“But it wasn’t.” Rod’s lips were thin. “Because they went out one knight at a time; but I’ll bet each one of them ran into this Lord Sorcerer and all his minions, together.”
Grathum’s face darkened. “Could it be so?”
Rod tossed his head impatiently. “You peasants have got to stop believing everything you’re told, Grathum, and start trying to find out a few facts on your own!… Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m as sane as you are! What happened to Count Novgor and his understrength army?”
Grathum shook his head. “We know not, milord—for fear overtook us, and we saw that, if the sorcerer won, we would be enslaved to fell magic, and our wives and bairns with us. Nay, then we common folk packed what we could carry and sin’ that we would not have the chance to fight, fled instead, through the pasture lanes to the roadway, and down the roadway to the High Road.”
“So you don’t know who won?”
“Nay; but early the next morning, when we’d begun to march again, word ran through our numbers—for it was hundreds of people on the road by then, milord; we folk of Sir Ewing’s were not alone in seeing our only chance to stay free—and word ran from the folk at the rear of the troupe, to us near the van, that green-coated soldiers pursued. We quickened our pace, but word came, anon, that a band of peasants had been caught up by soldiers, and taken away in chains. At that word, many folk split away, village by village, down side roads toward hiding. But when we came to high ground, we looked back, and saw squadrons of soldiers breaking off from the main host, to march down the side roads; so we turned our faces to the South, and hurried with Death speeding our heels—for word reached those of us in the van, that the soldiers had begun slaying those who fought their capture. Then did we take to a byway ourselves; but we hid, with our hands o’er our children’s mouths, till the soldiers had trooped by, and were gone from sight; then back we darted onto the High Road, and down toward the South again. Through the night we came, bearing the wee ones on litters, hoping that the soldiers would sleep the whiles we marched; and thus we came into this morning, where thou hast found us.”
Rod looked up at the sky. “Let’s see, today… yesterday… This would be the third day since the battle.”
“Aye, milord.”
“And you, just this little band of you, are the only ones who made it far enough south to cross the border?”
Grathum spread his hands. “The only ones on the High Road, milord. If there be others, we know not of them… and had it not been for thee and thy family, we would not be here, either.” He shuddered. “Our poor Count Novgor! We can only pray that he lives.”
Air cracked outward, and Gregory floated at Rod’s eye level, moored to his shoulder by a chubby hand.
The peasants stared, and shrank back, muttering in horror.
“Peace.” Rod held up a hand. “This child helped save you from the sorcerer’s soldiers.” He turned to Gregory, nettled. “What is it, son? This wasn’t exactly a good time.”
“Papa,” the boy said, eyes huge, “I have listened, and…”
Rod shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly a private conversation. What about it?”
“If this Count Novgor had won, these soldiers in the sorcerer’s livery would not have been marching after these peasant folk.”
The folk in question gasped, and one woman cried, “But the bairn can scarcely be weaned!”
Rod turned to them, unable to resist a proud smirk. “You should see him think up excuses not to eat his vegetables. I’m afraid he’s got a point, though; I wouldn’t have any great hopes for Count Novgor’s victory.”
The peasants sagged visibly.
“But it should be possible to get a definite answer.” Rod strode forward.
The peasants leaped aside.
Rod stepped up to the bound soldiers. He noticed that one or two were struggling against their ties. “They’re beginning to come to. I think they might know who won.” He reached out to yank a soldier onto his feet, then turned to the peasants. “Anybody recognize him?”
The peasants stared and, one after another, shook their heads. Then, suddenly, one woman’s finger darted out, to point at the soldier on top of the third pile. “But yonder is Gavin Arlinson, who followed good Sir Ewing into battle! How comes he to fight in the service of his lord’s foe?”
“Or any of them, for that matter? Still, he’ll do nicely as a representative sample.” Rod gave the soldier he was holding, a slight push; the man teetered, then fell back down onto his comrades. Rod caught him at the last second, of course, and lowered him the final inch; then he waded through the bound men, to pull Gavin Arlinson onto his feet. He slapped the man’s face gently, until the eyelids fluttered; then he called, “Magnus, the brandy—it’s in Fess’s pack.”
His eldest elbowed his way through to his father, holding up a flask. Rod took it, noting that nobody seemed to wonder where Magnus had come from. He pressed the flask to Arlinson’s lips and tilted, then yanked it back out quickly. The soldier coughed, spraying the immediate area, choked, then swallowed. He squinted up at Rod, frowning.
Just the look of the eyes made Rod shiver. Admittedly, the glassiness of that stare could be due to the head knock he’d received; but the unwavering, unblinking coldness was another matter.
Rod pulled his nerve back up and demanded, “What happened to Sir Ewing?”
“He died,” the soldier answered, his tone flat. “He died, as must any who come up against the might of the Lord Sorcerer Alfar.”
Rod heard indignant gasps and muttering behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. “Tell us the manner of it.”
“Tis easily said,” the soldier answered, with full contempt. “He and his men marched forth to seek the warlock Melkanth. They took the old track through the forest, and in a meadow, they met him. But not Melkanth alone—his brother warlocks and sister witches, all four together, with their venerable Lord, the Sorcerer Alfar. Then did the warlocks and witches cause divers monsters to spring out upon Sir Ewing and his men, while the witches cast fireballs. A warlock appeared hard by Sir Ewing, in midair, to stab through his visor and hale him off his mount. Then would his soldiers have fled, but the Lord Sorcerer cried out a summoning, and all eyes turned toward him. With one glance, he held them all. Then did he explain to them who he was, and why he had come.”
“I’ll bite.” Rod gave him a sour smile. “Who is he?”
“A man born with Talent, and therefore noble by birth,” the soldier answered tightly, “who hath come to free us all from the chains in which the twelve Lords, and their lackeys, do hold us bound.”
“What chains are these?” Rod demanded. “Why do you need freeing?”
The soldier’s mouth twisted with contempt. “The ‘why’ of it matters not; only the fact of enslavement’s of import.”
“That, I can agree with—but not quite the way you meant it.” Rod turned to his wife. “I call it hypnosis—instant style. What’s your diagnosis?”
“The same, my lord,” she said slowly. “ ‘Tis like to the Evil Eye with which we dealt, these ten years gone.”
Rod winced. “Please! Don’t remind me how long it’s been.” He submitted to a brief but intense wave of nostalgia, suddenly feeling again the days when he and Gwen had only had to worry about one baby warlock. And, of course, a thousand or so marauding beastmen——
He shook off the mood. “Can you do anything about it?”
“Why… assuredly, my lord.” Gwen stepped up to him, looking directly into his eyes. “But dost thou not wish to attempt it thyself?”
Rod shook his head, jaw clamped tight. “No, thanks. I managed to make it through this skirmish without rousing my temper—how, I’m not sure; but I’d just as soon not tempt fate. See what you can do with him, will you?”
“Gladly,” she answered, and turned to stare into the soldier’s eyes.
After a minute, his lips writhed back from his teeth. Rod glanced quickly at the thongs that held his wrists, then down to his
lashed ankles. His muscles strained against the leather, and it cut into his flesh, but there was no sign it might break. He looked back up at the soldier’s face. It had paled, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Suddenly, he stiffened, his eyes bulging, and his whole body shuddered so violently that it seemed it would fall apart. Then he went limp, darting panicked glances about him, panting as though he’d run a mile. “How… Who…”
Gwen pressed her hands over her eyes and turned away.
Rod looked from her to the soldier and back. Then he grabbed Grathum and shoved the soldier into his arms. “Here! Hold him up!” He leaped after his wife, and caught her in his arms. “It’s over, dear. It’s not there anymore.”
“Nay… I am well, husband,” she muttered into his doublet. “Yet that was… distasteful.”
“What? The feel of his mind?”
She nodded, mute.
“What was it?” Rod pressed. “The sense of wrongness? The twisting of the mind that had hypnotized him?”
“Nay—‘twas the lack of it.”
“Lack?”
“Aye.” Gwen looked up into his eyes, a furrow between her eyebrows. “There was no trace of any other mind within his, my lord. Even with the beastmen’s Evil Eye, there was ever the sense of some other presence behind it—but here, there was naught.”
Rod frowned, puzzled. “You mean he was hypnotized and brainwashed, but whoever did it was so skillful, he didn’t even leave a trace?”
Gwen was still; then she shrugged. “What else could it be?”
“But why take the trouble?” Rod mused. “I mean, any witch who knows more than the basics, would recognize that spell in a moment.”
Gwen shook her head, and pushed away from him. “ ‘Tis a mystery. Leave it for the nonce; there are others who must be wakened. Cordelia! Geoffrey, Magnus, Gregory! Hearken to my thoughts; learn what I do!” And she went to kneel by the bound soldiers. Her children gathered about her.
Rod watched her for a moment, then turned back to Arlinson, shaking his head. He looked up into the man’s eyes, and found them haunted.
The soldier looked away.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Rod said softly. “You were under a spell; your mind wasn’t your own.”
The soldier looked up at him, hungrily.
“It’s nothing but the truth.” Rod gazed deeply into the man’s eyes, as though staring could convince him by itself. “Tell me—how much do you remember?”
Arlinson shuddered. “All of it, milord—Count Novgor’s death, the first spell laid on us, the march to the castle, the deepening of the spell…”
Rod waited, but the soldier only hung his head, shuddering. “Go on,” Rod pressed. “What happened after the deepening of the spell?”
Arlinson’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What more was there!”
Rod stared at him a moment, then said slowly, “Nothing. Nothing that you could have done anything about, soldier. Nothing to trouble your heart.” He watched the fear begin to fade from the man’s eyes, then said, “Let’s back it up a bit. They—the warlocks, I mean—marched you all to the castle, right?”
Arlinson nodded. “Baron Strogol’s castle it had been, milord.” He shuddered. “Eh, but none would have known it, once they’d passed the gate house. ‘Twas grown dank and sour. The rushes in the hall had not been changed in a month at the least, mayhap not since the fall, and each window and arrow slit was shuttered, barring the daylight.”
Rod stored it all away, and asked, “What of the Count?”
Arlinson only shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving Rod’s.
Rod leaned back on one hip, fingering his dagger. “How did they deepen the spell?”
Arlinson looked away, shivering.
“I know it’s painful to remember,” Rod said softly, “but we can’t fight this sorcerer if we don’t know anything about him. Try, won’t you?”
Arlinson’s gaze snapped back to Rod’s. “Dost thou think thou canst fight him, then?”
Rod shrugged impatiently. “Of course we can—but I’d like to have a chance of winning, too. Tell me how they deepened the spell.”
The soldier only stared at him for a time. Then, slowly, he nodded. “ ‘Twas done in this manner: They housed us in the dungeon, seest thou, and took us out from our cage, one alone each time. When my turn came, they brought me into a room that was so dark, I could not tell thee the size of it. A lighted candle stood on a table, next to the chair they sat me in, and they bade me stare at the flame.” His mouth twisted. “What else was there?”
Rod nodded. “So you sat and stared at the flame. Anything else?”
“Aye; some unseen musicians played a sort of music I never had heard aforetime. ‘Twas a sort of a drone, seest thou, like unto that of a bagpipe—yet had more the sound of a viol. And another unseen beat on a tambour…”
“Tap it out,” Rod said softly.
The soldier stared, surprised. Then he began to slap his thigh, never taking his eyes from Rod’s.
Rod recognized the rhythm; it was that of a heartbeat. “What else?”
“Then one who sat across from me—but ‘twas so dark, I could tell his presence only by the sound of his voice—one across from me began to speak of weariness, and sleep. Mine eyelids began to grow heavy; I remember that they drooped, and I fought against drowsiness, yet I gave into it, finally, and slept—until now.” He glanced down at his body, seeming to see his clothing for the first time. “What is this livery?”
“We’ll tell you after you’ve taken it off,” Rod said shortly. He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Be brave, soldier. You’ll need your greatest courage when you find out what’s been happening while you were, uh… while you ‘slept.’ ” He turned to Grathum. “Release him—he’s on our side again.” And he turned back to Gwen, just in time to see the children, as a team, wake the last soldier, while Gwen supervised closely. “Gently, Magnus, gently—his mind sleeps. And Geoffrey, move slowly—nay, pull back! Retreat! If thou dost wake him too quickly, thou’lt risk driving him back into the depths of his own mind, in shock of his waking so far from his bed.”
The soldier in question blinked painfully, then levered himself up on one elbow. He looked down and stared at his bound wrists. Then he looked up, wildly—but even as he began to struggle up, his eyes lost their wildness. In a few seconds, he sank back onto one elbow, breathing deeply.
“Well done, my daughter,” Gwen murmured approvingly. “Thou didst soothe him most aptly.”
Rod watched the man growing calmer. Finally, he looked about him, wide-eyed. His gaze anchored on Gwen, then took in the children—then, slowly, tilted up toward Rod.
“All are awake now, husband, and ready.” Gwen’s voice was low. “Tell them thy condition, and thy name.”
“I am named Rod Gallowglass, and I am the High Warlock of this Isle of Gramarye.” Rod tried to match Gwen’s pitch and tone. “Beside me is my lady, Gwendylon, and my children. They have just broken an evil and vile spell that held you in thrall.” He waited, glancing from face to face, letting them take it in and adjust to it. When he thought they’d managed, he went on. “You have been ‘asleep’ for three days, and during that time, you have fought as soldiers in the army of the Lord Sorcerer, Alfar.”
They stared at him, appalled. Then they all began to fire questions, one after another, barking demands, almost howling in disbelief.
They were building toward hysteria. It had to be stopped.
Rod held up his hands, and bellowed, “Silence!
The soldiers fell silent, as military discipline dug its hooks into their synapses. But they were primed, and ready to explode, so Rod spoke quickly. “What you did during those days was not truly your doing—it was the ‘Lord’ Sorcerer’s and his minions. They used your bodies—and parts of your minds.” He saw the look that washed over the soldiers’ faces, and agreed, “Yes. It was foul. But remember that what you did was their crime, not yours; there is no fault
of yours in it, and you cannot rightly be blamed for it.” He saw their foreboding. Well, good—at least they’d be braced, when Grathum and his peasants told them what had been happening. He glanced from face to face again, holding each set of eyes for a moment, then breathed, “But you can seek justice.”
Every eye locked onto him.
“You have pursued these goodfolk, here…” Rod jerked his head toward the peasants. “…southward. You have passed the border of Romanov, and are come into Earl Tudor’s land. Wend your way on to the South, now, with the folk you did chase—only now, be their protectors.”
He saw resolve firm the soldiers’ faces.
Rod nodded with satisfaction. “Southward you go, all in one body, to King Tuan at Runnymede. Kneel to him there, and say the High Warlock bade you come. Then tell him your tale, from beginning to end, even as Gavin Arlinson has told it to me. He will hear you, and shelter you—and, if you wish it, I doubt not he will take you into his army, so that, when he marches North against this tyrant sorcerer, you may help in tearing him down.”
Rod glanced from face to face again. He hadn’t said anything about guilt or expiation, but he could see remorse turn into fanaticism in their expressions. He turned to Grathum. “We can trust them. Strike off their bonds.”
Grathum eyed him uncertainly, but moved to obey.
Rod felt a tug at his belt, and looked down.
“Papa,” said Gregory, “will the guards allow them to speak to the King?”
“I’ll have to see if I can get you a job as my memory.” Rod turned away to fumble in Fess’s pack, mumbling, “We did bring a stylus and some paper, didn’t we?”
“We did,” the robot’s voice answered, “but it is at the bottom, under the hardtack.”
“Well, of course! I wasn’t expecting a booming correspondence on this jaunt.” Rod dug deep, came up with writing materials, and wrote out a rather informal note, asking that the bearer be allowed to speak with Their Majesties. He folded it, tucked the stylus away, and turned to Cordelia. “Seal, please.”
The Warlock Enraged Page 5
