A Wizard In Absentia

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Down!" Magnus shouted, taking cover behind the curtain wall, but his yell was drowned by the thunder of the energy projectors, then by the chorus of screams as peasant tents and lean-tos blazed. The smell of burning flesh rose in the air, smoke boiled forth, and the lightnings stabbed again with the thunder about them. By their light, Magnus saw boats shooting out from the shore, crammed with quaking serf soldiers whose sergeants drove them with whips while officers stood behind with muskets, ready to kill any sergeant who hesitated.

  Then he had to duck down again—and this time, he sought with his mind. Moral qualms had drowned in screaming, and the time for deftness and delicacy was past. He probed into the engine of the flier overhead and wrenched. Above him, he heard an explosion; then a meteor plunged toward the lake, spitting fire. He let it go, searched, found the other, and gave it the same treatment. As soon as he heard the explosion, his mind was out and questing toward the horizon, orienting on the mind of a gunner, then sliding into the machine he tended, altering the angle of a coil so that the magnetic bottle inside tilted, its mouth swerving against the side of the breech, instead of being open to the muzzle . . .

  A miniature sun rose on the ridge line, and the gunners' thoughts ceased. Then a huge explosion echoed about them all, and Magnus's mind was out and searching for the next gun. Once again a bottle tilted, plasma fused into helium, and a new sun lit the night.

  CHAPTER 11

  Men ran to and fro across the battlements, but Magnus ignored them, searching for the next projector and the next. He was sure the courtyard was filled with screaming, but he couldn't hear it through the thunder that filled the night around him. Gun after gun exploded, the echoes of one blast only slightly beginning to diminish before the next crashed out, and the night was bright with hellfire and slashed with shadow.

  Then the last energy projector was gone, but the blazing light still lit the night, from glowing mushroom clouds that merged above. The thunder rumbled away and died, and finally Magnus could hear the screaming—but also the shouting and cursing from the lake, as terrified sergeants drove their crews onward toward the castle. Magnus knew that a huge trough now ringed the plain, and hoped the idiot lords had had sense enough to use clean fusion cannon. He hoped some of them had been near enough to be caught in the fireballs.

  "What has happened! What have they done!" It was Lord Aran, disheveled and in deshabille, obviously having yanked on whatever clothes had come to hand. He came striding out onto the ramparts, calling for information.

  Magnus ran up to him. "They surrounded us with energy projectors, my lord, including two fliers overhead, and all blasted at us at the same moment."

  "We must shoot back! To the cannon!"

  "We have, my lord," Magnus said, lying only a little, "and their guns are silenced—but their soldiers come."

  "To the guns again! Sink their boats!"

  "They are too close, my lord, and too many!" Magnus shouted to be heard over the din. "See!"

  He pointed at the lake. The old lord looked, and the blood drained from his face. He saw his castle encircled by boats, three concentric rings of them, the nearest only a hundred yards away—and huge gaping breaches in his wall. His face calmed with the resignation of the doomed, and he laid his hand on his sword. "Then we must fight till we die."

  "No, my lord!" Magnus shouted. "We must flee! They will not harm your serfs or gentlemen, for they've done nothing wrong—only obeyed their lord, as they must. But you they will execute. Away! It is far more important to your people, to all the people of this benighted world, that you live, so they may know there is still a champion of their rights somewhere!"

  "Rights?" Lord Aran turned to stare at him. "What word is that?"

  "It means charity for serfs! Protection from wanton cruelty! The chance to become happy! It means life! So long as you live, so does that dream! My lord, come away!"

  "But . . . how?" Lord Aran looked about him, a lion at bay, for the first time uncertain.

  "Never mind how!" Magnus swung hard. His fist cracked into the lord's jaw, and the old man folded. Magnus dropped down and caught him over his shoulder. Grabbing hand and foot in a fireman's carry, he hurried down the stairs and through the nightmare.

  "Grandfather!"

  Magnus heard it with his mind, not his ears—they were too filled with the roaring of the flames and the screaming of the serfs. He looked back and up, and saw the small white gauzy form at the door to the keep. Beside her, there was a fainter glow—a boy's face. "Ian!" he called, knowing his voice would not reach and projecting it mind to mind. "Bring the Lady Heloise! Follow!" For of course, he could not leave the heir—the other lords would need to wipe out Aran's heresy, root and branch.

  The blur that was Ian's face jerked as though it had ben slapped; then the girl was stumbling toward the steps as though someone were pulling her, and the boy's face floated before her as he struggled to follow.

  Magnus turned away, thanking his stars for the one that had led him to Ian, and wormed and jostled his way through the throng toward the postern gate.

  None sought to block his way; there was too much confusion. No one could take the time to see who he carried.

  Then, suddenly, a tatterdemalion figure rose up in his path. "Gar! Stop!"

  Magnus jarred to a halt, staring in disbelief at the motley tunic with the patchwork robe. "Siflot! What the hell are you doing here!"

  "Message from Allouene!" the juggler yelled. "She says to get out fast! And whatever you do, don't try to save Lord Aran! He has to be a martyr!"

  Magnus just stared at him, appalled. Then he called, "Siflot! Can you honestly believe that this fine old man deserves to die?"

  The vagabond stared back at him—until his gaze faltered. "I cannot."

  "Then stand aside! Or help me—but get out of my way!" Magnus bulled his way through, and somehow, Siflot wasn't there anymore. But the postern gate opened just before Magnus reached it, and Siflot was in the boat to catch the unconscious lord as Magnus lowered him in, then gone again as Magnus stepped down—but Ian shouted behind him, and Lady Heloise squealed, "Who did that?"

  Turning, Magnus saw them in the boat and grinned. "Did what, chil . . . milady?"

  "Dropped me into the boat!"

  "Oh, that." Magnus turned to cast off the ropes. "Your guardian angel, milady."

  "My angel?" She looked around, wide-eyed. "Where is she?"

  "Well, perhaps not an angel," Magnus allowed as he took up the oars, "but surely your guardian. If you ever meet a patchwork man who plays the flute and trips over his own feet while he juggles, trust him with your life."

  Lady Heloise glanced about. "I see no such man here."

  Magnus looked up, startled, but sure enough, there was no sign of Siflot. Another boat was moving away from the postern's water stairs, though, and Magnus realized his friend was taking out water-accident insurance. "No, but he'll be there when you need him," he cried. "Down, now, children! Our enemies must not see you!"

  He ducked down himself, and stayed that way, ostensibly rowing by feel, actually moving the boat by telekinesis and probing the night with telepathy. It seemed to take a century, but he wound them unseen through the cordon, then out across the dark lake, shushing the children periodically in a lightless, interminable journey. Halfway through it, there was stirring and clunking in the boat, and Lord Aran's voice said thickly, "What . . . where . . . ?"

  "Grandfather!" Lady Heloise cried, but Magnus called out in a whisper, "Quietly, milady, quietly! My lord, be silent, I beg of you! We are on the lake, in the midst of your enemies!"

  Aran was silent a moment. Then, "My serfs," he groaned.

  "They are as well as they would be if we had died for them, my lord," Magnus pointed out. "In any case, we can do no more for them—save to keep their hopes alive, by keeping you alive! Softly, now, I beg!"

  Then the old lord was quiet, but Magnus was sure he was awake—with an aching head and jaw. Magnus hoped the old man could overlook the
blow of mercy.

  Finally, the bottom of the boat ploughed into mud with a sucking noise, and the bow thudded against a bank. Magnus rolled out, stepped down through two feet of water into muck that swallowed his foot—and ankle, and calf, but not fast enough to keep him from throwing his upper body onto the bank. He clawed at grass, pulled his foot free, and rolled onto the turf with a gasp of relief. Then he reached out for the gunwale, but it wasn't there. "Ian!" he cried in desperation. "Take my hand!" He groped blindly in the dark—but a small hand caught his, and pulled with amazing strength for its size. "Here, Master Gar! What shall I do?"

  "Why, just as you are doing," Magnus assured him. "Keep pulling, lad—there! I've caught the gunwale!" He turned about, holding the boat with both hands against the bank. "Out, now, but help the lady first!"

  Heloise stepped out onto the bank, steadying herself on Ian's shoulder. Then the boy climbed out and turned back to hold out his hand. "My lord?"

  "Thank you, boy." Aran steadied himself with Ian's hand as he climbed out. "Strong as a serf, you are! Your mother should be proud!" He turned toward Magnus. "All right, mercenary—you have saved me, whether I would or no. But I am grateful, for I would not leave my granddaughter alone in this world. Now where shall we go?"

  "To shelter, my lord." Magnus climbed to his feet and looked down at Lord Aran. "There we shall rest, and consider what we may do. Ian!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "We're going to try to travel by night, boy, and there's an outside chance that we might become separated. If we do, stay with the Lady Heloise at all costs! Do you understand? Guard her at whatever price you must—from this time until we reach safety, your life is hers. If we're attacked, your first task is to get her to safety; your second task is to fight any who attack her. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir." Ian's eyes were huge in the night. "I shall guard her with my head."

  "Good." Magnus nodded, satisfied with both meanings of the phrase. He clapped Ian on the shoulder. "Stout fellow! For now, follow." He turned away, offering the old lord his arm.

  Privately, he wondered where Siflot was. He couldn't really ask the vagabond to actively help Lord Aran escape, since that was flatly against Allouene's orders, and would jeopardize Siflot's whole career. But he was grateful to his friend, already.

  They moved out across the plain; campfire coals glowed sullenly ahead. They had a camp to traverse. As silently as possible, Magnus threaded his way between tents, hoping against hope that all of the soldiers were in the boats.

  They weren't.

  A trooper rose up in front of them, staring, amazed. He was just beginning to open his mouth in alarm when Magnus's hand closed around his throat. His fist slammed into the man's jaw, and the soldier's eyes rolled up as he dropped.

  But another soldier saw and howled, "Enemy! Captain of the Guard! They're upon us!"

  Magnus leaped to the side and felled the man with a chop—but an avalanche of bodies hit, and bore him to the ground, kicking and punching. He surged back up, throwing men off him like a bear rising from its winter's sleep, and saw Lord Aran fencing with expert skill against two young officers. Magnus slammed heads, kicked bellies, and troopers fell around him. A club swung at his sinuses, but he leaned aside. It exploded like fire against his ribs, but he held his breath as he caught it and yanked; its owner stumbled after it, and Magnus felled him with a chop. A sword stabbed toward him, but he knocked it aside with the club.

  Then the second wave hit.

  It hit, but it fell back remarkably quickly. Magnus chopped and punched, rolling with the blows and striking back—and suddenly, he was standing, his head swimming, chest heaving, looking about at a score of fallen men . . .

  And a tattered jester with a quarterstaff in his hands.

  Magnus grinned and stepped forward to clap his friend on his shoulder. "Prince of jesters! You stood by me after all!"

  "You and the lord," Siflot returned, grinning. "Your cause is just, for the lord is, too."

  "Is just?" Magnus smiled, amused. "But your career, Siflot! If you help me keep him alive, Oswald will have your hide!"

  "No, he won't," the jester said, with remarkable assurance, "though I don't doubt he'll try. The career can go hang, Gar—I never wanted it."

  "Then what did you want with SCENT?"

  "Why, to help people who needed it most." Siflot turned to Lord Aran with a bow. "And at the moment, Your Lordship, that is yourself."

  "I thank you, Fool," Lord Aran panted. Then suddenly, his eyes went wide, and he looked about him in a panic. "My grandaughter! The Lady Heloise! Where is she?"

  Magnus looked about too, suddenly realizing that the old lord had an Achilles' heel.

  "I saw two small things go flitting away over the plain as I came to join you," Siflot said, "though truth to tell, the lady did not seem to be all that willing."

  Lord Aran sagged with relief. "Yes, Captain Pike—you did bid the boy take her to safety." He looked up, still alarmed. "But how shall we find them now?"

  "He will find us as easily as we him," Magnus answered. "She could have no better guide when it comes to running and hiding. Still . . . " He turned to Siflot with a surge of relief; he had found one solution to two problems—how to find the children, and how to keep Siflot from active involvement in his own crime. "Siflot, would you go search out the nooks and crannies, and bring them back to us?"

  "Why, I will try" Siflot said slowly, "but even if I find them, they may not come to me."

  Magnus remembered something that he had said half seriously, and grinned. "I told them that if they found a ragtag jester who played the flute and tripped over his own feet while he juggled, they were to trust him with their lives."

  Siflot answered his grin. "Why, I think I can do all that, though perhaps not at once. May you fare well, my lord! We shall meet you anon!" He started away, then swung around on one foot and turned back. "Where are you bound, by the way?"

  Magnus glanced at Lord Aran, and the answer sprang full-blown into his head. "Castlerock, Siflot! The island in the inland sea, where all the serfs have fled!" He turned back to Lord Aran. "You will be safer there, my lord, than any place else in this world! Will you go?"

  "Aye, willingly," the old lord said slowly. "The escaped serfs might welcome me, might they not? Now that I, too, am a fugitive."

  "They might," Magnus agreed. "Then, ho! Off to Castlerock!"

  He turned away, and Lord Aran gasped beside him. "The jester—where did he go?"

  "Oh, Siflot?" Magnus shrugged. "It doesn't matter. He'll find your granddaughter, my lord, and my apprentice—and they couldn't be in safer hands. He will assure the Lady Heloise that her grandfather is well, and will meet her at Castlerock. You would not want him to tell an untruth, would you?"

  "No, surely not," said Lord Aran, with the ghost of a smile. "I suppose that, after all, I shall have to live, shan't I? To Castlerock!"

  But they underestimated their enemies. Perhaps Magnus should not have stolen the two horses—or perhaps the soldiers they had vanquished gave the alarm when they came to. At any rate, Magnus and Lord Aran had only an hour's grace before the sounds of dogs echoed in the distance, and a new moon glided across the heavens, coming from the camp.

  "A flier with a searchlight!" Magnus cried, glancing over his shoulder. "Ride, my lord! We're nearly to the trees!" And he slapped the rump of Lord Aran's horse.

  "What good will the forest do?" Lord Aran called over the pounding of hooves. "The hounds will still follow our scent!"

  "Perhaps, but their flier won't do them much good. Quickly, my lord! At least give them a race!" Then the trees were closing about them, and Magnus reined in. "Dismount, my lord!" He swung down off his horse.

  "Why?" Lord Aran dismounted even as he asked. "What good will it do? Will we not still need the horses?"

  "No, my lord, for they can't go any faster than we, in underbrush—and if we use the forest trails, they'll find us in an instant!" He turned his horse about, shouted and s
panked it, and the horse broke out of the forest with a startled whinny. Lord Aran imitated him, and the two horses together fled out over the plain.

  The flier veered to follow them.

  "That will not buy us much time," Lord Aran said, but he was turning his back on the plain even as he said it.

  "True," Magnus agreed. "They'll catch up to the beasts in a few minutes, and see the saddles are empty. Then they'll start combing the wood for us—but in that few minutes, we can become very thoroughly lost."

  "I am already," Lord Aran grunted. "Have you any idea where you're going?"

  "Toward the center of the wood, my lord. The thicker the trees, the better our chances. Have you ever hunted the fox?"

  "Why of course!" Lord Aran looked up, startled. "Many, many times!"

  "Then think like a fox, my lord, for you are in his place right now, with the hounds baying after you, leading the lords on their horses. Where would a fox hide?"

  "In a dozen places, but ever on the move." Lord Aran grunted. "I take your meaning, Captain—and you may take the lead."

  They plowed on through the night, breathing in hoarse gasps, thorns and briars tearing their clothing. After half an hour's movement, they began to hear the hounds again; ten minutes more, and the baying was closer.

  "Into the stream!" Magnus jumped into the water. "Break our scent-trail!"

  The old lord jumped in after him—and stumbled and fell. Magnus was by his side in an instant, hauling him back to his feet—but the old lord still sagged. Magnus hauled an arm about his neck, pushed a shoulder under Aran's, and half-dragged him along the stream bed, looking frantically for a hiding place. Aran was spent, and Magnus, to tell the truth, wasn't feeling terribly energetic himself.

  The hounds' voices became louder, closer, then suddenly broke into a quandary of baying. Magnus knew they had found the end of the trail, and that their masters would realize the fugitive lord had fled into the stream. They would be fanning out to either side, searching both upstream and downstream . . .

  He began to hear voices calling, excited, hoarse. The excitement of the hunt was catching up even the serfs who had revered Lord Aran from the tales of his kindness and justice. Where, where could they hide?