The Warlock Insane

Chapter Nine

The sun was directly overhead, and Rod was beginning to think about lunch when something roared. He noticed a Doppler effect and looked up, just in time to see a nine-foot-tall man with a hideous face and six arms charging down at him.

Beaubras shouted, reining his horse around and couching his lance. Modwis blanched, but he pulled out his iron club.

What else could Rod do? He drew his sword.

Then the ogre struck like an avalanche.

Rod went down under the first onslaught; he had a brief vision of huge legs churning past, of Fess's steel body flying through the air. Then he managed to fold his arms over his head, roll, and come up, his sword somehow still in his hand, bellowing with anger.

Not that he could hear himself. The ogre was bellowing loudly enough for all of them, and Beaubras, who had somehow managed to stay mounted through the first charge, sailed into him with sword and shield. Modwis was picking himself up, casting about for his iron club, and Fess was scrambling to his feet on the far side of the ogre.

Relief shot through Rod, with anger in its wake. He charged the huge humanoid, howling like a banshee. The ogre immediately assigned two of his arms to take care of Rod with shield and sword, slashing and feinting—and Rod was startled to find himself giving ground, slowly but surely. So, even more surprisingly, was Beaubras, and Modwis had found his club but was having trouble avoiding the cuts of another sword on the ogre's far side. Rod couldn't understand how the monster could coordinate three fights at the same time—but, then, he was too busy blocking and parrying to give it much thought.

"I cannot prevail!" Beaubras shouted. "He is enchanted!"

Well, that was as good an excuse as any.

'Tis more work of the foul sorcerer Brume!" Modwis howled.

Within Granclarte, he had a point—nothing short of a duke could fight Beaubras to a standoff.

Which meant it was magic.

But what kind of magic?

Fess slammed into the ogre's back, screaming; nice that one member of the party didn't need to worry about chivalry. But two of the ogre's arms immediately grabbed the horse and shoved him aside, almost as though they had a sub-brain all their own.

This was magic, and of no mean order! But how could it really work?

A huge foot sent Modwis flying, and a blade scored Rod's forearm. The hot, bright pain brought a surge of rage that somehow made Rod instantly clearheaded, and he realized that in the real world, the ogre must be made of witch-moss.

Change! he thought at it grimly, and pictured a huge ball of bread dough rolling down the road.

The ogre obstinately remained an ogre. Rod was floored— nothing in Granclarte had refused to change when he wished it to. He'd done some numbers on Gramarye witch-moss constructs, too.

He was so astounded that he was late blocking as the huge broadsword slashed straight at his face. Panic clawed as he yanked his sword up, knowing it was too late, knowing he was going to feel agony as the steel cut his head in two…

Then the sword jolted aside, and the huge mass of muscle toppled, leaving Rod seeing clear sky, with a roaring in his ears.

He looked down. The roaring was coming from the ogre, but that was his left ear; the right ear was picking up even more noise, coming from a normal-sized man who was holding one of the ogre's feet, face contorted with rage.

Fairly normal-sized, anyway—he was only six feet tall, maybe a few inches more. But he had the most fantastic build Rod had ever seen, outside of a health-spa catalogue. His shoulders were at least thirty inches across with slabs of muscle a foot thick, and his arms bulged like a normal man's thighs. His legs were virtual tree trunks, and he was naked except for a filthy rag of a loincloth. Not that it was easy to see—his whole body was encrusted with dirt. His hair was either brown or coated with grime, and it was so stringy that Rod favored the latter hypothesis. His beard was matted and mangy, hanging down onto the huge slabs of muscle that passed for his chest. His face was all staring eyes and snarling mouth, and Rod could have sworn he had fangs.

Even Beaubras had sense enough to step back and let this stranger do his work.

The ogre was on his feet again, thundering like a volcano erupting. Four boughs of arms grabbed for the wild man, but he leaped inside the squeeze and slammed a fist into the ogre's belly—way in. The ogre hooted in pain and doubled over, and the wild man slammed an uppercut into his jaw. The ogre snapped upright—but even as he did, one huge foot lashed out, catching the wild man in the midriff. He went flying and slammed into a thicket. The ogre jumped on that thicket with both feet—but the wild man squirmed out behind his heels, flipped over on his back, and kicked the ogre's legs out from under him.

The ogre fell—backward.

The wild man moved fast, incredibly fast. The ogre landed on hard ground, and the wild man jumped on him with both feet. The ogre's breath whooshed out, but he caught the wild man's ankles and threw him away into the forest.

"We must aid!" Somehow, Beaubras had come up with a new lance.

"No, wait!" Rod set a hand on his arm. "The wild man's not out yet!"

No, not a bit. He came charging back out of the brush, bellowing like a bull, and hit the ogre like a fullback, shoulder into the monster's hips. The two of them went sailing ten feet before the ogre smashed into a tree. The tree went over, and so did the ogre.

"Whence came this champion?" Beaubras gasped. "Olympus?"

"No," Rod answered. "Ariosto."

The fighters were all thrashing legs and grabbing hands, but somehow, the ogre was on his belly, and the wild man was slamming the monster's head against a rock, again and again, actually shouting something that sounded like numbers.

The rock was splitting.

The wild man had mercy on the granite and tossed the ogre down with something that certainly had the right intonation for an oath of disgust. The six arms twitched feebly, and the wild man kicked the huge ribs with contempt. He spat, and turned away.

And saw Rod, Beaubras, and Modwis.

For a long moment, they stood there, staring at each other, while prickles of apprehension flitted their way up Rod's spine.

Then the wild man bellowed and charged.

"Split up!" Rod yelled, and Fess leaped to the side. Modwis took him at his word and jumped away into the thicket—but Beaubras leveled his lance and charged straight ahead.

Rod moaned, then stared. If he hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed it—but the wild man caught the knight's lance, turning as he did, and heaving—and Sir Beaubras went sailing through the air to slam down into the thicket.

Rod couldn't let him be killed! He shouted and rode straight for the wild man.

On the other side, Modwis came at full donkey-gallop.

The wild man turned to grapple Rod, ignoring Modwis— and found himself facing flashing steel hooves as Fess reared, whinnying. But he dodged adroitly, caught Fess's fetlocks, and was turning to heave when Modwis crashed into him headfirst.

His head had a steel cap on it.

The wild man said "Hunh!" very clearly, in that tone that indicates a tightening of the stomach muscles, and was immobile for just a moment.

Rod seized the moment—also the wild man's hair.

He almost dropped it in disgust, and he could have sworn he felt something crawling over his fingers—but he called, "Reverse!" and Fess kicked free of the wild man's hold, slamming his forehooves down and pushing back hard. The wild man bellowed in anger, but he was off balance for another second, as Modwis dismounted and yanked up his ankles. The wild man fell with a roar. Rod dropped his hair (thankfully) and shouted, "Roll him, Fess!"

As the wild man tried to get an arm under himself, the great black horse pushed with a hoof, rolling him over, and shoved hard between the shoulder blades. The wild man went down hard.

Rod knew that sheer strength couldn't hold this superman, not even the strength of Fess's relay reflexes and servo-powered "muscles." But they were in the domain of fantasy, and it was Rod's universe now, after all—hadn't he inherited it? So he thought of a force field, and saw the air thicken around the wild man.

Incredibly, he still moved. More slowly—he was slowed down to normal speed for a man with quick reflexes—but he still thrashed, roaring, and probably would have toppled Fess in another second. But the spell delayed him just long enough for Beaubras to leap in, grabbing at the wild man's left arm. Rod jumped out of the saddle to grab his right. The wild man kicked, roaring, and Modwis went flying, but Rod caught the ankle on the rebound and yanked it up to the buttock. "Cradle hold!"

Beaubras got the idea, if not the term, and managed to catch the other leg and shove it up in similar fashion. The wild man thrashed and roared, but there really wasn't much he could look forward to from that position, except possibly a hot shower.

Beaubras looked up at Rod. "What can we do with him now, Lord Gallowglass?"

How did Rod become the expert, all of a sudden?

It was a good question. It was a very good question. If they let go, one very angry wild man would be on his feet in a second, pounding their heads in—but if they tried to hold on, sooner or later they'd tire, and he'd kick loose on his own.

"Only hold him a moment longer, good sirs!"

Excellent idea. Rod renewed his grip and wondered who had said that.

It was a new knight who had said that, a knight who had dropped in on a flying horse—well, no, not a horse, really; its wings and head were those of an eagle. He leaped to the ground and came running—never mind that he wore full plate armor; none of the chroniclers had ever minded— and knelt by the wild man's head while he pulled out a very large test tube. There was a label on it, but Rod couldn't make it out; he was a little busy at the moment. The new knight ignored the wild man's roaring and popped the wax cap off the vial right under the wild man's nose.

What was it, his grandmother's smelling salts?

Whatever it was, it worked like a charm, which it probably was. The wild man stilled instantly, utter astonishment on his face. Then he looked back up over his shoulder at Beaubras and Rod, took in the situation, nodded slowly—and, wonder of wonders, spoke. "I thank thee for thine aid, kind sirs—yet my wits are of a sudden restored to me. Thou mayest loose me now; be assured, I'll not attack thee."

Rod looked the question at Beaubras. The knight nodded and, very carefully, they loosed their holds—then jumped back.

The wild man rolled to his feet in a single, sinuous movement, looking down at his body with a mortified expression, "Alas! Am I become a savage beast, then?"

"Thou art returned to us now," the new knight said tactfully. "Yet are thy wits all of a whole again, lord Count?"

"Aye." The wild man looked up with a pensive frown. "And now that I mind me, that first sickness of the brain is vanished also—that spellbound desire for the maid Angelica." His voice took on a note of wonder. "She is naught to me now—only another woman that I have met, and not a pleasant one, though still must I acknowledge her beauty. Yet I could not care less for her, though 'twas the news of her marriage that did drive me mad. Is't not wondrous, my lord Duke?"

"It is, surely," the duke answered. "Thou dost remember, then?"

"Remember! Ah, would that I did not!" The count squeezed his eyes shut. "Every wild, senseless act of utter destruction that I have wrought—the flocks scattered, the cattle torn limb from limb, the trees uprooted, the fields laid waste! Ah, the poor folk who have suffered from my madness!" A tear glittered on his cheek.

" 'Tis done, my lord Count," the new knight said softly. " 'Tis done; thou hast regained thy wits, and are restored to thy lord and uncle, Charles."

"Aye, thanks to thee, brave Duke." The wild man raised his head with a frown. "But mine uncle? What of him?"

"He is in Paris, my lord, besieged by a Saracen host."

"Why, we must go to him, then!" the wild man cried. "Come, my lord! Away!" But he remembered to turn to Beaubras, Rod, and Modwis, inclining his head. "Knight and gentlemen, I thank thee. Most gracious aid hast thou given, and at no small peril to thyselves. This act of charity shall be numbered among thy glories; the minstrels shall sing of it."

Rod and his companions could only return the bow in mute acknowledgement.

Then the count turned and marched away, clothed in dignity and grime, grim resolution in every line of his filthy body.

The duke hurried after him, whipping the cloak off his own shoulders and throwing it over the count's.

The hippogriff took wing, circled once over the new clearing (the ogre and the wild man had knocked down a lot of trees in their fight), and flew off after his master.

"A most noble count," Beaubras murmured.

"As noble as yourself," Rod agreed, but inside, he was wondering just how a classic epic and a classic parody had both become mixed up in his grandfather's romance.

He shrugged and turned away—it had been a thrill, anyway, and he'd manage to sort it out someday.

The ogre groaned and stirred.

"Oh. Yes." Rod turned, frowning. "We still have this little problem to dispose of, don't we?"

"Aye." Beaubras drew his sword, just in case. "What shall we do with him, Lord Gallowglass?"

Rod shrugged. "Why take chances? We know he's got to be guilty of something." And he whipped out his blade, poised for the death blow.

Inside him, someone was screaming and protesting, but the world seemed to be reddening, Rod could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, and suddenly, he knew that if he let this creature live, it would hunt him down and kill him, it and all its ilk, tracking him down day by day until finally, exhausted, he could run no more…

But there was a hand staying his arm, a hand that didn't push or grab, just rested there, and a voice that filled his head, saying, "Nay, Lord Gallowglass. To slay in cold blood is a woeful transgression 'gainst chivalry!"

Rod wanted to put down the sword, but the image of the ogre stalking him still made his heart race, the dark, misshapen thing tracking him through a moonless night… "If we don't kill him in cold blood, he'll kill us in hot blood!"

The ogre suddenly stirred, muttering something that sounded like agreement. Rod lifted the sword a little higher, but another voice filled his head, Fess's, saying, "Remember, Rod, that what you see may not be what truly exists."

The sword wavered, and beneath its point, as though mist were clearing, the ogre's shape became translucent.

Rod seemed to see inside it, see three men heaped one atop another, jostling each other as they regained consciousness. Not filthy half-beasts, either, but clean-shaven men dressed in neat tunics and hose, made of good cloth— far better than real peasants wore, though they resembled peasant styles.

Rod's voice shook. "Ogre or assassins, they're still enemies who will kill me if I give them the chance!"

"Then we will not give him that chance," Beaubras said simply. "We will leave him bound hand and foot, and will be long gone ere he can work himself free." .

And it was an "it," not a "them"—it was only a single ogre again, thrusting himself up on one elbow.

The sword trembled as Rod lowered it with a single, short nod. "All right. All right, we'll show mercy. But let's be quick/about it, eh? Before it can fight again."

On the instant, Modwis cast rope about the ogre, and Beaubras bent to push, rolling the monster over and over until he was wrapped in rope from shoulder to hip. It roared and gnashed its teeth, but Beaubras and Modwis stayed clear of its kicking feet as they tied the knots, the knight supplying the strength, the dwarf shaping the rope into a devious puzzle that only a wizard could unravel. Then they cast loops about the feet, tightening them so as not to prevent circulation, and bound the ankles together on the other side of a thick old tree.

As for Rod, he was feeling too sick to even wonder where Modwis had found the rope. His stomach was churning, and his head was rent with a stabbing pain. He turned away, hands trembling too much to even sheathe his sword, and held on to a tree, hoping the world would stop whirling.

"Rod," said Fess's voice, "are you ill?"

"Yes," Rod croaked, "and I deserve it. I would have run that ogre through if you and Beaubras hadn't prevented me, Fess."

"But you have relented, and it will live long enough for the foresters to find it and bring troops. You have done well, after all, Rod."

"But why do I feel so… ill, all of a sudden?" Rod let himself slide down to the forest floor, leaning against the trunk. "My pulse is hammering, my head is splitting… Look, Fess! I'm shaking all over!"

"It will pass, Rod."

"You… sure about that?"

The great black horsehead dipped down, nuzzling Rod's neck. "Your temperature is elevated, and your pulse is erratic. Your blood pressure is high. But there is no cause for concern if these symptoms do not persist."

"I'll… take your word… for it…" Rod swallowed. "But… why, Fess? So suddenly…"

"It could be an adrenaline reaction, Rod. You are feeling the effects of exposure, you know, and your body is weakening."

That was a horrifying thought. "What do I… need to do?"

"Come in out of the rain, Rod—or the snow, in this case."

"I… can't. Not till I'm sure I'm… safe. To be around, I mean."

"I appreciate the double entendre, Rod. I assure you that you do need shelter, though."

"But not just my body! Where'd that… homicidal fear come from? That's why I can't come in!"

Fess was quiet a moment, then said, "You are aware that you have always had an element of paranoia in your personality, Rod."

"An element, yeah, a streak—but what's letting it run wild and take over? I mean, if I had some warning, I could deal with it, maybe, but… No, don't give me any of that 'chemical analysis' business again—especially since it might be true!" There was a little anger now, born of indignation, and it was helping, his pulse was beginning to steady, but his head still felt as though it were built around live coals…

"You need proper medical facilities, Rod."

"Well, medical facilities mean medical people." Rod clawed at the tree. "And the condition I'm in, I'm likely to think they've turned into monsters, and go berserk. No, I have to weather it as well as I can, Fess. Please! I'm just going to have to, that's all!" Rod staggered to his feet and turned back to Beaubras and Modwis, who stood by, watching him with concern. "I'm—all right, guys. Just a… bad spell, there."

"Let thine heart be at peace," the knight assured him. "Thou hast done aright."

"Because the ogre may not be as evil as I see it, yes. At the least, it deserves a trial by somebody objective—which I am definitely not, right now."

"Thou art wise to see it so," Modwis rumbled.

"Wise, and gracious," Beaubras murmured. "I must commend thee for thy chivalry."

"Thanks—but it's really just chronic self-doubt. Right now, I can't really believe in my own good judgement."

"Then believe in me," Beaubras returned, and Rod said, "I do. I always have."

Then he wondered what he'd meant by that.