The Warlock Insane

Chapter Six

Modwis propped Rod on a bench by the fire with a mug of ale while he clanged and pottered about the stove. It was noisy enough for Rod to have a quiet discussion with Fess.

"So what do you think, Iron Id? Was it a setup, or what?"

"There was certainly some element of hallucination involved, Rod," Fess answered, his tone cautious.

Rod frowned. "Care to expand on that?"

"No."

Rod pressed his lips thin. "All right, I'm making it an order. What did you see?"

Fess sighed. "The person you perceive as a dwarf, Rod, is in fact a leprechaun."

"Leprechaun! Who—Kelly?"

"No, Rod—a stranger. He seems to speak truly when he says his name is 'Modwis.' "

"Not terribly Irish."

"Neither is Kelly's last name."

Alarm bells rang. "So what have I got now? Brom assigning me a baby-sitter?"

"There is no evidence of prior arrangement," the robot answered. "The elf was indeed snared in a silver chain when you found him."

"Who would do such a dirty trick? No, strike that— anyone who wanted a crock of gold. But why wasn't the trapper there to watch his snare?"

"Perhaps he fled at your approach."

"Do I look that bad?"

Fess was silent, and Rod decided not to press the point. "How about the attack of the chains?"

"I saw only ground vines, Rod—but they were green, which is odd for winter, and they did entangle both you and Modwis."

"Odd, to say the least." Rod said. "Maybe the trapper is a telekinetic, and didn't run all that far away?"

"That is possible…"

"Or it's possible that Modwis staged the whole thing." Rod began to feel prickles of suspicion along the back of his scalp.

"The leprechaun might have some psi power, yes."

Rod grimaced, beginning to wonder if the robot was humoring him.

"Be careful not to drink too much of the ale, Rod," Fess cautioned. "You have not eaten in some time."

That, at least, was reassuring.

Then the time for speculation was done, because Modwis set a platter heaped with eggs and meats and a basket of rolls on the table. Rod returned to more important matters.

Modwis's hospitality was cozy, but lavish—if Rod had eaten everything offered, he would have been comatose. But strangely, he found that his appetite vanished with a few bites, leaving him edgy and nervous. "It was very good," he said. "Thanks for the hospitality, Modwis, but I need to get back on the road again."

The dwarf peered at him. "How long is't sin thou hast slept?"

Rod considered, and decided that the question wasn't relevant. "I couldn't stand to sleep right now. Thanks, but I'll be off."

(Come to think of it, he was.)

Without a word, the dwarf carried the dishes to the door, gave a fluting birdcall, swept the crumbs off, scoured the plates with sand, and removed a pack from the wall. He put the dishes in it, then wrapped up each of the items of food from the table. He scraped more crumbs into his hand from the table, walked to the door and tossed them out, shouldered his pack, and took down a large iron key from a hook on the wall. Then he bowed Rod out the door.

Rod suddenly realized what the ceremony meant. "Hey, wait a minute! We don't have to look for Gormlin—and you don't have to come along!"

"True." Modwis turned the key in the great lock, hung it around his neck, and took up a walking staff from its place by the jamb. "Yet surely thou'It not deny me thy companionship upon the road?"

"Well—no, of course not. Glad of it, really. But where are you going?"'

"Down the road some miles. Whither goest thou?"

"Uh—well… down the road a way, actually."

"Well met!" Modwis beamed and clapped him on the arm. "By some fair chance, we journey toward the same destination! Then thou wilt not be amazed an I keep pace with thee for the full length of the journey."

And they set off into the forest, with Rod having that old, nagging feeling that, somehow, he'd been conned. Again.

After an hour, Rod reined in and dismounted. "Okay, your turn to ride now."

Modwis looked up, amused. "Dost think me so weak as to need another's limbs?"

"Well… No, not when you put it that way. But it is more restful. And faster."

"It shall take more than a day's walk to tire me. And as to speed, set thy pace, and I'll match it."

Rod wasn't about to test it—but he was in no hurry, anyway, so he kept Fess to a walk. Modwis would not relent, so, after a while, Rod quit trying. But when they stopped to rest at a village, Rod bought a donkey, leaving a peasant blessing heaven for the good fortune of a real gold crown, and offered it to Modwis. The dwarf still would not ride, but only led the donkey, until Rod let his embarrassment begin to show. Then, finally, Modwis relented and climbed onto the donkey. So, both mounted, they rode on toward romance and adventure.

By late afternoon, they were out of the forest and in open country again, coming down from the Crag Mountains into the northern plateau.

Plateau? Runnymede was on a plateau, not the northern baronies! Rod realized, with a sudden sense of vertigo, that he really was in Granclarte, not just a thinly disguised Gramarye.

At least, he seemed to be…

Well, you couldn't tell it by the look of the rider who was coming up the road toward them. He was clad in black armor, and rode a horse that would have done credit to a beer wagon. It was hard to tell who wore the better armor, horse or rider…

The knight reined in alongside and lifted his visor. "Hail! Art thou knight or yeoman?"

"Neither, really," Rod said with a smile. "No one ever got around to knighting me, but I was raised to the peer-age. Born to it, too, but I was a second son of a second son."

"Then assuredly, thou art a knight born!"

"Seemed that way to me, too, but nobody ever made it official." Then Rod saw the device on the knight's shield, and froze.

It was a silver arm with a closed fist, slanting across a black field—and Rod knew that plain, severe sight as well as he knew the form of Fess. "My pardon, Sir Knight. You are a man of virtue rare!"

"Thou dost me too much honor, good sir. Yet thou hast the advantage of me, an thou knowest me by repute. Say who thou art."

Rod swallowed. "I am Rod Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock of the Kingdom of Gramarye."

"A warlock!" The sword's point was at Rod's throat. He didn't remember the knight drawing it, but it was there. "Is thy magic white or black?"

"Neither, really—it just is." Rod ignored the sword (while sweat trickled off his brow) and looked steadily into the sky-blue eyes beneath the noble brow. "Is your sword crafted by white magic or black?"

The point didn't waver, and the face behind it turned more flinten than ever. "Smiths do own magic, aye—they chant strength as they forge the blade, and carve runes down its length. Yet whether the magic is white or black depends upon the smith."

Rod nodded. "So it is with me. I am no saint, and I cannot work miracles—but neither am I devoted to Satan; I abhor him, and all his works."

Still the sword did not waver. "Magic must be from either God or Satan. Which is thine?"

"It's certainly not from Satan—and I do live in hope of Heaven."

The knight held his gaze a moment more, then sheathed the great sword. "Thou art a white warlock."

"If you say so." Rod felt a surge of hubris coming, and somehow knew better than to squelch it. "But if you want to make sure, why don't you test my mettle? I'll withhold my magic, if you withhold your sword."

The knight still gazed at him, then smiled just a little. " 'Tis apt. With what weapon shall we contend?"

Rod jerked his head toward the willows bordering the stream by the road. "I suspect two enterprising gentlemen could find a couple of six-foot staves in there."

Now the knight grinned. "Even as thou sayest. Sin that I lack a squire, wilt thine choose my weapon for me?"

"Well, he's not really my squire…"

"Nay, be assured that I am!" Modwis was off his donkey in an instant, his eyes huge. "A moment only, good knights!" And he vanished into the copse with remarkable speed.

The knight frowned. "An he is not thy squire, who is he?"

"Only a friend," Rod said, "and a new one at that. But he strikes me as reliable."

The knight nodded. "The dwarves are known for their hearts of oak. Their loyalty is rarely given, yet when 'tis, 'twill stand like a mountain."

Modwis was back, holding up two green poles, sliced through at each end, twigs trimmed to smoothness. "Thou dost me honor, sirs and knights."

"As thou dost for us," the knight said, in the best tradition of chivalry. He dismounted. Rod couldn't help staring—any man who could get on or off a horse with a full load of plate armor and no derrick was fantastically strong.

But of course, this was fantasy…

"I would prefer not to take advantage," he said, nonetheless. "Your armor must weigh you down, sir."

The knight tossed his helm with impatience. "What matters such weight to a true knight? Yet to yield mine advantage, I must bare my pate for thee." He set hands to his helm, unfastened and removed it. Golden locks flowed down to his shoulders; a flat, sloping forehead ran up against a brace of bony brow-ridges, somewhat camouflaged by bushy blond eyebrows. They overhung two large deeply-set blue eyes, thresholded by high, prominent cheekbones, divided by a blade of a nose. Beneath the nose was a wide, thin-lipped mouth above a strong, squarish jawbone and a jutting chin. Rod felt his heart skip a beat—the knight was just as he'd always imagined him.

Of course, said his monitor-mind.

The knight took up his staff, twirled it around his head to warm up, then brought it down. "At thy convenience, milord."

Rod grinned, feeling the joy of battle start—and against such an opponent! He knew he'd be lucky to manage a draw, but that didn't matter—the thrill was equivalent to singing at Covent Garden with Domingo.

Modwis stood by, fairly bursting with excitement.

They circled each other, both grinning, eyes alight, quarterstaves held slanting, on guard. Then the knight cried, "Avaunt!" and his pole tip shot through the air so fast Rod could scarcely see it. But he managed to get his own stick up just high enough, somehow, and the crack of their meeting echoed off the rock face a hundred yards behind them.

It also left Rod's hands stinging so badly he could have sworn his bones were vibrating.

No time to think about it—the bottom of the knight's staff was sweeping toward Rod's kneecap. He barely managed to block, and the blow knocked his own staff into his kneecap. He stepped back, alarmed to feel his knee buckle, and blocked the knight's next blow from a great defensive position on one knee. At last he realized that he had to go on the offensive, and the low position was handy for a knock at the shins. It landed, but it was more like a clang, with a rebound Rod didn't believe. He used it, though, to aim the top of his staff at the knight's head. The knight's staff swept up to block, of course, and Rod seized the chance to shove himself back upright. He found his balance just in time, for the knight's staff was shooting right at his sinuses. He blocked and, getting the rhythm of it (finally!), swung the lower end of the staff at a joint in the knight's armor. The tip hit chain mail between the plates, but it jolted the man momentarily, long enough for Rod to slam a knock at his helmetless head.

He actually connected! Nasty hollow sound, too. Not that it did much harm. Oh, the knight fell back a step, but he simply gave his head a shake and waded back in.

But it had been time enough for Rod to get his own speciality back in play. He whirled his staff around in a circle, so fast it was a blur, describing a plane that was angled at forty-five degrees—it was supposed to be upright, but a quarterstaff was really too long for single-stick play.

The knight frowned; this was apparently new to him. But he slammed a blow bravely at Rod's head.

Crack! The knight's stick snapped itself out of his hands. "Parbleu!" He wrung his hands—they were stinging, too; pretty good, since he was wearing gauntlets. He leaped back, catching up his staff, and his lips firmed with impatience.

Rod stopped his whirligig, limped to the nearest tree, propped his back against it, and set himself, staff up between both hands. It was coming now.

It did. He was the center of a tornado of blows, cracking about him like lightning bursts. He plied his own stick frantically, blocking blow for blow and countering when he could, down low, up high, up high again, down low, up high…

But the knight's staff tip came in down low again, somehow, and caught Rod right in the midriff. The breath whooshed out of his lungs; he gasped, gulping for air, not gaining any, fighting against the pain that racked him as the day darkened about him, and fell.

Then it was light again, and he could actually breathe, and Modwis was running a cool, damp rag over his face. He pulled in a long breath, deciding it was the sweetest draft he'd had in a long time, and struggled to sit up. The dwarf's arm was around his shoulders in a second, helping, and he saw the golden-haired knight leaning on his staff, smiling enigmatically. "My thanks for a worthy bout, milord. Thy skill is great."

"Not quite as great as yours." Rod grinned, and shoved himself painfully up, saying. "Not that I expected it to be."

"Still, you comported yourself most excellently." The knight clasped his forearm and hauled him to his feet. "I would be glad of your company in my travels, milord."

Rod stared, unable to believe his ears. He travel with this hero? This man who always rode alone? "I—I'd be honored." He was suddenly aware of Modwis's arm under his own hand. "But I couldn't leave my squire."

"So faithful and stalwart a companion must needs be of inestimable value. Wilt thou both aid me awhile?"

"Why… of course," Rod said, overcome. "Whatever we can do."

"Aye," Modwis rumbled.

"Thou mayest be of great aid indeed, the more so an thou knowest the land hereabouts." The knight turned to survey the valley below with a frown.

"I have dwelt here all my life," Modwis answered.

"There's not a stump nor a stone for ten miles that I know not."

"I have need of such knowledge," the knight conceded. "I oppose a fell sorcerer, dost thou see, and he hath cast a glamour over my sight, which doth so change the appearance of all the country hereabouts that I can no longer find my way."

"A foul spell in truth," the dwarf muttered.

"Even so. Three times now have I fallen into a bog, and once fallen from a height, when I could have sworn naught lay before me but open land. I could not even be sure that thou wast truly nigh, when I saw thee."

"Vile," Rod agreed. "I'm under something of the same enchantment, myself."

Modwis stared at him in sudden surprise, which was reassuring, as did the knight. "Thou hast a glamour about thee?"

"I wouldn't have thought so," Rod muttered, "but I do seem to be seeing things that aren't there." For a moment, the spell thinned, and he saw only an open road before him, bound with fog under a leaden sky, with deep ruts in the snow heaped high upon it.

" 'Tis the sorcerer hath cast this dimness o'er thy sight," Modwis averred, "the foul sorcerer, who doth seek to blind thee to such things as are real!"

The sun shone again, on a dusty road amid summer greenery, and the knight was back. Rod relaxed and explained, "But the only illusions I see are of people and monsters." A lingering regard for truth made him add, "And seasons. I don't seem to be having trouble with geographical features."

The knight grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we are well met, thou and I! I shall see the folk aright, and thou shalt see the terrain! Come, let us march against this fell sorcerer, and root him from the land!"

The grin was infectious; Rod couldn't help but return it. "And just in case I'm fooled, Modwis will check us. And my horse, of course—he's very good at discerning reality." He ignored the buzz behind his ear. "What sorcerer is this?"

"Some country churl, and a weak-kneed 'prentice of a magic-worker, I doubt not," the knight answered with disdain. "None have e'er heard of him aforetime, nor shall after, I warrant."

"But his name?" Rod insisted.

"He doth call himself 'Saltique,' " the knight answered, "and I trust we shall salt him indeed."

It was a strange name, right enough, which was odd, because Rod knew all the Chronicles of Granclarte by heart.

"Your grandfather's ghost did say that you were to continue the saga, Rod," Fess murmured behind his ear.

"Salt him away for future use?" Rod pretended dismay. "Why not just put him out of business permanently?"

"I warrant we'll send him to his just reward," the knight answered. "Yet first, we must needs discover his lair."

"I have heard summat of him," Modwis grated. "We must track him to the Wastelands, milords."

"Why, we are nearly there!" the knight cried, and clapped Modwis on the shoulder. "How can we fail, with a true guide before us? To horse, milord! And away!"

They mounted and rode out, heading down into the valley—and Fess couldn't avoid the realization that his master was riding back into his childhood.

"Fess, just think of it!" Rod burbled. "I'm riding with him! I'm actually riding with him!"

"It is a rare honor indeed." Fess was growing increasingly concerned, even more so now that Rod had begun talking to himself. That was bad enough, but it was worse that he was making perfect sense.

Rod sobered, some of his exuberance absorbed into the robot's caution. "Where's the worm in the apple, huh? Y'know, he looks almost familiar… hauntingly familiar…"

"Should he not?"

"Well, yeah, he should look the way I've always pictured him." Rod frowned at the tall, broad figure riding straight in the saddle in front of him. "But then he should look familiar, period. Why this niggling reminder of someone I once knew?"

"It is entirely natural."

"Yeah, I guess my childish mind built him after some adult I'd met."

Fess kept silent.

"Just think—riding with him, on his quest!" Rod felt his spirits bubble up again. "I may never go back to the real world!"

"That," said Fess, "may be exactly what your enemies are hoping for."

"Oh, don't be a killjoy! Ho, for adventure! I ride in quest of the Rainbow Crystal, with the great knight Beaubras!"