Warlock and Son

3

What do you do when you're a snake?

Of course, Magnus's options were rather limited-he was bound to the tree by the same sort of subconscious compulsion that had him convinced he was a serpent. If he tried to slither away, he found himself moving counterclockwise, around the base of the trunk-and if he wanted to move clockwise, he had to squirm backwards. It struck him as ominous that the only direction he could go, forward, was widdershins, opposite to the direction of the sun's path; surely that was strengthening the spell, driving it deeper into his subconscious by use of a direction associated with magic.

In a word, he was stuck. What had he done to deserve it? Nothing, except dream about women-and refuse the blandishments of a female. He had taken no action to hurt her; he had only preserved his own integrity, and kept himself from being used and eventually degraded (if the tapestry was any guide to her future plans) by saying "no."

How to escape?

He couldn't think of any way out except-and it galled him to admit it---to call for help. If anyone could help him, which for some reason, he doubted. Probably a subconscious command the witch had left-but there it was.

Still, it was worth a try. Who could he call? His mother and father, of course, but he winced at the indignity of calling on his mother at his age. And it would be just as bad calling his teenaged brothers, and Cordelia would be impossible; he could do without their laughter, thank you. Which left Dad.

That, he definitely did not want to do-not after having quarreled with him, and been told to get lost. But there was no alternative-Dad was better than his mother or siblings. Of course, there was Fess.

But where Fess went, Dad would go--after all, he was riding the robot-horse.

Rod rode uphill through the gathering gloom. He could no longer see the squat tower, but he knew it was there. Weariness tugged at every fiber, but he fought it off and kept riding. "He could be anywhere around here-if he's here at all. Any sign of him, Fess?"

"There is a trail off to our right, Rod."

"You mean the footpath? The one that virtually screams, `Look here to discover intruders'? That footpath?"

"The very same, Rod. The one you decided to avoid."

"I noticed you didn't disagree. Why? You see some sign of Magnus there?"

"Unfortunately not-but we might, if we went closer."

"No need-we're coming out on top of the ridge, now." Rod tensed. "Odds are the trail leads there, too-to the tower." He loosened his sword in its sheath.

Fess stopped, looking downward. "What's the holdup?" Rod frowned. "There is a skeleton, Rod."

Rod froze, then looked down.

Sure enough, it was a skeleton, wrapped around the base of the tree as though it had died out of devotion to the forest. Rod felt his scalp prickling. "Odd posture, wouldn't you say?"

"I would, Rod. It is indicative of ritual slaying."

"Or someone with a bizarre sense of humor." Rod was far less charitable than his robot. "A someone with a very twisted mind-and a cavity where his heart should be."

"There are others," Fess reported, surveying the hillside with infrared eyes. "A dozen at least, that I can see from this location."

"The townsfolk did say something about the witch taking young men, didn't they?" Rod scowled. "And something about very few of them ever coming back."

"Surely you are not saying that this is what she did to them when she became bored with them!"

"I've heard of worse-I suppose. Come on, Rust Rider. Let's see what we can find around the other trees."

"Rod, I resent. . . "

"Okay, okay! You're a Stainless Steel Steed. Up and out of the trees now, okay?"

Moving slowly, Fess stepped out of the scrub and into the shadow of the last tree, a huge old oak with the scars of broken limbs, rough bark, and ...

Something pale at the base.

Rod stared down, transfixed, not even able to speak.

A snake lay coiled around the roots-a pale snake with his son's head. Magnus opened his mouth-and hissed.

Fury struck, anger at the witch who had mangled his son. The world about him dimmed as Rod concentrated on the spell, the compulsion imposed on his son, which had twisted his perceptions into seeing himself as a snake, and made him project his own delusion into other people's minds-with all the titanic strength of the hybrid esper he was.

Rod tore at that compulsion, pushing it away with all the strength of his mind; for a moment, he saw Magnus as he really was, naked and curled around the base of the oak. But only for a moment; then the young man's mind forced the delusion back into Rod's, and he realized just how much more powerful his son's mind was than his own. Rod withdrew shaken and reeling. Awe and dread pooled within him, but he let them pass, holding on to Fess's mane and waiting for the dizziness to subside, for pride to rise in its stead-and found that the anger was still there, glowing hot, but controlled now, energy to be directed, not tearing loose. He looked down into his son's shrunken face. "Who did it, Magnus? Tell me her name. Just think it. Show me her face-and where she is."

The snake's face creased with desperation; the mouth opened, but all that came out was a strained hiss. Magnus's mind, though, flashed through the answers to Rod's questions-the name "Hag of the Tower," the song drifting through the dusk, the dream-girl, the long, long tug of wills between seduction and truth....

"Got it." Rod nodded. "In the tower." He turned to look up at the stone pile, the image of the foul old witch still vivid in his mind, and sent out a telepathic summons, immediate and commanding, brooking no delay. He felt Magnus's mind writhe in a panic of shame and embarrassment at the thought of the help he was calling in, but Rod quelled it with a stern admonition, a pure-thought equivalent of "This is no time for vanity." Of course, it was scarcely "vanity" when the "help" would see you coiled around a tree trunk-but there wasn't much option, either. Aloud, he said, "You stay there for a few minutes," and turned Fess's head away toward the tower. Behind him, Magnus gave a last hiss, as much of exasperation as of despair-but Rod felt the young man's mind melding with his own, subordinating its strength to his direction. Rod smiled tightly, solace and warmth almost making him forget his anger for a moment.

Then he came to the portal.

The door to the Hag's tower was ten feet high, of stout old hardwood planks, weathered past gray into darkness, and polished at head-height by use. Something glinted in the moonlight; Rod looked up. He saw a scythe blade with its tip broken off. It hung from a rusty chain, and attached to that chain were old horseshoes, broken bolts, cracked pots-a complete collection of junk metal-framing the portal. Above it hung another chain, stretching off around the tower with more junk attached.

Lousy housekeeping-but all Cold Iron. That explained why the Little People hadn't done anything about the witch. Rod was glad the door wasn't anything that looked to be worth saving. He narrowed his eyes, directing Magnus's ferocious raw emotional power at it....

With a blast like that of a cannon, the door flew apart, splinters flying in all directions. An unseen field deflected them as Fess leaped ahead, carrying Rod into the darkness of the witch's lair.

It was infested.

All around the curve of the walls stood great earthenware urns, unglazed terra cotta, sealed across their mouths-but as Rod rode in, those seals broke, the jars cracked; a foul ichor began to ooze out, and strange bloated beings struggled through the openings. They leaped down, fully formed and instantly alert, and came at him from all sides, hairless rats the size of Doberman Pinschers, glowing yellow-green teeth dripping ichor, running on two feet, front paws stretching out to claw.

Rod was in no mood for subtlety. He pointed both forefingers, thinking of machine guns and laser cannon, and streaks of ruby light sliced through the rats. Supersonic screams tore at his head as the rats split in half, twitching, tops and bottoms both still struggling toward him, then in half again as the ruby beams came back, and back once more, till they were struggling, heaving blobs of protoplasm. Then, suddenly, they subsided into mounds of gray fungus. Rod nodded; it had been an open question, whether they had been constructs, or just illusions. In either case, light had dispelled them.

He turned to the spiral staircase. "Think you can manage them, Fess?"

"This body has its limits, Rod, but that helix does not surpass them." The horse started up the steps.

As he passed the first turn, a huge hissing filled the stairwell. Rod scowled, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. "What's coming, Fess?"

"I hear a rapid scraping, Rod, but I do not see . . ."

Two yellow eyes glowed in the darkness above them, small but wide apart, and the hiss filled the whole stairway, beating at Rod's ears. Enough, he decided, and thought of molecules racing faster and faster, closer and closer together...

A spark glowed in midair, growing and growing, shedding a dim light on the scene....

Enough for Rod to see a monster snake, gliding down the stair toward him. Its body was at least three feet thick; its mouth opened a foot wide, and that was just enough to let out the hiss. The pits beneath its eyes were minor caves-but it seemed to have been waked in mid-molt. Shreds of skin hung from it, some showing muscle and blood underneath; a rotting crest waved atop its head; wattles hung down from its jaws. There wasn't enough light to tell colors, really, but it seemed to be the grayish-blue of a dead fish's belly.

The anger surged back, forestalling both panic and nausea. What kind of depraved maniac kept pets like this around the house? Rod drew his sword, trying to think of something a little more effective.

"Hold fast, Rod." Fess half-reared, striking out with a hoof.

The snake almost sneered-until the steel hoof caught it sharply in the face with a soggy crunch. The serpent reared back, hiss rising almost to a shriek, then struck in rage.

But Fess had given Rod just time enough to think up the appropriate response. He wasn't the world's best crafter, but he could manage something simple, and had: he had pulled together the witch-moss at the bottom of the stairs. It now shot toward him, powered by his son's telekinesis-a twenty-foot trident with tines eighteen inches apart. It arced down, catching the snake just behind the head, slamming it down against the stone of the stair. It couldn't pierce the rock-there was a limit to the hardness witch-moss could be formed to-and the center tine bent against the serpent's scales; but the top of the handle bent, too, against the ceiling, pushing like a living thing, and the snake thrashed about, hissing in fury but unable to lift its head against the force of the spear. The whole stairwell resounded with the noise of the giant's thrashing-but it could do no damage; the walls of the spiral held it too closely.

Now that it was immobilized, Rod could devote himself to its demise. The stairwell itself seemed to become dim, the snake brighter, as he concentrated all his attention on it, thinking of it as just a huge doughy mass. He felt another mind warring with his, striving to keep the snake in its current form, but he had expected that, and bore down all the harder-with the strength of two minds, one distinct and alien from the Gramarye gene pool and mindset, the other a hybrid with ferocious strength. The witch's power crumbled, and so did the snake; it softened more and more, losing its color and becoming the grayish-pink amorphous mass that was witch-moss in its natural form.

Not enough. Rod knew that if he left it raw, the witch could easily re-craft it into the snake, or something even more dangerous, as soon as he and Magnus stopped paying attention to it. He thought of something small and harmless, lots of somethings-and the doughy mass separated into thousands of small curly objects that lightened in color as they hardened. Rod rode on up the stair, through drifts of macaroni that lined both walls. Stray bits of pasta crunched under Fess's hooves, but didn't impede him at all.

"Not too slippery, is it?" Rod asked.

"Not when it is uncooked, Rod, no." The robot-horse climbed on up the stair and out into the chamber at the topA chamber hung with scarlet brocades and filled with cushions, downy, tempting-and the most voluptuous wench Rod had ever seen, sloe-eyed and full-lipped, clad only in a swath of gauze about her hips, accentuating that which it concealed. Golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders, parted in the middle to reveal the high curves of full, naked breasts. The houri gave him a heavy-lidded, inviting smile, and murmured in a husky voice, "Dally with me, brave stalwart."

"No, thanks. I've got a wife at home." Suddenly, Rod was more glad than ever that he had married Gwen; even without being there, she protected him. "And she looks good even without projecting, illusions." He glared at the houri, and her outline began to shimmer.

"Nay!" she screeched, and a bolt of pure energy, hatred whetted by anger and fear, stabbed out at Rod.

An answering bolt shot out from him, sped not by himself, but by Magnus; Rod kept concentrating on seeing the woman as she really was. The two bolts met in the air with an explosion that made his ears ring, and distracted the witch just long enough for Rod to finish locking her mind into seeing only what was truly there. She screamed in anguish, arms coming up to cover her nakedness, body curving in on itself in shame; then she uncoiled, hate stronger in her than any other emotion, and leaped at Rod, fingers hooked to claw.

He was amazed how high she could jump-her fingers nearly touched his eyes before he stiff-armed her, jarring her aside but catching one wrist and hauling up on it. Her feet hit the floor, but the single arm was still outstretched. She screamed, more in rage than in pain, and flailed about with her free arm, but Rod held her with her back to Fess's side. She twisted, trying to get at his leg and groin, but her arm wouldn't turn that far, and she howled in pain. Rod slipped down off the horse to catch her other hand and pulled it behind her back, pinning her forearms together with one hand while he reached in his saddlebag and brought out rope. He bound her wrists together with three quick loops, braced himself against her thrashing as he tied the knot, then let go and shoved her away. She fell sprawling, an obscene, scrawny lump of naked flesh, screaming curses. Rod caught up a silk scarf from among the cushions and bound it around her head. She still screamed into the gag, but at least he couldn't make out the words-not that he needed to; the images her mind was projecting were enough to make him shudder.

He yanked her to her feet and shoved her before him. "You can walk down those steps, or you can roll-but down them you go."

She balked at the top, but felt the rage within him that was at least equal to her own, and stumbled away down the steps, still screaming into her gag. Beside them, heaps of macaroni stirred and softened, but Rod locked them into their own forms again, and she gave up the attempt. Instead, she tried to fill his mind with pornographic visions. When she found him immune, she unleashed lurid imaginings of the tortures she would have loved to visit on him.

"Not bad," Rod grunted. "I'll have to try that on somebody sometime. On the other hand, why put it off?"

The visions stopped.

The witch stumbled out of the tower door and fell rolling in the grass.

"Not far enough," Rod snapped. He yanked on the rope, just enough to remind her that he still held her leash. The strands bit into her wrists, and she screamed in rage, but scrambled to her feet and stumbled away in front of him.

He brought her to a halt before the tree where Magnus lay. "Remove the spell, hag! Turn him back into a man!"

The witch slowly lifted her head, venomous eyes seeking his, malice twisting her features. The vicious thoughts reeking from her were clear: this much she could still deny him, this much pain she could still cause-and she would. Then a picture opened in Rod's mind, of Magnus standing beside him, restored to his proper form as the witch strode away free, and the two of them turned to leave her.

"No deal," Rod snapped. "If you won't do it the easy way, I have someone who will." He focused his thoughts, sending out a single, sharp appeal.

A rush of wind, a stir of whispering overhead, and a graceful figure drifted down in the moonlight, poised on a broomstick, to land directly in front of Rod. The maiden hopped off, frowning at the witch, then turned to Rod with sudden anger. "How now, my father! Hast thou taken to shaming and binding helpless old women in thine age?"

Rod had been braced for anything; still, he found it in him to resent the crack about age. But he stifled it and said, "She's helpless only because Magnus and I have bound her mind as well as her hands, Cordelia. Before we did, though, she played games with your brother." He nodded toward the tree.

Cordelia turned, and the snake shrank back, but not before she had seen its face. Instantly, she was all compassion. "Oh, Magnus! What hath she done to thee!" She dropped to her knees by the snake, hands outstretched-but her brother shrank back farther, looking up at her wild-eyed. Cordelia looked into his eyes, and stilled.

Then she whirled, up to her feet and at the crone. "Thou hag, thou monster! Thou hast maimed his soul as well as his mind! 'Tis his heart thou hast bound, as much as his body!" Her eyes narrowed.

The witch screamed, going rigid, eyes wide, staring back at the maiden-but Cordelia advanced, face cold, hands rising, nails glinting in the moonlight. The witch thrashed, trying to break free, but Rod held her-until suddenly, her eyes rolled up, and her head lolled. Cordelia nodded with grim satisfaction. "I know the manner of it now, how she bent his mind."

"I think you may have hurt her a little," Rod pointed out. "I take it she didn't want to let you know."

"Nay, but I did not wait upon her humor-and if she hath taken some pain from it, I fear I am not contrite." She turned away to her brother.

Rod smiled after her, watching her kneel by the snake, pride upwelling.

Cordelia lifted a hand, but the snake coiled away from her. "Why, how is this, my brother?" she asked, her voice soft, gentle. "I am as I ever was--only thy little sister, thy playfellow of childhood days."

Magnus looked a little reassured, but he glanced at her from toe to head, and stayed back.

"Ah, she hath maimed thee indeed!" Cordelia cried. "But gaze into mine eyes, brother, and try to trust! I love thee, for thou art of the same bone and blood as I. Thou hast done naught to regret, though thou wert sorely tempted, and the only blame that could attach to thee is that thou didst not tear that witch asunder when first thou didst see her!"

Magnus thawed enough to answer, mind to mind. I could not, without proof of wrongdoing.

"And indeed I should have been wroth with thee an thou hadst! But now I am not wroth, but proud! Nay, I see thy fear-but thou dost know me, and know I will be as good as my word! None shall know of this night's doings by my lips, brother; I shall never speak a word of thy misadventure, nor of the warping that the old witch wrought. Trust a little, brother, only a little, and ope thy mind to me for moments!"

The snake was still; then, slowly, he brought his head forward.

Cordelia touched his forehead, lightly as a feather, and her eyes glazed as her mind worked with his. Then, as Rod watched, the snake uncoiled, slithered away from the tree, and lifted its head until it hung poised two feet off the ground. Its form fluxed and flowed-and Magnus sat there cross-legged, naked but whole, his face ashen.

"Thou art restored!" Cordelia whirled up to her feet again, modestly turning her back on her naked brother. "Father, thy mantle!"

Rod whipped his cloak off, letting the witch fall, and reached down to help his son to his feet. Magnus towered over him, so the cloak was very short as Rod reached up to settle it around his shoulders-but it came to mid-thigh, and had slits for his arms.

Cordelia whirled back, throwing her arms around him. "Praise Heaven thou art come back to us!" Then she shuddered, and began to cry.

Magnus stood immobile a moment, then reached an arm around her shoulders and pressed his sister against his chest.

Another minute, and he found his voice. "I am well, sister, I am well-thanks to thee. Nay, I praise all the saints that thou wert born a sister to me!"

"Yet thou art not fully healed." Cordelia looked up at him, eyes filled with tears. "There are scars there yet, brotherand thou hadst not given me leave, so I did not linger to mend. Nay, I know not if I could have, so deeply did she wound thee."

"Peace, sister-'twas not her alone, but many, and in many bouts."

"But these are wounds that only women give!" Cordelia's tears dried instantly under the heat of anger and indignation. "Nay, how could they have used thee so!"

"Thou hast seen some among them," Magnus said softly. "The milkmaid who sought to entrap us, when Mother and Father were gone-the maids of the floating world, when we followed the sounding rocks.. ."

"Aye, I remember." The anger was gone, and Cordelia lifted a hesitant hand to her brother's cheek. "But I did not guess they had hurt thee so. Ah, Magnus! Have I misjudged thee all these years, then? Is there so tender a heart as that, under this warrior's hide?"

Magnus blushed, and let her go. "Thou hast given thy word thou wilt not reveal what thou hast learned this night. . . ."

"And most surely I will not! Oh, my poor brother!" Cordelia flung her arms about him protectively, though her head scarcely came to his breastbone. "Would I could undo the hurt so many lasses have given, that I could give such grace as to o'erbalance their cruelty-for I am a woman, too!"

" 'Tis not thy place." Magnus's arm came up again, embracing, comforting. "I must heal myself, must I not? Nay, sister, 'twas not thy doing, and thou must not hurt for me."

"How can I do otherwise!"

"Why, by being the bright and bonny lass of sunlight and good cheer that thou hast ever been." Magnus's lips touched her forehead briefly, vagrant as a wind. "Only be thyself, and thou shalt do as much as any can to heal me, and more." He held her away from himself and smiled down. "God willing, I shall do as much for thee as thou hast for me, though my province is warding, not healing."

Cordelia looked up in alarm.

Magnus laughed softly and squeezed her shoulder. "Nay, fear not, good sister-I'll not ward thee so closely as that! Nay, I shall not defend unless thou dost ask."

She smiled again, and joined his laughter.

Rod smiled too, and stepped forth. "If you two don't mind, I really don't think we should hang around." Cordelia looked up, saw the witch unconscious on the grass, and nodded. "But what shall we do with her?"

"I think we might leave her to natural forces." Rod turned to the trees and called out:

By oak and ash, By earth and flood! Come forth, all Who live by wood!

The night was still a moment, and the witch's eyes flew open wide, flicking from one side to the other. The whites showed all around her irises, bloodshot. She began to tremble.

Then the long grass stirred, and a foot-high figure stepped forth. Another joined it; more came from the underbrush. Then a branch moved aside, and an eighteen-inch figure stepped out, broad-shouldered and large-headed. Its face tilted up to the light, and it grinned. "I had thought if thou hadst come this way, there might be summat of a stir."

The witch moaned.

"Right as always." Rod smiled slowly. "How nice to see you, Puck."

"Is it truly? What hast thou in store for me?"

Rod nodded toward the lump of flesh on the grass. "Know anything about this one?"

The hag moaned.

Puck's eyes glinted in the moonlight like chips of ice. "Aye, we know of her. When she hath come forth, she hath used her magic to strike at the Wee Folk who dwell nearby. She hath hurled old nails to fend us off, and hath injured many and slain two."

Rod nodded. "We'll leave her to you, then." He turned away, catching Magnus's and Cordelia's arms and moving toward the forest path. Cordelia stepped aside to catch up her broomstick before she came along-not quite quickly enough to escape hearing the hag scream with terror, a scream that was cut off in the middle. Cordelia shuddered and hurried on under the shelter of the bare branches. "Father..."

"They're merciful, in their way," Rod said firmly. "You can be sure she won't have even a fraction of the pain she's given others."

"Yet without trial . . ." Magnus said.

Rod looked up, startled. "Don't tell me you think she could be innocent!"

"Why, certes not!"

"Well, then." Rod nodded. "Don't worry-the elves have their own form of due process. They won't even need you two as witnesses. And, son-the Wee Folk don't generally spread gossip. At least, not to mortal people."

Magnus nodded, relaxing a little more. "Thou wilt say naught of this to my brothers?"

"Of course not-nor to your mother, either."

"Unless she doth ask," Magnus qualified.

"Well, yes. But don't worry-she can keep a secret, too."

"As to that--" Cordelia frowned. "Wherefore didst thou summon me, and not Mama?"

Rod shook his head. "I don't `summon' your mother, Cordelia. I call for help, maybe, but I don't `summon.' And this is probably the last time I'll be able to call you that way."

Cordelia studied him, pensive. "And 'tis therefore thou didst summon me, not her?"

"Why, no." Rod looked up, surprised. "I called you because you're the best at healing, daughter. Your mother has trained you very well, and even though she may have more experience, you have so much talent that you've surpassed her-in that one area at least. Or so she says. Didn't you know?"