The Warlock Insane

Chapter Eight

They didn't stop for lunch, but for some reason, Rod didn't miss it. He was growing a mite peckish, however, as the sun declined toward teatime, and asked Modwis, "Are we apt to come to an inn before nightfall?"

"Nay," the dwarf replied. "We have taken the road less traveled by, Lord Gallowglass, and come into lands rarely visited. There is not even a keep 'twixt here and High Dudgeon."

Rod sighed. "We get to rough it, then. How romantic."

Both Beaubras and Modwis frowned at him as though he'd said a very strange word and, all things considered, he was just as glad the opportunity to explain himself vanished with the appearance of another pair of travelers.

"Hail!" cried Beaubras. "Wilt thou break a lance with me?"

"Gladly," came the muffled reply, and the other knight spurred his great golden war-horse into a gallop, leveling his lance as he did. He wore gleaming silver armor, but his helmet winked golden in the rays of the setting sun. Rod strained to make out the device on his shield, but couldn't.

Beaubras, of course, had taken the position of disadvantage, and had to ride with the sun in his eyes. He kicked his mount into a gallop, and the two juggernauts rode down on each other with all the grace and deftness of a matched pair of tanks.

Rod pressed his hands over his ears.

Even so, he could hear the crash as the knights slammed into each other—and, sure enough, the stranger's lance broke. He reeled in his saddle, then regained his seat, and was almost to Rod as he reined in and turned his horse. "A brave joust!" he cried, unshipping his sword. "Wilt thou do me the honor of measuring thy blade against mine, good knight?"

"I thank thee," Beaubras answered, riding up, "yet must I decline; for I must save my steel to deflect the spells of an evil sorceress."

"A sorceress!" The knight lifted the visor of his golden helmet, revealing a gaunt face with white eyebrows and moustaches, lined by the cares of years. Yet there was fire in those farseeing eyes, and a zeal for living that lit his whole countenance. "How marvelous an adventure! Assuredly, thou wilt not be so pinch-fisted as to hold all chance of glory to thyself alone!"

"Why, nay." Beaubras looked as though he would have liked to do just that, but chivalry forbade such selfishness. "Wilt thou join with us in this gallant battle, Sir Knight?"

"That will I gladly!" cried the Knight of the Golden Helmet. "Ho, squire of mine! Glory awaits!"

His squire approached, a short, compact man with a smile, riding on a donkey and carrying a spare spear. He proffered it, but the knight waved him away. "Nay, nay! One passage at arms must suffice; we have true foes to conquer now!" And he took his squire aside to explain the new mission.

Beaubras turned to Rod, his eyes alight, his voice low with suppressed excitement. "He is the paladin Rinaldo, grown old!"

"One of Charlemagne's heroes?" Rod looked after the old man, frowning. "What makes you think that?"

"He wears the golden helmet of Mambrino!" Beaubras whispered to Rod. "Only to Rinaldo was that enchanted helm given!"

"No," Rod said slowly, "I can think of another who wore it, eight hundred years after. Except that he didn't really have it, actually, he only thought he did…"

And he ran down. Who was he, to criticize someone else's delusions?

Beaubras turned away, opening his helmet, and fell into an animated discussion with the old knight, comparing notes about weapons and monsters. From the occasional scrap of conversation that floated his way, Rod gathered that they were taking turns telling of their adventures, each one eagerly prompting the other. The stranger's squire looked up at him with a smile and a shrug, but he didn't really seem to mind at all.

Nor did Modwis. He rode leaning forward a little, eyes bright, ears straining, and began to edge closer and closer to the two knights, hanging on their every word.

The other squire kicked his feet, leaned back in the saddle, and began whistling a little tune.

Rod rode after them all in a daze, wondering into what sort of world he'd ridden. Or perhaps what sorts of worlds.

However, some compromise with reality was necessary, especially after the sun went down and the two knights kept riding blissfully through the gloaming, still rattling on with shop talk. "Enough is enough," Rod muttered, and kicked Fess into a trot. The robot-horse swerved around in front of the two armored ones, and Rod said, "O valorous knights, I blush to intrude upon your lofty conversation, but I really do think we might do well to rest through the hours of darkness."

"Eh? Why, it has become dark!" said the stranger, looking about him in surprise. "Bless me! We must indeed halt!"

"Aye, evil walks at night, and we must be ready in defense," Beaubras responded. "We must make a camp, indeed."

Rod noticed that neither of the knights said a word about sleeping. He also noticed that neither of them lifted a finger to pitch the tents; they left that to Rod, Modwis, and the squire.

"Leave this to us, Lord Gallowglass," Modwis rumbled. "Sit thee with the other knights, and talk of matters befitting thy station."

"A little rabbit stew or some roasted partridge would fit my station just fine, thank you," Rod grumbled. "You go listen to 'em, Modwis."

The dwarf looked up at the two knights, sitting unhelmed on a log chattering merrily away, and for a moment, his longing showed naked in his face. Then he mastered his feelings, turning away and grumbling, "Nay. 'Twould not befit my station."

Rod disagreed, but he knew there wasn't much point in saying so. So he moved as fast as he could, and at least had the campfire burning merrily by the time darkness fell.

He woke to the sound of conversation, followed shortly by the cry of a distant rooster. He scowled, looking about; the sky was just barely beginning to turn rosy behind the two knights, who sat where he had left them, comparing notes on villains dead but hopefully not deathless. Rod squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a shake, and looked again. No, they were still there, just as fresh as they had ever been, with just as much to talk about.

Could you call it boasting, when they were both doing it, and each fascinated by the other's accounts?

This really was a fantasy world, wasn't it?

Which reminded Rod of reality. "Fess—it's really the dead of winter, isn't it?"

"Yes, Rod. The night's temperature was close to zero."

"How'd I make it through?" Rod frowned; he had some memory of having conjured up a sleeping bag. He looked down and, sure enough, he was in one. "Where'd this come from? In the real world, I mean."

"From your spaceship, Rod, buried though it may be."

"That's right, it is navy issue, isn't it?"

"Designed to maintain an interior temperature of seventy degrees Fahrenheit, down to an exterior temperature of negative twenty degrees, Rod, and using the temperature differential as…"

"Yeah, yeah, I read the instruction manual, too. But how'd it get here?"

The robot hesitated.

"Go on, tell me. I can take it."

"It appeared with a small thunderclap, Rod. Modwis and the other squire found it quite impressive."

Rod glanced at the fire; the squire gave him a cheery smile. He already had a kettle hanging from a tripod over the flames. Modwis was folding up his blankets. "No doubt that's why they slept on the far side of the fire. But how did the sleeping bag get here?"

Fess was very slow in answering. "Only you and I knew of its existence, Rod."

"You mean that, even in the real world, I conjured it here?" Rod asked.

"No doubt an exercise in teleportation."

"Yeah, but I've never been able to do much in that line before." Rod frowned. "Except projecting myself, and anything I'm holding on to…"

"Your talents continue to amaze me, Rod."

"You're not the only one. Well, let's start the day."

The knights were induced to stop their conversation long enough to partake of some porridge Modwis concocted, and some quick bread the squire produced. Not much, though—Rod didn't see how they could fuel enough muscle to support all that steel, on so few calories. On the other hand, he could appreciate the difficulties of becoming obese inside a suit of armor.

With camp struck and the fire doused, they hit the road again, Rod riding right behind the two knights, whether he wanted to or not, the squire and Modwis bringing up the rear—whether they wanted to or not. Rod was wondering whether he was really hearing a new story coming from the Knight of the Golden Helmet, or whether the old man was beginning to repeat himself—all the battles began to blur together, after a while—when there was a mad cawing, and a featherball struck out of a cloudless sky.

It may have come cloaked in feathers, but it had sharp claws that tore through his clothing—and it stank't Rod batted the thing away, and it squawked, "Well, I never! What a way to treat a lady! Take that't" And a wing slammed into his face. It didn't hurt much, but it blinded him enough to keep him from fending off the claws—and this time, they took out a chunk of his chest. Rod bellowed in fury and shoved the thing away, pulling his sword.

"Oh, that's right, use a blade on a poor defenseless female!" his attacker cackled. "Well, if you want to use weapons . . ." It swooped away from him, and something cracked into the top of his head. It didn't hurt, but he felt a warm fluid oozing down through his hair—and it stank at least as bad as the bird!

What kind of fowl laid rotten eggs?

He pushed the mess back away from his forehead, shuddering at the feel of the goo, and got a good look at his attacker. It was indeed a foul fowl, a huge female bird, the size of a condor—but she had a woman's head, and pendulous breasts. Her hair had never heard of a comb, much less shampoo, and her feathers were filthy. Rod obviously wasn't smelling her natural odor, but that of her food—several years' worth of it.

A harpy.

Beyond him, the two knights were thrashing about, knocking harpies out of the air—but they weren't using their swords, so the birds just kept swooping back.

Rod could understand. Somehow it didn't feel right, using a sword on something that looked like a woman.

The harpy was screeching back to the attack like a dive-bomber, and Rod suddenly saw the advantages of a shield. Not having one, he glared at the egg that plummeted toward him and thought Feedback! at it. The egg halted, looped up, and began chasing the harpy. She saw it coming, gave a squawk of dismay, and swerved out of its way.

It swerved to follow.

"He's doing it," her buddy called. "Distract him, and it'll drop!" She suited the action to the word; her idea of distraction was aiming for the eyes, claws first.

Rod ducked, came up fast, and caught her under his arm, managing two good swats on the tail feathers before his nose couldn't take any more. She went off in a flutter of fluster—but the egg was still chasing her buddy.

"Take it back!" she cried, arrowing straight for Rod and swerving aside at the last minute. He saw it coming, with horror, and ducked, but not fast enough. The shell broke on his forehead and his head filled with the sulphurous reek. He swatted at his face, trying to clear the mess, and intercepted the talons that were reaching for his eyes. He caught them, and rage boiled up. Chivalry countered it, but chivalry was wearing thin. He swung the harpy around his head. She cried, "Don't you dareV so he did—he tossed her right into her colleague, and the two of them went down in a squawking, milling cloud of pinfeathers.

Rod barely had time to see Modwis and the squire flailing about them with quarterstaves, swatting at harpies. They didn't hit them, of course—the harpies sheered off, squawking, "You're not supposed to do that, boys!"

"You've got to play the game!"

Then the two who had chosen him were on him again, clawing and screeching. "You think it's time to stroke him, Phyla?"

"Don't be silly, Chlamys—he's not in a position to do you any good!"

Rod decided it was time to be offensive. "Charge!"

Fess leaped straight at the two harpies.

They got out of the way in time, with squawks of indignation. "Stay away from him, Phyla—you've got to associate with the right people."

"Yes, it's all in who you know."

"Where to, Rod?"

"Around in a circle, Fess. Get 'em chasing their tail feathers."

The heinous hens were right behind him. "Oh, so you think you can get away with it, eh? He doesn't know much about harpies, does he, Phyla?"

"Let's show him!" her mate cackled, and they peeled off into the blue, going for altitude.

Now! while they were away for a moment. Rod leaned down and caught up, not a staff, but a whole fallen branch, late of a pine tree. As the female Fokkers roared down at him, he swirled the branch around his head in a moulinet.

"Oh, isn't that nice! He's sweeping up for us!"

"No, wait, Phyla! He's…"

The bough crashed into her, sweeping them both out of the sky with a flurry of indignant screeches.

Modwis and the squire advanced, with determination and upraised staves.

"Get out, Chlamys! They look like they've got their mouths set for fried drumsticks!"

And they were off and running, flapping like albatrosses, barely managing to get into the air a few feet in front of the quarterstaves.

"Enough is enough!" Rod fumed.

One of the harpies banked back toward him. "Don't talk that way! You can't be honest and hope to get ahead!"

Rod swirled his bough at her, then squeezed his eyes shut and thought hard.

The squires shouted in surprise, and the knights exclaimed.

Rod looked up and saw three cats with twelve-foot wings sailing toward the flock with happy yowls.

The harpies shrieked with horror and flew for the coop.

"Art whole, Sir Knight?" Beaubras cried.

"I am well, though reeking." The old knight was trembling with rage. "How dare such filthy creatures so befoul a belted knight!"

"Be mindful of thy chivalry, brave paladin!"

"Why, so I am." The old knight finished wiping yolk off his golden helmet and unlimbered his lance. "Those brave felines are sadly outnumbered, Sir Beaubras! See! Even now, the birds of foul feather turn upon them!"

He was right. The whole flock had pulled together and were wheeling back with caws of delight, straight for the winged cats.

The cats yowled and dove straight on.

"What brave creatures!" Beaubras exclaimed.

"The cats are females, too!" Rod called. And they were; he'd had a last-minute inspiration.

"Then we must give them rescue! Charge!" And the old knight galloped off, lance spearing straight up toward the flock. His squire kicked his donkey and galloped after him, staff whirling.

The harpies saw them coming and changed their minds; this looked too much like an even fight. With squawks of dismay, the whole flock wheeled and headed back toward its roost in an old windmill.

The old knight streaked away in pursuit, his squire riding frantically after.

"I shall be sorry to lose their company," Beaubras mused, watching knight and squire depart, "though I cannot deny they are needed here."

"They've got the right stuff," Rod demurred, "but they weren't really all that great as fighters, you know."

"Nay—though who knows what doughty deeds they may once have done?"

Rod privately thought that Beaubras should know if anybody did, after all that talk, but he was polite enough not to say so.

The flock of harpies dove into the old windmill. It was dilapidated with the years, its sails torn and dusty. With a high, clear call, the old knight charged straight at it, his squire close behind him.

"Yet their faith in chivalry is inspiring," Sir Beaubras said.

"Oh, yes," Rod said softly. "Oh, yes."

Modwis nodded. " 'Tis such as they who will ever cheer the hearts of those who suffer for the doing of the deeds they believe to be right."