The Warlock Insane

by Christopher Stasheff

  The nun shrugged. "A monk taught me of it, long years ago; 'twas his knowledge showed me my calling to this House."

  "You mean you started the convent?"

  "Nay; it hath been here nearly two hundreds of years, and hath several buildings; thou art in our guesthouse. We call ourselves the Order of Cassettes, belike from our call to healing, especially the head and the mind it contains. Thou dost know that 'casse tete' doth mean a broken head, dost thou not?"

  Rod did, but the woman obviously didn't know what a cassette was. "You're not officially of the Order of Saint Vidicon, are you?"

  "Nay; we have no formal charter, though we do have our Rule. We are only a group of women who wish to live apart from the world, yet to go out and give aid where we may."

  Rod nodded. "Who's the abbess?"

  "None; we are not so clear in our ranks and standing as that. We are, as I say, but a group of women who live like sisters; yet the others do call me 'Mother.' I know not whether they jest, yet am honored."

  "Mother Paterna Testa, then." Rod had a notion the appellation was anything but a joke. "Then I'll call you 'Mother,' too, while I'm your guest."

  " 'Tis not needful."

  "Yes, it is." Rod frowned, pressing a hand against his forehead; the ache was dulled, but still there. "I wonder whether I've stopped hallucinating or not—the monks never mentioned a convent to me."

  "They wot not of it, I trust; we ha' ne'er sent to tell them, nor have we wish to. We desire only to be left to do our work in peace."

  "Without having to take orders from the abbot, eh?"

  "There is that," Mother Paterna Testa admitted, "though I've more concern that he might bid us disband. Yet whiles we are not truly a convent, but only call ourselves such, we cannot come under his authority, to make or break."

  Rod nodded. "I can understand that—and although the present abbot's a good and understanding young man, his successor might not be. No, I can see your point."

  "Yet I assure thee, we are nonetheless real for all that."

  Rod shrugged. "That's what the other hallucinations thought, too."

  "Aye, but did they know that thou didst see things that were not there?"

  "I never told them," Rod admitted. "But I have told you—so why don't you vanish?"

  "Because I am real, whether thou art here or no."

  The last statement had an uncomfortably philosophical ring to it. Rod eyed Mother Paterna Testa warily.

  "Yet now tell me," the good woman pressed, "why thou dost roam the wild wood, an thou dost know thou art ill in thy mind."

  "Why, that's just the reason, don't you see? I start feeling my hallucinations are out to get me, so I fight back—and I might hurt someone real that way. Especially my wife and children." He struggled to sit up. "That reminds me—my boy. The young man with the horse. Where…"

  The room lurched, and he found himself staring up at the ceiling with a chill wet cloth on his forehead again. "Thou must needs rest for some hours yet,'* Mother Paterna Testa assured him. "We shall bring thy son to thee presently—yet first I must speak more of thine illness."

  Rod shrugged. "It's only chemical—at least, according to the ghost of an old friend I met along the way." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but Mother Paterna Testa nodded, unruffled. "What said this spectre?"

  "Why, that the chestnut I ate was made of witch-moss, and my system didn't know how to handle it."

  " 'Tis likely true," the nun agreed, "for look you, there are many who are witch-moss crafters unbeknownst, even to themselves—and the eldritch substance, when in their blood, doth shape itself to the forms that come from that part of our minds that doth dream. Thus do they see waking dreams, and cannot rule them."

  That did pretty much agree with Big Tom's hypothesis. "So how do I get well, Mother?"

  The nun reached under the table again and produced a little jar. She took a parchment cover off it and dipped her finger in, saying, "This is a fairy ointment, brought to us by the Wee Folk, for no better reason than that they did applaud our healing. They use it themselves, that they may see through the glamours they shape, and not thereby be entrapped." With a quick, deft movement, she touched Rod's eyes directly above the lower lid, so quickly that he was just pulling his head back as she was sitting up, the pot in her lap, smiling like the Mona Lisa. "Thou wilt now see all things as they truly are."

  Rod suspected the cure was mostly psychological, if it did any good at all—why else the tale about the Little People?—but he was ready to try anything. "Thank you, Mother.''

  "I am glad to do it," she said simply. "Wouldst thou now see thy son?"

  "I would," Rod said emphatically.

  The Mother Paterna Testa bent over to put the jar away and stood up, drawing out from underneath the table a pouch that she slipped over her shoulder. She turned away to the door, still with her gentle, enigmatic smile, and opened it.

  The princess stood there, clad in pastel clouds, coronet glowing. "I greet thee, Mother. What of our patient?"

  "He doth mend," the nun answered, and turned to Rod. "This is our most constant patron, gentleman—the Countess Bene."

  "My pleasure, Countess." Rod struggled up on one elbow, but the countess crossed to him with a quick, lithe stride, saying, "Do not rise for courtesy, I prithee. Thou hast need of rest."

  "So." Rod sank back. "You weren't a hallucination, either.''

  The countess raised her eyebrows. "Thou didst think me a dream?"

  "Yes, and the Mother, here. I've been seeing things, you understand. For example, I thought your convent was a castle of marble so pure that anyone looking into its walls would see himself as he truly is."

  The countess raised her eyebrows. "A puissant charm would that be, and a blessing."

  "Not completely," Rod assured her.

  "Is any blessing unmixed?" But the countess didn't give him time to answer—she turned away toward the door. "I must be about my lord's affairs, yet let me first usher in one who did speak of thee. Young man, is this the father thou didst seek?"

  Magnus stepped in through the door, tense as a lute string. When he saw Rod looking back at him, he almost sagged with relief. Then he was beside the bed, kneeling, holding his father's hand in his own. "Thy pardon, sir! I did seek to mount guard over thee, but some churl whose mind was hidden did come upon me unawares and smite me senseless!"

  "No pardon needed, I assure you." Rod clapped the boy on the shoulder, and couldn't stop the grin. "So. You thought it was your turn to guard me, huh?"

  Magnus flushed and lowered his eyes.

  "Nice to know," Rod said gently. "Very nice to know. But then, I always have been glad to have you by my side."

  Magnus looked up again, saw the unmistakable look of pride in his father's eyes, and smiled again.

  "And thanks for taking care of Fess," Rod added. "I wasn't quite up to it."

  "Nay." Magnus's face darkened with anxiety. "What struck thee, sir? The elf did speak of thy battling six, with no aid."

  "He underrates himself," Rod grunted, "and he forgot about Fess." But he wondered—had Beaubras's deeds really been his own?

  There was a knock at the door again.

  Mother Paterna Testa opened it. A younger nun stood just outside. "Mother, there are men come before the wall, and they call for thy patient."

  "I shall come."

  "Me, too." Rod struggled up.

  "Nay," Mother Paterna Testa commanded.

  "I tell you, I can walk!" Rod felt the surge of adrenaline. "Give me a hand, son." Rod didn't wait; he grabbed Magnus's shoulder and hoisted himself up.

  "Thou hast lost blood, good gentleman! Thou must needs rest!"

  Rod exchanged a glance with Magnus, then turned back to Mother Paterna Testa. "Can you take a shock? Without thinking I'm some sort of monster, that is."

  The nun frowned. "I am a healer; I can accustom myself. Of what dost thou speak?"

  Rod let the outside world go hang, and paid attention to
rejecting the floor. He drifted upward six inches.

  Mother Paterna Testa's eyes widened. Slowly, she nodded. "Thou art a warlock, then."

  "Sorry about that."

  "Rejoice—'tis a gift from God." The nun turned away to the door. "As thou wilt have it, then. Come with us."

  She followed the nun out, across the cloister to the chapel, went in, and climbed up into the steeple. The top chamber held a large bell. They went around it to look out a high, thin window.

  Below them, in front of the convent gates, a half-dozen men-at-arms leaned on their spears. Actually, they looked like well-to-do bandits—each wearing different colors and garments, but none ragged. Before them, a tall man in a red robe paced impatiently. His head was bald, and he was in his prime, with a sword at his waist, but Rod would have known that face anywhere.

  "Brume!" Rod cried.

  "Thou dost know him, then?"

  "You bet I do! He's the sorcerer who cast this whole madness on me!"

  Magnus stared; then his eyes narrowed.

  Mother Paterna Testa nodded. "And behind him?"

  "I see a dozen mercenaries," Rod answered. "What else could I see?"

  "An ogre and trolls," the nun answered. "These are they who set upon thee last night."

  Rod's gaze whipped back to the men. Then he said, "Well. Nice to know I'm in touch with reality again." He didn't say whether or not it was a pleasant sensation.

  Mother Paterna Testa smiled with satisfaction. "Thou didst lay about thee like a veritable demon, like two men or three. The ointment has cured thy sight, then."

  "It certainly has. But how could a simple paste do so much?"

  " 'Tis that part of thy mind that doth make dreams," the nun reminded him. "The witch-moss doth lend it strength, doth enhance its power, so that thy waking mind doth perceive the dreams it doth show. Yet now thou hast had fairy ointment on thine eyes, and whatsoever the Wee Folk did place in it hath convinced thy mind that thou wilt no longer have waking dreams, and thereby doth banish any vision that the witch-moss within thee doth show."

  Rod frowned, wondering about residual effects, but he didn't want to know—that word "enhance" worried him.

  The man in the red robe turned toward the gate with a gesture of exasperation and called, "Wilt thou speak or not? We know thou hast ta'en the High Warlock within thy wall, sore wounded! Surrender him now, or it shall go hard!"

  Mother Paterna Testa looked up at Rod in mild surprise. "So, then. Thou art the High Warlock."

  "Sorry not to mention it," Rod muttered. "It's just that some clergy have strong ideas about people like me."

  "We know that magic is a gift from God, and that on this Isle of Gramarye, those whom the simple folk call 'warlock' are no more like to be wicked than any other men. Why doth this man seek thee?"

  "To kill him," Magnus grated. "My father doth stand between him and the power he doth seek."

  Rod stood immobile.

  " 'Tis true, what the lad doth say?" the nun asked quietly.

  Rod nodded. "This man is part of a crew that seek to overthrow the King and Queen. So far, the only thing that's been stopping them is me and my family."

  The nun stood quiet for a moment. Then she turned and called out, "The High Warlock hath claimed the sanctuary of the Church! He shall have it! And thou must needs honor this sanctuary; it must not be violated, at thy soul's peril!"

  The men behind Brume stirred and muttered uneasily, but he turned on them, crying, "What! Wilt thou be frightened by a nurse's fable? Dost truly think thou hast souls to imperil?"

  The men stopped stirring, but they glared at him, stone-faced.

  Mother Paterna Testa relaxed.

  Brume tossed his head, exasperated. "Well enough, then! Bring the stake, and the woman!"

  This, the men were willing enough to do. They ran into the forest and ran back a moment later with a post and some bundles of wood. They jammed the stake into a hole in the ground that they had already dug and piled sticks around it. Then another pair hustled a woman in pastel robes and a coronet out of the forest.

  Mother Paterna Testa gasped. "The countess!"

  "She rode out a half hour since," said the nun beside her, pale-faced. "She did say her lord did need her ere noon. We begged her to take escort, but she would not hear of it!"

  The countess fought them every inch of the way, kicking and biting, but the bandits brought her up onto the pile of wood and bound her to the post. Brume turned back to the convent, a sneering grin on his face. "Send out the High Warlock, or thy patron shall go to her ancestors!"

  The nuns' faces were pale, but the countess herself cried, "Do not! Thou must needs not violate sanctuary!"

  "That's right, you mustn't." Rod turned back to the stairwell. "So I'll go."

  "Sisters!" Mother Paterna Testa called, and two nuns stepped together, to block Rod's path. He turned back to Mother Paterna Testa, his face thunderous. "I'm not that important."

  "Thou hast had thy warning!" Brume shouted, and threw a torch into the kindling. Flame billowed up, and smoke rose in a shroud.

  "See!" Brume gestured. "Her ancestors come to escort her!"

  And as they gazed, the smoke formed itself into amorphous heads with empty eyes and moaning mouths, surging up toward heaven.

  The nuns cried out, but Rod called, "Don't let him scare you! We know he's a projective—and smoke is even easier to move around than witch-moss! He's making those heads, not her ancestors!"

  "But she will burn!" moaned one of the nuns.

  "Not if I go," Rod answered, and dove out the steeple window.

  "Papa!" Magnus protested, and plunged out after him. "Thou hast not thy full strength! Thou shalt fall!"

  But Rod had leveled off and was flying nicely. He looked back over his shoulder. "What was that?"

  Magnus gulped and said, "Naught."

  Rod landed with a jolt, right in front of Brume, sword out and thrusting. Brume parried, riposted, and returned the thrust. Rod leaned aside and thought, Fess!

  The monastery gates burst open, and the great black horse charged out with a screaming whinny.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rod was rather busy cutting and parrying, but he did manage the occasional glimpse out of the corner of his eye. Fess was knocking over bandits with his front hooves, then reaching out to grasp a collar with his teeth and toss the man aside. They were coming at him from all directions, of course, which would ordinarily have given him a seizure—but Magnus was on his back, keeping three captured swords busy, two with his hands and one behind him with his mind, fending off culprits until Fess could take care of them.

  Then a flying squad charged out of the underbrush and hit the convent wall. Since it was only eight feet high, they were up and over in a matter of seconds.

  Magnus whirled, appalled.

  In the steeple, Mother Paterna Testa narrowed her eyes. "Aid me, Sister Lynne."

  As the bandits hurdled the wall, their feet shot out from under them, and they kept hurdling, slamming down to the ground on their backs.

  Then Modwis rose up with his mace.

  The Mother Superior squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head sadly. "Pray God they may live!"

  "Amen," murmured Sister Lynne.

  But Magnus's concentration had flagged, and bandits hit Fess from all four sides. Magnus shouted and lashed out with his right and back swords, and the bandits there danced away as Fess reached for the one in front while he tried to strike a hoof at the one on the left, then caught the one in the front while he lashed out with his hind legs— and went stiff.

  Magnus gave a cry of anger and exasperation, and the soldiers in front of him shot bodily off the ground and went flying toward the trees.

  Meanwhile, Rod was cutting and thrusting with panic and anger, afraid for the poor, innocent countess. Already she was coughing in the smoke of her bogus ancestors.

  Then a brisk breeze whipped up and blew the ghosts away to her right.

  Rod didn't w
ant to know where the breeze had come from, but he was afraid he knew, anyway. He blocked a cut, parried a thrust, riposted, and thrust, scoring Brume's shoulder. The sorcerer shouted an oath and leaped back, then narrowed his eyes and growled.

  Yes, growled—and right about then, the elves' ointment must have worn off, because he seemed to grow and swell, towering eight feet above Rod with a fanged mouth and a huge club.

  The ogre was back.

  All about them, trolls shambled, stabbing with crude spears—and the young wolf danced about them, leaping in to slash with his teeth, then darting out before they could strike.

  He was in horrible danger, and Rod's heart lurched. "Magnus! Get out of here, quick…"

  The instant's distraction was enough. The huge club smashed down. Rod saw it coming, too late to more than lean away, and the bludgeon smashed into his side, sending him flying. He landed with cracking and crunching, and extra pains shot up his back and sides. Flame danced by his head, and he realized, with horror, that he'd fallen into the pyre around the stake. He struggled to rise—but even as he did, he realized the flames hadn't grown, and were even now dying. He scrambled to his feet, racked with pain, the world swimming about him, and staggered toward the ogre, aiming his sword at its navel…

  Modwis was there in front of him, mace slamming into the ogre's kneecap.

  The ogre howled and fell back, clasping at its collarbone.

  "Back, quickly!" Modwis tugged at Rod.

  "But… but…" The scene swam in front of him, but Rod remembered priorities. "The countess…"

  "She is freed, and safe! Quickly, back through the gate!"

  Rod turned, startled. Sure enough, the stake was empty, and the flames were dead.

  He didn't ask—he yielded and backed in through the gate.

  The ogre roared and charged.

  Flame exploded, filling the gateway.

  The ogre scrabbled to a stop, and the trolls fell back, muttering fearfully.

  Rod had a second to think. What was he supposed to do when the hallucinations hit again? And who had told him…Oh, yes, Saint John. And he was supposed to remember opening the vial, that was right. He closed his eyes for a second, and the vision was there, clear and vivid, a huge pile of test tubes, and one of them right under his nose, its fumes wreathing his head…