Christopher Stasheff: The Warlock Enraged

“Gladly,” Simon answered, with a full, warm smile.

“Then hold on.” Rod stood, grasped Simon’s shoulder, and thought of Alfar, of his arrogance, his insolence, and the threat he represented to Rod and his children. Hot anger surged in answer, anger building toward rage. Rod felt Lord Kern’s familiar wrath—but he was aware of it, now, as something that was a part of him, truly, not implanted from someone else—and, being of himself, it was as much under his control as his fingers, or his tongue. He opened his mind, concentrating on the world of thought. The world of sight dimmed, and his blood began to pound in his ears. Only the thoughts were real—the darting, scheming thoughts of the warlocks and witches; the dulled, mechanical plodding thoughts of the soldiers and servants—and the ceaseless background drone that had to be the projective telepath, who had hypnotized a whole duchy. What else could it be, that emitted such a constant paean of praise, such a continual pushing of thought against mind?

Whatever it was, Rod was suddenly certain that it was the key to all the pride and ambition that was Alfar’s conquest. He scanned the castle till he found the direction in which it was strongest, then willed himself to it.

It was a small room, a round room, a room of gray stone blocks with three tall, skinny windows. But those windows were sealed with some clear substance, and the air of the chamber was unnaturally cool—climate-controlled. Every alarm bell in Rod’s head screamed. He glanced at Simon. The older warlock tottered, dazed. Rod held him up, growling, “Steady. That’s what happens when a warlock disappears.”

“I had… ne’er had the opportunity aforetime,” Simon gasped. He looked around him, whites showing all around his eyes. Finally, he turned back to Rod, awe-struck. “Eh, but thou’rt truly the Lord Warlock, thou.”

“The same,” Rod confirmed, “but nonetheless your pupil in fathering and husbandry.”

“As I am to thee, in wizardry.” Simon pointed a trembling finger at the metal box in the center of the room. It sat on a slender pedestal at chest height, and had a gray, irridescent cylinder atop one end. The other sprouted a cable that dropped down to the floor, ran over to the wall and up it, to a window, where it disappeared—probably to a transmitting antenna, Rod decided. “What,” Simon asked, in a voice that shook, “is that spawn of alchemy?”

“Probably,” Rod agreed. “It’s a machine of some sort, anyway.” He could feel the insistent pounding of the message, extolling Alfar’s virtues over and over again. It was much stronger than it had been when he was in the dungeon. It belabored him, convincing, persuading by sheer repetition. Alfar was master, Alfar was great, Alfar was rightful lord of all that was human… “I think I know what it is, Simon—or, at least, what it does. If I’m right, the last time I saw one of these, it was alive.”

“How?” Simon stared, horrified. “A living thing cannot be a machine.”

“No more than a machine can be a living thing. But this one sure seems to be. If you didn’t know better, wouldn’t you swear that thing’s thinking at us?”

“Wh… this ?” Simon pointed at the contraption, features writhing with revulsion. “Assuredly it doth not!”

“Assure me again—I could need it.” Under his breath, Rod murmured, “Fess. Where are you?”

“Here, Rod, in the castle stables,” Fess’s voice answered from behind his ear.

“Close your eyes,” Rod growled, “and don’t worry about what’s happening.” He closed his eyes, envisioning Fess, and the stable he was in. In excellent repair, probably, since it had been Duke Romanov’s just a week ago—but slipping a bit now. The straw surely needed changing, for example, and the manure needed clearing. But he needed Fess, needed him badly, right here … He made the thought an imperative, an unworded summons, sharp, demanding.

Thunder rocked the little room, and Fess was there, looking about him wildly, Rod saw as he opened his eyes again. The robot’s voice came out slurred. “Whhhaddt… wherrre… I have… have I… telllepo…” Suddenly his head whipped up, then slammed down. All four legs spraddled out, stiff, knees locked. The neck was stiff, too, pointing the head at the floor; then it relaxed, and the head began to swing between the fetlocks.

“Seizure,” Rod explained. “It always happens, when he can’t avoid witnessing magic.”

But Simon didn’t answer. He was staring at the electronic gizmo, and his eyes had glazed. He took a stumbling step toward it. Of course , Rod thought. This close to the gadget … He grabbed Simon by the shoulders, and gave him a shake. “Simon! Wake up!” He clapped his hands sharply, an inch in front of Simon’s nose. Simon started, and his eyes came back into focus. “What… Lord Warlock! For the half of a minute, I thought… I could believe…”

“That the background noise is right, and Alfar’s a good guy.” Rod nodded, mouth a thin, straight line. “Not surprising. Now I’m sure what that weird device is—but let’s confirm it.” He turned back to Fess, felt under the pommel of the saddle for an enlarged vertebra, and pushed it. It clicked faintly. After a moment, Fess’s head lifted slowly and turned to look at Rod, the great plastic eyes clearing. “I… had a… seizure, Rrrod.”

“You did,” Rod confirmed. “But let me show you something you can cope with.” He took a step toward the pedestal, pointing. “There’s a background thought-message, constantly repeating, Fess. Over and over, it praises Alfar to the skies—and it’s much stronger here than anywhere else.”

The robot’s head tracked him. Then Fess stepped closer to the metal box. The great horsehead lifted, looking at the box from the top, then from the front, then the back. Finally Fess opined, “There is sufficient data for a meaningful conclusion, Rod.”

“Oh, ducky! What’s it add up to?”

“That the futurian totalitarians are supporting Alfar’s conquests.”

“Are they really,” Rod said drily. “Care to confirm my guess as to what it does?”

“Certainly. It’s a device that converts electricity into psionic power. I would conjecture that the large, rectangular base contains some sort of animal brain in a nutrient solution, with wires carrying power from an atomic pack into the medulla, and leads from the cerebrum carrying power at human thought frequencies into a modulator. The cylinder at the rear of the machine would seem to perform that function. This modulated message is fed out through the cable, which presumably goes up to an antenna on the roof of this tower.”

“Thanks.” Rod swallowed against a suddenly queasy stomach. “Nice to have my guess confirmed—I suppose. Their technology has improved since we met the Kobold, hasn’t it?”

“The state of the art advances constantly, Rod.”

“Relentlessly, you might almost say.” Rod turned to Simon. “It projects thoughts. Not a living thought, you understand—a recorded one, made as carefully as people make chairs, or ships, or castles, but just as thoroughly made. Then that thought is set down, as you’d write a message in ink, almost—and sent out from this machine, to the whole of the duchy, again and again, drumming itself into people’s heads. Warlocks and witches can at least realize they’re being bombarded—but the average peasant in the field has no idea it’s happening. But warlock or witch, it doesn’t seem to matter—it converts them all.”

“Who placed it here?” Simon’s voice trembled.

“People from the future.” Rod’s face was set, stony. “People who want the whole universe to be ruled by one single power.” He glared around at the blank stone walls. “Where’re its builders? Hiding somewhere, out of harm’s way, while Alfar and his coven do their dirty work for them. But I must admit I’m disappointed—I was hoping to find a few of them here, keeping guard.” He could feel indignation spurring his anger higher; he began to tremble.