Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

“It’s conceivable. Certainly you’ve got to have a great many analogs, to have come even this far.”

“That makes two, I don’t knows’—or is it three?” Rod folded his legs. “Time to quit speculating and get down to practicalities, Father. How do I control this gift? How do I go about drawing on Lord Kern’s powers? I can’t just wish—it’s a little too chancey.”

“It surely is. But when you’re wishing with great emotional intensity, all you’re doing is opening yourself up—and there are techniques for doing that deliberately.” Father Al leaned forward. “Are you ready?”

Rod settled himself a little more comfortably, swallowed against the lurking dread that was trying to form in his belly, and nodded. “What do I do?”

“Concentrate.” Father Al held out his rosary, swinging the crucifix back and forth like a pendulum. It caught the remaining ray of golden sunlight and glittered. “Try to let your mind go empty. Let your thoughts roam where they will; they’ll settle down and empty out. Let the dancing light fill your eyes.”

“Hypnotism?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to do it yourself—all I can do is give directions. Let me know when I seem a little unreal.”

“As of three days ago, the first time I met you.”

The priest shook his head. “That kind of joke’s a defense, my friend—and you’re out to let the walls fade away, not make them thicker. Let your mind empty.”

Rod tried. After a little while, he realized that’s what he was doing wrong. He relaxed, letting his thoughts go wherever they wished, keeping his eyes on the glittering cross. Words whirled through his mind like dry leaves; then they began to settle. Fewer and fewer remained—and he felt as though his face were larger, warmer, and his body diminished. The cross filled his eyes, but he was aware of Father Al’s face behind it, and the stone room behind that—and he was aware of the ceiling and floor lines slanting together toward an unseen vanishing point, as though the whole thing was painted on a flat canvas. There seemed to be a sort of shield around him, unseen, a force-field, four feet thick… “I’m there.”

“Now—reach out.” The droning voice seemed both distant and inside his head. “Where’s your mind?”

It was an interesting question. Rod’s head was empty, so it couldn’t be there. “Far away.”

“Let your consciousness roam—find your mind.”

It was an interesting experience—as though he were groping with some unseen extension through a formless void; but all the while, he still saw only the dungeon, and the priest.

Then the extension found something, and locked into place. “I’ve got it.”

And power flowed to him—blind, outraged anger, a storm of wrath, that filled him, he could feel his skin bulging, feel it trying to get out of him and blast everything to char.

The crucifix filled his eyes again, and the priest was barking something, in Latin, Rod couldn’t follow it, but it was a thundering command, with the power of Doom behind it.

Then the crucifix lowered, and the priest’s voice was muffled, distant. “Whatever it is, it’s not supernatural.”

Rod shook his head, carefully. “It’s human.” His voice seemed to echo up through a long channel, and also be right there at his eardrums. It occurred to him that he should be scared, but he was too angry. Slowly, he rose to his knees, keeping himself carefully upright. “What do I do now?”

“Use it. First…”

A sudden shock shook Rod. “Hold it. It’s using me.”

“For what!”

“I don’t know… No, I do. It’s Lord Kern, and he’s not a telepath, but I’m getting the bottom level of what he’s going through. He just used me for a beacon, and he’s drawing on me in some way, to teleport a chunk of his army in…” He convulsed again. “Another chunk of infantry…Cavalry… archers… they’re all here now, very close by… Now he’s done with me.”

“Do you still have his power?”

Rod nodded.

“Wake your family.”

Rod didn’t try to slide into Geoff’s mind; he just willed him awake, pushing a bit of power into him to throw off the effects of the drug. The little boy yawned and stretched, and looked up at his father with a sleepy smile. Then his eyes shot wide open, and he scrambled to his feet.

Rod reached over to grasp his shoulder. “It’s okay, son. I’m still me. Now I’ve got to wake your brother and sister. Find them for me.”

Geoff gulped, paling, and squeezed his eyes shut. It was almost as though Rod could see the line of his thought, arrowing off through the stone wall. He turned his eyes that way, glaring up at the ceiling, pushing power out to his family and willing them awake.

“They awake.” Geoff’s voice was hushed and subdued. Father Al gathered him in.

“Are they chained?”

“No, Papa. They were asleep.”

“Then tell them to meet us at the stairwell. We’re going to find Elidor.”

“How, Papa?” Geoff held up his manacle.

Rod glared at the iron cuff, and it shattered. Geoff screamed and cowered back against Father Al. Rod glared at his other wrist, and the iron shattered again.

Slowly, Father Al held up his own wrists, side by side. The manacles shattered. Then Rod pushed his arms straight forward, and his manacles crumbled. He stood up, very slowly, keeping his body very straight; he felt as though his head were swollen, his face two feet in front of itself. “Guide me, Father. I can’t feel the floor.”

And he couldn’t—he could feel nothing but the tremendous, vibrating power that filled him, the towering rage that he fought to contain. He reached out to grasp the priest’s arm, and Father Al gasped. Rod lightened his hold, and the priest guided him slowly toward the door. Geoffrey followed, eyes huge.

They paused at the huge oaken panel. The lock erupted in a cloud of wood-dust; when it settled, they saw the lock twisted half-out of the door. Rod kicked it open and staggered out into the hall. Father Al scurried along, holding him up, bracing him. Rod’s head was beginning to ache now, with a savage throbbing. They moved toward the stairway.

There were a handful of guards at the iron gate. They looked up, saw Rod coming, stared, then caught up their pikes.

The iron gate suddenly wrenched itself out of shape, and the pikestaves exploded into flame. The soldiers shrieked and dropped their weapons, and spun toward the oaken door behind the gate—as it exploded into flame, too. They fell back, howling, as the center of the door blew out, scattering burning wood through the passage.

“I didn’t do that,” Rod croaked, “any of it.”

And Gwen stalked through the door, surrounded by flame, eyes burning in wrath, coming to claim her man. Magnus and Cordelia leaped up on each side of her, faces flint, hounds of war.

She saw him coming, and the anger hooded itself. She came to him, caught his arm. “Husband—what hath thee?”

“Power,” he croaked. “Lead me.”

Up the stairwell, then, and through the halls. Soldiers came running, shouting, pikes at the ready. A huge invisible fist slammed them back against the walls. Courtiers leaped out with swords arcing down; something spun them aside and threw them down. The family stepped over their bodies, advancing.

They climbed the Keep. On the last step, Magnus suddenly screamed in rage and disappeared. Geoff yelled and disappeared after him.

“Where’ve they gone?” Rod grated.

“To the King’s chamber!”, Gwen’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Hurry! Duke Foidin seeks to slay Elidor!”

Rod grabbed Cordelia’s arm and closed his eyes, swaying, concentrating. The ache pounded in his temples; blood roared in his ears and, behind it, a singing…