Warlock's Last Ride wisoh-13

by Christopher Stasheff

  "We have drifted somewhat apart," Gregory admitted, "though we still share the occasional game of chess."

  Magnus nodded. "Then I am sure he could mention any problems his parents thought needed investigation before he said 'Check.'"

  Gregory smiled. "Before the game, rather. Studying the next move would drive it completely out of his head."

  "Ever the scholar," Magnus said, amused, "both of you. I wonder how he manages as Duke of Loguire."

  "Quickly, as I understand it," Gregory said. "He is very efficient, clearing up administrative details before midday so that he can spend the afternoons in study."

  Magnus raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And his peasants are none the worse for it?"

  "He has an excellent steward," Gregory said, "who is always out among the people—but I suspect Diarmid's tenure lacks the personal touch."

  Resolved that easily, the conversation passed to updating Magnus on events in the kingdom, and Gregory finally accepted tea. When the cup was empty and he rose to go, though, he paused at the door to look back, suddenly intent again. "I have your word on it, brother? That you shall not try to command us, nor to come between us?"

  "My word of honor," Magnus said gravely, "and I shall swear an oath to it if you feel the need."

  Gregory gazed into his eyes a few seconds, then nodded. "I do not think we will. Good night, brother." He went out the door.

  Magnus stood immobile a minute, then lowered himself carefully into his chair and placed his hands on his knees. After a few more minutes, he tilted his head back against the upholstery and closed his eyes.

  ROD LET FESS choose their path and concentrated all his attention on pumping strength back into that withered arm. Its maiming had to have been an illusion, though a very powerful one; whatever latent telepath had unwittingly created Decay to embody his worst fears, had made it projective, too, and if the mind could be convinced that the body was wasting, why, waste it would.

  So Rod's first purpose was to convince himself, very thoroughly, that his arm was sound and healthy. He fell into the trance he had learned early in his training as a secret agent, working downward to the bedrock of his beliefs and discovering anew that, even at the most fundamental level, he knew Decay to be only an illusion. Unfortunately, all his emotions between that foundation and the superstructure of intellect believed the spirit to be real.

  So Rod began to work on convincing himself that the illusion was only that, an illusion, and nothing real—further, that his arm hadn't really withered, that the illusion was only an extremely convincing projection.

  When morning came, his arm was whole again, and he was so exhausted that he barely managed to spread out his blanket roll before he fell on it and slept.

  MAGNUS WAS STILL sitting in the same posture when Alea strode into the room. "Are you still poking into mouldering books, Gar? It's high time …" She broke off, staring at him, reading the great soul-weariness of his posture. She studied him a moment, then brought the straight chair from the desk to sit beside him. Gently, she covered his hand with her own.

  Magnus opened his eyes, saw her, and slowly lifted his head.

  "As bad as that?" Alea asked softly.

  Magnus studied her a moment, then glanced at the door; it swung to and closed quietly. He turned back to Alea and acknowledged, "As bad as that." He shook his head in exasperation. "They've all grown up; their powers are mature. They're equal to any threat. Nothing can stand against them—if they all work together!"

  "Then the first thing any enemy will do, will be to try to split them apart."

  "Oh, I don't think he'd have to—they're bidding to do a fair job of it themselves!" Magnus sighed as he leaned his head back again. "Why do they all think I'm going to try to boss them around?"

  Alea chose her words carefully. "Perhaps because you did when you all were little."

  Magnus lifted his head, frowning at her. "How did you know?"

  "I didn't; I guessed," Alea answered. "Why else would they all be so worried about it now?"

  "Because Dad asked me to promise to take care of Gramarye and its people." Magnus shook his head. "Whyever would he do that?"

  "Because he knows you can," Alea said instantly, "knows you can fight off any enemies that come, from inside or from outside. But bossing people isn't your style, Gar." She smiled ruefully. "No, I suppose I should say, 'Magnus' now, shouldn't I?"

  "You shall call me anything you please." Gar locked gazes with her a moment, covering her hand with his. Then he looked away with a sardonic smile. "But as to bossing people, I've done my share on occasion."

  "Yes, but only when there was no one local you could maneuver into it."

  "Well, of course." Gar frowned. "After all, they were going to be there for their whole lives. I wasn't."

  "You will now." Instantly Alea regretted saying it.

  Magnus sat still and somber, gazing at the window. "I suppose I shall," he said at last. "Not so bad a thing, after all. I've longed for home these last ten years. Now I shall have it again." He turned to her with concern. "But you won't."

  "I don't have one," Alea snapped.

  "I could take you back." With a sudden heave, Magnus pushed himself up. "Back to Midgard to stay there with you—and leave this nest of infighting factions and jealous siblings behind!"

  Alea's heart skipped a beat, but she knew he'd spoken more truly the first time. "Back to that nest of bigots and sexists? No thank you, Gar! I don't have a home there any more—I haven't since my parents died! I'll stay here and find some way to make it my home, thank you very much!"

  Gar turned back to her, frowning with concern again. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather tramp the spaceways for the rest of your life? Always a new planet, new sights, new customs…"

  Alea shuddered. "I think not. Oh, it's been good in its way, but I'd rather stay put. At least there are people here who know you—and are being friendly toward me."

  Magnus gave her another long stare, then nodded and sat down again. "Here we stay, then. After all, if I get really sick of it, we can do as Gregory's done—go out into the mountains and build our own house away from them all!"

  Alea stared, thunderstruck by his assumption that they would spend their lives together—but she pushed the issue aside, and smiled with relief; she knew one challenge from a real enemy would be all it would take to kindle his enthusiasm again. "There's always that. Of course, we could tramp the roadways here for a while, as we have on three other planets. You'd be building a network, planting ideas, making everything ready in case it's needed."

  "A very attractive idea," Magnus said with feeling. He turned to smile at her and squeezed her hand. "Yes, I always have that, don't I?"

  "Of course." Alea returned the smile. "That's always been your way, while I've known you—pulling the strings unseen, strings that most people don't even know exist, manipulating where even other telepaths wouldn't realize it. If you need to take command at all, it won't be for very long."

  "Yes, I have had some experience with that." Magnus nodded, gaze straying to the window again. "I've done it on so many other planets—why not on my own?"

  "Why not indeed? If you have to, you'll be able to weld your siblings into a unit." Alea stood, holding out a hand to him. "But all this emotion-charged talk must have built up a ton of stress in you. Time for some martial arts practice, Ga… Magnus."

  "I said call me what you will." He scowled up at her.

  "I will call you Magnus." Alea returned glare for scowl. "If it's your real name, it should come naturally to me. Now are you coming to practice, or do I have to carry you?"

  "Practice would be just the thing." Gar smiled, and from his mind, Alea caught a picture of himself draped over her shoulder. "I'll change and meet you in the courtyard."

  Alea chose to dress for kendo, white top and long black trousers, so fully-cut that they wouldn't scandalize the medieval people who might see. She was down on the clay floor ten minutes later, but Gar was there before
her in similar clothing, punching at the air in quick combinations, dropping to a fencer's lunge and bouncing to stretch the long muscles of his legs, up to punch again, then leaping high to kick at an imaginary enemy while the sentries watched in awe.

  So did Alea; seeing Magnus come alive with action made her catch her breath. He was so strong, so vital! But within the man of war, she knew, was the soul of a poet— and a man who cared far too much for the welfare of others. Watching him make a ballet of fighting, Alea wondered if he would break from the stress his family had heaped upon him. She would never let him know how concerned she was, of course.

  No, not concerned. Watching him whirl and leap, Alea finally admitted to herself that she was really, fully in love with the man, and knew a moment's despair, for surely he could never fall in love with so plain and gawky a woman as she. Oh, he cared for her, she knew—as a friend.

  Perhaps it was just as well that he couldn't see she was in love with him.

  Sighing, she went to become his sparring partner again.

  OVER BREAKFAST THE next morning, Sir Orgon told the tale of his travels, of the list of noblemen whose hospitality he had accepted—and who chafed under the rule of a queen who would not let them lord it over their peasants as they had been accustomed to.

  Anselm listened quietly, but his eyes grew steadily hotter. When Sir Orgon had finished the list, Anselm protested, "Surely these lords will not rise against their liege."

  "Not unless you are of their number." Sir Orgon locked gazes with Sir Anselm and sat back, waiting.

  Sir Anselm said stiffly, "I am not. I have no reason to resent Their Majesties."

  "You have every reason," Sir Orgon contradicted. "She attainted you, barred you from inheriting your father's castle and lands and title! She cast you into this exile in a house not fit for a baron!" He carefully did not mention the queen's husband, Sir Anselm's brother.

  "She did rightfully and mercifully," Sir Anselm said. "I was a traitor who had risen against the Crown; I deserved death on the block, not mere attainder."

  "But your son does not," Sir Orgon said.

  Fifteen

  SIR ORGON KEPT HIS GAZE FIXED ON ANSELM'S and waited a few seconds for the thought to sink in—no one had ever claimed that Anselm Loguire was quickwitted—then went on. "Your son should have inherited the duchy of Loguire in his turn. What shall he have now? Only this poor castle, or the manor in which he dwells!"

  Anselm's eyes burned with barely-suppressed anger. "Geordie and his good wife, Elaine, seem quite contented in their manor. His fields flourish; his peasants prosper."

  "Indeed." Sir Orgon nodded. "Word has it that they are constantly out among their tenants, tending and healing and seeing that all goes well—as a steward should. I have even heard that at harvest, they are themselves in the field."

  "So they would be even if Geordie were to appoint a seneschal," Anselm said roughly. "He loves the land and the people."

  "That is well." Sir Orgon nodded sagely. "It is well they can be content with so little."

  Anselm sat and glared at him, for even he realized what had been left unsaid: that Geordie would never have anything more. Anselm's hatred for the queen and resentment of his brother was there in his face; perhaps it was well that only Sir Orgon could see it. But Anselm said, "I would remind you, Sir Orgon, that the queen is my sister-in-law, and that I would not willingly hurt my brother."

  "Would you not?" Sir Orgon asked in feigned surprise. "But he was quick enough to attack you, thirty years ago!"

  "Tuan did no such thing," Anselm snapped. "He defended the queen against my own uprising, nothing more—and he was right to do so, for I had broken the law."

  "Had you?" Sir Orgon said quickly. "Or did you only seek to defend your age-old rights and privileges that she sought to usurp? Appointing priests on the lords' estates, sending her own judges to try your cases—woeful breaches of ancient custom indeed! No wonder you led the lords to rise in protest."

  "And here is the result of that treachery," Sir Anselm snapped, "this manor, and this quiet life, rather than the headsman's axe and a narrow grave. I shall never fight against the Crown again, Sir Orgon." But envy and hatred were clearly eating him alive.

  ROD CAME OUT of the woods onto the crest of a hill and pulled up, gazing down into the valley. Far below lay a tidy village, embraced by the hills whose sides were terraced into fields for farming. Those fields were green; maize already grew tall there, and at mid-morning Rod would have expected to see at least a few people out hoeing—but there was no one there, and no one moving in the village streets, either.

  "Something's wrong here, Fess."

  "Are there people inside the huts, Rod?"

  Fess might be able to transmit on human thought-wave frequency, but he couldn't read minds unless thoughts were directed at him. Rod probed the village and found nothing. "Not a soul—and come to think of it, I don't see any smoke from the chimneys, either."

  "If the hearths are cold, they have been gone for some time," Fess said.

  Fire wasn't all that easy to kindle in a medieval society; peasants banked live coals to last the night and puffed them alive in the morning. Rod nodded. "Something scared them away—and not just a few hours ago, either."

  "You are going to insist on riding down there to investigate, aren't you, Rod?"

  "Sure am." Rod grinned, beginning to feel like his old self again—well, maybe his young self. "If there's somebody in a coma down there, we might be able to help—and if whatever scared them away is guarding the place, we should be able to draw it out of hiding."

  'To fall on us with fang and claw, no doubt." Fess emitted the burst of static that served him as a sigh. "If you say we must, Rod."

  "We must." Rod knew Fess was far more concerned for his rider than for himself—not that there was much that could dent the alloy body under his horsehair hide, anyway. But there were things from which he might not be able to protect Rod.

  Rod intended to make sure he didn't have to. He readied his crossbow with the laser hidden in the stock. "Let's see what moves, shall we?"

  Reluctantly, Fess began the plod down into the valley.

  They rode slowly through the town's single street, seeing only leaves and sticks blowing in the occasional puff of wind and hearing only the banging of shutters that had come loose. "No sign of what drove them away," Rod said.

  "Perhaps inside one of the houses?"

  "Maybe, but I don't see any open doors, and even now I'm reluctant to break into somebody's house."

  "Scruples well-advised, Rod—but there are loose shutters. You would be able to look in, at least."

  "Still seems wrong," Rod grumbled, but he dismounted and walked up the beaten earth to the doorway of a peasant hut. There was no lawn, but the tenant had planted a few flowers, and Rod was careful to place his feet between the stems as he stepped up to the window. Looking in, he saw a single room with a rough table and benches near him, and in the outer wall, the fireplace that served as both heat source and stove.

  "What do you see, Rod?"

  "Only a tidy, well-kept room, Fess. Dusty now, though. I really should secure these shutters." He closed them, making sure the latch fell back into place as he did.

  "There is another open window toward the back of the hut, Rod."

  "Oh, so now I get to peek into the parents' bedroom, do I?" Nonetheless, Rod picked his way carefully around to the side of the house. There the going was easier, for the tenant hadn't planted flowers. Rod went back to the single flapping shutter, caught it as it swung toward his head, pushed it wider open, and stepped in front of it to look in.

  The hag grinned at him, showing only two yellowed fangs left between leathery lips. Her hair was long, tangled, coarse, and would have been white if it had been clean. The same could be said for her dress. Her face was lined with a hundred wrinkles, and her eyes glittered with malice.

  Rod recoiled, trying not to show his revulsion. "Oh! Sorry. Didn't know anyone was home."


  "I am not," said the hag. "This is not my home—or at least, no more than any house."

  Rod stepped closer, feeling considerably less guilty. "I hope you're not taking anything that belongs to the people who live there!"

  "Only their peace of mind," the old woman said. "Only the harmony and sense of safety that used to fill this house."

  Rod felt a thrill of fear—could this really be only an old woman? In the land of Gramarye, malignant spirits could take actual form—the spirits of malignity within ordinary people. He managed to ignore the fright, though, and the revulsion that came from the woman's neglect of herself, and asked, "Now, how did you do that?"

  "That horse is old." The hag pointed at Fess. "See where his coat is wearing thin? Surely you can't depend on him to carry you much farther!"

  Rod swallowed a smile. "Older than you think, beldame—but apt to stay in good condition longer than I will."

  "Yes, your body will start to fail you in a year or two, won't it?" she said with venom, then to Fess, "Why do you obey a master who ignores your welfare, beast? Know you not that he will ride you till you founder one of these days?"

  Fess turned to give the woman a bland look, but inside Rod's head, his voice said, "I believe, Rod, that she spread these sorts of lies throughout the village."

  "Aren't you a little transparent?" Rod asked the hag. "How could anyone believe such obvious lies?"

  The woman's eyes sparked with anger. "Not lies, old fool, but saying large and loud the sort of things people wish to keep hidden—especially from themselves."

  "Lies with a kernel of truth in each," Rod interpreted—and insight struck. "But you didn't tell them to the people themselves, did you? You told the husband his wife's faults and told her his. How many times did they scoff at you? So you made the lie even bigger when you told it to them again. How many times did you have to tell the same lie in different words before they began to believe you?"