Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

Except Father Al. “I have several—but I think I’ll have to observe, and work out the answers for myself.”

Rod gave him a withering glance. “I wasn’t talking about theology.”

“Neither was I.”

“That does it.” Rod clapped his hands. “Battle stations, everyone—and keep an eye peeled for spriggans.”

They took their assigned positions, and waited. And waited.

Rod took a stout hold on his ash staff and reminded himself that midnight was the witching hour. Probably a long wait yet…

An owl hooted.

Rod looked up, startled. The real thing, or Magnus? But it hooted again, and it was coming from across the track, high up. He glanced up at the sky, saw only stars, moon, and the light-gray of clouds.

Magnus.

Then he began to hear it—tinkling, like tiny cymbals, and a weird skirling of pipes. Over it all ran a wavering drone, like an army of bees, but soaring from one end of the scale to the other.

Then came the clatter of harness.

Rod glanced up at the thicket above him, but there was no movement. Of course not—Gwen was an old campaigner in her own right.

Then the vanguard appeared.

They wound around a hill at the southern end of the track, a host of small, bright, dancing figures, followed by tall, impossibly slender, elongated horses, coats sheening golden by moonlight. And the riders! They caught Rod’s breath. Extravagantly dressed, in a rainbow of colors—tall, slender, and beautiful. And glowing. Each of them.

And one tiny rider, in the center of the company, slouched over, head low—Elidor!

Rod rolled to his feet. Time to get moving.

He set off across the hillside, angling downward, then hiking back upward, as though he were trying to keep a straight line and failing. He let his gait wobble and started singing, slurring his voice as much as he could.

He heard a multiple whoop of glee behind him and choked down the surge of panic, forcing himself to keep his feet steady.

He heard hisses behind him. “ ‘Tis a toss-pot!”

“Nay, ‘tis a long road home he’ll have tonight!”

“Do thou afright him from the front!”

Suddenly a huge dun-colored dog rose up before him, growling, mischief dancing in its eyes.

Rod jerked to a stop, trying to stay in character.

“Ere, now! ‘Owzh it wizh ‘ee, Bowzher?”

“Nay, look behind thee!” a voice giggled, and he whirled about, stumbled, caught himself on his staff, and found himself staring straight into the dancing eyes of a snake, reared to strike. He let out a shriek and stumbled back, into the multiple arms of a giggling thing with a mouth like a slice of melon. He screamed and thrashed about, but its hold tightened—and touched his staff.

It shrieked, yanking an arm back, and fell over around the wound, screaming like a burn victim. “His staff! ‘Tis ash, ‘tis ash! Oh, mine arm, mine arm!”

“ Ash ! Ash ! Ash !” whispered through the crowd of faeries; and they drew back, leaving a wide space around Rod. Many more came flitting over from the caravan, leaving only the lordly faery folk on their horses; and they were watching closely.

So far, so good. Rod stumbled to his feet, doing his best to tremble. “Nay, good shtaff, pertect me! Ay, poor old Josh! Th’ fairy-folk’ve come to claim thee!”

A dancing light appeared in front of him, coalescing into the form of a beautiful woman. She smiled, as though amused at a hidden joke, and beckoned.

Staring, he took a few stumbling steps toward her.

She drifted away from him, beckoning again. Exactly what it was, he didn’t know; some kind of will-o’-the-wisp, no doubt. But why were they springing her on him? He played along, though, stumbling after her, faster and faster. “Nay, pretty shing! Tarry now; let me shee thee!”

The surrounding watchers giggled, and it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, Rod noticed the faery gentry staring, fairly glued to the scene. Then he saw the reason why; the phantom was floating out over a sudden drop-off. They couldn’t touch him, because of the ashen staff; but they could lure him to his death. Then he noticed Elidor suddenly disappear from his saddle, and knew it was time to escalate. He tripped and fell sprawling. An angry moan of disappointment went up all about him; he was a few inches short of the drop-off; but he opened his hand and let the staff roll away, and the moan slid up to a shriek of delight. Then they were on him, pinching and tickling; his skin itched in a thousand places, and his ears were filled with gibbering giggles.

But he had to hold attention, and hold it completely, to buy Gwen time. It was the moment for taking off the mask. He set his hands against the earth and shoved with all his might, surging to his feet and scattering elves left and right. The spriggans howled with glee and lurched in.

Rod whipped out his sword.

A moan of terror swept through the mob. They scuttered back away, wailing, “Cold iron! Cold iron!”

“He is no drunkard!” screamed a spriggan.

“Nay, but a sober warrior in his prime!” Rod called back. “Take me now, if you can!” And he wrenched his doublet open, showing a necklace of rowan berries.

The host moaned in fear, and pressed backward—but Rod saw, beyond them, the faery horsemen galloping toward him, with Eorl Theofrin at their head.

The Eorl drew up thirty feet away, calling, “Whoever hath advised thee, mortal, hath ill-advised thee! Thou art marked for faery vengeance now!”

“I was already,” Rod jeered, “last night. Recognize me?”

Theofrin stared. “Cold bones! It is the wizard!”

He whipped about in his saddle, staring back at the trail. “The mortal king! The boy is gone!”

Five riders wheeled their horses about and went plunging toward the track.

Gwen stepped up on the trail, holding Elidor’s hand. His doublet and cloak showed seams and lining.

The elf-horse beside him reared, screaming and pawing the air. Then it leapt up and whipped away, blown on a sudden gust of northern wind.

The five riders shrieked in frustration, jumping their mounts high to meet the gust. So did all the faery host, leaping into the air with a scream, and the breeze swept them away round the hill to the south, like autumn leaves.

Only Eorl Theofrin remained, his horse neighing and dancing as though it stood on hot coals. He himself winced and hunched his shoulders against pain, but managed to pull a crossbow from its place on his saddle, cranking the string back. “Thou hast cheated me full, wizard! Yet ere I succumb to pain and fly, I’ll break thee for thy life!”

There wasn’t a rock big enough to hide behind for a thousand paces. Rod stood his place, sword lifted, fighting a surge of panic. What that bolt could do, he didn’t know—but he knew it was deadly. His one chance was to try to block it with his sword—but crossbow bolts moved very fast.

Theofrin leveled the bow.

Dimly, Rod was aware of that kindly, stern Presence with him again, reassuring, urging.

Fervently and with his whole being, he wished the faery lord would go follow one of his own phantoms off a cliff—and wherever else it led him, all night long.

Theofrin suddenly dropped his bow, staring off to his left.

Rod stared, too. He glanced over toward where the Eorl was looking, then quickly back to Theofrin. He’d seen nothing.

“Nay, pretty maiden,” Theofrin crooned, “come nigh to me!” And his horse began to move forward. “Nay, dost thou flee?” Theofrin grinned. “I’ll follow!” And his horse leaped into a gallop.

Straight over the cliff.

And on up into the sky—it was a faery steed, after all—with Theofrin caroling, “Nay, come nigh! Nay, do not flee! I’ll do thee no harm, but show thee great delights! Ah, dost thou fly still? Then I’ll follow thee, while breath doth last!”