The Warlock's Last Ride

by Christopher Stasheff

  Rod waited.

  "I wasn't really angry at him," she said in a voice so low he could hardly hear it, "but I didn't realize that then."

  "I expect he did," Rod said. "I wouldn't worry about fights like that—especially if they've passed."

  "Oh, yes," Alea said. "There were a few years when I was jumping on him every time I felt angry or scared—but there's less of that, now. Much less."

  "Because you know you don't have anything to fear from him?"

  She nodded—then said, irritated, "Except his ignoring me!"

  "I thought he talked with you all the time."

  "Well, yes—but only as a friend!"

  Rod waited.

  "You can't make somebody fall in love with you if the love's not there, though, can you?" Alea asked.

  "You mean if you're wrong for each other? If your chemistry doesn't react, if the magic doesn't happen?" Rod shook his head. "No—but I don't think that's the case with you two. I've seen how he leans on you now and then, seen the admiration in his eyes when he looks at you."

  "Admiration isn't enough!"

  "No," Rod said, "but it's a good clue that there's something more."

  This time it was Alea who waited, and when Rod didn't go on, she asked, "What else does it take to heal him?"

  "Devotion," Rod said. "Complete loyalty. His learning he can depend on you no matter what."

  "He's had that!"

  "Then wait."

  "How long?"

  Rod shrugged. "Shouldn't be much more than a year. He's home now; he has a lot to get used to—and meeting Allouette has probably made him freeze inside again."

  Alea turned to him with a frown. "You mean being home will thaw him?"

  "After he gets used to it," Rod said. "After he realizes, deep down, that Allouette isn't Finister, that everything Finister did was based on her illusion-spinning."

  "He has to learn what reality is again?"

  "Yes—and learn that he can turn to you to help figure it out."

  "So Magnus is only attracted to my reliability and ability to fight?"

  "That," Rod said, "and your concern for others. Magnus has told me of your nursing and teaching." He shook his head sadly, gazing into her eyes. "But lass, you're daft if you can't see that Magnus, at least, thinks you're beautiful. So do I, for that matter, and most other men you meet—but that doesn't matter, does it?"

  "Not a bit," Alea snapped, "because I don't believe it for a minute!"

  "Then believe how delighted Magnus was to meet a woman who didn't make him feel like a great lumbering oddity," Rod said. "Once you've thought about that, look down and see that your figure could set a young man dreaming."

  "I'm a beanpole!"

  "A beanpole with excellent curves," Rod corrected. "Not spectacular, maybe, but after what he's been through, Magnus would be repelled by the spectacular."

  "Perhaps," Alea said reluctantly, "but my face is dreadful! I look like a horse!"

  "Actually, your features are classical," Rod said, "with fine, strong bone structure."

  Alea glowed within, so she glowered without. "I'm not convinced!"

  "Magnus is," Rod countered. "You only need to see the truth of that."

  "And not pay attention to the truth about my appearance?" Alea asked bitterly.

  "You can't see that truth," Rod said simply. "Most of us are our own worst critics, after all. Besides, does it really matter what I think about your looks, or what Geoffrey thinks, or any handsome young man?"

  Alea stared at him a moment, then admitted, "No. I only care what Magnus thinks."

  "He'll let you know," Rod said, "sooner or later."

  Alea was quiet again, then said, "Quarreling won't work, will it?"

  "If he could understand it as a form of love-play, yes," Rod said. "If he could see it as a sort of game, the way Geoffrey does—but he can't."

  "Why not?"

  "He lost his sense of fun, somewhere along the way," Rod said sadly, "his sense of play. I understand it's something you have to learn as you grow up, and he did—but he lost it during his teens. I failed the boy there."

  Alea felt his pain, wanted to reach out to him—but all she could do was say, "It wasn't your doing."

  "No," Rod said, "but I failed to protect him from it."

  "You had to let him stand on his own some time," Alea said softly.

  Rod flashed her a smile. "Do as much for him as you're doing for me now, and the rest will take care of itself."

  Alea stared at him, then laughed—but she sobered quickly. "You mean love will take care of itself, if the magic's there within us, waiting to come out."

  Rod nodded. "And you can never know that until it happens."

  "If it happens," she said darkly.

  "If," Rod admitted. He took her hand again, smiling. "But you can clear the obstacles that hold it back."

  Alea stared into his eyes. Then, slowly, she smiled.

  "This time, yes, the Crown showed mercy," Sir Orgon said, "but only because the High Warlock happened by and lent his influence!"

  "Sir Orgon." Anselm fought for patience. "I have been listening to your cries of doom all the way home from Castle Loguire and all this long evening, and I grow very weary of them."

  They sat by the fire in the main room of Anselm's manor house, the walls in shadow, their barely-seen tapestries rippling. A bottle and two cups sat on a small table between them, untasted.

  "That arrogant prig Diarmid would have hanged your son in an instant!"

  "Remember that you speak of my nephew!"

  "Nephew or not, he would have hanged his cousin without a second thought and never have let it trouble his slumber in the slightest! My lord, you must call up all the lords who owe you fealty and march on the Crown while there is still time!"

  "I am no longer duke; none owe me fealty. Those whom I failed will certainly not rally to me now!"

  "But their sons will! Their sons are exasperated with this Queen and her high-handed government. They have nothing but contempt for her lapdog King…"

  "Sir Orgon," Anselm said between his teeth, "you talk of my brother."

  "Did he think of brotherhood when he sent his son to hang yours? My lord, you must rise now! The moment is now! Delay even a day longer to begin your march, and it will be too late!"

  "Too late for what?" Anselm turned to him with a frown.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sir Orgon started to answer, then caught himself.

  "Too late for what, Vice of Betrayal?" Anselm stood and stepped over to Sir Orgon's chair. "Too late for other lords whom you have subverted? Too late for a mine you have dug beneath the castle?"

  Sir Orgon glared up at him.

  "Speak, worm of doubt!" Anselm seized the front of Sir Orgon's doublet and yanked him to his feet.

  Sir Orgon's hand flashed; pain coursed through Anselm's arm; he cried aloud, holding his wrist in his other hand.

  "I have spoken to good purpose all this long day," Sir Orgon said angrily, "but since it boots me not, I shall burden your hospitality no further." He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door.

  "Seize him!" Anselm cried, and his two men-at-arms leaped to capture the knight. Sir Orgon snarled, whipping out a sword and turning on them, and they backed warily, lifting iron-banded staves.

  Geordie came running into the room, his own sword drawn. "Father, why all the…" He saw Sir Orgon with a naked blade and knew all he needed to know. Dropping into a fighter's crouch, he advanced on the knight.

  The men-at-arms circled Sir Orgon, stepping apart as they did. He couldn't follow both and knew that one was working his way behind—so he whirled, slashing out as he did. Geordie leaped in, and Sir Orgon's sword rang off his. As it did, Anselm stepped up and swung a fist at the knight's head. Sir Orgon reeled, stumbling, and the men-at-arms were on him, pinioning his arms. Sir Anselm turned back to the fireplace, yanked loose the rough rope that had held the latest bundle of logs, and tossed it to his men. "Oh, for
a proper dungeon! But we shall have to make do with the cellar. Bind him there and watch him closely." He turned to Geordie. "Timely come, my son."

  "You are hurt!" Geordie stepped forward, taking his father's arm.

  "Only numbed for the moment," Anselm assured him. "The snake knows some underhanded fighting tricks. At dawn we shall take this traitor to your uncle and let the King decide his fate."

  Bound tightly to a cellar post with a man-at-arms giving him a stony glare, Sir Orgon bowed his head in dejection. The peasant army would reach Runnymede the next day and would no doubt do an excellent job of distracting the royal family—but there would be no cadre of lords to seize the royal castle and bring down the Queen. One more chance to win Gramarye for SPITE would slip away—and with it, Sir Orgon's career. He would be stuck on this dreary medieval planet forever, and would never again know the pleasures and luxuries of the future metropolitan capital his colleagues were working so hard to subvert!

  False dawn filled the sky; the horizon glowed over the river, about to explode with sunlight. Diru stepped out of the woods and looked for the witch-sentries the minstrel had sung about—the crown's tame warlocks, set to guard the river to keep anyone from inviting the monsters out. There, he saw one, high atop the cliffs! But the woman only paused a minute or two, looking down over the river meadow, then turned away and paced out of sight.

  Now would be the time, while she was gone! Diru dashed out across the meadow toward a huge boulder that stood twenty feet from the water. He crouched beside it, waiting for the mist to rise. Tendrils curled up from the water, thicker and thicker; the first ray of sunlight turned them golden as they merged into a swirling wall.

  Now! Diru called out, "Monsters of the mist, come forth! Enter my land, and revenge me upon my enemies!"

  For a minute, nothing moved, and Diru's heart sank—but that movement in the foggy wall turned into a whirlpool that opened, wider and wider. A giant tuft-eared cat leaped out of it onto the turf of Gramarye with a yowl of victory.

  For behind it came a horde of them pouring out behind the giant cat, wailing and howling and chittering and bellowing, and the sight of them made Diru's blood run cold—a huge stiff-legged thing that looked to be some kind of giant insect with sharp hooks on the ends of its arm, and another with gleaming sickles for a mouth. Crowding behind them came creatures that were part wolf and part lion, great lumbering shaggy upright things grinning with multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth, huge lizards with fangs as long as his hand, and in the center of them all, riding a dragon with tentacles instead of wings, came a man gorgeously clad in robes of midnight blue and silver, grinning through a neatly-trimmed black beard as he shouted his triumph.

  Then the huge cat came bounding over the meadow straight toward Diru. For a moment, he thought he was going to be praised, thanked, honored—but its mouth yawned wide showing teeth like scimitars, and Diru had just time to realize what a horrid fool he had been before he died.

  The peasants came trooping into the meadow outside the walls of Runnymede, brandishing their scythes and flails but seeming nonetheless uncertain. Knowing they would be, agents circulated among the men, saying, "Remember your children! Do you want them to grow up to a life like yours?" And, "Why should the ladies dwell in marble palaces, wearing silk and surrounded by tapestries, when your wives wear homespun and walk on dirt floors?" or, "Bring down the lords, or your wives will forever sneer at you for cowards, and your beds will be cold all your lives!"

  The men heeded and, little by little, began to remember their anger. The crowd began to churn into a restless and wrathful mob. Someone began shouting for blood; others took up the cry. Soon thousands of voices echoed the call: "Down with the King! Down with the Queen!"

  The gates of the city opened, and the mob surged toward them, howling—but a score of armored knights rode out, each followed by a hundred armed and armored soldiers. The crowd began to slow, and their shouts gained an uncertain tone.

  Then someone bellowed, "Yonder!" and everyone looked up to see another score of knights riding down into the valley from the west with two thousand soldiers behind them. Another panicked cry turned the crowd to the east to see yet another army advancing. The crowd's tone took on a note of fear. One voice shrilled above the others: "They're a long way away! We can still run for… AIEEE!"

  With a gasp of horror, peasants pushed backward, leaving an open space around the fallen man, blood flowing from the dent in his skull. Before they could recover from violence within their own ranks, a voice cried, "Thus be it ever to traitors!" and others took up the call, "Face the knights and chop down their horses!" Still another called, "We'll be forever shamed if we go home empty-handed!"

  "The King!" a dozen voices cried, and the whole mob turned to see three men riding out from the gate, flanked by palace guards. A golden crown glittered around the helmet of the middle one.

  "I am loath to strike down my own people, Father," Alain said.

  "I am even more loath to let them strike down you," Geoffrey said from Tuan's other side.

  "Is it kill or be killed, my son?" Tuan asked. "Do you see no other way?"

  "Let me talk to them, at least," Alain urged.

  Tuan thought a moment, then nodded slowly. "They are your people now and will be your subjects soon. Test their loyalty."

  Alain nodded and kicked his horse into a trot. Geoffrey stared, then sped after him—but Alain heard the hoofbeats and turned back with a radiant smile. "I thank you, my friend," he said, "but this I must do alone."

  Geoffrey reined in, exasperated. "Do you speak as my liege lord?"

  "As your future liege," Alain qualified.

  "Then I shall do as you bid," Geoffrey had to force out the words, then cried, "If they harm a single hair on your head, I'll see every one of them hang!"

  Alain beamed at him in answer, then turned to ride alone toward the crowd.

  They murmured in awe as he rode up to them—and in among them. They parted, scarcely able to believe they were so close to their Prince—or that he dared come into their midst when they held weapons. Then a voice shrieked, "Haul him down!"

  Three men turned on the rabble-rouser and clouted him cold.

  "I am your Prince!" Alain called out. "Why have you come? Tell me your grievances, that I may address them!"

  "Don't trust him!" a voice shrilled. "He's a lord! They only want to use…"

  A meaty thud cut him short.

  "We will hear you!" a dozen voices shouted.

  "Nay, it is I who shall hear you!" Alain called in reply. "Speak! Do your lords' soldiers beat you? Do your lords starve you or force you to work so long on their lands that you cannot tend your own? Tell me!"

  The crowd milled about for a few moments, muttering to one another; then a man called out, "Why must we live in mud huts while your kind live in castles?"

  "There will always be rich and poor, alas," Alain answered. "Were I to forsake my castle and give you all I own, it would be gone in a fortnight, and some other man would fight his way to owning that castle and making you work for him."

  "Not if we killed all the lords!" another man shouted.

  "Some of your own would gather more and more bullies about them," Alain answered, "and seek to make you all their slaves. Their grandchildren might begin to think they have some obligation to you, but how many of you would have died in misery by then?"

  "How many of us shall die in misery now?" demanded another.

  "Well asked," Alain replied, turning toward the voice. "Tell me who lives in misery, and I shall give him food and clothing of my own. If you know any old folk who dwell in poverty and are like to die in misery, give me their names and places, and I will send helpers to them."

  The crowd muttered in surprise. Then someone shouted, "We should not have to come to the King for that! There should be assurance!"

  "Your lords should provide," Alain returned, "but if they do not, you can seek redress from me."

  The crowd erupted in amazed
conversation.

  "I pledge it!" Alain cried. "I shall swear it if you wish!" Then, in a lower voice, "At least with me and mine, you already know us, and know what to expect."

  Cordelia stood with Gregory and Allouette on the battlements, fingers clutching the stone, ready and braced for an enemy telepath to lash out at the royal family—and on edge, waiting to twist weapons out of hands by telekinesis if anyone tried to strike at Alain. "How can he have had the stupidity to ride among them, one man in the midst of so many enemies!" Cordelia cried.

  "It is wisdom, and a calculated risk," Gregory told her. "More to the point, though, with your husband, it is compassion for the poor and a sense of what is right."

  "Must he be so devoted?" Cordelia instantly answered her own question. "Yes, he must. I would not love him so if he were not."

  Allouette touched her hand. "Sister, he is even more devoted to you."

  Cordelia stood in silence a moment, then gave her a smug smile. "Yes. He is, is he not?"

  "Who comes?" With a frown, Gregory pointed toward a small party who came riding out from the eastern slope.

  The women turned to look. Cordelia frowned. "A lord and his retainers, from the look of them, with an escort of royal men-at-arms from the eastern wing. Sir Nabon must think them important indeed to send them to Their Majesties in the mist of a battle! But why is that one man bound?"

  "I think, in these circumstances, a touch of mind-reading would not be unethical." Gregory frowned a moment, then stared. " 'Tis your Uncle Anselm and your never-seen cousin!"

  Anselm rode on one side of Sir Orgon, Geordie on the other—but the young man's gaze was fixed on the crowd. "What passes here? A parley?"

  "A parley between your arrogant cousin and a mob of thousands!" Anselm said. "Does he think to fight them all single-handed?" But he put on a respectful, though scowling, face as they rode up to the King and Queen. "Majesties."

  "Well met, brother." Tuan couldn't help staring. "What brings you to me on the brink of battle?"