he had. Two bandits lay writhing on the ground; another gave one last shudder, and lay still. All three were growing hazy around the edges, but the dead bandit was the first whose form blurred completely, then re-formed into an eight-foot monster, wide in the shoulders and chest, absurdly short in the legs, that looked somehow like a turnip—with arms five feet long, muscled like steel cables, and hands that had claws, not fingernails.
Rod stared, appalled. He had had the temerity to fight a thing like that!
He looked up quickly—and, sure enough, the other two bandits had turned into the same type of monster. They thrashed about on the ground, moaning and howling.
"We must aid them." Beaubras took a flask of brandy from his saddlebag.
Modwis nodded, and found a roll of bandage in his own saddlebag.
Rod felt very much at a loss. He disguised it with protest. "Wait a minute! We were just trying to chop these things into pieces!"
"Only for that they sought to injure us, Lord Gallow-glass." Beaubras looked up, then went back to trying to wipe up ichor and pour in brandy.
Rod couldn't help thinking that the brandy would do more good in the creature's mouth—especially since it roared at the burning of the alcohol and slammed a huge fist at the knight, who adroitly stepped back. "I bid thee hold thy peace, poor creature. The brandy doth sting, aye, but 'twill prevent infection."
How considerate of Grandfather to construct the land of Granclarte with a rudimentary, but accurate, knowledge of medicine! "Look, I hate to sound like a heel, but wouldn't it be a bit more practical to put them out of their misery?"
Beaubras stared, appalled. "Only they themselves can do that, Lord Gallowglass, by repenting of their evil ways and turning to God."
"Revenge," one of the fallen monsters snarled. "Kill slow!"
"Well, not slowly." Rod fingered his sword. "I have a little mercy, after all."
The knight protested, and even Modwis paled. "Thou canst not mean to do it, Lord Gallowglass!"
"No, I can, actually. Look at it this way—these aren't civilized beings you're dealing with, or even ones that can be civilized. They're sadistic monsters who enjoy nothing so much as watching people suffer. Heal 'em, and they'll come right back to attack us—and if not us, then the next traveler who comes down this road."
"We must do our Christian duty," the knight responded sternly, "no matter the cost!"
"With respect, Sir Knight, it won't be us who have to pay that cost."
"If we treat them with mercy, Lord Gallowglass, they may give mercy in their own steads," Modwis explained.
"Fat chance!"
"He doth speak truth." Beaubras frowned. "Works of charity may ope the hearts of others to God's grace, Lord Gallowglass. Yet whether they do or not, we can but do our part, and be merciful toward fallen foes."
Rod had it on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. This was, after all, his grandfather's universe, and a realm of complete fantasy. Here it was quite possible that bloodthirsty monsters could be reformed and recruited. In fact, wasn't there a story, in his childhood, of the giant Blunderthud, who became one of the Four Kings' most ardent supporters?
He sighed and turned away to grope beneath Fess's saddle for the reset switch, then in one of the saddlebags for the medical kit. As he knelt beside a moaning troll, a thought of reality intruded for a moment, and he seemed to see a genuine peasant rolling in agony, not a troll.
Then the moment was gone, and the troll was back.
Shaken, Rod sponged up ichor and sprinkled in antiseptic powder. He pressed down firmly as the troll roared and tried to rise, murmuring, "Yes, I know it hurts, but that's the medicine burning up all the nasty little germs that would try to give you gangrene and make your arm fall off. Just hang in there, and the pain will fade."
Suddenly, he was very glad that Beaubras had been such a stickler about chivalry. If his flash of insight was accurate, he was treating a human being, and the troll was only a hallucination.
Or was the troll real, and the peasant a hallucination? He went to reset his horse. "Fess?"
"Uhhaaaeee… chadd… uh seizurrre, Rrrrodd?"
"Yeah, you did." He'd have to wait a little while for the truth; it took Fess's perceptions a few minutes to clear.
When they were back on the road, the moaning trolls staggering to their feet behind them, Rod asked, under his breath, "What did we fight back there, Fess?"
"Five peasants, Rod—though they were remarkably tall and well fed for Gramarye field hands."
"Futurians?" Rod wondered. "What're they doing here?"
"More probably local agents brought up by the Futurians. But high-technology intervention is quite likely—the heads of those halberds were strangely free of the slightest trace of rust, and the shafts were tipped with lenses."
"Lasers?" Rod frowned. "Good thing they didn't get a chance to use them."
Fortunately, Modwis spoke up before Rod could try to answer that question, and Modwis was real—within limits. "Sir and lord, trolls own little magic, and assuredly cannot change their shapes."
Beaubras and Rod were both silent, digesting the point. Then Beaubras said, "Thou speakest sooth, good Modwis. What dost thou infer from this impossibility?''
"Why, that a sorcerer must have aided them."
"The Lady Aggravate?" Rod asked.
"More likely the crazed old sorcerer who set silver snares for me, and caught thee in glamours—the wicked Saltique."
Rod tried that one on for size, and didn't like the fit. "What's he got against us, anyway?"
"Mayhap he doth see the future," Beaubras said slowly, "and doth know that we shall be his bane."
"He doth fear us for some reason, that's certain," Modwis qualified, "and doth seek to prevent our coming to his lair."
Beaubras grinned, with a toss of his head. "Why, then, let us not dispute his sagacity, my companions! Ride, for the death of sorcerers!" And he kicked his horse into a trot.
Modwis and Rod had perforce to hurry to keep up with him.
"Do I detect a certain lack of logic there?" Rod sub-vocalized.
"If you do, your perceptions are fallacious," Fess assured him. "Modwis's logic is correct, the more so since he is careful to state his inference as a hypothesis. It is Beaubras who leaps to the conclusion that what Modwis infers must be fact."
"Yes, Beaubras was never in doubt," Rod said with a sardonic smile. "But you don't think there really is a genuine sorcerer involved here?"
"In Granclarte, Rod, anything may be real."
"Right. Uh… how about in Gramarye, Fess? Or isn't that an issue, at the moment?"
"The coincidence of both worlds is desirable," Fess admitted. "In Gramarye, there well could be an esper, allied with the Futurians, who is somewhat unbalanced."
"So instead of a mad scientist, we have a mad warlock. Just great. Is he really out to get us, do you think?"
The Warlock Insane Page 8
