The Warlock Enraged

“Wh… this?” Simon pointed at the contraption, features writhing with revulsion. “Assuredly it doth not!”

“Assure me again—I could need it.” Under his breath, Rod murmured, “Fess. Where are you?”

“Here, Rod, in the castle stables,” Fess’s voice answered from behind his ear.

“Close your eyes,” Rod growled, “and don’t worry about what’s happening.” He closed his eyes, envisioning Fess, and the stable he was in. In excellent repair, probably, since it had been Duke Romanov’s just a week ago—but slipping a bit now. The straw surely needed changing, for example, and the manure needed clearing. But he needed Fess, needed him badly, right here… He made the thought an imperative, an unworded summons, sharp, demanding.

Thunder rocked the little room, and Fess was there, looking about him wildly, Rod saw as he opened his eyes again. The robot’s voice came out slurred. “Whhhaddt… wherrre… I have… have I… telllepo…” Suddenly his head whipped up, then slammed down. All four legs spraddled out, stiff, knees locked. The neck was stiff, too, pointing the head at the floor; then it relaxed, and the head began to swing between the fetlocks.

“Seizure,” Rod explained. “It always happens, when he can’t avoid witnessing magic.”

But Simon didn’t answer. He was staring at the electronic gizmo, and his eyes had glazed. He took a stumbling step toward it. Of course, Rod thought. This close to the gadget… He grabbed Simon by the shoulders, and gave him a shake. “Simon! Wake up!” He clapped his hands sharply, an inch in front of Simon’s nose. Simon started, and his eyes came back into focus. “What… Lord Warlock! For the half of a minute, I thought… I could believe…”

“That the background noise is right, and Alfar’s a good guy.” Rod nodded, mouth a thin, straight line. “Not surprising. Now I’m sure what that weird device is—but let’s confirm it.” He turned back to Fess, felt under the pommel of the saddle for an enlarged vertebra, and pushed it. It clicked faintly. After a moment, Fess’s head lifted slowly and turned to look at Rod, the great plastic eyes clearing. “I… had a… seizure, Rrrod.”

“You did,” Rod confirmed. “But let me show you something you can cope with.” He took a step toward the pedestal, pointing. “There’s a background thought-message, constantly repeating, Fess. Over and over, it praises Alfar to the skies—and it’s much stronger here than anywhere else.”

The robot’s head tracked him. Then Fess stepped closer to the metal box. The great horsehead lifted, looking at the box from the top, then from the front, then the back. Finally Fess opined, “There is sufficient data for a meaningful conclusion, Rod.”

“Oh, ducky! What’s it add up to?”

“That the futurian totalitarians are supporting Alfar’s conquests.”

“Are they really,” Rod said drily. “Care to confirm my guess as to what it does?”

“Certainly. It’s a device that converts electricity into psionic power. I would conjecture that the large, rectangular base contains some sort of animal brain in a nutrient solution, with wires carrying power from an atomic pack into the medulla, and leads from the cerebrum carrying power at human thought frequencies into a modulator. The cylinder at the rear of the machine would seem to perform that function. This modulated message is fed out through the cable, which presumably goes up to an ante

“Thanks.” Rod swallowed against a suddenly queasy stomach. “Nice to have my guess confirmed—I suppose. Their technology has improved since we met the Kobold, hasn’t it?”

“The state of the art advances constantly, Rod.”

“Relentlessly, you might almost say.” Rod turned to Simon. “It projects thoughts. Not a living thought, you understand—a recorded one, made as carefully as people make chairs, or ships, or castles, but just as thoroughly made. Then that thought is set down, as you’d write a message in ink, almost—and sent out from this machine, to the whole of the duchy, again and again, drumming itself into people’s heads. Warlocks and witches can at least realize they’re being bombarded—but the average peasant in the field has no idea it’s happening. But warlock or witch, it doesn’t seem to matter—it converts them all.”

“Who placed it here?” Simon’s voice trembled.

“People from the future.” Rod’s face was set, stony. “People who want the whole universe to be ruled by one single power.” He glared around at the blank stone walls. “Where’re its builders? Hiding somewhere, out of harm’s way, while Alfar and his coven do their dirty work for them. But I must admit I’m disappointed—I was hoping to find a few of them here, keeping guard.” He could feel indignation spurring his anger higher; he began to tremble.

“Peace, peace.” Simon grasped his forearm. “Wherefor would they? Why guard what none know of, and none need tend?”

“Yeah—it’s fully automatic, isn’t it? And just because I expected them to be here, doesn’t mean they should feel obligated to show up. But I was at least expecting a human witch or warlock to be doing the thinking! Maybe hooked up to a psionic amplifier—but nonetheless one of Alfar’s henchmen, taking it in relays! But… this is it!” He spread his hands toward the machine. “This is all there is! Here’s the spectacular sorcerer—here’s the arch-magus! Here’s your rebel warlock warlord, fantastically powerful—until its battery runs down!”

“ ‘Twill suffice,” Simon said, beside him.

“Damn straight it will!” Rod turned to rummage in Fess’s saddlebag. “Where’s that hammer I used to carry?”

“May I suggest that it would be more effective, and more immediate, to turn the machine off, Rod?”

Rod shrugged. “Why not? I’m not picky—I’ll wreck it any way I can!” He turned to the machine, looking it up and down. “Where’s the off switch?”

“I detect a pressure-pad next to the cylinder,” Fess said. “Would you press it, please, Rod?”

“Sure.” Rod pressed the cross-hatched square. The machine clicked, whirred for a second, then pushed one end of the cylinder toward Rod. He lifted it off, holding it warily at arm’s length. “What is it?”

“From the circuitry, Rod, I would conjecture that the cylinder is the transducer. This disc, therefore, would be the recorded message.”

“Oh, is it, now!” Rod whipped his arm back for a straight pitch, aimed at the wall.

“Might I also suggest,” Fess said quickly, “that we may find a use for the disc itself?”

Rod scowled. “Always possible, I suppose—but not very satisfying.” He dropped it into his belt-pouch. “So we’ve stopped it from mass-hypnotizing the population. Now, how do we wake them up?”

“Why not try telepathy?” the robot suggested. “The message is recorded thought, placed in contact with the transducer; presumably it will function just as well, from contact with living thought.”

Rod turned to his friend with a glittering eye. “Oh, Master Simon…”

In spite of himself, the older man took a step backward. But, stoutly, he said, “Wherein may I aid, Lord Warlock?”

“By thinking at the machine.” Rod tossed his head toward the gadget. “But you’ll have to put your forehead against it.”

Simon’s eyes bulged; his face went slack in horror.

“Oh, it won’t hurt your mind,” Rod said quickly. “That much, I’m sure of. This end of the machine can only receive thoughts—it can’t send out anything.” He turned, bowing, and pressed his forehead against the transducer. “See? No danger.”

“Indeed,” Simon breathed, awestruck. “Wherefore dost thou not give it thine own thoughts?”

“Because I don’t know how to break Alfar’s spell.” Rod stepped back, bowing Simon toward the machine. “Would you try it, please? Just press your forehead against that round plate, and pretend it’s a soldier who’s been spellbound.”

Simon stood rigid for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped forward. Rod watched him place his forehead against the transducer, with admiration. The humble country i