“And that Lord Kern is not Rod Gallowglass. Just so.” Simon closed his eyes and nodded. “Yet ‘tis not so easily done, Lord Warlock. To be mindful of thyself, thou must needs accept thyself—and to do that, one must be content with his self. Thou must needs come to believe that Rod Gallowglass is a good thing to be.”
“Well, I think I can do that,” Rod said slowly, “Especially since I’ve always felt Rod Gallowglass is an even better thing to be, when he’s with his wife Gwen.”
“Thy wife?” Simon frowned. “That hath a ring of great wrongness to it. Nay, Lord Warlock—an thou dost rely on another person for thy sense of worth, thou dost not truly believe that thou hast any. Thou shouldst enjoy her company because she is herself, and is pleasing to thee, is agreeable company—not because she is a part of thee, nor because the two of thee together make thy self a worthwhile thing to be.”
Rod frowned. “I suppose that makes sense, in its way. If I depend on Gwen for my own sense of worth, then, whenever she finds me less than perfect, or finds anything at all wrong with me, I’ll believe I’m not worth anything.”
Simon nodded, his eyes glittering, encouraging.
“And that would feel to me, as though she were trying to destroy me, make me less than I am—which’ll make me angry, because I’ll feel that I need to fight back, for my own survival.”
Simon still nodded. “ ‘Tis even as it happed to me—’til I realized why, with my wife and myself, each quarrel was worse than the last—for, of course, she felt even as I did—that she must needs attack me, to survive.” He shook his head, like a cautioning schoolteacher. “Tis wrong of thee, to make her the custodian of thy value. That is thine own burden, and thou must needs accept it.”
Rod nodded. “Learn to like being inside my own skin, eh?”
“Aye.” Simon smiled, amused. “And do not seek to so burden thine horse, either.”
“Yeah—Fess.” That jolted Rod back to the issue. “He was the symbol that pulled me back to my own identity. Does that mean I’m closer to my horse, than to my wife?”
“I think not.” Simon throttled a chuckle. “For when all’s said and done, a horse is a thing, not a person. It may have a temperament all its own, and some quirks and snags of mood, just as a person hath; and each horse may be as unique and separate as each human is from another—yet when all’s said and done, it hath not an immortal soul, and cannot therefore challenge thee in any way that will truly make thee feel any less. It cannot lessen thy sense of self, any more than a shoe or a shovel can.”
Rod nodded slowly. That made sense—more than Simon knew; for Fess wasn’t a living horse, but a computer in a body full of servo-mechanisms. Sure, the computer projected a personality by its vocodered voice—but that personality was only an illusion, a carefully-crafted artifact, albeit an intangible one. Fess was, really, only a metal machine, and his identity was as much an illusion as his ability to think. “My horse is like a sword, in a way,” he said thoughtfully.
Simon laughed softly. “In truth, he doth seem to be somewhat more than a shoe or a shovel.”
“No, I was thinking of mystique. For a knight, his sword was the symbol of his courage, his prowess—and his honor. Each sword was a separate, unique, individual thing, to the medieval mind, and its owner invested it with a full-fledged persona. He even gave it a name. Sometimes, in the legends, it even had a will of its own. You couldn’t think of a famous sword, without thinking of the knight who owned it. Excalibur evoked the image of King Arthur, Durandal evoked pictures of Roland, Gram brought to mind Siegried slaying Fafnir. The sword was the symbol of the knight who bore it.”
“As thine horse is the symbol of thee?”
Rod frowned. “That doesn’t quite feel right, somehow—but it’s close. Metaphorically, I suppose Fess is my sword.”
“Then use him.” Simon’s eyes glowed. “Draw thy blade, and go to slay the monster who enslaves us.”
Rod sat still a moment, feeling within him for fear—and, yes, it was there; but so was the courage to answer it. But courage wouldn’t do much good, really; in this case, it’d just let him go ahead into a situation that was too dangerous for him to survive. How about confidence, though? Could he summon Lord Kern, let himself fill with anger, and not be mastered by it? He thought of Fess, and all the qualities in himself that Fess represented, and felt calm certainty rising in response to the mental image. He nodded. “I’m up to it. But if I start to fall in, pull me out, will you?”
“Gladly,” Simon answered, with a full, warm smile.
“Then hold on.” Rod stood, grasped Simon’s shoulder, and thought of Alfar, of his arrogance, his insolence, and the threat he represented to Rod and his children. Hot anger surged in answer, anger building toward rage. Rod felt Lord Kern’s familiar wrath—but he was aware of it, now, as something that was a part of him, truly, not implanted from someone else—and, being of himself, it was as much under his control as his fingers, or his tongue. He opened his mind, concentrating on the world of thought. The world of sight dimmed, and his blood began to pound in his ears. Only the thoughts were real—the darting, scheming thoughts of the warlocks and witches; the dulled, mechanical plodding thoughts of the soldiers and servants—and the ceaseless background drone that had to be the projective telepath, who had hypnotized a whole duchy. What else could it be, that emitted such a constant paean of praise, such a continual pushing of thought against mind?
Whatever it was, Rod was suddenly certain that it was the key to all the pride and ambition that was Alfar’s conquest. He scanned the castle till he found the direction in which it was strongest, then willed himself to it.
15
It was a small room, a round room, a room of gray stone blocks with three tall, skinny windows. But those windows were sealed with some clear substance, and the air of the chamber was unnaturally cool—climate-controlled. Every alarm bell in Rod’s head screamed. He glanced at Simon. The older warlock tottered, dazed. Rod held him up, growling, “Steady. That’s what happens when a warlock disappears.”
“I had… ne’er had the opportunity aforetime,” Simon gasped. He looked around him, whites showing all around his eyes. Finally, he turned back to Rod, awe-struck. “Eh, but thou’rt truly the Lord Warlock, thou.”
“The same,” Rod confirmed, “but nonetheless your pupil in fathering and husbandry.”
“As I am to thee, in wizardry.” Simon pointed a trembling finger at the metal box in the center of the room. It sat on a slender pedestal at chest height, and had a gray, irridescent cylinder atop one end. The other sprouted a cable that dropped down to the floor, ran over to the wall and up it, to a window, where it disappeared—probably to a transmitting antenna, Rod decided. “What,” Simon asked, in a voice that shook, “is that spawn of alchemy?”
“Probably,” Rod agreed. “It’s a machine of some sort, anyway.” He could feel the insistent pounding of the message, extolling Alfar’s virtues over and over again. It was much stronger than it had been when he was in the dungeon. It belabored him, convincing, persuading by sheer repetition. Alfar was master, Alfar was great, Alfar was rightful lord of all that was human… “I think I know what it is, Simon—or, at least, what it does. If I’m right, the last time I saw one of these, it was alive.”
“How?” Simon stared, horrified. “A living thing cannot be a machine.”
“No more than a machine can be a living thing. But this one sure seems to be. If you didn’t know better, wouldn’t you swear that thing’s thinking at us?”
“Wh… this?” Simon pointed at the contraption, features writhing with revulsion. “Assuredly it doth not!”
“Assure me again—I could need it.” Under his breath, Rod murmured, “Fess. Where are you?”
“Here, Rod, in the castle stables,” Fess’s voice answered from behind his ear.
“Close your eyes,” Rod growled, “and don’t worry about what’s happening.” He closed his eyes, envisioning Fess, and the stable he was in. In excellent repair, probabl
y, since it had been Duke Romanov’s just a week ago—but slipping a bit now. The straw surely needed changing, for example, and the manure needed clearing. But he needed Fess, needed him badly, right here… He made the thought an imperative, an unworded summons, sharp, demanding.
Thunder rocked the little room, and Fess was there, looking about him wildly, Rod saw as he opened his eyes again. The robot’s voice came out slurred. “Whhhaddt… wherrre… I have… have I… telllepo…” Suddenly his head whipped up, then slammed down. All four legs spraddled out, stiff, knees locked. The neck was stiff, too, pointing the head at the floor; then it relaxed, and the head began to swing between the fetlocks.
“Seizure,” Rod explained. “It always happens, when he can’t avoid witnessing magic.”
But Simon didn’t answer. He was staring at the electronic gizmo, and his eyes had glazed. He took a stumbling step toward it. Of course, Rod thought. This close to the gadget… He grabbed Simon by the shoulders, and gave him a shake. “Simon! Wake up!” He clapped his hands sharply, an inch in front of Simon’s nose. Simon started, and his eyes came back into focus. “What… Lord Warlock! For the half of a minute, I thought… I could believe…”
“That the background noise is right, and Alfar’s a good guy.” Rod nodded, mouth a thin, straight line. “Not surprising. Now I’m sure what that weird device is—but let’s confirm it.” He turned back to Fess, felt under the pommel of the saddle for an enlarged vertebra, and pushed it. It clicked faintly. After a moment, Fess’s head lifted slowly and turned to look at Rod, the great plastic eyes clearing. “I… had a… seizure, Rrrod.”
“You did,” Rod confirmed. “But let me show you something you can cope with.” He took a step toward the pedestal, pointing. “There’s a background thought-message, constantly repeating, Fess. Over and over, it praises Alfar to the skies—and it’s much stronger here than anywhere else.”
The robot’s head tracked him. Then Fess stepped closer to the metal box. The great horsehead lifted, looking at the box from the top, then from the front, then the back. Finally Fess opined, “There is sufficient data for a meaningful conclusion, Rod.”
“Oh, ducky! What’s it add up to?”
“That the futurian totalitarians are supporting Alfar’s conquests.”
“Are they really,” Rod said drily. “Care to confirm my guess as to what it does?”
“Certainly. It’s a device that converts electricity into psionic power. I would conjecture that the large, rectangular base contains some sort of animal brain in a nutrient solution, with wires carrying power from an atomic pack into the medulla, and leads from the cerebrum carrying power at human thought frequencies into a modulator. The cylinder at the rear of the machine would seem to perform that function. This modulated message is fed out through the cable, which presumably goes up to an antenna on the roof of this tower.”
“Thanks.” Rod swallowed against a suddenly queasy stomach. “Nice to have my guess confirmed—I suppose. Their technology has improved since we met the Kobold, hasn’t it?”
“The state of the art advances constantly, Rod.”
“Relentlessly, you might almost say.” Rod turned to Simon. “It projects thoughts. Not a living thought, you understand—a recorded one, made as carefully as people make chairs, or ships, or castles, but just as thoroughly made. Then that thought is set down, as you’d write a message in ink, almost—and sent out from this machine, to the whole of the duchy, again and again, drumming itself into people’s heads. Warlocks and witches can at least realize they’re being bombarded—but the average peasant in the field has no idea it’s happening. But warlock or witch, it doesn’t seem to matter—it converts them all.”
“Who placed it here?” Simon’s voice trembled.
“People from the future.” Rod’s face was set, stony. “People who want the whole universe to be ruled by one single power.” He glared around at the blank stone walls. “Where’re its builders? Hiding somewhere, out of harm’s way, while Alfar and his coven do their dirty work for them. But I must admit I’m disappointed—I was hoping to find a few of them here, keeping guard.” He could feel indignation spurring his anger higher; he began to tremble.
“Peace, peace.” Simon grasped his forearm. “Wherefor would they? Why guard what none know of, and none need tend?”
“Yeah—it’s fully automatic, isn’t it? And just because I expected them to be here, doesn’t mean they should feel obligated to show up. But I was at least expecting a human witch or warlock to be doing the thinking! Maybe hooked up to a psionic amplifier—but nonetheless one of Alfar’s henchmen, taking it in relays! But… this is it!” He spread his hands toward the machine. “This is all there is! Here’s the spectacular sorcerer—here’s the arch-magus! Here’s your rebel warlock warlord, fantastically powerful—until its battery runs down!”
“ ‘Twill suffice,” Simon said, beside him.
“Damn straight it will!” Rod turned to rummage in Fess’s saddlebag. “Where’s that hammer I used to carry?”
“May I suggest that it would be more effective, and more immediate, to turn the machine off, Rod?”
Rod shrugged. “Why not? I’m not picky—I’ll wreck it any way I can!” He turned to the machine, looking it up and down. “Where’s the off switch?”
“I detect a pressure-pad next to the cylinder,” Fess said. “Would you press it, please, Rod?”
“Sure.” Rod pressed the cross-hatched square. The machine clicked, whirred for a second, then pushed one end of the cylinder toward Rod. He lifted it off, holding it warily at arm’s length. “What is it?”
“From the circuitry, Rod, I would conjecture that the cylinder is the transducer. This disc, therefore, would be the recorded message.”
“Oh, is it, now!” Rod whipped his arm back for a straight pitch, aimed at the wall.
“Might I also suggest,” Fess said quickly, “that we may find a use for the disc itself?”
Rod scowled. “Always possible, I suppose—but not very satisfying.” He dropped it into his belt-pouch. “So we’ve stopped it from mass-hypnotizing the population. Now, how do we wake them up?”
“Why not try telepathy?” the robot suggested. “The message is recorded thought, placed in contact with the transducer; presumably it will function just as well, from contact with living thought.”
Rod turned to his friend with a glittering eye. “Oh, Master Simon…”
In spite of himself, the older man took a step backward. But, stoutly, he said, “Wherein may I aid, Lord Warlock?”
“By thinking at the machine.” Rod tossed his head toward the gadget. “But you’ll have to put your forehead against it.”
Simon’s eyes bulged; his face went slack in horror.
“Oh, it won’t hurt your mind,” Rod said quickly. “That much, I’m sure of. This end of the machine can only receive thoughts—it can’t send out anything.” He turned, bowing, and pressed his forehead against the transducer. “See? No danger.”
“Indeed,” Simon breathed, awestruck. “Wherefore dost thou not give it thine own thoughts?”
“Because I don’t know how to break Alfar’s spell.” Rod stepped back, bowing Simon toward the machine. “Would you try it, please? Just press your forehead against that round plate, and pretend it’s a soldier who’s been spellbound.”
Simon stood rigid for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped forward. Rod watched him place his forehead against the transducer, with admiration. The humble country innkeeper had as much real courage as a knight.
Simon closed his eyes. His face tensed as he began his spell-breaking thought sequence.
Rod stiffened as the ‘message’ hit him, full-strength. It had no words; it was only a feeling, as though someone very sympathetic was listening to him, listening deeply, to everything Rod could tell, down to his very core—then, kindly, gently, but very firmly, contradicting. Rod shook his head and cleared his throat. “Well! He’s certainly getting across, i
sn’t he?” He turned to Fess. “How’ll we know whether it works or not?”
“By Alfar’s reaction, Rod. He doubtless detected our disabling his message, but refrained from attacking us, wary of your power.”
Rod’s head lifted, “I… hadn’t… thought of that.”
“I consider it a distinct possibility,” Fess mused. “Now, however, Alfar must realize that we are destroying the very base of his power—that he must attack us now, or lose all he has conquered.”
Quintuple thunder roared in a long, ripping sequence, and Alfar was there with three witches and a warlock at his back, chopping down at Rod with a scimitar.
Rod leaped back with a whoop of delight. The sword’s tip hissed past him, and he and Fess instantly jumped into place between Simon and the sorcerer’s band. One of the witches stabbed a hand at them, all five fingers stiff and pointing, and a dozen whirling slivers of steel darted toward them.
Fess took a step to his left, blocking Rod and Simon both. The darts clanged against his horsehide, and he stepped back—just in time to step on the witch’s foot. She screamed and careened away, hobbling as Alfar lashed at Rod with the scimitar again. But this time, Rod leaped high and kicked the sword out of his hand as Fess reared, lashing out at the other warlock and witch with his forehooves. Rod sliced a karate chop at Alfar, and the sorcerer leaped back, but not quite quickly enough—Rod’s fingertips scored his collarbone, and Alfar howled in pain. The witch was staring at Fess, wild-eyed, backing away slowly, and Rod could feel a crazy assortment of emotions crashing through him—anger, fear, confusion, love. She was the emotional projective, hitting Fess with everything she had, totally confounded by his complete lack of response.
Which reminded Rod who he was, and that the emotions were illusions. He managed to ignore them as Alfar wound up for a whammy. But he didn’t have time; a stone leaped out of the wall, and slammed straight at Rod. He sidestepped, but the block caught him on the shoulder. Pain shot through him, and his temper leaped up in response. He slumped back against the wall, striving frantically to reign in his temper, trying to channel it, knowing that rage would slow his reflexes; they’d get under his guard, and chop him down. Another block shot straight at him and he dropped to a crouch, ducking his head. The block cracked into the wall behind; Another whirled tumbling and slammed into Fess’s hindquarters. Rod galvanized with alarm—if that boulder had hit Fess in the midriff, it might’ve staved in his armored side, and damaged his computer-brain!
The Warlock Enraged Page 26
