Warlock - The Warlock Enraged Part 25

Rod supposed it was a compliment.

11.

They were up at first light, and on the road by dawn. With the main issues out of the way, the two of them chatted together easily-Simon the innkeeper, and Owen the farmer.

And if, as morning wore on, Owen's tales of his children bore a startling resemblance to the experiences of Rod Gallowgla.s.s, it can scarcely be surprising. On the other hand, all the stories had nothing to do with juvenile witch powers; Rod stayed sufficiently on his guard not to make that particular slip.

It wasn't easy. Rod found they had a lot in common- wives, and children. He also found Simon to be surprisingly refreshing. Instead of their usual dire predictions about the horrors of adolescence that lay in store for the unwary father, Simon restricted his anecdotes to childhood disasters- though, when pressed, he admitted that all his children were grown, and the tale of his daughter's impending first birth was quite true. Rod immediately began insisting, all over again, that Simon turn back to the South and his daughter, the more so because Simon had mentioned earlier that his wife had died quite a few years ago; but the innkeeper merely informed Rod that his daughter really lived north of his home village-wherefore, he had been doubly cowardly to flee. There wasn't much Rod could say to that, so he relaxed 768.

169.

and enjoyed Simon's company. So, by the time they came to the first village. Rod was feeling in fine form-which was fortunate, because they were greeted by a mob.

The peasants stormed out of the village, howling and throwing stones and waving pitchforks-but not at Simon and Rod. Their target was a small man, who sprinted madly, managing to stay a dozen yards ahead of them.

"Slay the warlock!" they cried. "Stone him!" "Stab him!

Drain his blood!" "Burn him! b.u.m him b.u.m Him BURN HIM!".

Simon and Rod stared at each other, startled. Then Simon snapped, "He could not be of Alfar's brood, or soldiers would even now be cutting down these peasants! Quickly, Owen!"

"You heard him!" Rod cracked the whip over Fess's head, keeping up the act. "Charge!"

Fess leaped into a gallop. Cartwheels roared behind him.

Rod pulled up hard as they pa.s.sed the fleeing warlock, and Simon shouted, "Up behind, man! For thy lifeblood's sake!"

The running man looked up, startled, then jumped into the cart, as Simon rose to his feet and cried out, in a voice that seared through the crowd's shouting: "I, too, am a magic worker! Two warlocks face thee now! Dost thou still wish wood to kindle?"

The crowd froze, the words of violence dying on their tongues.

Simon stood relaxed, but his face was granite. Slowly, he surveyed the crowd, picking out individual faces here and there. But he didn't say a word.

Finally, a fat little man stepped forward, shaking a club at Simon. "Step aside, fellow! Withdraw thy cart and horse!

Our quarrel's with this foul warlock, not with thee!"

"Nay," Simon answered. "To the contrary; every war- lock's business is every other's, for there are few of us indeed."

"Every warlock?" the fat man bleated in indignation. "Is Alfar's business also thine?"

His words set off an ugly murmur that increased in ug- liness as it built.

770 "Alfar's business ours?" Simon's eyes widened. "Why would it not be?"

The noise cut off as the crowd stared at him, frozen.

Then the people began to mutter to one another, worried, a little fearful. One scrawny warlock by himself was one thing-but two together, with Alfar's backing...

Simon's voice cut through their hubbub. "'Twould be better an thou didst now go back unto thine homes."

"What dost thou speak of!" the fat little man cried. "Turn to our homes? Nay! For we have one who must be punished!

What dost thou think thyself to..."

His voice ran down under Simon's stony glare. Behind him, the crowd stared, then began to whisper among them- selves again. Rod heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of "Evil Eye!" "Evil Eye!"

He did the best he could to reinforce the idea, staring at the fat little leader with his eyes narrowed a little, teeth showing in a wolfish grin.

"Thou wilt go," Simon said, his voice like an icepick.

Rod could scarcely believe the transformation. He could've sworn Simon was at least two inches taller and four inches broader. His eyes glowed; his face was alive and vibrant. He fairly exuded power.

Cowed, the crowd drew in upon itself, muttering darkly.

Simon's voice rose above. "We have shown thee plainly wherein doth lie the true power in this land-but it need not be turned against thee. Go, now-go to thine homes."

Then he smiled, and his aura seemed to mellow-he seemed gentler, somehow, and rea.s.suring. "Go," he urged, "go quickly."

The crowd was shaken by the transformation. Their emo- tions had been yanked back and forth; they didn't know whether to resent Simon, or be grateful to him. For a mo- ment, they stood, uncertain. Then one man turned away, slowly. Another saw him, and turned to follow. A third saw them, and turned, then a fourth. Then the whole crowd was moving back toward the village.

The fat little man glanced at them, appalled, then back toward Simon. "Retribution shall follow," he cried, but fear hollowed his voice. "Retribution, and flames for all witches!"

Rod's eyes narrowed to slits, and he gathered himself; but Simon laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said 171.

mildly, "Go whilst thou may-or retribution there shall be indeed, and I shall not lift one finger to stay it."

The little man glanced at Rod in sudden terror, then whirled about, and hurried to follow the villagers back to- ward the houses.

Rod, Simon, and the stranger only watched him, frozen in tableau till he'd disappeared among the buildings. Then, the moment he was out of sight, Simon heaved a long sigh, going limp.

"I should say," Rod agreed. "You do that kind of thing often?"

"Nay." Simon collapsed onto the board seat. "Never in my life."

"Then you've got one h.e.l.l of a talent for it." Privately, Rod had a strong suspicion that Simon was at least a little bit of a projective, but didn't realize it.

Even with his nerves a-jangle from facing down a mob for the first time, Simon remembered the fugitive. He turned, looking back into the cart. "Art thou well, countryman?"

"Aye," the stranger wheezed, "thanks to thee, goodmen.

And thou hadst not come, there had been naught but a b.l.o.o.d.y lump left of me. E'en now I tremble, to think of them!

From the depths of my soul I thank thee. I shall pray down upon thee one blessing, for every star that stands in the sky!

I shall..."

"You shall live." Rod couldn't repress the grin. "And we're glad of it. But if you're a warlock, why didn't you just disappear?" Then a sudden thought hit him, and he turned to Simon. "Is he a warlock?"

"Aye." Simon nodded, his eyes on the stranger. "There is the feeling I've had, twice aforetime, when I've met another warlock and heard his thoughts-that feeling of being in a mind enlarged, in a greater s.p.a.ce of soul."

Rod knew the feeling; he'd met it himself. With a variant form and intensity, it was one of the great benefits of being married to another esper-and one of the curses of being an esper himself, when he was near another telepath whom he didn't like. He'd decided some time ago that it was mental feedback-but controlled feedback. It must've been, or it would've torn both minds apart. The bom witch, he thought, must develop a perceptual screen in infancy, a sort of block- 772 ing mechanism that would reduce the recycled mental en- ergy to comfortable levels.

"He is a warlock," Simon said again. "Why, therefore, didst thou not disappear, goodman?"

"Why, for that I could not." The stranger smiled apolo- getically, spreading his hands and c.o.c.king his head to the side. "What can I say to thee? I am a very poor warlock, who can but hear others' thoughts, and that only when they're hard by me. E'en then, I cannot hear them well."

"I, too," Simon said, with a sad smile. "I can but hear one that's within the same house as I."

"And I, only when they are within a few yards," the stranger said, nodding. "But so little as that is enough, I wot, so that, now and again, summat of others' thoughts do come into mine head, unknowing-the thought comes that so-and-so is a-love with such-and-such, or that this one wishes the other dead. And, again and now, I let slip an unguarded word or two, and the one I'm speaking to doth stare at me, in horror, and doth cry, 'How couldst thou know of that? None have heard it of me; to none have I spoken of it!'"

"So they figured out what you were." Rod nodded.

"Aye; and it cost me what few friends I had, from my earliest years; yet it made me no enemies; for I am, as I've said, a most powerless warlock, and all, thankfully, knew that I meant no one harm."

Rod could believe it. The stranger was short, slump- shouldered and concave-ctiested, flabby, with a little pot- belly. His hair was dun-colored. He had large, pale eyes, a snub nose, and a perpetual hangdog look about him. He couldn't have been much over thirty, but already his cheeks were beginning to sag. In a year or five, he'd have jowls.

A schlemiel. Rod decided, a poor soul who would never intentionally hurt anybody, but would always be clumsy, both physically and socially. "n.o.body really wanted you around, huh? But they didn't mind you, either."

"Aye," the stranger said, with a rueful smile.

"I know the way of it," Simon sighed. "There was such a lad in my village."

"There always is," Rod said. "It's a necessary social 173.

function. Everybody needs somebody whose name they can't quite remember."

"Well said." Simon smiled. "And thou dost touch my conscience. How art thou called, goodman?"

"Flaran," the stranger answered, with the same smile.

"Flaran," Simon repeated, thoughtfully. "Tell me, Flaran-when Alfar the sorcerer began to rise to power, did thy fellows expect thee to hail him?"

Plaran's smile gained warmth. "They did that. Thou hast endured it thyself, hast thou not?" And, when Simon nod- ded, he chuckled. "So I thought; thou hast spoke too much of what I have seen myself. Aye, all my neighbors did think that, solely because I've a touch of the Power, I should cry that Alfar was the greatest hope this duchy hath ever seen.

Yet I did not. In truth, I said I did not trust the man."

Simon nodded. "Yet they thought thou didst give them the lie."

"They did," Flaran agreed. "Straightaway, then, mine old friends-or neighbors, at least-began to mistrust me; in truth, as Alfar's fame and power have grown, they have doubted me more and more."

"Still, thou'rt of them." Simon frowned. "When last came to last, thou wert of their clan and kind. I would think they would not hound and stone thee."

"Nor did I-and still I mis...o...b.. me an they would have.

But folk began to pa.s.s through our village, pushing hand- carts and bearing packs upon their backs; and, though we did not have great store of food or ale, 'Stay.' we urged them. 'Nay,' they answered, 'for the sorcerer's armies do march, and we do flee them. We dare not bide, for they'll swallow up this village also.' Then they turned, and marched on toward the South."

Rod and Simon exchanged a quick glance. Simon nodded in corroboration. Rod understood; Simon had been one of the ones who had come marching through the village, and had not stayed. "And this small ball of a man with the great mouth?" Simon turned back to Flaran. "Was he of thy vil- lage, or of the strangers?"

"Of the strangers," Flaran answered, "and he did come into our village crying doom upon all who had any powers.

174 None could be trusted, quoth he, for all witch folk must needs hate all common men, and must needs fight them; therefore, any witch or warlock must needs be an agent of Alfar's."

Simon's eyes burned. "Indeed? Would I could have done more than send him back to thy village."

"Nay, friend. Thou wouldst but have made my neighbors certain in their hatred. Even as 'twas, he did turn my fellows against me-though, in all truth, the news from the North had made them so wary, they needed little turning. I came into the inn for a pint, but when I stood near to the landlord, I heard his thoughts, his rage and mistrust, his secret fear that the fat little stranger might be right, that mayhap all witch folk should be stoned. Nay, I dropped my flagon and fled."

"And, of course, they all ran after you." Rod reflected that the pack instinct must have taken over.

Flaran shuddered. "Tis even as thou dost say. 'Twas not even an hour agone. I dodged and hid, then dodged and ran. At last they found me out, and I could hide no longer.

Nay, I fled off down the road-but I was wearied, and must needs fight to stay running. Heaven be praised that thou didst come up the High Road then, or I had been a paste of a person!"

Simon reached out to clap Flaran on the shoulder. "Cour- age, friend-this bloodl.u.s.t shall fade, as it hath aforetime.

Ever and anon have they come out hunting witches-and ever and anon hath it pa.s.sed. This shall, also."

Flaran braved a small smile, but he didn't look con- vinced.

Rod wasn't, either-the whole thing had too much of the deliberate about it. It was preplanned, well-organized whipping-up of sentiment, and there was only one group organized enough to do the whipping-up-but why would Alfar be trying to work up antiesper sentiment?

The answer hit him like a sap, in instant balance to the question: Alfar would whip up the witch hunt to eliminate his compet.i.tion. After all, the only force in the duchy that could stand against him, were the witches who hadn't signed up with him. Left alone long enough, they just might band 175.

together in self-defense-as Simon and Flaran were doing, even now. If they organized a large enough band of fugitive witches and warlocks, they would const.i.tute a power that might actually unseat him. And what better way to eliminate the independents, than the time-tried old witch hunt?

When you looked at it that way, it made excellent sense- especially since the unaligned espers would tend to be op- posed to him; they'd be the most sensitive to his kind of hypnotic tyranny. "Say, uh-did either one of you ever feel one of Alfar's men trying to take over your mind?"

Both men looked up, startled. Then Simon nodded, gravely. "Aye. It was..." he shuddered, "... most obscene, friend Owen."

"I could barely feel it," Haran added, "yet it turned my stomach and made my gorge to rise. And it raised such a wave of fear in me, that I thought it like to shake me to pieces. To feel fingers of thought, stroking at thy mind..."

He broke off, looking queasy.

"Try not to think of it," Rod said, cursing his impul- siveness. "Sorry I brought it up." And these two, he re- flected, were the gentle kind. What would happen when Alfar's men tried to take on a warlock who had a bit more arrogance? Or even just one who liked to fight? He would have flown into a rage, and gone hunting for Alfar.

And Rod couldn't blame him. The thought of someone meddling with his mind started the sullen flow of anger. He recognized it, and tried to relax, let it drain away-but the image of Gwen and the children rose up in his mind, with the instant thought of some overbearing young warlock trying to touch their minds-and the rage exploded with a sud- denness that left him defenseless against it, shaking his body with its intensity, wild and searing, searching for a target, any target, striving to master Rod, to make him its instru- ment. He held himself still, fighting to contain it, to keep it inside himself, to keep it from hurting anyone else.

But both warlocks were staring at him. "My friend,"

Simon said, wide-eyed, "art thou well?"

Such a mild question, and so well-intentioned! But it broke the fragile membrane of Rod's control.