Rod parted the leaves, but in the shadows of dawn, he could only make out three forms. He waited for them to pass, then slipped out onto the trail, sword in hand, and hooked an arm around the throat of the last person in line, yanking him off balance and lifting the sword.
The person gargled, flailing for balance, and Rod froze, realizing that the person was female. Then someone else shouted, "Papa, no!" and the ground slipped out from under his feet. He found he was floating, saw Gregory over the girl's shoulder, and realized he had almost stabbed his daughter. He dropped the sword as though it burned his fingers, let go of Cordelia, and thought Down! furiously. Rage kindled as his heels touched ground—slowly, as though he were sinking through molasses. "Damn it, let me down't What the deuce do you think you're doing following me!"
"Husband," Gwen protested, "we feared for thee!"
"Who asked you, blast it! Here I go freezing and starving, nearly being drugged and poisoned, just to stay far enough away from you to be sure I can't hurt you, and what do you do? You come sneaking after me without even telling me! Thank Heaven I realized in time!"
Geoffrey's lip quivered, but he maintained, "Thou hast enemies, Papa! We feared they might…"
"Well, they didn't!" Rod thawed a little. "Your concern is appreciated, but not your interference! I was fighting off murderous sneaks for ten years before I met any of you! Look, if you don't trust me to take care of myself, at least trust Fess!"
"Why, so we do," little Gregory said gravely. "Yet thou must needs own, Papa, that on Gramarye, thou hast had more enemies than e'er before."
The kid was right, and that just made it worse. The anger turned hot. "Yes, and I never know how many! Anyone I meet might be a futurian agent, any peasant, any knight, any forester! And how in Heaven's name am I going to be able to fight them off if my family won't at least do as I ask and stay out of itV
"We cannot," Gwen said simply. "We are of thee, as thou art of us!"
"And you! You have never given me a chance to see if I can handle my enemies on my own! Right from the first, you were in there interfering."
"Interfering!" Gwen paled.
But Magnus intervened. "Thou hast told us, Papa, that thy greatest strength is uniting folk to fight along with thee."
"Aye!" Cordelia cried. "Thou didst say thy first great achievement was in winning our mother to thy side!"
It was true, and Rod had virtually bragged of it—but that was not exactly what he wanted to hear at this moment in time. "I can handle them on my own, thank you! Look, just say I'm on leave of absence. It's enemies to myself I'm fighting now, not enemies to the whole kingdom!"
"They are one and the same." Gwen had begun to harden. "They seek thy death, so that they may work their will upon the kingdom."
"Well, they don't have a chance any more, do they? You folks are there to handle things if anything happens to me! And you can handle them, can't you? You can handle them just fine! You don't need me at all!"
"We shall ever need thee!" Cordelia protested, and Gregory threw his arms around Rod's waist, clinging like a leech.
Rod felt himself thawing—but he looked at Gwen, and saw that all the walls were up. He hardened his own heart again and gently disengaged his son. "Then stop chasing me. Let me deal with my own demons in my own way. If you need me, then leave me. I'll come back when I'm well. This is one time you can't help—but, boy, can you hinder! Follow me any more, and you'll have me afraid to strike a single blow in my own defense, for fear what I'm fighting might really be one of you! Try to help, and yoi 'll do me in!"
"Husband, thou dost wrong us! We would ne'er…"
"Not intentionally, you wouldn't, but…" Rod broke off, staring, feeling as though an electric current were tingling all across his back and up into his brain, making his hair stand on end. "Or is it intentional?" he whispered. "After all, you really can handle things without me. I'm just in the way now, aren't I?"
"Papa, no!" Cordelia cried, and Gwen stared, horrified.
"I notice your mother doesn't have anything to say, does she?" The anger flowed. "Not a thing! I've only been getting in her way, slowing her down all these years! Maybe she's finally realized she could have been the greatest witch in all Gramarye without me, that she could have led the revolution to put the witch-folk in power, and I was the only thing holding her back!"
Tears filled Gwen's eyes, and she shook her head, faster and faster, her lips forming words, but no sound coming.
"See? She can't deny it, even when she tries!" And Rod knew he had paused, more than long enough for Gwen to reply.
"Papa, there is not a word of truth in all of this!" Magnus stepped between his parents, anger beginning to show through a pallor of apprehension. "Mama hath never sought aught but thine happiness!"
"Who are you to speak, Heir Apparent? Who's the next High Warlock, eh? Who will be their king, after the uprising?"
"Thou canst not mean it!" Magnus said, hotly.
"But I do!" Rod caught up a stick and slashed out at them. "Away from me, all of you! Stay back in Runnymede! Run your power play without me! And whatever you do, don't follow me any more V He turned on his heel and strode off into the forest.
The trees swam past him, not quite in focus; blood pounded in his ears. He bulldozed through the woods, brush crashing around him.
Then he realized that there was more crashing than he was making. He looked up and saw Fess pacing beside him. "What are you doing here?"
"You were unjust, Rod," the robot answered. "They never sought to hurt you."
"Whose side are you on!" Rod whirled to face the robot-horse.
"Only yours, Rod. I cannot be on anyone else's side, while you are my owner; it is contrary to my programming."
"But if you had a different owner, you wouldn't have to stand by me—is that it? Help the heir move up a little faster, eh?"
"Never, Rod, and you know it! Do not pretend to have forgotten your knowledge of computer programming!"
Rod glared back, confounded for the moment. He knew Fess was the one being who couldn't lie to him.
In the real world. Even in Gramarye.
But in Granclarte?
The horse pressed his advantage. "I cannot stand silent when I see induced paranoia distorting your perceptions of those who love you best, and most support you. Your wife and children are as loyal as I am—perhaps more so."
"I don't see how they could be," Rod growled. "/ wouldn't, if I had to live with me. In fact, I do, and I'm not."
"Hear your own words," Fess advised. "Are you disloyal to yourself, then?"
"So you have to be even more loyal, to make up for it?" Rod's glare narrowed. "Even granting that, there's one big problem. How do you know what their motives are?"
"There are semiotic indications…"
"Interpreting signs can't let you read their thoughts."
"I can listen on human thought frequencies…"
"Yes, and if they want you to hear them, you will. But if they slip into family mode, you can't pick up their tiniest scrap of thought."
"I cannot decipher simultaneous multiplexing of decay modulation, it is true. However, I am working on the program…"
"But don't have it yet—which means you can't know what my tender chicks and their doting mother are planning in their hearts of hearts."
"Rod, you cannot honestly believe they would conspire against you!"
"Why not? Everything else does! Including you! Go ahead, side with them! Cozy up to the heirs! Just don't try to pretend you're still on my side!" Rod turned and stalked off into the forest.
"Rod! My devotion has always been…"
"Go away!" Rod thundered. "Get out of my sight! Leave me alone!"
He stumped off into the snow, and the bare branches closed behind him like whips.
Half an hour later, he had begun to calm down.
Then the nausea hit, and the headache started.
If it had been bad before, this time it was hellish. He cast about, fra
ntic for cover, stumbled into the nearest thicket, and fell to his knees. His stomach turned inside out, but there was nothing there to come up, except a little bile.
When the spasms passed, he tumbled sideways into a mound of dead brush, managing to gather his cloak about him, and lay shivering as pain throbbed through his head. Finally, it slackened, and he fell into an exhausted slumber.
He woke to the glow of coals. Frowning, he started to rise, then remembered the headache and lifted his head very carefully. But there was no pain, so he dared sit up, though slowly. Something fell off him, and he looked down, amazed, to see that he was covered by a fur blanket. Who had thrown it over him?
For that matter, who had kindled the fire?
He stared at it, absorbing the fact that somebody had been close enough to kill him while he lay totally helpless, but instead had made sure he wouldn't freeze. Finally, he decided he would just have to accept the fact that the world really did contain some people who cared about him, whether it was Fess or his family.
Guilt hit, and hard, as he remembered what he had said to them, and the manner in which he had said it. It seemed incredible now, that he could actually have thought they wished his downfall, totally crazy…
Yes. It had been crazy. That was why he had gone away from them, to make sure he wouldn't hurt them while he was mired in delusion.
He lifted his head, feeling a little better about it all. There was still guilt about his rage, mind you—but at least he had been right in telling them to stay away from him.
Then he started at a sudden thought. How had his family come to be in Granclarte, anyway?
He thought about that for a little while, and decided that he had had a temporary lapse back into reality—sort of swapping delusions, Granclarte for persecution complex.
Was that to be the limit of his existence—just a choice of delusions?
He thought about it—and the more he thought, the angrier he became. Oddly, that seemed all right now— maybe because his anger had no one to focus on. After all, who could be responsible for his current state of existence?
Whoever had pushed him into delusions, of course.
Who was that?
Modwis had said it was the sorcerer Brume, from his haunted castle in the east.
But Modwis was part of Granclarte. Who had sent him the affliction in Gramarye?
Maybe the sorcerer Brume.
Why not? So far as Rod could tell, the fantasy enemies who attacked him in the delusion realm of Granclarte corresponded to real enemies—real people, he corrected himself, then corrected the correction, remembering Fess's verification that the man who Rod had thought was a homicidal old hermit had really tried to kill him. If the hermit had been a real assassin in disguise, why not Brume?
It was worth a try, at least—especially in Gramarye, where evil magicians were a definite possibility. For that matter, Fess had identified Modwis as being, in real life, a leprechaun…
Rod looked around, frowning. Come to that, where was Modwis? He remembered the dwarf shrinking down to elf size…
His gaze focused on the flames.
Could it have been Modwis who threw the robe over him and lit the campfire?
Rod stumbled to his feet in turmoil, apprehension coiling through his belly at the thought that a friend might be within striking range. He stood a moment, taking stock of himself. He felt well, though, surprisingly well; the spell had really passed. He resolved not to hallucinate again— the aftereffects were murder.
"Murder"—he didn't like the sound of that. He shrugged off the thought and started walking. If Modwis were here, he didn't want to see him, though Rod couldn't have said exactly why. There was a lingering distrust of anybody who professed to be on his side right now—or was it a distrust of himself?
No matter. The result was the same—stay solitary. For a moment, he wavered, tempted to take the fur robe, then decided against it; it would have felt too much like theft. Whatever kind soul had loaned it to him didn't deserve to have it stolen. He strode off into the gloaming, feeling renewed and invigorated—and hungry enough to eat a bear. Which might not have been a bad idea, if he'd met one—then he could have made his own robe.
Chapter Fourteen
If anyone was following him, they were smart enough to stay hidden. He trekked through snow-bound country for three days, building campfires when his toes grew numb and building brush huts when the sun went down. Roast partridge wasn't bad as rations went, and neither was the odd rabbit. Rod drew the line at deer, though—he couldn't possibly have eaten one before it spoiled.
Then the game became scarce, the occasional homesteads began to look very run-down, and Rod began to suspect he was in country that the sorcerer had milked dry.
So, replete with chilblains and chapped lips, but strangely refreshed, Rod came to the eastern shore, and found himself looking up at the sorcerer's castle atop a sea cliff.
It wasn't hard to tell it was a sorcerer's castle—the clouds turned dark and thick as they came swirling behind its turrets, and emitted bolts of lightning that always struck the battlements but, strangely, never did any damage. Rod worked his way up the cliff face, climbing higher and higher into constant thunder. Not for the first time, he began to wish he had Fess along or, better yet, Modwis.
Then the first dragon attacked.
It wasn't much for size, only a couple of meters long, but it roared with great verve, and its two-foot tongue of flame was very impressive.
"Shoo!" Rod shouted, trying to bat it away with one hand while the other clung to a fingerhold. The dragon shied away, and Rod yelped, shaking his hand—that beast was hot't If it was an illusion, it was a very vivid one.
The dragon circled and came roaring back. Rod drew his sword, sighted along it at the dragon's mouth, and cried, "£>i brochette!"
Unfortunately, the beast didn't know French. It slammed into Rod full tilt, the sword ramming straight into its brain. It died on the instant, plummeting down the height—and dragging Rod's sword with it. He gritted his teeth and yanked back, knowing he'd be lost without the sword—but his poor numb fingers slipped from their hold, and sea reeled about him into the sky as he fell, howling in horror. It took the sight of the rocks shooting up at him to remind him he could levitate. He thought how repulsive the rocks looked and, sure enough, they repulsed him, slowing his fall, stopping him two feet from their hungry, jagged teeth, then raising him slowly back up. With a sigh of relief, he settled onto his former footholds, felt himself start to grow limp, and sternly reminded his body that it had a task to complete. It complied with protest, pulling itself back into semblance of firmness, and started climbing on up the cliff—at which point, his brain came into play and sneeringly reminded him that, if he could levitate to save himself, he could also levitate to get to the top more easily. Astounded, Rod stood still for a minute, then smiled, stepped off into space, thinking Up! and silently drifted toward the base of the keep.
Then the next dragon hit.
It came roaring down like a V-l rocket, flaming out of a darkening sky like a reminder of doom. Rod swooped aside, but the monster changed course and came flaming up his backside. Rod whooped, did a backflip, and landed just behind the lizard's batwings, shouting, "Hi-yo, Iguanodon!" The dragon took umbrage at the epithet and tried to twist back on itself enough to scorch Rod. Unfortunately, it succeeded; fortunately, he managed to lean aside just enough for the flame to miss him. Its heat fanned his arm—and he twitched a little farther away—a little bit too much. He tumbled sideways with a shout, knees still locked on the dragon's ribs, perforce twisting it with him. It bellowed butane, trying to twist itself back upright, and the upshot was a downshot, the two of them twirling and tumbling down through the air toward the jagged rocks below.
This won't do, Rod thought dizzily, and managed to catch the beast under the jaw. The flame cut off with a burp, and the beast fought wildly—but followed its head. Rod managed to get its nose pointed upward and rode, swooping and swi
rling, back toward the battlements, clinging for dear life, and trying to hold on to his dinner. Rugged cliff face gave way to granite blocks with a five-foot ledge between masonry and precipice; Rod felt a surge of panic as he had a sudden mental image of himself rising up above the battlements and turning into a pincushion as the sentries gleefully took the chance for a little target practice. Inspiration struck, and so did the dragon, as Rod turned its head toward the castle. It roared toward the granite full tilt and slammed headfirst into the wall. Rod jumped off and sagged against the wall as the dragon flipped backward, its eyes rolling and wings fluttering, to coast spiraling down. Rod didn't worry; it was only stunned, and would probably recover before it hit the rocks.
On the other hand, if it did, it might come back for him.
It behooved him to find some way to get into the castle before then. He shoved off and rose once more, then remembered his vision of skewering archers, and decided to settle down to exploring. He cast along the base of the wall, searching for some sort of opening—and, not surprisingly, came to the drawbridge.
However, he did feel surprised to find it down. Rod frowned up at the gate towers. "Got to be sentries," he muttered. "If they're going to be anywhere, they're going to be here."
But there was no sign of a single mortal sentry; the gate towers looked to be completely deserted, not to say ruined…
A single mortal sentry…
Rod shivered. This was Granclarte; what kinds of sentry might a sorcerer employ?
Well, there was only one way to find out—but with great caution. Rod stepped out onto the drawbridge, then carefully let his weight down onto the planks.
The wood crumbled away.
Rod drew back, heart thumping as he watched chunks of rotten wood splash into the greenish oily waters of the moat. Yes, definitely there was more to this drawbridge than met the eye—more threat, less substance. He thought of floating, felt his heels leave the ground, and stepped out onto the drawbridge again, pretending to walk, though he really drifted across. But he let his toes touch the wood for appearance's sake.
The Warlock Insane Page 14
