Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Enraged

“I did.” Grathum bit his lip. “And I wish that I had not—though it would have made little difference, for each and every other plowman on Sir Ewing’s estates told him likewise.”

“The same warlock in each case?”

“Aye; his name, he said, was Melkanth. And there was no report of him, from any other manor; yet each had been so visited by a different warlock or witch. Naetheless, ‘twas our Sir Ewing who did rise up in anger and, with his dozen men-at-arms, rode forth to seek out this Melkanth.”

Rod clamped his jaw. “I take it Sir Ewing found him.”

Grathum spread his hands. “We cannot think otherwise; for he did not come back. Yet his men-at-arms did; but they wore this livery thou seest on those who pursued us.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the heap of bound soldiers. “Aye, they came back, these men that we’d known since childhood; they came back, and told us that Sir Ewing was no more, and that we served His Honor Warlock Melkanth now.”

Rod stared, and Gwen caught at his arm. That jarred Rod back into contact with reality; he cleared his throat, and asked, “Anything odd about ‘em? The way they looked?”

“Aye.” Grathum tapped next to his eye. “Twas here, milord—in their gazes. Though I could not say to thee what ‘twas that was odd.”

“But it was wrong, whatever it was.” Rod nodded. “What’d the soldiers do? Stay around to make sure you kept plowing?”

“Nay; they but told us we labored for Melkanth now, and bade us speak not of this that had happed, not to any knight nor lord; yet they did not say we could not speak to other peasant folk.”

“So the rumor ran?”

“Aye. It ran from peasant to peasant, till it had come closer by several manors to our lord, Count Novgor.”

Rod kept the frown. “I take it he’s vassal to Duke Romanov.”

“Aye, milord. The Count called up his levies—but scarce more than a dozen knights answered his call; for the others had all marched forth to battle the warlocks who challenged them.”

“Oh, really! I take it rumor hadn’t run fast enough.”

Grathum shrugged. “I think that it had, milord; but such news only angered our good knights, and each marched out to meet the warlock who claimed his land, thinking his force surely equal to the task.”

“But it wasn’t.” Rod’s lips were thin. “Because they went out one knight at a time; but I’ll bet each one of them ran into this Lord Sorcerer and all his minions, together.”

Grathum’s face darkened. “Could it be so?”

Rod tossed his head impatiently. “You peasants have got to stop believing everything you’re told, Grathum, and start trying to find out a few facts on your own!… Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m as sane as you are! What happened to Count Novgor and his understrength army?”

Grathum shook his head. “We know not, milord—for fear overtook us, and we saw that, if the sorcerer won, we would be enslaved to fell magic, and our wives and bairns with us. Nay, then we common folk packed what we could carry and sin’ that we would not have the chance to fight, fled instead, through the pasture lanes to the roadway, and down the roadway to the High Road.”

“So you don’t know who won?”

“Nay; but early the next morning, when we’d begun to march again, word ran through our numbers—for it was hundreds of people on the road by then, milord; we folk of Sir Ewing’s were not alone in seeing our only chance to stay free—and word ran from the folk at the rear of the troupe, to us near the van, that green-coated soldiers pursued. We quickened our pace, but word came, anon, that a band of peasants had been caught up by soldiers, and taken away in chains. At that word, many folk split away, village by village, down side roads toward hiding. But when we came to high ground, we looked back, and saw squadrons of soldiers breaking off from the main host, to march down the side roads; so we turned our faces to the South, and hurried with Death speeding our heels—for word reached those of us in the van, that the soldiers had begun slaying those who fought their capture. Then did we take to a byway ourselves; but we hid, with our hands o’er our children’s mouths, till the soldiers had trooped by, and were gone from sight; then back we darted onto the High Road, and down toward the South again. Through the night we came, bearing the wee ones on litters, hoping that the soldiers would sleep the whiles we marched; and thus we came into this morning, where thou hast found us.”

Rod looked up at the sky. “Let’s see, today… yesterday… This would be the third day since the battle.”

“Aye, milord.”

“And you, just this little band of you, are the only ones who made it far enough south to cross the border?”

Grathum spread his hands. “The only ones on the High Road, milord. If there be others, we know not of them… and had it not been for thee and thy family, we would not be here, either.” He shuddered. “Our poor Count Novgor! We can only pray that he lives.”

Air cracked outward, and Gregory floated at Rod’s eye level, moored to his shoulder by a chubby hand.

The peasants stared, and shrank back, muttering in horror.

“Peace.” Rod held up a hand. “This child helped save you from the sorcerer’s soldiers.” He turned to Gregory, nettled. “What is it, son? This wasn’t exactly a good time.”

“Papa,” the boy said, eyes huge, “I have listened, and…”

Rod shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly a private conversation. What about it?”

“If this Count Novgor had won, these soldiers in the sorcerer’s livery would not have been marching after these peasant folk.”

The folk in question gasped, and one woman cried, “But the bairn can scarcely be weaned!”

Rod turned to them, unable to resist a proud smirk. “You should see him think up excuses not to eat his vegetables. I’m afraid he’s got a point, though; I wouldn’t have any great hopes for Count Novgor’s victory.”

The peasants sagged visibly.

“But it should be possible to get a definite answer.” Rod strode forward.

The peasants leaped aside.

Rod stepped up to the bound soldiers. He noticed that one or two were struggling against their ties. “They’re beginning to come to. I think they might know who won.” He reached out to yank a soldier onto his feet, then turned to the peasants. “Anybody recognize him?”

The peasants stared and, one after another, shook their heads. Then, suddenly, one woman’s finger darted out, to point at the soldier on top of the third pile. “But yonder is Gavin Arlinson, who followed good Sir Ewing into battle! How comes he to fight in the service of his lord’s foe?”

“Or any of them, for that matter? Still, he’ll do nicely as a representative sample.” Rod gave the soldier he was holding, a slight push; the man teetered, then fell back down onto his comrades. Rod caught him at the last second, of course, and lowered him the final inch; then he waded through the bound men, to pull Gavin Arlinson onto his feet. He slapped the man’s face gently, until the eyelids fluttered; then he called, “Magnus, the brandy—it’s in Fess’s pack.”

His eldest elbowed his way through to his father, holding up a flask. Rod took it, noting that nobody seemed to wonder where Magnus had come from. He pressed the flask to Arlinson’s lips and tilted, then yanked it back out quickly. The soldier coughed, spraying the immediate area, choked, then swallowed. He squinted up at Rod, frowning.

Just the look of the eyes made Rod shiver. Admittedly, the glassiness of that stare could be due to the head knock he’d received; but the unwavering, unblinking coldness was another matter.

Rod pulled his nerve back up and demanded, “What happened to Sir Ewing?”