“ ‘Tis thou who shouldst be stifled!” Agatha glowered at Rod. “No doubt Harold’s meddling doth serve some plan of thine.”
“Could be, could be.” Rod watched an alcohol lamp glow to life under the alembic. “Knocking probably wouldn’t have done much good anyway, really. Galen strikes me as the type to be so absorbed in his research that…”
“My lord.” Gwen hooked fingers around his forearm. “I mislike the fashion in which that brew doth bubble.”
“Nothing to be worried about, I’m sure.” But Ron glanced nervously at some test tubes on another table, which had begun to dance, pouring another greenish liquid back and forth from one to another. They finally settled down, but…
“That vial, too, doth bubble,” Agatha growled. “Ho, son of mine! What dost thou?”
Behind them, glass clinked again. They whirled about to see a retort sliding its nose into a glass coil. Flame ignited under the retort, and water began to drip from a hole in a bucket suspended over the bench, spattering on the glass coil.
“My lord,” Gwen said nervously, “that brew doth bubble most marvelously now. Art thou certain that Harold doth know his own deeds?”
Rod was sure Harold knew what he was doing, all right. In fact, he was even sure that Harold was a lot more sophisticated, and a lot more devious, than Rod had given him credit for. And suspense was an integral part of the maneuver, pushing it close to the line…
But not this close! He leaped toward the alembic. Gasses being produced in the presence of open flame bothered him.
“What dost thou?”
The words boomed through the chamber, and Galen towered in the doorway, blue robe, white beard, and red face. He took in the situation at a glance, then darted to the alembic to dampen the fire, dashed to seize the test tube and throw it into a tub of water, then leaped to douse the lamp under the retort.
“Thou dost move most spryly,” Agatha crooned, “for a dotard.”
The wizard turned to glare at her, leaning against the table, trembling. His voice shook with anger. “Vile crone! Art so envious of my labors that thou must needs seek to destroy my Tower?”
“Assuredly, ‘twas naught so desperate as that,” Gwen protested.
Galen turned a red glower on her. “Nay, she hath not so much knowledge as that—though her mischief could have laid this room waste, and the years of glassblowing and investigating that it doth contain!” His eyes narrowed as they returned to Agatha. “I do see that ne’er should I ha’ given thee succor—for now thou’lt spare me not one moment’s peace!”
Agatha started a retort of her own, but Rod got in ahead of her. “Uh, well—not really.”
The wizard’s glare swiveled toward him. “Thou dost know little of this haggard beldam, Lord Warlock, an thou dost think she could endure to leave one in peace.”
Agatha took a breath, but Rod was faster again. “Well, y’ see—it wasn’t really her idea to come back here.”
“Indeed?” The question fumed sarcasm. “ ‘Twas thy good wife’s, I doubt me not.”
“Wrong again,” Rod said brightly. “It was mine. And Agatha had nothing to do with tinkering with your lab.”
Galen was silent for a pace. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ truth, I should ha’ seen that she doth lack even so much knowledge as to play so learned a vandal. Was it thou didst seek explosion, Lord Warlock? Why, then?”
“ ‘Cause I didn’t think you’d pay any attention to a knock on the door,” Rod explained, “except maybe to say, ‘Go away.’ ”
Galen nodded slowly. “So, thou didst court disaster to bring me out from my researches long enough to bandy words with thee.”
“That’s the right motive,” Rod agreed, “but the wrong culprit. Actually, not one single one of us laid a finger on your glassware.”
Galen glanced quickly at the two witches. “Thou’lt not have me believe they took such risks, doing such finely detailed work, with only their minds?”
“Not that they couldn’t have,” Rod hastened to point out. “I’ve seen my wife make grains of wheat dance.” He smiled fondly, remembering the look on Magnus’s face when Gwen did it. “And Agatha’s admitted she’s healed wounds by making the tiniest tissues flow back together—but this time neither of them did.”
“Assuredly, not thou …”
“ ‘Twas thy son,” Agatha grated.
The laboratory was silent as the old wizard stared into her eyes, the color draining from his face.
Then it flooded back, and he erupted. “What vile falsehood is this? What deception dost thou seek to work now, thou hag with no principle to thy name of repute? How dost thou seek to work on my heart with so blatant a lie? Depraved, evil witch! Thou hast no joy in life but the wreaking of others’ misery! Fool I was, to ever look on thy face, greater fool to e’er seek to aid thee! Get thee gone, get thee hence!” His trembling arm reared up to cast a curse that would blast her. “Get thee to…”
“It’s the truth,” Rod snapped.
Galen stared at him for the space of a heartbeat.
It was long enough to get a word in. “He’s the son of another Galen, and another Agatha, in another world just like this one. You know there are other universes, don’t you?”
Galen’s arm hung aloft, forgotten; excitement kindled in his eyes. “I had suspected it, aye—the whiles my body did lie like to wood, and my spirit lay open to every slightest impress. Distantly did I perceive it, dimly through chaos, a curving presence that… But nay, what nonsense is this! Dost thou seek to tell me that, in one such other universe, I do live again?”
“ ‘Again’ might be stretching it,” Rod hedged, “especially since your opposite number is dead now. But that a Galen, just like you, actually did live, yes—except he seems to have made a different choice when he was a youth.”
Galen said nothing, but his gaze strayed to Agatha.
She returned it, her face like flint.
“For there was an Agatha in that other universe, too,” Rod said softly, “and they met, and married, and she bore a son.”
Galen still watched Agatha, his expression blank.
“They named the son Harold,” Rod went on, “and he grew to be a fine young warlock—but more ‘war’ than ‘lock.’ Apparently, he enlisted, and fought in quite a few battles. He survived, but his parents passed away—probably from sheer worry, with a son in the infantry…”
Galen snapped out of his trance. “Do not seek to cozen me, Master Warlock! How could they have died, when this Agatha and I…” His voice dwindled and his gaze drifted as he slid toward the new thought.
“Time is no ranker, Master Wizard; he’s under no compulsion to march at the same pace in each place he invests. But more importantly, events can differ in different universes—or Harold would never have been born. And if the Galen and Agatha of his universe could marry, they could also die—from accident, or disease, or perhaps even one of those battles that their son survived. I’m sure he’d be willing to tell you, if you asked him.”
Galen glanced quickly about the chamber, and seemed to solidify inside his own skin.
“Try,” Rod breathed. “Gwen can’t hear him, nor can any of the other witches—save Agatha. But if you’re the analog of his father, you should be able to…”
“Nay!” Galen boomed. “Am I become so credulous as to hearken to the tales of a stripling of thirty?”
“Thirty-two,” Rod corrected.
“A child, scarcely more! I credit not a word of this tale of thine!”
“Ah, but we haven’t come to the evidence yet.” Rod grinned. “Because, you see, Harold didn’t survive one of those battles.”
Galen’s face neutralized again.
“He was wounded, and badly,” Rod pressed. “He barely managed to crawl into a cave and collapse there—and his spirit drifted loose. But his body didn’t. No, it lay in a lasting, deathlike sleep; so his spirit had no living body to inhabit, but also had not been freed by death and couldn’t soar to seek He
aven. But that spirit was a warlock, so it didn’t have to just haunt the cave where its body lay. No, it went adventuring—out into the realm of chaos, seeking out that curving presence you spoke of, searching for its parents’ spirits, seeking aid…”
“And found them,” Galen finished in a harsh whisper.
Rod nodded. “One, at least—and now he’s found the other.”
Galen’s glances darted around the chamber again; he shuddered, shrinking more tightly into his robes. Slowly then, his frosty glare returned to Rod. “Thou hadst no need to speak of this to me, Lord Warlock. ‘Twill yield thee no profit.”
“Well, I did think Harold deserved a chance to at least try to meet you—as you became in this universe. Just in case.”
Galen held his glare, refusing the bait.
“We have the beastmen bottled up, for the time being,” Rod explained, “but they’re likely to come charging out any minute, trying to freeze our soldiers with their Evil Eye. Our young warlocks and witches will try to counter it with their own power, feeding it through our soldiers. They wouldn’t stand a chance against the beastmen’s power by themselves—but they’ll have my wife and Agatha to support them.”
“Aye, and we’re like to have our minds blasted for our pains,” Agatha ground out, “for some monster that we wot not of doth send them greater power with each thunderbolt. Though we might stand against them and win, if thou wert beside us.”
“And wherefore should I be?” Galen’s voice was flat with contempt. “Wherefore should I aid the peasant folk who racked and tortured me in my youth? Wherefore ought I aid their children and grandchildren who, ever and anon all these long years, have marched against me, seeking to tear down my Dark Tower and burn me at the stake? Nay, thou softhearted fool! Go to thy death for the sake of those that hate thee, an thou wishest—but look not for me to accompany thee!”
“Nay, I do not!” Agatha’s eyes glittered with contempt. “Yet, there’s one who’s man enough to do so, to bear up with me under that fell onslaught.”
Galen stared at her, frozen.
“Harold’s a dutiful son,” Rod murmured. “I thought you might like the chance to get acquainted with him.” He left the logical consequence unsaid. Could a spirit be destroyed? He hoped he wouldn’t find out.
“I credit not one single syllable!” Galen hissed. “ ‘Tis but a scheme to cozen me into placing all at risk for them who like me not!” He turned back to Rod. “Thou dost amaze me, Lord Warlock; for even here, in my hermitage, I had heard thy repute and I had thought thee lord of greater intellect than this. Canst thou author no stronger scheme to gain mine aid, no subtle, devious chain of ruses?”
“Why bother?” Rod answered with the ghost of a smile. “The truth is always more persuasive.”
Galen’s face darkened with anger. His arm lifted, forefinger upraised, to focus his powers for teleporting them away. Then, suddenly, his head snapped about, eyes wide in shock for a moment before they squeezed shut in denial.
Agatha winced too, but she grinned. “Ah, then! That shout did pierce even thy strong shield!”
The wizard turned his glare to her. “I know not what trickery thou hast garnered to thus simulate another’s mind…”
“Oh, aye, ‘tis trickery indeed! Oh, I have studied for years to fashion the feel and texture of another’s mind, and all for this moment!” Agatha turned her head and spat. “Lord Warlock, let us depart; for I sicken of striving to speak sense unto one who doth seek to deafen his own ears!”
“Aye, get thee hence,” Galen intoned, “for thy scheme hath failed! Get thee hence, and come not hither again!”
“Oh, all right!” Rod shuddered at the thought of another broomstick ride. “I was kinda hoping to catch the express…”
“Thou wilt come to joy in it, husband,” Gwen assured him, pushing past, “if thou canst but have faith in me.”
“Faith?” Rod bleated, wounded. “I trust you implicitly!”
“Then thou’lt assuredly not fear, for ‘tis my power that doth bear thee up.” Gwen flashed him an insouciant smile.
“All right, all right!” Rod held his hands up in surrender. “You win—I’ll get used to it. After you, beldam.”
Agatha hesitated a moment longer, trying to pierce Galen’s impenetrable stare with her whetted glance, but turned away in disgust. “Aye, let him remain here in dry rot, sin that he doth wish it!” She stormed past Rod, through the curtains, and up the stair.
Rod glanced back just before dropping the curtain, to gaze at Galen, standing frozen in the middle of his laboratory, staring off into space, alone, imprisoned within his own invisible wall.
Rod clung to the broomstick for dear life, telling himself sternly that he was not scared, that staring at the gray clouds over Gwen’s shoulder, hoping desperately for sight of Tuan’s tent, was just the result of boredom. But it didn’t work; his stomach didn’t unclench, and the only object ahead was Agatha, bobbing on her broomstick.
Then, suddenly, there was a dot in the sky two points off Agatha’s starboard bow. Rod stared, forgetting to be afraid. “Gwen—do you see what I see?”
“Aye, my lord. It doth wear a human aspect.”
It did indeed. As the dot loomed closer, it grew into a teenage boy in doublet and hose, waving his cap frantically.
“Human,” Rod agreed. “In fact, I think it’s Leonatus. Isn’t he a little young to be out teleporting alone?”
“He is sixteen now,” Gwen reminded. “Their ages do not stand still for us, my lord.”
“They don’t stand for much of anything, now that you mention it—and I suppose he is old enough to be a messenger. See how close you can come, Gwen; I think he wants to talk.”
Gwen swooped around the youth in a tight hairpin turn, considerably faster than Rod’s stomach did. “Hail, Leonatus!” she cried—which was lucky, because Rod was swallowing heavily at the moment. “How dost thou?” “Anxiously, fair Gwendylon,” the teenager answered. “Stormclouds lower o’er the bank of the Fleuve, and the beastmen form their battle-line!”
“I knew there was something in the air!” Rod cried. Ozone, probably. “Go tell your comrades to hold the fort, Leonatus! We’ll be there posthaste!” Especially since the post was currently air mail.
“Aye, my lord!” But the youth looked puzzled. “What is a ‘fort’?”
“A strong place,” Rod answered, “and the idea is to catch your enemy between it and a rock.”
“An thou dost say it, Lord Warlock.” Leonatus looked confused, but he said manfully, “I shall bear word to them,” and disappeared with a small thunderclap.
Rod muttered, “Fess, we’re coming in at full speed. Meet me at the cliff-top.”
“I am tethered, Rod,” the robot’s voice reminded him.
Rod shrugged. “So stretch it tight. When you’re at the end of your tether, snap it and join me.”
They dropped down to land at the witches’ tent, just as the first few drops of rain fell.
“How fare the young folk?” Agatha cried.
“Scared as hell,” Rod called back. “Will they ever be glad to see you!” He jumped off the broomstick and caught up his wife for a brief but very deep kiss.
“My lord!” She blushed prettily. “I had scarcely expected…”
“Just needed a little reminder of what I’ve got to come home to.” Rod gave her a quick squeeze. “Good luck, darling.” Then he whirled and pounded away through the drizzle.
He halted at the edge of the cliff-top by the river, staring down. He was just in time to see the first wave of beastmen spill over their earthworks and lope away up the river valley, shields high and battle-axes swinging. Rod frowned, looking around for the Gramarye army. Where was it?
There, just barely visible through the drizzle, was a dark, churning mass, moving away upstream.
“Fess!”
“Here, Rod.”
Rod whirled—and saw the great black horsehead just two feet behind him. He jumped back, start
led—then remembered the sheer drop behind him and skittered forward to slam foot into stirrup and swing up onto the robot-horse’s back. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“I do have radar.” Fess’s tone was mild reproof. “Shall we go, Rod? You are needed upstream.”
“Of course!” And, as the great black horse sprang into a canter, “What’s going on?”
“Good tactics.” The robot’s tone was one of respect, even admiration. He cantered down the slope, murmuring, “Perhaps Tuan should explain it to you himself.”
Rod scarcely had time to protest before they had caught up with the army. Everything was roaring confusion—the clanging clash of steel, the tramping squelch of boots in ground that had already begun to turn to mud, the bawling of sergeants’ orders, and the whinnies of the knights’ horses. Rod looked all about him everywhere, but saw no sign of panic. Sure, here and there the younger faces were filled with dread and the older ones were locked in grim determination and the army as a whole was moving steadily away from the beastmen—but it was definitely a retreat, and not a rout.
“Why?” Rod snapped.
“Tuan has ordered it,” Fess answered, “and wisely, in my opinion.”
“Take me to him!”
They found the King at the rear, for once, since that was the part of the army closest to the enemy. “They fall back on the left flank!” he bawled. “Bid Sir Maris speed them; for stragglers will surely become corpses!”
The courier nodded and darted away through the rain.
“Hail, sovereign lord!” Rod called.
Tuan looked up, and his face lit with relief. “Lord Warlock! Praise Heaven thou’rt come!”
“Serves you right for inviting me. Why the retreat, Tuan?”
“Assuredly thou dost jest, Lord Warlock! Dost thou not feel the rain upon thee? We cannot stand against them when lightning may strike!”
“But if we don’t,” Rod pointed out, “they’ll just keep marching as long as it rains.”
Tuan nodded. “The thought had occurred to me.”
“Uh—this could be a good way to lose a kingdom…”
“Of this, too, I am mindful. Therefore, we shall turn and stand—but not until they are certain we’re routed.”
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