Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Enraged

One by one, his servants and thralls saw him, and fell silent.

When the whole hall was quiet, the Count turned to a waiting servant. “Light fires, that we may thank this lady for her good services, and be done with her flaming light.”

The servant turned to the task, and others leaped to join him.

The Count turned to the priest and said gravely, “I must thank thee, reverend Father, for thy good offices.”

The priest bowed. “My office it was, and there was small need to thank me.”

“Naetheless, I do. Still, Father, I own to some concern, for these were the spirits of mine ancestors. Are their souls destroyed, then?”

“Nay, milord.” The priest smiled. “I’ troth, I misdoubt me an a soul can be annihilated. Yet even an ‘twere, ‘twould not be now; for I saw no need for exorcism. Nay, I merely did bless this hall, and pray for the souls of all who have dwelt here, that they might find rest—which they did.”

“And I had feared thou wouldst attempt to blast them with power of thine own,” Gwen said softly to her husband. “How is’t thou didst think of the clergy?”

But the rage had ebbed, and Rod was filled with guilt and remorse. He shrugged impatiently. “Just an odd fact.”

“It was, i’ truth, for thou hast never been greatly pious. Where didst thou learn it?”

The question poked through Rod’s miasma; he frowned. Where had he learned that ghosts could be banished by clergy? “Common knowledge, isn’t it?” He glowered at her. “Just came to me, out of the blue.”

“Nay,” said little Gregory, reaching up to catch his hand. “ ‘Tis not from the blue …”

“Who asked you ?”

Gregory flinched away, and self-disgust drowned Rod’s irritation. He reached out to catch the child around the shoulders and jam him against a hip. “Oh, I’m sorry, son! You didn’t deserve that!”

The priest was still reassuring the Count. “They have fled back to their graves, milord—and, I hope, to their well-earned afterlives.”

“For some, that will be a blessing,” the Count said non-comittally.

Rod looked up from the shame filled ashes of his wrath. “Shall I send you home now, Father?”

The priest looked up, appalled, and the Count said quickly, “Or, an thou dost wish it, Father, we can offer thee hospitality and, when thou art rested, guardsmen and a horse, to escort thee south, to thy monastery.”

“I thank thee, milord,” the priest said, not managing to hide his relief.

The Count inclined his head. Then, slowly, he turned to Rod; and he spoke softly, but his words cut like fire. “ ‘Twas ungentlemanly of thee, Lord Warlock, to come, unannounced and disguised, into mine household.”

Rod met his gaze, despite the shame that permeated him. He’d lost his head in fear and panic, and aimed at the wrong enemy—and now, to top it off, the Count was right.

How dare he be!

It worked; he summoned up enough indignation to raise his chin. “Deeply do I regret the need for such deception, milord Count—but need there was.”

“What?” The Count frowned. “Need to wake mine ancestors from their sleep?”

Rod answered frown for frown. “Be mindful, milord—that raising was no work of ours. ‘Twas the doing of a vile wi—uh, sorceress.”

“Aye.” The Count seemed embarrassed. “ ‘Tis even so, milord; I had forgot.”

“But the witch would not ha’ been here,” Geoffrey whispered, “had we not been.”

“Shut up, kid,” Rod muttered.

“I prithee, judge not all us witches by her,” Gwen pleaded. “There be only a few such wicked ones. And, as thou hast seen, ever will they flee the might of the Royal Coven.”

The peasants didn’t seem all that much reassured.

“Make no mistake,” Rod advised. “The Tyrant Sorcerer, Alfar, does send his agents out to prepare his conquests—and, as you’ve seen, he has come this far to the South already.” He turned back to Count Drulane. “That is why we have come in disguise—to learn all we can of Alfar’s doings.”

The Count gazed at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. “Aye, I am captain enough to understand the need of that.”

“I thank you for your understanding,” Rod gave him a slight bow. “But we must not trouble your keep further this night. The witch has fled, and we have learned all that we can.” Especially now that our cover’s blown . “We will thank you for your hospitality, and take our leave.”

The count returned the bow, not quite managing to hide his relief.

Rod smiled, turned, and marched toward the door.

Magnus blinked, then jumped to follow his father, shoulders squared and chin high.

The other children looked about them, startled, then hurried after Magnus, with Gwen shooing them along.

The peasants pressed back, making way for them.

Rod stopped by Fess and reached under the saddle for the reset switch. He threw it, and the robot’s head came up slowly. Rod caught the reins and led the black horse away with them.

They came out into the open air, and Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief.

“Clean!” Cordelia gasped.

Rod was silent for two paces; then he nodded. “Yes. You did want to sleep outdoors, didn’t you?”

“Crickets be more musical than snores,” Magnus assured him.

“And if I must needs sleep with animals, I had liefer they be large enough to see clearly.” Gwen brushed at her skirts. “Faugh!”

“No argument there,” Rod assured her. “Come on; we’ll just go a quarter-mile or so past the gate, and bed down for the rest of the night.”

They passed through the gatehouse, across the drawbridge, and out into the night.

After a few paces, Rod let a sigh explode out. “Now! Next time you disagree with me, Gregory, please wait until we’re alone! Because you never know, I might be right.”

“Yes, Papa,” the little boy said, in a little voice.

Rod frowned. “I don’t mean to be hard, son—but there’s a very good chance that, if that witch hadn’t been there to harry us, there might’ve been another one of Alfar’s crew, to try to spy out the territory and spread rumors that’d worry the folk. I mean, all that worried dinner-table talk was probably genuine—but it is strangely convenient for Alfar, isn’t it?”

Gregory was silent.

To cover his guilt feelings, Rod turned to Fess, muttering, “Recovered, Circuit Rider?”

“Nearly,” answered the robot’s voice. “I had never encountered convincing evidence of the existence of a medium, before this night.”

“Well, maybe you still haven’t,” Rod mused.

“Who hath not what?” Magnus looked up with a frown. “Oh! Thou didst speak with Fess.” He nodded, satisfied; the children had long ago learned that they could not hear Fess’s thoughts, unless he wanted them to.

“Mayhap he still hath not what?” Cordelia asked.

“Seen a medium,” Rod explained, “a person who can talk to ghosts, or make them appear.”

“Oh.” Cordelia nodded. “Thou speakest aright, Papa. He hath not.”

“Oh, really? Those ghosts looked genuine, to me.”

“They were not,” Magnus assured him. “They had no greater thought than a mirror.”

Rod frowned. “Odd simile.”

“Yet ‘tis apt,” Gwen affirmed. “They had no true thoughts of their own; they mimicked what was there laid down for them.”

“Laid down?” Rod still frowned. “By whom?”

“By the witch,” Magnus explained. “She did call up the memories laid in the stones, and throw them out to us.”

Rod stared. After a few seconds, he said, “What?”

“Some witches there be, milord,” Gwen explained, “who can lay a hand on a ring, and gain the full sense of the person who wore it, even to the pattern of his or her thoughts.”