The Warlock Unlocked wisoh-4

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Do you still have his power?”

  Rod nodded.

  “Wake your family.”

  Rod didn’t try to slide into Geoff’s mind; he just willed him awake, pushing a bit of power into him to throw off the effects of the drug. The little boy yawned and stretched, and looked up at his father with a sleepy smile. Then his eyes shot wide open, and he scrambled to his feet.

  Rod reached over to grasp his shoulder. “It’s okay, son. I’m still me. Now I’ve got to wake your brother and sister. Find them for me.”

  Geoff gulped, paling, and squeezed his eyes shut. It was almost as though Rod could see the line of his thought, arrowing off through the stone wall. He turned his eyes that way, glaring up at the ceiling, pushing power out to his family and willing them awake.

  “They awake.” Geoff’s voice was hushed and subdued. Father Al gathered him in.

  “Are they chained?”

  “No, Papa. They were asleep.”

  “Then tell them to meet us at the stairwell. We’re going to find Elidor.”

  “How, Papa?” Geoff held up his manacle.

  Rod glared at the iron cuff, and it shattered. Geoff screamed and cowered back against Father Al. Rod glared at his other wrist, and the iron shattered again.

  Slowly, Father Al held up his own wrists, side by side. The manacles shattered. Then Rod pushed his arms straight forward, and his manacles crumbled. He stood up, very slowly, keeping his body very straight; he felt as though his head were swollen, his face two feet in front of itself. “Guide me, Father. I can’t feel the floor.”

  And he couldn’t—he could feel nothing but the tremendous, vibrating power that filled him, the towering rage that he fought to contain. He reached out to grasp the priest’s arm, and Father Al gasped. Rod lightened his hold, and the priest guided him slowly toward the door. Geoffrey followed, eyes huge.

  They paused at the huge oaken panel. The lock erupted in a cloud of wood-dust; when it settled, they saw the lock twisted half-out of the door. Rod kicked it open and staggered out into the hall. Father Al scurried along, holding him up, bracing him. Rod’s head was beginning to ache now, with a savage throbbing. They moved toward the stairway.

  There were a handful of guards at the iron gate. They looked up, saw Rod coming, stared, then caught up their pikes.

  The iron gate suddenly wrenched itself out of shape, and the pikestaves exploded into flame. The soldiers shrieked and dropped their weapons, and spun toward the oaken door behind the gate—as it exploded into flame, too. They fell back, howling, as the center of the door blew out, scattering burning wood through the passage.

  “I didn’t do that,” Rod croaked, “any of it.”

  And Gwen stalked through the door, surrounded by flame, eyes burning in wrath, coming to claim her man. Magnus and Cordelia leaped up on each side of her, faces flint, hounds of war.

  She saw him coming, and the anger hooded itself. She came to him, caught his arm. “Husband—what hath thee?”

  “Power,” he croaked. “Lead me.”

  Up the stairwell, then, and through the halls. Soldiers came running, shouting, pikes at the ready. A huge invisible fist slammed them back against the walls. Courtiers leaped out with swords arcing down; something spun them aside and threw them down. The family stepped over their bodies, advancing.

  They climbed the Keep. On the last step, Magnus suddenly screamed in rage and disappeared. Geoff yelled and disappeared after him.

  “Where’ve they gone?” Rod grated.

  “To the King’s chamber!”, Gwen’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Hurry! Duke Foidin seeks to slay Elidor!”

  Rod grabbed Cordelia’s arm and closed his eyes, swaying, concentrating. The ache pounded in his temples; blood roared in his ears and, behind it, a singing…

  He felt a jolt, and opened his eyes.

  He stood in a richly-furnished room, with an Oriental carpet and tapestried hangings. A huge, canopied bed stood against the far wall, with Elidor huddled against the headboard. Near it, under a tall slit of a window, stood a cradle.

  The Duke stood before the bed with his sword drawn. Between it and Elidor, Geoff and Magnus wove like cobras, fencing madly against the Duke. He roared, laying about him with huge sweeps of his sword, maddened at not being able to touch them.

  Elidor uncurled and plunged a hand under the featherbed, snatching out a dagger.

  A huge blue face appeared at the window, and a blue arm with iron nails poked through, groping toward the cradle.

  Cordelia shrieked, and the hag’s arm suddenly twisted. It bellowed, and Geoff looked up, startled, then whirled away to the cradle, to thrust up at the monster. With a howl of glee, it scooped him up. Geoff wailed, suddenly only a very frightened three-year-old, struggling madly.

  “Aroint thee!” Gwen screamed, and the monster’s arm snapped down against the window ledge with a crack like a gunshot. The hag shrieked, but her hold on Geoffrey tightened; his face was reddening too much. Then the blue face fell back, and the hand yanked Geoffrey out of the window.

  Rod leaped to the window and bent out, looking down.

  Below him, the hag scuttled down the wall of the keep, like a spider, waving Geoffrey in the air. Rod’s eyes narrowed, and the cold rage that filled him left no room for pity. Suddenly, the hag’s arm twisted, and twisted again, ripping free from her shoulder. Her screams drilled through Rod’s head as she fell, turning over and over, to slam into the ground.

  But her arm floated high in the air, with Geoffrey.

  Then Gwen was beside Rod, staring at the huge blue hand. One by one, the fingers peeled back, opening, and Geoffrey floated up toward them, cradled by his mother’s thoughts, sobbing.

  Rod didn’t stay to see the rest; his younger boy was safe, but the oldest wasn’t. He turned, deliberately, cold glare transferring to the Duke.

  Duke Foidin still fought; but he fenced with a gloating grin, for Magnus was tiring. His parries were slower, his ripostes later. The Duke slashed at his head, and Magnus ducked—and tripped on the carpet’s edge, falling forward. The Duke roared with savage satisfaction and chopped down at Magnus.

  His arm yanked back hard, slamming him against the wall; he screamed. Then he looked up into Rod’s eyes, and dread seeped into his face. Rod’s eyes narrowed, and the Duke’s body rocked with a sudden, muffled explosion. The color drained out of his face as his head tilted back, eyes rolling up; then he crumpled to the floor.

  “What hast thou done?” Gwen murmured into the sudden silence.

  “Exploded his heart,” Rod muttered.

  A scream erupted from the cradle.

  Gwen ran over to it, scooped up the baby. “There, there, now, love, shhh. ‘Tis well, ‘tis well; none here would hurt thee, and thy mother shall come presently to claim thee.” She looked up at Rod. “Praise Heaven we came!”

  Father Al nodded. “The Duke’s sentries must have told him Lord Kern was virtually at his gate—so he tried to kill Elidor, in spite.”

  “And would’ve gone on to kill the baby!” Suddenly, the anger soared up in Rod again, bulging him out, shaking him like a gale—and Father Al was there beside him, shaking his shoulders and crying, “The deed is done, the Duke’s dead! Elidor’s safe, the baby is safe, your children are safe! All the children are safe—and you are Lord Gallowglass, not Lord Kern! You are Rod Gallowglass, Rodney d’Armand, transported here from Gramarye, in another universe—and by science, not magic. You are Rod Gallowglass!”

  Slowly, Rod felt the anger beginning to ebb, the Power to fade. It slackened, and was gone—and he tottered, his brain suddenly clouded; stars shot through the room.

  “My lord!” Gwen was beside him, baby cradled in one arm, the other around him.

  “Yes, I know you are drained.” Father Al had a shoulder under his arm. “That use of magic took every bit of reserve your body had. But pull yourself together—it’s not over yet! Hear that?”

  Hear? Rod frowned, shaking his head, trying to clear it
. He strained, and dimly, through the ringing in his ears, he heard shouts, and the clash of steel. War!

  “Lord Kern’s troops are battling the Duke’s,” Father Al snapped.

  Adrenalin shot its last surge, and Rod straightened up. “No… no, I can stand.” He brushed away their hands and stood by himself, reeling; then he steadied.

  And a voice thundered through the castle, coming from the walls themselves: “THY DUKE IS DEAD! THROW DOWN THINE ARMS!”

  There was a moment’s silence; then a low moan began, building to despair. As it died, Rod heard, dimly, the clatter and clank of swords, shields, and pikes rattling on cold stone.

  “That voice,” Gwen murmured.

  “What about it?” Rod frowned. “Sounded ugly, to me.”

  “It was thine.”

  “I believe your counterpart has come,” Father Al murmured, “to reclaim his own.”

  “Good,” Rod muttered. “He’s welcome to it.”

  Mailed footsteps rang on the stone of the hallway.

  “Quickly!” Father Al snapped. “Hold hands! Link your family together!”

  Rod didn’t understand but he reacted to the urgency in the priest’s voice. “Kids! Children-chain! Quick!”

  They scurried into place, Magnus and Cordelia catching Geoff’s hands, Cordelia holding Gwen’s hand and Magnus holding Rod’s.

  Just to be sure, Rod grabbed Father Al’s arm. “What’s this all about?”

  “Just a precaution. Do you know what to do when you see your fetch?”

  “No.”

  Father Al nodded. “Good.”

  Then the doorway was filled, and Gwen’s exact double stepped into the room.

  Well, not exact—her hair was darker, and her lips not as full—but it was unmistakably her.

  The “real” Gwen held out the baby. “Here is thy bairn.”

  The woman gave a little cry, and leaped to scoop the child out of Gwen’s arms. She cuddled it to her, crooning to it in the same tones Gwen used.

  “My thanks.”

  Rod looked up.

  The hair swept the shoulders, and he wore a jawline beard and close-clipped moustache—but it was Rod’s face behind all the hair. “I give thee greatest thanks, for the lives of my babe, and my King.”

  Then Lord Kern’s face darkened, and he bellowed, “What dost thou here, what dost thou here? Seekest thou mine end? Get thee hence! Get thee gone!”

  And the scene exploded into a riot of color.

  Swarming colors, sliding into one another and back out, wavering and flowing all about him. Rod couldn’t see anything else; he was floating in a polychrome void; but he could feel the pressure of Magnus’s hand within his, and Father Al’s arm. And he felt yearnings and longings in different directions, like unseen hands trying to pull him five ways at once; but one was stronger than the others, and pulled him harder. He moved toward it; it was the direction Magnus’s hand was pulling in, anyway. Gregory, he realised—baby Gregory, calling Mama home. And Papa, too, of course—but who’s really important to an infant, anyway?

  Then the colors began to thicken, blending into one another, then separating out again—brown stripes, and multi-hued ones, that coalesced into wooden beams and draperies; white, that bristled into stucco…

  There was a floor under him. He let go of Magnus and Father Al and shoved against it, levering himself up, feeling dizzy—and gazed around the big room in his own home.

  Near the fireplace stood a cradle, with Brom O’Berin bulking over it, scarcely larger than it was, staring.

  Gwen scrambled up with a glad cry, and ran to catch up the baby.

  Brom bellowed in joy and flung his arms around her.

  “Uncle Brom!” the children shouted, and piled onto both of them.

  “Fess?” Rod muttered, not quite believing it.

  “Rod!” The voice cracked in his ear; he winced. “Is it feedback in my circuits? Rod! Are you real?”

  “I’ll have to admit to it,” Rod muttered. “Never knew I’d be so glad to hear your tinny voice. You can shut down the transmitter, now.”

  “Oh, Papa!” Cordelia scampered up to him, disappointed. “Just one more time?”

  “No! Definitely not!… At least, not today.” He turned to see Father Al picking himself up off the floor. “If you don’t mind, Father, I definitely prefer technology.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Not that they made a practice of it, you understand—but this was one occasion when the Gallowglass family just had to have a horse for dinner.

  Not that Fess ate as he stood at the end of the table—though he did stick his nose in a feedbag, to keep up appearances. After the mad flurry of greetings and rejoicings, Gwen had quickly parceled out victuals, and the whole family had sat down to their first meal in a day. Cordelia and Geoff had been packed off to bed (protesting), and the adults (and a bleary-eyed Magnus) sat down to tell Brom (and Fess) their adventures.

  “The varlet!” Brom cried, when they were done. “Thou hadst oped his road to victory, slain his chief enemy, and succored his son—and what is his thanks? To bid thee get hence!”

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” Father Al explained. “In fact, he probably was very grateful—but not so grateful as to be willing to die.”

  “To die?” Brom scowled at him. “What is thy meaning, shave-pate?”

  “He thought Rod was his fetch.”

  Brom stared.

  Then he slapped the table and threw back his head, roaring laughter. “Nay, o’ course, then, o’ course! What recourse had he, save spells of banishment?”

  Rod looked from him to Father Al, then to Gwen; but she shook her head, as lost as he was. “Somebody wanna let us in on the joke?” Rod said mildly.

  “A ‘fetch,’ ” Father Al explained, “is your exact double, and seeing it usually means you’ll die in the near future. It’s also called a co-walker, or in German, a doppelganger.”

  “Oh.” Slowly, Rod grinned. “And in this case, the superstition would’ve proved true?”

  “Well, we’ll never know now. But it could be that, with both of you in the same place, that universe might’ve cancelled both of you.”

  “Wasn’t room enough in that universe for both of us, huh? Not the original and the analog?”

  “Perhaps. At any rate, Lord Kern took no chances. He pronounced the traditional phrases for banishing a fetch—and it worked.”

  “Banished me right back to my own universe.” Rod lifted his wineglass. “For which, I thank him.”

  “Exactly,” Father Al agreed. “No harm or ingratitude intended, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, nothing personal. So he gets to keep his universe—but do I get to keep his powers?”

  “An interesting point.” Father Al pursed his lips. “I’m sure he retains them—but the experience of using his powers certainly should’ve eliminated any blocks you’d unconsciously set up, freeing you to use whatever powers you do have—and we’d already established that you had something of your own before you went to that universe.”

  “Such as the power to manipulate the ‘magic field?’ ”

  Father Al nodded. “You may still have that. And from what you’ve told me of Gramarye, the population here should be providing a very powerful magic field.”

  “Then he is a warlock?” Gwen demanded.

  Rod shrugged. “No way to say until I try, dear—and if you don’t mind, I’d rather not, just now.”

  “Of course,” Father Al reminded him, “you could always draw on the power of one of your analogs…”

  Rod shuddered. “I’d really rather not. Besides, their powers couldn’t work, in this universe.”

  Father Al got a faraway look in his eyes. “Well, in theory…”

  “Uh, some other time,” Rod said nervously. “Wait till it scabs over, will you, Father? Somehow, I don’t think any of us are going to be the same after this.”

  He heard Gwen murmur, “Aye. I fear ‘twill mark Gregory for life.”
<
br />   “Yes,” Rod agreed somberly. “Going through this at less than one year of age, the effect could be massive. I just wish we could know what that effect will be.” He turned to her, meeting her gaze with a smile that he hoped was reassuring.

  But she was staring, shocked. “My lord…”

  Suddenly, it was very silent. Brom frowned, perplexed.

  Father Al coughed delicately.

  Rod scowled, looking from one to another. “Would someone please tell me what this is all about!”

  “Papa,” Magnus said, round-eyed, “she did not speak.”

  Now Rod stared.

  Fess cleared his oscillator. “Ah, Rod—I hate to trouble you at a time like this…”

  “Oh, no problem!” Rod jumped at the shred of relative sanity. “Trouble? Yes, yes! Tell me!”

  “We do have the matter of the conflict between the Abbot and the Crown…”

  “Oh, yes! Been meaning to get to that. Thanks for your bulletins, by the way—we did receive them. I’ll tell you how sometime, when you’ll have an hour or so to recover. Your last dispatch said four Southern lords had answered the Abbot’s call to arms, and three Northern barons had risen to the King’s banner…”

  “Precisely. Tuan marched his armies toward the monastery of St. Vidicon; the Abbot, hearing of his approach, rode out to meet him with four armies at his back. As of sunset, they were camped in sight of one another, and the King and the Abbot were exchanging dispatches.”

  “I’m a little too cynical to think they’ll have reached a compromise.” Rod glowered at the floor. “In fact, I’d bet that the final words of defiance arrived by special messenger before they bedded down for the night.” He glanced out the window at the sun. “Think we can still get there before the first charge, Fess?”

  “We can but try, Rod.”

  “Then let’s get going.” Rod headed toward the door, calling back to Gwen, “Sorry, dear—the boss just called.”