Warlock's Last Ride wisoh-13

by Christopher Stasheff

  "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 fire.

  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 the Queen's castle at Runnymede. 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 standing 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 man 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.

  Eighteen

  ROD QUAILED WITHIN BUT SUMMONED THE courage to slap the crossbow aside. "Who are you, and why did you try to give me epilepsy?"

  "Not the falling sickness, but the one-sided stiffness," the rasping, shaking voice told him. The ogre peered down at him through rheumy eyes.

  "A stroke?" Rod shuddered at the thought. "But why?"

  "Because you have come within my domain," the ogre-elf answered. "You are aged as much as most who die in this land, and you have no wish to live "

  "That makes me subject to elf-shot?" Rod frowned. "Just because I'm sixty and grieving? I know most medieval people die in their forties and fifties, but that doesn't mean they have to have strokes!"

  "They age quickly," the spirit reminded him. "It is a hard life, to be a mortal in a world where all work is done by hands and horses, and wars are fought with sword and spear."

  "Okay, but I grew up far away, in a world where people had sound nutrition and medicine, and robots did everything but the brain-work! I should be good for another twenty years of good health."

  "Logic may say so," the ogre said. "Your heart knows better." It levelled the crossbow again.

  "Now, stop that!" Rod slapped the weapon away. "Step aside and let me pass! I don't want to have to hurt you."

  "I cannot say the same." The creature stepped back, lifting the crossbow again. "It is my nature to loose my points against your kind."

  "Hold!" Rod raised a hand, palm out. "Remember, you're made of witch-moss—and I'm very good at melting the stuff down."

  The creature swelled, its head shooting up twenty feet, its body widening to fill the whole trail. "Do you truly think you can melt all this?" it thundered.

  "Sure, but why bother?" Rod mounted again and kicked his heels against Fess's sides. "If you're stretching the mass of an elf into the volume of a giant, you've made yourself so tenuous that you couldn't stop a songbird." With that, he rode straight through the ogre.

  The creature cried out as Fess plowed through its legs. Rod felt as though he were riding through a screen of cobwebs—nasty clinging stuff that he had to brush aside. "Cold Iron!" the creature screeched.

  "Only sixty percent," Rod called back. "He's magnesium and tungsten, too—not to mention a lot of carbon compounds."

  He rode out the other side, and the creature's wailing soared up the scale, until it seemed a marsh bird's piping. Turning, Rod saw it shrink into an elf again—but also saw the crossbow rising, heard the thrum as the creature loosed. He threw himself down against Fess's neck, but not far enough; pain lanced through his forehead, and his whole right side went numb. "Run," he told Fess—or tried to, but the words wouldn't come out right. "As fast you can!"

  Fortunately, Fess's voice-recognition program was able to accept substitutions and relate them almost instantly to the sounds they were supposed to have been. He leaped into motion and shot through the forest, and was far from the shooting elf in minutes.

  GEORDIE HEAVED THE dead buck up over his shoulders and turned his steps homeward—but he
hadn't gone a dozen paces before a man in green tunic and brown hose stepped out of the leaves onto the trail ahead of him, a bow in his hands with an arrow nocked, but not drawn. "Hold, squire."

  Geordie stared at the man, his heart sinking. Then he summoned his nerve and grinned. "Come, fellow, I've no wish to harm you. Step aside."

  "You bear your guilt on your shoulders, squire. You must answer to the reeve now. Put down the buck and hold out your arms."

  "If I put down my load, it shall be atop you," Geordie said evenly, "and if I hold out my hands, there shall be sword and dagger in them. Step aside—I have folk who will need this meat."

  "They shall have to find it somewhere else."

  Battle-lust rose; Geordie's friendly smile turned into a savage grin. "Do you truly think you can take me alone?"

  "I do not think I will have to."

  Branches rustled; two other men stepped up at either side, and Geordie could hear more stepping out onto the roadway behind him. His hackles rose, but he brazened it out "You've not the right to arrest a squire, especially one born to nobility!"

  "They have." The branches parted; a man wearing a black doublet and hose with crimson piping stepped out be-mnd the first keeper. "But even if they did not, I surely do. As reeve of this shire, I arrest you in the Queen's name!"

  Geordie stared into the reeve's face and felt his heart sink down to his boots.

  FESS SLOWED, AND Rod slid down from his back—but his right leg buckled and he fell. He tried to stand again, but the leg wouldn't cooperate. He turned to catch the stirrup with his left hand and pulled himself up to his left knee, then with a titanic effort pushed himself up to stand. He started to fall but flailed at the saddle, caught the pommel, and managed to balance on his left foot.

  "It is only projective telepathy, Rod," Fess told him. "Your muscles are doubtless as good as ever. It is merely your mind that has been convinced of paralysis, by the power of myth made seeming flesh."

  "Maybe," Rod said, but his ears heard a hoarse caw that said, "Maeh-hih;" he shuddered. He directed his thoughts toward Fess. "Time to meditate again." He let himself fall into the trance—difficult, because of the uncertainty of meditating on his feet, but it was necessary this time. When he knew his hindbrain was at its most suggestible, he began to put weight on his right leg and withdrew it in a slow but regular rhythm, as though he were strolling. As he practiced the movements, he imagined the deadened area of his brain coming alive, beginning to regrow neurons, synapses firing more and more normally until it was restored to full function. When his right leg could feel his weight again, he knew the neurons had really regrown, that his brain had repaired the damage—if there had actually been any. It was, as Fess had said, probably only a very convincing telepathic illusion—but if it had been, it had managed to convince his neurons they were burned out. They had recharged now, recharged and were firing with every mock step, more and more until, greatly daring, he finally let go of the saddle and stood alone.