The Warlock's Last Ride

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Only your lady in the labor of birth." Rod pressed a hand against his chest. "It's perfectly natural, and there's no reason for worry."

  "I must… must…"

  "Go to her?" Rod shook his head, smiling. "The women would chase you out, Sir Reginald. The last thing they need on their hands right now is a hysterical husband. Besides, you're wounded, in case you hadn't noticed."

  The knight turned to look at his shoulder; the pain bit through the adrenalin his wife's scream had summoned. He clamped his teeth, gasped again, then asked, "What…"

  "I was hoping you could tell me," Rod said.

  He didn't have to eavesdrop; the flood of images in the man's mind were so vivid Rod would have had trouble shutting them out: a bright slash of daylight bordered by darkness above and below—the slits in a knight's helmet, through which he saw three foresters in dark green, two with bows bent and arrows aimed at his helmet as the third thrust upward with a blood-encrusted sawtoothed pike.

  The shield dropped to block the pike, and the hound charged the villein who held it, barking furiously, but the bows thrummed and the dog leaped aside at the sound, as he had been trained to do. The shield jumped up to ward off the arrows—and pain seared the knight's shoulder, as the pike jammed under his pauldron; the shield dropped down as his own cry of pain echoed in the helmet. But his sword flashed across and down, and the villein fell back holding a shortened pole with no head and pressing a hand to his arm, where blood welled. The hound was after him, barking like a whole pack. The two archers lifted their bows again, but the knight charged them; the arrows leaped up, then passed him, as the varlets scrambled aside—but not quickly enough for one of them to avoid the sword. He dropped his bow, bellowing pain.

  "Coward!" the pole-bearer shouted. "Come at us without armor or horse!"

  The knight's voice echoed in the bell of his helmet: "Come alone, and I will." Then he was charging down at the man, and the villein lurched aside, then fell and scrambled to escape the horse's hooves. On his feet again, he stumbled away into the forest. Turning his horse, the knight saw the archers making their escapes too. Panting, he felt the exaltation of victory, of vindication, for he had beaten off three who had set upon him without cause.

  Then the pain in his shoulder flared, the world blurred, and the blur lurched, ending with a jolt. Dimly through thoughts gone murky, Sir Reginald realized he had fallen from his horse.

  Memory came in flashes after that, enough so that Rod realized the knight was fading in and out of consciousness, managing to drag himself up out of the darkness of blood loss to meet threats—the first being a return of the pole-arm villein, a bandage around his arm and one archer behind him—but Sir Reginald saw him through the arch formed by his warhorse's legs, which rose out of sight while his head filled with the charger's battle-scream, and the foresters backed away hastily. The archer nocked an arrow, but the hound burst from cover, barking madly. The archer swung his arrow to the beast and loosed, but again the dog leaped aside, then came on, baying madly, and the archer ran. The dog stopped at the edge of the wood and turned back—to find the pole-armed villein with his pike lowered and centered on the hound. The beast came on, barking and growling as it leaped to this side, then that, evading the pike-point, and the villein gave ground—too much, for he came within the horse's range, and the charger screamed as it lashed out with its forehooves, knocking the man over.

  The dog leaped in, but the villein brought his blade around in time and the dog dodged, then leaped in and out, in and out, as the man scrambled to his feet and backed away. The hound stopped when the trees had swallowed him, but stayed stiffly on guard as the man called, "Come alone yourself, knight!" then crashed away.

  The last picture was the dog's head, filling the knight's vision and whining anxiously, then turning away and barking with gladness as the lady sank heavily to her knees by him, weeping even as she loosened his helmet, and frantic worry kept the knight awake despite the pain, worry for her when she was so heavy with child—but his strength ebbed, and darkness came again.

  "Valiantly fought," Rod said, "but what made you think they would be there?"

  "Signs in the wood, and words of worry from my tenants." Then Sir Reginald gasped at a spasm of pain, but went on through clenched teeth. "They said outlaws had come by many farmsteads in many manors, telling the peasants their masters were using them as beasts of burden and cared nothing for their welfare. But I have always dealt fairly with my peasants and have done all I could to make sure they are well fed and well housed, so they brought the word to me instead…"

  Another cry echoed down the hall, a ragged tearing cry this time, and Sir Reginald jolted upward to answer, but met Rod's palm pushing him down again. "If that wasn't the birth, it's very close," Rod said. "Nothing to worry about, not that knowing it will stop you, or any young husband at a first labor—but you'd only be in the way. Trust me—my wife went through this four times, and it always took two or three people to keep me calm."

  "Praise Heaven you are come, then!" Sir Reginald said.

  "We're all the same in this hour," Rod told him, "and all need the reassurance of a man who's been through it before, having to stand by and do nothing when his wife's in torment… So you didn't know these three were going to be out there hunting knights?"

  "Belike they only sought to trouble my people," Sir Reginald said, then clamped his jaw against pain.

  "It will fade eventually," Rod told him, "as the wound heals. Then it will begin to itch most abominably, but you mustn't scratch it… So that's why you didn't bring any men-at-arms; you were afraid of looking foolish if all you found was a boar."

  "Aye," Sir Reginald gasped. "Yet when I found a boar dead and saw the wound in its shoulder, I knew there were strangers in the wood." He frowned, focusing on Rod. "What manner of outlaws are these, who seek to stir up even happy peasants against their lords?"

  "Ones who will never stop causing trouble, I fear," Rod sighed, "but whom I think I…"

  The nurse came in, holding a squalling bundle in her arms—and Sir Reginald's relief and sudden awe and massive urge to protect nearly bowled Rod over. He came around to put an arm under the young knight and lift him up to sit so that the nurse could put the baby into his arms, saying, "Here is your daughter, Sir Knight."

  "She is beautiful," Sir Reginald said, huge-eyed, and held the baby as though she were made of glass, then looked up at the nurse with anxiety. "My lady…"

  "She is quite well, though weak from her ordeal—and immensely happy," the nurse told him.

  "I must go to her!"

  "That's not impossible," Rod said, "but it will be painful."

  "The devil with the pain!"

  "Where it belongs, no doubt," Rod agreed. "Very well, then—up with you."

  But the knight still clung to the baby.

  The nurse reached down for her, saying in a tone that would brook no argument, "You may not have her long, for she needs her mother." She lifted the child out of his arms and turned away—which was just as well, since Sir Reginald emerged from his bed naked and Rod had to call a man-at-arms to fetch a robe while he steadied the knight on his feet.

  He rode away an hour later, basking in the reflected glow of the young couple's joy and love—but as the leaves closed about him, he remembered the "outlaws" and frowned. "We'll have to be ready for attack, Fess."

  "I always am, Rod," the robot replied.

  Of course, Fess was epileptic, as much as an electronic brain could be, so he couldn't fight for more than a few minutes without having a seizure—but Rod could be sure no one could take him by surprise while Fess was near.

  "I think I recognize the modus operandi," Rod mused, "the jolly boys from VETO."

  "Their rhetoric does have the ring of the totalitarians," Fess agreed, "and their fondness for stirring up peasant rebellions."

  "Or trying to," Rod said. "Catharine and Tuan have ruled with the best interests of all their people at heart, so VETO's agents are goi
ng to have to stir up discontent before they can exploit it. Y'know, this almost sounds like the work of my old enemy the Mocker."

  "Not impossible, Rod, considering that he was a time traveller. Indeed, as I remember, we heard nothing of him after he escaped from the royal dungeons again."

  "You mean he could have jumped forward in time to this moment?" Rod frowned. "Why now, though?"

  "His organization has been in decline since its last defeat," Fess pointed out. "It could be a last desperate measure."

  "I suppose his bosses could have sent him off to the fourteenth century, or some such time, in disgrace," Rod said, frowning, "and be calling him back because they don't have any better guesses—but why now?"

  They rode a moment in silence. Then Rod said, "You're thinking it's because of me, aren't you? Because I've retired."

  "The idea has some merit," Fess agreed. "The totalitarians have been suspiciously inactive for ten years. They could have realized that you and your family are insuperable obstacles."

  "Yes, because we combine medieval loyalty with tremendous psi power and modern knowledge." Rod frowned and forced the next words out even though they tore at him. "But with Gwen gone…"

  "Half your strength went with her," Fess agreed, "not only in her own ESP talent, but also in her influence with others."

  "Yes, starting with her own children but expanding to Queen Catharine and the Royal Witchforce." Rod turned somber as memories rose around him. "And I suppose my retiring doesn't help any."

  "They could think they see a moment of weakness and the opportunity that accompanies it, yes."

  "If that's so, then they don't know my kids," Rod said, grinning, then frowned again. "Though it will take Magnus a while to re-establish his own influence, and expand it…"

  "You know he will not seek to command his siblings, Rod."

  "Yes. He did when he was seventeen, but he seems to have learned a bit on his travels—mostly that manipulation is far more effective than bossing," Rod said, "especially considering his training as a secret agent."

  "Your central office did give you some difficulty about his resignation, as I recall."

  "They called it a defection." Rod smiled at the memory. "I pointed out that he couldn't have defected because he hadn't joined the other side—and he hadn't."

  "But that made him a loose cannon, a wildcard, and in some ways a greater threat than a turncoat."

  "Which he certainly proved to be." Rod nodded. "It was just good luck that he never landed on a SCENT planet again—good luck for them."

  "Now he has, though, Rod."

  "Yes, well, he was born and reared here," Rod said, "which I think gives him a somewhat stronger claim than my old organization can have. But he will need some time to consolidate his position."

  The robot was silent a moment, choosing his words carefully. Then he said, "It will take you some time to find Tir Nan Og, Rod."

  "Yes, and if I manage to bump into some VETO cells and wreck their games, that should take some of the pressure off Magnus." Rod sighed. "Well, I suppose Gwen will forgive me if she has to wait a little longer."

  "But she would not forgive you if you abandoned your children before they could manage by themselves."

  "No, she wouldn't, would she? Well, let's see what we can find in the wildwood, shall we?"

  "Whatever awaits, you will find it more easily if you make some noise."

  "Or let it find me, huh? Okay, I can take a hint." Rod pulled out his harp. "Though I do take umbrage at your calling it 'noise.' "

  "I was not necessarily speaking of your attempts at singing, Rod."

  "Attempts, huh?" Rod gave a snort of mock indignation and began to pluck at the strings.

  The birds braced themselves for a quick retreat.

  The Anarchists' base was modest, as manor houses go, but was nonetheless respectable by the standards of the gentry, in case any of the noblemen who were their targets ever found it. A person coming from that big tranquil-seeming ivy-covered house would be acceptable in polite society, for she would be a lady or he a knight. Even a duke would talk with such a person, though he might not make her his friend.

  Of course, the agents who worked and visited there had elaborate safeguards in place to make sure none of the lords ever discovered the estate.

  One of the Home Agents knocked at the door of the solar, then opened it. An old-seeming man was seated at a table in the fan of sunlight from the tall windows behind him. He looked up as the Home Agent came in. "News, Dierdre?"

  "Yes, Chief." Dierdre handed the old man a scroll of paper.

  The Chief Agent took it, broke the seal, and unrolled it. He stared.

  "What is it, Chief?"

  "A letter from my old enemy the Mocker." The Chief Agent looked up. "He proposes a temporary alliance."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Alliance? With Totalitarians? Chief, they stand for the worst in everything we detest!"

  "True—but they could be useful." The Chief Agent laid down the scroll and turned to look out the window at the gardens. "Also, it seems, they've done just as our future Central Committee did—sent back the Chief of Mission who directed things when that confounded Gallowglass first came."

  "You would have succeeded in your palace coup if he hadn't interfered." The young woman had read SPITE's official history. "Then it would have been only a matter of time before you had all the noblemen fighting each other."

  "And exterminating the Mocker and his gang." The Chief Agent turned back to her, nodding. "We didn't realize then that the Lord Warlock was a bigger enemy for each of us than we were for each other."

  "He put you in jail, Chief Durer."

  "Yes, with the Mocker in an adjoining cell." Durer gazed back into memory—for him, only three months earlier. "Of course we spent the first week going at it hammer and tongs through the bars, but in the second week we started comparing notes. By the time we were ready to break out of there, we both understood who the real enemy was."

  "Meaning the Lord Warlock."

  "He was neither a lord nor a warlock at the time," Durer told her, "at least, as far as any of us knew—including him."

  The young woman stared. "You mean he didn't know he had ESP powers?"

  "If he had, he would have used them." Durer pulled a volume to him and pointed to the open page. "According to my successors' journals, he had a rather extended visit from a monk, after which he demonstrated a wide range of talents."

  "Brother Aloyuisis Uwell." Dierdre nodded, again demonstrating her knowledge of recent history.

  "I have a message into headquarters checking on him," Durer said. "I suspect he taught the Lord Warlock how to live up to his title." He sighed, paging through the book. "Three Chief Agents after me, and none of them had any better luck than I—but I have their hard-won knowledge to help me now, and a better idea of what the Gallowglasses can do."

  "Now that the Lord Warlock is off on his own, maybe he's more vulnerable."

  Durer shook his head. "His children can teleport to him in an instant. No, we have to remove them first. Then we can take care of my old enemy." His eyes gleamed.

  That gleam chilled Dierdre—and surprised her; usually the old man seemed so nice.

  Durer turned back to the book, leafing through the pages and frowning. "Not much here from the traitor."

  He meant Finister, the last Chief Agent before the one he had replaced.

  "She wasn't Chief Agent very long before she changed her name and turned her coat to marry the youngest Gallowglass." Dierdre's tone was sharp with spite.

  Durer shook his head. "I don't know what possessed Chief Agent Lewis to appoint that witch as his successor just before he died."

  On Gramarye, the term "witch" might have been merely descriptive, referring to someone with extra-sensory talents—but Durer chose to interpret it as an insult.

  "I don't think he had much choice about it," the Home Agent said. "We all knew Finister was a powerful esper, but we had no idea
how powerful."

  Durer turned to her with a frown. "You mean she bewitched Lewis?"

  "In more ways than one," the Home Agent said. "I'll admit he was using her for his own… amusement… so she may have thought she was justified in using him in return."

  "Using him in what way?"

  "She projected a very beautiful and voluptuous image, but we're pretty sure she manipulated his emotions telepathically, too. Why else would he have given the order that she be his successor? And considering that he died the next day…"

  "The autopsy?"

  "Showed no reason for death—his heart simply stopped."

  Even Durer felt a chill. "I take it this Finister was telekinetic, too?"

  "She had all the ESP talents except levitation and teleportation," the Home Agent confirmed.

  "I'll have to meet her—with my most advanced weapons," Durer said with a smile.

  Dierdre nodded. "You might want to consider a quiet little assassination for her before that."

  "Oh, no! Our revenge on the Gallowglass heirs comes first," Durer said. "Then I shall have my own revenge on the young woman who usurped my office and betrayed our Cause." He gazed off into a dream future, his eyes kindling. "My revenge on this Finister-Allouette will be delicious and prolonged."

  Dierdre stared at the look on his face and shuddered. How could she have ever thought this man was kindly?

  Durer made a quick gesture that banished his vision. "When I'm satiated, I'll be generous and give her a quick death." He turned back to Dierdre, all business once more. "After all, she was Chief Agent once, no matter how briefly, nor what skulduggery she used to get the job. We do owe her some respect."

  The sun was rising when Cordelia came out onto the battlements, where the servants had told her she could find Magnus. Sure enough, there he was, strolling along the eastern wall, stopping to chat briefly with each sentry, then standing still in the center of the parapet to watch the great orange disk rise.

  Cordelia came up behind him. "How now, brother—have you become a Zoroastrian, that you must rise to pray to the light as it returns?"