The Warlock Enraged

9

The sun was low, ahead and to the left, bathing the road, and the dusty leaves that bordered it, in an orange glow that made the whole world seem somewhat better than it really was—and Rod began to relax as he gazed at it. It was a magical road, somehow, twisting away through gilded leaves to some unguessable, wonderful faery world ahead.

Around the turn, a man cried out in alarm, and a chorus of bellowing shouts answered him. Quarterstaves cracked wood on wood, and clanked on iron.

Rod stared, snapping out of his reverie. Then he barked “Charge!” and Fess sprang into a gallop. The cart rattled and bumped behind him, melons and cabbages bouncing out into the roadway. Rod swerved into the turn with one wheel off the ground—and saw a gray-haired man whirling a quarterstaff high, low, from side to side, blocking the furious blows of three thick-bodied, shag-haired thugs with five-day beards. Two of them had iron caps—which was just as well, since they weren’t very good with their staves. Even as Rod watched, the gray-head managed to crack his staff down on one of their skulls. The man howled and flinched back, pressing a hand to his head; then, reassured that he wasn’t injured, he roared and leaped back into the fight, flailing a huge, windmilling arc of a blow that would have pulverized anything in its way. But the older man’s staff snapped out at an angle, blocking the blow—and the thug’s stick shot down the smooth wood, straight toward the victim’s knuckles. The traveller’s staff pushed farther, though, coming around in a half circle, and the thug’s stick plowed into the ground. By that time, the other end of the older man’s staff was swinging up to block a short, vicious blow from the thug on the other side.

Anger flared in Rod, the smoldering resentment of injustice. “Anybody that good has earned help!” Rod snapped. “We can’t let him be killed just because he’s outnumbered! Never!”

Fess’s hooves whipped into a blur that no real horse could have managed. Rod swung his whip back, fighting against his own anger to withhold the blow until the right moment.

A handful of soldiers broke through the screen of brush at the roadside, riding into view from a woodland track.

Rod hauled on Fess’s reins—not that the horse needed it; but it helped Rod to force down his anger, contain the frustration at not striking out. “Hold it, Fess! Company’s coming. Maybe we’d better leave this goodman to natural processes.”

The sergeant saw the fracas, swung his arm in an overhand circle that ended pointing toward the thugs, and shouted as he kicked his mount into a gallop. His troopers bellowed an answer, and their horses leaped into a charge.

The thugs were making too much noise to hear, until the soldiers were only thirty feet away. Then one of them looked up and shouted. The other two turned, stared for one moment of panic, then whirled and plunged into the underbrush with howls of dismay.

The sergeant reined in just in front of the older man.

“I thank thee, Auncient.” The traveler bowed, leaning on his staff. “They’d have stripped me bare and left me for wolf-meat!”

“Nay, certes! We could not allow such work, could we, then?” The sergeant grinned to his men for a chorus of agreement, and turned back to the traveler. “Such goods as wayfarers own, are ours to claim.” He leaned down, shoving an open palm under the traveler’s nose. “Thy purse, gaffer!”

The older man stared at him, appalled. Then he heaved a sigh, and untied his purse from his belt. He set it in the sergeant’s hand. “Take it, then—and surely, I owe thee what I can give, for thy good offices.”

“Dost thou indeed?” The sergeant straightened, opening the purse with a sly grin. But it faded quickly to a scowl of indignation, as he looked into the little bag. He glared down at the traveler. “Here, now! What manner of jest is this?”

“Why, naught!” the traveler said, surprised. “What few coins I have, are there!”

“Few indeed.” The sergeant upended the purse, and five copper coins clinked into his palm. He growled and tossed them into the dust. “Come, then! None take to the road without a few shillings at least, to provide for themselves.”

The older man shook his head. “I had no more—and my daughter’s near to term with her first. I must be there; she’ll have need of me.”

“She will, indeed,” the sergeant growled, “and thou’lt be wanting.” He nodded to his men. “Strip him, and slash his clothes. We’ll find shillings, though they be within his flesh.”

The traveler stepped back, horrified, as the soldiers crowded in, chuckling. Then his face firmed with resignation, and his staff lifted.

“Seize him!” the sergeant barked.

“So much for natural processes.” Rod’s anger surged up, freed. “Now, Fess!”

The great black horse sprang forward.

One of the soldiers chopped down at the traveler with his pike; but his victim’s quarterstaff cracked against the pike-shaft, and it swerved, crashing into the shield of the trooper next to him. “Here now!” the man barked, and swung his own axe.

“Nay, nay!” the sergeant cried in disgust. “Is one lone…”

A bellow of rage drowned him out, and his eyes bulged as Rod’s whip wrapped itself around his throat. Rod yanked back as Fess crashed into a trooper, and the sergeant shot out of his saddle. The trooper screamed as his horse went flying. Fess slammed into another horse, reaching for its rider with steel teeth, as Rod turned to catch up a club he’d hidden among the grain sacks, and whirled it straight-armed down at the steel cap of a third trooper with a bellow of fury. The blow rang like the parish bell on a holy day, and the soldier slumped to the ground, his helmet flying off. Fess tossed his head as he let go of the second trooper’s arm, and the man spun flying to slam into a tree. Rod turned, just as the fourth trooper hit the ground. The traveler’s staff rose, and fell with a dull thud. Rod winced, his rage ending as suddenly as it had begun, transmuting into leaden chagrin. He looked about him at the three fallen men. He fought against it. He’d been right, damn it! And none of them were really hurt. Nothing permanent, anyway…

Then he turned, and saw the older man looking up, panting, eyes white-rimmed, staff leaping up to guard again.

Rod dropped the reins and held his hands up shoulder-high, palms open. “Not me, gaffer! I’m just here to help!”

The staff hung poised as the battle tension ebbed from the traveler’s muscles. Finally, he lowered his guard, and smiled. “I give thee thanks, then—though I’m no one’s ‘gaffer.’ ”

“Not yet, maybe—but you will be, soon.” Rod forced a weak smile. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Nay, I think thou didst attempt such hearing—and I thank thee for it.” The traveler grounded the butt of his staff, and held out his hand.

“I am called Simon, and my village is Versclos.”

“I am, uhhh…” Rod leaned down to shake Simon’s hand, groping frantically to remember the name he’d used for his “old farmer” act. “Call me Owen. Of Armand.”

“Owen of Armand?” Simon lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve not heard of that village.”

“It’s far from here—to the south.” Galactic south, anyway.

“I thank thee for thy good offices, Owen of Armand.” Simon’s handclasp was warm and firm. “Indeed, had it not been for thee…” He broke off suddenly, staring.

Rod frowned.

Simon lifted his head with a jolt and gave it a quick shake. “Nay, pardon! My mind wanders. Had it not been for thee, these liveried bandits would have stripped me bare—and sin’ that there were no shillings for them to find…”

Rod’s mouth thinned and hardened. “They probably would have stripped you down to your skin, then used their knives to look for pockets.”

“I do not doubt it.” Simon turned toward the soldiers. “Yet ‘tis not their doing. They labor under a wicked enchantment. Come, we must attend to them.” And he turned away, to kneel down by one of the troopers, leaving Rod with a puzzled frown. That had been rather abrupt—and, polite though he was, Simon had very obviously been trying to change the subject. What had he suddenly seen in Rod, that had so offended him? “Odd victim we have, here,” he muttered.

“Odd indeed,” Fess agreed. “To judge by his vocabulary and bearing, one would think him too well-qualified to be a road wanderer.”

Rod lifted his head slowly. “Interesting point…Well, let’s give him a hand.” He lashed the reins around the top bar of the cart and swung down to the ground.

Simon was kneeling by the sergeant, hand on the man’s shoulder, but still holding to his staff with the other. He stared into the man’s face, frowning, head cocked to the side, as though he were listening. Rod started to ask, then saw the abstracted glaze in Simon’s eyes, and managed to shut his mouth in time to keep the words in. He’d seen that same look in Gwen’s face too many times to mistake it—especially since he’d seen it in all his children’s faces, too, now and then—especially Gregory’s. Exactly what was going on, Rod didn’t know—but it was certainly something psionic.

The sergeant’s eyes opened. He blinked, scowling against pain, then sat up, massaging his throat. “What hast thou…” Then his eyes widened in horror. “Nay, I! what have I done to thee?”

Rod relaxed, reassured. The sergeant had his conscience back.

The man’s eyes lost focus as he took a quick tour back through memory. “I have… nay, I have oppressed… I have murdered! Eh, poor folk!” He squeezed his eyes shut, face clenched in pain. “I have seen these hands cut down fleeing peasants, then steal what few coins they had! I have heard mine own voice curse at villagers, and hale forth their sons to serve in the sorcerer’s army! I have…”

“Done naught.” Simon spoke sternly, but without anger, his voice pitched and hardened to pierce the sergeant’s remorse. “Be of good cheer, Auncient—for thou didst labor under enchantment. Whilst thy mind slumbered, ensorceled, thy body moved at the bidding of another. His commands were laid in thee, and thy body remembered, and governed its actions by his orders. Whatsoe’er thou dost recall thine hands doing, or thy voice crying, ‘twas not thine own doing, but Alfar’s.”

The sergeant looked up, hope rising in his gaze.

Rod held his face carefully impassive. Interesting, very interesting, that Simon knew the nature of the spell. Even more interesting, that he could break it.

Which meant, of course, that he was a telepath. And which meant that the startled look he had given Rod, was because he saw a man before him, but didn’t sense a mind to go with it. Rod could understand his amazement; he’d felt the same way a few times, himself…

It also raised the interesting question of how Simon had escaped Alfar’s dragnet. Or did the sorcerer routinely leave witches and warlocks free to roam about the countryside, even though they hadn’t signed up with him? Somehow, Rod doubted it.

The sergeant gave Simon a glance up from the depths of despair. “What nonsense dost thou speak? When could so vile a spell have been laid upon me?”

“Why, I cannot tell,” the traveler answered, “for I was not there. Yet, think—‘twas in all likelihood hard after a battle, when thou hadst been taken prisoner.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened, and he turned away, but he was not seeing the roadside, nor the trees. “Aye, the battle… Our gallant Duke led us against the sorcerer’s vile army, and they fought poorly, advancing on us with pikes lowered, but with their gazes fixed. ‘Twas daunting, for their pikes never varied, nor the even tread of their feet; but our Duke cried, ‘Why, they are puppets! And they can do only what their master wills, when he pulls their string. Onward, brave hearts—for he cannot govern a thousand separate fights!’ And he lowered his lance, charging straight toward the foe. We took heart with a shout and followed, and ‘twas even as he said, for we had but to sidestep the pikes. Though the men behind them sought to follow, we could move faster, and step through to stab and cut. Thus the sorcerer’s army began to give ground—not through retreat, but through being forced back bodily.

“But something vile and huge struck at us from the sky with a scream and, of a sudden, the air was filled with flying rocks. Sheets of fire enveloped our army, and we cried out in fear. Daunted, we gave ground, and the sorcerer’s troops strode after, to follow.

“Then, of a sudden, the man in front of me turned, with a strange look in his eye—eerie and fey. ‘Turn, man!’ I cried, and stabbed past him with my pike, knocking aside a blow that would have slain him. ‘Turn, and fight for thy Duke!’ ‘Nay,’ quoth he, ‘for what hath the duke done ever, save to take from us as much, and return as little, as he might? I shall fight for the sorcerer now!’ And he raised his pike to strike at me. Yet whatever spell held him, it had slowed him. I stared in horror at what I had heard him say, then saw his pike sweeping down at me. I struck it aside; but all about me, the Duke’s soldiers in the front of the army were turning to strike at their comrades behind. In an instant, I was hard put to defend myself—yet ‘twas from men of mine own livery! Distant behind them, I saw the Duke on his tall horse, surrounded by pikes; yet those at his back, that jabbed at his armor, were held by his own men! He turned, roaring in rage, and his sword chopped in a half circle, reaping pike-heads like corn; yet a dozen sprang up for every one that fell.

“Then, of a sudden, there was a fellow who floated in midair, above the Duke, who dropped a noose about our lord and cast loops of rope to follow it, binding his arms to his sides. He roared in anger, but the warlock shot away from him, jerking him from his horse. He crashed down below the hedge of pikes, and I cried out in despair, striking out with my own pike, blocking the blades about me; yet a heaviness crept over me. I struggled against it and, praise Heaven, felt anger rise to counter; yet even so, the heaviness grew greater and greater. I scarce seemed to feel the pike in my hands. Then all darkened about me, as though I had fallen asleep.” Slowly, he lifted his head, looking up at Simon. “I recall no more of the battle.”

Simon nodded. “Belike thou, in thy turn, didst turn upon thy comrades behind. Yet be of good cheer; for they, belike, fell also under the spell. What else dost thou recall?”

“Why…” The soldier turned away again, his eyes glazing. “Only brief snatches. I am mindful of marching in the midst of a troop, a thousand strong or more. The sorcerer’s livery bounded its rim, with those of us who wore the Duke’s colors within; and in our center rode our great Duke himself, his helmet gone, a bloody rag tied about his head—and his arms bound behind him!” He squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head. “Alas, my noble lord!”

“Buck up!” Rod reached out to clasp the man’s shoulder. “At least he’s still alive.”

“Aye, verily! For he did glare about him, cursing!” The sergeant’s eyes glittered. “Ah, gallant Duke! Him the spell could not entrap!”

“He’s a strong-willed man,” Rod agreed. “What else do you remember?”

“Why… coming home.” The sergeant’s mouth tightened. “Eh, but what manner of homecoming was this? For I saw an armed band haling milord Duke away to his own dungeons. Then, with wild cheering, all soldiers turned, to welcome the sorcerer Alfar as he rode through the gates in a gilded coach—and I, I was one of them!”

“What did he look like?” Rod demanded.

The sergeant shook his head. “I cannot truly say. ‘Twas naught but a brief glimpse ‘twixt the curtains of a rolling coach, as he went by. A slight man, with a flowing beard and a velvet hat. No more could I tell thee.”

Simon nodded. “And after that?”

“After? Why—the guardroom. And those of us who wore the Duke’s livery had no weapons. Yet we played at dice, and quaffed wine, the whiles they who wore the sorcerer’s livery took us, one by one, away, and brought us back wearing Alfar’s colors.” His face worked; he spat.

“What happened when you were taken away?” Rod asked gently.

The sergeant shrugged. “I went willingly; wherefore not? The sorcerer was all-wise and good; assuredly his folk could not harm me!” His mouth tightened, as though he’d tasted bitterness. “They took me, one soldier on either side, their pikes in their hands, though there was no need for such.”

“And wither did these two take thee?”

“To the chamber of the Captain of the Watch; yet ‘twas not he who waited there within. And I would not have known the place, for ‘twas darkened, and filled with sweet aromas. A candle burned on a table, and they sat me in a chair beside it, the whiles the door closed behind. ‘Twas all dark then, and I could see that one sat across from me; yet I could not tell his face nor colors, for they were lost in shadow. ‘Sleep,’ he bade me, ‘sleep well. Thou hast fought hard; thou hast fought bravely. Thou hast earned thy reward of slumber.‘

Thus he spake; and truly, mine eyes did close, and darkness folded about me, and ‘twas warm and comforting.“ He looked up, blinking. ”The rest, thou hast heard. I have but now waked from that slumber. What I remember, I recall as though ‘twere a dream.”

“What was the dream?” Rod frowned, intent. “What happened after they hyp—, uh, put your mind to sleep?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Naught. We lazed about the guardroom for a day, mayhap two, and all the talk was of the excellence of the sorcerer, and how well-suited to the duchy would be his rule.

“Then, of a sudden, the captain cried, ‘To horse!’ and we ran for our weapons. ‘The peasant folk flee,’ cried he. ‘They have taken to the roads; southwards they wander, to bear treacherous words to Earl Tudor and King Loguire. Out upon them, barracks scum! Out upon them, and haul them back or slay them were they stand!’ And out we rushed, to horse and to road, and away to the South we thundered, galloping, seeking poor folk to slaughter.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand over his eyes. “Alas, poor souls! What guilt was theirs? Only that they sought to shield their wives and bairns from war and evil! What fault was theirs, that earned so harsh a reward?” He lifted his gaze to the traveler, and his eyes were wide and haunted. “For we found them, a single family; and we found a dozen such, one by one; and one by one, we slew them. Our swords whirled, cleaving through blood and bone, flinging wide a spray of crimson. Then, when all the corpses lay pooling all their scarlet gore together in a single pond, we did dismount, slit their purses, and search their bodies, to carry away what few coins they had hoarded, to bear back to Alfar the sorcerer.” He buried his face in his hands. “Ay me! How shall I live, with such pictures seared upon my brain?” He turned to Rod. “But we have plunder—aye, booty rich indeed! For every peasant family had a coin or two—and we have thirty shillings! A pound, and half again! Wealth indeed, to hale home to Alfar!” He threw back his head, and howled, “A curse upon the man, and all his minions! A curse upon one who could do such evil to his fellow man! And curses, too, upon the witches who do serve him—on all witches, for surely such evil lies in all their hearts!”

“Nay, not so!” Simon spoke sternly. “Tis only this handful of miserable recreants who do evil to their fellow men! Belike they are unable to gain fellowship of other men and women, and blame their loneliness not on themselves, but on the other folk, who do not befriend them. I doubt me not an they do tell themselves the goodfolk envy them their magic, and therefore spurn all witches. Thus do they reason out some license for themselves to steal, and lord it over other folk.”

Rod was impressed. He hadn’t expected such insight, in an average yeoman.

Neither had the sergeant. He stared up at Simon, wide-eyed. “How well thou dost know them!”

“As well I should.” Simon’s mouth tightened at the corners. “For I am myself a warlock. But!” He held up a palm, to stop the sergeant’s startled oath. “But like the greater number of my fellows, I have learned the ways of hiding all my powers, and deal with other folk as well as any man. I have had a wife who was not a witch. Together, we reared children who, though they had some Power, learned well to hide it, and have grown up in the liking of their fellows. We do not seek for power; we do not seek for wealth. We have already what we most care for—the good regard of others.”

The sergeant’s mouth went crooked. “An thou hast so deep a regard for we humble common folk, why canst thou not ward us from these evil ones?”

“Why, so they did,” Simon answered, “those warlocks and witches who had real power. I knew one crone who was a healer—many had she mended in both mind and body; and I have known warlocks, gentle men who did speak with those whose minds were laboring in confusion, or disarranged, and led them out into the light of sanity again. But I myself?” He shrugged. “My powers were never so great. I have known warlocks who can disappear, and appear again some miles distant, and I have heard of some who can make their thoughts be heard in others’ minds—aye, even those who are not witches. But I?” He shook his head, with a sad smile. “I am none of these. I have power, aye; yet it is weak and feeble—enough to prevent my being a man, like other men, yet not enough to make me a warlock like to other warlocks. Neither fish nor flesh, I know not where to nest. Oh, I can hear what others think if they are near to me—but that is all. I did not know I could do more…” his smile hardened, “…until Alfar did bind with his spell, boys from mine own village—and they did drop their hoes, and turn to march away toward his castle, for his army, I doubt not. I ran after one, and caught him by the arm. ‘Whither dost thou go?’ I cried; but he turned sneering to me, and raised his fist, to strike me away. Yet…” and Simon’s lips curved in a small smile, “…I have some skill in arms. I fended off his blow, and struck ere he could draw his fist again, and I did stretch the poor lad senseless upon the road. And whiles he lay thus, unwillingly in slumber, I knelt beside him, frantic in my need, crying out to him, ‘Wake! Dost’a not see thou art ensorceled?’ For this was my neighbor’s son, look you, who had been my children’s playfellow. I could not stand aside to let the sorcerer take him while breath yet passed within my lungs. With every grain of my poor, puny witch power, I did seek to reach and wake his slumbering mind, where it lay ‘neath Alfar’s spell.”

The sergeant stared at him, round-eyed. “And did he waken?”

Simon nodded, closing his eyes. “He did. Praise Heaven, for he did. And when his body likewise woke, he sat up bewildered, for he’d no notion how he’d come to be there, lying in the midroad, half a league from home. I took him back to his father; yet I bethought me that what I could do for one, I might so hap to do for others. Thus, when any boy from our village did gain that far-off gaze and wander toward the High Road in a trance, I followed, struck him down, and woke his mind; and when the spell began to wrap itself around my neighbors’ minds also, I waited till night fell, and they slumbered, then passed from house to house, standing against the wall and seeking to wake them from their enchantments. At length I fell ill from exhaustion—but my village held, alone free from the weird.

“And so, at last—two days agone—a warlock came himself, a meager, pimply-faced lad, but with soldiers at his back. Then I could do naught; the boys all marched away; yet, at the least, their parents saw they were compelled.”

“Yet did the warlock not seek thee out?”

Simon shrugged. “He did attempt it; for with a whole village yet free-minded, he knew there must needs be a witch or warlock who had prevented it. Yet as I’ve told thee, my power’s weak; I can only hear thoughts. And that I was adept at hiding what little force I had. I was careful not to think of witch powers, or spell breaking; I thought only of suspicion, and how much I did resent Alfar’s dominion.” He shook his head slowly. “He could not find me; for every mind in all that hamlet thought as I did.”

“And this was but two days agone?” the sergeant cried.

“Two days,” Simon confirmed.

“Then ‘tis months that thou hast held thy neighbors’ minds ‘gainst Alfar’s spell!”

“It is. Yet in all comely truth, ‘tis not till now that Alfar’s had soldiers to spare for such an errand.”

“Aye.” The sergeant’s face hardened again. “Yet with the Duke captured, he could spare the men, and the time—for all present threats were laid.”

“I doubt it not. Yet I assure thee, I did tremble with relief when that warlock passed from our village.

“Then I bethought me that I’d cheated Death quite long enow. Nay, I reasoned that I’d done my part, and had escaped thus far more by luck than skill—and, in comely truth, my daughter doth draw near to her confinement. Accordingly, I sought the better part of valor, and turned my steps southward, hoping I might break from his evil-seized, ensorceled realm into the free air of Earl Tudor’s county.”

He turned to Rod. “And I have come near—so near! Tis but a half day’s journey now, is’t not?”

Rod nodded. “Guards at the border, though. You’d have trouble getting across.”

Simon smiled, amused. “Not I.”

“Aye.” The soldier gave him an appraising glance. “Thou hast something of the look of the wild stag about thee. I doubt not an thou couldst find thy freedom through the forest trails, where no sentry’s eye doth watch.”

“Just so. Yet I think I must not go.”

“Nay!” The sergeant leaned forward. “Go thou must! Make good thine escape whilst thou may!”

“And if I do? Wilt thou?”

The sergeant lowered his gaze. “I must go back—for I’ve blood on mine hands, and must atone.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Simon snorted. “These deaths were Alfar’s doing, and none of thine. Do thou make thine escape, to join King Tuan’s army, and march back to take thy vengeance ‘gainst the sorcerer.”

The sergeant shook his head. “Nay. ‘Twould take too long. And… if we journey north again, my men and I, and take our places amidst the sorcerer’s force—then there will be peasant lives spared, when next they send out to sweep the roads. And when King Tuan comes, there will be swords to fight for him, within the sorcerer’s ranks.”

“ ‘Tis worthy,” Simon mused.

“And stupid!” Rod snorted. “The first warlock who runs a security check on the army, listening for traitorous thoughts, will find you out. All you’ll accomplish is an early execution.”

The sergeant glared at him, then turned back to Simon. “Canst thou not teach us the way of hiding our thoughts?”

“I can tell thee the way of it,” Simon said slowly, “yet ‘tis not quickly learned. It will require constant practice—and never mayest thou relent. Such vigilance is well-nigh impossible, for one who hath but newly learned. Thou mayest quite easily be found out.”

“Then give them choice,” the sergeant said. “Wake them from their spellbound sleep, and say to them what thou hast said to me. I doubt me not that all of them will choose as I do—to ride back North.”

Simon smiled, and shrugged. “Can I do less? I, who am practiced at such dissimulation? Nay. I shall be a half day’s ride behind thee.”

“That,” Rod said, “is just a form of suicide. The only thing that’s uncertain about it, is the date.”

Simon looked up, in mild surprise. “Yet thou dost journey northward.”

“Well, yes,” Rod admitted, “But I have duty involved. It’s required of me—never mind why.”

“As it is of me—no matter why.” Simon gave him the sardonic smile and rose to his feet, standing a little taller, a little straighten “Craven was I, to ever flee. My work remains. I must turn back, and set my face against the North, that I may go to aid more souls who labor in enchanted sleep, the whiles their bodies wake.”

“Nay, thou must not!” The sergeant stepped forward, alarmed. “In truth, thou hast done all any man should ask of thee!”

“ ‘Tis good of thee, to speak so.” Simon smiled with gentle warmth. “Yet I’m beholden to them—for look you, these are my people, and have been all my life. They have aided me in all the daily trials that a poor man undergoes, and tended me and mine in illness, and consoled us in bereavement—as I have done for them. Such bonds are not severed only for reason that I’m the only one able to give aid now. Nay, i’ truth I played the craven, when that I did flee.”

“Thou didst not,” the sergeant asserted. “What will it profit them, for thou to turn back? Thy spell-breaking will but draw the warlock to thee again—and when he hath taken thee, thy folk will rest spellbound once more.”

Simon fairly beamed, but shook his head. “I may escape his notice, as I’ve done already. Nay, I’ll not again play coward.”

The sergeant sighed. “Thou wast not craven to be afeared; for certes, thou hast much to fear. Therefore, an thou wilt wake my men from this foul spell, we all shall company thee.”

“And make the danger greater!” Rod stepped forward, frowning. “How much chance do you think you boys would have against a squad of twenty, Auncient?”

The sergeant hesitated, frowning.

Rod pressed the point. “One civilian, going North with five armed men? Alfar’s witch-sentries would smell a rat, even if they didn’t have noses.”

Simon’s face lit with a delighted smile. “Yet think, good-man! They could say I was their prisoner!”

Rod gave the sergeant a jaundiced eye. “Do you have any orders about taking prisoners?”

“Nay,” the sergeant admitted. “We were commanded to but slay and rob.”

“You’d stand out like a haystack in a cornfield.” Rod shook his head. “Pleasant fellow, isn’t he, this Alfar? Efficient, though. Nasty, but efficient.”

“Nay; he’s most plainly evil,” the sergeant growled.

“Yeah, but you don’t fight evil by standing out in front of a full army and declaring war on them. At least, not when you’re only a handful.”

Simon gave the sergeant a sad nod. “Tis even so, Auncient. Thou and thy men were best to fare on southward.”

The sergeant’s jaw tightened; he shook his head. “I will not choose to go—nor, I think, will even one of my men.”

“Well, if you’re bound and determined,” Rod sighed, “let’s make your lives as expensive as possible. Even just a handful of men can do an amazing amount of damage.”

“Indeed?” The sergeant turned to him eagerly. “How dost thou mean?”

“You could be guerillas,” Rod explained. “The word means ‘little war,’ and that’s just what you do—make little wars within a big war. Most of the time, you see, you’d be riding along like good little Alfarites—but whenever there’s a chance, you can turn into raiders.”

The sergeant clamped his lips, turning away in exasperation. “What use are bandits, ‘gainst an army?”

“A lot, if you choose the right targets. For example, if you break into the armoury and steal all the crossbow bolts, or even break all the arrows…”

The sergeant lifted his head, eyes lighting. “Aye—that would hamper an army’s fighting, would it not?”

“Some,” Rod agreed, “though there are still spears, pikes, and swords. At this level of technology, commandoes have a tougher time hurting the main army. Actually, I was thinking of you getting into the kitchens and pouring a few bucketfuls of salt on the food.”

Slowly, the sergeant grinned.

“It’ll work even better if you can link up with the other groups who’ve had their spells broken,” Rod added.

The sergeant stared. “There be others?”

“There will be.” Simon’s eye glittered.

Rod glanced at him, and tried to suppress a smile. He turned back to the sergeant. “Yes, uh, a Southern witch, yesterday—she broke the spell on another squad, like yours, and they opted to go back North, too.”

“Allies!” the sergeant cried, then frowned in doubt. “But how shall we know them? We cannot ask every soldier in the sorcerer’s army, ‘Art thou of the band whose spell is broke?’ ”

“Scarcely,” Rod agreed. “But any bands Simon frees from now on, he can give secret names—ones you can say aloud for everyone to hear, but that only the ones whose spells are broken will recognize. For example, from now on, you’ll be, um… Balthazar.” He turned to Simon. “And you can name the auncients of the next two groups you free, ‘Melchior’ and ‘Casper.’ ”

“What use is this?” the sergeant demanded.

“Well, if another soldier comes up to you, and says he has a message from Auncient Melchior, you can exchange information, because you’ll know he’s a part of the freedom movement. But you shouldn’t get together, mind you. The bigger your force, the easier you’ll be to find.”

“Then what use this sending of messages?”

“So you can all agree to hit the same target at the same time. For example, you might want to make a big enough raid to actually take over a castle, or something. And, of course, when King Tuan’s army marches North, you can all meet just behind the sorcerer’s army, and hit them from the back while he hits ‘em from the front.”

“Doth he come, then?” The sergeant fairly pounced on the idea.

“Oh, he’ll come,” Rod said, with more certainty than he felt. “A message went South, yesterday.”

Simon and the sergeant both stared at him.

With a sinking heart, Rod realized he’d made a bad slip.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he added, lamely.

“Certes, thou couldst not,” Simon murmured. “Yet I bethink me thou’rt not the humble yeoman farmer that thou dost seem.”

“Aye,” the sergeant agreed. “Thou’rt a man of arms, by thy knowledge. What rank hast thou? What is thy station?”

“Proxima Centauri Terminal,” Rod answered. “And as to my rank, just take my word for it—I’ve got enough to know what I’m talking about. And as to the name, call me, uh—‘Kern.’ ”

Instantly, he knew it was a bad choice. If people call you Kern, said his id, from its morass of superstitious fear, you’ll lose track of who you are. You’ll start thinking you are Kern, and you’ll be absorbed into him.

Ridiculous, his ego responded. Kern’s will can’t reach across universes. The name’s just a word, not a threat to your identity.

His superego surveyed the two, came to its own conclusions, and declared it a draw.

Rod swallowed, firmed his jaw, and stuck to his story. “Kern,” he said again. “That’s all you need to know. Just take it and go with it as far as you can, Auncient.”

“Indeed I will. Yet why ought I not to know who it is who doth command me?”

“Not command,” Rod pointed out. “I’m just giving you advice. It was your idea to go back North, not mine. If you want a command, I’ll tell you to go South.”

“Nay,” the sergeant said quickly. “Yet I thank thee for thy good, um, ‘advice.’ ”

“My pleasure, I’m sure. And, of course, if the worst should happen, and they should capture you…”

“I will not betray thee,” the sergeant said firmly. “Let them bring hot irons; let them bring their thumbscrews. I shall breathe no word.”

“You won’t have to. All they’ll have to do is read your mind. You may be able to keep from saying it aloud, but you can’t keep from thinking about it.”

The sergeant looked doubtful.

Rod nodded. “So the whole idea is to not know anything more than is absolutely necessary. But—just in case we should be able to get something moving, mind you…”

“Aye!”

“If someone should come to you, and say that Kern says to attack a given place at a given time, you’ll know what to do.”

The soldier lifted his head, with a slow grin. “Aye. I shall indeed now. And I swear to thee, I will execute what thou dost command.”

“Good man.” Rod slapped him on the shoulder. “Now—let’s get to waking up your men.” He turned to Simon. “If you would, Master Simon? The sooner we can split up and hit the road, the better.”

Simon nodded, with a smile, and turned away to the fallen troopers.

“Well done,” Fess’s voice murmured behind Rod’s ear. “You excel as a catalyst, Rod.”

“Oh, I’m great at knocking over the first domino,” Rod muttered back. “Only trouble is, this time I have to set them up, too.”