Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

“Yeah, I don’t see any reason for hanging around here.” Rod surveyed the scene, turning grim. “Hey! What’re you doing, Magnus?”

“Picking up pieces.” The boy straightened, holding up a long, sharp tooth. “Can I keep this for a trophy, Papa?”

“What—the monster left a tooth behind?” Rod shuddered. “Why would you want to remember him , son?”

“I do not know, Papa.” Magnus’s chin thrust out a little. “I only know that I think ‘twould be wise.”

Rod frowned down at him. Then he said, “Well, I’ve learned that your hunches generally turn out to be worth having. Okay, take it along—but wrap it up tight, and swab it down with alcohol first chance you get.”

“I will, Papa.” Magnus blossomed into a smile and pulled a rag from his wallet.

It had been a handkerchief, once. Rod turned to Gwen. “Ready to go, dear?”

“Aye.” She picked up her broomstick.

“And I.” Father Al came up, tucking the wrapped altar stone under his arm. He looked up at the tower. “Whose army will garrison this place now, do you think—Duke Foidin’s, or Lord Kern’s?”

“Whichever gets here fastest.” Rod turned away. “Frankly, Father, right now, I’d love to see the blasted thing fall apart.” He looked up sharply at the gleam in Magnus’s eye. “Don’t you dare!”

They came out of the copse toward the back door of the church as the sun was setting. Rod looked around the town, frowning. “Little quiet, isn’t it?”

“It is the hour for supper,” Gwen mused.

“Well, it’s been a strange day all around.” Father Al knocked on the “rectory” door. “No doubt the good Father will explain.”

The door opened a crack, showing an eye and a slice of beard. The eye widened, then so did the door. “Thou livest!”

“Was there any doubt of it?” Father Al smiled and held out the altar stone. “We had a saint on our side!”

The old priest took it gingerly, as though not quite believing it was real. “And the Redcap? Is he dead?”

“Well, vanished, anyway.” Rod smiled. “I don’t think he’ll come back.”

“Nay, they never return, once they’ve been routed; none of the faery folk do!” The old priest breathed a long, shaky sigh. “We heard thunder in the mountains, and hid our heads. I and half the parish are here, besieging Heaven with prayers for your safety.”

“Well, that explains my quick recovery.” Rod locked gazes with Father Al. “I had reinforcements.”

“A very intense field to draw from, nearby?” The priest pursed his lips. “Perhaps…”

“Dost thou know what thou hast done?” the old priest burst out. “Caravans once did move through that pass above us—whole armies! None ha’ dared venture there for ten years, since the King’s army attempted, and lost!”

Rod stared, his eyes growing huge. Then he stabbed his finger toward the mountain pass a few times, making noises in his throat.

“Milord?” the old priest said humbly.

“You mean…” Rod finally got his voice in gear. “You mean that was the monster that’s been blocking Lord Kern from coming out of the Northwest?”

“Aye,” the old priest said, “ ‘twas, indeed.”

Rod clasped his hands tight to stop the trembling, then had to clench his teeth to stop the chattering.

The old priest blinked, bemused, then turned to Father Al. “Should I not ha’ told him?”

“Oh, no, it’s all right, it’s all right!” Rod protested. “I’m just glad you didn’t tell me before we went up there…”

They camped that night by a mountain stream. When the trout had been eaten and the bones buried, and the children and Father Al lay bundled up in blankets the villagers had been only too glad to contribute, Gwen cozied up to Rod with her eyes on the campfire. “Thou dost lead us northwest now, husband.”

Rod shrugged. “Why not? Somehow, I think we’d better keep moving—and we are trying to get to Lord Kern. Though why, I don’t know,” he added as an afterthought. “We could just sit back now, and wait for him to come to us.”

“Indeed. He will likely march down through the pass with all his army, to rend Duke Foidin from the seat of power.” Her eyes strayed to the sleeping children. “There should be one more amongst them, husband.”

“There should.” Rod felt the aching longing for his baby. “But remember, dear—he’s safer where he is…”

“Would I could be sure of it, with King and Abbot like to rend the land with civil war.” Her eyes lost focus; suddenly, she stiffened. “I do hear his thoughts again!”

“Whose! Gregory’s?”

“Aye.” She clutched Rod’s forearm, gazing off into space. “Aye, ‘tis the touch of his mind. Oh, my bairn!… He seems alive and well. Be comforted, sweeting; thy mother and thy father strive to rejoin thee, as certainly as thou seekest us!… His touch is stronger now, mine husband.”

Stronger? Rod frowned. Why should that be? The two universes couldn’t have come closer together!

“And Fess—his words begin!” Gwen frowned, concentrating. “Still, I cannot quite discern the words. Summat there is, about Dr. McAran, and the crafting of weird engine… and the Crown and Church; the Southern barons do declare they cannot, in all good conscience, fight against their Holy Mother Church… The Northern barons have sent men and knights to Tuan… And the Abbot hath sent out a call to all the nobles, summoning them with men and arms, to fight against the tyranny he doth say doth threaten Holy Mother Church!”

Rod groaned. “They’re shaping up to start a civil war for sure! Of course, the Southern lords see this as their big chance to break their oaths of fealty to Tuan with some moral justification, and without losing the support of their people!”

“Yet they have not declared allegiance to the Abbot, nor defiance to the Crown,” Gwen said hopefully.

“Only because the Abbot just got around to issuing the call to arms! Mark my words, Gwen, there’re futurian agents showing their hands in this. Someone’s gotten to the Abbot—why else would he turn around to nullify his agreement with Tuan, before he’d even arrived home at his monastery? One of his entourage is a totalitarian agent, and talked him into it on the road! The totalitarians would love to have the Church take over the government; a medieval theocracy could turn into a very tight police state, if it were given a few modern techniques! And the anarchists are probably advising the lords again—they’d love to see the barons band together under the Church’s banner, just long enough to topple the monarchy, then fall to bickering between themselves until the whole country fell into warlordism!” He slammed a fist into his palm. “Damn! And I’m stuck here, where I can’t fight ‘em!”

“I believe ‘tis as they planned,” Gwen murmured.

“You bet it is! And in the middle of all of that is my baby !”

“Peace, mine husband,” Gwen soothed. “We do come nigh Lord Kern; quite soon enough, we shall return to our own time and place; sweet chuck, doubt it not! Then shalt thou make all things well.”

“You’ve got more faith in me than I do,” Rod grated—but he was calming down a bit. “But maybe you’re right. Okay, darling—you go ‘talk’ to baby; reassure him, tell him we’re still with him, at least in spirit—and our bodies will be joining him, as soon as they can.”

“I will,” she murmured, and leaned against his shoulder, eyes glazed. He sat as still as he could, gazing out at the stream, his thoughts in turmoil, worry about his baby son alternating with stewing about the war, and ways to avert it. He sorted through a dozen different plans for information he could send back to Fess through Gwen’s telepathy, that might brake the conflict—but none of them could work. If he were there in person, his stature as High Warlock, and as the architect of the Crown’s previous victories over the lords and the mob, would turn the balance; both sides would listen to what he said and, to some extent, would back off due to sheer intimidation. But that required his personal presence; there wasn’t much string-pulling he could do, without at least being on the puppet stage.