The Warlock Wandering (3 page)

Gwen's eyes widened; she was listening to his thoughts. They didn't seem to be very well-disciplined soldiers, though. Either that, or there wasn't any war going at the moment. Rod heard the rustle of cards and the click of chips.

The soldiers looked up, saw Gwen, and looked harder. She smiled, politely but firmly.

Something like a hungry purr arose from the soldiers. The nearest, a sergeant, rose to his feet. He straightened up to eight inches taller than Rod, and about four inches wider, three-quarters muscle, the rest fat. He had an ugly face and a leering grin, and a possessive manner as he stepped towards Gwen.

Rod raised a hand, palm out. It jarred against the man's chest, jolting him to a stop. He looked down at Rod's arm in surprise. He pushed against it tentatively a few times, then said in disbelief, "It holds!" He gave Rod a nod of approval. "You're well enough muscled for such a small fellow, ain't you?"

"Why, thank you." Irony in Rod's smile. "Now, just step back to the game, why don't you?"

The other soldiers watched, buzzard-eyed.

The sergeant grinned wickedly and shook his head."Bear ye not too rawly, lad." He took in Rod's doublet and hose.

"A juggler, belike, or a clown. Well, leam then, lad, that women be property common on the Wall."

He turned away to Gwen, batting Rod's arm out of the way.

It didn't bat.

Rod tightened his hold on the man's jacket. "Now, just go on back to the game. Sergeant. Be a good fellow."

"Poor manners for a guest," the slob growled from the sidelines.

"Poorer manners for a host," Rod retorted, "trying to rape a guest's..."

"Rape??!!?" The big soldier stared.

He threw back his head, roaring laughter, then doubled over, clutching his belly. "A woman on the Wall, needing rape!"

"They couldn't," the slob explained. "They come, oh, quite willingly, yes."

Rod lifted and shoved; the big soldier staggered back a few steps, still laughing. Rod stepped back, too, relaxing into a crouch. "This one," he said grimly, "doesn't." The soldier quit laughing abruptly, and sobered into a narrow-eyed glare.

"Teach him manners. Thaler," the slob growled. My lord, Gwen's thoughts said in Rod's head, there are loose stones on the ground nearby. I might...

No! Rod thought back. You want to start a witch-hunt?

The natives could handle seeing us fly—their culture still believes in magic. But these boys are civilized! They have to kill things they don't understand! Aloud, he said, "You can pick up the pieces with the first-aid kit." Thaler's eyes crinkled with amusement. He laughed once, twice, chuckled, roared laughter, and fell to the ground, doubled over, clutching his belly, howling mirth...

... and shot up like a spring, still laughing, his head crashing up under Rod's jaw.

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Christopher Stasheff

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Rod fell back against the ramparts.

Thaler waded in, fists hammering.

Rod swiveled his head around under the man's fists and dived to the side, flipping over onto his back.

Thaler snarled, and came after him.

Rod shoved hard, his whole body lashing out in a kick that should have caught Thaler under the jaw, heel to chin. But Thaler ducked under the blow, then leaned back, lashing out with the side of his foot at Rod's chin. Rod sidestepped, hooked his heel behind Thaler's calf, jerked, and saw the edge of Thaler's hand swinging straight at the bridge of his nose.

Rod managed to duck enough for the chop to crack across his forehead instead, and went reeling back stunned; not only by the blow, but also by a horrifying realization: Thaler's chop was the first half of a two-blow series that ended in:

Death.

They really didn't like strangers here.

Thaler's hand slammed down again, in a chop that would have crushed Rod's larynx; but he rolled to the side at the last second, and Thaler's hand cracked into the plasticrete. He howled with pain, and Rod rolled up into a crouch, punching at the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. But Thaler saw the blow coming, and rolled back just enough to take most of the impact out of it. What was left was enough to stiffen him with agony for a moment—and the moment was all Rod needed.

He followed the punch with a series of quick blows that Thaler just barely managed to block, retreating as quickly as he could. Rod got just a touch too confident, let his right foot lead just a little too far—and Thaler's knee snaked around Rod's, and a fist the size of a comed-beef brisket slammed into Rod's ear.

The sky reeled, and the plasticrete struck under him, hard; but he tucked his chin in, and his head didn't hit too hard.

As the world circled past, he noticed the sole of Thaler's boot coming down. He grabbed the foot, twisted, and threw. Thaler hopped back, howling and flailing for balance. Rod gathered himself into a ball, rolled to his feet, and saw the same damn foot coming at his face again. Now, Thaler didn't look as though he were apt to win any IQ prizes, but he did look very experienced—so he couldn't be dumb enough to try the same trick a second time, when it hadn't worked once already. So Rod caught at the foot, but stayed alert for a trick—and sure enough, there came the fist, swinging down at the back of Rod's neck.

Rod let go of the foot, took a half step forward, and straightened up hard, both fists over his head.

They caught Thaler right under the jaw.

Thaler swayed, glassy-eyed.

Rod stepped back and swung a haymaker uppercut.

Thaler's head snapped back, and his feet snapped up, and his whole body slammed down flat on the plasticrete. Rod stood, panting, a little wild-eyed, looking around him, woozy, head splitting with pain, but alert for anyone else to start swinging.

But they stayed where they sat, glowering up at Gwen, and nursing their jaws.

Rod looked up at her, incredulous.

Gwen glared about her in indignation. They have no sense of honor, my lord! They would seek to molest me whiles thou didst defend me!

In spite of his aches, Rod couldn't help grinning. He pitied any man who had tried to lay a hand on his sweet wife. "What did you do to them?"

"Only a slap for each, my lord."

A slap with its force multiplied by telekinesis. Rod guessed. He was surprised none of the men were heading for the hospital.

"Most excellently done," said a cool, amused voice. Rod looked up, startled.

22 Christopher Stasheff

A tall, slender young man leaned against the outer wall. His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a cap with a polished black visor. His sleeves were bare of insignia, but his shoulder boards were decorated with tiny brass razors. Obviously an officer.

He turned his head, inclining it toward the slob. "Sergeant."

"Sir." Incredibly, the slob came to attention.

"You are out of uniform, and what you do have is more fatigued than fatigues. And your personal grooming doesn't exist."

"Yes, sir." Then, defiantly, "At least I'm here."

"Indeed you are—so you've only a dozen demerits, not fifty."

The slob winced. "Sir! That's me whole next paycheck!"

"Are you paid so little? My, my. But courage, old chap—

a little extra spit and polish can win it back for you, over the next few months." He turned away, and stepped up to nudge Thaler with a boot-toe and a smile. "Poor chap. But what can you expect, really?"

At last, the officer turned to Rod. "You're really quite skilled, you know."

Rod shrugged. "Just a little special training. Your, ah, discipline, is rather, shall we say, remarkable." The officer shrugged. "It's actually not bad at all, when you consider that our Wolmar was a prison planet, up 'til nine years ago. Nearly everyone here is a convict of one sort or another."

Rod stood stiff with shock, partly at discovering all these soldiers were criminals, and partly from the name of the planet. He didn't know that much about it, but he remembered it from his history books. After all, he was an agent for the Society for the Conversion of Extra-Terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, and before they'd sent him out searching for Terran-colonized planets whose governments were shaping up to become totalitarian, they'd told him a little about all the colonies that had been out of touch while PEST

ruled the Terran Sphere. Wolmar had been one of them—

one of the furthest from Terra. And it had stayed a prison until PEST cut it off from contact, and supply.

Which meant they were in their own universe, after all, but five hundred years before either of them had been born. Gwen had been listening to his thoughts, of course. She stepped closer to him, clinging to his arm. He was glad; he needed the contact. Suddenly, their cozy little cottage seemed much, much farther away, and the wind of loneliness blew about their souls.

Thaler rolled over with a groan, opening his eyes to a painful squint. The officer looked down at him, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. "Intolerable, sergeant! Two unarmed civilians, seeking our protection—and what do their rescuers do? Attack them!"

Thaler sat up with a groan. "He wasn't unarmed. Lieutenant." The lieutenant glanced at Rod's sword and rolled his eyes up. "That oversized toothpick? Don't be ridiculous, man!

Report to your quarters until your hearing!" Thaler blanched, but he managed to keep looking belligerent as he struggled to his feet and turned to go. As he passed by, he gave Rod a quick glare of hatred. Rod watched his retreating back, deciding that he always wanted to know when Thaler was around.

He turned back to the lieutenant, relaxing a little. Thaler's resentment was what he'd have expected from any sergeant talking to a fuzz-cheeked lieutenant—but this lieutenant wasn't extremely young anymore, and he bore himself with the self-confidence that can only come with experience. There was something about him, the way he held himself, that said he didn't need to rely on military rank to enforce his orders.

"My apologies. Sir and Madam." He bowed courteously to Rod, and a bit more courteously to Gwen. "I beg you to pardon that outburst. Please be assured of your welcome, regardless of what you have witnessed here." 24 Christopher Stasheff

"Why, thank you." Rod inclined his head in return, wondering why the lieutenant hadn't stopped the fight. Maybe because it didn't look as though anyone was apt to be killed.

"Thou art most considerate." Gwen dropped a small curtsy. The lieutenant's eye held a gleam, but he buried it quickly. Rod gave him points for self-discipline—and wondered if it was really from self. "May I have your names, sir and madam?"

"Rodney Gallowglass." He was tempted to use his real name, "d'Armand," but decided against it. He caught Gwen's hand. "And this is my wife, Gwendylon." Gwen looked up at him in surprise, and he heard her unspoken thought: Wherefore didst thou not use thy title?

Other countries, other customs, he answered silently. People like this are as likely to resent a lord as to honor him.

"Lieutenant Corrigan, at your service." The young officer clicked his heels and bobbed his head. "Now, Citizen Galti lowglass, I would appreciate your explaining to me the presence of our honored antagonists." He nodded toward the outside of the main gate. Rod looked down, and saw a crowd of Wolmen, chanting the same word over and over again. With a shock. Rod realized it was, "Justice! Justice!

Justice! Justice!"

"Not that they're unwelcome, you understand," Stuart explained, "but 1 would like to know the issue I'm going to be discussing."

"I'm afraid I don't really know," Rod confessed. "We were just standing there in the middle of the plain, minding our own business, when they came up over the ridge and started chasing us."

"Ah." The Lieutenant nodded. "A simple question of remuneration, no doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll go discuss the issue with them." He bowed slightly with a click of the heels, and turned away.

Gwen's voice sounded in Rod's mind: Is he noble, then?

No, Rod answered. / don't think anyone here is. But

someone has to do the jobs that the lords would do, if they were here—and he's been given that kind of authority. About as much as a knight.

By what right did he claim it?

Training, Rod answered, knowledge and intelligence. Sometimes even experience.

The great gates swung open, and the young officer stepped out to confront the wild savages.

He crossed both arms, fingertips touching his shoulders, and bowed slightly. One of the yellow-green men stepped forward, and returned the gesture.

"I think it's a salute," Rod muttered. The lieutenant's words carried clearly. "I greet you, Scouting-Master."

The Scouting-Master returned the salute. "Have-um sunfilled day. Lieutenant."

"The sentiments are appreciated." The lieutenant's voice switched into crispness. "But though I am honored by your presence, I also wonder at it. For how long have noble warriors been attacking civilians?"

"Them not so civil. Them flew!"

"As I would, if I saw your valiant warriors pursuing me. Why did they?"

The Scouting-Master grinned, and his warriors chuckled.

"Not for real. Just good fun."

"Fun!" Gwen gasped.

"Well, be fair." Rod shrugged. "It was, kinda, wasn't it?"

"Indeed?" The lieutenant's voice had become distinctly chilly.

The Scouting-Master's grin widened. "We could see-um was couple greenhorns. Why not have good time with-um?" The lieutenant gave a wintry smile. "No harm intended, eh?"

"None." The Scouting-Master frowned. "But them have no business outside Wall! Them not traders!"

"A p.pint well-taken, I must admit. Still, I cannot help 26 Christopher Stasheff

but think your mode of contact was something less than honorable."

The natives scowled, muttering to one another, but the Scouting-Master only shmgged. "Could've done much worse, within-um rights. Could Shacklar gainsay?" The lieutenant was silent a moment, then heaved a sigh.

"The General-Governor would say that no lasting harm was done, so no hard feelings should last."