The warlock insane (10 page)

Of course, said his monitor-mind.

The knight took up his staff, twirled it around his head to warm up, then brought it down. "At thy convenience, milord."

Rod grinned, feeling the joy of battle start—and against such an opponent! He knew he'd be lucky to manage a draw, but that didn't matter—the thrill was equivalent to singing atCovent Garden with Domingo.

Modwis stood by, fairly bursting with excitement.

They circled each other, both grinning, eyes alight, quarterstaves held slanting, on guard. Then the knight cried, "Avaunt!" and his pole tip shot through the air so fast Rod could scarcely see it. But he managed to get his own stick up just high enough, somehow, and the crack of their meeting echoed off the rock face a hundred yards behind them.

It also left Rod's hands stinging so badly he could have sworn his bones were vibrating. No time to think about it—the bottom of the knight's staff was sweeping toward Rod's kneecap. He barely managed to block, and the blow knocked his own staff into his kneecap. He stepped back, alarmed to feel his knee buckle, and blocked the knight's next blow from a great defensive position on one knee. At last he realized that he had to go pn the offensive, and the low position was handy for a knock at the shins. It landed, but it was more like a clang, with a rebound Rod didn't believe. He used it, though, to aim the top of his staff at the knight's head. The knight's staff swept up to block, of course, and Rod seized the chance to shove himself back upright. He found his balance just in time, for the knight's staff was shooting right at his sinuses. He blocked and, getting the rhythm of it (finally!), swung the lower
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end of the staff at a joint in the knight's armor. The tip hit chain mail between the plates, but it jolted the man momentarily, long enough for Rod to slam a knock at his helmetless head. He actually connected! Nasty hollow sound, too. Not that it did much harm. Oh, the knight fell back a step, but he simply gave his head a shake and waded back in.

But it had been time enough for Rod to get his own speciality back in play. He whirled his staff around in a circle, so fast it was a blur, describing a plane that was angled at forty-five degrees—it was supposed to be upright, but a quarterstaff was really too long for single-stick play. The knight frowned; this was apparently new to him. But he slammed a blow bravely at Rod's head. Crack! The knight's stick snapped itself out of his hands. " Parbleu!" He wrung his hands—they were stinging, too; pretty good, since he was wearing gauntlets. He leaped back, catching up his staff, and his lips firmed with impatience.

Rod stopped his whirligig, limped to the nearest tree, propped his back against it, and set himself, staff up between both hands. It was coming now.

It did. He was the center of a tornado of blows, cracking about him like lightning bursts. He plied his own stick frantically, blocking blow for blow and countering when he could, down low, up high, up high again, down low, up high…

But the knight's staff tip came in down low again, somehow, and caught Rod right in the midriff. The breath whooshed out of his lungs; he gasped, gulping for air, not gaining any, fighting against the pain that racked him as the day darkened about him, and fell.

Then it was light again, and he could actually breathe, and Modwis was running a cool, damp rag over his face. He pulled in a long breath, deciding it was the sweetest draft he'd had in a long time, and struggled to sit up. The dwarf's arm was around his shoulders in a second, helping, and he saw the golden-haired knight leaning on his staff, smiling enigmatically. "My thanks for a worthy bout, milord. Thy skill is great."

"Not quite as great as yours." Rod grinned, and shoved himself painfully up, saying. "Not that I expected it to be."

"Still, you comported yourself most excellently." The knight clasped his forearm and hauled him to his feet. "I would be glad of your company in my travels, milord." Rod stared, unable to believe his ears. He travel with this hero? This man who always rode alone?

"I—I'd be honored." He was suddenly aware of Modwis's arm under his own hand. "But I couldn't leave my squire."

"So faithful and stalwart a companion must needs be of inestimable value. Wilt thou both aid me awhile?"

"Why… of course," Rod said, overcome. "Whatever we can do."

"Aye," Modwis rumbled.

"Thou mayest be of great aid indeed, the more so an thou knowest the land hereabouts." The knight turned to survey the valley below with a frown.

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"I have dwelt here all my life," Modwis answered.

"There's not a stump nor a stone for ten miles that I know not."

"I have need of such knowledge," the knight conceded. "I oppose a fell sorcerer, dost thou see, and he hath cast a glamour over my sight, which doth so change the appearance of all the country hereabouts that I can no longer find my way."

"A foul spell in truth," the dwarf muttered.

"Even so. Three times now have I fallen into a bog, and once fallen from a height, when I could have sworn naught lay before me but open land. I could not even be sure that thou wast truly nigh, when I saw thee."

"Vile," Rod agreed. "I'm under something of the same enchantment, myself." Modwis stared at him in sudden surprise, which was reassuring, as did the knight. "Thou hast a glamour about thee?"

"I wouldn't have thought so," Rod muttered, "but I do seem to be seeing things that aren't there." For a moment, the spell thinned, and he saw only an open road before him, bound with fog under a leaden sky, with deep ruts in the snow heaped high upon it.

" 'Tis the sorcerer hath cast this dimness o'er thy sight," Modwis averred, "the foul sorcerer, who doth seek to blind thee to such things as are real!"

The sun shone again, on a dusty road amid summer greenery, and the knight was back. Rod relaxed and explained, "But the only illusions I see are of people and monsters." A lingering regard for truth made him add, "And seasons. I don't seem to be having trouble with geographical features." The knight grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we are well met, thou and I! I shall see the folk aright, and thou shalt see the terrain! Come, let us march against this fell sorcerer, and root him from the land!"

The grin was infectious; Rod couldn't help but return it. "And just in case I'm fooled, Modwis will check us. And my horse, of course—he's very good at discerning reality." He ignored the buzz behind his ear.

"What sorcerer is this?"

"Some country churl, and a weak-kneed 'prentice of a magic-worker, I doubt not," the knight answered with disdain. "None have e'er heard of him aforetime, nor shall after, I warrant."

"But his name?" Rod insisted.

"He doth call himself 'Saltique,' " the knight answered, "and I trust we shall salt him indeed." It was a strange name, right enough, which was odd, because Rod knew all the Chronicles of Granclarte by heart.

"Your grandfather's ghost did say that you were to continue the saga, Rod," Fess murmured behind his ear.

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"Salt him away for future use?" Rod pretended dismay. "Why not just put him out of business permanently?"

"I warrant we'll send him to his just reward," the knight answered. "Yet first, we must needs discover his lair."

"I have heard summat of him," Modwis grated. "We must track him to the Wastelands, milords."

"Why, we are nearly there!" the knight cried, and clapped Modwis on the shoulder. "How can we fail, with a true guide before us? To horse, milord! And away!"

They mounted and rode out, heading down into the valley—and Fess couldn't avoid the realization that his master was riding back into his childhood.

"Fess, just think of it!" Rod burbled. "I'm riding with him! I'm actually riding with him!"

"It is a rare honor indeed." Fess was growing increasingly concerned, even more so now that Rod had begun talking to himself. That was bad enough, but it was worse that he was making perfect sense. Rod sobered, some of his exuberance absorbed into the robot's caution. "Where's the worm in the apple, huh? Y'know, he looks almost familiar… hauntingly familiar…"

"Should he not?"

"Well, yeah, he should look the way I've always pictured him." Rod frowned at the tall, broad figure riding straight in the saddle in front of him. "But then he should look familiar, period. Why this niggling reminder of someone I once knew?"

"It is entirely natural."

"Yeah, I guess my childish mind built him after some adult I'd met." Fess kept silent.

"Just think—riding with him, on his quest!" Rod felt his spirits bubble up again. "I may never go back to the real world!"

"That," said Fess, "may be exactly what your enemies are hoping for."

"Oh, don't be a killjoy! Ho, for adventure! I ride in quest of the Rainbow Crystal, with the great knight Beaubras!"

They had traveled some time before Rod thought to ask, "Where do you wish to go, Sir Knight?"

"To the rescue of my fair lady Haughteur, Lord Gal-lowglass," the knight replied.
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Great. But not quite as helpful as Rod needed. "Where is she imprisoned?" The knight shook his head in sorrow. "Not bound in a prison, Lord Gallowglass, but in a glamour. She dwells within the keep of High Dudgeon, in the sway of Lady Aggravate." A new one again, an element not in Grandfather's saga. Rod frowned.

"Where is High Dudgeon?" Modwis asked.

Nice to know it was new to him, too.

"Hid within the clouds at the top ofMount Sullen ," Beaubras answered. " 'Tis a keep nigh eighty feet tall— yet for the first sixty of those feet, it hath not one single opening. Nay, not so much as an arrow-slit."

"Quite secure," Rod said. "Yet not the most sensible arrangement for defense, to say nothing of aesthetics. Any particular reason for the lack of windows?"

"So that all within may look down on those beneath them—as they believe everyone to be, who doth not view the world from High Dudgeon."

Rod said slowly, "I take it they like to have everyone beneath them."

"Aye. None come there who do not—sad to say." The knight hung his head. "My lady is the fairest in the land, but many among us hath a weakness—and this is hers."

"But you don't seem to think going there was entirely her doing." Beaubras rode in thought for a while, then nodded. "There may be truth in that—for, though she may have come willingly, the glamour may also have been wrapped about her aforetime."

"Therefore she may have wished to come, because she had been enchanted." Rod nodded; it was ever the way of young girls and high living. Still, he took Sir Beaubras's point—the lady had to find the glamour tempting, for the glamour to ensnare her. "The chatelaine, Lady Aggravate— she is something of a magician."

"She is a sorceress entire, sir, who doth gain her strength by sapping the vitality of the young folk she doth call to her. The mark of her corruption may be seen in her abhorrence of the cleansing touch of water."

"No water?" Rod stared. "What do her people drink?"

"Only wine, and brandy wine, which doth render them the more susceptible to her whims."

"Good grief!" Rod turned away, shaken. "How can they stand to be near each other?"

"Oh, she doth ever fill her halls with sweet aromas, by the burning of fragrant gums and resins, so that those who dwell within her courts cannot sense the corruption about them."

"You mean the people who dwell in High Dudgeon are always incensed?" Rod gave his head a shake.

"No, what's the matter with me? Of course they are." He shuddered. "A grim and awful keep indeed, Sir
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Beaubras! You must not go alone against such a horrible castle!"

"I cannot ask thee to accompany me into so fell a place, Lord Gallowglass.''

"You didn't—I volunteered. Unless you think I'll be in the way, of course." The knight turned, a smile making his countenance radiant. "Of a certainty, thou shalt not! Thou art a wizard, art thou not? And assuredly, thou shalt be of most timely aid against this sorceress Aggravate!" Rod hoped he was right.

The sun was just past noon, and Rod was on the watch for an inn, when Modwis brought them up with a raised hand. They reined in, and the knight frowned. "What stirs, friend?"

"I mislike the sense of this place." Modwis scowled at the roadway ahead of them. The farmlands narrowed, then gave way to tall, dark oaks and elms that overhung the road. "There have been bandits here in times gone by."

"Like enough; 'tis well suited to an ambush." Beaubras lifted his head, baring his teeth in a grin. "So much the worse for them, then. How good of thee, Modwis, to find that with which to cheer me! Lord Gallowglass, an there do be bandits, I doubt me not they warrant punishment. What sayest thou?"

"Mostly surely," Rod said bravely, but his spine crawled with apprehension as they rode under the boughs. He wished he could be as delighted at the prospect of…

A roar like a score of locomotives let loose at once, and a handful of bandits leaped out from the trees. They were scruffy but stocky, their clothes as ragged and dirty as their weapons were bright. Two of them had halberds; two had swords; one had only a club. But the club was huge and had a spike, and the spike was swooping toward Rod's temple. He ducked, shouting a totally unnecessary warning to his companions. Fess dodged, and between the two of them, he only got hit with the side of the club as it shot past. But the blow hit a lot harder than a five-and-a-half-foot malnourished thug should have been able to manage; Rod flew from the saddle and landed, hard, on his back. It knocked the wind out of him and paralyzed his diaphragm; he struggled to pull in a breath at the same time as he struggled to get up. Fess screamed a threat and warning, and leaped to stand over him, shielding Rod with his own steel body from the ministrations of the club-wielder and a sword-swinger who swerved over to join in. Fess tried to lash out with a front hoof and a back hoof simultaneously, and promptly had a seizure, legs locking stiff over his master, head dropping to swing between his fetlocks. But he had given Rod enough time to thrash his way up on one elbow and get a look at the bandits, through the tears in his eyes. They looked wobbly and out of focus— but they also looked to be moving inside vague, hulking, translucent outlines that were half again as tall as they were, and much more misshapen. Then he blinked away the tears, and saw only bandits again—but the clue was enough.