Warlock`s Last Ride

Fifteen

SIR ORGON KEPT HIS GAZE FIXED ON ANSELM'S and waited a few seconds for the thought to sink in—no one had ever claimed that Anselm Loguire was quickwitted—then went on. "Your son should have inherited the duchy of Loguire in his turn. What shall he have now? Only this poor castle, or the manor in which he dwells!"

Anselm's eyes burned with barely-suppressed anger. "Geordie and his good wife, Elaine, seem quite contented in their manor. His fields flourish; his peasants prosper."

"Indeed." Sir Orgon nodded. "Word has it that they are constantly out among their tenants, tending and healing and seeing that all goes well—as a steward should. I have even heard that at harvest, they are themselves in the field."

"So they would be even if Geordie were to appoint a seneschal," Anselm said roughly. "He loves the land and the people."

"That is well." Sir Orgon nodded sagely. "It is well they can be content with so little."

Anselm sat and glared at him, for even he realized what had been left unsaid: that Geordie would never have anything more. Anselm's hatred for the queen and resentment of his brother was there in his face; perhaps it was well that only Sir Orgon could see it. But Anselm said, "I would remind you, Sir Orgon, that the queen is my sister-in-law, and that I would not willingly hurt my brother."

"Would you not?" Sir Orgon asked in feigned surprise. "But he was quick enough to attack you, thirty years ago!"

"Tuan did no such thing," Anselm snapped. "He defended the queen against my own uprising, nothing more—and he was right to do so, for I had broken the law."

"Had you?" Sir Orgon said quickly. "Or did you only seek to defend your age-old rights and privileges that she sought to usurp? Appointing priests on the lords' estates, sending her own judges to try your cases—woeful breaches of ancient custom indeed! No wonder you led the lords to rise in protest."

"And here is the result of that treachery," Sir Anselm snapped, "this manor, and this quiet life, rather than the headsman's axe and a narrow grave. I shall never fight against the Crown again, Sir Orgon." But envy and hatred were clearly eating him alive.

ROD CAME OUT of the woods onto the crest of a hill and pulled up, gazing down into the valley. Far below lay a tidy village, embraced by the hills whose sides were terraced into fields for farming. Those fields were green; maize already grew tall there, and at mid-morning Rod would have expected to see at least a few people out hoeing—but there was no one there, and no one moving in the village streets, either.

"Something's wrong here, Fess."

"Are there people inside the huts, Rod?"

Fess might be able to transmit on human thought-wave frequency, but he couldn't read minds unless thoughts were directed at him. Rod probed the village and found nothing. "Not a soul—and come to think of it, I don't see any smoke from the chimneys, either."

"If the hearths are cold, they have been gone for some time," Fess said.

Fire wasn't all that easy to kindle in a medieval society; peasants banked live coals to last the night and puffed them alive in the morning. Rod nodded. "Something scared them away—and not just a few hours ago, either."

"You are going to insist on riding down there to investigate, aren't you, Rod?"

"Sure am." Rod grinned, beginning to feel like his old self again—well, maybe his young self. "If there's somebody in a coma down there, we might be able to help—and if whatever scared them away is guarding the place, we should be able to draw it out of hiding."

'To fall on us with fang and claw, no doubt." Fess emitted the burst of static that served him as a sigh. "If you say we must, Rod."

"We must." Rod knew Fess was far more concerned for his rider than for himself—not that there was much that could dent the alloy body under his horsehair hide, anyway. But there were things from which he might not be able to protect Rod.

Rod intended to make sure he didn't have to. He readied his crossbow with the laser hidden in the stock. "Let's see what moves, shall we?"

Reluctantly, Fess began the plod down into the valley.

They rode slowly through the town's single street, seeing only leaves and sticks blowing in the occasional puff of wind and hearing only the banging of shutters that had come loose. "No sign of what drove them away," Rod said.

"Perhaps inside one of the houses?"

"Maybe, but I don't see any open doors, and even now I'm reluctant to break into somebody's house."

"Scruples well-advised, Rod—but there are loose shutters. You would be able to look in, at least."

"Still seems wrong," Rod grumbled, but he dismounted and walked up the beaten earth to the doorway of a peasant hut. There was no lawn, but the tenant had planted a few flowers, and Rod was careful to place his feet between the stems as he stepped up to the window. Looking in, he saw a single room with a rough table and benches near him, and in the outer wall, the fireplace that served as both heat source and stove.

"What do you see, Rod?"

"Only a tidy, well-kept room, Fess. Dusty now, though. I really should secure these shutters." He closed them, making sure the latch fell back into place as he did.

"There is another open window toward the back of the hut, Rod."

"Oh, so now I get to peek into the parents' bedroom, do I?" Nonetheless, Rod picked his way carefully around to the side of the house. There the going was easier, for the tenant hadn't planted flowers. Rod went back to the single flapping shutter, caught it as it swung toward his head, pushed it wider open, and stepped in front of it to look in.

The hag grinned at him, showing only two yellowed fangs left between leathery lips. Her hair was long, tangled, coarse, and would have been white if it had been clean. The same could be said for her dress. Her face was lined with a hundred wrinkles, and her eyes glittered with malice.

Rod recoiled, trying not to show his revulsion. "Oh! Sorry. Didn't know anyone was home."

"I am not," said the hag. "This is not my home—or at least, no more than any house."

Rod stepped closer, feeling considerably less guilty. "I hope you're not taking anything that belongs to the people who live there!"

"Only their peace of mind," the old woman said. "Only the harmony and sense of safety that used to fill this house."

Rod felt a thrill of fear—could this really be only an old woman? In the land of Gramarye, malignant spirits could take actual form—the spirits of malignity within ordinary people. He managed to ignore the fright, though, and the revulsion that came from the woman's neglect of herself, and asked, "Now, how did you do that?"

"That horse is old." The hag pointed at Fess. "See where his coat is wearing thin? Surely you can't depend on him to carry you much farther!"

Rod swallowed a smile. "Older than you think, beldame—but apt to stay in good condition longer than I will."

"Yes, your body will start to fail you in a year or two, won't it?" she said with venom, then to Fess, "Why do you obey a master who ignores your welfare, beast? Know you not that he will ride you till you founder one of these days?"

Fess turned to give the woman a bland look, but inside Rod's head, his voice said, "I believe, Rod, that she spread these sorts of lies throughout the village."

"Aren't you a little transparent?" Rod asked the hag. "How could anyone believe such obvious lies?"

The woman's eyes sparked with anger. "Not lies, old fool, but saying large and loud the sort of things people wish to keep hidden—especially from themselves."

"Lies with a kernel of truth in each," Rod interpreted—and insight struck. "But you didn't tell them to the people themselves, did you? You told the husband his wife's faults and told her his. How many times did they scoff at you? So you made the lie even bigger when you told it to them again. How many times did you have to tell the same lie in different words before they began to believe you?"

"How many times have you shied away from your true nature?" the old woman snapped. "How many times have you overlooked your lord's highnosed ways and his heavy-handed treatment? The forests should be open to everyone! The deer are the property of the peasants, not the Crown!"

"Oho!" Rod lifted his head, leaning away from the gust of foul breath and fouler words. "So you didn't stop with setting husband against wife and sister against brother, did you? You tried to set them all against the Crown!" Then he frowned. "Or was that what you really meant to do all along?"

"The Count of Leachmere still forces each woman to his bed before she marries!" the hag raged. "The Earl of Tarnhelm flogs any peasant who dares go into the wood! Duke Bourbon turns his peasants out of their cottages when they're too old to work!"

"Only when they can't do the housekeeping any longer," Rod said. "Then he moves them into one of the one-bedroom cottages he's had built for his old folk, where he has people to look after them and take care of them."

"And despoil them of what little wealth they've managed to scrape together!"

"It doesn't cost them a penny." Rod gave her a sour smile. "He figures he comes out ahead because their children can do their work without worrying about their parents. And the cottages may be small, but they're clean and well-appointed; I've seen them."

"Oh, aye, while you were away from your wife! How many young women did you importune, knave? As many as the king, when he makes a progress without his wife?"

"And that's what you're really after, isn't it?" Rod gave her a shrewd look. 'To turn the lords against the Crown and the people against their lords? But first you have to build up their discontent at home!"

"All folk have truths they wish to ignore!" the old woman shouted. "You more than any!"

Rod knew very well what his failings were—everything that had made Gwen unhappy, and that he had tried to change. Her memory made greater his anger at this woman who had made it her business to disrupt homes and break up a village. "What failings are you trying to hide, beldame?" he asked quietly. "What flaws of character have you managed to overlook by telling everyone else about theirs?"

"I am the Truth that lives at the bottom of every village well!"

"No you're not," Rod snapped, "because that Truth is naked, and you would no more dare look upon your own body than you'd look into your own heart! Who are you really—one of Morrigan's ravens who has taken on human form?"

The woman flinched but retorted, "Morrigan shall come for you, and that right quickly! She shall fan the peasants' rage and send them to burn and flay all you lords!"

"How does she know you're a lord, Rod?" Fess's voice asked. "You dress like a soldier on a journey."

Rod nodded. "Didn't realize you'd recognized me."

"Any would recognize a lord who tyrannizes his peasants! But you shall know oppression in your own turn, lordling! How long have you made excuses for the arrogance and tyranny of your queen?"

"Never," Rod said. "I've fought for her, but her public image is her own worry. You know that, though, don't you? Well, if you're a raven in human form, you'll be attracted to bright and shiny things." He slipped a coin from his belt-pouch and flipped it.

The woman stared, following the silver's flashing with hungry eyes. She made a grab for it but missed.

"You really are a raven," Rod said softly, "feeding on the carrion of decaying marriages and drinking the anguish you have caused. But shape-changers on Gramarye are made of witch-moss and can themselves be melted down like wax in the sun." He stared at her, picturing her form blurring, features smoothing into a shapeless lump that melted into a puddle.

The woman shrieked and clutched her head, crumpling to the ground and rolling in agony.

Rod stared, horrified, and the image disappeared from his mind. The woman went limp, gasping for breath.

"You're real," Rod said softly, "a real woman who for some insane reason has decided to take out her unhappiness on the people around her—but my thoughts wouldn't have hurt you if you weren't a telepath yourself." He leaned over the windowsill to wrap his hand in the back of her tunic and haul her to her feet.

The woman flailed her fists at him, but her reach wasn't long enough; he stepped back, pulling her out of the window. "Let go!" she shrieked. "Blast you for a villain and bully, let go!"

"Oh, I will," Rod said, "when I've seen you safely inside the nearest dungeon."

The woman howled and writhed, trying to break free. 'Tyrant! Ogre! Dire wolf! Have you no shred of mercy left in your heart?"

"Plenty," Rod said, "but not for a projective telepath who uses her gifts to cause other people misery. I think this village is on Count Moscowitz's estate. His dungeon should hold you long enough for one of the Royal Witches to come and collect you."

The woman shrieked, doubling over as he tried to drag her to Fess. Then she uncoiled, and something shiny flashed as she slashed at Rod. Pain burned through his arm, loosening his grip just enough for her to twist free. She shot off down the village street far faster than a woman her age should have been able to, black cloak billowing about her.

"After her!" Rod mounted and caught the reins. "We can't let a germ like that stay loose to spread a plague of lies."

Fess leaped into motion even as he said, "That wound must be attended to, Rod."

"It's only a scratch," Rod said impatiently. "It was the surprise that got me, that's all. Quick, Fess! If she makes it into the woods, we'll have lost her!"

But the billowing cloak steadied and spread wide even as the woman's form dwindled and lifted—and a huge raven soared up into the treetops, cawing in mockery.

Rod reined in, staring. "She must have been made of witch-moss after all!"

"Quickly, Rod! She is almost into the underbrush!"

"Underbrush? She's into the treetops! Didn't you just see her turn into a raven, Fess?"

"I saw nothing, Rod, except an old woman escaping— and she obviously is not as old as she pretended to be."

Rod looked down at the horse's head, frowning in puzzlement—then understood. "Of course! She's a projective telepath! She made me see something that didn't really happen—and I bit on it!"

"Whatever illusion she projected into your mind, Rod, it worked well enough to give her time to make good her escape."

"Yeah, it sure did, didn't it?" Rod said, chagrined. "Well, the least I can do is track the people who left this village to protect them from her—and tell them what she really is, so they won't believe her any more."

"You can still call in Toby and his friends from the Royal Witchforce, Rod."

"I suppose I can. They should be able to track her down—and even if they can't, they can leave a sentry here to nab her if she tries to come back. Come on, Fess—let's see if we can talk the villagers into taking their homes back."

Fess went toward the forest, saying, "There is the possibility that she is not the only one of her kind."

"A concerted campaign, you mean?" Rod frowned. "I do remember thinking that our old enemies had been too quiet lately."

"They may think that you are incapacitated, Rod, and no longer a threat."

"They're right, too," Rod said. "I've got my own work to do now—my very own, trying to find Gwen again. We'll leave the totalitarians to Magnus."

Fess was quiet for several paces, then said, "So you don't intend to mount a campaign to ferret out these agents?"

Rod shrugged. "As I said, I'll leave that to Magnus—the boy's more than capable of dealing with something like this. Of course, I won't ignore anybody I stumble across."

"Yes, it does fend off boredom, doesn't it?"

"Are you telling me I need a retirement project?" Rod looked at his old friend and robot with a jaundiced eye. "Why should I, when such interesting things keep presenting themselves? There, Fess—that's their trail, where the grass is just beginning to recover. Shouldn't take us too long to find them."

GEORDIE CAME INTO the village with his bow and quiver on his back and a basket in his hand. The peasants looked up and smiled their greeting. Old Liz leaned forward from her seat by the door of her daughter's cottage. "Good day, my lord."

"Squire," Geordie said automatically. "Where's your son-in-law, Goody Elizabeth?"

Old Liz leaned back chuckling. "Elizabeth, is it? 'Old Liz' was good enough for you when you were no higher than my waist."

Geordie grinned down at her. "I'm somewhat taller than you now. Where's Corin?"

"Out to the fields with the rest of the young ones, Squire, digging to see if any of last year's turnips were missed— don't know why they bother; anything there would be rotted by now."

"Or have sent up shoots." Geordie set the basket down by her feet. "Well, see if you can divide this up among the families, then. It will go well with the turnips."

Old Liz stared down at the basket, then back up at Geordie. "Why, thank 'ee, your worship! Thank 'ee very much!"

Other seniors came up, surprised and interested, all adding their thanks to Old Liz's.

"You're my people," Geordie told them. "I'll not see you starve. Dine well."

They bade him good day as he strode away, no doubt to take another basket to the North Village. Then they turned to examine his gift. Old Sal laid back the corners of the cloth that covered it and gasped. " 'Tis venison!"

They all exclaimed as they gathered around, for each knew the meat well—and had already used up that week's salt pork. Then the delight ebbed into concern, and they looked at one another with apprehension. Old Will it was who asked, "Where did he find it?"

"On the hoof, of course, and you know it well!" Old Liz told him. "Thank heaven the keepers did not find him!"

"Pray heaven he does not go hunting again! For they will catch him sooner or later!"

"Someone must tell him not to," Old Sal said. The others chorused agreement, all turning to look at Old Will.

"Aye," he said, as though the word had a bad taste. " 'Twas I who taught him to hunt, so it's for me to teach him not to. Well, I'll have a go."

RAVEN CAME SPIRALING down to the safe house in the nearest town aboard the sorriest excuse for a broom anyone had ever seen. The sentry came to his feet, staring. "Where did you find that piece of rubbish, Raven?"

"Had to improvise it from a tree branch and a few handfuls of grass," the woman snapped, "after the High Warlock chased me off."

The sentry stared—partly in alarm, partly because, even dishevelled and upset, Raven was still a marvelous figure of a woman. Crow's feet and smile lines couldn't hide her beauty. "How did he find out about your campaign?"

"Sheer bad luck—I hope." Raven limped toward the stairwell, pressing a hand to the small of her back.

"Broomsticks are even more uncomfortable than they used to be. Where's the boss?"

"In his office." The sentry held the door for her. "Good luck."

Raven went downstairs, dreading the encounter.

Her stomach sank when she saw the door was open; she didn't even have knocking to brace her. The Mocker looked up as she came in. "Failure!"

"Bad luck." Raven wished she could sit down. "I thought Gallowglass had crawled into a hole feeling sorry for himself."

"He's on the move again—the word came after you'd gone out." The Mocker glared. "Don't tell me you let him chase you off!"

" 'Let' isn't the word—he was going to clap me in an esper's prison." Raven shuddered at the thought of a team of telepaths watching her night and day, even though her cell would have been well-appointed and roomy.

"You ran!"

"Not much choice, Boss—and he figured out that I was laying the groundwork for a peasant revolt!"

"Fool!" the Mocker raged. "You tipped your hand! How could you be so stupid!"

Raven shrugged. "I didn't know who the intruder was until I saw him. Then it was too late to pretend I hadn't."

"You told him!"

"I tried to throw him off by telling him all the lords were tyrants," Raven said. She was feeling worse and worse about this report. "It didn't take him long to figure out the rest."

"So you fled! Where has he gone?"

"He said something about finding the peasants and telling them it was safe to come back."

"Finding them!" The mocker shot to his feet. "He'll see the children and old folk alone and go after the rest of them! He'll talk them out of marching against their lord!"

"Maybe he'll forget," Raven said weakly. "His mind isn't all there these days, they tell me."

"What if he doesn't forget?" The Mocker glared at her.

"The plan depends on hundreds of village bands joining up to march on Runnymede!"

"This is just one …"

"But he'll seek out more! Worse, he'll tell those brats of his, and they'll bring out an army of emissaries to meet the small bands before they can gather and talk them out of their grievances!"

"I can go talk them back into bitterness. Turn husband against wife, wife against husband, make the kids take sides, and they'll want someone to blame because their lives are going rotten. I can make them think they're worse off than ever."

"Oh, you will, you will indeed!" The Mocker pointed a shaking finger at her. "If 1 didn't need every agent I have, you'd spend a week in a hotbox on bread and water to make you more aware of your duties—but since I can't spare you, you'll go off to the mountains and tell the people there that living in a forest away from the lords only means they've given up, that the lords are barring them from the really good life! Now go!"

Raven winced; being stuck out in the boondocks, in the middle of a forest where the trees were a hundred years old and there wasn't an inch of level ground, was punishment enough. But she knew it could have been worse, much worse, and went.

The Mocker sat down, seething, even though he knew Raven could be right. Raven! What an asinine choice for a code name! But she knew the state of the situation, he had to give her that—not that he'd let her know, of course. Gallowglass's memory and attention span were both dwindling, and there was every reason to hope he'd simply forget about the encounter—but the Mocker couldn't take the chance. He picked up the handbell on his desk and shook it. One of the older agents came hurrying in. "What is it, Boss?'

"The Gallowglass," the Mocker snapped. "Raven just ran into him at that village in the south. Send five of your best assassins with your best tracker to find him and lay an ambush. I want him dead!"

"Will do, Boss!" the man said, wide-eyed, then hurried out.

The Mocker sat back in his chair and cursed Rod Gallowglass for ten minutes straight, cursed him and his ancestors, cursed him for a fool who didn't know when to quit. He should have retired while he had the chance! But that opportunity was past, and now he would pay for having aborted the Mocker's revolution thirty years before— thirty years to him, but only weeks ago for the Mocker. Nine years of work, scrubbed out in a few months! Well, it wouldn't happen again. Laser pistols would see to that, and if Gallowglass managed to spike them somehow, there were always poisoned arrows.

The Mocker smiled, feeling charitable. If Gallowglass was so eager to join his wife, the Mocker would be all too glad to help him!

THE VILLAGERS HAD left a broad trail; here and there were small household objects that had fallen out of their packs on the way. Rod picked up a variety, including some wooden spoons, tallow candles, spools of thread, and an almost-empty sack. He caught up the last one and tucked the others into it, then followed the trail on foot, gathering odds and ends as he went—not many, but definitely important to the people who had lost them. Spools of colored thread were items of considerable value in a medieval culture, especially ones with needles still tucked into them; the peasants must have been in a desperate hurry not to stop to retrieve even such treasured belongings.

Into the woods they had gone, but still with no attempt to hide their trail. Most of the loose baggage had fallen out before that, so Rod mounted and followed in the saddle, still on the watch for fallen treasures—and since his eyes were on the ground, tracking, he had no warning when something slammed into his shoulders, knocking him out of his saddle. He tumbled to the ground, then looked up to see half a dozen people jumping on him and a dozen more standing behind them with grim faces and knotted fists.