Modwis gasped, "Wizard! Canst thou not find shelter?"
"Yeah—right over there!" Rod pointed toward a dim glow in the murk. "Sir Beaubras! Lady Bountiful! Head for the light!"
They looked up, saw him veering away, and saw the glow beyond him, too. They turned to follow.
It seemed a lot farther than it was, but finally they found themselves pounding on the door of a ramshackle cottage. Rod waited, then pounded again and, finally, the door creaked open a crack, revealing a suspicious yellowed eyeball surmounted by off-white fuzz.
"We're travelers, caught in the storm!" Rod called. "Can you let us in till it's over?"
The eye seemed to snarl something like, "Into the sea with 'ee," and the crack narrowed; but Rod had shoved the toe of his boot in, and kept enough room to call out, "Our party includes a knight and his lady!"
The pressure on his toe eased, and the yellowed eye widened. So did the crack, revealing a mate to the yellowed eye, a whetstone of a nose, and all around both of them, a wealth of wild, disordered hair that would have been white if it had been washed within the last month. It was hard to tell where the beard left off and the mane began, and the mouth was hidden in a curve between moustache and beard.
The eye locked onto Beaubras and Bountiful, and the door opened all the way, revealing an emaciated, wrinkled form inside a long tunic, almost long enough to be called a robe, with two lumps of rags showing under it. "Aye, then. Come in, come in from the damp."
Rod streamed in thankfully, wondering what the old man considered "wet," and very much misliking the gleam in the eye as Lady Bountiful passed in front of it.
"Blessing on thee, goodman," Beaubras said, taking off his helmet.
"I've no robes to offer ye, but there be fire." The old man turned away to throw some more peat on the single flame. The fire licked up, and the knight and lady came to it. Rod stepped up beside them. "Are there but the three of ye, then?"
"We have another comrade, who said he would take our beasts around to thy shed. Wilt thou permit it?"
"Aye," said the hermit, looking distinctly unhappy about it. "Yet there be grain within; let them not eat of it too greatly."
"We shall pay for whatsoever they eat, and that with gold," Beaubras assured him, and the hermit's eye lit with a gleam that was almost a blaze. Rod resolved to keep his own eye on their host.
The door creaked, and Modwis stamped in, streaming buckets. He saw his friends and moved over toward the hearth, holding out his hands to the flames with a sigh. "Bless thee, goodman, for thine hospitality!"
Rod could have sworn he saw the hermit wince, possibly due to the reminder that he was a host, which in turn reminded him that he was supposed to offer food to his guests. "I've little enough, gentles, yet thou art welcome to what I have." His tone belied the statement. "There is beer and barley, and a sack of turnips. An egg, too, if the fowl is right-minded."
Rod suppressed a shudder, and Beaubras said delicately, "We have provision, goodman. Wilt thou share our provender?''
"Wine." Modwis held up a pair of saddlebags. "Salt beef and biscuit."
The hermit's mouth watered. "Aye, certes that will be welcome! And now that I think on't, I may have a tuber or two laid by. Shall we fill the kettle, then?"
The stew brewed stronger as the daylight faded, and they ate from wooden bowls (from the saddlebags) by firelight. It made the squalid hut seem almost cozy, chiefly by hiding the worst of the grime and filth.
"Meat and drink do ever cheer the heart." Beaubras sighed, setting down his bowl.
"Yes." Rod smiled. "A full stomach and a warm fire always do make the future seem more rosy."
Modwis sighed and leaned back. "Who can look to tomorrow, when the day is long and the body weary?"
"Do ye not ken yer fortunes, then?" asked the old hermit, a gleam in his eye again.
His eye spent a lot of time gleaming, Rod thought—too much time. He sat forward, deciding to give the man all the rope he wanted. "No, I don't, matter of fact. Seeing the future is one gift I lack." Strictly true, on the face of it, though he could have made arrangements…
" 'Tis one I do not lack," the old man said, sitting rock-still.
The hovel was quiet for a moment.
Then Lady Bountiful smiled, eyes bright. "Hast thou truly the Sight?"
"In very fact," the hermit averred. "Give me thine hand, and I shall tell thy fortune."
"Tell, then!" Lady Bountiful held out her hand with a merry smile.
The hermit took it, caressed the back long and lovingly as he turned her palm up, then stroked it twice, a rapt smile coming over his face.
Rod frowned and glanced at Beaubras, but the knight was leaning back with a genial smile, apparently seeing nothing amiss. Rod turned again to Lady Bountiful, who was managing not to shudder at the hermit's touch.
"Thou shalt have wealth and happiness," the old man claimed. "See, thy Line of Life is long, and crosses with the Line of Love near to its beginning. Thou shalt wed a man most excellent, and that quite soon."
Beaubras frowned, but Lady Bountiful seemed to find nothing amiss. She turned back to give Beaubras a roguish glance. "Shall we wed so soon, then, my lord?"
"As soon as thou shalt say," the knight returned gallantly.
"And thou." Regretfully, the old man let go of the lady's hand and reached out for the knight's. Beaubras frowned, but held out his palm. The hermit took it, looked, then stared. "How can this be? Thy Line of Life is broke in five places!"
"What meaning hath that?"
"Why, it doth signify that thou shalt die, yet shall live again, and not once, but five times whole!"
" Tis but a seeming." The knight smiled, amused. "I never truly die."
The old man gave him a very fearful look, but seemed to be reassured by the knight's open, smiling face. "As thou wilt have it, my lord." He turned to Modwis, dropping Beaubras's hand like a hot rock. "And thou?"
"By your leave, I'd liefer not."
"Wherefore?" The hermit demanded.
"A man lives ill, if he doth know his end."
"I'll second that," Rod said quickly. "But you might tell us of the future of this land."
"Aye!" Beaubras agreed, "what shall pass for our court of Granclarte, goodman? And for the Four Kingdoms that have their union here?"
The hermit stared at him. Then, slowly, he knelt, and splayed his palms against the bare earthen floor. Gazing off into space, he began to mutter. The others fell so quiet that the flames seemed louder than his words. Finally, they became comprehensible.
"… will rise 'gainst Alban. She shall not go, Yet shall find woe, And lovers' plight Shall bring a blight Upon the land And palace grand! The Courts of Light Shall break in fright And portions flee Until a sea Of darkness shall The lands enthrall!"
He thundered the last couplet, then knelt rigid a minute longer, eyes glazed. Finally, he began to loosen, till he sat in the dirt, holding his head in his hands.
"Magnificent!" Beaubras said. "Thou dost conjure a vision that doth make my brain to reel!"
"Do I so?" The hermit looked up. "I cannot tell."
"Why, how is this?" The knight questioned.
"When the Power doth seize me, good sir, it doth speak through my mouth—yet I have no remembrance of what I've said."
" 'Tis not so strange," Modwis rumbled. "I've heard of such aforetimes."
The knight frowned. "Then thou canst not tell us its meaning."
The hermit shook his head. "Was it so senseless, then?"
"Thy words were verse," Lady Bountiful explained, "and grand were they, and awe-bringing. Yet we know not that of which they spoke."
Rod did, of course—he knew the whole story of Granclarte, including its ending. But it wouldn't have been polite to mention it to the people involved.
" 'Twas a tale of doom, though," Beaubras said quietly. "That much of the sense of it, I caught—yet the doom of whom, or how it came, I could not tell."
The hermit nodded, mouth twisti
ng. " 'Tis ever thus." He shrugged. "I cannot say, then, what shall come. Yet I may tell thee this." He looked up, glaring with sudden energy. "An there be doom for Granclarte, it shall come from the foul sorcerer who doth dwell in the castle to the east!"
"We know of him," Modwis said quietly. "He is evil, aye!"
"Evil! He is the source of every evil that may come to Granclarte! Even his apprentice hath left him, and his apprentice is evil enough, I wot! His castle is haunted, and the evil spirits therein have seeped their vile influence into his soul!"
"Thou knowest much of him, then?" the knight asked.
"More than I wish," the hermit said darkly. "If there is a doom on Granclarte, I can tell thee he shall bring it—yet how or when, I cannot say."
" Tis better thus," Modwis said, by way of comfort.
"Mayhap." But the hermit didn't sound convinced.
He climbed to his feet, slowly and painfully, and sighed. "Ah, me! But the evening's fled, and wise folk should be in their beds. I have some comfort that I've set by, to aid me in my rest.'' He took an earthenware bottle and a horn from a dark corner. "Wilt thou drink?"
No one answered immediately, but he didn't seem to notice. He pulled the cork and poured. A rich amber fluid streamed into the cup, catching the firelight with ruby glints. He held it out to Beaubras. " 'Tis most excellent."
The knight took it—reluctantly, Rod thought, but courtesy must be paid. He sipped, then looked up, surprised. " 'Tis mead, and I misdoubt me an I've ever had a better drop!"
"A taste." Lady Bountiful took the cup and drank a substantial draft, then passed the horn to Modwis. The dwarf drank, too, then nodded and passed it on to Rod, who wet his lips with it only enough to assure himself that it was indeed mead, then passed it back to the hermit. "Quite good."
"I thank thee." His eyes were glittering again. He drained the horn as he turned away—but Rod, watching closely, was quite certain he'd poured the mead out onto the floor under cover of putting both horn and bottle back in their nook.
He turned back with a look of regret. "I've but the one chamber, gentles; we must all sleep herein. Yet the lady and knight shall have the hearth."
"Nay, we could not deprive thee," the knight objected. "Thy chamber's warm enough!"
The hermit protested, and the upshot was Lady Bountiful sleeping next to the fire on a pallet of old straw, wrapped in Beaubras's cloak. Modwis helped Sir Beaubras remove his armor, and the knight scrupulously piled it between himself and the lady, then lay down in his gambe-son. Modwis bunked down above their heads, and the hermit hunkered down on his pallet in the corner. Rod lay beside Beaubras on his own pile of straw, wondering how he was going to get the fleas out of his cape and listening to the rain on the roof. "Fess?" he muttered.
Yes, Rod?
"If I sound as though I'm sleeping, wake me up with a buzz, will you?"
You need your rest, Rod.
"I need my breath more. I don't trust this old geezer, Fess. If you could see the look in his eyes, you wouldn't, either. Besides, he didn't drink the mead he fed us."
Very well, Rod. The robot put the resigned tone into it. / will assure your wakefulness.
"I appreciate that." Rod lapsed into silence and lay still, very still, listening for the slightest movement from the hermit's couch.
It came after about an hour—an hour of fighting heavy eyelids; it was hard to stay awake when he was taking even, slow breaths, to simulate the sound of sleep—but Rod managed it. At last, his vigilance was rewarded by some heavy rustling in the corner. The old hermit appeared again, crawling out with a breathless giggle, a long rusty blade in his paw.
Rod rolled over with a mutter, still feigning sleep.
The hermit froze.
Rod snored.
The hermit smiled and crept forward again, lifting the knife.
But the fake roll-over had served for Rod to gather himself. He braced against the earth, ready to spring.
The hermit crouched beside Beaubras and raised the dagger high.
Rod sprang.
The dagger flashed down, burying itself in Beaubras's chest with a sickeningly soft, wet sound.
A split second later, Rod's shoulder slammed into the old murderer even as Beaubras cried out and Lady Bountiful sat bolt upright. She took one look and screamed, then screamed again and again.
Modwis was beside her in an instant.
Rod was battling for his life. The old hermit lashed out with the dagger, howling in terror, and Rod barely managed to lean aside from the thrust, then rolled back in, catching the old man's shoulder and pushing hard. He slammed over onto his front with a wail.
Lady Bountiful managed to slacken her scream to low moans, with Modwis's help.
Rod pulled his own dagger and yanked the hermit over onto his back again, blade ready for the death blow.
It wasn't necessary. The old man's own knife stuck out of his belly just below the sternum. His lips moved, almost soundlessly, with his dying words: "Brume… mine old pupil… he shall avenge…" Then he shuddered, his throat rattled, and his eyes glazed as his whole body went limp.
The thrill of victory coursed through Rod's veins, even as something inside him sickened at the sight.
Brume, this geezer's pupil? This was the sorcerer Saltique?
Beaubras groaned.
Rod whipped back to him. "Your murderer is dead, Sir Knight."
"It… matters not…"
"But I was too slow! I didn't think the old lecher could move that fast!"
"The lady… is well…"
Lady Bountiful moaned.
"Oh, yes. That was why he killed you, of course, and would have killed Modwis and me—but not her. Not until later." Rod's face contorted. "I should have struck sooner!"
"It… matters not… I shall… rise…"
And, with the promise on his lips, the knight faded from sight.
Rod stared, unbelieving.
Then he turned to console the lady—just in time to see the last faint wisp of her form, before it, too, vanished.
"Where he will go," Modwis whispered, "she will go"
"And you?" Rod reached out to touch the man, but didn't quite dare. "Will you fade away, too?"
"Nay, Lord Gallowglass. I may diminish, but I shall not cease."
But even with the words, he seemed to shrink, dwindling to a foot-high mannikin, and the whole hut seemed to grow more barren filled with dust and cobwebs, with gaps between the boards and holes in the roof. The rain had stopped, but coals still glowed on the hearth, giving off enough light for Rod to make out a form dressed in peasant garb with the handle of a knife sticking out of its belly—but the beard was neat and well trimmed, the hair was dark, and the form was stocky.
"Fess?" Rod whispered. "Who is this I've killed? Where's the old hermit?"
The door creaked open, and the robot filled the doorway. It looked, and nodded. "This man is indeed the one who admitted you, Rod. The old hermit was of your making, not his own. This hut shows signs of abandonment; I conjecture that the quondam peasant came only a few hours in advance of you."
"Quondam? He's not a real peasant? But… the dagger's real…"
"Yes, Rod, and he really did try to murder you in your sleep. If he died on his own knife, it is his doing more than yours."
The anger returned then, but nausea followed it. Rod lurched to his feet and stumbled out into the night, catching the saddle to hold himself up. Pain hammered through his head from one temple to the other, and he found that his hands were trembling. "Fess… I'm sick… very sick…"
"Yes, Rod. It seems to follow each spell of delusion."
"They're… getting worse."
"They are. You must lie down and rest."
"Not… here…"
"Then climb on, and I shall carry you to shelter." The robot knelt. Rod scrabbled into the saddle, lay down on the horse's neck, and held on for dear life. Carefully, Fess climbed to his feet and turned away into the darkness and mist.
Chapter Thirteen
According to an authority (i.e., a survivor) on Nile River black water disease, "The first day, you only think you're going to die. The second day, you wish you were."
Rod's malaise was something along that line, though it fortunately didn't last anywhere nearly as long. By sunrise, he was beginning to feel better, and when the sun rose, he had pretty much decided he was going to live. Of course, that didn't mean he was happy about it.
"The spells are getting worse," he muttered, "the paranoia and the aftereffects."
"You are still restraining your impulse toward violence very well," Fess contradicted, "though your physiological reactions are increasing in severity."
"But what is it?" Rod gasped. "It can't be something I ate—it's going on too long."
"That does not necessarily preclude the ingestion of a substance, Rod."
"If I did, it's one that really lasts. I don't know how much longer I can keep going, Fess."
"There is no particular reason why you should right now, Rod."
Rod jolted bolt upright. "You don't mean I should just sit down and die."
"Rod! Of course I mean no such thing! But it would be beneficial for you to lie down and sleep. You have not slept for twenty-five hours, now."
"A telling point." Rod suddenly realized his eyelids were drooping. "Maybe a few winks would help. Find me a cave, would you, Fess?"
Caves were not to be had, but Fess did find a fallen tree whose crown had caught in its neighbor's fork. Rod spread his cloak over a mound of leaves under the trunk as Fess began to drag brush to pile against it.
Suddenly, Rod stood straight. "Fess… somebody's on my trail."
The robot was still, then said, "I detect only animal life, Rod."
"Don't ask me how I know, but I do! I didn't say they were watching, but they will be!"
"Have you become precognitive, Rod?"
"Who knows? Anything can happen now! But they're on my trail, and they're going to catch up soon! Ambush stations!"
He disappeared into the brush. Reluctantly, Fess stepped away into the density of a thicket.
The forest was quiet. After a few minutes, birds began to chirp again.
Then a hand parted the brush along the trail, and someone pushed through. Others followed him.
The Warlock Insane Page 13
