The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (33 page)

"How?" Simon stared, horrified. "A living thing cannot be a machine."

"No more than a machine can be a living thing. But this one sure seems to be. If you didn't know better, wouldn't you swear that thing's thinking at us?"

"Wh... this?" Simon pointed at the contraption, features writhing with revulsion. "Assuredly it doth not!"

"Assure me again—I could need it." Under his breath, Rod murmured, "Fess. Where are you?"

"Here, Rod, in the castle stables," Fess's voice answered from behind his ear.

"Close your eyes," Rod growled, "and don't worry about what's happening." He closed his eyes, envisioning Fess, and the stable he was in. In excellent repair, probably, since it had been Duke Romanov's just a week ago—but slipping a bit now. The straw surely needed changing, for example, and the manure needed clearing. But he needed Fess, needed him badly, right here.... He made the thought an imperative, an unworded summons, sharp, demanding. Thunder rocked the little room, and Fess was there, looking about him wildly. Rod saw as he opened his eyes again. The robot's voice came out slurred. "Whhhaddt

... wherrre... I have... have I... telllepo..." Suddenly his head whipped up, then slammed down. All four legs spraddled out, stiff, knees locked. The neck was stiff, too, pointing the head at the floor; then it relaxed, and the head began to swing between the fetlocks.

"Seizure," Rod explained. "It always happens, when he can't avoid witnessing magic."

But Simon didn't answer. He was staring at the electronic gizmo, and his eyes had glazed. He took a stumbling step toward it. Of course. Rod thought. This close to the gadget

... He grabbed Simon by the shoulders, and gave him a shake. "Simon! Wake up!" He clapped his hands sharply, an inch in front of Simon's nose. Simon started, and his eyes came back into focus. "What... Lord Warlock! For the half of a minute, I thought... I could believe..."

"That the background noise is right, and Alfar's a good guy." Rod nodded, mouth a thin, straight line. "Not surprising. Now I'm sure what that weird device is—but let's confirm it." He turned back to Fess, felt under the pommel of the saddle for an enlarged vertebra, and pushed it. It clicked faintly. After a moment, Fess's head lifted slowly and turned to look at Rod, the great plastic eyes clearing.

"I... had a... seizure, Rrrod."

"You did," Rod confirmed. "But let me show you something you can cope with." He took a step toward the pedestal, pointing. "There's a background thought-message, constantly repeating, Fess. Over and over, it praises Alfar to the skies—and it's much stronger here than anywhere else."

The robot's head tracked him. Then Fess stepped closer to the metal box. The great horsehead lifted, looking at the box from the top, then from the front, then the back. Finally Fess opined, "There is sufficient data for a meaningful conclusion, Rod."

"Oh, ducky! What's it add up to?"

"That the futurian totalitarians are supporting Alfar's conquests."

"Are they really," Rod said drily. "Care to confirm my guess as to what it does?"

"Certainly. It's a device that converts electricity into psionic power. I would conjecture that the large, rectangular base contains some sort of animal brain in a nutrient solution, with wires carrying power from an atomic pack into the medulla, and leads from the cerebrum carrying power at human thought frequencies into a modulator. The cylinder at the rear of the machine would seem to perform that function. This modulated message is fed out through the cable, which presumably goes up to an antenna on the roof of this tower."

"Thanks." Rod swallowed against a suddenly queasy stomach. "Nice to have my guess confirmed—I suppose. r

238

Christopher Stasheff

239

Their technology has improved since we met the Kobold, hasn't it?"

"The state of the art advances constantly, Rod."

"Relentlessly, you might almost say." Rod turned to Simon. "It projects thoughts. Not a living thought, you understand—a recorded one, made as carefully as people make chairs, or ships, or castles, but just as thoroughly made. Then that thought is set down, as you'd write a message in ink, almost—and sent out from this machine, to the whole of the duchy, again and again, drumming itself into people's heads. Warlocks and witches can at least realize they're being bombarded—but the average peasant in the field has no idea it's happening. But warlock or witch, it doesn't seem to matter—it converts them all."

"Who placed it here?" Simon's voice trembled.

"People from the future." Rod's face was set, stony.

"People who want the whole universe to be ruled by one single power." He glared around at the blank stone walls.

"Where're its builders? Hiding somewhere, out of harm's way, while Alfar and his coven do their dirty work for them. But I must admit I'm disappointed—I was hoping to find a few of them here, keeping guard." He could feel indignation spurring his anger higher; he began to tremble.

"Peace, peace." Simon grasped his forearm. "Wherefor would they? Why guard what none know of, and none need tend?"

"Yeah—it's fully automatic, isn't it? And just because I expected them to be here, doesn't mean they should feel obligated to show up. But I was at least expecting a human witch or warlock to be doing the thinking! Maybe hooked up to a psionic amplifier—but nonetheless one of Alfar's henchmen, taking it in relays! But... this is it!" He spread his hands toward the machine. "This is all there is! Here's the spectacular sorcerer—here's the arch-magus! Here's your rebel warlock warlord, fantastically powerful—until its battery runs down!"

"'Twill suffice," Simon said, beside him.

"Damn straight it will!" Rod turned to rummage in Fess's saddlebag. "Where's that hammer I used to carry?"

"May I suggest that it would be more effective, and more immediate, to turn the machine off. Rod?"

Rod shrugged. "Why not? I'm not picky—I'll wreck it any way I can!" He turned to the machine, looking it up and down. "Where's the off switch?"

"I detect a pressure-pad next to the cylinder," Pess said.

"Would you press it, please. Rod?"

"Sure." Rod pressed the cross-hatched square. The machine clicked, whirred for a second, then pushed one end of the cylinder toward Rod. He lifted it off, holding it warily at arm's length. "What is it?"

"From the circuitry. Rod, I would conjecture that the cylinder is the transducer. This disc, therefore, would be the recorded message."

"Oh, is it, now!" Rod whipped his arm back for a straight pitch, aimed at the wall.

"Might I also suggest," Fess said quickly, "that we may find a use for the disc itself?"

Rod scowled. "Always possible, I suppose—but not very satisfying." He dropped it into his belt-pouch. "So we've stopped it from mass-hypnotizing the population. Now, how do we wake them up?"

"Why not try telepathy?" the robot suggested. "The message is recorded thought, placed in contact with the transducer; presumably it will function just as well, from contact with living thought."

Rod turned to his friend with a glittering eye. "Oh, Master Simon..."

In spite of himself, the older man took a step backward. But, stoutly, he said, "Wherein may I aid. Lord Warlock?"

"By thinking at the machine." Rod tossed his head toward the gadget. "But you'll have to put your forehead against Simon's eyes bulged; his face went slack in horror.

"Oh, it won't hurt your mind," Rod said quickly. "That much, I'm sure of. This end of the machine can only receive thoughts—it can't send out anything." He turned, bowing, and pressed his forehead against the transducer. "See? No danger."

"Indeed," Simon breathed, awestruck. "Wherefore dost thou not give it thine own thoughts?"

"Because I don't know how to break Alfar's spell." Rod stepped back, bowing Simon toward the machine. "Would f

240

Christopher Stasheff

241

you try it, please? Just press your forehead against that round plate, and pretend it's a soldier who's been spellbound." Simon stood rigid for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped forward. Rod watched him place his forehead against the transducer, with admiration. The humble country innkeeper had as much real courage as a knight.

Simon closed his eyes. His face tensed as he began his spell-breaking thought sequence.

Rod stiffened as the 'message' hit him, full-strength. It had no words; it was only a feeling, as though someone very sympathetic was listening to him, listening deeply, to everything Rod could tell, down to his very core—then, kindly, gently, but very firmly, contradicting. Rod shook his head and cleared his throat. "Well! He's certainly getting across, isn't he?" He turned to Fess. "How'11 we know whether it works or not?"

"By Alfar's reaction. Rod. He doubtless detected our disabling his message, but refrained from attacking us, wary of your power."

Rod's head lifted, "I... hadn't... thought of that."

"I consider it a distinct possibility," Fess mused. "Now, however, Alfar must realize that we are destroying the very base of his power—that he must attack us now, or lose all he has conquered."

Quintuple thunder roared in a long, ripping sequence, and Alfar was there with three witches and a warlock at his back, chopping down at Rod with a scimitar.

Rod leaped back with a whoop of delight. The sword's tip hissed past him, and he and Fess instantly jumped into place between Simon and the sorcerer's band. One of the witches stabbed a hand at them, all five fingers stiff and pointing, and a dozen whirling slivers of steel darted toward them.

Fess took a step to his left, blocking Rod and Simon both. The darts clanged against his horsehide, and he stepped back—just in time to step on the witch's foot. She screamed and careened away, hobbling as Alfar lashed at Rod with the scimitar again. But this time. Rod leaped high and kicked the sword out of his hand as Fess reared, lashing out at the other warlock and witch with his forehooves. Rod sliced a karate chop at Alfar, and the sorcerer leaped back, but not quite quickly enough—Rod's fingertips scored his collarbone, and Alfar howled in pain. The witch was staring at Fess, wild-eyed, backing away slowly, and Rod could feel a crazy assortment of emotions crashing through him—anger, fear, confusion, love. She was the emotional projective, hitting Fess with everything she had, totally confounded by his complete lack of response.

Which reminded Rod who he was, and that the emotions were illusions. He managed to ignore them as Alfar wound up for a whammy. But he didn't have time; a stone leaped out of the wall, and slammed straight at Rod. He sidestepped, but the block caught him on the shoulder. Pain shot through him, and his temper leaped up in response. He slumped back against the wall, striving frantically to reign in his temper, trying to channel it, knowing that rage would slow his reflexes; they'd get under his guard, and chop him down. Another block shot straight at him and he dropped to a crouch, ducking his head. The block cracked into the wall behind; Another whirled tumbling and slammed into Fess's hindquarters. Rod galvanized with alarm—if that boulder had hit Fess in the midriff, it might've staved in his armored side, and damaged his computer-brain!

That was just distraction enough. He saw the stone coming, and spun away—but not fast enough. Its comer cracked into his hip, and agony screamed through his side, turning his whole leg into flame. His knee folded, and he fell. And Alfar was above him with his scimitar again, chopping down with a gloating grin. Rod rolled at the last second. The huge blade smashed into the stone floor, and twisted out of Alfar's hands. One of the fallen stones shot up off the floor, straight at his face. Alfar screamed in shock, and stepped back—and tripped over something, crashing down onto his back.

Rod was up on one knee, trying frantically to force himself to his feet. He stared at the obstacle Alfar had stumbled over, and it stared back for a fraction of a second—Geoffrey! The boy grinned just before he leaped to his feet, his eighteen-inch sword whipping out to stab down at the fallen sorcerer, who just barely managed to twist out of the way in time. His hand flailed about the floor till it found 242 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 243

the scimitar's hilt, and wrapped fast around it. A block of stone smashed at Geoffrey. He dodged, but Rod roared with rage when he saw how closely the block had come. He sprang at the telekinetic—but Alfar jumped into his path, slashing with the scimitar again. Rod leaped back, letting the blow whistle past him, then lunged over it with a chop. Alfar just barely managed to twist aside. The telekinetic was surrounded by blocks of stone smashing into each other. Her lips were drawn back in a feral snarl, and drops of sweat beaded her forehead. Geoffrey ducked in under the hedge of stone and stabbed upward. The telekinetic screamed and jumped back, stumbled over Gregory, and fell. Magnus's cudgel whacked her at the base of her skull and she went limp.

Cordelia crouched glaring at the other witch—but between them was a storybook witch, complete with cone hat, broomstick, hooked nose, warts, and insane cackle, hands clawing at the child. A ghost materialized beside her, moaning, and something huge, flabby, and moist, with yellow, bloodshot eyes, lifted itself up off the floor, extruding pseudopod tentacles toward the little girl. But Cordelia spat,

"Aroint thee, witch! Dost thou think me a babe?" and threw her broomstick at the illusionist. It speared through the storybook witch and arrowed toward the illusionist, who screamed and threw up her hands to ward it off—and the ghost, witch, and monster disappeared. But the broomstick whirled and whipped about, belaboring the woman from every side faster than she could block, whacking her about the head and shoulders. She screamed, and darted toward the chamber door—and Gwen's full-sized broomstick swung down from the ceiling and cracked into her forehead. Her eyes rolled up, and she crumpled.

Rod twisted aside from Alfar's scimitar and reached out to brace himself against the wall, just as his burning leg tried to give out under him again. He shoved against the stone, shifting his weight onto his good leg, and drew his sword just in time to parry another cut. He riposted and thrust, faster than Alfar could recover. The sorcerer darted back, just an inch farther than Rod's thrust, and saw two of his lieutenants on the floor. He was just in time to see Fess's hoof catch the emotional projective a glancing blow on the temple. She folded at the knees and hit the flagstones, out cold. He shrieked, and Rod leaped, catching the sorcerer's arm with his left hand to steady himself. Alfar whirled, saw Rod's sword chopping down, screamed again—and Rod caught the unspoken image of another place. He closed his eyes and willed himself nor there, just as Alfar teleported toward it. Dimly, Rod heard a thunder-boom, and knew Alfar had managed to disappear from the tower room. His eyes sprang open—and he found himself still clinging to the sorcerer's arm, in the midst of formless grayness, lit by dim, sourceless light. There was nothing, anywhere—