The Warlock Insane

Chapter Two

The trees closed behind him. Rod glanced back, and saw only a maze of bare branches, outlined by the snow clinging to them. At once, he slowed his pace with a sigh of relief. "They did it. They stayed."

"They do recognize your need for occasional solitude, Rod."

"Still there, Steel Steed?" Rod looked up at his old companion, and was surprised to see that the great black horse was facing front, not watching him. For some reason, this made the pressure roll off. "Well. So I'm on sick leave."

"It would seem advisable," the robot agreed.

"Great!" Rod stretched, then relaxed with a happy sigh. "No more emergency calls from Tuan and Catharine! At least, not for a while."

"Yet Gwen will have to manage the children alone," Fess murmured.

"She does, anyway, Fess, you know that. I'm just a security symbol for them all, a sort of animated teddy bear."

"Oh, no, Rod! You do them an injustice. You are far more, to all of them…" He stopped, seeing that his owner wasn't listening.

"Fess—what's that great big brown blob over there?"

"Where, Rod?" Fess followed Rod's gaze, but saw nothing.

Rod, however, saw a large, fat animal stand up on its hind legs and wave, a cheerful smile on its face. "It's a bear, Fess—six feet tall, if it's an inch. Very friendly-looking, too," he said, puzzled. "I thought bears were supposed to be hibernating."

"They are, Rod." There was a cautious note to the robot's voice. "Are its legs much thicker than is normal for its kind?"

"Yeah, and it has pink pads instead of paws… Hey!" Rod whirled, staring up at Fess. "You don't mean it's a teddy!"

"Yes, Rod—an animated teddy bear, such as you were just discussing."

"Odd coincidence." Rod waved back to the teddy, then watched it stroll away into the wood. It looked rather familiar. "You don't mean it showed up because I talked about it?"

"That is a distinct possibility, Rod. If you are hallucinating, anything that comes to your mind might appear."

"And anything that's there, waiting to surface, but hasn't come to the fore yet?" Rod frowned. "Don't know if I like the sound of that last part.''

"It may turn out to be fallacious—but perhaps the visual images stored in your subconscious will not arise unless some random association triggers them."

"Like that thought about my role in the family." Rod glanced about him, suddenly apprehensive. "Right now, Fess, it looks to me as though I'm walking through a moonlit deciduous forest, with snow outlining the limbs of the trees."

"You are, Rod."

"So the forest is real, anyway." Rod rubbed a glove across his chin.

A long, mournful cry echoed through the forest, and a shadow with eyes of fire detached itself from a nearby branch. "Fess! It's a vampire!"

"No, Rod—it is only an owl."

The huge bat dove at them, its jaws lolling open to show glistening fangs. Rod ducked, grabbed up a branch with a sharpened tip, and stabbed at the monster's breast. With a howl of dread, it sheered off and hurtled away into the forest. "Owl or not," Rod muttered, "I had to deal with it in terms of the fantasy it came from." Then a sudden thought struck him. "What am I holding, Fess?"

"A broken twig, Rod. "

"It grew amazingly." Rod threw the sharpened stake away. "This is going to take some getting used to. Well, at least I have light." He looked up at the planetoid overhead. "Hey! It stayed a moon!"

"It would seem that the spell has passed," Fess murmured.

"Only temporarily." Rod shook his head. "Be nice if it would stay gone—but I think I'd better wait a while, to make sure."

The moon reddened.

"Uh—strike that."

"What is happening, Rod?"

"The moon has turned crimson. A big, fat drop is collecting on its bottom… it's dripping…" Rod squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "No, I don't think I'm ready to go home."

"It is surely a chemical imbalance," the robot protested. "A blood analysis…"

Rod looked up, horrified. Fess had grown batwings; two long, sharp fangs protruded from his mouth. "Get away from me!"

"But, Rod… I only meant…"

"Meant to stop by for a quick sip! What the hell is this, a vampire horse?"

"Exactly," chuckled a rich baritone voice.

Rod whirled, and saw a tall, debonair devil lounging against a tree trunk, twirling its tail. "Go to blazes!"

"Oh, all right," the devil grumped. "But I'll find you later." He exploded into flame and was gone, leaving Rod trembling.

"Rod, surely the correct antidote…"

"There is no antidote!" Rod leaped back. "Because there's no poison! You're in this with them! You're all out to get me—even you, my old tutor and guardian! Get away! Get out of here! Go!"

The vampire horse stood, glaring at him with eyes of fire.

Rod whipped out his dagger. "Turn into a sword!" The blade sprouted, grew three feet. "Silver!" Rod cried, and the sheen of steel turned to a mirror finish.

"I will go," the vampire said slowly. "But I am grieved to find that your imbalance is so severe as to make you doubt me, Rod."

"Doubt? I'm sure of it! Now get out of here, before I run you through."

"I will go." The horse turned away—and as it went, the glow in its eyes died, the fangs shrank and were gone, the wings dwindled and flowed back into the form of a saddle—and only familiar old Fess plodded away through the snow, head hanging.

Rod felt a stab of remorse. "No! I mean…"

Fess paused and lifted his head, turning to face Rod. "Yes?"

"It's ebbing again," Rod explained. "It seems to come and go—and it makes me paranoid when it happens."

"I have heard of such phenomena," Fess answered.

Rod frowned. "Just reinforcing my natural tendencies, you mean?" Then before Fess could answer, "Never mind—it doesn't really matter. Whatever it is, I'll have to figure it out and learn to cope with it. You'll have to leave me alone to work it out, Fess. I know that's hard for you, but you'll have to."

"I have always endeavored not to be overly protective, Rod, in spite of my programming."

"Yeah—and I know how hard that is." Rod grimaced, remembering how he had to school himself to leave Gregory and Cordelia to fend for themselves—not always successfully. And Magnus and Geoffrey, when they were little. "No need to override that tendency completely, though. Don't be too far away, okay?"

The great black horse stared at him for a moment, while its eyes seemed to quicken again. Then it said, "I will come at your call, Rod."

"Thanks, old friend." Rod grinned with relief. "But you'd better not stay too close."

"I understand. I will be here, but not here." And the horse turned away, fading into the night.

Rod frowned, wondering if Fess had donned a cloak of invisibility. The thought alarmed him—he looked about in near panic, wondering how many invisible enemies might be looming over him.

"Magic spectacles." The devil was there again, a set of lenses dangling from its hand. "Guaranteed to let you see anyone wearing a cloak of invisibility, or even a Tarnhelm, anywhere nearby—and available only to you."

"Through this special offer, eh?" Rod glowered. "What's the price?"

"Only your signature, in blood." -

Rod shook his head. "I couldn't read the fine print right now—it might keep changing on me. Retro me, Satanus!"

"Wrong devil," the demon scoffed, "but I take your point. Just remember, the offer remains open." It faded, and was gone.

"The offer is also empty," Rod snorted. Then he remembered that the biggest step in invention was realizing that something could be done—after that, research and engineering went faster. "Well, if I'm hallucinating, I ought to get some good out of it. Magic glasses! Appear!" He snapped his fingers, then held his hands out, cupped to catch.

Nothing happened.

"Might have known it wouldn't work when I wanted it to," he muttered, and turned away, plodding off into the night.

Rod hadn't gone far when he began to hear the piteous wail.

He broke into a trot—the fastest pace possible in the thick snow. The sound was that of someone in trouble and, his own natural inclination to help aside, he had to confront the hallucinations sprung from his secret fears, not flee from them.

Around a bend in the path, past a curving wall of trees, he saw a huge old oak tree, its trunk riven by some long-forgotten lightning bolt. The cleft in the trunk had closed fast around the arm of an old peasant woman who was moaning and shivering in the cold. She saw Rod. "A rescue, kind sir! Free me from the grip of this evil tree!"

And, so help him, the tree gave a menacing grumble.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a quick shake, then looked again. The oak and the crone were still there—of course. Still, what he saw might not be what she was seeing—or was she part of the hallucination, too?

One way to find out. He stepped up cautiously. "How did you come to catch your arm in that oak tree's trunk, grandmother?"

"I sought to grasp that sprig of mistletoe, sir, for the holiday!" A sprig dangled just beyond the woman's reach, for all the world like bait. "I reached, and the tree rocked toward me and caught my arm! Wilt free me, good sir? Oh, I beg of thee!"

A limb reached down twiggy fingers. Rod drew his sword in a slashing arc, and the twigs drew back with a shriek of stressed wood. The trunk rumbled angrily.

Rod looked up, eyes alight. "Doesn't like the steel, does it? Well, then, ma'am, all I have to do is…" He stretched out the blade, probing into the crack in the trunk. The tree moaned in horror, and the edges of the cleft shrank back. The old lady snatched her arm free with a shout of joy, and the tree rocked forward, rumbling in rage.

"Run!" Rod shouted, as a branch struck at him like a club. He dodged, but other branches began to wave and lash the air, reaching toward him, while the tree's groans rose to thunder—and nearby trees began to stir restlessly.

Well, if it hadn't liked the steel of the sword, what would it really fear? Rod remembered a six-foot-long, two-handed lumberjack's saw he'd seen in a museum once— and his sword fluxed and stretched, growing until he found himself holding just such a toothy blade in his hands.

The tree shrank back with a moan of fear.

"Sir, behind thee!" the crone cried, and Rod spun around to see a branch with a huge, knotted burl on its end, striking at him. He swung the saw about, holding the teeth up. The burl halted its swing and bobbed up while the trunk let out a positive wail. Rod turned back at the sound, brandishing the saw like a two-handed shield, and began retreating. "Stay behind me, Granny! We'll get out of here the slow way, but we'll get out!"

So they did, a foot at a time, away from the old oak and back toward the pathway. The oak thundered in anger, its branches lashing the air, and the nearby trees began to rock as though huge gusts were racking the forest. But the farther from the oak they went, the fewer the number of trees that were uneasy until, a hundred yards along the path, they were walking through a calm winter forest again, with trees whose branches moved only to the gentle night breezes.

Rod stopped in a patch of moonlight and wiped his brow. "Whew! That was a close one, Granny!"

"It was, in truth—yet we are free, and thou has saved me." The old woman's eyes were huge.

"Glad to help." Rod frowned at the saw, thinking what an inconvenience it was going to be to lug around—and it shrank back into a dagger again.

The old woman gasped. "Assuredly, sir, thou must needs be a puissant wizard!"

"Only a warlock, ma'am." Rod slipped the dagger away, trying to hide the trembling of his hand. "And to tell you the truth, I'm a little uneasy about that right now. I've never been able to make things change shape before. Unless they were made of witch-moss, of course."

"Thou art a crafter, too?" The old woman shrank back, raising a trembling hand to her lips.

"Hey, hold on, now! Nothing to be afraid of!" Rod's fright faded before his concern for someone else. "Don't believe all that nonsense you've heard about magic-folk! We're just like any other people—some good, some bad, and an awful lot in between. I'm one of the last ones—no saint, but basically a nice guy, as long as you don't attack me."

"Oh, I shall not, sir, I assure thee!"

"I believe you. But look, you've got to be freezing. How long were you standing there with your arm caught in that tree, anyway?"

"Since—since not long after noon, sir."

"You must be a lump of ice. Come on, I'll walk you home. Where do you live?"

" Tis but a cottage in the wildwood, sir. And you've no need to put thysen out for the likes of me…" But she glanced from side to side with apprehension.

Rod's resolve firmed. "It's no trouble, Granny—I wasn't going anywhere specific, anyway. Come on, let's go."

"Well… an it please thee, sir." She fell into step beside him, clutching her basket to her scrawny chest, eyes still flicking from side to side, wary of the night's dangers. "Pray the Wee Folk do not find us!"

"Why? We could use some help. Say, I can't keep calling you 'Granny'—we're not even related."

"Oh, do, kind sir, an it please thee! All other folk do—old Granny Ban, they call me, the Woman in the Wood."

"Not too many old ladies who opt for solitude, hm? Well, I'm Rod Gallowglass." He ignored her start of recognition, casually turning away to eye the forest. "Personally, I think you have a nice neighborhood."

"I do find beauty in it, sir." The old woman managed a timorous smile. "And the wild creatures do be good neighbors indeed, save the wolves and bears."

"You're just lucky one of them didn't come by while you were stuck in that tree." Rod frowned. "Or did it have them frightened, too?"

"I know not, sir—I ha' ne'er come near that oak aforetime. Yet I misdoubt me an…"

The conversation went on, her answers becoming longer and longer—and, bit by bit, he drew her out, until she was chattering like a power loom, months' worth of pent-up talk coming out in a stream, once she realized she had an attentive ear available. Rod listened and smiled, nodding and prompting her with the occasional question, usually having to do with which fork they should take; so he wasn't entirely surprised when, having reached her door, bade her good night, and turned away, he heard her cry, "Oh, no, sir, thou must not stay longer in this bitter cold! Come in and warm thy sen by my fire, I prithee, until the sun hath risen to warm the air a bit."

Rod turned back and gazed at her, weighing his habitual reluctance to accept hospitality against his chilled feet and nose, and the possibility of frostbite. Then he shrugged and grinned. "Why not? If you don't mind my taking a nap. I can't do too much harm if I'm asleep."

"Assuredly, sir—yet thou must needs dine first; I doubt me not an thou hast gone hungry this night."

Rod was surprised to realize he actually could think of food again—in fact, he was downright famished. "Well, now that you mention it…"

' 'Thou hast as much hunger as one of those wolves we but now did speak of, hast thou not? There, I knew it!" Granny Ban hung her worn old cloak on a peg and bustled about the single, cozy room, much more relaxed now that she was home again. She lifted the lid on a pot that hung from a crane in the fireplace, and a heavenly aroma swirled through the cottage. Rod's mouth watered. "I don't mean to put you out…"

"Oh, there's stew enough for two, and more, sir! There, as if thou couldst put me out? When I owe my life to thee, belike. Here." A steaming loaf plumped down on the table before him, whisked out of the oven hole next to the fire. "Eat, and bide; the stew will be with thee ere long."

Rod didn't need urging. He munched on the crusty loaf, soaking in the warmth—he must have grown numb, not realizing how cold he was—and taking in his surround-ings. No, this wasn't the only room—there was a door in the wall to his left. A scullery, probably, or an unheated pantry—good way to keep food the winter…

"And hast thou ne'er seen trees move of their own accord afore, sir?"

"Hm?" Rod hadn't realized he'd mentioned it. "No, never.''

"Nor have I. Tis odd, for I've dwelt in the wildwood these twenty years and more—and so puissant a warlock as thysen must needs have seen all manner of magics."

"Well, I have seen a lot—but I must admit this land of Gramarye has continual surprises for me." From the aroma, he judged that the stew owed more to vegetables than to meat—but it was wonderfully seasoned, and smelled heavenly. Rod could hardly wait for it to be served.

" 'Tis a wicked spell woven by thine enemies, I doubt not. Thou hast enemies, hast thou not, sir? Nay, of a certainty thou hast—all do know that the enemies of the King are the enemies of the High Warlock, too." She shook her head with a sigh. "Our poor liege! Scarcely hath he dealt with one foe when a new doth arise. One would think…"

"Yes, one would." Rod frowned, his attention caught. "A spell? You think that tree coming alive could be the work of a sorcerer?"

"Might it not, sir?" She set a wooden bowl in front of him, a carven spoon beside it—more of a ladle, really. "Never hath it chanced aforetime, and I have paced the path past that oak twice a week or more, these twenty years."

"But I'm the only one who can see these sights! I'm hallucinating." Rod spooned up the stew, held it to his lips, then shook his head at the notion. "No, that's impossible, Granny Ban! Hallucinations that other people can see, too? How could that be?"

"Art thou not a warlock, sir? Canst thou not send thy thoughts into others' minds?"

"Well, yeah, but… No, doggone it! My wife and kids would have picked up on it, and they didn't see anything!"

"Well, belike 'tis some other work of thine enemies," Granny Ban soothed; but Rod froze at the first-taste of the stew. She had almost managed it, had almost distracted him enough for him to eat the stew without noticing the oddness, the strange quality of its flavor…

Paranoia, the objective part of his mind said, so he knew he should hold off, should insist on proof…

But she was watching him closely, much too closely, too intently, so he said, "Your stew certainly has a unique taste, Granny Ban. Is there some secret herb you use?"

She smiled as though she were flattered, but her eyes were wary—or was that just his imagination, now? "Scarcely secret, sir—only herbs that any wife may find in the forest. Though I will own, not many have my trick of blending them."

It was the word "trick" that really sent the alarm bells clanging in Rod's head. "Odd word for it. Certainly a secret blend, wouldn't you say?"

"Well… aye…"

"And a secret blend of herbs betokens a lot of experience with them." Rod lurched to his feet, bumping the table out of the way. He could have sworn that the mere aroma of the stew was making him light-headed. "That door, Granny—this is a very small cottage. What's so important that you'd go to the trouble of putting up an inside wall, even putting in a door?"

"Naught, sir!" She caught at his arm, trying to hold him back. " 'Tis naught but my storeroom, my pantry! Oh, sir, wherefore waste the fire's heat on those things that are only stored away?"

She ended in a wail, as Rod thrust the door open.

For a moment, the objects inside seemed to flux and flow; then his eyes adjusted, and the light from the fire behind him showed bunches of dried grasses and plants hanging from the rafters. Below them stood row upon row of earthenware jars, each with its pictograph, characters whose meanings he was sure were known only to Granny Ban—and, below them, a long worktable, cluttered with a mortar and pestle, a small brazier and tripod, breakers, bowls, and a pint-sized cauldron; even—yes, primitive, but definitely there—an alembic and a distilling tube.

"A stillery," he said. "A complete, thorough, very well equipped stillery."

" Tis but for aid of the poor village folk, sir," she wailed. "Oh, have pity! I know not the brewing of any potions that might bring harm!"

Rod gave her a look that had been stored in dry ice. "There, you lie—for no one can learn many medicines that will help people, without learning a few that will cure in small doses, and kill in large doses."

"Oh, never would I abuse such knowledge, sir! Never have I given man or woman any dose that might bring harm!"

But a glint caught Rod's eye. "You haven't, hm?" He stepped over to the corner, wishing for light—and a torch was there in his left hand, glittering on the gold coins visible through the open top of the bag. He pulled at it, letting the coins run through his fingers, then looked up and saw the small chest, lid open, showing pearls and rubies among more gold and silver. Odd that he hadn't noticed it before. "Doing rather well for yourself, aren't you, Granny?"

"Nay, sir! I only hold these goods in trust for a traveler, whose donkey hath taken ill!"

"The traveler took ill, you mean—very ill, once he'd tasted your stew. How often have you pulled that trick with the oak tree, Granny? How did you work it—witch-moss? Telekinesis? How many gallant young men have you murdered, for no worse sin than seeking to help an old lady?"

"None, sir! Oh, none! Nay, never have I slain! Only robbed, sir, that is all—only taken their purses!"

"And those of their wives, to judge by this haul. What was in the stew, Granny? Belladonna? Angel-of-Death? Deadly nightshade?"

"Poppy, sir! Only the juice of the poppy! Ah, sir, never did I seek to slay!"

"No? Then why didn't your victims come back for their valuables once the drug had worn off?" He whirled, drawing his sword. "Here's a quicker death, Granny, and a cleaner!"

"Nay, thou wouldst not!" she howled, shrinking away from the point—but the wall was at her back, and she dared not move, staring fascinated at the blade. "Not a poor widow-woman, sir, with none to defend her! Thou couldst not lack honor so!"

"Honor doesn't mean that much to me. Justice does."

No, Rod!

It was Fess's voice, inside his head—and Granny Ban, staring in horror over the sword at him, couldn't hear a whisper. Rod frowned. "You're the sort that FESSters in this wood."

Thank you for responding. I confess to eavesdropping, Rod. I have been concerned for you.

"Concern is a good thing. Betrayal is not."

"I have never betrayed any, sir!" Granny Ban wailed.

Nor have I, Rod. But think—justice requires proof.

"Gold coins in a peasant hut? That pile of loot is all the proof I need!"

"Sir, 'twas only a fee," she howled, "a fee for a task I shunned, yet had no choice in!"

Gold coins might indeed be proof of something, Rod—if they are truly there.

Rod hesitated. Had he really seen gold coins? Or had his mind manufactured them, out of a few pennies?

For that matter, was this stillery really here? Was this cottage? For all he knew, he might be talking to a crazed old lady in a hovel, guilty of nothing but talking too much.

He lowered his sword. "No, I won't kill you, Granny."

The old woman sagged with relief, and Fess's voice said, / commend the wisdom of your decision, Rod.

"Oh, bless thee, sir!" Granny Ban blubbered.

"Don't bother—because I am going to leave you bound hand and foot. Go lie down on your bed."

The old woman stiffened, appalled. "Nay, sir! Slay me, rather—for I'd liefer a quick death than die of starvation and thirst!"

"You won't starve, though you might get a little chilly— I'll send word to the shire-reeve, at the next village I come to. Tell him how saintly you are! Go on, now, lie down— and you'd better pull up your blankets, too. I'll leave more wood on the fire, but it might take the reeve's men a while to get here."

A few minutes later, he stepped out the cottage door, closed it firmly behind him, and wrapped his cloak about him again. "Fess?"

"Here, Rod." A darker shape detached itself from the shadows among the trees.

"Thanks for interfering," Rod said grudgingly. "You may have just saved me from committing a heinous crime."

"It is ever my honor to serve you, Rod. Still, may I suggest that you do indeed summon the authorities as quickly as possible? I have seen a keeper's cottage not far from here."

Rod nodded. "Yeah, good idea. He'll know Granny Ban personally, I'll bet, and will know whether she's a candidate for the stocks, or for the gallows."

"An excellent point. Shall we seek him, then?"

Rod frowned up at the horse, weighing trust against suspicion.

Then he nodded again, and slogged through the snow to mount the steel steed. "Sorry I doubted you, old retainer. Things don't always seem what they are any more."

"Yes, Rod. Trust is difficult when you cannot be sure of the validity of your perceptions."

"True. But that's what logic is for, isn't it? To discover which perceptions are real, and which aren't."

"That is one of its uses, yes. However, logic is difficult to achieve in a highly emotional state."

"Yes—and the world does seem to be picking on me at the moment. I'm clear-headed enough, just now, to realize that's only my perception—but when the emotions take over, I forget."

"Of course, Rod. If you did not believe your perceptions to be true, you would not be paranoid."

"How's that again?" Rod frowned down at the back of the horsehead, then shook his head. "No, don't tell me. I'm happier in my ignorance. Or do you mean that if I weren't paranoid, I would doubt my perceptions—at least, when it seems as though everything's out to get me?"

"That is the converse of the proposition," Fess agreed.

"Glad I got it right," Rod responded. "But the main question is still there, Fess—how come I'm having spells of paranoia, all of a sudden?''

"They are not totally new to you, Rod," the robot said slowly.

"Thank you for your tact, Mr. Hammer. But I don't usually have such intense feelings of persecution, with such total certainty that I'm right."

"That is new, fortunately—and, since it was accompanied by the beginning of hallucinations, I can only conjecture that…"

"It's a chemical problem, yeah. But, Fess—is the chemical imbalance generated in me, or brought in from the outside world?"

"Whatever its source, Rod, it is in you now."

"Much more of this, and you'll have me believing it," Rod grumbled.

"That would definitely be a more desirable condition," the robot mused.

"All right, so we'll go with the working hypothesis that what I see isn't real," Rod grumbled. "But how am I supposed to know what's real and what isn't?"

"Of more immediate concern, perhaps," Fess said slowly, "is: when does it truly matter?"

Rod sighed as horse and man headed deeper into the forest.