The Warlock's Last Ride

by Christopher Stasheff

  Rod nodded. "But where's the root, hey? The dukes and earls are all branches of the same tree—but where's the root?"

  "You know full well," Nicol snapped. " 'Tis in Runnymede. Begin by haling down the queen herself and her lap-dog king, and the tree's uprooted."

  "Then we can go about pruning the branches," Ruben said.

  But there would be men giving orders, Rod knew—the totalitarian agents who had stirred up this discontent in the first place, and if the peasants did succeed in overthrowing the lords, those agents would become the governing officials, each gaining more and more power, until, if the history of other totalitarian revolutions were any guide, the people would labor under masters even harsher, for they would guide their subjects' every step.

  He had a vision of twenty thousand unruly peasants marching on Runnymede and the Crown—and stripping the countryside bare of every shock of grain and cow and piglet on the way.

  "Who's this?"

  Rod looked up to see a face he knew well, and shock held him immobile for a minute.

  "Only a gaffer from another village, Mocker," said Nicol. "He brought biscuit." Then to Rod: "You get confused about where we're going or what we're about, you talk to the Mocker, and he'll set you straight."

  Rod was sure he would. The Mocker had been the chief VETO agent when Rod had first come to Gramarye—one of the enemies Rod had overthrown to keep the land and its telepaths from being conquered and trained to become weapons for a totalitarian government. The idea of a dictator being able to know what secrets people hid in their own minds gave Rod as bad a chill now as it had then—but the Mocker didn't look a day older than when Rod had seen him last. For a moment, the unfairness of it bit his soul—that he should have aged so, but the Mocker not!

  On the other hand, the Mocker had looked ancient when Rod had first known him.

  The Mocker stooped, peering into Rod's face and frowning. "I know you."

  "You've never looked on this face before," Rod told him.

  The Mocker's eyes widened. "Yes I have, though there were no wrinkles on it then, and the hair above it was black!" He spun toward the villagers. " 'Tis the Lord Warlock come among you! Seize him! Bear him down! Let your tearing of the lords begin here!"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The village men stared at Rod, thunderstruck; then they began to mutter fearfully to one another.

  "What are you waiting for?" the Mocker cried. "Seize him! Tie him up! Hang him high!"

  "He's a warlock," one of the villagers explained. "He'll freeze us with the Evil Eye, he'll turn us into toads!"

  "He's only a man, like any of you!" the Mocker shrilled. "They may call him a warlock, but he's nothing of the sort—only a treacherous backstabbing spy!" He spun, lashing a kick at Rod.

  Rod pushed himself up, but only enough so that the kick caught his shoulder instead of his head. Pain shot through his left arm, but he forced himself to his feet and blocked the next kick with his right, then countered with a feint to the head and a quick jab to the diaphragm. The Mocker fell back, clutching his belly but managing to cough out, "If he had magic, I'd be a toad, not a punching bag! He has no magic!"

  "You're a little behind the times," Rod informed him, and projected a blast of pure mental energy at the man. The Mocker shrieked, seizing his temples and falling.

  Rod let up as the tall black warhorse seemed to materialize out of the night. The villagers fell back with cries of superstitious fear. Rod mounted and turned Fess, looking into each one's eyes as he said, "Raven's gone from your village—I chased her away. She had magic of her own but couldn't stand against mine. I found your wives and children and parents and told them they could go back. Home with you now, for I promised I'd find you and send you! Home with you, before some of you fall in battle with the Queen's soldiers and the rest rot in prison!"

  "But… but the lords' tyranny…" The man who said it stared at the Mocker, limp and unconscious on the ground, and swallowed thickly.

  "The Queen keeps the lords from abusing you," Rod explained, "but the lords have their council where they keep her from becoming a tyrant. Home with you, lads—this may be the Mocker's fight, but it isn't yours."

  "What of all the rest of the men marching here?" Nicol asked with a dark frown.

  "They don't care about you," Rod answered, "not the Mocker nor any of his men—they care only about breaking the Crown and taking the throne for themselves. They disguise it as the people's battle, but it's really a fight to see who will govern you. Stay out of it, lads. Go home." Then he turned Fess and rode off into the night.

  Geordie brought home one deer after another, keeping the peasants busy dressing and smoking the meat, which they did even though they were worried for his safety. After the third one, Geordie didn't even bother skinning and disguising what he carried—he brought the carcasses home over his shoulders and left them for the peasants to skin and dress out, which they did—and again, after the third deer, they gave up trying to talk him out of it. No one could turn him from his course, and the meat should not go to waste.

  But his wife worried. "You must stop this, Geordie! The keepers will catch you, and, squire or not, they'll arrest you—or bring the shire-reeve himself to do it!"

  "Don't fret yourself, sweet chuck—I know how to hide my trail." Geordie reached out to touch her cheek in reassurance.

  Rowena struck his hand away. "This is no jest, Geordie! I've not even born a babe yet, and here you'd leave me a widow! I've no wish to lose my husband!"

  "Darling, darling, don't fret!" Geordie held out his arms. "None will find me, none will catch me!"

  "The keepers can track as well as you can hide your trail, Geordie! You must give this over! We'll find other ways to feed our peasant folk!"

  "There is no other way." Geordie's face firmed. "I'll not see my tenants starve."

  "But you'd see your wife left alone, vulnerable to the importuning of any man who wishes to insult her!"

  "None will insult you, either." Geordie stepped forward. "Be easy in your heart, love. All will be well. Come, let me embrace you."

  "No! If you'll not heed me, you cannot love me! Sleep by your own hearth!" She turned away and ran to her room; Geordie heard the latch fall. He sighed, bowing his head in defeat, and stood gazing at the fire a few minutes. Then he lifted his head and set about finding blankets, to make a bed by the fireplace.

  As the forest closed behind Rod, he told the robot, "Thanks for perfect timing—as usual."

  "I simply fulfill my programming, Rod."

  "And very well, too, though it's not always that simple." Rod glanced over his shoulder and decided there were enough trees between himself and the mob that he could stop for a few minutes. He reined in and called, "Wee Folk! Is there a brownie about?"

  "Not a brownie, but a wood-elf," chirped a voice above him.

  "Or two or three," crackled an older voice below and behind him. "What would you have of us, Lord Warlock?"

  "Communication," Rod said. "Bear word, I pray you, to my son Magnus in Castle Gallowglass. Tell him that thousands of men are marching through the greenwood, to rise against the Crown."

  "We shall tell him," the crackling voice assured. "Go now, Lord Warlock, and lose yourself in the depths of the wood, for the Mocker will have men beating the thickets for you in minutes."

  "I'm going," Rod said. "Don't get caught, eh?"

  "Not half, mortal, not half," the crackling voice said dryly, "though the searching peasants might have a nasty surprise or two."

  "Not a one of 'em has left a crumb for a brownie," the chirping voice said with an indignant sniff.

  Rod shook his head, tut-tutting in indignation. "Mustn't let them forget who really runs this land, eh, folks?"

  "That is what they seek to do." The crackling voice turned grim. "Never fear, Lord Warlock—we shall remind them most shrewdly."

  Rod shuddered and rode off.

  Geoffrey came out onto the battlements and frowned as he saw Magnus standin
g by a crenel, watching the soldiers drilling in the bailey. Geoffrey stepped up beside his older brother. "I had not thought you took any joy in watching soldiers march, Magnus."

  "There is always pleasure in watching something being done well." Magnus turned to him. "However, I came because I knew you would be here to make sure of their practice."

  Geoffrey frowned. "You can always find me at dinner."

  "True enough, but an elf brought word in the night," Magnus said. "Peasants are marching on Runnymede from all directions. By the time they reach the city, there will probably be ten thousand of them."

  Geoffrey stared in shock.

  "Didn't your spies tell you of this?" Magnus asked.

  That restored Geoffrey's poise; he gave Magnus a sardonic smile. "I am a general, brother, not a spy-master. I leave that to Their Majesties."

  Magnus nodded judiciously. "A wise course of action—except that they have never placed great emphasis on intelligence."

  "How came the elf?" Geoffrey asked.

  "Dad sent it," Magnus admitted. "I am no spy-master either."

  "No, only a master spy." Geoffrey's smile returned. "Though that is not accurate, is it? On those other planets, you did not ferret out information and bring it back to those who could do something about it."

  "No—I decided what to do about it when and where I was," Magnus said frankly. "However, that was myself with only one companion—first Dirk, then Alea. I can scarcely lay claim to commanding a force of spies."

  "But Papa has." Geoffrey looked out over the courtyard, automatically noting slight flaws in the soldiers' marching. "Though that is not true either—he has never set up a spy ring of his own, only taken advantage of one already in place."

  "Yes, the Wee Folk were sending word of troubling events back to Brom O'Berin before Dad ever arrived on the scene," Magnus agreed. "So what will you do about this growing mob, brother?"

  "What Their Majesties will have me do, of course," Geoffrey said, "but if they wish it, I shall send a few peasants to join the crowd and bring word of what the marchers do, and of who leads them."

  "I was thinking of Toby's Royal Witchforce," Magnus said. "Perhaps with their mind-reading, it would not be necessary to send spies into danger."

  "A good thought, but there are many things the eye can see that the mind may not think important enough to notice," Geoffrey said. "Still, why not have the best of both? I shall recruit my spies from Toby's telepaths. They may observe on the spot and send thoughts back to Runnymede, not words alone."

  Magnus nodded with slow approval. "A shrewd choice."

  "And exactly as you yourself would have done?" Geoffrey gave him a brittle smile. "Why do I feel I have been maneuvered into this?"

  "Because you are used to maneuvering." Magnus gestured at the troops below. "You excel at teaching those maneuvers to others, too. I, though, am a loner, brother—and one who is tiring of being a communication channel."

  "You were never that." Geoffrey looked up with concern. " 'Tis true we rarely saw other children as we grew, brother, but we learned social skills quickly enough when the time came—even Gregory, when he had to. How is it you have not?"

  "Oh, I can deal with people when the opportunity presents itself," Magnus said, "and would prefer to have others around when I can—but I chose the role of the lone rebel when I found I could not accept the means SCENT used to gain its ends." He shrugged. "What other course was there than to seek to do what I thought right, by myself?"

  "You could have come home," Geoffrey said softly.

  "Come home?" Magnus smiled without mirth. "You know I could not. Dad is a SCENT agent; if I could not endorse their policies, I could not accept his."

  "But that is not the deepest reason, is it?" Geoffrey gave his brother a glance so probing that it left Magnus shaken. "Do not fear—I shall not pry—not that it would do me much good to try, so well are you shielded."

  "Dad's SCENT policies are reason enough," Magnus maintained.

  "They would be if he sought to impose democracy on a people for whom it was not right," Geoffrey said, "but they were on the road to constitutional monarchy before he came; he has only set them more firmly on that course by warding off SPITE and VETO, who sought to subvert."

  "There is some truth to that," Magnus agreed, "and that is all I have promised to do—to prevent conquest, to protect the people from those who seek to imprison them in a government not of their own choosing."

  "As Papa does."

  "Yes, but that is more a matter of convenience than of choice." Magnus straightened and looked up at the dawn sky. "If they had not already set themselves on the road to democracy, he would have sought to subvert them into it."

  "He would not have succeeded," Geoffrey said. "But they were already on that road. He was the right person in the right place at the right time, brother." His gaze was penetrating and unwavering.

  "As you think I am?" Magnus asked with a sardonic smile. "I hope you are right, brother. One thing is certain—I cannot merely wave my magic wand, overthrow a tyranny, and go my merry way this time. For once, I must live with the consequences."

  "They could be worse," Geoffrey said softly—perhaps too softly for Magnus to hear. His gaze was distant, focused over the battlements to the land rolling away beneath the castle hill, as were his thoughts.

  Rod slept until he woke, found the sun high in the sky but nonetheless took his time over breakfast, then finally mounted up and rode through the woods, waiting for an elf to bring him a report of any action Magnus had taken to sidetrack the building peasant insurrection. "Maybe I should have taken word to Magnus myself."

  "You could simply contact him by telepathy, Rod."

  "I could, but his brothers and sister would overhear, and it should be up to Magnus to tell them," Rod said. "Besides, I don't want them to think I'm favoring him. There's too much of that already, what with my asking him to guard Gramarye."

  "Understandably. He leaves you for ten years, and when he comes back, you appoint him leader for all intents and purposes—and for no apparent reason."

  "Oh, there's reason enough," Rod said. "Who would know best how to guard against subversion than someone who's been building revolutions for ten years? Besides, it was the only way to keep him from running off again."

  "Are you sure that is a desirable goal, Rod?"

  "Very sure. This is his homeland. It's the only place he'll ever really feel he belongs."

  "Has this nothing to do with your desire to keep him near you, Rod?"

  "Me?" Rod shrugged. "I don't matter. Once I find Tir Nan Og, I'm gone."

  "That is not a healthy attitude, Rod."

  "No, but it's very natural. I know I'm in denial, Fess. It's a good illusion to get me through the worst of the grieving process."

  They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then Fess said, "You say that too easily, Rod, as though you do not entirely believe it."

  Magnus and Alea had brought two chairs and a small table up to the battlements to watch the sun rise. The sentries eyed them covertly, unsure what to make of such unorthodox behavior. Battlements were for fighting, not pleasure.

  Magnus was listening, nodding thoughtfully, as Alea told him of her conversations with the peasant folk near the castle. She was speaking of the need to interest them in eating more fruit, when a young man in royal livery came up the inner stair. Magnus saw him and touched her hand; she turned to look.

  The herald came up to their table and bowed. "Sir Magnus, Their Majesties send their compliments and ask that you attend them in Runnymede."

  Alea frowned, wondering at the formality, but Magnus only nodded. "Thank you, courier." He turned to one of the sentries. "Conduct this young man to the kitchen and see that he is fed and rested before he begins his return."

  "Yes, Sir Magnus." The sentry turned to the young man and jerked his head toward the stair; they went away.

  "You've known them all your life," Alea said. "They're your sister's parents-in-law. Why
the formality?"

  "They have to send word somehow," Magnus explained. They can't call me by satellite phone—but more to the point, I think they wish to make me understand that this will be official business. Do you fancy a morning's ride?"

  "What, and waste the best part of the day?" Besides, something inside Alea quailed at the thought of meeting a king and queen face-to-face—and as though they were only the next-door neighbors. "You go. I need some time to myself anyway."

  "Not believe I'm in denial?" Rod smiled. "You're saying I'm denying denial?"

  "I would not have put it that way, Rod, but I suppose there is some validity to the phrasing. Is it accurate?"

  Rod shrugged. "I've always operated on two levels, you know that—the part that's very involved in the world around me, planning what to do and getting excited about whatever situation I'm in, and an aloof part of me that sits back and watches and tells me what a fool I'm being."

  "Perhaps advisedly."

  "Yeah, but sometimes it's too critical."

  "At other times, though, it is right."

  "Yeah. See that branch up ahead? Right now, my brazen side is telling me I should just push it out of the way, while my monitor-mind is telling me not to be a fool and duck." He leaned forward against Fess's neck, and the branch passed overhead. "Sometimes I listen to it."

  Something whirred where his head had been. Rod stayed down but looked up quickly enough to see a tiny spearpoint arcing down to bury itself in the forest mold. "An elf-shot!" Rod threw himself off the horse and charged back ten feet. Something hurtled out of the roadside brush toward the woods, something small and fast—but not fast enough. Rod lunged and caught a diminutive collar. He yanked its owner high, amazed at his weight; he was very heavy for someone so small. He held the chubby elf even with his face and demanded, "What are you shooting at me for?"

  The elf's form blurred; it grew amazingly, becoming very heavy very quickly. Rod dropped it, but it kept on growing—and changed form as it grew. In seconds, it towered over Rod, tall and cadaverous with a long white beard, whole body a mass of tremors. With shaking hands, it lifted the diminutive crossbow and levelled it at Rod's eyes.