The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"And she was beautiful, ah, so beautiful! And, strange though it may seem, highly desired by the men of the court. And yet"—Brom's voice took on a tone of wonder andawe—"yet she loved me. She alone, of all women living, elf or mortal, saw me not as dwarf, elf or Prince—but only as a man.

"And desired me…

"And loved me…"

He broke off, shaking his head in wonder.

He sighed. "I loved her, Rod Gallowglass, I loved her only, and begat a child within her."

His face darkened. He locked his hands behind his back and scowled at the ground. "When she proved by child, and her time grew apace, and she would soon be so swollen that all would know, and would shame her with cruel jests, though we were wed, I sent her away to the wild wood, to my people. And there, midwived by elves and leprechauns, she birthed a beautiful, laughing, part-elven child."

His eyes misted over. He lifted his head, staring through Rod. "She died. When her daughter was aged of two years, she died of a chill. And we buried her there, 'neath a tree in the forest. And yearly I come there…"

His eyes focused on Rod again. "But I had, still, the child."

He turned away, restless. "Yet what should I do? Raise her near me, and have her know her father for a gnarled thing, and the butt of bad jests? Raise her to shame of me?

"She was raised in the woods, therefore, knowing her mother's grave and the elves, but never her father."

Rod started to protest, but Brom waved him silent. "Be still! 'Twas better so!"

He turned slowly, murder in his eyes. "As 'tis still. And if ever she learns of it from thee, RodGallowglass, I'll hale out thy tongue by its roots, and lop off thy ears."

Stone-faced, Rod studied him, and found nothing to say.

"And therefore, now tell me!" Brom slammed his fists against his hips and lifted his chin. "For know this: half-mortal am I, and may therefore be slain; and it may be that this day I shall die."

His voice lowered. "So tell me, tell a poor, anxious father, an thou wilt: dost thou love my child?"

"Yes, "Rod said, low. Then, "So it was no accident that I met her on my ride south?"

Brom smiled, sourly. "Nay, of course not. Couldst thou ever have thought that it was?"

The east was reddening, embarrassed with dawn, and the mist lifting as Rod rode into the beggars' camp to waken them.

But Tuan was there before him, going from pallet to pallet, shaking the beggars awake. A soldier was with him, placing a mug of hot mulled wine by each pallet.

Tuan looked up, saw Rod, and came up to him with arms outstretched and a grin a yard wide.

He clapped Rod on the shoulder, gripped his hand in a crushing shake. There was a deep, almost intoxicated quiet content in his eyes.

"My thanks, friend Rod," he said simply. "Dost thou wish my life? Thou mayst have it! Such is the debt that I owe."

Rod smiled slyly. "So you made double sure, did you? Well, all the better."

Tuan seemed to have things well in hand in the beggars' camp, so Rod turned Fess's steps toward the witches' lines.

All was in good order there; the baskets with ropes and harnesses stood ready; and the morning brew was passing from hand to hand. It was a potent beverage, something like concentrated tea with a touch of brandy, and served much the same purpose: a stimulant, to bring the witch powers to their peak.

Elves were underfoot everywhere about the camp, distributing good luck tokens and preventive-magic charms to all who would take them. Witches or no witches, the little folk argued, it never hurt to be sure. The charms could do no harm, and they might…

There was nothing for Rod to do there, either, so he rode in search of Gwendylon.

He found her seated in die midst of a knot of witches, old ones, as Gramarye witches went; they must have been into their twenties.

Gwendylon seemed to be explaining something to them with great earnestness, marking diagrams in the dust with a pointed stick. They were hanging on her words as though every syllable might mean life or death.

It didn't look like a good time to interrupt.

Rod turned and rode through a maze of scurrying forms, cooking smells, clamor of voices and discordant bugle calls, out past the pickets into Breden Plain.

The first rays of sunlight slanted through the meadow now, burning away the last tatters of mist. The long grass was moist and chill with the dew, the sky clear and blue.

And the glitter of spear-points flashed from the south verge of the field. Sun gleamed off burnished armor. The wind blew him the metallic din, the horse-cries, and the mutter of a war-camp awaking. The councillors, too, were awake early.

Hooves approaching; Rod turned to see a page pelting across the meadows toward him.

"How now, my lad?" Rod called, grinning and waving for appearances.

"Thou must come to the Queen, Master Gal-lowglass," the page gasped, out of breath, as he clutched at Rod's stirrup. "My Lord O'Berin and the Lords Loguire are there already before you. 'Tis a council of war!"

The council of war was quickly over, no more than a summary of existent plans, and a brief prayer, plus the news that Catharine wouldn't ride after all. Rod had noticed that Catharine had stood through the meeting.

Then they were up and away, each to his station: Sir Maris to the center, old Duke Loguire to the right flank, and Rod to the left flank. Brom would stay high on the hillside with Catharine and Gwendylon, to direct the whole battle, an innovation Rod had recommended, and which Brom had accepted without reservation: the little man was a mighty fighter, but his legs weren't long enough to hold his seat in a joust.

Tom, offered the option of fighting with the beggars or staying by Rod, had chosen the latter option, probably because he wanted to be in the thick of the battle.

Tuan, of course, would stay with his beggars.

As Tuan swung into the saddle, Catharine stopped him with a hand on his knee. Rod saw her tie a veil of silk about Tuan's upper arm.

Then her hands lifted to him, pleading. Tuan caught them and pressed them to his mouth, bowed to kiss her lips, then wheeled his horse away, rode perhaps ten yards forward, then wheeled again.

They stood frozen a moment, the young Queen and the white knight. Then Tuan reared his horse, pivoted,, and galloped after his ragtag-and-patchwork troops.

Rod smiled covertly.

"The time to feel smug is not yet, Rod," Fess reminded him.

Rod made a face. "Who do you think you are, Pinocchio's Cricket?"

He turned back for one last look at Gwendylon, standing near the Queen's tent; then he rode for the left flank.

He was the only horseman who rode without armor.

It was full, 14th Century plate armor, on both sides of the field; but the Southern armor was massed together in a solid, glaring wall, while Catharine's knights were spaced out, twenty yards apart, over the length of the enemy line.

Yes, there are a few holes , Rod thought. And the single line of foot soldiers behind the Queen's knights didn't compare too favorably with the packed masses that backed the rebel lords. No, it was not a sight to inspire confidence.

But the beggars weren't in sight. Nor, for that matter, were the witches. Or the elves.

The rebels were in for some very unpleasant surprises.

At the southern end of the field, a bugle called.

The rebel knights couched their lances.

The Queen's knights followed suit.

There was a long, straining, pause; then the horses plunged forward.

Horses' hooves muttered and rose to the roar of an avalanche as the two metal lines fell toward each other.

And as they fell, the North's line drew it upon itself till the knights rode shoulder to shoulder in the center.

A cheer went up from the rebel line as they saw easy victory coming; it would be easy for the rebel flanks to sweep around the Northern line and trap the Queen's forces.