Warlock's Last Ride wisoh-13

by Christopher Stasheff

  THE SENTRY WASN'T the only one by the southern river—a SPITE telepath stood within the forest border nearby. She heard the cacophony of the monsters invading and ran out of the trees—then froze, staring, horrified by the sight of the invading nightmares. She closed her eyes, shaking her head to free her from paralysis, and sent a thought north to Runnymede, to her fellow SPITE espers.

  One of those telepaths was in the midst of the peasant army, right by the Mocker's elbow. "They've done it, chief! The dupe has invited the monsters in!"

  "Then the telepaths will be too busy with them to help out in the battle."

  "I dare fight you," Alain told the strapping peasant, "and I am delighted to see that at least one of my subjects has the courage to stand against me."

  It was too much for Geoffrey. With a howl of anger, he charged the crowd. They pressed back with cries of alarm.

  The Mocker raised his voice, calling out, 'Treachery! Charge him! Bury him! All of them, before they bury us all!" He knew his own psis would hobble any defenders, no matter how well armed.

  The peasants answered with a roar of anger, and as Geoffrey rode in among them, dozens of hands seized his horse's harness. The brave beast screamed, trying to rear, but the weight of many peasants held him down. More peasants pressed in, hands reaching for Geoffrey—but the blades that thrust at him slowed and stopped inches short of his sides.

  "Why can't they stab him?" the Mocker hissed. "What are our psis doing? Tell them to block the espers who are protecting him!"

  "We're trying, Chief," the man at his other side said, face taut with strain, "but the royal psis are fighting us for all they're worth. We're deadlocked!"

  "It's the Gallowglasses!" the Mocker hissed. "Why haven't they teleported south to fight the monsters?"

  "I thank you, Sir Geoffrey!" Alain called out. "I had need of a squire. Will you unbuckle my armor, then?"

  Geoffrey looked at the angry faces around him and swallowed. "Your highness, I shall."

  Men pressed back to leave room as the knight slid down from his horse's back. He took a step or two away, then lifted his vizor to look at them impatiently. "Well, will none of you help me doff my own armor? How can I assist my prince with this weight of tin about me?"

  The peasants stared in surprise. Then ten willing hands reached to help him unbuckle.

  "Do not trust him!" a voice shrilled. "He is a warlock! He shall fell you with a thought!"

  "I shall do no such thing!" Geoffrey shouted back in indignation. "I would be disgraced if I interfered in a duel!"

  "If not him, the prince's wife!" another voice cried. "The High Warlock's daughter, the Princess Cordelia! Surely she shall not stand patiently to watch her husband slain!"

  Geoffrey frowned, stilling, his gaze unfocused, and the men unbuckling him paused, staring in alarm at his face. Then his eyes came alive again; he gave them a curt not. "She gives her pledge that she too will withhold her power. She rages at me, but she will abide."

  "You cannot trust him!" the voice screeched. "You cannot trust any lord."

  Geoffrey stilled again, only his legs now armored. "Let him who would call me a liar come forth to meet me man to man, with our hands bare!"

  The crowd was still, waiting expectantly, but the owner of the voice was silent. Geoffrey nodded and leaned down to unbuckle his greaves. Then, clad in only shirt and hose, he went to help Alain.

  A few minutes later, Alain, too, stood in only shirt and hose. He looked about him, calling, "Who will lend me a staff?"

  A dozen poles thrust at him. He tested one after another, nodding, and chose a stick of dark dense wood and inclined his head courteously to its owner. "I thank you." Then he stepped forward toward the big man with the seven-foot staff.

  Geoffrey swallowed and remembered his word.

  "THERE IS NO cause yet!" Allouette insisted. "I know it looks as though there is, but trust me, sister, this is truly a battle for men's minds, not their bodies—and your husband fights it like the expert he is!"

  "How would you know?" Cordelia asked through clenched teeth.

  "Because I was trained for this! Because I worked at it for five years! Trust me, sister—and trust him!"

  Watching the woman he loved, Gregory marvelled. She didn't seem to realize the contradiction—that Cordelia should trust her because she had been trained to be a sub-verter—but she was right.

  "If they harm one hair of his head," Cordelia said, "I shall burn their minds out where they stand!"

  "Wait for more than one hair," Gregory advised.

  "It is true." Allouette nodded. "He must let the big peasant strike him once, twice, or more, to win their respect!"

  "How shall I know when he is truly in danger?" Cordelia cried.

  "If they strike him down and he does not rally," Allouette explained. "So long as he rises again, he has them under his spell."

  "You know a lot about spells, do you not?" Cordelia snapped, and instantly regretted it.

  But Allouette seemed to take it as a mere statement of fact. "I do, so trust me in this. Withhold your might!"

  FAR TO THE south, a telepathic sentry stood atop a cliff and saw a score of monsters burst from the morning mist over the river. They bounded straight for the young man who had called them. The sentry was only a telepath; she had no other mental powers to help protect the poor idiot who had trusted the monsters' promises and invited them.

  She turned away with a shudder and, with all her strength, the mental alarm north to the rest of the Royal Witchforce.

  The monsters have broken out of the mist! The monsters are loose!

  IN RUNNYMEDE, CORDELIA stiffened with a gasp— and so did Allouette and Gregory.

  "I dare not go!" Cordelia wailed. "Not while my love is in danger!"

  "We dare not go either," Gregory said grimly, "while the Crown may need us. Pray the monsters do no harm before this is ended!"

  None of them believed that for an instant—but they v they had to stay and watch.

  ON THE FIELD below, Geoffrey stiffened with alarm, but knew even better than his siblings that he dared not disappear—especially among a crowd who feared witches.

  High in the tower, though, Magnus's eyes widened. So did Alea's, the alarm blasting through her mind, too. Then Magnus's eyes lost focus, and she cried, "Not without me!" She seized his hand, wrapped his arm about her, and tucked hers as far about his waist as she could. His arm tightened about her, lifting; then an explosion echoed and the world disappeared in a sickening slide of colors that churned all about her. An instant later, the earth jarred my against her feet, and she clung to Magnus until the dizziness passed, sure that she would never again envy his ability to teleport.

  Then she looked up and saw the monsters bearing down on them.

  THE BIG PEASANT jeered, "Will you stand there and wait all day, princeling? Have you the courage to strike the first blow?"

  "Marry, that I have," Alain answered, "for I will not have it said that you attacked your prince. Still, I admire the courage of any peasant who dares fight a belted knight, and would know the name of so valiant a fellow."

  "I am called Bjorn," the peasant returned, "and I must honor the courage of any man so little as you who dares stand against me!"

  Alain took a step closer, smiling up at the man who stood a head taller than he and outweighed him by eighty pounds of muscle. "We fight with respect, then. Defend yourself!" He swung his staff like a baseball bat, up high and down at Bjorn's head.

  Bjorn laughed and swung his own staff to block. Alain's cracked against it and, on the rebound, swung at Bjorn's ankles. He dropped it to block, then chopped down in a short hard blow that glanced off the side of Alain's head.

  At the city gates, Catharine screamed.

  Alain staggered backward, shaking his head, and Bjorn followed, tight-lipped and plainly disliking his work, but swinging at Alain anyway.

  Somehow, the prince leaned aside at just the right moment, and the staff whistled past him. He gave
his head one last shake and leaped high to swing a roundhouse blow at Bjorn.

  Too late, Bjorn recovered and lifted his staff, but Alain's blow cracked on his collarbone. He howled in pain and swung the butt of his staff at the prince's belly. Alain blocked both that and the next blow at his head, then gave ground, blocking every blow as Bjorn grew more and more angry, then swung a two-handed blow at his head. Alain ducked and, before Bjorn could recover, advanced on him with three-strike combinations. Now it was Bjorn who fell back, trying frantically to block—until he missed, and one swing connected. Alain's staff cracked squarely against Bjorn's skull, and the big man's eyes glazed.

  Alain leaped back.

  Bjorn began to lean from side to side, dazed but managing to hold his balance—barely. Alain could have struck him down with impunity. Instead, he thrust with the staff as though it were a lance and struck Bjorn's breastbone. The big man overbalanced and fell like a tree. He slammed into the ground, and Alain was at his side in an instant, dropping to one knee to feel for the pulse in the man's throat.

  The peasants held their breath.

  Then Alain looked up grinning. "He lives!"

  The peasants cheered and lifted him up bodily.

  Geoffrey forgot his pledge and dashed forward. Then he saw that Alain was sitting on the broad shoulders of two peasants, while the others danced about him, cheering and waving their flails and scythes in triumph. They bore the victor back to his parents, chanting a war song.

  Geoffrey started to run after them, then remembered and turned back to help Bjorn to his feet.

  The crowd bore the grinning Prince before the King and Queen, then suddenly fell silent, shocked by the enormity of what they had done. Into the silence, Alain cried, "They are a people of whom we may be proud, my liege! And the one who dared fight me is surely a hero!"

  "That he is," Tuan said gravely, then turned to the guardsman beside him. "Bid the castle cooks bring out food and ale for all these men, that we may celebrate my son's victory!"

  The crowd stared, unable to believe they were to be rewarded, not punished. Then they let loose one massive cheer, and the dancing began again.

  In the midst of it, Alain managed to slip down off the shoulders of his bearers and turned to face the still-dazed peasant who came before him with one arm slung about Geoffrey's shoulders. "Bjorn," said the Prince, "you are an honorable man who has had the courage to stand before his Prince this day, and fought a fair fight, cleanly and honestly. Will you take service with me?"

  Bjorn blinked, coming out of his stupor. Then he bowed, albeit with Geoffrey steadying him. "Your highness," he said, "I shall."

  "Lend me a groat, will you?" Alain asked the nearest soldier. The man stared, then fished in his pouch and held out a coin. Alain took it and pressed it into Bjorn's hand. "You have taken my pay," he told the big peasant. "You are my man."

  "And you are my lord!" Bjorn grinned from ear to ear. "Hail, Prince of Gramarye!"

  There was a commotion at the gate and people pressed back to let through a wagon bearing the first three casks of ale. The peasants cheered and pressed forward.

  ALEA SAW MAGNUS standing poised for battle, glaring at the thousand monsters who raced to see who could be first to rip him open.

  For a moment, she stared in horror at the nightmare army, shrinking in terror—but beside her, Magnus stood at bay, the man who had given her back her life, and she mastered the fear as she had mastered every fear that she had faced since her parents had died, and stepped up beside Magnus, clasping his hand to give him what strength she could, turning toward the horde of horrors that bore down on them, knowing that if she was going to die, she would at least meet death by the side of the man she loved.

  ON THE BATTLEMENTS, Cordelia sagged with relief. "My love is safe!" Then she straightened, turning to her brother and clapping her arm about his waist. "Now, leaping wizard!"

  On his other side, Allouette seized hold of him, too. Gregory threw an arm about each and teleported. The women heard two thundercracks—one for the implosion of air rushing into the space where they had stood, another from the explosion of the air they displaced as they arrived. Dizzy for a moment, they clung to Gregory and to one another, then looked up and saw a nightmare bearing down on them, a horribly distorted cow with talons instead of hooves and barbed horns that glinted with poison.

  ROD SEEMED TO have inherited some of his son's talents, but teleporting wasn't one of them. He had to ride to the riverbank—but he had a steed with a tireless gait. Robots do break down occasionally, but Fess was in excellent repair.

  "Okay, slow down, we're coming to the top of the sea-cliff."

  "It is thirty-six meters away, Rod." Nonetheless, Fess did begin to slow. He went up the last few yards to the brink of the cliff at a trot and stopped.

  Rod stared down in horror. Horns, whelks, talons, saber-teeth, tentacles—horribly distorted creatures filled the meadow, parodies of animal forms, some combining two or three beasts, some part animal and part human. More poured out of the mist, rushing up the slope of the beach toward the grass at its crest. Thankfully, the rising sun was already beginning to burn away the fog.

  That thought brought Rod out of his paralysis. Scanning the plain, he saw his son standing on the grass at the top of the beach with Alea beside him. Anger and fear shot through him. "Elves! Isn't there an elf around?"

  "Here, Lord Warlock."

  Rod looked down, staring in amazement at fifty elves who appeared from the grass, one standing head and shoulders above the rest. "Puck! I might have known you'd be onto this. Quick! Knock them over"

  "We cannot." The elf's face was taut with strain, sweat trickling from his brow as he glared at the monsters. "Fierce magic protects them; all our power is brushed aside."

  "Then feed your power into Magnus! Added to his and Alea's, it might be enough to make the difference."

  "We have tried, Lord Warlock."

  Startled, Rod whipped his gaze to the other side of his horse and saw Brom O'Berin. "Save your grandson, Brom! He doesn't have the good sense to leave this alone and wait for the army!"

  "Only magic can prevail against this horde," Brom said, tight-lipped, "and that which gives power to them is too alien from ours."

  "Maybe Magnus …"

  "We cannot send our power into him," Brom said, never taking his eyes from the man who was his grandson. "He has been too long from the soil of Gramarye. We cannot feed him."

  "I can!" Rod cried. "I'm his father! He has my genes in him no matter where he goes, and they're not made of the substance of Gramarye! Funnel power into me, and I'll channel it to him!"

  Brom stared at him a moment, then gave a taut nod. "Come down."

  Rod dismounted and knelt in the grass. Brom seized his right hand, Puck his left, and the psi power of hundreds of elves coursed through him, almost making him faint—but he held on to consciousness, waited until his system adjusted to the flow of energy, then stared at his son, reaching out mind to mind, and channeled the flow of psi power into Magnus, adding all of his own, bringing it up from the very depths of his being.

  MAGNUS REELED WITH the sudden influx of power thrilling through him; he could only think, So this is how a high-voltage line feels! Alea looked up in alarm, thrust her shoulder under his arm as he staggered and held him up. Magnus steadied and straightened, still feeling so full of psi energy that he must burst. Steady on his feet, he glared at the manticore that charged up at him and thrust Alea behind him. They had fought back-to-back many times before; her staff came up even as she pressed her shoulders against his, still feeding her psi power into him, but ready to defend.

  She hadn't anticipated a living mace, a monster the size of a truck but bristling with spikes, with a curved and gleaming horn thrusting from its nose. The nightmare charged her, lowering its head to aim the glittering point at Alea's heart.

  THE PEASANTS CAVORTED around Geoffrey, quaffing long drafts of ale and singing ballads praising the Crown. Geoffrey raised hi
s mug with them, forcing laughter as he went from group to group to raise his mug in a toast. Finally he stumbled out of the crowd—and found Quicksilver waiting for him, hands on hips, with a huge warhorse behind her. "There is small time! Can you not move more quickly?"

  "Let us hope I can!" Geoffrey went around the equine barrier that would block him from the sight of the party.

  "We, you mean!" Quicksilver was right behind him and threw her arm around his waist.

  "I fear you may be injured." But Geoffrey wrapped an arm around her shoulders a second before he teleported with a bang.

  The warhorse stamped nervously and whinnied his disapproval.

  The blast of their arrival echoed in their ears; they found themselves on the bank near the river-mist they had entered once before—and saw a beast that looked rather like a rhinoceros, only bristling with spikes all about and with a very sharp horn, trotting wide around Magnus to get at Alea.

  "Upon it!" Quicksilver cried, and dashed to help her new friend.

  Two swords stabbed the beast's flanks.

  WITH A FEELING she was doomed, Alea set the butt of her staff in the earth, aiming the tip toward the horned monster who hurtled toward her—but at the last second, it screamed and swerved, whirling about. She stared, disbelieving her own eyes—then saw the streaks of dark blood on its flanks just before she heard a muffled explosion, and the beast stumbled and fell to show her Geoffrey and Quicksilver, swords bare and bloodied. Alea gave a glad cry. Grinning, Quicksilver leaped to stand by her side, sword ready for whatever might come.

  Geoffrey stepped up back-to-back with her, beside his brother, just as the manticore's head disappeared in a cloud of mist. Geoffrey turned his glare on the giant snake with knife-like fangs, coiled to spring at them. It exploded. "No time for finesse," he snapped, then turned to see a scaly tail whipping toward him with a spike on the end. He ducked; as it flashed by overhead, he swung his sword up high to chop it off. Its owner shrieked like a steam whistle, but the tumbling tail slashed Magnus's shoulder on its way to the ground.