The Warlock Unlocked

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Worked, too, didn’t it?” Rod said, with a sardonic smile.

“That is a problem with goodness,” Father Uwell sighed. “It can be used against you. Not that the evil ones don’t overbalance themselves occasionally, too… Here she comes!”

Cordelia swooped down over the treetops, skimmed low over the meadow grass, and brought her broomstick in for a two-point landing. She hopped off, and reported to Gwen, “There is the mound we saw last night, Mama, and another like it perhaps a mile away. And a track connects them.”

Gwen nodded. “The one we saw last night would be Lofmir, then; they would dance at the end of the ride.” She turned to Rod. “What land dost thou seek, husband?”

Rod shrugged. “Well, a rise, with a good thicket just beside the trail, as the Grand Duchess said—preferably with a nice high cliff-top right behind it. And plenty of room across from the cliff.”

Cordelia nodded. “There is a rise beneath a hill’s brow, and the ground falls away on the other side in a long, long slope.”

Rod grinned. “Perfect! Okay, scout—lead us to it.”

Cordelia hopped back on her broom.

“Uh, hold it, there.” Rod caught the straw. “We’ve got to keep our heads down.”

“But, Papa,” Magnus protested, “ ‘twould be so easy just to fly there!”

“Yeah, and easy for Duke Foidin’s sentries to spot us, too—or are you forgetting it’s daylight now? It was taking enough of a chance, having Cordelia fly reconnaissance—and you’ll notice I chose the smaller body for the purpose.”

“ ‘Tis as when we came,” Magnus grumbled. “We had to walk because Papa could not fly.”

“Hey, now!” Rod frowned. “No looking down on your old man, mind! Or do I have to prove I can still get in one good spank before you can teleport?”

Magnus glowered truculently up at him, but Rod just held a steady glare, and the kid finally began to wilt.

“It was unkind,” Gwen said softly.

Magnus let go, and looked down at the grass. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he mumbled.

“ ‘S’okay.” Rod clapped him on the shoulder. “We didn’t fly then for the same reason, son—don’t attract attention until you know whether or not the territory’s friendly—and always keep a few surprises handy. Let’s go, folks.”

They set out across the meadow, Cordelia skimming the top of the grass with Geoff hitchhiking behind her, Magnus floating along in their wake to keep pace with the grownups. Father Uwell looked startled at first, but he adapted quickly. “I admire your discipline,” he murmured to Rod.

Rod watched the kids warily, then dropped back a few paces. “Just a matter of getting through to them while they’re young enough to hang onto, Father.”

“Yes, surely,” the priest agreed. “Tell me—could you punish him now, if you wanted to?”

Magnus perked his ears up.

“I’d rather not say,” Rod muttered.

Father Uwell followed the direction of his gaze, and nodded. “I see. Sometimes it helps, being telepathically invisible, eh?”

Rod gave him a very dirty look.

The priest rolled his eyes up, studying the sky.

“What’re you looking for,” Rod demanded, “constellations?”

“Oh, no. I noticed those last night, as soon as I came to a clearing.”

“Really?” Rod perked up. “Recognize any?”

“Oh, all of them, of course.”

“Of course? ” Rod frowned. “What is this—your home world?”

“No, but I’ve spent half my life here.” The priest cocked his head to the side. “You’ve never been to Terra?”

Rod stared.

“I take it you haven’t.”

Rod gave his head a quick shake. “Well, yes, once or twice—but I didn’t exactly have time to study the stars. Uh—isn’t the scene here a little rural for Terra?”

“The whole planet is rather overgrown with cities,” Father Uwell agreed, “so, obviously, it’s not the same Terra.”

Rod stopped.

So did the priest. “You hadn’t guessed?”

“Well, yes and no.” Rod gestured vaguely. “I mean, I knew we were several thousand years in the future…”

Father Uwell shook his head.

Rod just watched him for a minute.

Then he said, “What do you mean, ‘no?’ ”

“The stars are the same as they were when I left,” the priest answered. “The whole sphere’s rotated a little—I’d guess we’re somewhere on the North American continent, whereas I’m used to the Italian sky—but there’s no star-drift, no distortion of the constellations. We’re just about 3059 AD.”

“I can’t accept that,” Rod snapped.

“I think the Pope said that to Galileo, once,” Father Uwell sighed. “But I see a peasant, over there; why don’t you ask him?”

Rod looked up. A laborer was out early with his sickle, mowing hay. Rod glanced at his family, decided he could catch up quickly enough, and trotted over to the peasant. He stopped suddenly, remembering where they were. He turned back toward Gwen, and whistled. She looked up, saw the peasant—and all three children dropped to the ground and started walking.

Unfortunately, the peasant had noticed. When Rod got to him, he was still rubbing his eyes. “Good morrow,” Rod called. “Eyes troubling you?”

The peasant looked up, blinking. “I have not waked quite, I think. Were yon children flying?”

Rod glanced over at the kids, then back. “No, you’re still dreaming.”

“Art thou certain?”

“Of course I’m sure! I’m their father. Say, would you happen to know the date?”

The man blinked again. “Date?”

“Uh, the year will do.” Rod took a deep breath. “See, we’re from out of town, and we want to make sure we count the years the same way you do.”

“I see.” He didn’t. “Well… ‘tis the Year of Our Lord 3059… Art thou well?”

Rod realized he was staring. “Uh, just asleep on my feet. I hate it when the day starts so early.”

“Assuredly,” the man said, wondering, “how can it begin, but with sunrise?”

“A good point,” Rod admitted. “Well, thanks for the information. Have a good day!” He turned, and trotted back to Gwen and the kids. As he came up to them, he glanced back; the laborer was still staring at them. Rod grabbed Magnus’s shoulder. “Son, give that guy a quick cat-nap, will you? I want him to think he dreamed us.”

Rod surveyed the site from the hill-top, and nodded. “Good. Very good. Gwen, there’s your thicket…” he pointed to a stand of furze on the near side of the trail… “…and here’s my station, on the slope.”

“Where shall we be, Papa?” Magnus asked eagerly.

“Up here, with Father Uwell, for protection.”

“Their protection?” The priest smiled, amused. “Or mine?”

“Ours,” Rod answered, “Gwen’s and mine. And Elidor’s.”

“Mama,” Geoffrey piped up, “hungry.”

“Me too, come to think of it.” Rod’s stomach growled. He shrugged. “Okay, kids—go find breakfast.”

The children whooped and ran, tumbling down the hillside.

“What will they find?” Father Uwell asked.

Gwen shook her head, smiling. “Only Heaven may know, Father.”

“Care to ask?” Rod prompted.

Father Uwell shook his head, smiling. “I’m afraid my pipeline doesn’t go beyond the Vatican.”

“Yes—the place with the constellations.” Rod frowned.

“Have you absorbed it?” the priest said gently.

“Pretty much. You updated, Gwen?”

She nodded. “I was aware of Father Uwell’s thoughts.”

It didn’t faze him. Rod gave him points. “So, Father…”

“Please.” The priest held up a hand. “We’re apt to be together awhile. My friends call me ‘Al’ ”.

“Right. Well, Father Al, what do you make of it?”

The priest frowned for a second; then he shrugged and smiled. “We’re on Terra, but it’s not the Terra we know—and, by the constellations, it can’t be any other planet.”

“Alpha Centauri A?” Rod said, trying feebly.

The priest shook his head. “No, my friend. Four point three seven light years makes a noticeable difference in the constellations. Besides, I’ve been on its habitable planet, and it looks nothing like this—you might say the terraforming still hasn’t quite taken hold.”

“No, it hasn’t.” Rod had been there, too; it was nice, if you liked wide, empty spaces. “So it’s Terra, and there’s no way out of it.” He swallowed as he realized the double meaning.

Father Al caught it, too. “If humankind can make a way in, they can make a way out,” he said firmly, “but we’ll have to learn a new set of ground rules.”

“Yes,” Rod said grimly. “Let’s stop skirting around it and say it, Father—we’re in another universe.”

“Of course.” Father Al seemed mildly surprised. “You’ve adapted to the concept very well.”

Rod shrugged. “I’m getting used to the place.” He turned to Gwen. “How you feel about it, dear?”

She shrugged. “Is it harder to get home over the void between universes, than over a thousand years?”

“I dunno,” Rod said, “but I bet we’ll find out. Here comes brunch, Father.”

The children came toiling back uphill. Magnus held a few partridge, Geoff proudly bore a rabbit skewered on his sword, and Cordelia had her apron full.

“Rowan. Papa.” She held up some red berries as she came to Rod. “You forgot.”

“You’re right, dear—I did.” Rod accepted the berries ruefully and turned to the priest. “Know what an ash tree looks like, Father?”

They woke about sunset. The children scouted up dinner, and rolled the leftovers in a fresh rabbit-skin for Elidor. “For,” said Gwen, “he’ll surely have had the sense to eat no fairy food.”

“We hope,” Rod said grimly. “If he has, it’ll take more magic than ours to pry him loose from Theofrin.”

“Have no fear,” Magnus assured them, “he hath neither eaten nor drunk. His godmother hath told him tales.”

Rod looked down, startled. “You’re still tuned in on him?”

Magnus nodded.

“Hmm.” Rod rubbed his chin, gazing southward along the track. “Okay, son—when you ‘hear’ him getting close, give an owl-hoot. Any questions?”

Everyone shook their heads.

Except Father Al. “I have several—but I think I’ll have to observe, and work out the answers for myself.”

Rod gave him a withering glance. “I wasn’t talking about theology.”

“Neither was I.”

“That does it.” Rod clapped his hands. “Battle stations, everyone—and keep an eye peeled for spriggans.”

They took their assigned positions, and waited. And waited.

Rod took a stout hold on his ash staff and reminded himself that midnight was the witching hour. Probably a long wait yet…

An owl hooted.

Rod looked up, startled. The real thing, or Magnus? But it hooted again, and it was coming from across the track, high up. He glanced up at the sky, saw only stars, moon, and the light-gray of clouds.

Magnus.

Then he began to hear it—tinkling, like tiny cymbals, and a weird skirling of pipes. Over it all ran a wavering drone, like an army of bees, but soaring from one end of the scale to the other.

Then came the clatter of harness.

Rod glanced up at the thicket above him, but there was no movement. Of course not—Gwen was an old campaigner in her own right.

Then the vanguard appeared.

They wound around a hill at the southern end of the track, a host of small, bright, dancing figures, followed by tall, impossibly slender, elongated horses, coats sheening golden by moonlight. And the riders! They caught Rod’s breath. Extravagantly dressed, in a rainbow of colors—tall, slender, and beautiful. And glowing. Each of them.

And one tiny rider, in the center of the company, slouched over, head low—Elidor!

Rod rolled to his feet. Time to get moving.

He set off across the hillside, angling downward, then hiking back upward, as though he were trying to keep a straight line and failing. He let his gait wobble and started singing, slurring his voice as much as he could.

He heard a multiple whoop of glee behind him and choked down the surge of panic, forcing himself to keep his feet steady.

He heard hisses behind him. “ ‘Tis a toss-pot!”

“Nay, ‘tis a long road home he’ll have tonight!”

“Do thou afright him from the front!”

Suddenly a huge dun-colored dog rose up before him, growling, mischief dancing in its eyes.

Rod jerked to a stop, trying to stay in character.

“Ere, now! ‘Owzh it wizh ‘ee, Bowzher?”

“Nay, look behind thee!” a voice giggled, and he whirled about, stumbled, caught himself on his staff, and found himself staring straight into the dancing eyes of a snake, reared to strike. He let out a shriek and stumbled back, into the multiple arms of a giggling thing with a mouth like a slice of melon. He screamed and thrashed about, but its hold tightened—and touched his staff.

It shrieked, yanking an arm back, and fell over around the wound, screaming like a burn victim. “His staff! ‘Tis ash, ‘tis ash! Oh, mine arm, mine arm!”

“Ash! Ash! Ash!” whispered through the crowd of faeries; and they drew back, leaving a wide space around Rod. Many more came flitting over from the caravan, leaving only the lordly faery folk on their horses; and they were watching closely.

So far, so good. Rod stumbled to his feet, doing his best to tremble. “Nay, good shtaff, pertect me! Ay, poor old Josh! Th’ fairy-folk’ve come to claim thee!”

A dancing light appeared in front of him, coalescing into the form of a beautiful woman. She smiled, as though amused at a hidden joke, and beckoned.

Staring, he took a few stumbling steps toward her.

She drifted away from him, beckoning again. Exactly what it was, he didn’t know; some kind of will-o’-the-wisp, no doubt. But why were they springing her on him? He played along, though, stumbling after her, faster and faster. “Nay, pretty shing! Tarry now; let me shee thee!”

The surrounding watchers giggled, and it wasn’t a pleasant laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, Rod noticed the faery gentry staring, fairly glued to the scene. Then he saw the reason why; the phantom was floating out over a sudden drop-off. They couldn’t touch him, because of the ashen staff; but they could lure him to his death. Then he noticed Elidor suddenly disappear from his saddle, and knew it was time to escalate. He tripped and fell sprawling. An angry moan of disappointment went up all about him; he was a few inches short of the drop-off; but he opened his hand and let the staff roll away, and the moan slid up to a shriek of delight. Then they were on him, pinching and tickling; his skin itched in a thousand places, and his ears were filled with gibbering giggles.

But he had to hold attention, and hold it completely, to buy Gwen time. It was the moment for taking off the mask. He set his hands against the earth and shoved with all his might, surging to his feet and scattering elves left and right. The spriggans howled with glee and lurched in.

Rod whipped out his sword.

A moan of terror swept through the mob. They scuttered back away, wailing, “Cold iron! Cold iron!”

“He is no drunkard!” screamed a spriggan.

“Nay, but a sober warrior in his prime!” Rod called back. “Take me now, if you can!” And he wrenched his doublet open, showing a necklace of rowan berries.

The host moaned in fear, and pressed backward—but Rod saw, beyond them, the faery horsemen galloping toward him, with Eorl Theofrin at their head.

The Eorl drew up thirty feet away, calling, “Whoever hath advised thee, mortal, hath ill-advised thee! Thou art marked for faery vengeance now!”

“I was already,” Rod jeered, “last night. Recognize me?”

Theofrin stared. “Cold bones! It is the wizard!”

He whipped about in his saddle, staring back at the trail. “The mortal king! The boy is gone!”

Five riders wheeled their horses about and went plunging toward the track.

Gwen stepped up on the trail, holding Elidor’s hand. His doublet and cloak showed seams and lining.

The elf-horse beside him reared, screaming and pawing the air. Then it leapt up and whipped away, blown on a sudden gust of northern wind.

The five riders shrieked in frustration, jumping their mounts high to meet the gust. So did all the faery host, leaping into the air with a scream, and the breeze swept them away round the hill to the south, like autumn leaves.

Only Eorl Theofrin remained, his horse neighing and dancing as though it stood on hot coals. He himself winced and hunched his shoulders against pain, but managed to pull a crossbow from its place on his saddle, cranking the string back. “Thou hast cheated me full, wizard! Yet ere I succumb to pain and fly, I’ll break thee for thy life!”

There wasn’t a rock big enough to hide behind for a thousand paces. Rod stood his place, sword lifted, fighting a surge of panic. What that bolt could do, he didn’t know—but he knew it was deadly. His one chance was to try to block it with his sword—but crossbow bolts moved very fast.

Theofrin leveled the bow.

Dimly, Rod was aware of that kindly, stern Presence with him again, reassuring, urging.

Fervently and with his whole being, he wished the faery lord would go follow one of his own phantoms off a cliff—and wherever else it led him, all night long.

Theofrin suddenly dropped his bow, staring off to his left.

Rod stared, too. He glanced over toward where the Eorl was looking, then quickly back to Theofrin. He’d seen nothing.

“Nay, pretty maiden,” Theofrin crooned, “come nigh to me!” And his horse began to move forward. “Nay, dost thou flee?” Theofrin grinned. “I’ll follow!” And his horse leaped into a gallop.

Straight over the cliff.

And on up into the sky—it was a faery steed, after all—with Theofrin caroling, “Nay, come nigh! Nay, do not flee! I’ll do thee no harm, but show thee great delights! Ah, dost thou fly still? Then I’ll follow thee, while breath doth last!”

Rod stared after him, stupefied, until Theofrin was only a lighted speck off to the east, that sank below a horizon-line of trees, and was gone.

“My lord!”

He turned. Gwen came running up, clasping Elidor’s hand firmly. “My lord, I saw it all! Thou art untouched?”

“Uh…” Suddenly, Rod became aware of aches all over. “I wouldn’t say that. Those pinches hurt! But nothing lasting—I hope.”

“There shouldn’t be, if Terran folk-tales hold true here.” Father Al came puffing up. “But if he’d hit you with that crossbow-bolt, it might’ve been another matter.”

“Oh?” Rod looked up, dreading the answer. “What kind of effects do those things produce, Father?”

The priest shrugged. “Oh, epilepsy, rheumatism, a slipped disc, partial or full paralysis—it would be the same as any elf-shot, I assume.”

“Oh, really.” Rod felt his knees turn to water. “Gee, isn’t it too bad he had to leave so suddenly.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that.” The priest frowned. “What was he chasing?”

Rod shook his head. “Hanged if I know, Father. All I know is, I was wishing with all my might that he’d go follow one of his own will-o’-the-wisps over a cliff—and he did.”

“Hm.” Father Al’s face instantly went neutral. “Well. Another datum.”

Rod frowned; then he leveled a forefinger at the priest. “You’re suspecting something.”

“Well, yes,” the priest sighed, “but you know how foolish it is to state a thesis prematurely.”

“Yeah.” Rod should know—Fess’d told him often enough. He sighed and straightened up. “Okay, Father—play ‘em close to your chest. I’ll just be real careful what I wish, from now on.”

“Yes.” The priest nodded grimly. “I’d do that, if I were you.”