Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

The courtiers all had swords, and the fat man had a lot of sweat and a look just short of panic. “Gramercy, gramercy! If aught had happened to mine nephew through my lack of vigilance, I had never come out of sackcloth and of ashes! Yet how didst thou know to set a bull of the Crodh Mara ‘gainst the Each Uisge?”

“Ag whisky?” Rod was watching Elidor; the boy had drawn in on himself, staring at the fat man with a look that held wariness, but a certain longing, too… “Uh, well… to tell you the truth…”

“We but knew the old grannies’ tales,” Gwen cut in hurriedly. “The water-bull and the water-horse—all else followed from reason.” Her elbow tapped Rod lightly in the short ribs.

They were the wounded ones; the stab of pain cut through the murk of sentiment. “Uh, yes, of course! Opposite forces cancel out.”

“Indeed, an thou sayst it.” The fat man’s brows were knit. “Though I do not claim to understand. Thou must be a warlock most accomplished.”

Typed again! Rod winced. There must be something about him… “A great part of wizardry is luck. By good fortune, we were here when we were needed.” He took a chance. “Your Lordship.”

Fatso nodded, but his gaze strayed to Elidor, as though to assure himself the boy was all right. “Fortunate indeed, else I had lacked a nephew—and this land, a King.” There was something of longing in his eyes, too.

He tore his gaze away from Elidor and turned back to Rod, forcing a little smile, “Forgive me; I forget the courtesies. I am Duke Foidin, Regent to His Majesty, King Elidor.” He extended a beringed hand, palm down.

Gwen beamed, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. Rod tried to convert his puzzled frown to a polite smile, but he kept his hands on his hips, and inclined his head. “Rodney d’Armand, Lord Gallowglass.” Some prick of caution kept him from using his real title. “And my Lady Gwendylon—and our children.”

“I rejoice at thine acquaintance, Lord and Lady… Gallowglass?” The Duke seemed a little puzzled. “ ‘Tis a title unfamiliar. Thou art, then, travellers from another land, far from thine own estates?”

“Very far,” Rod agreed. “A foul sorcerer’s curse has sped us here, far from our homeland; but we shall return with all due expedition.”

“Nay, not so quickly!” the Duke cried. “Thou must needs let us honor thee—for thou hast saved a King!”

Somehow, Rod didn’t want to spend a night under the man’s roof. “ ‘Tis courteously said—but time does press upon us…”

“Certes, not so much as that!” Wet and bedraggled, Elidor stepped up to his uncle’s side—but still with that look of wariness about him. “Surely thou’lt not deny the hospitality of a King!”

He was trying so very hard to be regal! Rod was about to cave in—but Gwen did, first. “Well, a night’s rest, then—we are sore wearied.”

But Rod was watching the Duke. The man’s face lit up at Elidor’s approach, and his hand hovered over the boy’s shoulder, but didn’t quite touch; Rod saw the longing in his face again, quickly masked, then a hint of a darker emotion that flashed upon his features, and was gone—but left Rod chilled. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d want to be around if the Duke lost his temper.

Then Elidor smiled bravely up at his uncle, and the man’s face softened. Troubled, he nodded reassuringly at the boy, forcing a smile; the hand hovered again, then fell to his side.

He turned the smile up to Rod. “Thou art in accord with thy Lady, then? Thou’It guest within our castle this night, that we may honor thee?”

Gwen’s elbow brushed his side again, and Rod winced again, too. She hadn’t had to do that! The Duke seemed nice enough, or seemed to be honestly trying to be—but somehow, Rod didn’t want to leave Elidor alone with him just yet. “Indeed we shall. We are honored to accept your invitation.”

“Most excellent!” The Duke’s face split into a huge, delighted smile. “Then come, in joy! To Castle Drolm!”

He whirled away, the hovering hand finally descending to clap Elidor’s shoulder, and clasp the boy against his side. Elidor seemed to resist a little, and the Duke’s hand immediately sprang free. Insecure , thought Rod, as he and his family were borne forward by the tide of the entourage that followed the Duke, roaring a victorious war-song.

“Papa,” Cordelia piped up through the din, “I don’t like going to that man’s house.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Rod reassured her. “We can always get out again—fast.”

The excitement, the glory of it!” Brother Chard burbled. “Just think, Father, we may be the first clergy to contact these poor, benighted people in centuries!”

“Quite so, Brother.” Father Al couldn’t help smiling at the young pilot’s enthusiasm. “On the other hand, we may arrive to find them quite well-equipped with their own clergy; one never knows.” He gazed at the viewscreen, letting his subconscious read ecclesiastical symbols into the random swirls of color that hyperspace induced in the cameras.

“Roman Catholic clergy, in a society devoted to magic? Scarcely, Father! Just think, a whole new world of lost souls to save! We must try to get some estimate of the population, so that I can come back to His Grace with some idea as to how many missionaries we’ll be requiring! How long before we get there?”

“Why ask me?” Father Al hid a smile. “You’re the pilot.”

“Oh! Yes, of course!” Brother Chard peered at his instrument panel. “Let’s see, ten light-years… It should be about six more days.” He turned back to Father Al. “Sorry the quarters are so cramped, Father.”

“It’s easy to tell you’ve never spent much time inside a confessional. Don’t worry, Brother, the quarters are positively luxurious. Why, we even have a separate cabin for sleeping!… Ungh!”

His body slammed into his shock webbing, as though the ship had suddenly rammed a wall. Then it took off like a bear with a fire on its tail, slapping Father Al back into his couch. His vision darkened, and he fought for breath, waiting for the bright little stars to stop drifting across his field of view. They didn’t, but they did dim and fade, and the velvet blackness with them. Through its last tatters, he saw Brother Chard leaning forward groggily, groping toward his control console.

“Wha… what happened?”

“See for yourself.” The monk pointed at the viewscreen. Father Al looked, and saw the velvet darkness and bright little stars again; but this time, they stayed still. “We’re back in normal space?”

Brother Chard nodded. “And travelling at sub-light-speed. Very high, but still below C. We’re lucky the difference in velocity didn’t smear us against the forward bulkhead.”

“It would have, without the webbing: What went wrong?”

Brother Chard peered at a readout screen, punching keys. “No significant damage; everything’s padded as well as we were… There! The isomorpher quit!”

“Quit? Just… quit? Why?”

“That is a good question, isn’t it?” Brother Chard loosed his webbing, smiling grimly. “Shall we go have a look, Father?”

They climbed into pressure suits, cycled through the tiny airlock one at a time, clipped their safety lines to rings on the ship’s skin, and clambered aft to the drive unit. Brother Chard slipped out a wrench and loosened the access hatch. He slid through head-first; Father Al followed, groping for the rungs set into the hull, gaze riveted to the mirror-surfaced unit before him. “Doesn’t appear to be a break in the shielding.”

“No,” Brother Chard agreed. “At least we can rule out any effects from stray radiation. Though you never know; if we can’t find anything else, we’ll have to go over it with a microscope.” He turned a knob, and the silver egg split open, the top half lifting up like a clamshell. A steady background of white noise faded in on Father Al’s helmet speaker. He frowned. “It is sick, isn’t it?”