They came out of the stairwell into the Great Hall, and the imps spilled free in their wake, filling the hall with batwings and howling.
The sorcerer was ready for them—whatever kind of psionic warning system he had, had worked perfectly. The first fireball hit before they were five steps from the stairwell. Rod dodged aside, but the fireball swerved to follow, and swords yanked themselves off the walls to come arrowing toward Rod.
He saw them through clear syrup, for he was in a trance, willing entropy—and the fireball faded and died before it reached him. His own blade was out, parrying, and with a thought, he wrenched a shield off the wall. It flew to interpose itself between Rod and the other two swords, hovering as he slipped his arm through the old, stiff straps.
Then the floor heaved under his feet and, on top of everything else, he had to frantically levitate. The distraction was enough—one sword shot past his guard. He parried frantically, but it nicked his chest before he could swat it down.
Then the imps hit Brume, and the swords fell to the floor as the sorcerer shifted his attention to the little devils. They burst into flame, filling the air with shrieks of agony.
Rod set himself and marched toward the throne.
Brume glanced up, saw him, and a knife flicked itself from his belt, flying straight toward Rod.
Rod caught it on his shield, batted it out of the air—and the other knife he hadn't seen flashed before his eyes. He recoiled, falling back, and the blade shot by—but it opened his forehead on its way, and blood welled up. Rod bellowed with anger and leaped back to his feet, charging toward Brume through a rain of charred imps.
Brume turned to glare at him, and Rod quickly averted his eyes—he wouldn't be caught with the projected migraine again! But flame exploded all around Rod, and every nerve in his body screamed with pain. He ran toward the sorcerer, trying to break through the wall of fire, but it stayed with him, and he couldn't breathe, the flames had swallowed the oxygen…
Through the sheet of fire, he saw Big Tom's ghost towering over the sorcerer, fist slamming down toward the bald head. But the sorcerer's hands were sawing the air, and Big Tom disappeared like a soap bubble on the breeze.
Rod shouted in rage; a huge surge of anger tore out of him, and his envelope of flames scattered in shreds. He leaped up to the dais, his sword high…
Brume turned, hand flashing out as though throwing something, and a ball of force slammed into Rod's belly, knocking him down. For a moment, the world turned dim, the sorcerer's mocking laughter rang in his ears…
The laughter turned abruptly into a scream of pain and fear. Rod caught his breath, could see again—and saw a living torch, darting here and there at the sorcerer's head. Brume fended it off, but it came again, and again—and while it did, a lean young wolf clawed at his midriff, jaws snapping for his throat. A broadsword flashed through the air, cutting and slashing as it sang a song of bloodlust, filling all the room with its high, clear tone. The sorcerer had gained a shield somehow, but was hard put to block the sword cuts, the more so as a ball of lightning danced and dodged about him, seeking for an opening through the magical screen that he had managed to build, that glimmered about him like an aura.
Behind them stood their animating force—a fairy lady, impossibly tall, impossibly slender, an elongated woman with a coronet binding her silver rain of hair, her eyes hard and pitiless.
Brume fell back before her onslaught. He couldn't do anything else; he was barely able to keep his guard up, let alone strike.
Rod closed in, narrow-eyed but silent.
The sorcerer glanced his way, saw him, and howled in anger and frustration. Suddenly, flames sprang up around him—a veil of green fire, billowing up to hide Brume, then slackening and thinning into a green fog. It dimmed and diminished, thinned, and was gone.
So was the sorcerer.
Rod stood staring, amazed. "That is one trick that no esper has ever been able to do!"
Or had he? Brume might have teleported, under cover of his green fire. That was why it had dimmed and thinned, instead of dying down.
Or had he seen nothing but what really happened? That was the tricky part, the word "really."
"Am I in Grama-rye or Granclarte?"
"What is Granclarte?"
It was the fairy lady who spoke. Her voice was rich and melodious, and her eyes had become more human, but were still guarded and remote.
"Why, it is a fancy," Rod said slowly, turning to her, "or is at least just a figment of imagination. I thank you, lady, for your timely rescue. I doubt that I could have lived through that onslaught, without your aid."
" 'Twas given gladly, Lord Warlock—yet thanks is also due these instruments of mine." Her hand rested on the young wolf's head, her other hand cupping the ball of lightning. The torch flared by her side, and the singing sword balanced itself before her.
"Thanks due to things of enchantment, to your creations?" Rod frowned. "Well, if you say so. Sir Wolf—I thank you." Rod inclined his head and shoulders in a small bow. "And you also, Lightning, Torch, and Sword—I thank you all. Without your aid, I might have been a cinder."
The ball of lightning crackled in approval, and the torch flared brighter. The sword's pure tone rose to a high, clear pitch that rang on through the hall after the sword itself had ceased to sound.
"Though I greatly appreciate your assistance," Rod said, "I cannot help but wonder at it. What am I to you, milady, that you should aid me so?"
The wolf's jaw lolled as though it were laughing, but the lady only said, in cold, clear tones, "This vile sorcerer did cast awry the balance of Water, Earth, Air, and Fire within my domain. Therefore did I wish to move against him. Yet with all my force, I still could not break through his wards. Then thou didst come into his castle as though naught did prevent thee—and when thou didst come out from the dungeon, why, thou wast already within. Thou didst then so catch and hold the sorcerer's mind that I could come in past his wards, and these mine helpers. Thus did we come; thus were we right glad to aid thee.
"Yet he hath escaped," she went on, face hard, "and therefore must we beware. He will come again, I doubt not."
"He will," Rod agreed, "or I'm totally wrong about what he is."
The faerie tossed her head impatiently. " 'Tis plainly seen."
"Quite," Rod agreed. "Still, 1 don't think we should wait here for him to return. We should leave, milady, before he can bring back reinforcements."
The wolf sniffed and wrinkled its nose as it peered about into the gloom.
"Well said," the faerie agreed, "and the more so for that there may be all manner of venomous spirits that the sorcerer hath called up, but left here without restraint or ward, now that he hath fled. Aye, certes we should be out from this place."
Rod turned toward the portal. "And since you're leaving, could I ask a favor of you? Would you go to Runnymede, and see how Their Majesties fare? I'm afraid the rebellion might be too much for them, without supernatural aid."
The wolf stopped, staring, and the sword hummed with surprise. The faerie asked, "How didst thou know of the uprising?"
Rod shrugged. "Stood to reason." He didn't say whose. He ushered them out under the portcullis and came after them over the drawbridge. "It's probably nothing they can't handle—but they have some enemies who keep springing some nasty surprises on them."
"We shall go, then." The faerie frowned. "Yet I must profess concern for thee, mine ally. How wouldst thou fare an the sorcerer should come upon thee alone?"
"Oh, I have another ally who will forgive my last outburst, and come back to protect me, never fear. His patience and forgiveness are unlimited."
"Thou hast most amazing trust in thy deity."
"Only ultimately—I don't see much of a guarantee for immediate needs. But I had a different ally in mind."
"An thou sayest it." But the lady hesitated. "Still, an thou hast need, but cry aloud my name, and we will come."
"What name is that?" Rod asked politely.
"Mirabile."
"I thank you, Lady Mirabile." Rod bowed. "Be assured that I will call."
"Then for thy sake, I shall rescue thy monarchs." Mirabile drifted up into the air. "Farewell!"
Rod waved as she sped south, flanked by the ball of lightning and the torch, sword arrowing on ahead of her. The wolf looked up at Rod as though doubting his sanity (animals can be very perceptive), then gave a snort and turned away to lope south after his mistress.
Rod watched them go with a smile.
Then he turned back, to say goodbye to the one spirit that he was sure had not been raised by the sorcerer.
Mirabile and her ensemble flew down into a stand of pine trees. The faerie looked back over her shoulder, saw that Brume's castle was hidden from view, and said, "Well enough, children. We may come down to earth, and shed these forms." She suited the action to the word, drifting earthward like thistledown. As her toes touched, her form wavered and shimmered, and the faerie turned into a mother. She hopped off her broomstick with a sigh as the torch settled down beside her and turned into Cordelia. The ball of lightning resolved itself into Gregory; the singing sword keened down the scale to a snort, and turned into Geoffrey.
"Ere thou dost wear thy guise again," Cordelia told him, "thou must needs learn to hold a pitch."
Geoffrey's eyes narrowed. "Dost thou truly wish to burn?"
"Where is thy brother?" Gwen said sharply.
They looked up, startled. "We know not, Mama," Cordelia said after a moment. "How should we?"
"Belike hot afoot," Geoffrey said, scowling, "sin that his guise could not fly. He need not have stayed within it, though."
"An he had flown," Gregory pointed out, "Papa would ha' known him on the instant."
Before Geoffrey could think up a comeback, the lean and hungry one leaped out of the evergreens, came bounding up to Gwen, and sat up and begged, whining.
"Oh, be done with thy jesting!" Cordelia said crossly.
" Tis no matter for mirth, my son," Gwen agreed.
The wolf sighed. His form blurred, stretched, flexed— and Magnus stood before them. "And I thought the form became me, too."
" 'Tis thy very self," Cordelia assured him, "and that shall I tell all the lasses of the county."
Alarmed, Magnus started to answer, but his mother's forefinger got in the way. "Hush. We must think what to do in regard to thy father."
"He would make the matter so involved," Cordelia pouted. "Wherefore could he not simply have accepted the fairie's company? Wherefore had he need to send her away?" A shadow crossed her face. "Mama, now and again I wonder…"
"Do not," her mother assured her. "He hath the urge to hermitage within him, aye, but would not long abide the state."
"Doth he seek after holiness, then?" Gregory asked.
"Nay," Magnus answered. "In his heart, he doth think himself unworthy—and the greater we grow, the lesser doth he feel himself to be."
"Magnus!" Gwen gasped, scandalized, but Cordelia scoffed, "How couldst thou know such of him?"
"I am his son," Magnus answered simply.
His sister frowned, and his mother looked worried.
Then she shook her head and said, "Enough. His soul's his own, to care for. How shall we ward his body?"
"I was too slow," Geoffrey said with chagrin. "I should ha' slain the fellow outright." He turned to Magnus. "He cannot truly be a knight, can he?"
"Nay," Big Brother assured him, "and I doubt me not the King's Herald will ne'er have heard of his device. As to his armor, why! Any squire may wear a breastplate 'neath a robe, and carry a shield."
"What did Papa see him as?" Gregory wondered.
"He spoke of a sorcerer," Geoffrey reminded.
"Small wonder," said Cordelia, "sin that he is a warlock."
"A traitor!" Magnus's face was grim. "Would that I could ha' caught some shred of thought, of whence he did teleport himself!"
"He warded his mind well," Geoffrey agreed. " Tis no hedge-witch we face."
"At least, his henchmen will not follow Papa—they're affrighted." Cordelia sighed, shaking her head. "Thy husband is too good, Mama. I could wish he'd left them dead."
"Do not," Gwen assured her. "The master may be an agent of thy father's enemies from Tomorrow, yet I doubt me not his henchmen are but poor, unlettered peasant men, who, like as not, followed a promise of riches. Still, some stay in the royal dungeons may enrich their souls."
Magnus looked up in the castle's direction anxiously. "The soldiers should ha' come within the palisade, ere now."
"I doubt me not an they have," Gwen assured him. "Despite his troubles, the King was good as his word; his soldiers came as soon as we summoned, and have reaped a rich harvest of felons as they have followed in thy father's wake."
"As should we." Magnus's face was pinched with anxiety. "This false knight, Brume, may spring upon him at any moment."
"Not without an army at his back; he hath too much fear of Papa for that." But Geoffrey didn't exactly look sanguine, either.
"Here's a true how-de-do!" said Magnus. "His delusions are too deep for him to fare safely alone—yet an we throw over all to follow him, his enemies will hale down the Crown."
"And thy father's life's work with it," Gwen agreed. "Nay, that we cannot permit, either."
"Nor the grief that would come to all the poor folk, in the turmoil that would follow such a catastrophe," Cordelia added.
" 'Tis indeed a dilemma," Gregory agreed. "Yet are there not enough of us to do both?"
"Aye," Gwen said. "There is no aid for it. Magnus, thou shalt go back in thy guise to follow thy father, and protect him from any who seek to abuse him in his madness."
"And to protect any he might chance to abuse?" the young man returned.
"How now!" Geoffrey protested. "Wherefore doth this honor fall to Magnus, and not to me?"
"For that he's the eldest," Gwen said in a voice of steel that softened amazingly for the next sentence. "Bide thy time, my son. When thou art come to thy young manhood, thou, too, shalt undertake such a quest alone. Yet for now, thou art still a boy. Come away!" She turned to kiss Magnus on the forehead. "Fare thee well, my son—and call at the slightest sign of peril; thy brother Geoffrey, at least, may come to aid thee on the instant.''
"I shall be glad of his strong right arm, to ward my back," Magnus returned. "Godspeed, Mama—and thee, my sibs."
Cordelia took a quick peck at his cheek, too, while Geoffrey made a face, and Gregory watched, frowning faintly, as though he were puzzled. Then Magnus turned and loped off toward the forest, and Gwen turned to her younger three, saying, "Let us fly," and hopped on her broomstick. It wafted up and streaked away south, with Cordelia behind her and the boys to each side.
"Fess?"
"Here, Rod." The great black horse shouldered out of the underbrush and onto the road.
"I knew I could depend on you." But Rod felt very sheepish. "Sorry about that last outburst."
"There is no need for apology."
"But there is—my own need, at least. Will you accompany me again?"
"Surely, Rod." The robot stepped up beside him.
Rob mounted. "That was nice of Gwen and the kids, to disguise themselves like that.''
The robot was still for a moment, which, for him, amounted to major shock. "You saw through their disguises, Rod?"
"Not really—so they did serve their purpose; they allowed me to accept their help, before I figured out who they were. But it didn't take much deduction, after the fighting was over." Rod smiled. "It gives me a very warm feeling, to know that they insist on watching over me—especially when I'd just been so vile to them. Doesn't say much for their confidence in me, though."
"It does, in its way, Rod. They understood that you were ill when you spoke."
"I don't deserve them. Or you, for that matter."
"Or myself?"
Rod looked down, startled, and saw the dwarf striding along beside him. He grinned. "Hey, Modwis! G
ood of you to find me again! How'd you manage?"
"I but followed the sounds of clashing magics," the dwarf answered. "An thou wouldst wait for me, Lord Gallowglass, thou wouldst ease my toil."
"I will, I promise. Sure you want to come along on this quest, though?"
"I am still wroth that I missed my chance to battle Brume," the dwarf answered. "Whither goest thou?"
"North," Rod said, "until Brume finds me again. Feel like baiting the foe?"
Modwis looked up quickly, then slowly smiled. "Aye, that I do. Let us march."
Chapter Seventeen
By midmorning, Rod was becoming acutely aware that they had set out on this jaunt without food or water. "Y'know, Modwis, I'm getting a mite peckish."
The dwarf took a sling from his pouch and unwound the strings. "Shall I seek us a brace of partridges?"
Rod's mouth watered. "Sounds good. Know how to cook 'em?"
"Aye. 'Twill be some time, though—I must seek and bait them first."
"That's okay, I can use a break. Say, can I help?"
The dwarf flashed him a grin. "I shall hunt more quickly alone—yet I thank thee."
"However you like." Rod reined in by a stream. "I'll get the fire going."
"An thou wilt." Modwis dismounted and tied his donkey to a bush. "Ere noon, we shall dine. Wish me a hunter's luck."
"Hunter's luck!" Rod called, and waved a hand as Modwis rode away into the wood. Then he went down to the stream.
"Be careful, Rod."
"I will, Fess—but I'm thirsty enough to drink water now." Rod took up a fallen branch and brought its end down sharply on the ice. It cracked through; water welled up, and Rod knelt to drink.
And froze—for he saw the top of a shaven head with a knot of hair in the center, floating just below the water. He backed away, but the head rose up out of the ice, with a bull neck and a massive torso beneath it. It was a face with hard, narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and long, drooping black moustaches. Adrenaline tuned Rod's system. What's a Mongol doing here?
The Warlock Insane Page 17
