The Warlock's Last Ride (20 page)

The alien stopped, frowning, to stare at a mound of something that looked like moss. She lowered her head to sniff; it didn't smell like moss. In fact, its scent was that of fungus.

Witch-moss! She remembered it from Magnus's thoughts. Wondering if it really was sensitive to telepathy, she aimed a thought at it, a memory of a large and luscious fruit from her home planet—and stared in wonder as the mound pulled in on itself, rounding on one end and pointing on the other, its color deepening to mauve, until her homeworld fruit lay before her.

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Hunger rumbled again; she lowered her head to sniff and found its aroma exactly as it should be. She wondered if it would be good to eat but decided on the course of prudence.

She sat back on her haunches, head tilted to one side, considering the fruit. Was it frozen in that form now, or could she make it into something else? She stared at it, thinking of a stick she had seen the day before, one that had caught her attention because of its curious knobbed shape.

The fruit shrank in on itself, its color darkening, as it stretched, roughened, and turned into the stick.

Evanescent stared. Then she grinned and batted at the stick with a paw; it rolled over just as a real stick would do. In fact, it felt like a real stick. She tilted her head to the side again, thinking of Alea's dagger, then of a ball she had seen children play with on one of the planets they had visited, then a woman's mortar and pestle—and watched as the lump of witch-moss changed from one form to another.

Evanescent lay down, staring at the mortar and pestle intently. What of something that could move?

She thought of an elf, and the lump began to change—but Evanescent realized the small people might be angry if she imitated them, or anything that had a mind. She changed her thought at the last moment; the lump sprouted legs and a chest, but nothing more. She decided to make it look like a stick again, then told it to move, and a little stick man marched up and down before her.

There was a rustling in the underbrush.

Evanescent was on her feet in the blink of an eye, whirling to face the sound—and saw half a dozen more stick men come marching out from the fallen leaves. She stared, then grinned, realizing what had happened—she hadn't limited her thoughts; other lumps of witch-moss had taken on the same shape as the one she'd been playing with and had come marching to the one who had thought them up.

More rustling; she whirled, and saw more stick figures marching out of a thicket. Rustling again; she spun about and saw another dozen striding out from some brambles. She lay down and grinned, thinking directions at them, and the stick figures came together, formed ranks, and marched out into the glade.

Hunger forgotten, Evanescent lay in the moon-shadow of an oak, watching her new-made toys march and countermarch in ever-more-intricate formations.

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GREGORY APPEARED IN the solar of Castle Gallow-glass with the sound of a firecracker as his sudden presence compressed the air about him. He looked about him to discover no one there in the early morning, then strode down the hall to his brother's suite. No one answered his knock. Frowning, he opened his mind to the world around and found no other mind within the suite, but felt Magnus's presence above. He would have been ashamed to teleport so short a distance, so he ran up the stairs.

"HO THE CASTLE!"

The sentry stepped up to the battlement wall and waved to the man he had been watching ride up, then saw the shield slung at the horse's rump and the coat of arms emblazoned on it. He didn't recognize those arms, but it didn't matter—the man was a knight at least, possibly a lord. "Aye, good sir. I prithee attend while I take tidings of you to my lord."

"Well, be about it quickly," the stranger knight called back, clearly not pleased with the answer.

"I've ridden long and would rest and drink."

The sensible thing would be to raise the portcullis and let the man in on the spot, but it wasn't the sentry's decision to make. He called his mate and ran off to tell the Captain of the Guard.

The Captain knew the forms, and the precautions with them; he bade the porter lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, then conducted the stranger into the guest chamber of the manor house. He was sitting at his ease with a glass of wine in his hand when his host of necessity came in.

"Welcome, Sir Knight!"

"Lord Anselm Loguire!" The knight rose and bowed. "I am Sir Orgon of Needsham, knight errant."

He was clearly a rather unsuccessful knight, to be errant at his age—forty if he was a day. His doublet and hose were of good cloth but worn, and his boots, though well-polished under the dust of travel, were equally worn.

"You are welcome, Sir Knight." Anselm Loguire might have had the stranger thrust upon him, but he was by no means a reluctant host. News was rare and treasured, as was a new face—and if the man
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turned out to be unpleasant, why, he was only staying the night. "Have you travelled far, Sir Orgon?"

The knight sighed. "Over hill and dale, milord duke …"

"Sir Loguire, if it please you," Anselm said firmly, but bitterness tightened his face. "I am only a knight, like yourself, and was never rightly duke of Loguire."

"Well, no, but by rights you should have been, should you not?" The stranger knight gave him a keen glance, then dropped his gaze. "But I presume. Let me tell you the news of the capital, as I had it from the knight with whom I broke a lance outside the keep of Rodenge."

"I hunger for it," Anselm said, eyes bright, "as I think you hunger for bread and meat. Come, Sir Orgon, let us find happier quarters than these. What of His Majesty?"

"Your younger brother is alive and well, though saddened by the loss of a friend." Sir Orgon fell in step with his host.

"A friend?" Hope brightened Anselm's eyes—or was it vindication? "Not the Lord Warlock, surely?"

"Nay, Sir Anselm—his wife."

Anselm stared in shock.

"It was neither sudden nor painful, they say," the knight began, and told as much as he knew of the event as he followed his host. He was remarkably well informed for one who had heard of it, not been there—he told of Magnus's return and of the funeral and the subsequent events as they dined.

They had finished their meal and were sharing a bowl of sweetmeats by the time he told of the Lord
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Warlock's departure into the wildwood, bound no one knew where.

Anselm had come alive with the description of Rod Gallowglass's trials. Now he leaned back, swirling the wine in his cup, and mused, "I have heard he has taken leave of his senses now and then. Perhaps he has done so again."

"I doubt it not, Sir Anselm—but by his going, he has left the Crown unguarded."

Anselm stilled. "What do you say?"

"Only that, if ever the lords wish to claim back their rights and powers, the time to strike is come." Sir Orgon leaned forward with glittering eyes. "But they will not rise without a leader, and who better to command them than the rightful duke of Loguire?"

Anselm sat frozen, not believing he was hearing talk of rebellion again after all these years—or how welcome that talk was, or how it roused a sudden yearning for revenge. He hated himself for it, but he listened all the more intently.

"The Crown has lost its two most stalwart supporters," Sir Orgon said. "There will never be a better time to rise."

For a moment, Sir Anselm's eyes burned; then he summoned the will to resist and forced himself to stand, pushing back his chair, and said, "I have no stomach for talk of treason, Sir Orgon. I will bid you good night."

He turned and stalked away, not waiting even to see Sir Orgon stand in respect—but the knight watched him go, eyes glittering, knowing that his fish was half-hooked. If he were not, if he were truly loyal down to his bones, Sir Orgon would have been clapped into irons on the spot and would have spent his night in a dungeon cell.

AS DARKNESS FELL, Rod found a stream, kindled a solitary fire for warmth, then went to the brook with his folding bucket, brought back water, and hung the bucket over the fire to heat for tea. Then he took jerky, cheese, and hardtack out of his saddlebag and sat down on a log to have dinner.
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"That really is not adequate fare for an evening meal, Rod. You usually find wild vegetables and heat them with the beef as a stew."

"Yeah, but what's the point in cooking for just one, Fess?"

"Health, Rod."

"So what's it going to do—kill me?" Rod gave the horse a sardonic smile. "I'll gather vegetables as we go tomorrow—but right now, I'm tired."

A low growling began off to his right, swelling into a heart-rending moan.

Rod froze. "What was that?"

"A waveform of low …"

"Yeah, I could tell that much. What made it?"

"From the quality, Rod, I would assume it is a creature in distress."

Rod stood, came over to stuff his dinner back into the saddlebag, and led Fess off into the woods.

"Can't ride— the trees are too thick. How far away is whoever made that moan?"

"It is difficult to tell with only the distance between my ears for triangulation, Rod."

The moan sounded again.

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"Make a guess!" Rod said. "Whoever that is, they're in dire distress."

"Rod, you know my distaste for …"

"Okay, call it an estimate! Just tell me how far!"

Static crackled through Rod's implanted earphone— Fess's version of a sigh. "Perhaps two hundred meters, Rod."

"To carry this far, that would have to be a pretty loud moan. Let's hurry as much as we can, Fess—whoever that is, needs help in a bad way."

There was a little moonlight—not enough to show the roots or potholes that waited to trip Rod, but enough so that he could keep from blundering into tree trunks. As he went, though, the moonlight seemed to grow brighter. A little farther and he saw the cause—delicate strings of light hanging all about. With a shock, he realized they were branches, and the leaves that hung from them began to glow. Another few yards, and he found himself walking through a forest of crystal, adorned with berries that were gems and filled with the delicate silver glow of moonlight concentrated and refracted all about him. "What is this place?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The moan came again, much nearer. Rod turned to his right—and stepped across an unseen boundary. Everything about him was dark and dank; the branches hung bare, and mold squelched beneath his boots, filling his head with the stench of corruption. He found himself in a pocket of decay in the center of the crystalline wood. He half expected a skeleton to rise from the muck.

Not a skeleton, but right beside him rose a glowing figure hung with rags, its cheeks sunken, its skin withered and wrinkled, its eyes lost in the shadows under its brow, long trails of mucus streaking down its cheeks. It moaned, the sound so loud that Rod clapped his hands over his ears— but it drifted toward him, reaching out a skeletal finger to touch him.

Fourteen

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ROD FLINCHED AWAY, BUT TOO LATE—HE HAD felt that touch graze his shoulder, and his arm suddenly weakened.

"Why come you here, foolish mortal?" the apparition demanded. "What has brought you so far down this road?"

"Time." Rod lifted his arm to fend off the spectre even as he backed away—but that arm seemed leaden, taking a titanic effort to lift, and wouldn't rise more than half-way. Rod gave it a quick glance and was shocked to see that the skin of his hand was wrinkled, the muscles of the arm shrunken. He backed away quickly, not stopping to wonder how the creature had come to be—on Gramarye, there was no doubt it was real, for all practical purposes.

"Turn aside," the creature advised, "for know that you have come to the place of Decay, where you shall waste away till you can neither walk nor lift, nor even raise your hands to eat."

"There is always the mind," Rod said. His arm was intolerably heavy; he fought to keep it high, but it drooped steadily. He had to let it fall; he needed all his attention to avoid the creature's next lunge.

"Your mind too shall waste away," the spectre intoned. "Go back, human creature. You may not be able to choose your death, but you can surely choose not to have this one."

"Can I?" Rod met the hollow gaze with a level stare. "My road goes on past this place, Decay. I will not turn aside; the one I love awaits upon the farther side."

"Then you are a fool, for you'll not pass," Decay answered. "Your hips shall seize up, your spine shall bend, your muscles shall waste away." It drifted closer, finger reaching out. "Beware my touch."

"Good advice." Rod stepped aside.

The spirit turned and came after him. "Forgo this land, go out from this forest—for even that creature that goes on four legs in morn and two legs at noon must walk on three when coming here—and
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shall leave on four again, if it goes at all."

"A human." Rod sidestepped the touch and backed away again. "That's an old conundrum, spirit. Surely you can do better than that."

"I have no need," Decay answered, "for your mind shall fade so gently as to escape your notice. Can you not feel your acuity slipping even as you speak?"

"No, for if it were to fade so gently that I didn't realize, how could I feel it?" Rod sidestepped another touch. "Fess, come up behind this creature and pull it away!"