The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (23 page)

"Well, that—and that the stew's ready." Rod leaned over to sniff the vapors. "Not bad, for field rations. Want some?" When Simon rolled up in his cloak to sleep. Rod went over to curry Fess. The job wasn't really stage dressing at all—Fess's horsehair may have owed more to plastic than to genetics, but it still collected brambles and burrs on occasion.

"So." Rod ran the currycomb along Fess's withers. "Alfar started out with nothing but feelings of inferiority, and a grudge against the world."

"An ordinary paranoid personality," Fess noted.

"Yeah, except that he was an esper. And somewhere along the line, he all of a sudden became a lot more powerful than your average warlock." He looked up at Fess. "Maybe just because he managed to talk some other witches into joining him?"

"Perhaps." The robot sounded very skeptical. "I cannot help but think there is more to the matter than that."

"Probably right, too... So. Alfar had a sudden boost in power, and/or got together a gang. Then he started leaning f64 Christopher Stasheff \

on the local citizenry, like any good gangster." i

"The process seems to begin with intimidation," Fess '

noted. ; Rod stopped currying for a minute. "Maybe... Even the soldiers were scared, when they were marching against him...." He shrugged. "Hard to say. In any event, he's finally able to mass-hypnotize whole villages—though from the soldier's account, it needs to be redone in depth, on an individual basis."

"The soldiers' mass hypnosis was done during the heat of battle. Rod, and very quickly. The peasant villages seem to have been done more leisurely, by Simon's statement—

over a period of days, perhaps even weeks."

"True—so it would be more thorough. Though, apparently, some are harder to hypnotize than others." He looked up at Fess again. "And espers appears to be immune."

"So it would seem, to judge by Simon."

"Yes..." Briefly, Rod wondered about that. Then he shrugged it off. "Anyhow. When Alfar'd built enough of a power base, one of the local knights got worried, and tried to knock him down before he grew too big. But he was already too big."

"Indeed," Fess agreed. "He was already powerful enough to overcome a knight with his village force." Rod nodded. "And by the time he was big enough to worry the local baron, he'd absorbed the forces of several knights. So the baron fell, and the chain reaction began—

the baron, then the count, then finally the duke himself—

and it doesn't end there, does it?"

"Certainly not, Rod. After all, he now has the resources of a duchy to draw on."

"Yes. We all know what he's going to do now, don't we?"

"But surely Gwendylon and the children have already borne word to Tuan and Catharine, Rod—and the Duchess's personal account must certainly have been very persuasive. I doubt not that Tuan is already gathering his forces."

"Gathering them, yes. But it's going to be at least a week or two before he can march North."

"Surely Alfar cannot consolidate his newly won forces

with sufficient speed to enable him to carry the attack to Tuan!"

"Oh, I don't think he would, anyway." Rod looked up into Fess's imitation eyes. "All the Duke's horses and all the Duke's men aren't quite enough to take on the King's army."

"True," the robot conceded. "Therefore, he will attack Earl Tudor."

"You really think he'd dare strike that close to Tuan?"

"Perhaps not. Perhaps he will seek to conquer Hapsburg first."

"It's just great, having outgoing neighbors ... and if he manages to swallow Hapsburg, he'll have to digest him before he can take on Tudor."

"I doubt that he would try. He might be able to defeat the Earl quickly, but he must surely need a week or two to complete the indoctrination of the captured soldiers."

"And while he's digesting, he's right next to Tuan. No, you're right. He'd try to march through Tudor, and attack Tuan right away. Which means our job is to keep him from being able to attack another baron, before Tuan attacks him."

"What methods do you propose. Rod?"

Rod shrugged. "The usual—hit and run, practical jokes, whispering campaigns—nothing sensible. Keep him offbalance. Which shouldn't be too hard; he's going to be feeling pretty insecure, right about now."

"He will indeed. And, being paranoid, he will seek to eliminate whatever enemies he does see, before he turns his attention to attack."

"Maybe. But a paranoid also might decide to attack before the next baron can attack him, and start his own secret police to take care of internal enemies." Rod clenched a fist in frustration. "Damn! If only you could predict what a single human being would do!"

"Be glad you cannot," Fess reminded, "or VETO and its totalitarians could easily triumph."

"True," Rod growled. "Truer than I like. And speaking of our proletarian pals, do you see any evidence of their meddling in this?"

"Alfar's techniques do resemble theirs," Fess admitted. 166 Christopher Stasheff

"Resemble? Wish fulfillment, more likely! He's got the kind of power they dream of—long-distance, massproduction brainwashing! What wouldn't any good little dictator give for that?"

"His soul, perhaps?"

"Are you kidding? Totalitarianism works the other way. around—everybody else gives their souls to the dictator!"

"Unpleasant, but probably accurate. Nonetheless, there is no evidence of futurian activity."

"Neither totalitarians nor anarchists, huh?"

"Certainly not. Rod."

"Not even the sudden, huge jump in Alfar's powers?"

"That ability does bother me," Pess admitted. "A projective telepath, who seems to be able to take on a whole parish at one time... Still, there's no reason to believe the totalitarians would be behind it."

"Oh, yes there is," Rod countered. "From everything Simon's told me, and it just backed up what Gwen said—

the trance these people seem to walk around in, is thoroughly impersonal."

"Almost depersonalized, you might say? I had, had something of the same thought too. Rod. I recognize the state."

"Yes—mechanical, isn't it?"

"True. But that is not conclusive evidence of futurian meddling."

"No—but it does make you wonder." Rod gave the synthetic horsehair a last swipe with the brush. "There! As new and shiny as though you'd just come from the factory. Do you mind a long tether, just for appearances?"

"I would mind not having it. It is certainly necessary, Rod."

"Must keep them up, mustn't we?" Rod reached into the cart, pulled out a length of rope, tied one end to Fess's halter and the other to a convenient tree branch. "Besides, you can break it easily, if you want."

"I will not hesitate to do so," Fess assured him. "Sleep while you can. Rod. You will need the rest."

"You're such an optomist." Rod pulled his cloak out of the cart and went back to the campfire. "I'm not exactly in

a great mood for emptying my mind of the cares of the day."

Try," the robot urged.

"If I try to sleep, I'll stay awake." Rod lay down and rolled up in his cloak. "How about trying to stay awake?"

"Not if you truly want to sleep. I could play soft music, Rod."

"Thanks, but I think the nightbirds are doing a pretty good job of that."

"As you wish. Good night. Rod."

"I hope so," Rod returned. "Same to you, Fess." He rolled over toward the fire...

... and found himself staring into Simon's wide-open, calm, and thoughtful eyes.

"Uh.. .hi, there." Rod forced a sickly grin. "Say, I'll bet you're wondering what I was doing, rambling on like that—aren't you?"

"Not greatly," Simon answered, "though I do find thy conversation to be of great interest."

"Oh, I'm sure." Rod's stomach sank. "Does it, uh, bother you, to, uh, hear me talk to my horse."

"Not at all." Simon looked faintly surprised. "And 'tis certainly not so desperate as talking to thyself."

"That's a point..."

'"Tis also scarcely amazing." Simon favored him with a rather bleak smile. "Be mindful, I'm an innkeeper, and many carters have stopped at my inn. Every one I've known, has spoken to his horse."

"Oh." Rod hoped his surprise didn't shown in his face.

"You mean I'm not exactly unusual?"

"Only in this: thou'rt the first I've heard who, when he spoke to his horse, made sense."

Rod supposed it was a compliment.

11

They were up at first light, and on the road by dawn. With the main issues out of the way, the two of them chatted together easily—Simon the innkeeper, and Owen the farmer. And if, as morning wore on, Owen's tales of his children bore a startling resemblance to the experiences of Rod Gallowglass, it can scarcely be surprising. On the other hand, all the stories had nothing to do with juvenile witch powers; Rod stayed sufficiently on his guard not to make that particular slip.

It wasn't easy. Rod found they had a lot in common—

wives, and children. He also found Simon to be surprisingly refreshing. Instead of their usual dire predictions about the horrors of adolescence that lay in store for the unwary father, Simon restricted his anecdotes to childhood disasters—

though, when pressed, he admitted that all his children were grown, and the tale of his daughter's impending first birth was quite true. Rod immediately began insisting, all over again, that Simon turn back to the South and his daughter, the more so because Simon had mentioned earlier that his wife had died quite a few years ago; but the innkeeper merely informed Rod that his daughter really lived north of his home village—wherefore, he had been doubly cowardly to flee. There wasn't much Rod could say to that, so he relaxed 768

and enjoyed Simon's company. So, by the time they came to the first village. Rod was feeling in fine form—which was fortunate, because they were greeted by a mob. The peasants stormed out of the village, howling and throwing stones and waving pitchforks—but not at Simon and Rod. Their target was a small man, who sprinted madly, managing to stay a dozen yards ahead of them.

"Slay the warlock!" they cried. "Stone him!" "Stab him!

Drain his blood!" "Burn him! Bum him Bum Him BURN

HIM!"

Simon and Rod stared at each other, startled. Then Simon snapped, "He could not be of Alfar's brood, or soldiers would even now be cutting down these peasants! Quickly, Owen!"

"You heard him!" Rod cracked the whip over Fess's head, keeping up the act. "Charge!"

Fess leaped into a gallop. Cartwheels roared behind him. Rod pulled up hard as they passed the fleeing warlock, and Simon shouted, "Up behind, man! For thy lifeblood's sake!"

The running man looked up, startled, then jumped into the cart, as Simon rose to his feet and cried out, in a voice that seared through the crowd's shouting:

"I, too, am a magic worker! Two warlocks face thee now! Dost thou still wish wood to kindle?"

The crowd froze, the words of violence dying on their tongues.

Simon stood relaxed, but his face was granite. Slowly, he surveyed the crowd, picking out individual faces here and there. But he didn't say a word.

Finally, a fat little man stepped forward, shaking a club at Simon. "Step aside, fellow! Withdraw thy cart and horse!

Our quarrel's with this foul warlock, not with thee!"

"Nay," Simon answered. "To the contrary; every warlock's business is every other's, for there are few of us indeed."

"Every warlock?" the fat man bleated in indignation. "Is Alfar's business also thine?"

His words set off an ugly murmur that increased in ugliness as it built. 770 Christopher Stasheff

"Alfar's business ours?" Simon's eyes widened. "Why would it not be?"

The noise cut off as the crowd stared at him, frozen. Then the people began to mutter to one another, worried, a little fearful. One scrawny warlock by himself was one thing—but two together, with Alfar's backing...

Simon's voice cut through their hubbub. "'Twould be better an thou didst now go back unto thine homes."

"What dost thou speak of!" the fat little man cried. "Turn to our homes? Nay! For we have one who must be punished!

What dost thou think thyself to..."

His voice ran down under Simon's stony glare. Behind him, the crowd stared, then began to whisper among themselves again. Rod heard snatches of "Evil Eye!" "Evil Eye!" He did the best he could to reinforce the idea, staring at the fat little leader with his eyes narrowed a little, teeth showing in a wolfish grin.

"Thou wilt go," Simon said, his voice like an icepick. Rod could scarcely believe the transformation. He could've sworn Simon was at least two inches taller and four inches broader. His eyes glowed; his face was alive and vibrant. He fairly exuded power.

Cowed, the crowd drew in upon itself, muttering darkly. Simon's voice rose above. "We have shown thee plainly wherein doth lie the true power in this land—but it need not be turned against thee. Go, now—go to thine homes." Then he smiled, and his aura seemed to mellow—he seemed gentler, somehow, and reassuring. "Go," he urged, "go quickly."

The crowd was shaken by the transformation. Their emotions had been yanked back and forth; they didn't know whether to resent Simon, or be grateful to him. For a moment, they stood, uncertain. Then one man turned away, slowly. Another saw him, and turned to follow. A third saw them, and turned, then a fourth. Then the whole crowd was moving back toward the village.

The fat little man glanced at them, appalled, then back toward Simon. "Retribution shall follow," he cried, but fear hollowed his voice. "Retribution, and flames for all witches!" Rod's eyes narrowed to slits, and he gathered himself; but Simon laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said

mildly, "Go whilst thou may—or retribution there shall be indeed, and I shall not lift one finger to stay it." The little man glanced at Rod in sudden terror, then whirled about, and hurried to follow the villagers back toward the houses. Rod, Simon, and the stranger only watched him, frozen in tableau till he'd disappeared among the buildings. Then, the moment he was out of sight, Simon heaved a long sigh, going limp.