The Warlock Enraged

“So you don’t know who won?”

“Nay; but early the next morning, when we’d begun to march again, word ran through our numbers—for it was hundreds of people on the road by then, milord; we folk of Sir Ewing’s were not alone in seeing our only chance to stay free—and word ran from the folk at the rear of the troupe, to us near the van, that green-coated soldiers pursued. We quickened our pace, but word came, anon, that a band of peasants had been caught up by soldiers, and taken away in chains. At that word, many folk split away, village by village, down side roads toward hiding. But when we came to high ground, we looked back, and saw squadrons of soldiers breaking off from the main host, to march down the side roads; so we turned our faces to the South, and hurried with Death speeding our heels—for word reached those of us in the van, that the soldiers had begun slaying those who fought their capture. Then did we take to a byway ourselves; but we hid, with our hands o’er our children’s mouths, till the soldiers had trooped by, and were gone from sight; then back we darted onto the High Road, and down toward the South again. Through the night we came, bearing the wee ones on litters, hoping that the soldiers would sleep the whiles we marched; and thus we came into this morning, where thou hast found us.”

Rod looked up at the sky. “Let’s see, today… yesterday… This would be the third day since the battle.”

“Aye, milord.”

“And you, just this little band of you, are the only ones who made it far enough south to cross the border?”

Grathum spread his hands. “The only ones on the High Road, milord. If there be others, we know not of them… and had it not been for thee and thy family, we would not be here, either.” He shuddered. “Our poor Count Novgor! We can only pray that he lives.”

Air cracked outward, and Gregory floated at Rod’s eye level, moored to his shoulder by a chubby hand.

The peasants stared, and shrank back, muttering in horror.

“Peace.” Rod held up a hand. “This child helped save you from the sorcerer’s soldiers.” He turned to Gregory, nettled. “What is it, son? This wasn’t exactly a good time.”

“Papa,” the boy said, eyes huge, “I have listened, and…”

Rod shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly a private conversation. What about it?”

“If this Count Novgor had won, these soldiers in the sorcerer’s livery would not have been marching after these peasant folk.”

The folk in question gasped, and one woman cried, “But the bairn can scarcely be weaned!”

Rod turned to them, unable to resist a proud smirk. “You should see him think up excuses not to eat his vegetables. I’m afraid he’s got a point, though; I wouldn’t have any great hopes for Count Novgor’s victory.”

The peasants sagged visibly.

“But it should be possible to get a definite answer.” Rod strode forward.

The peasants leaped aside.

Rod stepped up to the bound soldiers. He noticed that one or two were struggling against their ties. “They’re begi

The peasants stared and, one after another, shook their heads. Then, suddenly, one woman’s finger darted out, to point at the soldier on top of the third pile. “But yonder is Gavin Arlinson, who followed good Sir Ewing into battle! How comes he to fight in the service of his lord’s foe?”

“Or any of them, for that matter? Still, he’ll do nicely as a representative sample.” Rod gave the soldier he was holding, a slight push; the man teetered, then fell back down onto his comrades. Rod caught him at the last second, of course, and lowered him the final inch; then he waded through the bound men, to pull Gavin Arlinson onto his feet. He slapped the man’s face gently, until the eyelids fluttered; then he called, “Magnus, the brandy—it’s in Fess’s pack.”

His eldest elbowed his way through to his father, holding up a flask. Rod took it, noting that nobody seemed to wonder where Magnus had come from. He pressed the flask to Arlinson’s lips and tilted, then yanked it back out quickly. The soldier coughed, spraying the immediate area, choked, then swallowed. He squinted up at Rod, frowning.

Just the look of the eyes made Rod shiver. Admittedly, the glassiness of that stare could be due to the head knock he’d received; but the unwavering, unblinking coldness was another matter.

Rod pulled his nerve back up and demanded, “What happened to Sir Ewing?”

“He died,” the soldier answered, his tone flat. “He died, as must any who come up against the might of the Lord Sorcerer Alfar.”

Rod heard indignant gasps and muttering behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. “Tell us the ma

“Tis easily said,” the soldier answered, with full contempt. “He and his men marched forth to seek the warlock Melkanth. They took the old track through the forest, and in a meadow, they met him. But not Melkanth alone—his brother warlocks and sister witches, all four together, with their venerable Lord, the Sorcerer Alfar. Then did the warlocks and witches cause divers monsters to spring out upon Sir Ewing and his men, while the witches cast fireballs. A warlock appeared hard by Sir Ewing, in midair, to stab through his visor and hale him off his mount. Then would his soldiers have fled, but the Lord Sorcerer cried out a summoning, and all eyes turned toward him. With one glance, he held them all. Then did he explain to them who he was, and why he had come.”

“I’ll bite.” Rod gave him a sour smile. “Who is he?”

“A man born with Talent, and therefore noble by birth,” the soldier answered tightly, “who hath come to free us all from the chains in which the twelve Lords, and their lackeys, do hold us bound.”

“What chains are these?” Rod demanded. “Why do you need freeing?”

The soldier’s mouth twisted with contempt. “The ‘why’ of it matters not; only the fact of enslavement’s of import.”

“That, I can agree with—but not quite the way you meant it.” Rod turned to his wife. “I call it hypnosis—instant style. What’s your diagnosis?”

“The same, my lord,” she said slowly. “ ‘Tis like to the Evil Eye with which we dealt, these ten years gone.”

Rod winced. “Please! Don’t remind me how long it’s been.” He submitted to a brief but intense wave of nostalgia, suddenly feeling again the days when he and Gwen had only had to worry about one baby warlock. And, of course, a thousand or so marauding beastmen——

He shook off the mood. “Can you do anything about it?”

“Why… assuredly, my lord.” Gwen stepped up to him, looking directly into his eyes. “But dost thou not wish to attempt it thyself?”

Rod shook his head, jaw clamped tight. “No, thanks. I managed to make it through this skirmish without rousing my temper—how, I’m not sure; but I’d just as soon not tempt fate. See what you can do with him, will you?”

“Gladly,” she answered, and turned to stare into the soldier’s eyes.

After a minute, his lips writhed back from his teeth. Rod glanced quickly at the thongs that held his wrists, then down to his lashed ankles. His muscles strained against the leather, and it cut into his flesh, but there was no sign it might break. He looked back up at the soldier’s face. It had paled, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Suddenly, he stiffened, his eyes bulging, and his whole body shuddered so violently that it seemed it would fall apart. Then he went limp, darting panicked glances about him, panting as though he’d run a mile. “How… Who…”

Gwen pressed her hands over her eyes and turned away.

Rod looked from her to the soldier and back. Then he grabbed Grathum and shoved the soldier into his arms. “Here! Hold him up!” He leaped after his wife, and caught her in his arms. “It’s over, dear. It’s not there anymore.”

“Nay… I am well, husband,” she muttered into his doublet. “Yet that was… distasteful.”