The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (19 page)

He could feel himself pulling back, withdrawing, pulling inward, politely but firmly closing himself off, locking out the rest of the world. He would smile, he would still interact with them—but they could not, would not, know his inner self....

He came out of the reverie with an inward shudder. With an attitude like that, it was amazing his marriage had lasted the first nine years. On second thought, knowing Gwen, it was understandable; he hoped he'd made it up to her, since then.

By turning into a howling demon whenever a few things

went wrong all at the same time?

Be fair, he told himself, frowning. If she'd rather have him emotionally open, she had to accept everything that implied. Could he help it if, underneath the mask, he wasn't really a very nice guy?

Now he was being unfair to himself. Wasn't he? Surely there had to be a way to be open, without going berserk every so often.

There had to be, and he'd get busy searching for it—as soon as the current crisis was out of the way.

He stilled, suddenly remembering that his technique might not have worked. He might not have managed to regain his telepathic invisibility; he might still be exposed to passing telepaths.

So he sat very still, letting his mind open up, eyes still closed in mock slumber. He let his thoughts slumber, too, let them idle into dreams, while his mind opened up to all and any impressions.

He didn't hear a thought.

He would've believed there wasn't a thinking being for a hundred miles—and it wasn't just human thoughts that were missing, either. When he concentrated on mind reading this way, he always heard a continuing background murmur of animal minds—simple, vivid emotions: hunger, rage, desire. Even earthworms radiated sharp, intense little spikes of satisfaction as they chewed their way cheerfully through the dirt.

But not now. Either the worms had plowed into sandy soil, or his mind was closed off from both directions. He couldn't hear anything—not the background murmur, not the defiance of a skylark, nothing. He felt as though a vital part of him had been chopped off, that he was less than he had been. After three years as a telepath, this was a sudden, devastating impoverishment.

But it was necessary. Without it, he'd very quickly be detected and, shortly thereafter, be dead.

He felt a little better, after that realization. No, he decided, mental deafness was definitely preferable to permanent sleep. Besides, the 'deafness' was only temporary. He hoped.

He shrugged off the thought, and cranked his eyelids open 736 Christopher Stasheff

just enough to see through the lashes. The road was clear, as far as he could see. Of course, someone might be coming up behind him, so he kept up the act: He sat up slowly, blinking around him as though he couldn't remember where he was. Then he lifted his head, as though remembering, smiled, yawned, and stretched. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and blinked at the scenery around him while he waited for his body to come awake. Finally, Owen reached down to untie the reins, sat up, and clucked to his horse, giving his back a light (very light) slap. The horse lifted his head, looked back to see his master awake, then turned front again and leaned into the horsecollar. The wagon creaked, groaned, and clattered back onto the High Road again. As the wooden wheels rolled away on the paving stones, Rod worked at fighting down a rising fear—that, when this struggle with renegade espers was over, he might not be able to come out of his shell again, might be permanently maimed mentally, and never again able to be fully with his family. "It's done, Fess. I've closed my mind off. The rest of the world is telepathically invisible to me."

"And you to it?" Fess sounded surprised. "Wasn't that a bit drastic. Rod?"

"Yes—but in a land of hostile telepaths, I think it was necessary."

The robot was silent for a few hoofbeats, then nodded slowly. "It is a wise course, Rod. Indeed, I would have counselled it, if you had asked me."

Rod caught the implied reproach. "I couldn't, though—

not while an enemy telepath might have been able to read my mind." He was silent for a few seconds, then added,

"It's scarey, Fess."

"I can understand that it would be, Rod, after three years as a telepath. But I should think Alfar would be even more frightening."

"What, him?" Rod shrugged. "Not really. I mean, if worst comes to worst and I don't come back, Tuan will start marching."

"A rather gruesome interpretation. What do you fear, Rod?"

"Being stuck here, inside myself." Rod shuddered. "And not being able to unlock my mind again."

9

The sun was low, ahead and to the left, bathing the road, and the dusty leaves that bordered it, in an orange glow that made the whole world seem somewhat better than it really was—and Rod began to relax as he gazed at it. It was a magical road, somehow, twisting away through gilded leaves to some unguessable, wonderful faery world ahead. Around the turn, a man cried out in alarm, and a chorus of bellowing shouts answered him. Quarterstaves cracked wood on wood, and clanked on iron.

Rod stared, snapping out of his reverie. Then he barked

"Charge!" and Fess sprang into a gallop. The cart rattled and bumped behind him, melons and cabbages bouncing out into the roadway. Rod swerved into the turn with one wheel off the ground—and saw a gray-haired man whirling a quarterstaff high, low, from side to side, blocking the furious blows of three thick-bodied, shag-haired thugs with five-day beards. Two of them had iron caps—which was just as well, since they weren't very good with their staves. Even as Rod watched, the gray-head managed to crack his staff down on one of their skulls. The man howled and flinched back, pressing a hand to his head; then, reassured that he wasn't injured, he roared and leaped back into the fight, flailing a huge, windmilling arc of a blow that would 737

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have pulverized anything in its way. But the older man's staff snapped out at an angle, blocking the blow—and the thug's stick shot down the smooth wood, straight toward the victim's knuckles. The traveller's staff pushed farther, though, coming around in a half circle, and the thug's stick plowed into the ground. By that time, the other end of the older man's staff was swinging up to block a short, vicious blow from the thug on the other side.

Anger flared in Rod, the smoldering resentment of injustice. "Anybody that good has earned help!" Rod snapped.

"We can't let him be killed just because he's outnumbered!

Never!"

Pess's hooves whipped into a blur that no real horse could have managed. Rod swung his whip back, fighting against his own anger to withhold the blow until the right moment. A handful of soldiers broke through the screen of brush at the roadside, riding into view from a woodland track. Rod hauled on Fess's reins—not that the horse needed it; but it helped Rod to force down his anger, contain the frustration at not striking out. "Hold it, Fess! Company's coming. Maybe we'd better leave this goodman to natural processes."

The sergeant saw the fracas, swung his arm in an overhand circle that ended pointing toward the thugs, and shouted as he kicked his mount into a gallop. His troopers bellowed an answer, and their horses leaped into a charge. The thugs were making too much noise to hear, until the soldiers were only thirty feet away. Then one of them looked up and shouted. The other two turned, stared for one moment of panic, then whirled and plunged into the underbrush with howls of dismay.

The sergeant reined in just in front of the older man.

"I thank thee, Auncient." The traveler bowed, leaning on his staff. "They'd have stripped me bare and left me for wolf-meat!"

"Nay, certes! We could not allow such work, could we, then?" The sergeant grinned to his men for a chorus of agreement, and turned back to the traveler. "Such goods as wayfarers own, are ours to claim." He leaned down, shoving an open palm under the traveler's nose. "Thy purse, gaffer!" The older man stared at him, appalled. Then he heaved

a sigh, and untied his purse from his belt. He set it in the sergeant's hand. "Take it, then—and surely, I owe thee what I can give, for thy good offices."

"Dost thou indeed?" The sergeant straightened, opening the purse with a sly grin. But it faded quickly to a scowl of indignation, as he looked into the little bag. He glared down at the traveler. "Here, now! What manner of jest is this?"

"Why, naught!" the traveler said, surprised. "What few coins I have, are there!"

"Few indeed." The sergeant upended the purse, and five copper coins clinked into his palm. He growled and tossed them into the dust. "Come, then! None take to the road without a few shillings at least, to provide for themselves." The older man shook his head. "I had no more—and my daughter's near to term with her first. I must be there; she'll have need of me."

"She will, indeed," the sergeant growled, "and thou'lt be wanting." He nodded to his men. "Strip him, and slash his clothes. We'll find shillings, though they be within his flesh."

The traveler stepped back, horrified, as the soldiers crowded in, chuckling. Then his face firmed with resignation, and his staff lifted.

"Seize him!" the sergeant barked.

"So much for natural processes." Rod's anger surged up, freed. "Now, Fess!"

The great black horse sprang forward.

One of the soldiers chopped down at the traveler with his pike; but his victim's quarterstaff cracked against the pike-shaft, and it swerved, crashing into the shield of the trooper next to him. "Here now!" the man barked, and swung his own axe.

"Nay, nay!" the sergeant cried in disgust. "Is one lone..." A bellow of rage drowned him out, and his eyes bulged as Rod's whip wrapped itself around his throat. Rod yanked back as Fess crashed into a trooper, and the sergeant shot out of his saddle. The trooper screamed as his horse went flying. Fess slammed into another horse, reaching for its rider with steel teeth, as Rod turned to catch up a club he'd hidden among the grain sacks, and whirled it straight-armed 140 Christopher Stasheff

down at the steel cap of a third trooper with a bellow of fury. The blow rang like the parish bell on a holy day, and the soldier slumped to the ground, his helmet flying off. Fess tossed his head as he let go of the second trooper's arm, and the man spun flying to slam into a tree. Rod turned, just as the fourth trooper hit the ground. The traveler's staff rose, and fell with a dull thud. Rod winced, his rage ending as suddenly as it had begun, transmuting into leaden chagrin. He looked about him at the three fallen men. He fought against it. He'd been right, damn it! And none of them were really hurt. Nothing permanent, anyway...

Then he turned, and saw the older man looking up, panting, eyes white-rimmed, staff leaping up to guard again. Rod dropped the reins and held his hands up shoulderhigh, palms open. "Not me, gaffer! I'm just here to help!" The staff hung poised as the battle tension ebbed from the traveler's muscles. Finally, he lowered his guard, and smiled. "I give thee thanks, then—though I'm no one's

'gaffer.'"

"Not yet, maybe—but you will be, soon." Rod forced a weak smile. "I couldn't help overhearing."

"Nay, I think thou didst attempt such hearing—and I thank thee for it." The traveler grounded the butt of his staff, and held out his hand.

"I am called Simon, and my village is Versclos."

"I am, uhhh..." Rod leaned down to shake Simon's hand, groping frantically to remember the name he'd used for his "old farmer" act. "Call me Owen. Of Armand."

"Owen of Armand?" Simon lifted an eyebrow. "I've not heard of that village."

"It's far from here—to the south." Galactic south, anyway.

"I thank thee for thy good offices, Owen of Armand." Simon's handclasp was warm and firm. "Indeed, had it not been for thee..." He broke off suddenly, staring. Rod frowned.

Simon lifted his head with a jolt and gave it a quick shake. "Nay, pardon! My mind wanders. Had it not been for thee, these liveried bandits would have stripped me bare—and sin' that there were no shillings for them to find..."

Rod's mouth thinned and hardened. "They probably would have stripped you down to your skin, then used their knives to look for pockets."

"I do not doubt it." Simon turned toward the soldiers.

"Yet 'tis not their doing. They labor under a wicked enchantment. Come, we must attend to them." And he turned away, to kneel down by one of the troopers, leaving Rod with a puzzled frown. That had been rather abrupt—and, polite though he was, Simon had very obviously been trying to change the subject. What had he suddenly seen in Rod, that had so offended him? "Odd victim we have, here," he muttered.

"Odd indeed," Fess agreed. "To judge by his vocabulary and bearing, one would think him too well-qualified to be a road wanderer."

Rod lifted his head slowly. "Interesting point... Well, let's give him a hand." He lashed the reins around the top bar of the cart and swung down to the ground.

Simon was kneeling by the sergeant, hand on the man's shoulder, but still holding to his staff with the other. He stared into the man's face, frowning, head cocked to the side, as though he were listening. Rod started to ask, then saw the abstracted glaze in Simon's eyes, and managed to shut his mouth in time to keep the words in. He'd seen that same look in Gwen's face too many times to mistake it—

especially since he'd seen it in all his children's faces, too, now and then—especially Gregory's. Exactly what was going on. Rod didn't know—but it was certainly something psionic.

The sergeant's eyes opened. He blinked, scowling against pain, then sat up, massaging his throat. "What hast thou..." Then his eyes widened in horror. "Nay, I! what have / done to thee?"

Rod relaxed, reassured. The sergeant had his conscience back.

The man's eyes lost focus as he took a quick tour back through memory. "I have... nay, I have oppressed... I have murdered! Eh, poor folk!" He squeezed his eyes shut, face clenched in pain. "I have seen these hands cut down fleeing peasants, then steal what few coins they had! I have heard mine own voice curse at villagers, and hale forth their sons r