The Warlock In Spite of Himself

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Oh, stow it!" Rod growled. "It wasn't your fault." He stepped away from the horse, —straightened his shoulders. "I wasn't in any real danger, anyway. Just a busy night, that's all."

  "How so, Rod?"

  Rod started to answer, then changed his mind. "I'll tell you in the morning, Fess."

  "I have reoriented my circuits to accept the discrepancies between accepted theory and actual occurrence, Rod. You may confide in me without fear of overload."

  Rod shook his head and turned to stumble out of the stall. "In the morning, Fess. You might be able to believe it right now, but I'm not sure I could."

  Rod sat down to a whopping breakfast, but he was on a starvation diet compared to Big Tom. The man was surrounded by unbelievable stacks of food.

  Some of it was familiar to Rod — the eggs, pancakes, and ham. The 'cakes had a subtly alien flavor, though, and the eggs had three-inch yolks. There was some sort of grain on any human-inhabited planet, usually a descendant of Terran cereals; but the soil of another planet sometimes produced weird variations in the grain. There was always some sort of domesticated fowl; but more often than not it was a local life-form. Hogs, of course, were ubiquitous; they were found on Terran planets even more consistently than dogs. Rod sometimes wondered about his species.

  The food was all digestible, of course, and probably nourishing: genetic drift couldn't change human metabolism all that much. But trace elements were another matter; Rod swallowed an all-purpose pill just to be on the safe side.

  Big Tom noticed it. "What was that, master?"

  Rod forced a smile. "Just a minor spell. Don't let it worry you, Big Tom."

  Tom stared, then looked down at his plate, muttering a quick prayer under his breath. He attacked the pancakes with a shaking fork.

  The big man started to speak, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  "What doth the new day bring, good master?"

  "A trip to the castle," said Rod. "We'll see if the Queen's in the market for a new soldier."

  Tom wailed a protest. "A Queen's sojer! Nay, master, that's no trade for a honest man!"

  Rod cocked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me that one of us might be honest?"

  Big Tom shut up.

  The landlord had a spare horse, or so he suddenly remembered when Rod rested a hand on the hilt of his dagger. It was an old, swaybacked gray gelding with a slightly longer neck and smaller ears than the Terran-standard animal. That was bad, since it would call a certain amount of attention to Fess; but then, the great black horse wasn't exactly inconspicuous anyway.

  The church bells were ringing as they rode out of the inn-yard, Rod on Fees and Tom on the equine antique. The sound of the bells reminded Tom of the early hour; he began to grumble at masters who kept unreasonable hours.

  But his gripes trailed off as they mounted the slope above the town, where they could look out to the horizon and see the east pregnant with the morning sun.

  Tom took a deep breath of the dawn and grinned back over his shoulder at Rod. "Eh, master! 'twill be a fine day!"

  "And a chill one," said Rod, turning up his collar, for the wind was at his back.

  "Aye, aye! Did I not say 'twould be fine?"

  "I don't quite share your enthusiasm for low thermometer readings," Rod growled. "Look alive, Tom; we're almost to the castle."

  "Stand and declare yourselves!", cried the sentry on the drawbridge.

  "Oh, ye gods!" Rod rolled his eyes upward.

  "Your name and your concern at the Queen's castle."

  "Overdoing it a bit, aren't you?" Rod eyed the sentry sidewise. The footman's mouth turned down sharply at the corners.

  "None of your mouthings," he barked. "I'm a Queen's man, and you'll speak with respect."

  "Not likely," said Rod, smiling benignly. "My name is Rod Gallowglass."

  "Gallowglass?" The sentry frowned. "Your time is wasted; the Queen already has a fool."

  "From the look of you, I'd say she has many." Rod grunted. "My trade is soldier, and my manservant's, too. Call the master-at-arms, and let him enroll me."

  The sentry glowered. "Enlisting in the Queen's army is not so easily done as that."

  "Why, how now!" Rod scowled. "Must I prove I'm a soldier?" He dismounted, swinging out of the saddle to land just a yard from the sentry.

  "If you're a soldier, you're a poor one," the sentry said with a sneer, "or you'd not leave your horse untethered."

  Rod threw him a saccharine smile and called out, "Fess, back up four feet, take a half step to the left, come forward four and a half feet, then stand till I call you."

  The sentry stared, mouth gaping open, as Fess executed the maneuver with machine-like precision.

  "I'm a soldier," said Rod, "and a good one."

  The sentry's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. His eyes bulged slightly as they flicked over Rod's lean frame, the black-gloved hand on the pommel of the sword.

  "You see," Rod explained, "I might have need of my horse. It's easier to let him come to me."

  His right hand jumped out in a feint. The soldier grunted with surprise and stepped back as Rod's foot snaked out to catch him behind the ankle. The sentry went down in a clatter of tinware.

  Rod twisted the pike from the sentry's hands as he fell and threw it back under the portcullis.

  "Now," he said, "let's try it again, shall we?"

  "Well done, oh! Well done, my master!" Big Tom pounded his nag's withers, grinning from ear to ear.

  The sentry staggered to his feet, shouting, "A rescue! A rescue!"

  "Oh, no!" Rod dropped his forehead into his palm. "Oh, no!" — shaking his head.

  He leaned back against Fess" shoulder and folded his arms. Three guardsmen came running up, pikes at the ready. The leader looked from Rod to the sentry, back to Rod, then back to the sentry. He frowned. "What need for a rescue?"

  The sentry fluttered a hand in Rod's general direction. "This man…"

  "Yes?" Rod smiled.

  "Why, he knocked me down, that's what he did, and took my pike from me!"

  "I wouldn't brag, if I were you," Rod murmured. Big Tom bent low over his saddlebow, convulsed with silent laughter.

  "Is that the truth of it, man?" The leader glowered at Rod.

  "True." Rod bowed his head.

  "Well, then!" The leader straightened, planting his fists on his hips and scowling.

  "Well, what?" Rod raised an eyebrow.

  The sergeant was beginning to get flustered. "Well, what's your reason?"

  "I wish to enlist in the Queen's army. This man-at-arms indicated I should prove myself."

  The sergeant looked from the flabbergasted sentry to Rod, and nodded.

  "You'll have your chance," he said. "Come."

  The chance consisted of a hulking sergeant equipped with a broadsword and buckler.

  "Will you not take a buckler, man?" growled the old knight who was Master of the Guard.

  "No thanks." Rod slipped his dagger from its sheath. "This will do me quite well."

  "Naught but a poniard and a wisp of a sword 'gainst broad-sword and buckler!" Sir Maris shook his head sadly. "You must truly wish to die young!"

  Rod's eyes widened in surprise. "Thank you," he said. "I haven't been told I looked young since I was thirteen."

  "Well, cross your swords," Sir Maris sighed. Rod and the sergeant complied; Sir Maris limped forward, his own broad-sword coming up to separate their blades.

  The sergeant's broadsword swung up for a full-armed chop. Rod took advantage of the moment's delay to feint once at the sergeant's belly. The buckler dropped down to catch the sword-tip, and Rod's blade leaped over the sergeant's arm to rip the cloth over his heart.

  "Hold!" cried Sir Maris, and the sergeant's broadsword paused in mid-chop. He dropped his buckler, staring about him. "Wot 'appened?"

  "Had this Gallowglass not fought in sport alone," said Sir Maris, thou wert a dead man this day, Sergeant Hapweed."

&nb
sp; He scowled at Rod, puzzled. "Who would ha' thought to use a sword's point?"

  "Shall we have at it again?" Rod's blade whined through the air and slapped against his leg.

  Sir Maris studied Rod's face, his brow furrowing. "Nay," he said, lifting his head. "I'll warrant you're a swordsman."

  "Aye," muttered Big Tom, and Sir Maris glanced over at him; but the big man was only beaming with pride.

  The Master of the Guard turned and caught up a quarter-staff. "Here!" He tossed it to Rod. "We'll try you with this."

  Rod sheathed his dagger and caught the staff by the middle. He slipped his sword into its scabbard.

  The big sergeant was practicing quick one-two-three blows with his quarterstaff.

  "Have at it!" Sir Maris called, and the big sergeant stepped forward, knees bent, quarterstaff on guard. Rod followed suit.

  Then he was in the middle of an oaken rain, blows from the sergeant's staff drubbing about his head and shoulders, seeking an opening, a half second drop of Rod's guard.

  Rod set his jaw and matched the sergeant's pace, catching the blows as quick as they came — just barely. His stomach sank as he realized he was on the defensive.

  He blocked a swing at his shin, caught the rebound toward his head, swung the lower end of his staff to catch the answering blow at his belly — but the blow never came. It had been a feint.

  Frantically, he tried to recover to guard his head, but the sergeant had gained his half second opening. Rod saw the heavy oak staff swinging at him out of the corner of his eye.

  He sank back, rolling with the blow. It cracked on his skull like a thunderclap. The room darkened, filled with dancing motes of light; there was a roaring in Rod's ears.

  He gave ground, blocking the sergeant's blows by sheer reflex, and heard the onlooking soldiers yell with triumph.

  Won't do at all, Rod's thoughts whirled. He'd been trained at quarterstaff; but he hadn't had a bout in a year, whereas the sergeant had all the skill of a devout hobbyist. It was just a game to him, probably, as the swordplay had been to Rod. The sergeant was in the driver's seat, and he knew it.

  There was one chance. Rod leaped back, his hands slipping to the middle of the staff. It began to turn end-over-end, twirling like a baton.

  Rod set his jaw and put some muscle into it. His staff leaped into a whirling, whining blur.

  It was French single-stick play, le moulinet. The sergeant probably knew it as well as Rod; but chances were he wasn't any better practiced at it than Rod was. It was rather exotic form, unless you were French. And with a name like Sergeant Hapweed…

  Sir Maris and Co. gaped. The sergeant stepped back, startled. Then a wariness came into his face, and his staff jumped into a whirl.

  So he knew the style. But he wasn't a master; in fact, Rod had the advantage. The sergeant's staff was a blur, but a quiet blur. Rod's staff was doing a very nice imitation of a buzz saw. He had the edge on the sergeant in angular velocity, and consequently greater striking power.

  Sergeant Hapweed knew it too; the muscles of his neck knotted as he tried to speed up his swing.

  Now! Rod leaped forward. His staff snapped out of its whirl, swinging down counter to the rotation of the sergeant's.

  The sticks met with a crack of a rifle and a shudder that jarred Rod's back teeth. He recovered a half second ahead of the sergeant and brought his staff crashing down on the sergeant's in two quick blows, knocking the other's staff out of his hands.

  Rod straightened, drawing a deep breath and letting the tension flow out of him as he grounded the butt of his staff.

  The sergeant stared at his hands, numb.

  Rod reached out and tapped the man's temple gently with the tip of his staff. "Bang! You're dead."

  "Hold!" cried Sir Maris, making things official. Rod grounded his staff again, and leaned on it.

  Sir Maris scowled at Rod, eyes bright under bushy eyebrows.

  Rod gave him a tight smile.

  Sir Maris nodded slowly. "Shall I try you with a longbow?"

  Rod shrugged, bluffing. With a crossbow, maybe. But a longbow…

  A deep, skirling laugh rolled from the rafters. The Master of the Guard and all his men jumped. Big Tom fell on his knees, arms flung up to protect his head.

  Rod's head snapped out, eyes searching for the source of the laugh.

  On one of the great oaken beams crossing the hall sat a dwarf, drumming his heels against the wood. His head was as large as Rod's, his shoulders broader, his arms and legs as thick as Rod's. He looked as though someone had taken a big, normal man and edited out three feet here and there.

  He was barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, and bull-necked. The shaggy black head seemed strangely large for such a truncated body. Black, curly hair hung down to the point of the jaw and the nape of the neck; bushy black eyebrows jutted out-from a flat sloping forehead. The eyes were large, coal-black, and, at the moment, creased with mirth. They were separated by a hawk-beak nose under which thick, fleshy lips grinned through a bushy black beard, jutting forward at the chin. Square, even teeth gleamed white through the beard.

  Someone bad tried to cram a giant into a nail-keg, and had almost succeeded.

  "Longbow!" he cried in a booming bass voice. "Nay, I'll wager he's as fair a shot as the county ram in springtime!"

  Sir Maris glowered up at the dwarf. "A plague on you and your stealthy ways, Brom O'Berin! Is there not enough salt in my hair already, but you must whiten it all with your pranks?"

  "Stealthy ways!" cried the dwarf. "Forsooth! Had you some pride in your calling, Sir Maris, you would thank me for showing you your own lack of vigilance!"

  "Brom?" muttered Rod, staring "O'Berin?"

  The dwarf turned to Rod, glowering. "Black Brom O'Berin, aye!"

  "That's, uh, a combo of Dutch, Irish, and Russian, if I've got it right."

  "What words of nonsense are these?" growled the dwarf.

  "Nothing." Rod looked away, shaking his head. "I should have seen it coming. I should expect something else, on this crazy —uh… in Gramarye?"

  The dwarf grinned, mischief in his eyes. "Nay, unless I mistake me, that hath the sound of a slur on the great land of Gramarye!"

  "No, no! I didn't… I mean…" Rod paused, remembering that apologies were unbecoming for a fighting man in this culture.

  He straightened, chin lifting. "All right," he said, "it was an insult, if you want it that way."

  The dwarf gave a howl of glee and jumped to his feet on the rafter.

  "You must fight him now, Gallowglass," Sir Maris rumbled, "and you shall need every bit of your skill."

  Rod stared at the Master of the Guard. Could the man be serious? A dwarf, give Rod a hard fight?

  The dwarf chuckled deep in his throat and slipped off the beam. It was a twelve foot drop to the stone floor, more than three times Brom's height, but he hit the floor lightly, seeming almost to bounce, and wound up in a wrestler's crouch. He straightened and paced toward Rod, chuckling mischief.

  There was a roar behind Rod, and Big Tom blundered forward. " 'Tis a trap, master!" he bellowed. "Witchcraft in this land, and he is the worst witch of all! None has ever beaten Black Brom! Yet I shall—"

  Every soldier in the room descended on Big Tom in a shouting chaos of anger and outrage.

  Rod stood a moment in shock. Then he dropped his staff and waded into the melee, hands flashing out in karate punches and chops. Soldiers dropped to the floor.

  "Hold!" thundered Brom's voice.

  Silence gelled.

  Brom had somehow gotten up on the rafters again.

  "My thanks, lads," the miniature Hercules growled. "But the the big fellow meant no harm; let him go."

  "No harm!" yelped half a dozen outraged voices.

  Brom took a deep breath and sighed out, "Aye, no harm. He meant only defense of his master. And this Gallowglass meant only defense of his manservant. Stand away from them now, they're both blameless."

  The soldiers reluctantly obeyed.
>
  Rod slapped Tom on the shoulder and murmured, "Thanks, Big Tom. And don't worry about me; that Dutch Irishman is only a man, like you and me. And if he's a man, I can beat him."

  The dwarf must have had very keen ears, for he bellowed, "Oh, can you, now? We'll see to that, my bawcock!"

  "Eh, master!" Big Tom moaned, rolling his eyes. "You know not what you speak of. That elf is the devil's black own!"

  "A warlock?" Rod snorted. "There ain't no such beasts."

  Sir Maris stepped back among his men, ice-eyed and glowering. "Harm a hair of his head, and we'll flay you alive!"

  "No fear," Brom O'Berin chuckled. "No fear, Gallowglass. Try all that you may to harm me. Be assured, you shall fail. Now look to yourself."

  He jumped on the rafter, bellowed "Now!"

  Rod dropped into a crouch, hands drawn back to chop.

  Brom stood on the beam, fists on hips, great head nodding. "Aye, hold yourself ready. But" — his eyes lit with a malicious gleam; he chuckled — "Brom O'Berin is not a light man." He leaped from the rafter feet-first, straight at Rod's head.

  Rod stepped back, startled at the suddenness of the dwarf's attack. Reflex took over; his hand swung up, palm upward, to catch Brom's heels and flip them up.

  Then, expecting the dwarf to land flat on his back on the granite floor, Rod jumped forward to catch; but Brom spun through a somersault and landed bouncing on his feet.

  He slapped Rod's hands away with a quick swipe. "A courtly gesture," he rumbled, "but a foolish one; your guard is down. Save gentleness for those who need it, man Gallowglass."

  Rod stepped back, on guard again, and looked at the little man with dawning respect. "Seems I underestimated you, Master O'Berin."

  "Call me not master!" the dwarf bellowed. "I'm no man's master; I'm naught but the Queen's fool!"

  Rod nodded, slowly. "A fool."

  He beckoned with both arms, and a savage grin. "Well enough then, wise fool."

  Brom stood his ground a moment, measuring Rod with a scowl. He grunted, mouth snapping into a tight smile, and nodded.

  He sprang, flipped in mid-air, feet heading straight for Rod's chin.

  Rod swung a hand up to catch Brom's heels again, muttering, "I'd've thought you'd learn."