The Warlock Enraged

13

A blowtorch, set on “low,” was burning its way through Rod’s brain. But it was a very poor blowtorch; it seemed to go over the same path again and again, in a regular, pulsing rhythm. He forced his eyes open, hoping to catch the bastard who was holding the torch.

Blackness.

Blackness everywhere, except for a trapezoid of flickering orange. He frowned, peering more closely at it, squinting against the raging in his head, and figured out that it was the reflection of a flame on a rock wall. There were stripes up and down—the shadows of bars, no doubt. There were a couple of other stripes, too, zigging and zagging—the trails of water droplets. Then Rod became aware of fragile orange webs, higher up—gossamer niter, lit by the firelight.

He added it all up, and enlightenment bloomed—he was in a dungeon again. The firelight was a guard’s torch, out in the hall, and the trapezoid was the shadow of the little barred grille in the door.

He heaved a sigh and lay back. This kept happening to him, time and again. There’d been the gaol in Pardope, the Dictator’s “guest chamber” in Caerleath, the dungeon under the House of Clovis, and the cell in the Duke’s castle in Tir Chlis, where Father Al had taught him how to use his ESP talents… and the list went on. He frowned, trying to remember back to the first one, but it was too much for his poor, scrambled brain.

He put the list away, and very slowly, very carefully, rolled up onto one elbow. The blowtorch shot out a fiery geyser that seemed to consume his whole head, right down his backbone, but only for a few moments; then it subsided, and fell into perspective as a mere headache. A real beaut, Rod had to admit—those soldiers hadn’t exactly been deft, but they’d made up for it with enthusiasm. He pressed a hand to his throbbing forehead, remembering the chain mail under the peasant tunics. It was a very neat little trap he’d walked into—but he couldn’t imagine a less appetizing bait than Flaran.

Not that it hadn’t worked, though.

He lifted his head slowly, looking around him. Compared to the other dungeons he’d been in, this one was definitely second-rate. But, at least he had a couple of roommates, manacled to the wall across from him—though one of them had lost quite a bit of weight over the years; he was a pure skeleton. Well, not “pure”—he did have some mold patches here and there. The other one had some patches, too, but they were purple, shading toward maroon. It was Simon, and his chin was sunk on his chest.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the headache, trying to think. Why should Simon be here? He wasn’t a spy. Rod considered the question thoroughly, till the brainstorm struck: He could ask. So he cleared his throat, and tried. “Uh… Simon…”

The other man looked up, surprised. Then his face relaxed into a sad smile. “Ah, thou dost wake, then!”

“Yeah—kind of.” Rod set both palms against the floor and did a very slow push-up. The headache clamored in indignation, and he fell back against the wall with a gasp—but victorious; he was sitting up. The headache punished him unmercifully, then decided to accept the situation and lapsed into the background. Rod drew in a long, shuddering breath. “What… what happened? You shouldn’t be here—just me. What’d Flaran have against you?”

“He knew me for what I was,” Simon sighed. “When the soldiers had felled thee, young Flaran turned on me, raging. ‘Who was this ‘Owen?’ Thou, vile traitor, will speak! Wherefore did this false, unminded man march northward into our domain?”

“Our?” Rod frowned.

Simon shrugged. “By good chance, I did not know the answers he sought. I said as much, and he whirled toward the soldiers, pointing back at me, screaming, ‘Torture him! Hale him down now, and break his fingers, joint by joint!’ ‘Nay,’ I cried, i have naught to hide,’ and I abandoned all pretence of cloaking my mind, casting aside all shields and attempts at hiding.”

“What good could that do? As mind readers go, he was barely literate.”

“Oh, nay! He was a veritable scholar!” Simon’s mouth tightened. “Thou, my friend, wert not alone in thy deceptions. I felt naught, but I saw his face grow calm. Then his eyes lit with excitement—but they soon filled with disappointment, and he did turn away to the soldiers in disgust. ‘There’s naught here—naught but an old man, with some talent for spell-breaking. He could have gone free but, more’s the fool, he hath come back North to seek to undo our work.’ Then the auncient said, ‘He’s a traitor, then,’ and the look that he gave me was venomed—yet there was that strange emptiness behind it.”

Rod nodded. “Spellbound.”

“Indeed. Then the auncient said further, ‘Shall we flay him?’ and cold nails seemed to skewer my belly. But Flaran gave me a measuring glance, and shook his head. ‘Nay. He may yet prove useful. Only bind him and bring him.’ Then he did fix his gaze upon me, and his eyes did seem to swell, glowing, to burn into my brain. ‘An thou dost seek to break spells on these soldiers,’ he swore. ‘I will slay thee.’ ”

“So.” Rod lifted his eyebrows. “Our young klutz wasn’t quite the fool he seemed to be, was he?”

“Nay. In truth, he did command. He bade the soldiers march home, and all did turn to take up the journey. Some hundreds of yards further, we came to tethered horses. The soldiers untied them and mounted—and there were pack mules for myself and for thee, and a great chestnut charger with a saddle adorned with silver for Flaran.”

Rod watched Simon for a moment, then said, “Not exactly an accident we ran into them, was it?”

Simon smiled, with irony. “In truth, ‘twas quite well-planned.”

“Even to the point of rigging up a peasant mob to be chasing Flaran, at just the right time to run into us on the road.” Rod’s mouth tightened. “He knew that was a sure way to make us take him in. And he stayed with us just long enough to make sure we were what he thought we were, before he turned us over to his bully boys.”

“He did give us the opportunity to turn our coats to Alfar’s livery,” Simon pointed out.

“Yes. Generous of him, wasn’t it?” Rod scowled. “But how did he catch onto us?”

Simon sighed, and shook his head. “I can only think that some spy of his must have sighted us, and followed unbeknownst.”

“Yeah—that makes sense.” With a sudden stab of guilt, Rod realized that Alfar had probably had spies watching him from the moment he crossed the border. After all, he’d certainly had Rod in sight before then. Rod just hadn’t counted on the sorcerer’s being so thorough.

Nothing to do about it now. Rod shook himself—and instantly regretted it; the headache stabbed again. But he thrust it all behind him, and asked, “How far did they ride?”

“All the rest of the day, and far into the night,” Simon answered.

“But it was only mid-morning.” Rod frowned. “That must have been… let me see…” He pressed a hand against his aching head, and the clank of the wrist-chain seemed to drive right through from ear to ear. But he absorbed the pain and let it disperse through his skull, trying to think. “Sixteen hours. And I was out cold all that time?”

Simon nodded. “Whenever thou didst show sign of wakening, Flaran bade his soldiers strike thee again.”

“No wonder my head’s exploding! How many times did they hit me?”

“More than half a dozen.”

Rod shuddered. “I’m just lucky I don’t have a fracture. On the other hand…” He frowned, and lifted a hand to probe his skull, then thought better of it. “I guess I’ll have to hope. Why didn’t he want me awake?”

“He did not say; yet I would conjecture that he did not wish to chance discovery of the range of thy powers.”

Rod felt an icicle-stab. “Powers? What’re you talking about? I just happen to be invisible to any listening witches, that’s all.”

“Mayhap; yet in this, I must needs admit that, in Flaran’s place, I would have done as he did. For whether thou dost shield thy mind by chance, or by intention, truly matters not—such shielding bespeaks great witch power. Nay, thou’rt a true warlock, Master Owen, whether thou dost know it or not—and a most puissant one, to be able to hide thy mind so thoroughly.” Simon leaned back against the wall. “And there is ever, of course, the chance that thou dost know it indeed, and dost hide thy thoughts by deliberation. And if that were the case, and if I were thine enemy, I would not wish to gamble on the extent of thy powers. I, too, would not chance thy waking.”

Rod just gazed at Simon.

Then he looked away, with a sigh. “Well, I can’t fault your logic—or his wisdom. But why did he bring you along?”

Simon shrugged. “Who can say? Yet I doubt not he’ll seek to force thee to answer certain questions, whether thou dost know them or not—and if thine own pain is not enough to make thee speak, mayhap he’ll think that mine will.”

Rod shivered. “That boy’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

“In truth. He did turn to me, jabbing with a finger. ‘Do not seek to hide thy thoughts,’ he cried, ‘nor to disguise them, or I shall bid them slay thee out of hand.’ I assured him I would not, the more so since I saw no point in such disguising. For what could he learn from my mind, that’s of any import?”

“And that he didn’t learn from traveling with the two of us.” Rod was glad that the light was too dim for Simon to see his face burning. “Or that he couldn’t find out by, let us say, more ‘orthodox’ means? For example, if he’s keeping tab on your thoughts, he knows I’m awake now.”

“Aye. I doubt me not an we’ll see him presently.”

“No doubt at all; I’m sure he’s still in charge of our case.”

“…So he was giving the orders, huh? To the soldiers, I mean.”

“Aye. There was no doubt of that.”

Rod nodded. “Then he’s probably the one who arranged the ambush.”

Simon gazed at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That would be likely.”

“So he’s not exactly the simple half-telepath he claimed to be.”

Simon’s lips curved with the ghost of his smile. “Nay, Master Owen. He is certainly not that.”

“He didn’t happen to let out any hints about his real self, did he?”

Simon shook his head. “The surface of his thoughts stayed ever as it had been. For aught that I could hear from him, his name was ever Flaran; yet his thoughts were all extolling Alfar, and how greatly advantaged the land was, since he’d taken power.”

Rod frowned. “Nothing about the job at hand?”

“Aye; he did think how greatly thy capture would please Alfar.”

“I should think it would.” Rod closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, hoping the cold stone might cool the burning. “No matter what else we might say about our boy Flaran, we’ve got to admit he was effective.”

A key grated in the lock. Rod looked up at a slab of dungeon warder with a face that might have been carved out of granite. He didn’t say a word, just held the door open and stepped aside to admit a lord, gorgeously clad in brocade doublet and trunk-hose, burgundy tights and shoes, fine lace ruff, and cloth-of-gold mantle, with a golden coronet on his head. His chin was high in arrogance; he wore a look of stern command. Rod had to look twice before he recognized Flaran. “Clothes do make the man,” he murmured.

Flaran smiled, his lips curving with contempt. “Clothes, aye—and a knowledge of power.”

The last word echoed in Rod’s head. He held his gaze on Flaran. “So the rumor was true—Alfar was wandering around the country, disguised as a peasant.”

Flaran inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Well, O Potentate Alfar.” Rod leaned back against the wall. “I have to admit you did a great job of disguising yourself as a peasant. Could it be you had experience to draw on?”

Alfar’s eyes sparked with anger, and Simon seemed to shrink in on himself in horror. The sorcerer snapped. “Indeed, I was numbered ‘mongst the downtrodden till a year agone.”

“But that’s all behind you now, of course.”

His voice was a little too innocent. Alfar’s gaze hardened. “Be not mistaken. Think not that I’m a peasant still—for thou dost lie within my power now, and thou wilt find it absolute.”

Rod shrugged. “So you’re a powerful peasant. Or did you honestly think you could be something more?”

“Greatly more,” Alfar grated, “as thou wilt discover.”

“Oh?” Rod tilted his head to the side. “What, may I ask?”

“A duke—Duke Alfar, of the Northern coast! And thou, slave, shalt address me as such!”

“Oh.” Rod kept his lips pursed from the word. “I’m a slave now, am I?”

“Why?” Alfar’s eyes kindled. “What else wouldst thou call thyself?”

Rod watched him for a second, then smiled. “I’m a peasant, too. Aren’t I?”

“Assuredly,” Alfar said drily. “Yet whatsoever thou art, thou art also a most excellent thought-hearer, an thou hast been able to probe ‘neath my thoughts to discover who I truly am.”

“Oh, that didn’t take mind reading. None at all. I mean, just look at it logically: Who, in all the great North Country, would be the most likely one to go wandering around disguised as a schlemazel peasant, supporting Alfar’s policies with great verve and enthusiasm, and would have authority to command his soldiers?”

“One of my lieutenants, mayhap,” Alfar said, through thinned lips.

Rod shook his head. “You never said one word about having to refer a decision to someone higher up—at least, not from Simon’s reports about what happened while I was out cold. But you did mention ‘our’ domain, which meant that you were either one of the lieutenants, viewing himself as a partner—and from what I’d heard of Alfar, I didn’t think he was the type to share power…”

“Thou didst think aright,” Flaran growled.

“See? And that left the ‘or’ to the ‘either’—and the ‘or’ was that the ‘our’ you’d used was the royal ‘our.’ And that meant that Flaran was really Alfar.” Rod spread his hands. “See? Just common sense.”

“Scarcely ‘common.’ ” Alfar frowned. “In truth, ‘tis a most strange mode of thought.”

“People keep telling me that, here,” Rod sighed. He’d found that chains of reasoning were alien to the medieval mind. “But that was the royal ‘our,’ wasn’t it? And you are planning to try for the throne, aren’t you?”

Alfar’s answer was an acid smile. “Thou hast come to the truth of it at last—though I greatly doubt thou didst find it in such a manner.”

“Don’t worry, I did.” Rod smiled sourly. “Even right now, with you right next to me, I can’t read your mind. Not a whisper.”

“Be done with thy deception!” Alfar blazed. “Only a warlock of great power could cloak his thoughts so completely that he seems not even to exist!”

Rod shrugged. “Have it your way. But would that mighty warlock be able to read minds when his own was closed off?”

Alfar stared.

Then he lifted his head slowly, nodding. “Well, then.” And, “Thou wilt, at least, not deny that thou art Tuan’s spy.”

“King Tuan, to you! But I agree, that much is pretty obvious.”

“Most excellent! Thou canst now tell to Tuan every smallest detail of my dungeon—if ever thou dost set eyes upon him again.”

For all his bravado, a shiver of apprehension shook Rod. He ignored it. “Tuan already knows all he needs.”

“Indeed?” Alfar’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”

“That you’ve taken over the duchy, by casting a spell over all the people—and that you’ll attack him, if he doesn’t obliterate you first.”

“Will he, now! Fascinating! And how much else doth he know?”

Rod shrugged. “None of your concern—but do let it worry you.”

Alfar stood rigid, the color draining from his face.

Then he whirled, knife whipping out to prick Simon’s throat. “Again I will demand of thee—what information hath Tuan?”

His gaze locked with Rod’s. Simon paled, but his eyes held only calm and understanding, without the slightest trace of fear.

Rod sighed, and capitulated. “He knows your whole career, from the first peasant you intimidated, up to your battle with Duke Bourbon.”

“Ah,” Alfar breathed. “But he knoweth not the outcome. Doth he?”

“No,” Rod admitted, “but it was a pretty clear guess.”

“ ‘Twas the Duchess, was it not? She did escape my hunters. Indeed, my spies in Tudor’s county, and in Runnymede, attacked her, but were repulsed by puissant magics.” His gaze hardened. “Magics wielded by a woman and four children.”

Inwardly, Rod went limp with relief, hearing his family’s safety confirmed. But outwardly, he only permitted himself a small smile.

“Yet thou wouldst know of that, wouldst thou not?” Alfar breathed. “Thou didst dispatch them on that errand, didst thou not?”

Rod looked at the drop of blood rising from the point of the dagger, considered his options, and decided honesty wouldn’t hurt. “It was my idea, yes.”

Alfar’s breath hissed out in triumph. “Then ‘twas thy wife and bairns who did accompany the Duchess and her brats, whilst yet they did live!”

Alarm shrilled through Rod. Did the bastard mean his family was dead? And the anger heaved up, rising.

Oblivious, Alfar was still speaking. “And thou art he who’s called Rod Gallowglass, art thou not?”

“Yes. I’m the High Warlock.” Rod’s eyes narrowed, reddening.

Simon stared, poleaxed.

Alfar’s lips were parted, his eyes glittering. “How didst thou do it? Tell me the manner of it! How didst thou cease to be, to the mind, the whiles thou wert apparent to the eye?”

“You should know,” Rod grated. “Weren’t you eavesdropping?”

“Every minute, I assure thee. I held thy trace the whiles thou didst buy a cart and didst drive out to the road. Then, of a sudden, there were no thoughts but a peasant’s.”

“Quite a range you’ve got there.”

“More than thirty leagues. How didst thou cloak thy thoughts?”

“I didn’t—not then.” Rod throttled the rage down to a slow burn, keeping his mind in control, floating on top of the emotion. “I just started thinking like a peasant.”

Alfar stared.

Then he frowned. “Then thou dost counterfeit most excellently.”

“I had some acting lessons.” And they were coming in handy, helping him keep the rage under control. “I didn’t pull the real disappearing act until I was across the border.” Privately, he found it interesting that Alfar could have been so thoroughly deceived. Either he wasn’t very good at reading thoughts in depth, or Rod was even better at believing himself to be somebody fictitious than he had thought.

“Ah, ‘twas then? Tell me the manner of it.” But his knife hand was trembling.

Nonetheless, Simon was staring at Rod, not Alfar, and with awe, not fear.

And he’d been friendly to Rod, and he was an innocent bystander…

Rod shrugged. “I withdrew, that’s all. Pulled back into my shell. Decided nobody was worth my trouble.”

Alfar stared at him.

Then he frowned. “Canst say no more than that?”

Rod shrugged. “Details. Techniques. Remembering times in my past when I wanted to get away from people, and letting the feeling grow. None of it could teach you how to do it. The first time, it just happens.”

Alfar watched him, eyes narrowed.

Then he straightened, sliding the knife back into its sheath and Simon almost collapsed with a sigh of relief.

Rod felt a little relief, too, but the anger countered it.

“Tis even as I’ve thought,” Alfar said, with grim satisfaction. “From aught I’ve heard of thee, thy chivalry exceeds thy sense.”

“Would you care to explain that?” Rod’s voice was velvet.

“Why, ‘tis plainly seen! Would a sensible captain risk his own pain, or mayhap even life, on a perilous mission? Nay! He would send a spy, and let the underling be racked and torn! But thou, who dost pride thyself on thine honor…” he made the word an obscenity, “…wouldst rather waste thine hours spying out the enemy thyself!”

Now Rod understood the man—and he didn’t bother hiding his contempt. “Just sit back in Runnymede and read through intelligence reports, huh?”

“That would be wise.” Alfar stood, arms akimbo, smirking down at him. “Or dost thou truly believe thou couldst accomplish more in thine own person?”

Rod studied the sorcerer—cocky stance, chip on the shoulder, the whole arrogant air (and didn’t overlook the menace, or the sadistic glitter at the back of the eye) and wondered why he didn’t feel more fear. He did know, though, that he’d better not let Alfar know that.

So he stuck his chin out just that little bit farther, and made his tone defiant. “I only know this: by the time I realized that it was really dangerous, it was too much a hazard to let anyone else go in my place.”

“How gallant.” Alfar’s scorn was withering.

“It seems I was right.” Rod held his gaze on Alfar’s eyes. “If you could catch onto me, you could catch onto anybody I might send. How’d you see through my disguise?”

A slow smile spread over Alfar’s face. He lifted his head, chest swelling, and stepped toward Rod, almost strutting. “I did sense danger when my spies sent word that the High Warlock did journey northward. Yet sin’ that thou didst come with thy wife and bairns, it might well have been naught but a pleasure jaunt. Naetheless, he did note that thou hadst but lately spoken with Tuan and Catharine.”

Rod shrugged. “I do that all the time.” But his interest was piqued. “So your man couldn’t eavesdrop on my conversation with Their Majesties, huh?”

Alfar flushed, glowering.

“Well.” Rod leaned back against the wall. “Nice to know my wife’s noise-shield works so well.”

“Is that how thou dost manage it!” Alfar’s eyes gleamed. “In truth, their thoughts are well-nigh impossible to single out from all that buzzing hum of thoughts that doth surround them.” He nodded, with a calculating look. “Thy wife hath talent.”

Rod quailed at the threat his tone implied—especially since Gwen hadn’t held a shield around the royal couple. “Just be glad I sent her back.”

“Mayhap I had ought to be. Mayhap ‘tis fitting that what my lieutenants could not accomplish, mine actions could.”

“ ‘Lieutenants?’ ” Rod stared in disbelief, then let a slow smile grow. “You mean that lousy marksman was one of your best?”

Alfar’s gaze darkened. “Twas purposely done. I bade him discourage thee, not slay thee or thine.”

“Wise.” Rod nodded. “If you had, I’d’ve broken off the spy mission right there, and shot back to Runnymede to tell Tuan to call out the army. But you did a great job of warning us you were there.”

“Aye—and did secure a gauge of the range and strength of thy powers, and thy wife’s and bairns’. Wherefore did I send mine other lieutenants to afright thee a second, then a third time, that I might learn thy pattern of attack, and its weaknesses. Nay, if thy wife and bairns had come north farther, I would have known well how to deal with them.”

The chill had settled around Rod’s backbone, and wasn’t leaving. “I did have some notion that it was getting a little too thick. So when the Duchess and her boys came along, I took advantage of the excuse to send my family back South, to safety.”

Alfar nodded. “And went on northward thyself. Then thou didst stop by a farmstead, where thou didst buy a horsecart and peasant garb—and my man lost trace of thee, the whiles thou didst don thy smock and buskins.”

Very interesting! Rod hadn’t gone invisible until he’d crossed the border. “Let me guess: that’s when you decided you’d better get involved on the personal level.”

Alfar nodded. “Even as thou hadst, I did don peasant garb, and took the southward road, afoot and unguarded.” He smiled, amused, as though to say, Why would Alfar need guards?

Rod resolved to take the first possible opportunity to demonstrate exactly why. Aloud, he said, “Why didn’t you ride to the border first? You could have intercepted me there.”

“Oh, I was certain I would discover thee as I went! Thou hadst, after all, no need to use aught but the High Road—and good reason not to, for thou wouldst then have been most strikingly noticed, in byways where only villagers do journey. Yet long ere I encountered thee, I did come upon a troop of guardsmen, and something about them caught my notice. I did look deeply into their auncient’s eyes and thoughts and, ‘neath the surface, discovered that he was no longer spellbound! That, even though they wore my colors!” His smile was not pleasant. “I found occasion to journey with them, begging their protection and, as we walked, wove my spell about each one in turn. When only the auncient remained disenchanted, I bade his troopers seize him; so they did. Then did I pose him questions, the whiles I hearkened to the answers that rose within his mind, unspoken.”

Rod decided he’d better find a new interrogation technique; this one was obviously so easy to invent that it boded fair to becoming common.

“From his mind,” Alfar went on, “I gained the image of the man who’d broke his spell…” He nodded toward Simon. “And I saw, to my surprise, that he was accompanied, by a most ill-favored, surly peasant.”

Rod straightened in indignation. “Hey, now!”

Alfar smiled, satisfied that his barb had drawn blood. “But ‘twas easily seen that the spell-breaker must needs be the High Warlock. Why, he had so great a look of dignity!”

Simon looked up, startled.

Alfar’s eye glinted. “And his serving man had so churlish a look!”

But Rod wasn’t about to bite on the same bait twice. He shrugged. “I won’t argue. When it comes to churls, you should know what you’re talking about.”

Alfar flushed, and dropped a hand to his dagger.

Rod leaned back lazily. “What did you do with the soldiers?” He was tense, dreading the answer.

Alfar shrugged. “What ought I to do? I enchanted the auncient too, and sent them on northward to rejoin mine army.”

Rod lifted his head, surprised. “You didn’t punish them? No racks, no thumbscrews? No crash diets?”

Alfar looked equally surprised. “Dost thou punish an arrow that has fallen to earth, if thine enemy hath picked it up, and set it to his bowstring? Nay; thou dost catch it when he doth loose it at thee, and restore it to thy quiver. Oh, I sent them on northward. I did not wish to chance their beholding thee again—or, more’s to the point, thy spell-breaker. But at the next guardpost, I showed my badge of authority…” He fingered the medallion on his breast. “…and bade the soldiers disguise themselves as peasants, to wait in ambush where a country way joined the High Road. Then I summoned a lesser warlock to abide with them, in readiness to transmit orders to march, when he should receive a thought-code—Alfar’s greatness, and why all witches ought to join with him.” He smiled, vindictively.

Rod knew better than to withhold ego-oil when the one with the inferiority complex held the knife. “So that’s why the sudden diatribe, eh?”

“Certes.” Alfar’s eyes danced. “There’s method in aught I do. Then did I march southward, my thoughts ranging ahead of myself, till I heard Simon’s. I found a village warlock, then, and bade him lead his people out to chase me…”

“The little fat guy. But of course, you made sure all their rocks would miss, and they wouldn’t catch you.”

“Why, certes.” Alfar grinned, enjoying the account of his own cleverness. “And as I had foreknown, thou couldst not forebear to save a poor weakling, beset by human wolves.”

“Yes.” Rod’s mouth twisted with the sour taste of his own gullibility. “We fell right into it, didn’t we? Just picked you up, and carried you right along.”

“Thou wast, in truth, most gracious,” Alfar said, with a saccharine smile. “Twas but a day’s work to discover that ‘twas Simon broke the spells, yet that he could do little more—and that thou must needs be the High Warlock.”

“My natural greatness just shone through those peasant rags, huh?”

“Oh, indubitably. Yet ‘twas more truthfully thy face.”

“Naturally noble, eh?”

“Nay, only familiar. Mine agents had borne me pictures in their minds, more faithful than any painter could render. Oh, thou hast disguised thyself somewhat, with peasant’s smock and grime; yet I know something of deception myself, and can look past surface features to those that underlie them. Yet I knew thee even ere I’d set eyes upon thy face; for thou wast there to mine eyes, but not to my mind, and only a most puissant warlock could shield himself so thoroughly.”

Rod shrugged. “I seem to have had that knack before I started doing any of what you call magic… But, go on.”

“Pay heed!” Alfar held up a forefinger. “Even then, I offered thee thine opportunity to join with me and mine! And only when thou didst refuse, and that with such force that I knew thou couldst not be persuaded, did I seize thee.” His gaze intensified, locked on Rod’s eyes. “E’en now, an thou dost wish to join with me, I will rejoice, and welcome thee!”

“Providing, of course, that I can prove I mean it.”

“Of course. What use art thou, if I cannot rely on thee to the uttermost?” His eyes glittered, and his mouth quivered with suppressed glee. “Indeed, I’ve even now the means to insure thy loyalty.”

Dread shot through Rod and, hard after it, anger. He throttled it down and growled, “What means?”

“Thou hast no need to know. Thou dost not, after all, wish to ally thy fortunes with mine.”

The rage surged up, and Rod let it rise. “I’ll grind your head under my heel, if I can ever find a forked stick big enough to hold your neck down!”

Alfar went white, and sprang at Rod, his knife slipping out. Fear shot through Rod, like a spark to gunpowder and the anger exploded, shooting through his every vein and nerve, smashing out of him in reaction.

Alfar slammed back against the far wall and slid to the floor, dazed.

Rod’s chains jangled as they broke apart, and fell.

He thrust himself away from the wall, rising to his feet, borrowed rage-power filling every cell of his body. The headache throbbed through him, darkening all he saw except for an oval of light that contained Alfar, crumpled in a heap. Rod waded toward the fallen man, feeling anger envelop him, pervading him, as though Lord Kern’s spirit reached across the void between the universes, to take possession of him. His finger rose with the weight of all his man-slayings, pointing out to explode the sorcerer.

Then Alfar’s eyes cleared; he saw Rod’s face, and his eyes filled with terror. Rod reached out to touch him—but thunder rocked the cell, and the sorcerer was gone.

Rod stood staring at the empty space where the sorcerer had been, finger still pointing, forgotten. “Teleported,” he choked out. “Got away.”

He straightened slowly, thrusting outward with his mind, exploding his mental shield, opening himself to all and every sense impression about him, concentrating on the human thoughts. Nowhere was there a trace of Alfar.

Rod nodded, perversely satisfied; Alfar hadn’t just teleported out of the cell—he’d whipped himself clean out of the castle, and so far away that he couldn’t be “heard.”