The Warlock Insane

Chapter Twenty-One

Rod was rather busy cutting and parrying, but he did manage the occasional glimpse out of the corner of his eye. Fess was knocking over bandits with his front hooves, then reaching out to grasp a collar with his teeth and toss the man aside. They were coming at him from all directions, of course, which would ordinarily have given him a seizure—but Magnus was on his back, keeping three captured swords busy, two with his hands and one behind him with his mind, fending off culprits until Fess could take care of them.

Then a flying squad charged out of the underbrush and hit the convent wall. Since it was only eight feet high, they were up and over in a matter of seconds.

Magnus whirled, appalled.

In the steeple, Mother Paterna Testa narrowed her eyes. "Aid me, Sister Lynne."

As the bandits hurdled the wall, their feet shot out from under them, and they kept hurdling, slamming down to the ground on their backs.

Then Modwis rose up with his mace.

The Mother Superior squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head sadly. "Pray God they may live!"

"Amen," murmured Sister Lynne.

But Magnus's concentration had flagged, and bandits hit Fess from all four sides. Magnus shouted and lashed out with his right and back swords, and the bandits there danced away as Fess reached for the one in front while he tried to strike a hoof at the one on the left, then caught the one in the front while he lashed out with his hind legs— and went stiff.

Magnus gave a cry of anger and exasperation, and the soldiers in front of him shot bodily off the ground and went flying toward the trees.

Meanwhile, Rod was cutting and thrusting with panic and anger, afraid for the poor, innocent countess. Already she was coughing in the smoke of her bogus ancestors.

Then a brisk breeze whipped up and blew the ghosts away to her right.

Rod didn't want to know where the breeze had come from, but he was afraid he knew, anyway. He blocked a cut, parried a thrust, riposted, and thrust, scoring Brume's shoulder. The sorcerer shouted an oath and leaped back, then narrowed his eyes and growled.

Yes, growled—and right about then, the elves' ointment must have worn off, because he seemed to grow and swell, towering eight feet above Rod with a fanged mouth and a huge club.

The ogre was back.

All about them, trolls shambled, stabbing with crude spears—and the young wolf danced about them, leaping in to slash with his teeth, then darting out before they could strike.

He was in horrible danger, and Rod's heart lurched. "Magnus! Get out of here, quick…"

The instant's distraction was enough. The huge club smashed down. Rod saw it coming, too late to more than lean away, and the bludgeon smashed into his side, sending him flying. He landed with cracking and crunching, and extra pains shot up his back and sides. Flame danced by his head, and he realized, with horror, that he'd fallen into the pyre around the stake. He struggled to rise—but even as he did, he realized the flames hadn't grown, and were even now dying. He scrambled to his feet, racked with pain, the world swimming about him, and staggered toward the ogre, aiming his sword at its navel…

Modwis was there in front of him, mace slamming into the ogre's kneecap.

The ogre howled and fell back, clasping at its collarbone.

"Back, quickly!" Modwis tugged at Rod.

"But… but…" The scene swam in front of him, but Rod remembered priorities. "The countess…"

"She is freed, and safe! Quickly, back through the gate!"

Rod turned, startled. Sure enough, the stake was empty, and the flames were dead.

He didn't ask—he yielded and backed in through the gate.

The ogre roared and charged.

Flame exploded, filling the gateway.

The ogre scrabbled to a stop, and the trolls fell back, muttering fearfully.

Rod had a second to think. What was he supposed to do when the hallucinations hit again? And who had told him…Oh, yes, Saint John. And he was supposed to remember opening the vial, that was right. He closed his eyes for a second, and the vision was there, clear and vivid, a huge pile of test tubes, and one of them right under his nose, its fumes wreathing his head…

"Lord Gallowglass!" Modwis cried, and Rod looked up through the flame to see the ogre shrink and diminish, becoming Brume again. Behind him, only four bandits stood, and they were looking distinctly nervous.

" Tis naught but illusion!" Brume shouted with contempt. "Walk boldly, and thou shalt not even feel the heat!"

The bandits muttered to one another. They didn't look convinced.

"See! I shall go to root out this vile warlock!" Brume called, and marched boldly into the flames.

He made it through, all right, but he came out howling, beating at his burning robe. His men stared; then they turned tail and ran.

But they skidded to a halt as they hit the treeline, then backed up slowly, their arms out and away from their sides—for a singing sword whipped figure eights in the air before them, and a firebrand and a ball of lightning drifted out of the wood on their flanks.

Not that Rod saw any of that—he and Modwis were too busy beating out the flames on Brume's robe. When they had it down to a smolder, Rod looked up at the steeple— and, sure enough, the Mother Superior stood there, face stony, staring at the fire. Rod felt his stomach sink; apparently these nuns had something in common with the monks of Saint Vidicon, after all.

Then Brume snarled and lashed out at him.

Rod fell back, startled, but Brume scrambled up and thrust with his sword. Rod managed to bring his own blade up in time to parry—but just as he did, Modwis struck, and Brume's thrust went wide as he pitched forward. Rod rolled to the side, and the sorcerer landed, out cold.

Rod knelt over him, staring, panting, unbelieving.

Modwis, much more practically, unwound a coil of rope from his belt and started tying Brume up.

"He's—he's a psi," Rod croaked. "The rope—won't do much good when he wakes up."

"He shall not waken."

Rod looked up, startled, to see his wife standing over them.

"Thou hast done well," she said to the leprechaun. "I cannot give thee sufficient thanks."

"The knowledge that I have aided thee and thine husband, lady, is thanks enough," Modwis muttered, clearly awed.

"Yet we stand in thy debt," Gwen insisted, "and the enchantment that bound thee is broke now, is't not?"

"It is," Modwis confirmed. "I have, at least, made reparation."

"And brought down another villain betime." Gwen turned—just as the countess came in over the scorched threshold accompanied by Cordelia and Gregory, and Mother Paterna Testa approached from the chapel.

First things first. "What of the bandits?" Gwen demanded.

"They sleep, Mama," Cordelia assured her, "and will not waken, whiles Geoffrey doth guard them."

"They had best not." Gwen's tone hinted at mayhem. "He doth know better than to let one awaken for sport, doth he not?"

"Aye!" came a voice from the other side of the wall, clearly disappointed.

The countess stared. "What manner of dame art thou, that hast the ordering of such terrors?"

"Their mother," Gwen said shortly.

"And my wife," Rod said, senselessly proud. He turned to the other Mother present. "I take it you and your sisters know a little bit more about magic than you led me to believe."

"We are healers," Mother Paterna Testa said noncom-mittally, "and where there's power to heal, there's power to harm." With that, she knelt, lifted Brume's head, and poured the contents of a vial down his throat.

"Do not wake him!" Modwis cried, alarmed.

"I do not." The nun stood again. "The draught I've given will assure his sleep for a day and a night, at the least." She looked up at Gwen. "How didst thou come to be near when we had need of thee, lady?"

"We had finished some business my husband bade us see to, in Runnymede," Gwen answered, "and mine eldest did cry for aid. We came quickly."

"Aye, thou didst that!" said the Countess. "And I cannot thank thee enough, lady, for loosing me from that stake!"

"Thou hast aided these good sisters, who did aid mine husband," Gwen returned. "An we could do more for thee, we would." She turned to the nuns. "And for thee, sisters."

"We are glad to aid," said Mother Paterna Testa, but she turned to Rod with a frown. "Yet we bade thee rest."

Rod shook his head. "I couldn't see an innocent lady burned for my sake."

"Yet thou shouldst not have been able to lift thy sword," said the nun, "for the loss of blood, and need of rest. How hast thou raised thyself to fight?''

"Sheer adrenaline," Rod answered, but even as he said it, he realized it had ebbed. His weakness suddenly hit him redoubled, and the lights went out again.