The Warlock Enraged

15

It was a small room, a round room, a room of gray stone blocks with three tall, skinny windows. But those windows were sealed with some clear substance, and the air of the chamber was unnaturally cool—climate-controlled. Every alarm bell in Rod’s head screamed. He glanced at Simon. The older warlock tottered, dazed. Rod held him up, growling, “Steady. That’s what happens when a warlock disappears.”

“I had… ne’er had the opportunity aforetime,” Simon gasped. He looked around him, whites showing all around his eyes. Finally, he turned back to Rod, awe-struck. “Eh, but thou’rt truly the Lord Warlock, thou.”

“The same,” Rod confirmed, “but nonetheless your pupil in fathering and husbandry.”

“As I am to thee, in wizardry.” Simon pointed a trembling finger at the metal box in the center of the room. It sat on a slender pedestal at chest height, and had a gray, irridescent cylinder atop one end. The other sprouted a cable that dropped down to the floor, ran over to the wall and up it, to a window, where it disappeared—probably to a transmitting antenna, Rod decided. “What,” Simon asked, in a voice that shook, “is that spawn of alchemy?”

“Probably,” Rod agreed. “It’s a machine of some sort, anyway.” He could feel the insistent pounding of the message, extolling Alfar’s virtues over and over again. It was much stronger than it had been when he was in the dungeon. It belabored him, convincing, persuading by sheer repetition. Alfar was master, Alfar was great, Alfar was rightful lord of all that was human… “I think I know what it is, Simon—or, at least, what it does. If I’m right, the last time I saw one of these, it was alive.”

“How?” Simon stared, horrified. “A living thing cannot be a machine.”

“No more than a machine can be a living thing. But this one sure seems to be. If you didn’t know better, wouldn’t you swear that thing’s thinking at us?”

“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 antenna on the roof of this tower.”

“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 innkeeper had as much real courage as a knight.

Simon closed his eyes. His face tensed as he began his spell-breaking thought sequence.

Rod stiffened as the ‘message’ hit him, full-strength. It had no words; it was only a feeling, as though someone very sympathetic was listening to him, listening deeply, to everything Rod could tell, down to his very core—then, kindly, gently, but very firmly, contradicting. Rod shook his head and cleared his throat. “Well! He’s certainly getting across, isn’t he?” He turned to Fess. “How’ll we know whether it works or not?”

“By Alfar’s reaction, Rod. He doubtless detected our disabling his message, but refrained from attacking us, wary of your power.”

Rod’s head lifted, “I… hadn’t… thought of that.”

“I consider it a distinct possibility,” Fess mused. “Now, however, Alfar must realize that we are destroying the very base of his power—that he must attack us now, or lose all he has conquered.”

Quintuple thunder roared in a long, ripping sequence, and Alfar was there with three witches and a warlock at his back, chopping down at Rod with a scimitar.

Rod leaped back with a whoop of delight. The sword’s tip hissed past him, and he and Fess instantly jumped into place between Simon and the sorcerer’s band. One of the witches stabbed a hand at them, all five fingers stiff and pointing, and a dozen whirling slivers of steel darted toward them.

Fess took a step to his left, blocking Rod and Simon both. The darts clanged against his horsehide, and he stepped back—just in time to step on the witch’s foot. She screamed and careened away, hobbling as Alfar lashed at Rod with the scimitar again. But this time, Rod leaped high and kicked the sword out of his hand as Fess reared, lashing out at the other warlock and witch with his forehooves. Rod sliced a karate chop at Alfar, and the sorcerer leaped back, but not quite quickly enough—Rod’s fingertips scored his collarbone, and Alfar howled in pain. The witch was staring at Fess, wild-eyed, backing away slowly, and Rod could feel a crazy assortment of emotions crashing through him—anger, fear, confusion, love. She was the emotional projective, hitting Fess with everything she had, totally confounded by his complete lack of response.

Which reminded Rod who he was, and that the emotions were illusions. He managed to ignore them as Alfar wound up for a whammy. But he didn’t have time; a stone leaped out of the wall, and slammed straight at Rod. He sidestepped, but the block caught him on the shoulder. Pain shot through him, and his temper leaped up in response. He slumped back against the wall, striving frantically to reign in his temper, trying to channel it, knowing that rage would slow his reflexes; they’d get under his guard, and chop him down. Another block shot straight at him and he dropped to a crouch, ducking his head. The block cracked into the wall behind; Another whirled tumbling and slammed into Fess’s hindquarters. Rod galvanized with alarm—if that boulder had hit Fess in the midriff, it might’ve staved in his armored side, and damaged his computer-brain!

That was just distraction enough. He saw the stone coming, and spun away—but not fast enough. Its corner cracked into his hip, and agony screamed through his side, turning his whole leg into flame. His knee folded, and he fell.

And Alfar was above him with his scimitar again, chopping down with a gloating grin.

Rod rolled at the last second. The huge blade smashed into the stone floor, and twisted out of Alfar’s hands. One of the fallen stones shot up off the floor, straight at his face. Alfar screamed in shock, and stepped back—and tripped over something, crashing down onto his back.

Rod was up on one knee, trying frantically to force himself to his feet. He stared at the obstacle Alfar had stumbled over, and it stared back for a fraction of a second—Geoffrey! The boy grinned just before he leaped to his feet, his eighteen-inch sword whipping out to stab down at the fallen sorcerer, who just barely managed to twist out of the way in time. His hand flailed about the floor till it found the scimitar’s hilt, and wrapped fast around it.

A block of stone smashed at Geoffrey. He dodged, but Rod roared with rage when he saw how closely the block had come. He sprang at the telekinetic—but Alfar jumped into his path, slashing with the scimitar again. Rod leaped back, letting the blow whistle past him, then lunged over it with a chop. Alfar just barely managed to twist aside.

The telekinetic was surrounded by blocks of stone smashing into each other. Her lips were drawn back in a feral snarl, and drops of sweat beaded her forehead. Geoffrey ducked in under the hedge of stone and stabbed upward. The telekinetic screamed and jumped back, stumbled over Gregory, and fell. Magnus’s cudgel whacked her at the base of her skull and she went limp.

Cordelia crouched glaring at the other witch—but between them was a storybook witch, complete with cone hat, broomstick, hooked nose, warts, and insane cackle, hands clawing at the child. A ghost materialized beside her, moaning, and something huge, flabby, and moist, with yellow, bloodshot eyes, lifted itself up off the floor, extruding pseudopod tentacles toward the little girl. But Cordelia spat, “Aroint thee, witch! Dost thou think me a babe?” and threw her broomstick at the illusionist. It speared through the storybook witch and arrowed toward the illusionist, who screamed and threw up her hands to ward it off—and the ghost, witch, and monster disappeared. But the broomstick whirled and whipped about, belaboring the woman from every side faster than she could block, whacking her about the head and shoulders. She screamed, and darted toward the chamber door—and Gwen’s full-sized broomstick swung down from the ceiling and cracked into her forehead. Her eyes rolled up, and she crumpled.

Rod twisted aside from Alfar’s scimitar and reached out to brace himself against the wall, just as his burning leg tried to give out under him again. He shoved against the stone, shifting his weight onto his good leg, and drew his sword just in time to parry another cut. He riposted and thrust, faster than Alfar could recover. The sorcerer darted back, just an inch farther than Rod’s thrust, and saw two of his lieutenants on the floor. He was just in time to see Fess’s hoof catch the emotional projective a glancing blow on the temple. She folded at the knees and hit the flagstones, out cold. He shrieked, and Rod leaped, catching the sorcerer’s arm with his left hand to steady himself. Alfar whirled, saw Rod’s sword chopping down, screamed again—and Rod caught the unspoken image of another place. He closed his eyes and willed himself not there, just as Alfar teleported toward it. Dimly, Rod heard a thunder-boom, and knew Alfar had managed to disappear from the tower room. His eyes sprang open—and he found himself still clinging to the sorcerer’s arm, in the midst of formless grayness, lit by dim, sourceless light. There was nothing, anywhere—nothing but his enemy.

Alfar looked about him, and screamed, “We are lost!” Then he squeezed his eyes shut, and Rod caught the impulse toward someplace he didn’t recognize. He countered grimly. Their bodies rocked, as though hit by a shock wave, but stayed put. “You’re in the Void,” Rod growled, “and you’re not getting out!”

Alfar screamed, hoarse with terror and rage, and whirled to chop at him with the scimitar. But Rod yanked him close, caught his sword hand, and cracked it against his good knee. Pain shot through him, almost making him go limp—but Alfar was still screaming, in hoarse, panting caws, and the scimitar went whirling away through empty space. Rod slammed an uppercut into the sorcerer’s face. He dodged, but the blow caught him alongside the jaw. His head rocked, but he slammed a knee into Rod’s groin. Rod doubled over in agony, but clung to Alfar’s arm and a shred of sense; his right hand slipped the dagger out of his boot, and he shot his last ounce of strength into a sudden stab into Alfar’s belly. The blade jabbed up under the ribcage, and Alfar folded over it, arms flailing, eyes bulging in agony. Conscience smote; Rod yanked the dagger out and stabbed again, quickly, mercifully, into the heart. He saw Alfar’s eyes glaze; then the body went limp in his hands. Rod held it a second, staring, unbelieving. Then chagrin hit, and he felt his soul quail at the reality of another manslaughter. “It was him or me,” Rod grated; but no one heard except himself.

He let go, shoving, and the body drifted away from him, turning slowly, trailing an arc of blood. It swung away, revolving, and faded into the mists, a thin red line tracing its departure.

Rod turned away, sickened. For a long, measureless instant, he drifted in space, numbed, absorbing his guilt, accepting the spiritual responsibility, knowing that it had been justified, had been necessary—and was nonetheless horrible.

Finally, the tide of guilt ebbed, and he opened his mind to other thoughts—Gwen, and the children! Had they all come through that melee alive? And what the hell had they been doing there, anyway? Never mind the fact that if they hadn’t been, they’d be short one husband and father by now—nonetheless! What were they doing where it was so dangerous?

Helping him, obviously—and they’d have to help him again, or he’d never find how to get out of here. He wasn’t scared of the Void; he’d been here before, between universes.

And, of course, he’d get home the same way now. He closed his eyes, and listened with his mind. There—Gregory’s thought, unvoiced, a frightened longing for his father—the same beacon that had brought him home before. Rod sighed and relaxed, letting the boy’s thought fill his mind. Then he willed himself back to his three-year-old son.

“Is that all of them?” Rod ground his teeth against a sudden stab of pain from his upper arm.

“Be brave, my lord,” Gwen murmured. She finished binding the compress to his triceps. “Aye, every one of them has come—every witch and warlock of the Royal Coven. E’en old Agatha and Galen have come from their Dark Tower, to flit from hamlet to village, speaking with these poor peasants, who have waked to panic, and the loss of understanding.”

“I don’t blame ‘em,” Rod grunted. “If I all of a sudden came to my senses and realized that I’d been loyal to an upstart for the last few weeks while my duke was casually bumped off, I’d be a little disoriented, too. In fact, I’d be frightened as hell.” He winced as Gwen bound his arm to his side. “Is that really necessary?”

“It must,” she answered, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Yet ‘tis but for a day or two, ‘til the healing hath begun.”

“And I didn’t even notice I’d been sliced, there.” Rod looked down at the bandage. “Well, it was only a flesh wound.”

Gwen nodded. “Praise Heaven it came no closer to the bone!”

“Lord Warlock!”

Rod looked up.

They were in the Great Hall of Duke Romanov’s castle. It was a vast stone room, thirty feet high, forty wide, and eighty long—and empty, for the moment, since all the boards and trestles had been piled against the walls at the end of the last meal, for the evening’s entertainments. The High Table was still up, of course, on its dais, and Rod sat in one of the chairs, with Gwen beside him—though pointedly not in the Duke’s and Duchess’s places.

An auncient, still wearing Alfar’s livery, came striding toward them from the screens passage, eyes alight with excitement.

“Did you lock up the traitors?” Rod demanded.

“Aye, milord.” The auncient came to a halt directly in front of Rod. “ ‘Twas that to be said for the sorcerer’s having used our bodies for his army, the whiles he lulled our souls into slumber—that when we waked, we knew on the instant which soldiers had been loyal to the usurper of their own wills, e’en though they’d remained wakeful.”

Rod nodded. “By some strange coincidence, the ones who had been giving the orders.” There had been a few opportunistic knights who had been loyal to Alfar without benefit of hypnotism, too. Rod had had to lock them in a dungeon himself, medieval caste rules being what they were. One of them had resisted; but after the others saw what happened to him, they went quietly. It was just too embarrassing, being defeated by a bunch of children… A couple of them, quicker to react, had escaped as soon as peasants started waking up all around them. That was all right; Rod had a few thousand mortified soldiers on his hand, who needed something to do to appease their consciences. A hunt was just fine.

But the common soldiers who had allied with Alfar, could be left to the tender mercies of their erstwhile comrades—once Rod had made it clear that he expected them to, at least, survive. “So you found the deepest, darkest, dungeon, and locked them in it?”

“Aye, milord.” The auncient’s eyes glowed. “We loosed its sole tenant.” He turned toward the screens passage with a bow, and in limped the prisoner. His doublet and hose were torn, and crusted with dried blood; his face was smeared with dirt, and his hair matted. There was a great livid gash along the right-hand side of his face, scabbed over, that would leave a horrible scar; and he limped heavily, his limbs sodden with inactivity; but his back was straight, and his chin was high. Two knights were with him, blinking, dazed, as disoriented as any of the soldiers, but straight and proud. Simon followed after, looking perplexed.

Rod shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the searing protest from his wounded hip, and the auncient announced:

“Hail my lord, the Duke of Romanov!”

Rod stepped down from the dais to clasp his one-time enemy by the shoulders. “Praise Heaven you’re alive!”

“And thee, for this fair rescue!” The Duke inclined his head. “Well met, Lord Warlock! I, and all my line, shall ever be indebted to thee and thine!”

“Well, maybe more the ‘thine’ than the ‘thee.’ ” Rod glanced behind him at the children who sat, prim and proper, on the dais steps with their mother fairly glowing behind them. “When push came to shove, they had to haul my bacon out of the fire.”

“Then I thank thee mightily, Lady Gallowglass, and thee, brave children!” The Duke inclined his head again.

Blushing, they leaped to their feet and bowed.

When the Duke straightened, there was anxiety in his face. “Lord Warlock—my wife and bairns. Did they… escape?”

“They did, and my wife and children made sure they reached Runnymede safely.” Rod turned to Gwen. “Didn’t you?”

“Certes, my lord. We would not have turned aside from what we’d promised thee we’d do.”

“Yes—you never did promise to stay safe, did you? But Alfar mentioned something about a dire fate in store for you…”

“Indeed!” Gwen opened her eyes wider. “Then it was never taken out from storage. I wonder thou wast so merciful in thy dealings with him.”

“Well, I never did like lingering deaths.” But Rod couldn’t help feeling better about it all.

“He also implied that the Duchess and her boys didn’t stay safe…”

“False again,” Gwen said quickly, just as the Duke’s anguish was beginning to show anew. “We saw them to Runnymede, where they bide safely, in the care of Their Royal Majesties.”

“Yes… what are monarchs for?” But Rod noted the flash of shame that flitted across Romanov’s features—no doubt in memory of his rebellion.

“We played with them not three hours agone, Papa,” Geoffrey added.

The Duke heaved a sigh, relaxing. Then the father and host in him both took over. “Three hours? And thy children have not dined in that time?” He spun to the auncient. “Good Auncient, seek out the cooks! Rouse them from their dazes, and bid them bring meat and wine—and honeycakes.”

The children perked up most noticeably.

“Three hours agone.” The Duke turned back to the children with a frown. “Was this in Runnymede?”

The children nodded.

The Duke turned back to Rod. “How could they come to aid thee, then?”

“Nice question.” Rod turned to Gwen again. “It was rather dangerous here, dear. Just how close were you, while you were waiting for me to need you?”

“The lads were in Runnymede, my lord, even as thou hast but now heard,” Gwen answered. “They could bide there, sin’ that they may travel an hundred leagues in the bat of an eyelash.”

Rod had notion that their range was farther than that, much farther, but he didn’t deem it wise to say so—especially not where they could hear (or mind read).

“At the outset,” Gwen continued, “Cordelia and I did bide with them, for we could attend to thy thoughts e’en from that distance, and fly to thine aid if thou didst come near to danger. It did greatly trouble me, therefore, when thy thoughts did so abruptly cease.”

Cordelia nodded confirmation, her eyes huge. “She did weep, Papa.”

“Oh, no, darling!” Rod caught Gwen’s hands. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Nay, certes.” She smiled. “Yet thou wilt therefore comprehend my concern.”

Rod nodded slowly. “I’d say so, yes.”

“I therefore did leave the boys in care of Their Royal Majesties, and Brom O’Berin, and flew northward again. I took on the guise of an osprey…”

Rod rolled his eyes up. “I knew, when I saw that blasted fish-hawk that far inland, that I was in trouble!” Of course, he knew that Gwen couldn’t really shrink down to the size of a bird any more than a butterfly could play midwife to a giraffe. It was just a projective illusion, making people think that they saw a bird instead of a woman. “If I hadn’t shielded my thoughts, I probably would’ve seen through your spell!”

“An thou hadst not shielded thy thoughts, I would not have had to fly near enough to see thee,” Gwen retorted. “And though thou hadst disguised thyself, I knew thee, Rod Gallowglass.”

That, at least, was reassuring—in its way.

“Then,” Gwen finished, “ ‘twas but a matter of hearkening to the thoughts of that goodman who did ride beside thee.” Gwen turned to Simon. “I thank thee, Master Simon.”

The older man still looked confused, but he bowed anyway, smiling. “I was honored to be of service, milady—e’en though I knew it not.”

“And when thou wert taken,” Gwen went on, “I did summon Cordelia to me, to bide in waiting, in a deserted shepherd’s croft. Then, when thou didst burst forth from thy shield, I could not help but hear thy thoughts for myself.”

“Not that you were about to try to ignore them,” Rod murmured.

“Nay, certes!” Gwen cried in indignation. “Then, when thou didst come unto the tower chamber, I knew the moment of battle was nigh, and did summon Cordelia from her croft to fly to the tower; and when the unearthly device did cease to compel, and did commence to disenchant, I knew the time of battle had come. Then did I summon thy sons, that the family might be together once again.”

“Very homey,” Rod grinned. “And, though I was mighty glad to see you all, I don’t mind saying I’m even gladder to know the kids were safe, right down until the last moment.”

“Certes, my lord! I would not endanger them.”

Rod gave her the fish-eye. “What do you call that last little fracas we went through—homework?”

“Oh, nay! ‘Twas far too great a delight!” Geoffrey cried.

“Homework’s delight,” Gregory lisped.

“Papa!” Cordelia cried indignantly; and Magnus’s chin jutted out a quarter-inch further. “Twas scarce more than chores.”

“We’d fought each of them aforetime,” Geoffrey reminded him, “and knew their powers—save Alfar, and we left him to thee.”

“Nice to know you have confidence in me. But there could’ve been accidents…”

“So there may ever be, with bairns,” Gwen sighed. “Here, at least, they were under mine eye. Bethink thee, husband, what might chance an I were to leave them in the kitchen, untended.”

Rod shuddered. “You’ve made your point; please don’t try the experiment.” He turned to the Duke. “Ever begin to feel redundant?”

“Nay, Papa,” Magnus cried. “We could only aid thee in the ending of this campaign.”

“Truly,” Gregory said, round-eyed, “we knew not enough to bring the sorcerer to bay.”

But Rod had caught the sly glance between Magnus and Geoffrey. Under the circumstances, though, he deemed it wiser not to say anything about it.

“Now, mine husband.” Gwen clasped his hands. “In this last battle, I did hear thy thoughts at all times. Thine anger was there, aye, but thou didst contain it. Hast thou, then, so much ta’en this goodman’s advice to thine heart?” She nodded at Simon.

“I have,” Rod confirmed. “It worked this time, at least.”

“Dost thou mean thou wilt not become angry again, Papa?” Cordelia cried, and the other children looked up in delight.

“I can’t promise that,” Rod hedged, “but I think I’ll have better luck controlling it. Why—what were you planning to do?”

Whatever they would have answered was forestalled by the cooks, stumbling in with dinner. They set down the platters on the table, and the children leaped in with joyful cries. Magnus got there first, wrenched off a drumstick, and thrust it at his father. “Here, Papa! Tis thy place of right!”

“Why, thank you,” Rod said, amused. “Nice to know I have some rank around here.”

“I shall have the other.” Cordelia reached for the other drumstick.

“Nay; thou hast never favored the legs of the fowl!” Geoffrey’s hand darted out, and grabbed the bone before hers.

“Loose that!” Cordelia cried. “Twas my claim was first!”

“As ‘twas my hand!”

“Yet I came to the bird before either of thee!” Magnus laid a hand on the bone of contention. “My remembrance of our father, doth not bar me from this choice!”

“Uh, children,” Rod said mildly, “quiet down, please.”

“ ‘Tis mine!”

“Nay! ‘Tis mine!”

“I am eldest! My claim is first!”

“Children!” Rod hiked his volume a bit. “Cut it out!”

Gwen laid a restraining hand on his arm. That did it; his temper leaped.

Cordelia turned on her brothers. “Now, beshrew me an thou art not the most arrogant, ungentlemanly boys the world hath ever…”

“Wherefore beshrew thee? Thou art a shrew already!”

And the discussion disintegrated into wild shouts of accusation and counter-accusation.

Rod stood rigid, trying to contain his soaring anger. Then Simon caught his eye. Rod stared at the older man’s calm, level gaze, and felt a measure of strength that he hadn’t known he had. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that their bickering might make them look childish (as it should), but not him—if he didn’t start shouting with them. The thought checked his anger and held it. He was himself, Rod Gallowglass—and he wasn’t any the less himself, nor any less important, nor any less in any way, just because his children didn’t heed him.

But he did know how to get their attention. He reached out, grasped the last drumstick, and twisted it loose.

The children whirled, appalled. “Papa!”

“Nay! Thou hast no need!”

“Thou already hast one, Papa!”

“ ‘Tis not justice,” little Gregory piped, chin tucked in truculently over folded arms.

“But it does settle the argument,” Rod pointed out. He turned to Gwen, presenting the drumstick with a flourish and a bow. “My dear, you saved the day. Your glory is as great as mine.”

“But, Papa!” Cordelia jammed her fists on her hips, glowering up at him. “Thou’rt supposed to be a nice daddy now!”

“Why,” Rod murmured, “wherever did you get an idea like that?”