Warlock`s Last Ride

Fourteen

ROD FLINCHED AWAY, BUT TOO LATE—HE HAD felt that touch graze his shoulder, and his arm suddenly weakened.

"Why come you here, foolish mortal?" the apparition demanded. "What has brought you so far down this road?"

"Time." Rod lifted his arm to fend off the spectre even as he backed away—but that arm seemed leaden, taking a titanic effort to lift, and wouldn't rise more than half-way. Rod gave it a quick glance and was shocked to see that the skin of his hand was wrinkled, the muscles of the arm shrunken. He backed away quickly, not stopping to wonder how the creature had come to be—on Gramarye, there was no doubt it was real, for all practical purposes.

"Turn aside," the creature advised, "for know that you have come to the place of Decay, where you shall waste away till you can neither walk nor lift, nor even raise your hands to eat."

"There is always the mind," Rod said. His arm was intolerably heavy; he fought to keep it high, but it drooped steadily. He had to let it fall; he needed all his attention to avoid the creature's next lunge.

"Your mind too shall waste away," the spectre intoned. "Go back, human creature. You may not be able to choose your death, but you can surely choose not to have this one."

"Can I?" Rod met the hollow gaze with a level stare. "My road goes on past this place, Decay. I will not turn aside; the one I love awaits upon the farther side."

"Then you are a fool, for you'll not pass," Decay answered. "Your hips shall seize up, your spine shall bend, your muscles shall waste away." It drifted closer, finger reaching out. "Beware my touch."

"Good advice." Rod stepped aside.

The spirit turned and came after him. "Forgo this land, go out from this forest—for even that creature that goes on four legs in morn and two legs at noon must walk on three when coming here—and shall leave on four again, if it goes at all."

"A human." Rod sidestepped the touch and backed away again. "That's an old conundrum, spirit. Surely you can do better than that."

"I have no need," Decay answered, "for your mind shall fade so gently as to escape your notice. Can you not feel your acuity slipping even as you speak?"

"No, for if it were to fade so gently that I didn't realize, how could I feel it?" Rod sidestepped another touch. "Fess, come up behind this creature and pull it away!"

"I see nothing, Rod, except a small clearing in the woods, like any other. You must tell me where to bite."

Illusion! Rod realized. But was it in his own mind, his old delusions returning, or was it the work of a projective telepath? Or even a witch-moss construct that was visible only to living creatures? Rod had no idea how such a thing could be made but didn't doubt that it could.

"You are liable to me, as are all living things," Decay told him. "You cannot turn me any more than you can turn that invader who roars across the land and whom even the Crown with all its soldiers cannot divert."

"The wind," Rod interpreted, "and we may not be able to turn it aside, but we can certainly harness it with windmills. Will you do as much work for us as it does?"

"I shall work upon you." All at once, the spirit darted forward, lunging to touch.

Rod ducked and said, "I have it! You yourself are a riddle!"

"Foolish human, I am nothing of the sort," Decay answered, still drifting toward him. "I am inevitable, if you are born to meet me."

"Not since DNA surgery was invented," Rod said, "and since my great-grandparents all had it, I'm exempt from your domain."

"Do you mean to say you are not human?" Decay kept drifting even as it spoke. "Then you are truly a fool! But how can a man not be a fool and still be a man?"

"When he's dead and gone," Rod said, then leaped aside to avoid another lunge. "All men are fools in some way— the more so because we can't agree on which behavior is foolish. Some of us are fools about money, some are fools about power and status, some are fools over women… The list is endless."

"Then cease your folly and hold still to receive my touch."

"Ah, but that would be the greatest folly of all." Rod still backed away, feeling an idea germinate. "After all, it's clear you're trying to distract me with riddles so that I'll slip and let you touch me. I've no desire to waste into an imitation of you."

"How shall you avoid me, then?" Decay asked. "All living things must age, and age is wasting."

"Yes, but you're the spirit of wasting disease, aren't you?" Rod countered. "More particularly, of inborn wasting conditions." Out of the corner of his eye, Rod saw Fess standing stolidly opposite him and knew that he had come half-way around the clearing. What a sight he must have made, backing away from a nonexistent creature!

"All must wither, soon or late."

"Later, thank you." Rod leaped high and far.

The spirit lunged forward with a cry of rage in one last attempt to touch Rod and infect him, but he landed outside the circle of mold on the glistening ground amid the crystalline trees, out of the shadow and back in the light of the moon.

"You cannot truly escape!" the spirit cried. "You must come to me some day!"

"No I won't," Rod countered, "because I have a friend to transport me beyond your reach. Over here, Fess."

The robot horse paced toward him across the darkened circle. With a glad cry, the spirit of Decay surged toward him, reaching out to touch—then crying out in dismay and rage. "This is no living horse, but a thing of metal!"

"Beneath the synthetic horsehair, yes," Rod confirmed, "and he's built to last considerably longer than I am."

"Even things of Cold Iron must rust away!" the spirit threatened, and floated beside Fess, darting its touch at Fess's withers, backbone, flanks.

"Well, yes, but Fess's body is a rust-proof alloy," Rod explained. "He's only metaphorically of Cold Iron—and even then, when this mechanical body breaks down, we can always get him another one. The computer inside him may be long outmoded, but it's made of materials that don't erode."

The spirit made one more lunge at Fess's retreating form and cried in anger, "You have cheated me! But one day I shall have my due!"

"You already have," Rod said grimly. "You've taken my wife, and with her, my heart. Be assured, if I could find a way to rid the universe of you, I would—and my children just may learn how."

"None can defeat me! Even you and your contraption have only avoided me!"

"I know," Rod said. "You're an aspect of Entropy and are inherent in the universe itself. But we can make humanity immune to you—and some day, someone will."

"You speak like Tithonus, foolish mortal!"

"What, to be wanting eternal life and forget to ask for eternal youth?" Rod shook his head. "Other way around, haunt of humans. I ask to be immune from the ravages of age—but I don't exactly want to live forever." His laugh was short, bitter, and sardonic.

"You laugh at nothing, Rod," Fess pointed out.

"Or at something that will come to nothing," Rod said, "and try to take me with it. Come on, Fess. We have moonlight enough to find a road through this wood."

He mounted and rode off, leaving the spirit to gnash its teeth and wail.

NEARBY A DOZEN elves sat spellbound among the crystal leaves, watching Rod ride away. Puck looked up at Evanescent. "Well done, strange creature. You have given him a foe to outsmart when he needed one. I did much the same myself, when he was young and had need of a dragon to combat."

"It was nothing," Evanescent answered. She certainly wasn't about to tell Puck that she spoke only but the truth. The illusion of the moonlight-filled, crystalline wood she had indeed made for Rod—but where Decay and its mouldering circle had come from, she had no idea.

GEOFFREY WENT OUT the door, and Magnus sat completely still for several minutes. Then he took a very long breath and turned back to the books and papers spread out on his desk. He studied them for half an hour with nothing registering; his mind kept going back to Geoffrey and their confrontation. He was finally beginning to be able to concentrate on the print instead of the problems with his siblings when he heard a knock. He sat very still for half a minute, then looked up at the sentry with a bland smile. "Yes, trooper?"

"Your brother, Sir Magnus."

Magnus stared, his thoughts still on Geoffrey, then smiled with relief as Gregory came in. Magnus stood, raising his arms—then lowered them as he saw Gregory's frown. He came around the desk slowly, smile still plastered on his face, and said, "Good morning, brother. Some tea?"

"Not now, I think, Magnus." Gregory took a chair without being invited.

Magnus took the point and sat across from him. Of course, Gregory couldn't know he was sitting where Geoffrey had only half an hour before. Well, actually, he could know, but he wouldn't—none of the siblings went in for mental eavesdropping without very strong cause; they'd been reared better than that. "You are well today, I hope— and Allouette, too?"

"I am well enough, brother," Gregory said, "but Allouette is very concerned."

So much for social pleasantries. "Concerned about me? I should be of no consequence to her—far away and unseen."

"She fears that you shall begin giving me orders and drive a wedge between us."

Magnus gazed at his youngest sib with bent brows for a few seconds, then said, "She still does not understand the depth or intensity of your love, then."

Gregory blushed and looked away. "She is very insecure, brother. I have told you of her past; you cannot wonder that she is slow to learn to trust again."

"Then I think she has made remarkable strides, considering how thoroughly Cordelia and Quicksilver have bonded with her."

Gregory nodded slowly. "They adventured together, and common enemies have a way of making faster friends quite quickly—as I am sure you know."

"Friendship grows slowly for me," Magnus said, "but I am fortunate in having made two close friends."

"Shield-mates."

Magnus nodded.

Gregory frowned at him, then said, "You seemed open enough to her until you heard her name, brother. Then, well though you tried to hide it, all of us could see how you hesitated. Why?"

It wasn't like Gregory to be so direct, but Magnus had heard love could cause such changes. " 'Allouette' was also the name of the woman who recruited me into SCENT, brother—not entirely by reason alone."

"Her beauty?" Gregory asked.

Magnus nodded. "I would scarcely say I was swept away, but I was very much aware of the attraction. Finister did that much for me, at least—that I became very slow to fall in love."

"Which is to say that you never have." For the moment, Gregory was full of sympathy. "I cannot tell you how deeply Allouette regrets what she did to you, brother. Whenever she thinks of it, she is filled with anguish again."

"Then it is a wonder she can bear to look upon my face." Magnus smiled. "This scarcely needed telling, Gregory—but I am glad that you did."

"I do not merely show concern," Gregory said anxiously. "I am concerned for your emotional welfare, brother."

"I have always managed to keep my wits about me," Magnus hedged, "so I was well aware that the other Allouette meant to use me and was enraged when I disobeyed orders and did what was right for the people of the planet I was supposed to subvert, rather than what was right for SCENT."

"So," Gregory said softly, "two women to whom you were attracted, hurt and abused you. No wonder you chilled on the sound of the name."

Magnus nodded. "But it is certainly no fault of your bride's, nor do I hold it against her."

"But her actions toward you ten years ago?"

"I can forgive, Gregory, and have. In time, I am sure I will forget them completely."

After a moment, Gregory nodded, though reluctantly, then sat forward, suddenly even more intent. "Understand, though, brother—even were you to attempt to command us, neither of us would obey."

"Then I shall give no orders."

Gregory's brows drew together; his intensity sharpened. "Do not think to use us as your magical tools, Magnus. You cannot know anything of our research."

"Absolutely nothing," Magnus admitted cheerfully, "and for that reason, I would not dream of telling either of you what to study and what not."

"And would not ask us to study certain uses of magic for the Crown?" Gregory asked suspiciously.

"I think the Crown can do its own asking," Magnus said. "After all, you are not exactly unknown to our sovereign and her husband, not to mention their younger son. Is your friendship with Diarmid still close?"

"We have drifted somewhat apart," Gregory admitted, "though we still share the occasional game of chess."

Magnus nodded. "Then I am sure he could mention any problems his parents thought needed investigation before he said 'Check.'"

Gregory smiled. "Before the game, rather. Studying the next move would drive it completely out of his head."

"Ever the scholar," Magnus said, amused, "both of you. I wonder how he manages as Duke of Loguire."

"Quickly, as I understand it," Gregory said. "He is very efficient, clearing up administrative details before midday so that he can spend the afternoons in study."

Magnus raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And his peasants are none the worse for it?"

"He has an excellent steward," Gregory said, "who is always out among the people—but I suspect Diarmid's tenure lacks the personal touch."

Resolved that easily, the conversation passed to updating Magnus on events in the kingdom, and Gregory finally accepted tea. When the cup was empty and he rose to go, though, he paused at the door to look back, suddenly intent again. "I have your word on it, brother? That you shall not try to command us, nor to come between us?"

"My word of honor," Magnus said gravely, "and I shall swear an oath to it if you feel the need."

Gregory gazed into his eyes a few seconds, then nodded. "I do not think we will. Good night, brother." He went out the door.

Magnus stood immobile a minute, then lowered himself carefully into his chair and placed his hands on his knees. After a few more minutes, he tilted his head back against the upholstery and closed his eyes.

ROD LET FESS choose their path and concentrated all his attention on pumping strength back into that withered arm. Its maiming had to have been an illusion, though a very powerful one; whatever latent telepath had unwittingly created Decay to embody his worst fears, had made it projective, too, and if the mind could be convinced that the body was wasting, why, waste it would.

So Rod's first purpose was to convince himself, very thoroughly, that his arm was sound and healthy. He fell into the trance he had learned early in his training as a secret agent, working downward to the bedrock of his beliefs and discovering anew that, even at the most fundamental level, he knew Decay to be only an illusion. Unfortunately, all his emotions between that foundation and the superstructure of intellect believed the spirit to be real.

So Rod began to work on convincing himself that the illusion was only that, an illusion, and nothing real—further, that his arm hadn't really withered, that the illusion was only an extremely convincing projection.

When morning came, his arm was whole again, and he was so exhausted that he barely managed to spread out his blanket roll before he fell on it and slept.

MAGNUS WAS STILL sitting in the same posture when Alea strode into the room. "Are you still poking into mouldering books, Gar? It's high time …" She broke off, staring at him, reading the great soul-weariness of his posture. She studied him a moment, then brought the straight chair from the desk to sit beside him. Gently, she covered his hand with her own.

Magnus opened his eyes, saw her, and slowly lifted his head.

"As bad as that?" Alea asked softly.

Magnus studied her a moment, then glanced at the door; it swung to and closed quietly. He turned back to Alea and acknowledged, "As bad as that." He shook his head in exasperation. "They've all grown up; their powers are mature. They're equal to any threat. Nothing can stand against them—if they all work together!"

"Then the first thing any enemy will do, will be to try to split them apart."

"Oh, I don't think he'd have to—they're bidding to do a fair job of it themselves!" Magnus sighed as he leaned his head back again. "Why do they all think I'm going to try to boss them around?"

Alea chose her words carefully. "Perhaps because you did when you all were little."

Magnus lifted his head, frowning at her. "How did you know?"

"I didn't; I guessed," Alea answered. "Why else would they all be so worried about it now?"

"Because Dad asked me to promise to take care of Gramarye and its people." Magnus shook his head. "Whyever would he do that?"

"Because he knows you can," Alea said instantly, "knows you can fight off any enemies that come, from inside or from outside. But bossing people isn't your style, Gar." She smiled ruefully. "No, I suppose I should say, 'Magnus' now, shouldn't I?"

"You shall call me anything you please." Gar locked gazes with her a moment, covering her hand with his. Then he looked away with a sardonic smile. "But as to bossing people, I've done my share on occasion."

"Yes, but only when there was no one local you could maneuver into it."

"Well, of course." Gar frowned. "After all, they were going to be there for their whole lives. I wasn't."

"You will now." Instantly Alea regretted saying it.

Magnus sat still and somber, gazing at the window. "I suppose I shall," he said at last. "Not so bad a thing, after all. I've longed for home these last ten years. Now I shall have it again." He turned to her with concern. "But you won't."

"I don't have one," Alea snapped.

"I could take you back." With a sudden heave, Magnus pushed himself up. "Back to Midgard to stay there with you—and leave this nest of infighting factions and jealous siblings behind!"

Alea's heart skipped a beat, but she knew he'd spoken more truly the first time. "Back to that nest of bigots and sexists? No thank you, Gar! I don't have a home there any more—I haven't since my parents died! I'll stay here and find some way to make it my home, thank you very much!"

Gar turned back to her, frowning with concern again. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather tramp the spaceways for the rest of your life? Always a new planet, new sights, new customs…"

Alea shuddered. "I think not. Oh, it's been good in its way, but I'd rather stay put. At least there are people here who know you—and are being friendly toward me."

Magnus gave her another long stare, then nodded and sat down again. "Here we stay, then. After all, if I get really sick of it, we can do as Gregory's done—go out into the mountains and build our own house away from them all!"

Alea stared, thunderstruck by his assumption that they would spend their lives together—but she pushed the issue aside, and smiled with relief; she knew one challenge from a real enemy would be all it would take to kindle his enthusiasm again. "There's always that. Of course, we could tramp the roadways here for a while, as we have on three other planets. You'd be building a network, planting ideas, making everything ready in case it's needed."

"A very attractive idea," Magnus said with feeling. He turned to smile at her and squeezed her hand. "Yes, I always have that, don't I?"

"Of course." Alea returned the smile. "That's always been your way, while I've known you—pulling the strings unseen, strings that most people don't even know exist, manipulating where even other telepaths wouldn't realize it. If you need to take command at all, it won't be for very long."

"Yes, I have had some experience with that." Magnus nodded, gaze straying to the window again. "I've done it on so many other planets—why not on my own?"

"Why not indeed? If you have to, you'll be able to weld your siblings into a unit." Alea stood, holding out a hand to him. "But all this emotion-charged talk must have built up a ton of stress in you. Time for some martial arts practice, Ga… Magnus."

"I said call me what you will." He scowled up at her.

"I will call you Magnus." Alea returned glare for scowl. "If it's your real name, it should come naturally to me. Now are you coming to practice, or do I have to carry you?"

"Practice would be just the thing." Gar smiled, and from his mind, Alea caught a picture of himself draped over her shoulder. "I'll change and meet you in the courtyard."

Alea chose to dress for kendo, white top and long black trousers, so fully-cut that they wouldn't scandalize the medieval people who might see. She was down on the clay floor ten minutes later, but Gar was there before her in similar clothing, punching at the air in quick combinations, dropping to a fencer's lunge and bouncing to stretch the long muscles of his legs, up to punch again, then leaping high to kick at an imaginary enemy while the sentries watched in awe.

So did Alea; seeing Magnus come alive with action made her catch her breath. He was so strong, so vital! But within the man of war, she knew, was the soul of a poet— and a man who cared far too much for the welfare of others. Watching him make a ballet of fighting, Alea wondered if he would break from the stress his family had heaped upon him. She would never let him know how concerned she was, of course.

No, not concerned. Watching him whirl and leap, Alea finally admitted to herself that she was really, fully in love with the man, and knew a moment's despair, for surely he could never fall in love with so plain and gawky a woman as she. Oh, he cared for her, she knew—as a friend.

Perhaps it was just as well that he couldn't see she was in love with him.

Sighing, she went to become his sparring partner again.

OVER BREAKFAST THE next morning, Sir Orgon told the tale of his travels, of the list of noblemen whose hospitality he had accepted—and who chafed under the rule of a queen who would not let them lord it over their peasants as they had been accustomed to.

Anselm listened quietly, but his eyes grew steadily hotter. When Sir Orgon had finished the list, Anselm protested, "Surely these lords will not rise against their liege."

"Not unless you are of their number." Sir Orgon locked gazes with Sir Anselm and sat back, waiting.

Sir Anselm said stiffly, "I am not. I have no reason to resent Their Majesties."

"You have every reason," Sir Orgon contradicted. "She attainted you, barred you from inheriting your father's castle and lands and title! She cast you into this exile in a house not fit for a baron!" He carefully did not mention the queen's husband, Sir Anselm's brother.

"She did rightfully and mercifully," Sir Anselm said. "I was a traitor who had risen against the Crown; I deserved death on the block, not mere attainder."

"But your son does not," Sir Orgon said.