The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

  And that, Rod admitted, was the kernel of it. Prestige was everything on this world; and honor was the cornerstone of prestige.

  "Well," he sighed, "you're the doctor."

  Tuan frowned at him. "Doctor? I have no skill in healing."

  "No, but you're an excellent practical psychologist. So I'll follow your lead when it comes to handling people."

  Tuan smiled sadly, shaking his head. "FriendRod, I have no skill at ruling."

  Rod allowed himself a skeptical look. "Well, maybe not, but you're one hell of a leader."

  "Ho!" a voice bellowed.

  Rod turned and grinned at the huge shape that loomed in the fog. "Everyone happy over there?"

  Big Tom shouldered his way out of the mist, grinning. "Most happy, master. They've ne'er in their lives drunk such wine, or so much of it."

  "Hmmm." Rod tugged at his lip. "Better roll the wine away in a little while. We don't want them drunk so soon before battle."

  But, "Nay," Tuan corrected, almost automatically, Rod noticed. "Let them drink their fill; 'twill put them abed sooner. Then rouse them early in the morning and give each a tankard or two—then they'll fight like the very demons."

  Well, Rod had to allow that was true. They weren't asking precision from the beggars, just wanted them to get out and beat up the enemy.

  The night was pricked with the pinholes of watch-fires, softened by the lifting mist.

  More dots of light sprang up to the south, where the noblemen and councillors were bringing up their army.

  In the northern meadow, there was bawdy laughter and shouting, and the din of music, where the beggars were in the last stages of gleeful compliance with the order to get drunk as fast as possible.

  On the hillside across the river there was a stern, disapproving silence, and the gentle glow of lamps within silken tents, where Catharine and her army of regulars went sober to bed.

  But in the largest tent, Catharine's, things were anything but quiet.

  "Nay, nay, and again I say nay!" she cried, angrily pacing the floor.

  She swung about, clapping her hands sharply. "I shall have no more of your arguments! Have done, have done; for I will ride tomorrow at the head of my armies! I shall brook no further objection!"

  Rod and Brom exchanged glances.

  Tuan's face was beet-red with anger, frustration, and worry.

  "Begone," snapped Catharine, and turned her back.

  Reluctantly, the three men bowed, and filed out of the tent.

  "What she will, she will," Brom growled. "We three must guard her, then, and leave the plan of the battle to SirMaris."

  "That's one sure road to defeat," Rod growled.

  "His way of running a battle is as outdated as the phalanx."

  Brom sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But as I have said, I will die by her. Yet mayhap we shall live, for I have a slight plan."

  He stumped away into the darkness before they could question him, from which Rod inferred that his "plan" was limited to buoying up Rod's and Tuan's spirits by insinuating that there was yet hope.

  "We shall die in her defense," Tuan whispered, drawn and pale. "Yet when we are gone, she will die too, and for that I am loath." He spread his hands helplessly. "But what can I do?"

  "Well…" Rod pursed his lips, and looked back over his shoulder at the lighted tent. "I know one way to make sure she won't ride tomorrow…"

  "Tell it, then!" Tuan's face lit with frantic eagerness.

  "Make sure she won't be able to sit down in the morning."

  Tuan stared. A slow flush crept into his face, then drained away, leaving him pale and trembling. "What… dost… thou mean?" His voice was choked and threatening. He lifted a clenched, trembling fist.

  Rod looked at him, frowned. "Why, spank her. Smack her so hard she'll have to stand till next Sunday. How else would you do it?"

  Tuan's fist slowly dropped; the color came back to his face in a blush. "Oh," he said, and turned away. 'T truth," he said. " 'twould be well done."

  "It's that, or let her die."

  Tuan nodded, life coming back to him. He turned to the Queen's tent, paused a minute, then squared his shoulders. "That shall I do, then. Pardon me, friend Gallowglass, for my anger; for a moment I had thought you meant… something else."

  He took a deep breath and stepped off briskly toward the tent.

  He paused at the entrance, nodded at the guards, squared his shoulders again, and marched in.

  Rod smiled, amused. "And I thought I had a dirty mind!"

  He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned toward the witches' campfires, reflecting thatTuan's years in the House of Clovis had taught him a lot about life.

  Gwendylon materialized out of the darkness (literally). She smiled shyly. "What amuses my lord?"

  Rod grinned, caught her by the waist, and swung her up for a kiss, a warm kiss, and lasting.

  "My lord!" she said, blushing prettily, patting her hair back into place.

  The night breeze wafted a sudden slapping sound to them, accompanied by squeals and cries.

  The guards at the tent jerked bolt upright, then swung toward the tent. One put up a hand to swing aside the cloth i>f the doorway; but the second caught the hand and cried, "Does your Majesty require aid?"

  "Stay out!" squealed an agonized voice. "On pain of your life, do not enter!"

  The sentries exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged and turned back to their posts, albeit with some nervous looks over their shoulders.

  The squeals became muffled, then turned into sobs. The slapping sounds ceased.

  Then all was still.

  Rod looked down atGwen. "What are you grinning about?"

  She looked up at him out of the corner of her eyes. "I had told you, my lord, that I can hear all thoughts but yours."

  "Oh?"

  "Aye. And there are most goodly thoughts in that tent at this moment."

  The lights in the tent went out.

  Gwendylon giggled and turned away. "Come, my lord. Twould be most improper to listen further. Come. Thou must be early abed this night."

  "Waken, Rod Gallowglass!"

  Something jarred his shoulder.

  Rod growled and levered his eyes open. "What the hell do you think…"

  He stopped as he saw the look on Brom's face.

  "Aye," Brom growled. "Now robe thyself and come with me."

  "I don't sleep naked on battle nights," Rod growled, and rose very carefully, so as not to disturb Gwendylon.

  His face softened for a moment as he looked down at her. He touched his lips to her cheek. She stirred, murmured in her sleep, and smiled.

  Then he rose, his face hardening.

  Brom was already striding away through the chill predawn mist, beckoning curtly.

  "All right, what's happened?" Rod growled as he caught up with Brom.

  "Nay, be still!" Brom snapped, and was silent till they had climbed the hillside far above the tents.

  Then he swung on Rod and snapped, "Now tell me! Dost thou love her?"

  Rod's face emptied.

  Then he said, softly, "You woke me just to ask that?"

  "It is of some importance to me," Brom snapped. "Dost thou love her!"

  Rod folded his arms, leaning back on one hip. "Just what the hell business is it of yours? What right have you to know my soul?"

  Brom looked away, his face working; and when he spoke, the words seemed almost dragged out of him.

  "She is my daughter, Rod Gallowglass."

  He glanced up at Rod's stunned face, and a sardonic gleam came into his eye. "Aye. Thou scarce can credit it, canst thou?"

  He turned away, looking out over the valley. His voice softened with memory and musing.

  "She was naught but a servant-wench in the King's halls, Rod Gallowglass—yet I loved her. She was small, scarce half the height of another woman, yet still a head taller than I. And mortal, much too mortal.

  "And she was beautiful, ah, so beautiful! And, strange though it m
ay seem, highly desired by the men of the court. And yet"—Brom's voice took on a tone of wonder andawe—"yet she loved me. She alone, of all women living, elf or mortal, saw me not as dwarf, elf or Prince—but only as a man.

  "And desired me…

  "And loved me…"

  He broke off, shaking his head in wonder.

  He sighed. "I loved her, Rod Gallowglass, I loved her only, and begat a child within her."

  His face darkened. He locked his hands behind his back and scowled at the ground. "When she proved by child, and her time grew apace, and she would soon be so swollen that all would know, and would shame her with cruel jests, though we were wed, I sent her away to the wild wood, to my people. And there, midwived by elves and leprechauns, she birthed a beautiful, laughing, part-elven child."

  His eyes misted over. He lifted his head, staring through Rod. "She died. When her daughter was aged of two years, she died of a chill. And we buried her there, 'neath a tree in the forest. And yearly I come there…"

  His eyes focused on Rod again. "But I had, still, the child."

  He turned away, restless. "Yet what should I do? Raise her near me, and have her know her father for a gnarled thing, and the butt of bad jests? Raise her to shame of me?

  "She was raised in the woods, therefore, knowing her mother's grave and the elves, but never her father."

  Rod started to protest, but Brom waved him silent. "Be still! 'Twas better so!"

  He turned slowly, murder in his eyes. "As 'tis still. And if ever she learns of it from thee, RodGallowglass, I'll hale out thy tongue by its roots, and lop off thy ears."

  Stone-faced, Rod studied him, and found nothing to say.

  "And therefore, now tell me!" Brom slammed his fists against his hips and lifted his chin. "For know this: half-mortal am I, and may therefore be slain; and it may be that this day I shall die."

  His voice lowered. "So tell me, tell a poor, anxious father, an thou wilt: dost thou love my child?"

  "Yes, "Rod said, low. Then, "So it was no accident that I met her on my ride south?"

  Brom smiled, sourly. "Nay, of course not. Couldst thou ever have thought that it was?"

  The east was reddening, embarrassed with dawn, and the mist lifting as Rod rode into the beggars' camp to waken them.

  But Tuan was there before him, going from pallet to pallet, shaking the beggars awake. A soldier was with him, placing a mug of hot mulled wine by each pallet.

  Tuan looked up, saw Rod, and came up to him with arms outstretched and a grin a yard wide.

  He clapped Rod on the shoulder, gripped his hand in a crushing shake. There was a deep, almost intoxicated quiet content in his eyes.

  "My thanks, friend Rod," he said simply. "Dost thou wish my life? Thou mayst have it! Such is the debt that I owe."

  Rod smiled slyly. "So you made double sure, did you? Well, all the better."

  Tuan seemed to have things well in hand in the beggars' camp, so Rod turned Fess's steps toward the witches' lines.

  All was in good order there; the baskets with ropes and harnesses stood ready; and the morning brew was passing from hand to hand. It was a potent beverage, something like concentrated tea with a touch of brandy, and served much the same purpose: a stimulant, to bring the witch powers to their peak.

  Elves were underfoot everywhere about the camp, distributing good luck tokens and preventive-magic charms to all who would take them. Witches or no witches, the little folk argued, it never hurt to be sure. The charms could do no harm, and they might…

  There was nothing for Rod to do there, either, so he rode in search of Gwendylon.

  He found her seated in die midst of a knot of witches, old ones, as Gramarye witches went; they must have been into their twenties.

  Gwendylon seemed to be explaining something to them with great earnestness, marking diagrams in the dust with a pointed stick. They were hanging on her words as though every syllable might mean life or death.

  It didn't look like a good time to interrupt.

  Rod turned and rode through a maze of scurrying forms, cooking smells, clamor of voices and discordant bugle calls, out past the pickets into Breden Plain.

  The first rays of sunlight slanted through the meadow now, burning away the last tatters of mist. The long grass was moist and chill with the dew, the sky clear and blue.

  And the glitter of spear-points flashed from the south verge of the field. Sun gleamed off burnished armor. The wind blew him the metallic din, the horse-cries, and the mutter of a war-camp awaking. The councillors, too, were awake early.

  Hooves approaching; Rod turned to see a page pelting across the meadows toward him.

  "How now, my lad?" Rod called, grinning and waving for appearances.

  "Thou must come to the Queen, Master Gal-lowglass," the page gasped, out of breath, as he clutched at Rod's stirrup. "My Lord O'Berin and the Lords Loguire are there already before you. 'Tis a council of war!"

  The council of war was quickly over, no more than a summary of existent plans, and a brief prayer, plus the news that Catharine wouldn't ride after all. Rod had noticed that Catharine had stood through the meeting.

  Then they were up and away, each to his station: Sir Maris to the center, old Duke Loguire to the right flank, and Rod to the left flank. Brom would stay high on the hillside with Catharine and Gwendylon, to direct the whole battle, an innovation Rod had recommended, and which Brom had accepted without reservation: the little man was a mighty fighter, but his legs weren't long enough to hold his seat in a joust.

  Tom, offered the option of fighting with the beggars or staying by Rod, had chosen the latter option, probably because he wanted to be in the thick of the battle.

  Tuan, of course, would stay with his beggars.

  As Tuan swung into the saddle, Catharine stopped him with a hand on his knee. Rod saw her tie a veil of silk about Tuan's upper arm.

  Then her hands lifted to him, pleading. Tuan caught them and pressed them to his mouth, bowed to kiss her lips, then wheeled his horse away, rode perhaps ten yards forward, then wheeled again.

  They stood frozen a moment, the young Queen and the white knight. Then Tuan reared his horse, pivoted,, and galloped after his ragtag-and-patchwork troops.

  Rod smiled covertly.

  "The time to feel smug is not yet, Rod," Fess reminded him.

  Rod made a face. "Who do you think you are, Pinocchio's Cricket?"

  He turned back for one last look at Gwendylon, standing near the Queen's tent; then he rode for the left flank.

  He was the only horseman who rode without armor.

  It was full, 14th Century plate armor, on both sides of the field; but the Southern armor was massed together in a solid, glaring wall, while Catharine's knights were spaced out, twenty yards apart, over the length of the enemy line.

  Yes, there are a few holes, Rod thought. And the single line of foot soldiers behind the Queen's knights didn't compare too favorably with the packed masses that backed the rebel lords. No, it was not a sight to inspire confidence.

  But the beggars weren't in sight. Nor, for that matter, were the witches. Or the elves.

  The rebels were in for some very unpleasant surprises.

  At the southern end of the field, a bugle called.

  The rebel knights couched their lances.

  The Queen's knights followed suit.

  There was a long, straining, pause; then the horses plunged forward.

  Horses' hooves muttered and rose to the roar of an avalanche as the two metal lines fell toward each other.

  And as they fell, the North's line drew it upon itself till the knights rode shoulder to shoulder in the center.

  A cheer went up from the rebel line as they saw easy victory coming; it would be easy for the rebel flanks to sweep around the Northern line and trap the Queen's forces.

  The Queen's knights met the center of the rebel line with a grinding crash. Knights were unhorsed and blood spurted, but the center of the line held.

&nbs
p; And with a victorious roar the rebels swung about to outflank the North…

  The yell broke into wild screams as the ground fell away beneath their mounts.

  Knights and horses floundered in a six-foot trench.

  The elves had done a good night's work.

  The footmen came running up to their masters' rescue; but now the beggars broke howling from the trees at the sides of the field, with knife and sword and bludgeon, and fell on the footmen with extreme good will.

  Still, they were vastly outnumbered.

  But now the aerial arm got into the action. Teams of four levitating, fuzz-cheeked warlocks supported a swinging basket beneath them; and in each basket was a telekinetic witch. The warlocks fired arrows into the scrimmage at random, their hands freed by the leather harness at their waists; and pebbles flew out of the baskets, guided by the witches, to strike with more than enough impact to stun. Arrows speared up at them out of the Southern ranks; but the witches deflected them, and sometimes even managed to turn them back on their owners.

  The simple, orderly battle deteriorated into hand-to-hand chaos.

  But the Southern knights were still overly busy. The Code dictated that only a knight could fight another knight—a foot soldier could be killed just for trying it, and Heaven help him if he tried and won!

  So Catharine's knights worked their way outward from the center along the rebel lines a large percentage of them dying on the way. But the percentage of rebels was greater, for Catharine, like her father before her, had seen fit to give her knights a little extra in the way of training.

  Toby, the young warlock, suddenly appeared in the air just above Rod. "Master Gallowglass! The Duke Loguire is sorely pressed; you must come to him!"

  He disappeared as abruptly as he had come. It might not have been the greatest form of military communication, but it was better than the rebels had.

  Rod dispatched his current preoccupation with a parry and a thrust between breastplate and helmet and backed Fess out of the melee.

  He ran around the lines to the other end of the line, where a spindly, armored-clad form with a glowing sword had just finished cutting its way through the troops to Loguire. One of the councillors was trying to save the day by eliminating the leadership. The sword had a strange, radiant quality. Rod didn't know what it was, but it was something mighty potent disguised as a sword.