The Warlock Wandering (2 page)

They whirled and charged, Gwen gathering up her skirts.

"Our abductors could at the least have sent a broomstick!"

"Yes, very careless of them." But Rod chewed at the inside of his lip. "Still, maybe you had the right idea there, dear. Let's try it and see. Ready?" He slipped an arm around her. "Up we go!"

They leaped into the air. Rod put all his attention into staying up; the natives became secondary, dim and distant. They rose up a good twenty feet.

"Turn," Gwen suggested.

Rod banked, worrying about the "why" later. Until he got good at this game, he'd have to let Gwen do the steering. She had novel ideas. They swooped back toward the natives like avenging furies.

The savages screeched to a halt, partly from surprise, mostly from alarm. Good little victims weren't supposed to attack.

"Attempt a war-cry," Gwen advised.

Rod grinned, and let out a whoop that would have shamed all the rebels in Dixie.

That was a mistake; it gave the savages something faTHE WARLOCK WANDERING 11

miliar. They snapped out of their shock and closed ranks in front of the flying Gallowglasses.

"Wrong tactic," Rod decided. "Hold tight." He thought up hard, and soared way high over the savages' heads, thoroughly out of bowshot. Then they swung down.

"Wherefore so low, my lord?" Gwen asked.

"Just in case I run out of lift."

Gwen blanched. "If we are going to strike the earth, my lord, I would prefer not to fly so swiftly."

"Don't worry, babe, I can stop on a dime. Of course, it doesn't do the dime much good...."

The ground rose up beneath them. They rose with it, too, of course—and the whooping barbarians were growing smaller very quickly, behind them. Up, and over the rise—

and the savages disappeared below the curve of the ridge.

"Surely they must be the half of a mile behind us, now, my lord," Gwen protested. "Will they not have given up by now?"

Rod nodded. "If you say so, darling. I just hope they were listening."

They slowed, and dropped gently to the ground. Gwen smiled as her heels touched earth. "Thou dost progress amazingly in thine use of thy powers, my lord."

"Oh, you know—just practice." But Rod felt a thoroughly irrational glow at her praise. "I must say, though, I'm surprised it didn't put more of a shock into our hunters."

"Aye." Gwen frowned. "What manner of men were they?"

"Oh—just your average barbarians."

"But—they were purple!"

"The human race is amazing in its diversity," Rod said piously. "On the other hand, you never know—the color might wash off in a good rain."

Gwen stared. "Dost'a mean they do paint themselves from head to toe?"

Rod nodded. "Not exactly unknown. In fact, if it weren't for the color, I'd guess we were on the Scottish side of 12 Christopher Stasheff

Hadrian's Wall in a country called Great Britain, about 100

A.D."

"Were there truly such?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Sure were, dear—check any history book, if you can find one. Painted themselves blue, in fact." Rod frowned.

"Of course, that theme has been pretty well pict over by now...."

Clamoring howls drifted down the wind again.

Rod's head snapped up and around.

Over the ridge they came—purple, waving spears, and howling like the Eumenides.

"Time to hit the woad!" Rod caught Gwen around the waist again.

"Not so high this time, an it please thee, my lord."

"Anything to please, my dear." Rod frowned, concentrating. The scenery seemed to dim about him, and they rose just to the tops of the grain.

"Forward," Gwen murmured.

They shot straight ahead, faster than a speeding spear (just in case).

"They may not be much on technology, but they've got Terrans beat all hollow on perverse perseverance."

'"Tis even so. How long can they endure?" Rod looked back, letting the natives' style percolate through the filters of his concentration. "Let's see—they're doing a lope, not an all-out run.... Hey, those guys aren't even trying! Not really."

"Scandalous. How long can they maintain such a pace?" Rod shrugged. "As long as we can, I'd guess."

"And how long is that, my lord?"

Rod shrugged again. "I just had dinner. Six or seven hours, at least." He looked down at Gwen. "Any particular direction you wanted me to go?"

She shook her head. "All bearings are equal, when thou knowest not thy destination."

Rod nodded. "I can sympathize with that; I was young once, myself."

She glanced up at him. "Thou art not greatly anxious, my lord."

"No, not really. These guys haven't invented anti-aircraft guns yet.... How about you? Worried?"

"Nay." She leaned back in his arms with a peaceful sigh. Vivid skins and violent yells erupted over the horizon in front.

Rod stared. "How'd they get around there so quickly?"

"Nay, 'tis a different band. These are stained yellowgreen."

"Chartreuse, I think they call it—but you're right." Rod frowned. "I don't feel like attacking again. Shall we?" Gwen nodded. "Turn, an't please thee, my lord. I have no wish to shed blood."

They banked around in a 180-degree turn—just as their previous pursuers came over the rise behind.

"Turn, and turn again." Rod veered ninety degrees. "Pilot to navigator. Setting course perpendicular to angle of pursuit. To the vector go the broils." Gwen glanced back. "They do join forces in pursuit of us, my lord."

"Too bad." Rod scowled, "I was hoping they might take time out to fight each other."

"United they ran," Gwen sighed. "Why did we turn to the left, my lord?"

"I'm a liberal."

"Wherefore?"

"Why not? Since I don't know where I'm going... Say, what's that coming over the rise ahead?"

"More savages," Gwen answered.

"That's a good reason for a turn to the right." Rod veered through a U-tum. "What color of paint were these boys wearing, dear?"

"Orange, my lord."

Rod shuddered. "What a color scheme! Y' know, if any more of them show up in front of us, we're going to be boxed in."

14 Christopher Stasheff

"I prithee, do not speak of it my lord."

"Okay, I won't. I'll just get ready to climb. You sure you can't fly?"

Gwen shook her head. "Without a broomstick, I cannot."

"Union rules," Rod sighed.

A spear arced over his head and buried itself in the grass ten feet ahead. Rod watched it go by. "Maybe it's just as well you're next to me. With their marksmanship, you're better off with the target."

Gwen watched another spear arc overhead—by a good twenty feet. "I think they do not regard us highly as enemies, my lord. Certes, they cannot have sent picked troops to fight us."

"Everyone here is a Pict troop. Would you mind a little more speed, dear?"

"Certes, I would welcome it." Gwen glanced behind her.

"The air is clear of spears, my lord."

"Okay, now!" Rod thought hard, and they shot ahead through the grass as though the ghost of Caracatus were hot on their heels. The yells diminished behind them, very quickly. But they boosted to howling level.

"Well, we're out of the trap," Rod sighed, "unless something comes up over the next rise." They swung up and over the rise—and saw a clear, straight plane sheering across the horizon.

"A wall!" Gwen cried.

"It can't be!" Rod stared. Then he frowned. "How close can parallel universes get? Gwen, I'm taking care of the flying chores; you do a little mind-reading and see what language the people behind that Wall are speaking." Gwen's eyes lost focus for a moment, then cleared. "They do speak our tongue, my lord."

Rod's frown deepened. "Odd... but the Roman conquerers weren't the only ones to build walls. There were the Chinese—and, come to think of it, several of the planets in the Terran Sphere, during their frontiering days..."

"I think I ken thy meaning...."

"I'll explain it when we're not being chased. See anything resembling a gate?"

"Yonder, my lord." Gwen pointed. "Timbers." A dark rectangle in the stone, lintel and leaves.

"Yeah, that. That's where we head for. Wonder what this place is like?"

"We shall discover that directly," Gwen murmured. The gate zoomed up at them.

"Pretend you're running." Rod started pumping his legs like a veteran miler. Gwen gathered up her skirts and tripped merrily along beside him.

Rod dropped the flying power and dug in his heels, plowing to a stop right at the gate, and hammered on the huge oaken leaves with his fist. "Hey! Help! Open up! Let us in! Tear! Fire! Foes!' Especially the Toes' part!" He stopped and listened. Silence, total silence—except for the howling behind them, which was showing a definite Doppler shift—the approaching kind.

Rod stepped back and scanned the top of the wall. "Something's wrong here. I don't see any sentries." Gwen frowned, her eyes losing focus. "They are there, my lord. Yet they feel great caution."

"Why? Just because they've never seen us before, and this whole thing could be a ploy to con them into opening their front door." He cocked his head to the side. "Come to think of it, I suppose I do look a little like Ulysses...."

"Mayhap, my lord, but canst thou not convince them of our honesty?"

"How about the direct approach?" Rod wound up a leg and slammed a kick at the middle of the doors. "Hey! We're being chased by wild Indians! Open up in there! Let the cavalry out!"

"Cease your pounding, you panicking prat!" bellowed a voice overhead. '"'

Rod stepped back and looked up.

A scowling, fleshy man in a loose shirt, with an unshaven jaw, and a surly hangover glowered down at them. He pressed 16 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 17

a hand to his head. "There, that's better. You were splitting me head open." And he disappeared again. "Good idea!" Rod yelled. "Come back here and let us in—or I will split it open, and not just by yelling!"

"You'll have to wait till we finish the hand," the voice growled faintly from above. Several other voices snarled agreement.

"But... but... but..." Rod gave up and turned his attention to his wife. "What kind of an outfit is this?"

"We are accompanied, my lord," Gwen murmured. Rod whirled and looked behind him.

A long line of multi-colored men was drawn up at the skyline, leaning on their spears, watching.

With a gnashing groan, the gate opened. The man who had spoken from the wall above stood in the opening, grinning. "Full house," he announced."My pot."

"It's considerable." Rod eyed the man's midriff. He looked on up to a rum-blossom nose beside a livid scar, topped with a black thatch. The shirt was white, or had been. The belt underscored the midriff, holding up green uniform pants which were tucked into black boots (in crying need of a shine).

"Well," he growled, "don't just stand there gawking. Come in, if your need's so frantic."

"Oh, yes." Rod shut his mouth and stepped through the gateway, his arm carefully around Gwen.

The slob's eyes lit at the sight of her, but he waved a hand in signal to someone on top of the wall anyway. The gate started to swing shut, and the man waved at the savages just before it closed. A great oaken bar, about of a size to fit the huge iron brackets on the inside of the gate, lay on the ground nearby, but the slob ignored it. He turned back toward them, and caught sight of Gwen again. Interest gleamed feebly through the hangover, and he looked her up and down. Gwen flushed, and glared at him.

Rod cleared his throat loudly.

The slob looked up at him and saw the glare. The hang-over struggled with lust, and lost. The slob grumbled, by way of a face-saver, "Where'd you get the fancy clothes?"

"Where'd you get the booze?" Rod countered. Caution flickered in the man's eyes, and they turned opaque.

"Well, ye're in," he grunted, and turned away. Rod stared. "Hey, wait a minute!"

The slob stopped, threw a despairing glance to the heavens, and turned back. "What now?"

"Where are we supposed to go?"

"Wherever you want to," the slob grunted, turning away. Rod stood a moment, gaping.

He shrugged and turned back to Gwen. "Might as well follow him, I suppose."

"We might, indeed," she agreed, and they turned to climb the long, sloping ramp that led to the ramparts. As he climbed the ramp, he noticed that it was poured plasticrete. So was the Wall. Weathered, and buttressed with props here and there, but plasticrete nonetheless. "Well, so much for the Romans," he muttered.

"My lord?"

"This stuff is plasticrete," he explained. "It wasn't even invented until about 2040 A.D. So we can't be in Roman Britain—that was a good sixteen hundred years earlier."

"I have no knowledge of this." Gwen frowned."'Tis for thee to say. In what world would we be, then?" Rod rubbed his chin, looking around him. "We might—

just might—be in our own universe, Gwen. No, not Gramarye, of course—another world, circling another sun." He looked down at her. "It couldn't be Terra, of course."

"What is 'Terra'?"

For a moment, Rod was galvanized. That a Terran human should not even know the name of the planet that gave birth to her species... ! But he caught himself, remembering that Gramarye had never exactly been strong on history. In fact, its inhabitants didn't even know there were any worlds other than their own.

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Christopher Stasheff

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"Terra is the world your ancestors came from, dear—

the planet that all human beings ultimately came from. It's the home world of our kind."

Gwen was silent for a moment, digesting that.

As she did, they came out onto the top of the Wall. The ramparts stretched away before them, dwindling into the distance, a concrete channel cutting four feet down into the plasticrete.

A group of men knelt and squatted around a fire near the top of the ramp. Like the slob, they wore white shirts, green trousers, and black boots—but most of them had green jackets, too, fastened up to the throat. Their sleeves held insignia—or patches of lighter color, where the emblems had been. Uniforms, Rod realized, and right after that, They're soldiers!