The Warlock Enraged

14

Rod sagged back, sitting against the cell wall as the biggest reason for his anger abated. His emotions began to subside, but still within him there was an impulse toward violence, a lust for battle that kept the anger and built it, filling his whole body with quaking rage.

That scared Rod. He tried to force the mindless rage down; and as he did, Simon’s voice bored through to him: “Owen! Owen! Lord Gallowglass! Nay, I’ll call thee as I knew thee!” A hand clasped his wrist; fingers dug in. “Master Owen! Or Rod Gallowglass, whichever thou art! Hast thou lost thyself, then?”

“Yes,” Rod grated, staring at the wall, unseeing. “Yes. Damn near.”

Simon groaned. “Is there naught of the High Warlock left in thee?”

“Which one?” Rod growled. “Which High Warlock?”

Simon answered in a voice filled with wonder. “Rod Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! What other High Warlock is there?”

“Lord Kern,” Rod muttered, “High Warlock of the land of Tir Chlis.” He rose to his feet, and stood stock-still, stood against the humming in his mind, the thrumming in his veins. Then he forced the words out. “What is he like—this High Warlock?”

“Which one?” Simon cried.

“Yes.” Rod nodded. “That’s the question. But tell me of this Rod Gallowglass.”

“But thou art he!”

“Tell me of him!” Rod commanded.

Simon stared, at a loss. But no matter what he thought of the oddness of Rod’s question, or the irrationality of what he did, Simon swallowed it, absorbed it, and gave what was needed.

“Rod Gallowglass is the Lord High Warlock.”

“That doesn’t help any,” Rod growled. “Tell me something different about him.”

Simon stared for a moment, then began again. “He is somewhat taller than most, though not overmuch…”

“No, no! Not what he looks like! That doesn’t help at all! What’s he like inside?”

Simon just stared at him, confounded.

“Quickly!” Rod snapped. “Tell me! Now! I need an anchor, something to hold to!”

“Hast thou lost thyself so truly, then?”

“Yes!”

Finally, the actuality of the emergency struck home to Simon. He leaned forward and said, earnestly, “I have not known thee overlong, Rod Gallowglass, and that only in thy guise as old Owen. Yet from what I’ve seen of thee, thou art… well, aye, thou art surly. And taciturn. Yet art thou good-hearted withal. Aye, thou hast ever the good of thy fellows at heart, at nearly every moment.” He frowned. “I’ve heard it said of thee, that thou hast a wry humor, and dost commonly speak with wit. Yet I’ve not seen much of that in old Owen, save some bites of sarcasm—which are as often turned against himself, as against any other.”

“Good.” Rod nodded. “Very good.” He could feel the anger lessening, feel himself calming. But underneath it, there was still fury, goading him to action, any action. Lord Kern. “Tell me…” Rod muttered, and swallowed. “Tell me something about myself, that doesn’t apply to Kern—for most of what you’ve said might be true of him, too. I don’t know; I scarcely met the man. It might, though. Tell me something about me, that’s definitely mine alone, that couldn’t be his!”

“Why…” Simon floundered, “there is thy garb. Would he go about as a peasant?”

“Possible. Try again.”

“There is thy horse…”

“Yes!” Rod pounced on it. “Tell me about him!”

“ ‘Tis a great black beast,” Simon said slowly, “and most excellent in his lines. Indeed, ‘twas the one great flaw in thy guise; for any could see that he was truly a knight’s destrier, not a common cart horse.” He frowned, gazing off into space. “And now I mind me, thou dost call him ‘Fess.’ ”

“Fess.” Rod smiled. “Yes. I could never forget Fess, no matter what. And Lord Kern couldn’t possibly have one like him. He’s been with me as long as I’ve been alive—no, longer. He’s served my family for generations, did you know that?”

“Assuredly, I did not.” Simon watched him, wide-eyed.

“He’s not what he seems, you know.”

“Aye, certes, he’s not!”

“No, not just that way.” Rod frowned. “He’s, uh, magical. But not your kind of magic—mine. He’s not really a horse of any kind. He could be anything.”

“A pooka,” Simon murmured, unable to tear his gaze away.

“No, not that way! He’s cold iron, underneath that horsehair—well, an alloy really. Plus, he’s got a mind that’s really a thing apart.” Rod remembered how easily he could take the basketball-sized sphere that held Fess’s computer-brain out of the horse-body and plug it into his starship, to astrogate and pilot. “I mean, his brain’s really a thing apart. But he’s always calm—well, almost always. And supremely logical. And always has good advice for me.” The core of anger was shrinking; it had almost disappeared, and Rod could feel the last tendrils of rage withdrawing into it. If Lord Kern really had reached across the void between the universes in response to Rod’s anger, he had lost his grip. And if it was really just his own bloodlust driving him toward violence, it was under control again now. Rod’s mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “Thank you, Milord. I appreciate your assistance, and will call upon it frequently, when there is need. But for now, I am myself again, and must trace this foul sorcerer in the ways which I deem best, in this world in which horses may be of metal, with machines for brains.”

Simon cocked his head, trying to hear, but not quite catching Rod’s words.

Rod felt Kern’s presence—or the bulk of his own anger, whichever it was—ebb. Whether “Kern” was real, or just a projection of his subconscious, it was now as thoroughly gone as it could be. He heaved a sigh, and turned to Simon. “Thank you. You pulled me out of it.”

“Gladly,” Simon said, “though I misdoubt me an I comprehend.”

“It’s really very simple. You see, there’s another High Warlock, in another kingdom, far, far away—extremely far away; there isn’t even a way to measure it. It’s in another universe, if you can believe that.”

“Believe it, aye. Understanding it’s another matter.”

“Just try and drink it in,” Rod advised. “We won’t have an examination in this course. Now, this other High Warlock is my analog. That means that he corresponds to me in every detail; what he does in his universe, what I do in mine. I visited his country for a while, and had occasion to borrow his powers; he channelled them through me, of course. But now it seems that was habit-forming; he keeps trying to reach across to this universe, and take up residence in my body.”

Simon paled. “Surely he cannot!”

Rod shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s just my own lust for violence, the temptation to commit mayhem, and I’m labeling it ‘Lord Kern’ to try to separate the actions I believe to be wrong, from my conscience.” He glowered off into space. “That doesn’t really work, of course. The responsibility’s mine, no matter what illusion I create as an excuse. Even if I say Lord Kern did it, it’ll really be me who committed the deed. It’ll still be me, even if I try to disguise it.” He turned to Simon with a bleak smile. “But I seem to be able to lie to myself very convincingly. I’m thoroughly capable of persuading myself that I’m somebody else, when I want to.”

“So.” Simon frowned. “I have convinced thee that thou art thyself again?”

Rod nodded. “More importantly, you’ve shown me that I can restore myself to my real personality, instead of the make-believe one, welding my thoughts and my actions back into a whole again. It’s a matter of remembering who I am. Fess was the key; Fess was the final thing that did it. Because, you see…” He quirked a smile. “…Fess couldn’t exist in Lord Kern’s universe.”

Simon frowned. “I do not understand why not; yet will I accept thine assurance.” Then his eyes sparked, and widened. “Yet mayhap I do comprehend. Thine horse doth stand for thee, doth he not? For if he could not be, in this Lord Kern’s land, then neither couldst thou!”

“Not without being imported, no.” Then Rod stiffened, turning aside from Simon, feeling as though an electric current were passing through him. “Yes… he does stand for me in a lot of ways, doesn’t he?” The computer mind in the horsehair body was rather symbolic of technological Rod in Gramarye’s medieval culture…

But of himself…?

“I think ‘tis so,” Simon was saying. “And even as thine horse is the key to returning thee to control of thine actions, so thine anger is the key to summoning this ‘Lord Kern’ which, thou dost say, thou hast created, to take responsibility for thine own fell deeds, that thou mayest give thyself the lie that ‘tis no fault of thine own.”

Rod stood still for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes. And it is a lie.” He dropped down, to sit on his heels. Simon sat by him. “Ever since I came back from Lord Kern’s universe, I’ve been flying into rages—and it’s scary, very scary.”

“So.” Simon’s eyes glinted. “Thou hast been afraid to draw on thine own powers, for fear of summoning him.”

Rod stared at him for a while. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? Association. Using magic for the first time, resulted in Lord Kern’s being a house guest within my skull; so using them again, should bring him back. A certain illogical sort of reason to it, isn’t there?”

“It doth sound so, when thou dost say it.”

“Yes—but stating it also makes me able to see that it doesn’t make sense.” Rod grinned. “I have to draw on my powers, though. There have been times when they came in almighty handy. Just now, for example—Alfar had his dagger at my throat, so I had nothing to lose.” He shuddered. “And ‘Lord Kern’ almost took over completely, this time.”

“Aye.” Simon smiled. “Thou didst fear, didst thou not? To use thy powers, for fear of summoning ‘Lord Kern.’ ”

Rod nodded, chagrined. “Even if he’s just an illusion I made up. Yeah. I’d still be afraid of it.”

“Yet thou dost wish to use these powers.” Simon raised a forefinger. “Whether they be Lord Kern’s, or but thine own magics, that thine anger doth conjure up, thou dost fear to use them, lest thou shouldst yield to temptation, and let thine hands do what thou dost abhor.”

Rod nodded slowly. “Nicely said. Separating the thought from the action. Yes. I have always been a bit schizoid.”

“Then contain the power thou dost conjure up,” Simon urged. “Thus thou mayst reunite thy thoughts with thine action, by containing thine active part within the pen thy thoughts do make. Contain ‘Lord Kern,’ even as thou dost contain thine anger. Assuredly thou hast not forgot our conversation, touching on that point? ‘Twas directly after thou…”

“After I beat up on that poor, unsuspecting, defenseless rock. Yes.” Rod nodded, lips tight with chagrin. “Yeah, I remember it. But I still don’t understand how you keep the lid on your anger.”

“Nay, I do not!” Simon frowned, shaking a finger at Rod. “If the anger rises, do not attempt to bury it, nor to pretend that it’s not there. Let it be in thine awareness, and do not seek to throttle it—but contain it.”

Rod frowned. “And how do you manage that?”

“By distancing thyself from the person who doth anger thee,” Simon answered. “Tis not easily done, I know—for when the folk of the village had come to like me, and their priest had become my friend, I did come from out mine hermitage, to live among them. I built myself mine inn—with their aid. And, in good time, I found myself a wife.” His head lifted, gazing off into the past again. “She bore me bonny bairns, and together we labored to rear them.”

“That’s right—you do have a daughter.”

“Two—and a son. Who, by Heaven’s grace, went for a soldier in the last war, and remained in the South, to serve Lord Borgia. Beshrew me, but I love him! Yet whilst he grew, he tried me sorely!”

“I wouldn’t say I know all about that,” Rod growled, “but I’m sure learning. How did you deal with it?”

“By holding in my mind, and never letting go, the notion that ‘twas not me his anger aimed at, but at that which I stood for.”

“Authority,” Rod guessed. “Limits on his actions.”

“Aye—and the tree from which he needed to separate himself, the shoot, or he’d not be a being in his own right. Yet ‘twas more than that—’twas that he was not angry at me, but at what I’d done or said.”

“That doesn’t make much sense.” Rod frowned. “What you’re trying to say is, it was anger, not hatred.”

Simon gazed off into space. “Mayhap that is the sense of it. Yet whether it be anger or hatred, anger at thee or at what thou hast done, be mindful that, if worst comes to worst, thou hast but to recall that this person, this event, is but a part of thy life, not the whole of it—a part with which thou mayest have to deal but, when the dealing’s done, canst lock out from thy life.”

“What if you can’t?” Rod exploded. “What if you’re tied to them? What if you have to deal with them continually, every day? What if you love them?”

Simon sat, grave and attentive. He nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis far more easy to hold thy temper with one whom thou dost see for but an hour or two each day, for thou canst go to thine home, shut the door behind thee, and forget them.” His face eased into a gentle smile. “Be mindful that these you love are people too, and deserving of as much respect and care as those with whom thou dost deal for but an hour or two each day. If thou dost not treat thy family well, pretend they’re friends.”

The thought gave Rod an icy chill. “But they’re not! They’re inextricable parts of my life—parts of myself!”

“Nay!” Simon’s eyes blazed, and his face was the countenance of a stern patriarch. “Never must thou believe them so! For look you, no one else can be a part of thee; they are themselves withal, and are apart from thee!”

Rod just stared, astounded by the intensity of Simon’s emotion.

Simon shook his head slowly. “Never think that, simply because thou dost love a person, or she doth love thee, that she is no longer her self, a separate thing, apart.”

“But… but… but that’s the goal of marriage!” Rod sputtered. “For two to become one!”

“Tis a foul lie!” Simon retorted. “Tis but an excuse for one to enslave another, then make her cease to be! Thy wife is, withal, one person, contained within her own skin, and is, and ought to be, one whole, of which all the parts are fused together, a being, separate, independent—one who loves thee, yet who is apart.” Suddenly, he smiled, and his warmth was back. “For look you, an she were not a separate person, thou wouldst have none to love thee.”

“But… but, the word marriage! Isn’t that what it means—two people, being welded together into a single unit?”

Simon shook his head impatiently. “That may be what the word doth mean. Yet be not deceived; two cannot become one. ‘Tis not possible. I confess it hath a pretty sound—but doth its beauty suffice to make it right?”

Rod stared at Simon, astounded by the older man’s words.

“What of thee?” Simon demanded. “Would it be right for one to attempt to make thee someone other than thou art?”

“No! I’m me, damn it! If anybody tried to make me somebody else, he’d eliminate me!”

“Then ‘tis wrong for thee to attempt to make another become part of thee!” Simon stabbed at him with a forefinger.

Rod frowned, thinking it over.

“An two folk do wed,” Simon said softly, “they should take pleasure in one another’s company—not essay to become one another.” He smiled again, gently. “For how canst thou become a part of someone else, save by erasing either themselves, or thee?”

Rod lifted his head, then slowly nodded. “I see your point. And as it is with my family, so it is with Lord Kern, isn’t it? He keeps trying to become Lord Gallowglass—and if he did, Rod Gallowglass would cease to exist.”

“Ah, then!” Simon’s eyes lit. “Dost thou, then, mislike this notion of thyself and Lord Kern merging together, fusing, growing, into something larger and greater?”

“I’d kill the man who tried to wipe me out that way!” Rod leaped to his feet in anger. “That’s not making me bigger and better—that’s stealing my soul!”

Simon only smiled into Rod’s wrath, letting its force pass him by, untouched. “Yet if the thought so repels thee with this Lord Kern—who, thou hast told me, is thine other self—how can it be right if the ‘other half is thy wife?”

Rod stared, poleaxed, his anger evaporated.

“Is it thy wife, or thy bairns—or the fear of ceasing to be?”

Rod dropped down to sit crosslegged again, leaning forward intently. “Then why do I only get angry when they oppose me? Why don’t I get angry when they agree with me?”

“For that, when they oppose thee, there is danger of thy self being digested; but when they agree with thee, ‘tis they who may be merged into thee.”

Rod mulled that over. “So it’s a threat. I get angry when there’s a threat.”

“Certes,” Simon said, surprised. “What else is anger’s purpose?”

“Yes—self-preservation,” Rod said slowly. “It’s the impulse to fight—to get rid of a threat.” His mouth quirked into a sudden smile, and his shoulders shook with a silent, internal laugh. “My lord! Me threatened, by my three-year-old son?”

“Art thou not?” Simon said softly.

Rob sobered. “It’s ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly hurt me.”

“Oh, he can,” Simon breathed, “in thy heart, in thy soul—most shrewdly.”

Rod studied his face. Then he said, “But he’s so little, so vulnerable!” Then he scowled. “But, damn it, it if hard to remember that when he’s coming up with one of those insights that make me feel stupid!”

Simon nodded, commiserating. “Thou must, therefore, be ever mindful, and tell thyself again: ‘He doth not lessen me.’ For that is what we truly fear, is it not? That our selves will be diminished, and, if ‘tis diminished too much, ‘twill cease to exist. Is that not what we resist, what anger guards against?”

“But it’s so asinine,” Rod breathed, “to think that such a small one could hurt big me!”

“Aye—and therefore must thou bring it to mind anew, whenever thou dost feel the slightest ghost of anger.” Simon sat back, smiling. “And as ‘tis with thy bairns, so ‘tis with Lord Kern.”

Rod just sat, spellbound, then, slowly, he nodded. “So that’s the key to holding my temper? Just remembering that I’m myself?”

“And that Lord Kern is not Rod Gallowglass. Just so.” Simon closed his eyes and nodded. “Yet ‘tis not so easily done, Lord Warlock. To be mindful of thyself, thou must needs accept thyself—and to do that, one must be content with his self. Thou must needs come to believe that Rod Gallowglass is a good thing to be.”

“Well, I think I can do that,” Rod said slowly, “Especially since I’ve always felt Rod Gallowglass is an even better thing to be, when he’s with his wife Gwen.”

“Thy wife?” Simon frowned. “That hath a ring of great wrongness to it. Nay, Lord Warlock—an thou dost rely on another person for thy sense of worth, thou dost not truly believe that thou hast any. Thou shouldst enjoy her company because she is herself, and is pleasing to thee, is agreeable company—not because she is a part of thee, nor because the two of thee together make thy self a worthwhile thing to be.”

Rod frowned. “I suppose that makes sense, in its way. If I depend on Gwen for my own sense of worth, then, whenever she finds me less than perfect, or finds anything at all wrong with me, I’ll believe I’m not worth anything.”

Simon nodded, his eyes glittering, encouraging.

“And that would feel to me, as though she were trying to destroy me, make me less than I am—which’ll make me angry, because I’ll feel that I need to fight back, for my own survival.”

Simon still nodded. “ ‘Tis even as it happed to me—’til I realized why, with my wife and myself, each quarrel was worse than the last—for, of course, she felt even as I did—that she must needs attack me, to survive.” He shook his head, like a cautioning schoolteacher. “Tis wrong of thee, to make her the custodian of thy value. That is thine own burden, and thou must needs accept it.”

Rod nodded. “Learn to like being inside my own skin, eh?”

“Aye.” Simon smiled, amused. “And do not seek to so burden thine horse, either.”

“Yeah—Fess.” That jolted Rod back to the issue. “He was the symbol that pulled me back to my own identity. Does that mean I’m closer to my horse, than to my wife?”

“I think not.” Simon throttled a chuckle. “For when all’s said and done, a horse is a thing, not a person. It may have a temperament all its own, and some quirks and snags of mood, just as a person hath; and each horse may be as unique and separate as each human is from another—yet when all’s said and done, it hath not an immortal soul, and cannot therefore challenge thee in any way that will truly make thee feel any less. It cannot lessen thy sense of self, any more than a shoe or a shovel can.”

Rod nodded slowly. That made sense—more than Simon knew; for Fess wasn’t a living horse, but a computer in a body full of servo-mechanisms. Sure, the computer projected a personality by its vocodered voice—but that personality was only an illusion, a carefully-crafted artifact, albeit an intangible one. Fess was, really, only a metal machine, and his identity was as much an illusion as his ability to think. “My horse is like a sword, in a way,” he said thoughtfully.

Simon laughed softly. “In truth, he doth seem to be somewhat more than a shoe or a shovel.”

“No, I was thinking of mystique. For a knight, his sword was the symbol of his courage, his prowess—and his honor. Each sword was a separate, unique, individual thing, to the medieval mind, and its owner invested it with a full-fledged persona. He even gave it a name. Sometimes, in the legends, it even had a will of its own. You couldn’t think of a famous sword, without thinking of the knight who owned it. Excalibur evoked the image of King Arthur, Durandal evoked pictures of Roland, Gram brought to mind Siegried slaying Fafnir. The sword was the symbol of the knight who bore it.”

“As thine horse is the symbol of thee?”

Rod frowned. “That doesn’t quite feel right, somehow—but it’s close. Metaphorically, I suppose Fess is my sword.”

“Then use him.” Simon’s eyes glowed. “Draw thy blade, and go to slay the monster who enslaves us.”

Rod sat still a moment, feeling within him for fear—and, yes, it was there; but so was the courage to answer it. But courage wouldn’t do much good, really; in this case, it’d just let him go ahead into a situation that was too dangerous for him to survive. How about confidence, though? Could he summon Lord Kern, let himself fill with anger, and not be mastered by it? He thought of Fess, and all the qualities in himself that Fess represented, and felt calm certainty rising in response to the mental image. He nodded. “I’m up to it. But if I start to fall in, pull me out, will you?”

“Gladly,” Simon answered, with a full, warm smile.

“Then hold on.” Rod stood, grasped Simon’s shoulder, and thought of Alfar, of his arrogance, his insolence, and the threat he represented to Rod and his children. Hot anger surged in answer, anger building toward rage. Rod felt Lord Kern’s familiar wrath—but he was aware of it, now, as something that was a part of him, truly, not implanted from someone else—and, being of himself, it was as much under his control as his fingers, or his tongue. He opened his mind, concentrating on the world of thought. The world of sight dimmed, and his blood began to pound in his ears. Only the thoughts were real—the darting, scheming thoughts of the warlocks and witches; the dulled, mechanical plodding thoughts of the soldiers and servants—and the ceaseless background drone that had to be the projective telepath, who had hypnotized a whole duchy. What else could it be, that emitted such a constant paean of praise, such a continual pushing of thought against mind?

Whatever it was, Rod was suddenly certain that it was the key to all the pride and ambition that was Alfar’s conquest. He scanned the castle till he found the direction in which it was strongest, then willed himself to it.