The Warlock Insane

Chapter Eighteen

The ground sloped up, and the light grew brighter, until Rod found himself thinking dawn was near. But that was silly, of course—it couldn't even be midnight; Magnus wasn't back yet, and he never stayed out that late.

Then he came out of the trees into a hilltop meadow, one not made by nature—for in its center was a castle, glowing with its own inner light. The walls were translucent. It looked like a child's night-light, or a Christmas-tree ornament.

An ornament sixty feet high and a hundred yards square.

He came up to the drawbridge warily, but with determination—his son might be in there. After all, if it had drawn him, why might it not draw Magnus?

As he neared the drawbridge, the sight of the stone caught him. He stopped to take a closer look—and gazed at it, fascinated.

It was marble, all marble. By the subtle variations of shading, he could tell it was made of several different kinds of the stone—but all without a trace of grain. That was why it glowed—because it was completely pure.

No, not quite unmarked—there was something there, within the stone. He stepped nearer, went across the drawbridge to look more closely—and saw a man's torso and face, looking back at him. The stranger was surprisingly good-looking, and wore a doublet and cloak identical to Rod's own.

It took him a few minutes to admit that it was his own image.

But not himself as he had ever seen himself, for every mirror had always showed him a homely stranger who looked very competent, but strangely lacking in self-confidence. This image, however, wasn't homely at all, but was very good-looking—and if the modesty was there, it was balanced by a certain hardness, almost ruthlessness. In fact, Rod found himself recoiling—this was a very dangerous man!

But dangerous, he saw, not just because of his abilities, but because of his morality. He was safe to anyone who followed his moral code—but to anyone who lived far enough outside that code, he could be a ruthless and efficient killer; for if anyone broke the Law this man lived by, that person was completely outside that Law's protection, and the murderer before him felt justified in unleashing the fullest of his mayhem.

Rod felt himself cringing inside, even though he couldn't look away; he had always thought of himself as a nice guy.

And not without reason, he saw—there was mercy in that man's eyes, and his savagery was tempered by humor. Yes, he could be sudden death to anyone who lived outside his own ethical code—but very few people lived so completely within that code that they could knowingly break it enough to give the murderer his moral excuse. Only occasionally did he encounter such a person, a man or woman that he could truly say was evil, and then…

He enjoyed what he did.

Rod felt his soul shrivel, but there was no denying it. This man before him was a cold-blooded killer who enjoyed practicing his craft. That was the spectre that had been haunting Rod since he left Maxima; that was why he had felt the compulsion to chain this beast in morality; that was why, in his heart of hearts, he knew he was unworthy of Gwen, and of the children.

His children. What would happen if one of them ever broke that man's rules? Not just broke them—but smashed them, trampled on them.

A fierce surge of paternal protectiveness swept him. Never, he vowed silently, never would he risk a single one of them coming to harm. He swore to himself that he would kill the lizard before he could raise a hand against those kids.

But how could he kill himself?

Easy.

But he could see, behind the reflection, images of his children growing and striving in their own right, and felt reassured. They had been raised within his fence, and Gwen's. They might kick against it, they might break a rail or two in anger or resentment, but they would never try to tear it down. It was their protection as much as their prison.

But now that the scenes had begun, they continued— scenes of Rod's youth, not of the children. He saw himself again, among the mercenaries attacking a city guilty of no more than the urge to be free; he saw himself, a year later, struggling to atone by helping another band of patriots overthrow an off-planet tyranny. He watched himself duel with and kill the tyrant's bodyguard, while the locals swamped the tyrant himself. He saw himself between the stars, studying the history of the next planet Fess was taking him to in their asteroid-ship, saw himself strug-gling, manipulating, again and again, and all the time searching, hunting, for the love he knew he did not deserve.

He couldn't take his eyes off the pageant. Spellbound, he watched the scenes he remembered, but not as he remembered them; they were shown objectively, impartially. What he saw made him proud one instant and ashamed the next—exalted his spirit, but also left it humbled.

As he watched spellbound, his enemies stole up behind him.

Rod couldn't have said what it was that warned him—a creak of leather, a heavy tread—some signal that filtered through to him and broke his trance. He spun around, whipping his sword out, just in time to see an ogre followed by a handful of trolls, all advancing across the drawbridge. The ogre was ten feet tall, with legs a foot and a half thick, foot-thick arms, massive chest and shoulders, and nothing but a twist of loincloth for clothing. He was hairy and filthy. His eyes were tiny and bright with greed, peering out from under shaggy eyebrows. His nose was a blob, and two long fangs thrust up from his jaw. His trolls shambled behind him, their faces brutal, their bodies formidable, their fingers sprouting talons.

The ogre gave a little gloating laugh and slammed his club down at Rod.

Rod shouted and leaped back; the club spun by him. Then he leaped in again, slamming a kick into the ogre's solar plexus; but the monster only grunted, and swung from the hip. Rod was just landing as the blow struck, still a little off balance; he leaped to the side, but not enough; the club caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, and his whole right arm went numb. He tumbled into the snow on the drawbridge and saw a troll pouncing on him, claws winking in the castle's glow. Rod scrabbled frantically for the sword and managed to get it up between the troll and himself, clumsily, left-handed.

The troll couldn't stop; he skewered himself on the sword, knocking Rod backward onto the drawbridge. The monster screamed and died, but his flailing talons flexed in death, shredding Rod's doublet and chest. Blood welled, and his whole front blazed with pain. He yelled and struggled up, barely able to wrench his sword free in time to see the ogre towering over him, club high in both hands, trolls pressing in all about him, and the dead troll's scream still rang in his ears…

Only the scream was coming from behind the trolls, and something struck the ogre hard in the back. He stumbled and turned with a roar, and Rod saw Fess, reared up and lashing out with hooves and teeth. He lunged at a troll; the monster stumbled back and fell into the moat with a howl, where it began to dissolve. Another troll grabbed at Fess, bellowing; steel teeth reached for him, but the ogre was smashing out with the club, and Fess was trying to hit him with a hoof, rearing high and slamming down…

Down stiff-legged, knees locked, head swinging between the fetlocks. He had had a seizure.

And the ogre's club was slamming down.

Rod bellowed and barreled into the ogre with his full weight, driving into the small of his back. The ogre wobbled, swung around, and lashed out at Rod with a roar. Rod fell back, but the club caught him alongside the head, and his ears rang while stars danced before his eyes. He struggled to clear his head, waiting for the blow to fall, knowing he was doomed, hearing the roaring still…

Then the stars were gone, but the bellowing was still there. The ogre had turned away from him, and was battling something on his other side. Then one of the trolls lurched and fell into the river. Modwis rose up where he'd been, buckler on his arm, mace in his hand—and behind him, Beaubras battled the ogre with axe and sword while his charger guarded his back, lashing out at the trolls with hoof and tooth.

Gasping for breath, Rod limped toward them. He couldn't let the knight die in his defense without at least helping, though Heaven only knew what Beaubras was doing alive again.

The horse struck out, and the last troll fell into the moat with a wail of despair—but the ogre's club finally battered down Beaubras's guard, and a huge blow slammed the knight's own axe flat against his head. Beaubras reeled and fell, and the ogre swung up a huge foot, to stamp on him.

Rod finally got there and stabbed the foot.

The ogre howled, flailing for balance on the edge of the moat. He almost recovered—but Modwis was there, throwing all his weight against a huge kneecap, and the ogre tottered and fell, with a roar of wrath that changed to terror. He hit the water with a huge splash, and his howl cut off. The moat heaved, and was still.

"Allergic to water, too, I guess," Rod muttered, and turned back to the knight, his own head whirling.

Modwis was there before him, kneeling beside Beaubras, cradling the knight's head in the dwarf's arm. The knight looked up at him, and Rod saw the slick of blood that covered the whole side of his head. "Do not weep for me, friend," he whispered, but Modwis's eyes were filled with tears, anyway.

"Hang in there," Rod grated. "You'll make it—somehow."

Beaubras turned back to him with a sad smile. "Nay, Lord Gallowglass—though I thank Heaven I… came in time."

"But how did you… I mean, you were…"

"Dead?" The knight gave him a weak smile. "Only gone—as I go now. You must act for both of us, Lord Gallowglass, for both of us together, in this world and your own. Yet fear not—for I shall come again. I shall always come again."

Then he sighed, and went limp.

Rod stared, aghast.

The knight's form rippled, thinned, and was gone.

Modwis looked at his empty hands in disbelief, then looked up at Rod in mute appeal—but the light glinted stars off the tears in his eyes, and the stars grew and dazzled, filling Rod's vision with a fall of light. Dimly through it, he thought he saw a beautiful lady, with long, blond hair bound by a coronet, followed by several nuns. But that couldn't have been, there weren't any nuns on Gramarye, and Rod found himself tumbling again, into a world of light.

The leprechaun crouched over the Lord Warlock's body, hammer in his hand, glaring at the tall woman.

"Peace, Old One," she said. "We come to aid your friend, not to hurt him."

"Who be these women by ye?" Modwis demanded. "Wherefore are they garbed in monks' robes?"

"Why, for that they are monks—though with ladies, they are spoken of as 'nuns.' "

"We are Sisters of Saint Vidicon, Old One," the first woman said. She was plump, with kindly eyes peering from under the white headband that separated her face from her hood. "We have dedicated our lives to the worship of God, and the service of our fellow sinners."

The leprechaun winced at the name of God, but held his ground, and his suspicion lessened. "Ye are healers, then?"

"Aye, and we could not help but see what befell at our very gate. Dost know who was that half-armored fellow in the red robe?"

"A fell knave hight Brume, who hath followed this man through half of Gramarye, to plague him. Beyond that, I

know only that his peasant band fled as soon as they were struck. Will ye mend my companion, then?"

"We will that," the lady replied. "Sisters, take him up."

Two of the nuns unrolled a stretcher, placed it beside Rod, set themselves, and heaved him onto the canvas. Then they rose and carried him in through the Gothic arch, past the low walls.

The lady with the coronet turned back to Modwis. "Thou art welcome, an thou dost wish to enter and rest."

"Nay," the leprechaun returned, "for thy holy places are bane to us. Yet I will abide in a hollow tree nearby. An thou hast need of me, lady, but call out, 'Modwis, come hither!' "

"I shall, friend—and fear not; my friends shall care for thine. Canst thou tell me his name?"

But the leprechaun was gone, vanished like a dream. The lady smiled sadly and turned away, going into the convent. The porter closed the oaken shutters behind her.