The Warlock Insane

Chapter Fifteen

Rod stared, galvanized. He knew that face, that form, even as the anger left it for a mordant grin.

"They'll not bother ye more, that ragtag horde," the spectre assured him.

"Big Tom," Rod whispered.

"Aye, 'tis me. Wherefore dost thou look so grim?"

Rod's mouth moved, but he couldn't force the words out.

The ghost frowned, then lifted its head as understanding came. "Thou dost feel guilt for my death, dost thou not?"

"I should have prevented it," Rod whispered.

"Thou couldst not. 'Twas done in battle, and 'twas an enemy's blow, not thine."

"But you were my man."

"I was mine own man, never aught else's. An I served thee as squire, 'twas for mine own ends—as well thou didst know."

"Yes." The reminder of deception helped; Rod got his voice back. He cleared his throat and spoke aloud. "Yes.

you were trying to manipulate me for your totalitarian buddies."

"There! Tis easily said, is't not? And as I sought to maneuver thee, so thou didst seek to make use of me."

Rod twitched uncomfortably. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way…"

' 'Thou didst not seek to sway me to support thee? Thou didst not seek to recruit me to fight for the Queen?"

"There! I knew I was responsible for your death!"

"Thou art not, and thou dost know't!" the ghost snapped. "I did join in the fray to advance mine own cause, not thine! 'Twas my doing, never thine! What! Art thou so arrogant as to claim all achievement for thine own?''

"Of course not! You know me better than that!"

"Aye, and therefore know that 'twas mine own fault, not thine to steal! An thou wilt not steal credit, thou must needs not steal blame! So, an thou didst not wish to make me thy pawn, what didst thou seek?" i "To make you my ally."

The ghost was silent, a glow kindling in its cavernous eyes. Slowly, it nodded. "In that, thou didst succeed. Yet couldst thou have sustained that alliance, an I had lived?"

"I'd like to think so," Rod said carefully. "We'd shared quite a few dangers together, not to mention a dungeon other than this. I had hoped that I could have persuaded you to stay my friend."

The ghost smiled, and said, "Thou hast."

Rod just stared.

Then, slowly, he smiled, too. "So. That's why you chased away my persecutors."

Big Tom dismissed them with a snort of contempt and a wave of his hand. "That pusillanimous crew? They were not fit to torment a merchant, much less a doughty agent!"

Rod smiled. Gramarye born or not, Big Tom had had a modern education—very modern; he was from hundreds of years down the time-line—and was a devout totalitarian. To him, the capitalist, not the criminal, was the lowest form of human life. "They were doing a good enough job on me just the same." He shuddered. "I didn't know I was like that.''

"Thou didst, or thou wouldst not say so. Thou didst, yet thou art not—for each of thine evil impulses is controlled so tightly it ne'er can force action."

"Not now, it's not." Rod turned somber, remembering. "I'm hallucinating and attacking anything that moves, almost."

"Thou art, and hast therefore sought the wilderness, where thou hast the least chance to hurt any soul. If thou canst not control thine impulses, thou canst control thy body so as to minimize aught chance of damage."

Rod looked up. "You make me sound better than I am."

"I think I do not." The ghost sat down cross-legged and leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking into Rod's eyes with orbs of fire. "Thou art a good man, Rod Gallow-glass, and a most excellent companion. Be mindful of that. Be ever mindful."

"I am," Rod said in a small voice.

The ghost raised an eyebrow.

"Well… I'll try, Big Tom. I'll try."

"Do." The ghost straightened up. "And know that this madness is not of thine own making."

Rod frowned. "My own making? How can insanity be 'made'?"

"By slipping a drug in a glass of wine," Big Tom returned, "or, in thy case, in a chestnut."

Rod stared. ^

Then he said, "You've been talking to Fess."

"In a manner of speaking." The ghost leaned back, smiling. "What he hath said is in thy memory, is't not? And I am thy hallucination, am I not?"

"Well… I suppose, if you say so." Rod looked forlorn. "But I had kinda hoped you were real."

"Thou dost believe that I am, but in an Afterworld," Big Tom reminded. "If thou'rt right, it may be my spirit speaks to thee through this seeming—or it may be 'tis thine own unconscious mind that doth speak through me, for surely 'tis of that unconscious that thine hallucinations are made."

"I've heard that, that hallucinations are projections of your unconscious mind, as dreams are."

"To be sure thou hast heard it, or I could not say it."

"So you're the voice of my subconscious." Rod sat back, too. "Okay, tell me—what has my subconscious figured out?"

"Why, that the robot's computer brain hath the right of it, as it ever doth in problems of reason, and thy Futurian enemies did taint the old woman's chestnuts with some substance that doth induce hallucinations."

"And paranoia?" Rod nodded. "Yes, I've heard of drugs that will do that. But how about my family, Big Tom? How come they didn't start hallucinating?"

"Why, for that the drug given thee was summat which did affect them not at all, yet did wreak havoc within thy brain."

Rod shook his head. "Mighty picky of it. Do you know offhand of any substance that could discriminate that way?"

"Aye—witch-moss, the fungus that doth respond to telepathic projection."

"Witch-moss? But that's poison!"

"Would thine enemies be concerned therefore?"

"Well… no," Rod said slowly. "And come to that, I don't know that it's poisonous; I had just naturally assumed it was."

"Ask the elves—mayhap they know."

Rod looked up, his brain making connections. "But it wouldn't be poisonous to them—they're made of witch-moss!"

Big Tom sat there and nodded.

"And Gwen's father," Rod said slowly, "is Brom O'Berin, who's half elven. So Gwen is a quarter elven, and each of my kids is one-eighth…"

"No great amount," Big Tom agreed, "Yet mayhap enough."

"Yeah, enough so that the witch-moss responds to their subconsciouses, and molds itself right into their DNA! Of course it wouldn't hurt them—it would give them a little more psi power, if anything! But me…"

"It would magnify thy subconscious," Big Tom said, "out of all control of thy conscious mind—and here I am."

"Yes, here you are," Rod murmured.

He was silent for a few minutes, trying to get used to the idea. Finally, he said, "But why give me something that would make me see monsters?"

"Why," Big Tom said, "dost thou think thine enemy would leave thee to wander whole?"

"Yes, while he makes hay at home—or at least an insurrection." Rod stiffened as he caught Big Tom's meaning. "Hey! You don't mean the agent who masterminded this little scheme is still following me, do you?"

"Wherefore not? Would he not wish to be sure of thee?"

" 'Be sure' sounds uncomfortably like 'execute ' "

"It doth, and 'tis like to be uncomfortable^m the extreme."

Rod wondered whether it was Big Tom talking or his own paranoia.

What was the difference?

Nothing—if Big Tom really was a product of Rod's overactive imagination.

If.

"Of course," Rod said slowly, "you could be a real ghost."

"There are no ghosts." But Big Tom was smiling.

"Oh, yeah? How about Horatio Loguire and his corps of courtiers that I met in the abandoned quarter of Castle Loquire?"

"They were witch-moss constructs," Big Tom said immediately.

Rod nodded. "Possible. Very tenuous, but nonetheless crafted unwittingly by some ancient bard who had known the originals while they were alive, and sang of them after their deaths. Probably shocked him as much as anyone when they 'came back.' But…"

"What else?" Big Tom leaned forward with professional interest.

"I have this son," Rod said slowly, "who has lately turned out to be a psychometricist. He hears thoughts people left in the objects around them, and if he isn't careful, he starts seeing the people, too."

"He doth wake the dead?"

"I always said he made enough noise to, when he was a baby. Now, let's just say some innocent who didn't know he was a psychometricist happened to walk into the haunted part of Castle Loguire…"

"Was his name Rod Gallowglass?"

"If it was, he didn't know it at the time. Besides, the first one who had that little 'accident' was probably several hundred years ago—and the scare story he brought back was reinforced by a few others down through the centuries. Who knows? Maybe they did it so often that they set up a psionic standing wave, and after a while, the ghosts existed without them. Or maybe I just did a little bit to raise their spirits, after all."

"Mayhap thou didst. And if their spirits, why not mine, eh?"

"Right. Got an answer?"

"Aye—my bones are not here, nor did I haunt this castle whilst alive. In truth, I knew not of it."

"A point," Rod admitted, "but not an insuperable one. You seem to have caught the popular imagination, Big Tom. I still hear beggars who were at the battle tell of the giant Tom who fell fighting the lords, and died blessing the High Warlock."

Big Tom answered with a mordant grin. "I would not call it 'blessing.' "

"In your death, you gave me words for life."

"I but enjoined thee not to die for a dream." The ghost's gaze sharpened. "I see though hast not."

"No," Rod said slowly, "I'm still alive."

"As I am dead. Yet I would die thus again, if I could be sure 'twould bring greater happiness to the poor folk for whom I fought."

"Yes," Rod said softly. "They knew that. That's why they still tell your story, all over the country."

"And doth greater happiness come to them?" the ghost demanded, an edge to his voice.

"They're better off than they were," Rod said. "Fewer of them die in the lords' civil wars now, b^ause Tuan enforces the peace. And more of them have enough to eat, and clothes to wear."

"Yet not all?"

Rod spread his hands. "I'm doing what I can, Big Tom. After all, I can't spring modern farming methods and medicine on them all in one instant."

"Nay, nor would I have thee do so—for to bring it to them from off-planet would mean they would collapse when thy government withdrew it. Then would there be great famine indeed, and pestilence with it."

"There would," Rod agreed. "We have to help them build it up on their own, so it'll be self-sustaining. But we're making progress."

"And thou dost not seek the welfare of thy children in this?"

"Of course I do. But my kids' welfare is tied up with the people's welfare, Big Tom. Modern technology doesn't come in one generation. Who will be their teachers after I'm gone?"

"There is no shortage of volunteers."

"Yes—the futurian anarchists."

Big Tom turned and spat. "They would abandon all technology, and have my people scratching the dirt with a stick once more!"

Rod nodded. "Can't support the current population level that way, no. But do you still believe your futurian totalitarian pals would do any better?"

"Mayhap," Big Tom said, scowling, "yet they've little concern for the people themselves. Their devotion is to the idea, not the folk. Nay, I will take the cash, and let the credit go."

"Nice to know I'm coin of the realm," Rod grunted.

"Hast not wished to be a medium?"

"A medium of exchange? No, thank you. I don't even want to be a channel for ghosts, though I'm finding present company quite acceptable. Why—were you wanting me to broadcast your spirit to your peasant followers?"

" 'Twould be pleasant," Big Tom admitted.

"Then enjoy, because it's happening—and without any assistance from me. You gave the poor people the notion that they're worth something in their own right, not just in terms of how valuable they are to their lords—and the idea seems to be catching on."

" Tis good to know I have been busy."

"What do you mean, 'good to know'?" Rod frowned. "You've been walking this land ever since your death, haven't you? A guest at every peasant's fireside, and a nemesis at every lord's bedside."

"Why, how could I be?" Big Tom asked with a sly grin. "I am but thine hallucination."

"I wonder," Rod murmured, eyeing his old henchman and friendly enemy. "I really wonder…"

"Do not. 'Tis superstition."

"But there's nothing wrong with wishing the dead quiet repose. What keeps you awake, Big Tom?"

"Why, certes, the people, dost thou not see? I cannot rest till all are free from want and fear, till all are masters of their own destinies."

"Then you'd better get to working on some mental health schemes, not just economic and political. You're not exactly scot-free yourself, are you?''

"The people are my tyrant," Big Tom agreed. "An thou dost wish me sweet repose, do all thou canst to raise them up."

"I do," Rod said. "I will."

"First thou must needs win back thy wits. Thou knowest that any who have offered thee hospitality have been false, dost thou not?" ^

Rod stared.

Then he said, "I thought that was my own paranoia."

"Thinking that they seek thy death? Aye, that was false. Yet think—each hath offered thee food or drink.''

Rod lifted his head slowly. "It was drugged!"

"Aye, though not with extract of poppy. There was witch-moss in the bread and water of thy hostels."

"Modwis? Even the dwarf?"

"I think not, or he'd have ne'er abided thy making meals at campfires."

"Well, he did make some remarks aboutmy cooking…"

"Truth will out. This is why thou tlast not shaken these hallucinations—because thou hast taken more witch-moss brews as thou hast traveled."

"That's it! I'm going on a diet. No food or drink unless I collect it myself!"

"The game thou didst slay was untainted, aye. Yet I would not bid thee eat such wildlife as thou wilt find within this dungeon."

"Don't worry-—low cuisine never caught my fancy. But who's going to all this trouble, and why?"

"Wherefore dost thou ask?"

"Because I can't trust my own hunches right now. I'm paranoid, remember?"

"And am I any less? Be mindful, I'm the voice of thy subconscious."

"More likely my conscience. Of course, you could be a real ghost—in which case, you could give me an unbiased view."

"Scarcely unbiased—yet I'll tell thee that thine old enemies, and mine, did thus taint thy food, and thy mind, and do reinforce the dose whene'er they can, to keep thee crazed and disabled."

"The anarchists? Then there's an uprising going on back in Runnymede!"

Big Tom nodded, eyes glowing.

"How about your old buddies? Don't tell me the totali-tarians are letting a chance like this slip away!"

"As thou dost wish—I shall not. There's no need, sin that thou hast said it thyself.''

Rod scrambled to his feet. "I've got to get back to Runnymede! Tuan and Catharine must be going crazy." He stopped, jarred by the sound of his own words.

"Crazed, in truth," Big Tom murmured. "What of thine own mind?"

"With a rebellion going on, what's a little paranoia more or less?"

"And thy wife and bairns?"

"I'll stay far away from them, of course."

"Thou canst not; they'll be working in aid of the King and Queen."

Rod froze.

"And what of thine hallucinations?" Big Tom demanded. "Shalt thou see an enemy knight, when 'tis truly thy son?"

"So I can't go help fight." Rod turned slowly, eyes narrowed. "Did you come here only to gloat?"

"Thou dost know I did not. Yet I bid thee cure thyself ere thou dost return."

"Look, I don't know how long it will take for these chemicals to pass out of my system, but by the time I've purged myself, the war will be over!"

"Mayhap," Big Tom said judiciously, "or mayhap thou canst learn to master the witch-moss."

Rod stilled, gazing at him intently.

" 'Tis witch-moss, after all," Big Tom explained, "and thou hast crafted the stuff aforetime. Canst thou not assert dominion o'er it even now, when 'tis within thee?"

"I might be able to learn," Rod said slowly, "but how will I know if I have or not? It couId just be hallucination!"

Big Tom shook his head. "Thou dost speak as though thou art truly crazed. I tell thee, thou art not. 'Tis but a substance in thy system."

"A substance that has changed my ability to see the world as it really is. No, Big Tom—that's a description of a crazy man. Just because the madness is artificially induced doesn't make it any less a madness."

The ghost shrugged. "Mayhap. Yet an thou art beset by delusions, mayhap thou canst counter them with illusions."

Rod pondered. "Why, how do I do that?"

"I cannot say." Big Tom sighed and shoved himself to his feet. "Thou must needs find those who know the manner of dealing with such unbonded imagery."

"A poet, you mean?"

"A poet, or a priest—or both. A doctor of the arts who is also a doctor of the soul."

"Great," Rod said with a sardonic smile. "Where do I find somebody with that combination?"

"I ken not. Yet thou canst, at least, take arms against the illusions thou dost know to be false."

"Wait a minute," Rod protested. "You're saying that I'm not really crazy—I'm just going to have to learn a new way of thinking?"

"In some fashion. Thou must needs learn to think in lifelike images, to oppose these false illusions with counterillusions. Thy wife and bairns were born to this mode of thought, and have no difficulty in dealing with it—yet to thee, 'tis alien."

"Then I'm not so much poisoned, as simply having had my mind fouled," Rod said slowly, "and I have to learn to deal with the foulness in its own terms." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."

"Then strive until it doth," Big Tom said. "Thy subconscious hath emerged into the perceptions of thy conscious mind, which cannot deal with its wild and rampant nature. As a beginning, take arms against those illusions thou canst be sure are only that—or are truly evil things."

"You mean Brume." Rod nodded. "Yes, I think I can go up against him with a clear conscience. He's either a total hallucination, or an esper who's out to victimize the whole countryside."

"Therefore," said Big Tom, "let us strike."

Somewhere there was a banshee howl, and a myriad of imps descended on them out of some nameless dimension.

Big Tom looked up with disgust. "The sorcerer Brume hath heard my thought, and hath called up his minions." He turned, setting his arms akimbo, and bellowed, "Avaunt!"

The imps halted in a hollow globe around them, shocked. Then their faces creased with anger, and their mouths opened in yowling.

"I bade thee hold!" Big Tom thundered, and their tentative advance halted. The yowling took on a definite halfhearted tone.

"They dare not strike whiles I am nigh," Big Tom said aside to Rod. "Do thou ope the door, whilst I hold them at bay."

"Good division of labor," Rod agreed, and he turned to the door, letting his mind drift into a trance, reaching out to the lock, probing, finding, pulling…

The bolt slid back.

Rod hauled the door open. "Care to join me?"

"Aye, and gladly." Big Tom stepped up to the doorway with a grin. The gibbering chorus started up again behind them, and the big ghost called back, without even looking at them, "Follow, an thou durst." And to Rod, "I doubt me not Brume hath penned them in here, to torment his enemies. Let them now come loose!"