The Warlock Wandering Read online

  The Warlock Wandering

  by Christopher Stasheff

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  PART II

  PART III

  PART I

  WOLMAR

  "Nay, Papa! I am too old to need one to guide and ward me!"

  Rod shook his head. "When you're fifteen, maybe— maybe. But even then, you won't be old enough to take care of an eight-year-old little brother—nor a ten-year-old, for that matter. Not to mention a thirteen-year-old sister."

  "I am ten already!" The little girl jammed her fists on her hips and glared up at him with a jutting chin.

  Rod turned to her, suppressing a smile, but Gwen was already chiding gently. "Mayhap when thou art fourteen years aged, my sweet, and thy brother Magnus is sixteen, I'll dare leave the others in thy charge. Yet now…" She turned to Big Brother. "… thou art but twelve."

  "Tis a worthy age," Magnus declared. "Assuredly might I care for myself." He turned back to Rod. "Many another boy of my age doth already aid his father in plowing, and…"

  "Other boys your age are pages, and taking squire lessons from the local knight." Rod nodded. "But in both cases, please notice the presence of an adult—and those boys aren't taking care of little brothers and sisters!"

  "Enough of such chatter!" A foot and a half of elf stepped up beside Rod's knee, arms akimbo, frowning up at the four children. "Be still and heed me, or 'twill be much the worse for thee!"

  Rod had a fleeting vision of coming home to four little frogs in nightshirts and nightcaps. The children fell silent. Glowering and truculent, but silent. Even though the smallest of them was twice Puck's size, they all knew that the elf's idea of fun could be more devastating than their parents' notion of punishment.

  "Thy parents do wish to take an evening to themselves," the Puck rumbled, "to think of naught but one another's company. The coming-together that this allows them is as much to thy benefit as to theirs—and well thou knowest that they could not thus rejoice in one another's company, an they were continually concerned over what mishaps might befall thee. Yet my biding with thee will allow them assurance sufficient to ease their minds from care, for the space of an evening."

  By this time, four sets of eyes were cast toward the ground. Cordelia was drawing imaginary circles with her toe. Rod didn't say anything, but he eyed the elf with renewed respect.

  "Bid them good night, then," Puck commanded, "and assure them thou wilt cheerfully bide in my care till they return."

  Reluctantly, and with ill grace, the children came up, one by one, for a quick peck on the cheek and a perfunctory hug, for Cordelia and Gregory, and a manly handshake, for Magnus and Geoffrey (but with a peck on the cheek for Mama).

  "Go thy ways, now," Puck said to Rod and Gwen, "and concern thyselves not with the fates of thy children. I warrant their safety, though a full score of knights ride against them—for a legion of elves shall defend!"

  "Not to mention that you, yourself, could easily confound a dozen." Rod bowed in acknowledgement. "I thank you, Puck."

  "Bless thee, Robin." Gwen hid a smile.

  Puck winced. "I prithee, lady! Be mindful of my sensibilities!"

  "'Tis myself who doth bless thee," Gwen assured him. "I did not invoke any Other. Yet do I thank thee, too, Sprite."

  "'Tis ever my pleasure." Puck doffed his cap with a flourish, and bowed. "Ever, when the lady's so beauteous. Go thy ways, now, free of care—and hasten, ere the gloaming surrenders to Night!"

  They followed his advice. Rod closed the door behind them, and they walked five steps down the path, counting under their breaths. Then, "Six," Rod said, and, "seven…"

  On cue, four small faces filled the window behind them, with cries of "God e'en!"

  "Good night, Mama!"

  "Well betide thee!"

  Rod grinned, and Gwen answered with a pursed smile. They waved, then turned and strode off down the path.

  "We're lucky," Rod reminded her.

  "Indeed." Gwen sighed. "But 'twill be pleasant to have some few hours to ourselves once more."

  They wandered into the twilit forest, with his arm about her, she with a dreamy, contented smile, he just contented.

  "And wither wilt thou carry me away, my lord?" she murmured.

  Rod smiled down at her. "I ran into a little old lady who was trying to haul some firewood home on her back—and having very rough going, stumbling and cursing, and needing to put it down every ten feet or so. So I let her ride Fess, and I carried the wood as far as the crossroads where her son was going to meet her. She thanked me a lot and, favor for favor, took me on a short detour and showed me a little glade with a beautiful mini-pond." He heaved a sigh. "I swear I never knew there was something so pretty, so close to home—except, of course, the ones who are in it."

  She looked up at him, amused; but he saw the dreaminess behind the smile, and shook a finger at her. "Now, don't you dare try to tell me it's just like the days when we were courting! We only got to know each other in the middle of a minor civil war."

  "Aye; yet did I bethink me of the days thereafter."

  "Right after the war, we got married."

  She snuggled her head up against his chest. "Tis what I did mind me of."

  Rod stared at her for a moment. Then he smiled, and rested his cheek against her head.

  Suddenly the woodland path opened out. The branches swung away, and they found themselves gazing at a perfect pool, its waters like a gem. Terraced rocks came down to its edge, festooned with flowers. Branches arched over it like a sheltering dome.

  Gwen drew in a breath. "Oh, 'tis beautiful!"

  Then she saw the unicorn.

  It stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the pond to lower its dainty muzzle to the still water, drinking.

  Rod held his breath, but even under the spell of the moment, his mind automatically registered the fact that the water must be extremely pure, if a unicorn was willing to drink it.

  Then the silver beast lifted its head, to look directly at them.

  Gwen gasped in wonder. Then, slowly, she moved around the pool, entranced.

  Rod followed right behind her, scarcely daring to breathe.

  As Gwen drew close, the unicorn stepped back. Gwen hesitated.

  "Sorry, dear," Rod murmured.

  "I will never regret," she answered softly. "But, my lord, there is not only wariness in those eyes—there is imploring. Could it need our aid?"

  "Sought us out, you mean?" Rod frowned—then stiffened, as alarm bells went off in the back of his mind. "Gwen—even on Gramarye, unicorns don't exist…"

  Gwen shook her head. "Be mindful of witch-moss, my lord. On Gramarye, aught that an old aunt may imagine the whiles she doth tell a tale, can come into being, an she be a witch unknowing."

  But Rod didn't answer. He was gazing about him with every sense open, alert for the slightest thing out of place, his awareness widening to encompass the whole of the glen, the patterns of light that the sunset painted on the shrubbery, the rustling of leaves, the whisper of leather, and the slight chink of metal behind him…

  He whirled about, sword whipping out; the pike smashed past his shoulder and into the ground. "Look out!" he cried, but even as Gwen turned, another cudgel cracked into her skull. She crumpled, and Rod howled with rage, full berserker madness. The glade about him seemed to darken with the hue of blood. He bellowed as he leaped forward, chopping with a sword that burst into flame. His opponent leaped back, eyes alight and wary, but without fear.

  His buddies closed in from three sides. Rod knew there was one behind him, too, and he let a glance of his rage dart backward. Flame burst, and somebody screamed. Rod parried a blow from the center man while he glared at the
thug to his left. The man slammed back against a tree and slumped to the ground, but the man to his right stepped in, and swung down hard. A crack echoed through Rod's head, filling the world with pain. Through the red mist, he felt himself swaying. He swung his arm with the movement, slashing, and the thug fell back with a howl, a red line beginning to widen across his cheek. But Rod had forgotten his back; rope hissed and burned across his neck, and yanked his feet out from under him. A soft body plummeted against him, knocking the breath out of him. Then they were dragging, bumping, over rough ground, and he realized, dazed, that the body was Gwen. He howled and slashed at the net around them, but his sword caught in the ropes. He tugged at it in fury, hearing somebody call, "We have them! Now— heave! Two meters more!"

  Rod struggled frantically to get his feet under him. Whatever lay at the end of those two meters, he wasn't going to like.

  Then, through the mesh, he saw it—a jury-rigged thing of telescoping legs, framing a triangular arch that showed only a blaze of sunlight, harsh on his eyes. He recognized the transdimensional gate that had taken himself and his family to the alternate universe of Tir Chlis, and he bellowed in rage and panic, channeling every ounce of it at the gadget——

  He was an instant too late. The net cut into his back, heaved up, and shot through, just as the contraption behind him burst into flame.

  Sickened, he struggled against the ropes, got his feet under him, and surged up to stand. He thrashed the net off him, and whirled about, wild-eyed.

  In every direction, as far as he could see, grassland swept away to the horizon. The air was filled with the fragrance of growth, and the sunshine enveloped him with warmth. It wasn't very far up—which was easy to tell, because the land was flat as a chessboard. He turned, staring, amazed at the silence, all the more vivid for the few faint bird-calls and the murmurings of insects. The land rolled up behind the net, up and up to a high ridge. Everywhere, everywhere was grass, waist-high.

  It wasn't Gramarye.

  Rod glared about him, powerless to do anything about it. They'd been very neatly caught, he and his wife…

  Fury transformed into horror. The ambush had been admirably planned; they'd knocked Gwen out in the first few moments. But how far out? He dropped to one knee, clawing the net away from her, cradling her head in the crook of an elbow, patting her face, caressing it, slapping very gently. "Gwen! Come to! Wake up—please! Are you there? Wake up!" He poised his mouth in front of her lips, felt for breath, and relaxed with a sigh. She was alive. Everything else was secondary—she was alive!

  Belatedly, he remembered his psi powers—not surprising, since he'd only had them for a year or two. He stilled, listening closely with his mind—and heard her dream. He smiled, insinuating himself into it, asking her to wake, to speak to him—and she did.

  "Nay, I am well now," she murmured. "Twas but a moment's discomfort…"

  "A little more than that, I think." Gently, Rod probed the side of her head. She was still; then, suddenly, she gasped. Rod nodded. "Goose egg already—well, a robin's—but it'll be a goose egg."

  She reached up to touch the spot tenderly, then winced. "What did hap, my lord? I mind me thou didst turn, with a warcry…"

  "A gang of thugs jumped us. They knocked you out on the first swing—and they had me outnumbered. Caught us up in a net, and dragged us through a dimensional gate."

  She smiled. "A net? Nay, I must needs think they did find thy skill too great for them."

  "Why, thank you." Rod smiled down at her. "Of course, there's also the possibility they were under orders not to kill us—and fighting is more difficult when you have to knock somebody out, but not kill him."

  Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou think they abjured slaying?"

  "Because they used cudgels, not pikes. But, when they couldn't take us alive, they settled for kidnapping us out of our own time and place." Rod frowned, looking around. "Which means there should be somebody around, waiting for a second try."

  "Aye, my lord. If they wished us alive, they must needs have had strong reason." She gazed up at him. "What is this 'dimensional gate' of which thou didst speak? I catch, from thy mind, memories of Tir Chlis."

  Rod nodded. "Same type. But how'd they know where to waylay us? That gate had to be set up ahead of time."

  "The crone," Gwen murmured.

  Rod smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of course! The whole thing was a setup! She didn't really need my help… she was a Futurian agent!"

  "They knew thou wouldst not refuse to assist one in need."

  Rod nodded. "So good old helpful me gave an old lady a hand, and she bit it! Told me right where to go—and set up her trap." He shook his head. "Remind me not to do anyone any favors."

  "I would never wish that," Gwen said firmly. "Yet in future, let us beware of all gifts."

  "Yeah—we'll open them under water." Rod looked around, frowning. "Wonder what alternate universe they've shanghaied us into this time?"

  A ululating cry slashed through the air, and thirty purple-skinned fur-kilted men rose up out of the tall grass a hundred yards away.

  Rod and Gwen stared.

  A spear arced through the air, to bury its head in the earth half a meter from Rod's feet.

  Rod snapped out of his daze. "Wherever we are, we ain't welcome. Run, dear!"

  They whirled and charged, Gwen gathering up her skirts. "Our abductors could at the least have sent a broomstick!"

  "Yes, very careless of them." But Rod chewed at the inside of his lip. "Still, maybe you had the right idea there, dear. Let's try it and see. Ready?" He slipped an arm around her. "Up we go!"

  They leaped into the air. Rod put all his attention into staying up; the natives became secondary, dim and distant. They rose up a good twenty feet.

  "Turn," Gwen suggested.

  Rod banked, worrying about the "why" later. Until he got good at this game, he'd have to let Gwen do the steering.

  She had novel ideas. They swooped back toward the natives like avenging furies.

  The savages screeched to a halt, partly from surprise, mostly from alarm. Good little victims weren't supposed to attack.

  "Attempt a war-cry," Gwen advised.

  Rod grinned, and let out a whoop that would have shamed all the rebels in Dixie.

  That was a mistake; it gave the savages something familiar. They snapped out of their shock and closed ranks in front of the flying Gallowglasses.

  "Wrong tactic," Rod decided. "Hold tight." He thought up hard, and soared way high over the savages' heads, thoroughly out of bowshot. Then they swung down.

  "Wherefore so low, my lord?" Gwen asked.

  "Just in case I run out of lift."

  Gwen blanched. "If we are going to strike the earth, my lord, I would prefer not to fly so swiftly."

  "Don't worry, babe, I can stop on a dime. Of course, it doesn't do the dime much good…"

  The ground rose up beneath them. They rose with it, too, of course—and the whooping barbarians were growing smaller very quickly, behind them. Up, and over the rise— and the savages disappeared below the curve of the ridge.

  "Surely they must be the half of a mile behind us, now, my lord," Gwen protested. "Will they not have given up by now?"

  Rod nodded. "If you say so, darling. I just hope they were listening."

  They slowed, and dropped gently to the ground. Gwen smiled as her heels touched earth. "Thou dost progress amazingly in thine use of thy powers, my lord."

  "Oh, you know—just practice." But Rod felt a thoroughly irrational glow at her praise. "I must say, though, I'm surprised it didn't put more of a shock into our hunters."

  "Aye." Gwen frowned. "What manner of men were they?"

  "Oh—just your average barbarians."

  "But—they were purple!"

  "The human race is amazing in its diversity," Rod said piously. "On the other hand, you never know—the color might wash off in a good rain."

  Gwen stared. "Dost'a mean they do paint th
emselves from head to toe?"

  Rod nodded. "Not exactly unknown. In fact, if it weren't for the color, I'd guess we were on the Scottish side of

  Hadrian's Wall in a country called Great Britain, about 100 A.D."

  "Were there truly such?" she asked, wide-eyed.

  "Sure were, dear—check any history book, if you can find one. Painted themselves blue, in fact." Rod frowned. "Of course, that theme has been pretty well pict over by now…"

  Clamoring howls drifted down the wind again.

  Rod's head snapped up and around.

  Over the ridge they came—purple, waving spears, and howling like the Eumenides.

  "Time to hit the woad!" Rod caught Gwen around the waist again.

  "Not so high this time, an it please thee, my lord."

  "Anything to please, my dear." Rod frowned, concentrating. The scenery seemed to dim about him, and they rose just to the tops of the grain.

  "Forward," Gwen murmured.

  They shot straight ahead, faster than a speeding spear (just in case).

  "They may not be much on technology, but they've got Terrans beat all hollow on perverse perseverance."

  "Tis even so. How long can they endure?"

  Rod looked back, letting the natives' style percolate through the filters of his concentration. "Let's see—they're doing a lope, not an all-out run… Hey, those guys aren't even trying! Not really."

  "Scandalous. How long can they maintain such a pace?"

  Rod shrugged. "As long as we can, I'd guess."

  "And how long is that, my lord?"

  Rod shrugged again. "I just had dinner. Six or seven hours, at least." He looked down at Gwen. "Any particular direction you wanted me to go?"

  She shook her head. "All bearings are equal, when thou knowest not thy destination."

  Rod nodded. "I can sympathize with that; I was young once, myself."

  She glanced up at him. "Thou art not greatly anxious, my lord."

  "No, not really. These guys haven't invented anti-aircraft guns yet… How about you? Worried?"

  "Nay." She leaned back in his arms with a peaceful sigh.

  Vivid skins and violent yells erupted over the horizon in front.