The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

Durer's eyebrow shot up. "You would harbor snakes within your bed, my lord? Naetheless, it is the wish of all the nobles, not yours alone, that must be done."

  He raised his voice, shouting, "What say you, lords? Shall this man die?"

  There was a moment's pause. Rod rested his hand on the door-lever; he had to get Loguire out of there. He could open the door and pull Loguire into the passage before anybody realized what was happening…

  But could he close it before they came running? Probably not; there were just too many too close. And Durer, at least, would react very quickly.

  If only the hinges and springs were in decent shape! But he had a notion they hadn't been too well maintained in the last few centuries.

  A chorus of reluctant "Ayes" rolled through the great hall.

  Durer turned to Loguire, bowing his head politely. "The verdict, my lord, is death."

  He drew his poniard and started forward.

  And the light went out.

  Rod stood a moment in the total blackness, stunned. How…?

  Then he threw his weight on the lever. He jerked out his dagger as the stone slab groaned open. Act now, understand later.

  The grating of the stone door broke the instant of shocked silence. Pandemonium struck as every voice in the hall started shouting—some in anger, some in distress, some calling for a porter to bring a torch.

  The noise would be a good cover. Rod lunged out of the passage, groping blindly till he slammed into somebody's rib cage. The Somebody roared and lashed out at him. Rod ducked on general principles, felt the blow skim his hair. He flicked the button on the handle of his dagger and identified Somebody as the Duke Loguire in the flicker of light that stabbed up from the hilt.

  A kindling-wood, twisting body struck into Rod with a howl of rage. Rod gasped and stumbled as steel bit into his shoulder. Apparently Durer had seen the flicker of light, too.

  The dagger wrenched itself out of Rod's shoulder, he felt the warm welling flow out of the blood, and rolled away.

  But the scarecrow was on him again. Rod groped, and by great good luck caught the man's knife-wrist.

  But the little man was unbelievably strong. He forced Rod's arm down, down, and Rod felt the dagger's ppint prick his throat.

  He tried to force his other hand up to help push the needle-point away. His shoulder screamed pain, but the hand wouldn't budge.

  The dagger pricked a fraction of an inch deeper. Rod felt blood rise on his throat, and fear clawed its way up from his guts.

  Total, numbing, paralyzing fear—and Rod heard a booming moan.

  Durer gasped; the poniard clattered to the floor, and the weight rose off Rod's body.

  The whole hall rang with a triple, very low moan, counterpointed with shrieks of terror.

  Three huge white forms towered high in the black-ness. At the tops were skeletal faces, their mouths rounded into O's: Horatio and two other erstwhile Lords Loguire, having the time of their afterlives.

  Rod forced a shout out of his terror. "Fess! Sixty cycles!"

  His head clamored with the raucous buzzing, and the fear evaporated. His light flicked again, found Loguire. Rod sprang, struck him in the midriff. The breath went out of the old lord in a whoof! and he doubled over Rod's shoulder—the good one, fortunately.

  Rod turned and ran, stumbling, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

  Behind him, Durer was shrieking, "Clap your hands to your ears, fools! Fools! Fools!"

  Rod blundered about in the dark, Loguire's weight dragging heavier on his shoulder. He couldn't find the door! And now he heard staccato steps in short, quick bursts—Durer, trying to find Rod by blind chance. And now that he had his earplugs in, Durer would once again be a formidable enemy. Also, Rod couldn't fight with one shoulder shot and the other under Loguire.

  Cold air fanned his cheek, and a dim white form brushed past him. "Follow!" boomed Horatio Loguire.

  Rod followed.

  He ran after Horatio, his good arm out like a broken-field runner. It didn't help; his wounded shoulder slammed against the stone of the doorway and spun him around with a wrench of pain. He gasped, almost dropping Loguire, and stumbled back against the wall of the narrow passage.

  He leaned against the wall, breathing horsely.

  "Quickly, Man!" boomed Horatio. "The slab! You must close it!"

  Rod nodded, gasping, and groped for the lever, hoping Loguire would stay balanced on his shoulder.

  His hand found rusty metal. He hauled upward; the door grated shut.

  He stood hunched over, just breathing.

  After a small eternity, Loguire began to struggle. Rod called up the energy to lower him to the floor. Then, still panting, he looked up at Horatio.

  "Many thanks," he wheezed, "for this timely rescue."

  Horatio waved away the thanks, coming dangerously close to a smile. "Why, Man, how could you fulfill your oath to me dead?"

  "Oh, I dunno." Rod sagged against the wall. "You seem to manage all right. I'd love to know how you pulled the fuse on those torches."

  "Pulled… the fuse?" Horatio frowned.

  "You know, the trick with the lights."

  The ghost's frown deepened. "Was that not your doing?"

  Rod stared. Then he raised a hand, palm out. "Now, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Now. You thought I did it… and I thought you did it."

  "Aye."

  "But, you didn't do it?"

  "Nay."

  "And I didn't do it."

  "It would seem not."

  "Then"—Rod gulped—"who… ?"

  "Who is this?" Loguire rumbled at Rod's elbow.

  A beam of light stabbed through the peephole.

  Horatio gave one moan of fear, and winked out.

  Rod put his eye to the peephole. The torches were lit again. Durer was on the dais, stabbing the air about him with his dagger and screaming, "Where? Where?"

  Rod lifted his head away from the peephole and smiled up at Loguire thinly. "I don't think we ought to stay to find out, my lord. Shall we go?"

  He turned to go; but Loguire's fingers dug into his shoulder. Rod gasped. "Please, milord—would you mind—the other shoulder, please…"

  "What man was that?" Loguire growled.

  "Man?" Rod looked about him. "What man?"

  "Why, he who stood before us in white!"

  "Oh." Rod scanned the old man's face. Apparently Loguire was still in shock, not quite yet ready to face reality, such as it was. "Uh, just a relative, milord."

  "Your relative? Here?"

  "No, milord. Yours." He turned away, groping down the passage.

  After a moment, Loguire followed.

  The light from the peephole fell off after a few yards. Rod groped his way, cursing; it would be pitch dark when they turned the corner to go down the narrow steps.

  He turned the corner, fumbling out his dagger—and saw a ball of fox-fire before him. He stared, an eerie tingling nesting at the base of his neck; then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow, he made out a face and a body (it was impossible to see them as a unit, since each was worthy of independent study), one arm extended, with the fox-fire sitting on her palm. Her face was tense with worry.

  "Gwendylon," he stated.

  Her face flooded with relief and joy, but only for a moment; then the light of mischief was in her eyes.

  She bobbed in a mock curtsy. "My lord."

  "My Aunt Nanny!" he growled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Her eyes widened in offended innocence. "I followed you, lord."

  "No, no, no!" Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "That's not in the script. You were supposed to hate me now. You were supposed to quit following me."

  "Never, lord." Her voice was very low.

  He looked up to see if she was joking. No luck. Tom's line about farm girls ran through his mind.

  "What," he said, nodding at the ball of fox-fire, "have you got there?"

  "This?" She glanced at the ball of light. "Only a little spell my moth
er taught me. 'Twill light us through this maze, lord."

  "Light," Rod agreed. "And may I ask how you killed the torches in the great hall?"

  She started to answer, then frowned. " 'Tis not quickly said, lord. Have we time?"

  Rod studied her face with his lips pursed. "But it was you who did it?"

  "Aye, lord."

  "Just another little spell that…"

  "… my mother taught me, yes." She nodded brightly.

  "Oka-a-a-y!" He shrugged. "Why not? Let's go, babe."

  He started groping his way down the narrow stairs, wincing as his shoulder brushed the wall.

  "My lord!" Gwendylon gasped, her hand darting out to touch his shoulder. "You're hurt!"

  He half-turned toward her, lurching against the wall, still groping for the stone; but the full, firm mound that his hand found was anything but granite.

  He jerked his hand away. She stared at him a moment, surprised; then her lids drooped, she smiled lazily, and caught up his hand, pulling it toward her. "Milord, you need not—"

  "Yegad!" He pulled his hand away, shrinking back against the wall. She swayed toward him, lips parting.

  "My dear lady… !"

  "I ha' ne'er claimed that title," she murmured, her voice warm, rich, and husky. Her body pressed softly against him.

  "Woman, please!" Rod made a valiant attempt to push his way into the stone. "I can't imagine a less aesthetic atmosphere."

  "Neither time nor place matter to me, lord, when you are near," she breathed into his ear, and nibbled.

  And I thought I had some lines, Rod told himself. "Look," he said, wriggling, "we don't have time, we don't have room…" He gasped and shivered as she caught just exactly the right spot. "Look, baby, just get us out of here, and I'm yours to command!"

  She caught her breath and stood just far enough back to look up at him. "Truly, lord?"

  "Well,uh…" Rod backpedaled furiously. "For twenty-four hours, anyway."

  "That will do," she murmured smugly, with a similar quality in her smile.

  He glowered down at her for a moment; then, "Take those canary feathers out of your mouth," he growled, "and get us out here!"

  "Aye, lord!" She turned in a swirl of skirts and ran lightly down the mossy steps.

  He watched her run for a moment, a gleam coming into his eye.

  He caught up to her in three bounds and swung her around to face him.

  She looked up in surprise, then turned on the sultry look again. "My lord, we must not delay…"

  "This won't take long," he answered, arid pulled her hard against him. Her lips were moist and warm, and parted…

  She gave a happy little sigh and pushed him away. "Wek! And what was that for?"

  "Promissory note." He grinned.

  She giggled, then spun away, tugging him down the hall. "We must hurry!"

  He freed his arm and watched her run.

  A deep, warm chuckle sounded behind him.

  Rod threw Loguire a look of disgust. "Dirty old man," he growled, and ran after Gwen.

  The slimy stones of the passage slid by on either side, scarcely three inches from each shoulder. Up a flight of steps, turn, up another flight, the stones greasy and slippery with dripping water, seepage from the lake overhead. Patches of pale moss grew like sores on the walls. Old spiderwebs festooned the low ceiling.

  At the top of the twelfth staircase, Rod heard water chuckling somewhere in the distance.

  "The inlet to the lake," Gwendylon informed him. "We shall come out along its border." She glanced back over her shoulder. "Your shoulder, Lord Rod?"

  "Oh, it'll wait," he growled.

  "Doth it yet bleed?"

  "No; the doublet seems to have stanched it. Be a hell of a cleaning bill though."

  "Hmm." She turned away, hurrying. " 'Twill hold till we come to the riverbank, then. Hurry, lords; we must be away ere they think to search in the stables."

  Rod frowned. "Why? Are we coming out in the stableyard?"

  "Nay, by the river; but when they look in the stables, they shall see that your black and the Duke's dun stallion have fled."

  "You don't say!" He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder than necessary. "And where would my horse be?"

  "By the riverbank, Rod," Fess's voice murmured, "with Big Tom and two real nags."

  Gwendylon had started to answer, but Rod cut her off. "Yes, yes, they're by the riverbank, I know."

  Gwen looked faintly surprised.

  "But how," Rod went on, "did Big Tom know we'd be needing horses?"

  She frowned at him a moment, then turned away. " 'Twas at my urging, lord. 'Twas but a thought, and could do little harm. I had a seeming they might be needed."

  "A seeming," Rod echoed. Was she clairvoyant, too?

  "Aye, lord, a seeming." She slowed suddenly. "Walk wary, lords." She stepped carefully over something lying in the passage.

  Rod stopped and stared at it.

  It was a miniature human skeleton, perhaps eighteen inches long; but the proportions were those of an adult, not a bably. It was green with mold.

  He looked up at Gwendylon. "This has not been here so very long," he said. "What is it?"

  "One of the Wee Folk, lord." Her mouth hardened. "There ha' been evil spells in this keep of late."

  Rod looked up, surprised at the tone of her voice, ignoring Loguire's startled exclamation.

  Her face was flint, set in a mold of bitterness. "Poor wee fellow," she murmured. "And we dare not stop to give him burial." She spun about and hurried on.

  Rod stepped carefully over the tiny skeleton and followed.

  "What manner of spell?" he asked as he caught up to her.

  " Twas a sort of… singing… in the air, lord, though not for the ear, but the mind. If you or I tried to move against it, 'twould but stop us," like a wall. But it slew the Wee Folk."

  Rod frowned. "A singing, you say?"

  "Aye, lord. Yet not of the ear, as I told you."

  A force field! But that was impossible. Ask any physicist, he'd tell you…

  "How long ago?"

  "It was cast five years agone, milord. It lasted no more than a month, for its master took no note of my stopping it, nor did he cast it again."

  Rod stopped so fast Loguire stumbled into him. He stared at the gentle, very feminine form hurrying down the passage before him. Then he closed his mouth, swallowed, and followed.

  A force field! And five years ago, that was when Durer had shown up…

  Rod thought again of the dial on the supposed time machine. Then he stared at Gwen's long, red hair, swinging with her steps.

  And she had stopped it? A machine out of the future, and she had stopped it?

  He looked at his farm girl with new respect.

  "Uh,Gwen, dear…"

  "Aye, my lord?" She looked back at him, with a look of pleased surprise and a faint blush.

  He frowned. What… ? Oh. He'd called her "Gwen." Also "dear."

  "Aye, my lord, exorcised it. But the Wee Folk would not come here more, and I too thought it wise."

  Yes, Rod mused, very wise. Durer & Co. would not have taken kindly to diminutive spies, and could probably have devised some very unpleasant preventatives. He fastened his eyes on Gwendylon's retreating back, watching her absently; she was just full of surprises, this one…

  "We come near, lords!"

  Rod jerked his head up and saw a point of dim light ahead. The ball of light in Gwen's hand flickered out.

  A moment later, they stepped through the weath-ered, weed-grown mouth of the tunnel into the moonlit night. The river flowed by a few dozen yards away, bordered with willow and cypress. The breeze was chill after the dampness of the tunnel. Loguire shivered.

  "Master!" came a soft, low cry, and Big Tom stepped out of the riverbank shadows, leading three horses.

  Rod grabbed Gwendylon's hand and ran for the horses… and was brought up sharp by a most un-feminine jerk on his arm—fortunately, the good one.

/>   "Nay, my lord," she said firmly. "First we must see to your arm."

  "Which one," Rod grumped, swiveling his good shoulder; it had developed a sudden ache. "Look, we don't have time…"

  "It will slow us in our ride soon or late," she said sternly. "Better to tend it now, when it will take but a moment."

  Rod sighed and capitulated. He watched her run to the riverbank with a connoisseur's interest and wondered what the strange, pleasant feeling inside him was.

  "She hath the right of it," growled Loguire, swinging Rod about to face him. "Clamp your teeth."

  He unbuttoned Rod's doublet. Rod's nascent protest was cut off by a gasp of agony as Loguire snapped the doublet open, tearing the scab off in the process.

  "Let it bleed freely a moment," Loguire growled, jerking the doublet off the injured shoulder.

  Then Gwendylon came up with a handful of some sort of herb and a small wineskin—trust &ig Tom to have one on him, Rod thought—and perhaps five minutes later, Rod swung her onto Fess's saddle and leaped up behind her. He dug his heels into Fess's sides. Gwendylon started at the muted clang, and, as Fess sprang out into a gallop, she twisted about to frown, puzzled, at Rod.

  "That's why I call him Old Ironsides," Rod explained. "Just relax and lean back against me. It's going to be a long ride."

  "But, my lord, I have no need to—"

  "There're only three horses, Gwen. Somebody has to ride double. Don't worry, Fess won't even notice the difference."

  "But my lord, I—"

  "Hush. My Lord Loguire!" he called back over his shoulder. "Lead us, my lord; you know this land best."

  Loguire nodded mutely and spurred the big bay; it speeded a little, and passed Rod. Rod followed him, listening to the drum of hooves from Tom's mount behind him.

  "Believe me, my lord, there is no need for—"

  "Time enough to talk later," Rod growled. "We're leaving a trail as clear as Polaris. We've got to get far enough away fast enough so it won't matter if they follow us."

  Gwendylon sighed. "Look behind you, my lord."

  Rod turned, and saw a crowd of at least a hundred elves lined along their trail with miniature brooms, sweeping away every trace of their passing—even straightening the grass the horses' hooves had flattened.

  Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "No. Oh, no. Why me, Lord? Why me?"

  He turned back to Gwendylon. "Gwen, did you call out these… Gwen!"