The Warlock's Last Ride (27 page)

"Now, stop that!" Rod slapped the weapon away. "Step aside and let me pass! I don't want to have to hurt you."

"I cannot say the same." The creature stepped back, lifting the crossbow again. "It is my nature to loose my points against your kind."

"Hold!" Rod raised a hand, palm out. "Remember, you're made of witch-moss—and I'm very good at melting the stuff down."

The creature swelled, its head shooting up twenty feet, its body widening to fill the whole trail. "Do you truly think you can melt all this?" it thundered.

"Sure, but why bother?" Rod mounted again and kicked his heels against Fess's sides. "If you're stretching the mass of an elf into the volume of a giant, you've made yourself so tenuous that you couldn't stop a songbird." With that, he rode straight through the ogre.

The creature cried out as Fess plowed through its legs. Rod felt as though he were riding through a screen of cobwebs—nasty clinging stuff that he had to brush aside. "Cold Iron!" the creature screeched.

"Only sixty percent," Rod called back. "He's magnesium and tungsten, too—not to mention a lot of carbon compounds."

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He rode out the other side, and the creature's wailing soared up the scale, until it seemed a marsh bird's piping. Turning, Rod saw it shrink into an elf again—but also saw the crossbow rising, heard the thrum as the creature loosed. He threw himself down against Fess's neck, but not far enough; pain lanced through his forehead, and his whole right side went numb. "Run," he told Fess—or tried to, but the words wouldn't come out right. "As fast you can!"

Fortunately, Fess's voice-recognition program was able to accept substitutions and relate them almost instantly to the sounds they were supposed to have been. He leaped into motion and shot through the forest, and was far from the shooting elf in minutes.

GEORDIE HEAVED THE dead buck up over his shoul-iers and turned his steps homeward—but he hadn't gone a dozen paces before a man in green tunic and brown hose stepped out of the leaves onto the trail ahead of him, a bow in his hands with an arrow nocked, but not drawn. "Hold, squire."

Geordie stared at the man, his heart sinking. Then he summoned his nerve and grinned. "Come, fellow, I've no wish to harm you. Step aside."

"You bear your guilt on your shoulders, squire. You must answer to the reeve now. Put down the buck and hold out your arms."

"If I put down my load, it shall be atop you," Geordie said evenly, "and if I hold out my hands, there shall be sword and dagger in them. Step aside—I have folk who will need this meat."

"They shall have to find it somewhere else."

Battle-lust rose; Geordie's friendly smile turned into a savage grin. "Do you truly think you can take me alone?"

"I do not think I will have to."

Branches rustled; two other men stepped up at either side, and Geordie could hear more stepping
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out onto the roadway behind him. His hackles rose, but he brazened it out "You've not the right to arrest a squire, especially one born to nobility!"

"They have." The branches parted; a man wearing a black doublet and hose with crimson piping stepped out be-mnd the first keeper. "But even if they did not, I surely do. As reeve of this shire, I arrest you in the Queen's name!"

Geordie stared into the reeve's face and felt his heart sink down to his boots.

FESS SLOWED, AND Rod slid down from his back—but his right leg buckled and he fell. He tried to stand again, but the leg wouldn't cooperate. He turned to catch the stirrup with his left hand and pulled himself up to his left knee, then with a titanic effort pushed himself up to stand. He started to fall but flailed at the saddle, caught the pommel, and managed to balance on his left foot.

"It is only projective telepathy, Rod," Fess told him. "Your muscles are doubtless as good as ever. It is merely your mind that has been convinced of paralysis, by the power of myth made seeming flesh."

"Maybe," Rod said, but his ears heard a hoarse caw that said, "Maeh-hih;" he shuddered. He directed his thoughts toward Fess. 'Time to meditate again." He let himself fall into the trance—difficult, because of the uncertainty of meditating on his feet, but it was necessary this time. When he knew his hindbrain was at its most suggestible, he began to put weight on his right leg and withdrew it in a slow but regular rhythm, as though he were strolling. As he practiced the movements, he imagined the deadened area of his brain coming alive, beginning to regrow neurons, synapses firing more and more normally until it was restored to full function. When his right leg could feel his weight again, he knew the neurons had really regrown, that his brain had repaired the damage—if there had actually been any. It was, as Fess had said, probably only a very convincing telepathic illusion—but if it had been, it had managed to convince his neurons they were burned out. They had recharged now, recharged and were firing with every mock step, more and more until, greatly daring, he finally let go of the saddle and stood alone.

The leg held.

Rod gripped the pommel again and began to swing the leg as though he took a step with every shift of weight. At first it refused to budge, then twitched, then swung a little, then wider and wider. When he had achieved a normal length of stride, he began to put his weight on it at the end of the forward swing, then lifted and swung it back. When it held his full weight, he let go of the pommel and began walking in place, then stepped away from Fess and back, then away and around in a circle.
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"Well done, Rod," the robot said. "You have recapitulated two years of physical therapy in an hour."

"Is that how long it's been?" Time seemed to pass differently when Rod was in a trance. "Now let's work on the arm." He heard his voice say, "Nahwehwhirahdah."

"Then you will begin work on your speech?"

THE WARLOCK'S LAST RIDE Rod glanced at the sun's rays, where they laid their path through dust-motes to the leaves below. "Won't be time before dark. I'll have to finish that tomorrow."

By sunset, he had the right arm and hand back to full function and was quite unreasonably proud that he was able to brew up a stew of jerky and dried vegetables.

Speech took longer, though. It required much more fine-muscle coordination, so even after a night's sleep and a morning's work, it was noon by the time Rod was willing to take a break, drown the fire, and ride on through the forest. After an hour, he started practicing tongue-twisters again, and was speaking quite normally by the time he pitched camp that evening. For practice, he discussed the elf marksman with Fess.

"I did not notice any unusual amounts of witch-moss around his feet, Rod."

Rod nodded. "It probably all came from within—he was much heavier than anyone his size has a right to be. Even if he absorbed extra witch-moss as he grew, there must have been a lot of it in him to begin with. That was one very tightly-compacted elf."

"But you knew whatever mass he had would be, shall we say, stretched thin when he grew twelve feet in a matter of minutes?"

"Thin as cobwebs—which is exactly what he felt like when I rode through." Rod shuddered at the memory and spooned up some more stew—an action of which he was unreasonably proud at the
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moment. "He had become, if you'll pardon the phrase, a very insubstantial elf."

THE SENTRY AT the gatehouse looked uncertain as Alea approached. "Do you need an escort, milady?"

Alea bristled but hid it; she flashed him a smile instead and wondered why his eyes widened—but she said, "No thank you, trooper." She brandished her staff. "I have all the protection I need—unless there are wild lions in that wood that no one's told me about?"

"No, milady." Wide-eyed or not, the man still seemed doubtful. "There's wolves and bears, though we haven't seen 'em in a year or two."

"I'll take my chances, then," Alea said. "Sometimes you just need to be by yourself for a while, you know?"

"Yes, milady." The young man clearly didn't.

Alea knew she didn't have to explain but tried anyway. "I'm a stranger here, trooper, and sometimes I feel very much alone—but I don't when I'm in the forest by myself."

"Just call if you need help, milady."

"As loudly as I can." Alea gave him a bright smile as she turned away. "And I'm not the daughter of a lord, so you don't have to call me lady."

"Begging your pardon, milady, but if you're Sir Magnus's companion, you're a lady."

Alea sighed, recognizing a fight she couldn't win. She only said, "Thank you, soldier," and turned to walk through the tunnel and out under the portcullis.

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The woods were as welcoming as Alea had expected; as soon as the leaves closed around her, she felt a burden lift from her. She wondered why—she had been on planets where she knew no one before. Here, at least, she had Magnus's brothers and sister.

Of course—that was why. She felt she was continually on trial, continually being judged for her fitness to accompany Magnus. Here, though, only the beasts and birds would judge her, and that was as a threat or merely an interesting addition to their world.

She strolled down a path, letting the thoughts gradually empty from her mind, filling it instead with birdsong and the rustling of leaves. She came to a little clearing with a large rock off to one side and sat down to enjoy the play of sunlight and shadow.

"It has taken you long enough to come out of that ugly stone shell," Evanescent said.

Alea looked up, surprized to see the cat-headed alien, then frowned. "It would help if you didn't keep erasing my memories of you after every encounter. How am I supposed to know you want to talk if I can't even remember you exist?"

"You might ask me how I like this new world."

"You might ask me the same."

"Very well." Evanescent tucked her paws under her chest as she lay down. "How do you find this world of Gramarye, Alea?"

"Oh, the world itself is well and good," Alea said. "It's the people who are giving me difficulty."

"Really?" the alien asked, interested. "Which people?"

"Only Magnus's brothers and sister," Alea said with a sigh. "His father has gone adventuring, which
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is too bad, for he seemed very nice. All the servants and soldiers are friendly, though. A bit distant, since they seem to think I'm an aristocrat, but friendly nonetheless."

"You don't think you're a fine lady?"

"I'm a farmer's daughter," Alea snapped. "If I'd known Magnus was noble, I'd never have had anything to do with him!"

Evanescent tilted her head to the side, considering the statement, then asked, "Isn't the man worth more than his rank?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Alea conceded. "I'm just a bit upset at the thought of serving as his squire."

"That's not what people expect." Evanescent spoke as a mind-reader with no compunctions about mental eavesdropping.

"No, it's not. They all seem to expect me to marry him—never mind that he isn't in love with me!"

"Or you in love with him?" Evanescent asked. "I noticed you didn't mention that."

"Didn't, and won't," Alea snapped.

Evanescent sighed and stirred with impatience. 'This emotion you silly two-legs call 'being in love' is rather exasperating."

"Don't I know it," Alea said with all her heart. "But why does it bother you?"

"Only because you all seem to want it so badly, but are so reluctant to tell each other about it," Evanescent explained. "Are you that much afraid of being hurt?"
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Yes! Alea thought, and was surprized at her own intensity. Aloud, she said, "That's where we can be most easily and most deeply hurt. Magnus still hasn't recovered from the injuries that she-wolf Finister gave him years ago.”

"Just as you haven't recovered from your own … what is your phrase for it? Heartbreak?"

"That's it," Alea said through gritted teeth.

"A most nonsensical phrase," Evanescent said. "Hearts don't break, after all, though they may stop working—and it's not your heart that does the feeling anyway, it's your brain!"

"Would you have us say 'brainbreak,' then?" Alea couldn't help smiling.

"I suppose 'heartbreak' is a good enough metaphor," Evanescent conceded. "Of course, mating is scarcely a guarantee it won't happen. I do find it amusing that a strapping young woman like yourself who can face sword-swinging warriors in battle is afraid of a man who has proved his loyalty."

"If I were foolish enough to tell him I loved him, he might still hurt me by saying he didn't love me," Alea said, her voice hard.

"Quite so—he'll face ten armed men in battle but is still afraid to look into his own heart," Evanescent admitted.

Alea frowned at her closely. "So. You've been eavesdropping again."

"Why not?" Evanescent asked. "Your kind are so amusing!"

Alea was afraid to ask but forced herself. "So you know he doesn't love me, then."
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"He's afraid to let himself feel it," Evanescent explained. "Every time he has before, he's been hurt. Why should he think you'd be any different?"

"He's braver than that!"

"Something in him isn't." Evanescent nodded toward the side of the clearing.

Alea followed her gaze, frowning, and saw nothing but dry leaves and, behind them, dark trunks and live leaves— and dust motes dancing in a ray of sunlight. As she watched, though, the motes thickened, doubling in number, tripling, becoming a sort of sunlit fog, a mist that billowed up seven feet, then drew in on itself, taking human form.