The warlock insane (19 page)

Then he started at a sudden thought. How had his family come to be in Granclarte, anyway?

He thought about that for a little while, and decided that he had had a temporary lapse back into reality—sort of swapping delusions, Granclarte for persecution complex. Was that to be the limit of his existence—just a choice of delusions?

He thought about it—and the more he thought, the angrier he became. Oddly, that seemed all right
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now— maybe because his anger had no one to focus on. After all, who could be responsible for his current state of existence?

Whoever had pushed him into delusions, of course.

Who was that?

Modwis had said it was the sorcerer Brume, from his haunted castle in the east. But Modwis was part of Granclarte. Who had sent him the affliction in Gramarye?

Maybe the sorcerer Brume.

Why not? So far as Rod could tell, the fantasy enemies who attacked him in the delusion realm of Granclarte corresponded to real enemies—real people, he corrected himself, then corrected the correction, remembering Fess's verification that the man who Rod had thought was a homicidal old hermit had really tried to kill him. If the hermit had been a real assassin in disguise, why not Brume?

It was worth a try, at least—especially in Gramarye, where evil magicians were a definite possibility. For that matter, Fess had identified Modwis as being, in real life, a leprechaun…

Rod looked around, frowning. Come to that, where was Modwis? He remembered the dwarf shrinking down to elf size…

His gaze focused on the flames.

Could it have been Modwis who threw the robe over him and lit the campfire?

Rod stumbled to his feet in turmoil, apprehension coiling through his belly at the thought that a friend might be within striking range. He stood a moment, taking stock of himself. He felt well, though, surprisingly well; the spell had really passed. He resolved not to hallucinate again— the aftereffects were murder.

"Murder"—he didn't like the sound of that. He shrugged off the thought and started walking. If Modwis were here, he didn't want to see him, though Rod couldn't have said exactly why. There was a lingering distrust of anybody who professed to be on his side right now—or was it a distrust of himself?

No matter. The result was the same—stay solitary. For a moment, he wavered, tempted to take the fur robe, then decided against it; it would have felt too much like theft. Whatever kind soul had loaned it to him didn't deserve to have it stolen. He strode off into the gloaming, feeling renewed and invigorated—and hungry enough to eat a bear. Which might not have been a bad idea, if he'd met one—then he could have made his own robe.

If anyone was following him, they were smart enough to stay hidden. He trekked through snow-bound country for three days, building campfires when his toes grew numb and building brush huts when the sun went down. Roast partridge wasn't bad as rations went, and neither was the odd rabbit. Rod drew the line at deer, though—he couldn't possibly have eaten one before it spoiled.
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Then the game became scarce, the occasional homesteads began to look very run-down, and Rod began to suspect he was in country that the sorcerer had milked dry. So, replete with chilblains and chapped lips, but strangely refreshed, Rod came to the eastern shore, and found himself looking up at the sorcerer's castle atop a sea cliff. It wasn't hard to tell it was a sorcerer's castle—the clouds turned dark and thick as they came swirling behind its turrets, and emitted bolts of lightning that always struck the battlements but, strangely, never did any damage. Rod worked his way up the cliff face, climbing higher and higher into constant thunder. Not for the first time, he began to wish he had Fess along or, better yet, Modwis. Then the first dragon attacked.

It wasn't much for size, only a couple of meters long, but it roared with great verve, and its two-foot tongue of flame was very impressive.

"Shoo!" Rod shouted, trying to bat it away with one hand while the other clung to a fingerhold. The dragon shied away, and Rod yelped, shaking his hand—that beast was hot't If it was an illusion, it was a very vivid one.

The dragon circled and came roaring back. Rod drew his sword, sighted along it at the dragon's mouth, and cried, "£>i brochette !"

Unfortunately, the beast didn't know French. It slammed into Rod full tilt, the sword ramming straight into its brain. It died on the instant, plummeting down the height—and dragging Rod's sword with it. He gritted his teeth and yanked back, knowing he'd be lost without the sword—but his poor numb fingers slipped from their hold, and sea reeled about him into the sky as he fell, howling in horror. It took the sight of the rocks shooting up at him to remind him he could levitate. He thought how repulsive the rocks looked and, sure enough, they repulsed him, slowing his fall, stopping him two feet from their hungry, jagged teeth, then raising him slowly back up. With a sigh of relief, he settled onto his former footholds, felt himself start to grow limp, and sternly reminded his body that it had a task to complete. It complied with protest, pulling itself back into semblance of firmness, and started climbing on up the cliff—at which point, his brain came into play and sneeringly reminded him that, if he could levitate to save himself, he could also levitate to get to the top more easily. Astounded, Rod stood still for a minute, then smiled, stepped off into space, thinking Up ! and silently drifted toward the base of the keep. Then the next dragon hit.

It came roaring down like a V-l rocket, flaming out of a darkening sky like a reminder of doom. Rod swooped aside, but the monster changed course and came flaming up his backside. Rod whooped, did a backflip, and landed just behind the lizard's batwings, shouting, "Hi-yo, Iguanodon!" The dragon took umbrage at the epithet and tried to twist back on itself enough to scorch Rod. Unfortunately, it succeeded; fortunately, he managed to lean aside just enough for the flame to miss him. Its heat fanned his arm—and he twitched a little farther away—a little bit too much. He tumbled sideways with a shout, knees still locked on the dragon's ribs, perforce twisting it with him. It bellowed butane, trying to twist itself back upright, and the upshot was a downshot, the two of them twirling and tumbling down through the air toward the jagged rocks below.

This won't do, Rod thought dizzily, and managed to catch the beast under the jaw. The flame cut off with a burp, and the beast fought wildly—but followed its head. Rod managed to get its nose pointed upward
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and rode, swooping and swirling, back toward the battlements, clinging for dear life, and trying to hold on to his dinner. Rugged cliff face gave way to granite blocks with a five-foot ledge between masonry and precipice; Rod felt a surge of panic as he had a sudden mental image of himself rising up above the battlements and turning into a pincushion as the sentries gleefully took the chance for a little target practice. Inspiration struck, and so did the dragon, as Rod turned its head toward the castle. It roared toward the granite full tilt and slammed headfirst into the wall. Rod jumped off and sagged against the wall as the dragon flipped backward, its eyes rolling and wings fluttering, to coast spiraling down. Rod didn't worry; it was only stunned, and would probably recover before it hit the rocks. On the other hand, if it did, it might come back for him.

It behooved him to find some way to get into the castle before then. He shoved off and rose once more, then remembered his vision of skewering archers, and decided to settle down to exploring. He cast along the base of the wall, searching for some sort of opening—and, not surprisingly, came to the drawbridge. However, he did feel surprised to find it down. Rod frowned up at the gate towers. "Got to be sentries," he muttered. "If they're going to be anywhere, they're going to be here." But there was no sign of a single mortal sentry; the gate towers looked to be completely deserted, not to say ruined…

A single mortal sentry…

Rod shivered. This was Granclarte; what kinds of sentry might a sorcerer employ?

Well, there was only one way to find out—but with great caution. Rod stepped out onto the drawbridge, then carefully let his weight down onto the planks.

The wood crumbled away.

Rod drew back, heart thumping as he watched chunks of rotten wood splash into the greenish oily waters of the moat. Yes, definitely there was more to this drawbridge than met the eye—more threat, less substance. He thought of floating, felt his heels leave the ground, and stepped out onto the drawbridge again, pretending to walk, though he really drifted across. But he let his toes touch the wood for appearance's sake.

Something cold slapped around his ankle and yanked.

Rod toppled off the drawbridge, saw the waters coming up at him, then a long, rubbery arm reaching up from the scum to his ankle. He thought repulsive thoughts in a panic and began to float up, the tentacle drawing out straight. Apparently it didn't like the resistance; it yanked again; hard. Rod was caught off balance and slammed down into the water. He just managed to catch a deep breath before the waters closed over his head, and he reached for his sword.

Something cold coiled around his wrist.

Another one slapped around his waist.

Revulsion filled him, and he thought Up ! frantically, but the tentacle-owner was ready, and pulled down harder as he pulled up. His chest ached—this was taking too long. In a panic, Rod thought of water boiling into vapor inside a skin.

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The tentacle on his wrist exploded.

Rod snapped his sword out and slashed through the manacle around his ankle as something huge hooted in pain and wrath beneath him, its voice filling all the watery world. Fear and horror battled inside him, and he chopped at the tentacle around his waist. Blood spurted from it, deepening the reddish cast of the water. He chopped again, saw another tentacle slamming down out of the murk and slashed at it, then chopped one more time at the arm around his waist. It fell free and he rocketed upward, agonized hooting echoing about him.

Rod shot out of the moat twenty feet into the air before he managed to contain his emotions enough to level off. Then the guilt hit, because the whole crag echoed with the agonized hoots coming from under the water. At least he could put the poor beast out of its misery.

So he did; he opened his mind, searching, winced at the pain coming from under the water but zeroed in on it, and poured every ounce of mental energy into a sudden searing stab. Three arms lanced out of the water, straight and stiff, then went limp and fell back. Rod floated in the air, shaken but relieved; the hooting had died, and so had the monster. The air and water were quiet once more. Rod sighed, then turned his attention to the gate before him. Shadows clustered there; below the iron teeth of the portcullis, it was dark and filled with gloom. Rod screwed his courage to the sticking place and floated on in.

Darkness enveloped him, darkness filled with eerie moans. Not just one, mind you, but a dozen—first one, then another, then a third, then a fourth and a fifth and a sixth, a tenth, a twelfth, each on a different pitch, in a different voice, one dying as another began. Each voice held a different emotion, but the spectrum wasn't narrow—anger, lust for revenge, agony, horror, remorse—filling the whole castle with a droning, heartsick chord.

Something glowed in front of Rod, quickly becoming clear—the gowned form of a young woman with a bare skull beneath long, flowing hair, jaws parted in a wail of despair. Before Rod could shrink back, she faded, and a man appeared off to the side, a man with a sinister, scarred, malevolent face, and a skeletal body clothed in rags. He lifted a hand as though to strike, but faded even as he swung. A third spectre appeared opposite him, cloaked and hooded, baleful eyes glowing from the shadows within, a bony hand reaching out toward Rod.

He stepped right through it. There was a deep chill as the ghost's hand passed through his arm; then it was fading behind him. The next ghost appeared, but Rod drifted straight ahead, ignoring the fear that clamored within him—he was used to ghosts.

Not that he was ruling out a booby trap in phantom's guise, mind you. He was also drifting six inches off the floor, in case of sudden trapdoors or bear traps.

Finally, he grew tired of the phantoms and remembered his will-o'-the-wisp. With an impatient mental shrug, he made the ball of light appear in his hand. It gave off enough light to show him the stone walls and the arch-way beyond, but not enough to banish the ghosts; they kept appearing and disappearing before him as he moved toward the Great Hall, flanked by an honor guard of phantoms. The fear was still there, but it was contained by a feeling of irritation—after all the strain of getting in, he had expected something more than a trip through the Fun House.

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Then he went through the archway, and found it.

The dais at the end of the hall was lighted by fireballs. Between them, on a tall, skinny throne, sat a bald man in a long red robe.

"Who comes against the sorcerer Brume?" demanded a deep and cavernous voice. It was spooky, considering that the old man's lips hadn't moved; but Rod rechanneled the spurt of additional fear into irritation. He frowned. " Againstyou? Why do you automatically think I'm against you?"

The sorcerer sat immobile for a minute, nonplussed (Rod hoped), then answered, "None would come nigh Brume with goodwill. What seekest thou?"

"My right mind," Rod said instantly. "You cast a spell of madness on me, sorcerer. Take it off." The man's lips peeled back from pointed teeth, and shrill, manic laughter filled the hall. Even though he was braced, Rod was shaken.