Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Enraged

“Peace, peace.” Simon grasped his forearm. “Wherefor would they? Why guard what none know of, and none need tend?”

“Yeah—it’s fully automatic, isn’t it? And just because I expected them to be here, doesn’t mean they should feel obligated to show up. But I was at least expecting a human witch or warlock to be doing the thinking! Maybe hooked up to a psionic amplifier—but nonetheless one of Alfar’s henchmen, taking it in relays! But… this is it!” He spread his hands toward the machine. “This is all there is! Here’s the spectacular sorcerer—here’s the arch-magus! Here’s your rebel warlock warlord, fantastically powerful—until its battery runs down!”

“ ‘Twill suffice,” Simon said, beside him.

“Damn straight it will!” Rod turned to rummage in Fess’s saddlebag. “Where’s that hammer I used to carry?”

“May I suggest that it would be more effective, and more immediate, to turn the machine off, Rod?”

Rod shrugged. “Why not? I’m not picky—I’ll wreck it any way I can!” He turned to the machine, looking it up and down. “Where’s the off switch?”

“I detect a pressure-pad next to the cylinder,” Fess said. “Would you press it, please, Rod?”

“Sure.” Rod pressed the cross-hatched square. The machine clicked, whirred for a second, then pushed one end of the cylinder toward Rod. He lifted it off, holding it warily at arm’s length. “What is it?”

“From the circuitry, Rod, I would conjecture that the cylinder is the transducer. This disc, therefore, would be the recorded message.”

“Oh, is it, now!” Rod whipped his arm back for a straight pitch, aimed at the wall.

“Might I also suggest,” Fess said quickly, “that we may find a use for the disc itself?”

Rod scowled. “Always possible, I suppose—but not very satisfying.” He dropped it into his belt-pouch. “So we’ve stopped it from mass-hypnotizing the population. Now, how do we wake them up?”

“Why not try telepathy?” the robot suggested. “The message is recorded thought, placed in contact with the transducer; presumably it will function just as well, from contact with living thought.”

Rod turned to his friend with a glittering eye. “Oh, Master Simon…”

In spite of himself, the older man took a step backward. But, stoutly, he said, “Wherein may I aid, Lord Warlock?”

“By thinking at the machine.” Rod tossed his head toward the gadget. “But you’ll have to put your forehead against it.”

Simon’s eyes bulged; his face went slack in horror.

“Oh, it won’t hurt your mind,” Rod said quickly. “That much, I’m sure of. This end of the machine can only receive thoughts—it can’t send out anything.” He turned, bowing, and pressed his forehead against the transducer. “See? No danger.”

“Indeed,” Simon breathed, awestruck. “Wherefore dost thou not give it thine own thoughts?”

“Because I don’t know how to break Alfar’s spell.” Rod stepped back, bowing Simon toward the machine. “Would you try it, please? Just press your forehead against that round plate, and pretend it’s a soldier who’s been spellbound.”

Simon stood rigid for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped forward. Rod watched him place his forehead against the transducer, with admiration. The humble country innkeeper had as much real courage as a knight.

Simon closed his eyes. His face tensed as he began his spell-breaking thought sequence.

Rod stiffened as the ‘message’ hit him, full-strength. It had no words; it was only a feeling, as though someone very sympathetic was listening to him, listening deeply, to everything Rod could tell, down to his very core—then, kindly, gently, but very firmly, contradicting. Rod shook his head and cleared his throat. “Well! He’s certainly getting across, isn’t he?” He turned to Fess. “How’ll we know whether it works or not?”

“By Alfar’s reaction, Rod. He doubtless detected our disabling his message, but refrained from attacking us, wary of your power.”

Rod’s head lifted, “I… hadn’t… thought of that.”

“I consider it a distinct possibility,” Fess mused. “Now, however, Alfar must realize that we are destroying the very base of his power—that he must attack us now, or lose all he has conquered.”

Quintuple thunder roared in a long, ripping sequence, and Alfar was there with three witches and a warlock at his back, chopping down at Rod with a scimitar.

Rod leaped back with a whoop of delight. The sword’s tip hissed past him, and he and Fess instantly jumped into place between Simon and the sorcerer’s band. One of the witches stabbed a hand at them, all five fingers stiff and pointing, and a dozen whirling slivers of steel darted toward them.

Fess took a step to his left, blocking Rod and Simon both. The darts clanged against his horsehide, and he stepped back—just in time to step on the witch’s foot. She screamed and careened away, hobbling as Alfar lashed at Rod with the scimitar again. But this time, Rod leaped high and kicked the sword out of his hand as Fess reared, lashing out at the other warlock and witch with his forehooves. Rod sliced a karate chop at Alfar, and the sorcerer leaped back, but not quite quickly enough—Rod’s fingertips scored his collarbone, and Alfar howled in pain. The witch was staring at Fess, wild-eyed, backing away slowly, and Rod could feel a crazy assortment of emotions crashing through him—anger, fear, confusion, love. She was the emotional projective, hitting Fess with everything she had, totally confounded by his complete lack of response.

Which reminded Rod who he was, and that the emotions were illusions. He managed to ignore them as Alfar wound up for a whammy. But he didn’t have time; a stone leaped out of the wall, and slammed straight at Rod. He sidestepped, but the block caught him on the shoulder. Pain shot through him, and his temper leaped up in response. He slumped back against the wall, striving frantically to reign in his temper, trying to channel it, knowing that rage would slow his reflexes; they’d get under his guard, and chop him down. Another block shot straight at him and he dropped to a crouch, ducking his head. The block cracked into the wall behind; Another whirled tumbling and slammed into Fess’s hindquarters. Rod galvanized with alarm—if that boulder had hit Fess in the midriff, it might’ve staved in his armored side, and damaged his computer-brain!

That was just distraction enough. He saw the stone coming, and spun away—but not fast enough. Its corner cracked into his hip, and agony screamed through his side, turning his whole leg into flame. His knee folded, and he fell.

And Alfar was above him with his scimitar again, chopping down with a gloating grin.

Rod rolled at the last second. The huge blade smashed into the stone floor, and twisted out of Alfar’s hands. One of the fallen stones shot up off the floor, straight at his face. Alfar screamed in shock, and stepped back—and tripped over something, crashing down onto his back.

Rod was up on one knee, trying frantically to force himself to his feet. He stared at the obstacle Alfar had stumbled over, and it stared back for a fraction of a second—Geoffrey! The boy grinned just before he leaped to his feet, his eighteen-inch sword whipping out to stab down at the fallen sorcerer, who just barely managed to twist out of the way in time. His hand flailed about the floor till it found the scimitar’s hilt, and wrapped fast around it.

A block of stone smashed at Geoffrey. He dodged, but Rod roared with rage when he saw how closely the block had come. He sprang at the telekinetic—but Alfar jumped into his path, slashing with the scimitar again. Rod leaped back, letting the blow whistle past him, then lunged over it with a chop. Alfar just barely managed to twist aside.