1

This book is an Ace Science Fiction original edition,

and has never been previously published.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

An Ace Science Fiction Book/published by arrangement with

the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace Science Fiction edition/December 1985

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1985 by Christopher Stasheff

Cover art by Stephen Hickman

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

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For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-87340-5

Ace Science Fiction Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For some time now, I've been getting worried about the

steadily increasing number of hopeful historians on this Isle

of Gramarye. There weren't any when I came here—none

that I was aware of, anyway. Then Brother Chillde started

keeping his chronicles, and, first thing I knew. there were

five more just like him. Not that this is all bad, of course—

Gramarye'II be much better off if it has an accurate record

of its history. What bothers me is that each one of these

young Thucydideses is conveniently forgetting all the events

that make his own side look bad, and definitely overdoing

it more than a bit, about the happenings that make his side

look good. I'm mostly thinking of the Church here, of course,

but not exclusively—for example, I know of one young

warlock who's taken to keeping a diary, and a country lord's

younger son who's piling up an impressive number of jour-

nals. So, in an effort to set the record straight, I'm going

to set down my version of what happened. Not that it' II be

any more objective, of course; it'll at least be biased in a

diff-

" 'Tis my place, Delia!"

"Nay, Geoffrey, thou knowest 'tis not! This end of the

shelf is mine, for the keeping of my dolls!"

" 'Tis not! I've kept my castle there these several weeks!"

2 Christopher Stasheff

Rod threw down his quill in exasperation. After three

weeks of trying, he'd finally managed to get started on his

history of Gramarye—and the kids had to choose this mo-

ment to break into a quarrel! He glared down at the page...

And saw the huge blot the quill had made.

Exasperation boiled up into anger, and he surged out of

his chair. "Delia! Geoff! Of all the idiotic things to be

arguing about! Gwen, can't you..."

"Nay, I cannot!" cried a harried voice from the kitchen.

"Else thou'lt have naught but char for thy.... Oh!" Some-

thing struck with a jangling clatter, and Rod's wife fairly

shrieked in frustration. "Magnus! How oft must I forbid

thee the kitchen whiles I do cook!"

"Children!" Rod shouted, stamping into the playroom.

"Why'd I ever have 'em?"

"Di'nit, Papa." Three-year-old Gregory peeked over the

top of an armchair. "Mama did."

"Yeah, sure, and I was just an innocent bystander.

Geoffrey! Cordelia! Stop it!"

He waded into a litter of half-formed clay sculptures,

toys, and pieces of bark twisted together with twigs and bits

of straw that served some fathomless and probably heathen

purpose known only to those below the age of thirteen.

"What a mess!" It was like that every day, of course. "Do

you realize this room was absolutely spotless when you

woke up this morning?"

The children looked up, startled, and Cordelia objected,

"But that was four hours ago. Papa."

"Yeah, and you must've really worked hard to make a

mess like this in so short a time as that!" Rod stepped down

hard—into a puddle of ocher paint. His foot skidded out

from under him; he hung suspended for a split second, arms

thrashing like the wings of a dodo trying to fly; then his

back slammed down to the floor, paralyzing his diaphragm.

For an instant of panic, he fought for breath, while Cordelia

and Geoffrey huddled back against the wall in fright.

Then Rod's breath hissed in and bounced back out in a

howl of rage. "You little pigs! Can't you even clean up after

yourselves!"

The children shrank back, wide-eyed.

Rod struggled to his feet, red-faced. "Throwing garbage

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      3

on the floor, fighting over a stupid piece of shelf space—

and to top it off, you had the gall to talk back!"

"We didn't... We..."

"You just did it again!" Rod levelled an accusing fore-

finger. "Whatever you do, don't contradict me! If I say you

did it, you did it! And don't you dare try to say you didn't!"

He towered over them, a mountain of wrath. "Naughty,

stupid, asinine brats!"

The children hugged each other, eyes huge and fright-

ened.

Rod's hand swept up for a backhanded slap.

With a crack like a pistol shot, big brother Magnus ap-

peared in front of Cordelia and Geoffrey, arms outspread to

cover them. "Papa! They didn't mean to! They..."

"Don't try to tell me what they were doing!" Rod shouted.

The eleven-year-old flinched, but stood up resolutely

against his father's rage—and that made it worse.

"How dare you defy me! You insolent little..."

"Rod!" Gwen darted into the room, wiping her hands on

her apron. "What dost thou?"

Rod whirled, forefinger stabbing at her. "Don't you even

try to speak in their defense! If you'd just make your children

toe the line, this wouldn't happen! But, oh no, you've got

to let them do whatever they want, and just scold them, and

that's only when their behavior's really atrocious!"

Gwen's head snapped back, stung. "Assuredly, thou'rt

scarce mindful of what thou sayest! 'Tis ever thou who dost

plead leniency, when I do wish to punish..."

"Sure, when!" Rod glared, striding toward her. "But for

the thousand and one things they do that deserve spanking,

and you let them off with a scold? Use your head, woman—

if you can!" His gaze swept her from head to toe, and his

lip lifted in a sneer.

Gwen's eyes flared anger. "'Ware, husband! Even to

thine anger, there doth be a boundary!"

"Boundaries! Limits! That's all you ever talk about!" Rod

shouted. '"Do this! Do that! You can't do this! You can't

do that!' Marriage is just one big set of limits! Will you

ever..."

"Peace!" Magnus darted between them, holding out a

palm toward each. "I prithee!" His face was white; he was

Christopher Stasheff

4             oniioiu^nu. _.__

trembling. "Mother! Father! I beg thee!"

Rod snarled, swinging his hand up again.

Magnus stiffened; his jaw set.

Rod swung, with his full weight behind it...

... And shot through the air, slamming back against the

wall.

He rolled to his feet and stood up slowly, face drained

of color, rigid and trembling. "I told you never to use your

'witch powers' on me," he grated, "and I told you why!"

He straightened to his full height, feeling the rage swell

within him.

Geoffrey and Cordelia scurried to hide behind Owen's

skirts. She gathered Magnus to her, but he kept his face

toward his father, terror in his eyes, trembling, but deter-

mined to protect.

Rod stared at them, all united against him, ready to pick

him up with their magic and hurl him into his grave. His

eyes narrowed, pinning them with his glare; then his eyes

lost focus as he reached down inside himself—deep down,

reaching across an abyss—to the psi powers that had lain

so long dormant, but which had been awakened by the

projective telepathy of Lord Kem, in another universe, one

in which magic worked. His powers weren't as readily ac-

cessible as his family's; he couldn't work magic just by

willing it, as easily as thinking, but once he'd drawn them

up, his were at least as great as theirs. He called those

powers up now, feeling their strength build within him.

"Mother," came Magnus's voice, across a huge void,

"we must..."

"Nay!" Gwen said fiercely. "He is thy father, whom thou

dost love—when this fit's not on him."

What did that mean! The powers paused in their build-

ing...

A smaller figure entered his blurred field of vision, to

the side and a little in front of the family group, gazing up

at him, head tilted to the side—three-year-old Gregory.

"Daddy is'n' there," he stated.

That hit Rod like a bucketful of cold water; the complete,

calm, sanity of the child's tone—so open, so reasonable—

and the totally alien quality of the words. His eyes focused

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      5

in a stare at his youngest son, and fear hollowed his vitals—

fear, and a different anger under it; anger at the futurians

who had kidnapped him and the rest of his family away

from this child while Gregory was still a baby. The deser-

tion, Rod feared, had totally warped the boy's personality,

making him quiet, indrawn, brooding, and sometimes, even

weird. His gaze welded to Gregory's face, his fear for Gregory

burying his anger at the rest of the family; it ebbed, and

was gone.

"Who's not there?" he whispered.

"Lord Kem," Gregory answered, "that Daddy like thee,

in that Faerie Gramarye thou'st talk of."

Rod stared at him.

Then he stepped closer to the boy. Magnus took a step

toward Gregory, too, but Rod waved him away impatiently.

He dropped to one knee, staring into the three-year-old's

eyes. "No... no. Lord Kem isn't anywhere—except, maybe,

in his own universe, that Faerie Gramarye. But why should

you think he was?"

Gregory cocked his head to the other side. "But didst

thou not, but now, reach out to touch his mind with thine

own, to draw upon his powers?"

Rod just gazed at the boy, his face blank.

"Gregory!" Gwen cried in anguish, and she took a step

toward him, then drew back for Rod still knelt staring at

the child, his face blank.

Then he looked up at Gwen, with an irritated frown.

"What am I—a bear? Or a wolf?" He raked the children

with his glare. "Some kind of wild animal?"

They stared back at him, eyes huge, huddled together.

His face emptied again. "You think I am. You really

think I am, don't you?"

They stared back, wordlessly, eyes locked on him.

He held still, rigid.

Then he swung up to his feet, turning on his heel, and

strode to the door.

Cordelia darted after him, but Gwen reached out and

caught her arm.

Rod paced out into the bleakness of a day veiled by

clouds. A chill wind struck at him, but he didn't notice.

6            Christopher Stasheff

•  •  •

Rod finally came to a halt at the top of a hill, a mile

from home. He stood, staring down at the broad plain below,

not really seeing it. Finally, he sank down to sit on the dry

grass. His thoughts had slowed in their turmoil as he walked;

now, gradually, they sank away, leaving a blank in his mind.

Into that, a niggling doubt crept. Softly, he asked, "What

happened, Fess?"

The robot-horse answered, though he was a mile away

in the stable. Rod heard him through the earphone embedded

in his mastoid process, behind his ear. "You lost your tem-

per, Rod."

Rod's mouth twitched with impatience. The robot's horse

body might be a distance away in the stable, but the old

family retainer could see into him as well as if they were

only a foot apart. "Yes, I do realize that much." The mi-

crophone embedded in his maxillary, just above the teeth,

picked up his words and transmitted them to Pess. "But it

was more than simple anger, wasn't it?"

"It was rage," Fess agreed. "Full, thorough, open wrath,

without any restraints or inhibitions."

After a moment. Rod asked, "What would have happened

if my family hadn't been able to defend themselves so well?"

Fess was silent. Then he said, slowly, "I would hope that

your inborn gentleness and sense of honor would have pro-

tected them adequately. Rod."

"Yes," Rod muttered. "I would hope so, too."

And he sat, alone in his guilt and self-contempt, in si-

lence. Even the wind passed him by.

Quite some while later, cloth rustled beside him. He gave

no sign of having heard, but his body tensed. He waited,

but only silence filled the spaces of the minutes.

Finally, Rod spoke. "I did it again."

"Thou didst," Gwen answered gently. Her voice didn't

blame—but it didn't console, either.

Something stirred within Rod. It might have risen as

anger, but that was burned out of him, now. "Been doing

that a lot lately, haven't I?"

Gwen was silent a moment. Then she said, "A score of

times, mayhap, in the last twelvemonth."

Rod nodded, "And a dozen times last year, and half-a-

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      7

dozen the year before—and two of those were at the Abbott,

when he tried his schism."

"And a third with the monster which rose from the fens..."

Rod shrugged irritably. "Don't make excuses for me. It

still comes down to my losing my temper with you and the

kids, more than with anyone else—and for the last three

months, I've been blowing up about every two weeks, haven't

I?"

Gwen hesitated. Then she answered, "None so badly as

this, my lord."

"No, it never has been quite as bad as this, has it? But

every time, it gets a little worse."

Her answer was very low. "Thou hast offered hurt to us

aforetime...."

"Yes, but I've never actually tried it have I?" Rod shud-

dered at the memory and buried his head in his hands. "First,

I just threw things. Then I started throwing them without

using my hands. Today, I would've thrown Magnus—if

Gregory hadn't interrupted in time." He looked up at her,

scowling. "Where in Heaven's name did you get that boy,

anyway?"

That brought a hint of smile. "I did think we had, may-

hap, borne him back from Tir Chlis, my lord."

"Ah, yes!" Rod stared out over the plain again. "Tir

Chlis, that wonderful, magical land of faeries and sorcerers,

and—Lord Kem."

"Even so," Gwen said softly.

"My other self," Rod said bitterly, "my analog in an

alternate universe—with magical powers unparalleled, and

a temper to match."

"Thou weit alike in many ways," Gwen agreed, "but

temper was not among them."

"No, and witch powers weren't either—but I learned

how to 'borrow' his wizardry, and it unlocked my own

powers, powers that I'd been hiding from myself."

"When thou didst let his rage fill thee," Gwen reminded

gently.

"Which seems to have also unlocked my own capacity

for wrath; it wiped out the inhibitions I'd built up against

it."

"Still—there were other inhibitions that thou didst leam

8            Christopher Stasheff

to lay aside, also." Gwen touched his hand, hesitantly.

Rod didn't respond. "Was it worth it? Okay, so I had

been psionically invisible; nobody could read my mind.

Wasn't that better than this rage?"

"I could almost say the sharing of our minds was worth

the price of thy bouts of fury," Gwen said slowly, "save

that..."

Rod waited.

"Thy thoughts grow dim again, my lord."

Rod only sat, head bowed.

Then he looked up. "I'm beginning to hide myself away

from you again?"

"Hast thou not felt it?"

He stared into her eyes; then he nodded. "Is that any

surprise? When I can't trust myself not to explode into

wrath? When I'm beginning to feel as though I'm some sort

of subhuman beast? Sheer shame, woman!"

"Thou art worthy of me, my lord." Her voice was soft,

but firm, and so was her hand. "Thou art worthy of me,

and of thy children. I' truth, we are fortunate to have thee."

Her voice shook. "Oh, we are blessed!"

"Thanks." He gave her hand a pat. "It's good to hear.

... Now convince me."

"Nay," she murmured, "that I cannot do, an thou'lt not

credit what I say."

"Or even what you do." Rod bowed his head, and his

hand tightened on hers. "Be patient, dear. Be patient."

And they sat alone in the wind, not looking at each other,

two people very much in love but very much separated,

clinging to a thin strand that still held them joined, poised

over the drop that fell away to fallow lands below.

Magnus turned away from the window with a huge sigh

of relief. "They come—and their hands are clasped."

"Let me see, let me see!" The other three children shot

to the window, heads jammed together, noses on the pane.

"They do not regard one another," Cordelia said du-

biously.

"Yet their hands are clasped," Magnus reminded.

"And," Cordelia added, troubled, "their thoughts are

dark."

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      9

"Yet their hands are elapsed. And if their thoughts are

dark, they are also calm."

"And not all apart," Gregory added.

"Not all—not quite," Cordelia agreed, but with the full,

frank skepticism of an eight-year-old.

"Come away, children," a deep voice bade them, "and

do not leap upon them when they enter, for I misdoubt me

an they'd have much patience now with thy clasping and

thy pulling."

The children turned away from the window, to a foot

and a half of elf, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, and

pug-nosed, in a forester's tunic and hose, wearing a pointed

cap with a rolled brim and a feather. "Geoffrey," he warned.

The six-year-old pulled himself away from the window

with a look of disgust. "I did but gaze upon them, Robin."

"Indeed—and I know that thou'rt anxious. Yet I bethink

me that thy parents have need of some bit more of room

than thou'rt wont to accord them."

Cordelia flounced down onto a three-legged stool. "But

Papa was so angered. Puck!"

"As thou hast told me." The elf's mouth tightened at the

comers. "Yet thou dost know withal, that he doth love thee."

"I do not doubt it...." But Cordelia frowned.

Puck sighed and dropped down cross-legged beside her.

"Thou couldst scarce do otherwise, if he did truly become

as enraged as thou didst tell." He turned his head, taking

in all four children with one gaze. "Gentles, do not repre-

hend; if you pardon, he will mend."

They didn't look convinced.

"Else the Puck a liar call!" the elf cried stoutly.

The door opened, and the children leaped to their feet.

They started to back away, but Puck murmured, "Softly,"

and they held their ground—warily.

But their father didn't look like an ogre as he came in

the door—just a tall, dark, lean, saturnine man with a

rough-hewn face, no longer young; and he seemed dim next

to the red-haired beauty beside him, who fairly glowed,

making the question of youth irrelevant. Still, if the children

had ever stopped to think about it, they would have remarked

how well their parents looked together.

They did not, of course; they saw only that their father's

10 Christopher Stasheff

face had mellowed to its usual careworn warmth, and leaped

to hug him in relief. "Papa!" Magnus cried, and "Daddy!"

Geoffrey piped; Cordelia only clung to his arm and sobbed,

while Gregory hugged the other arm, and looked up gravely.

"Daddy, thou hast come back again."

Rod looked into the sober gaze of his youngest, and

somehow suspected that the child wasn't just talking about

his coming through the door.

"Oh, Papa," Cordelia sniffled, "I do like thee so much

better when thou'rt Papa, than when thou'rt Lord Kern!"

Rod felt a chill along his spine, but he clasped her shoul-

der and pressed her against his hip. "I don't blame you,

dear. I'm sure his children feel the same way." He looked

up over the children's heads, at Puck. "Thanks, Robin."

"Now, there's a fair word!" Puck grinned. "Yet I mis-

doubt me an thou wilt have more such; for there's one who

doth attend thee." He jerked his head toward the kitchen.

"A messenger?" Rod looked up, frowning. "Waiting in-

side the house?... Toby!"

A dapper gentleman in his mid-twenties came into the

room, running a finger over a neatly trimmed mustache.

Hose clung to well-turned calves, and his doublet was re-

splendent with embroidery. "Hail, Lord Warlock!"

Gwen's face blossomed with a smile, and even Rod had

to fight a grin, faking a groan. "Hail, harbinger! What's the

disaster?"

"Nay, for once, the King doth summon thee whiles it's

yet a minor matter."

"Minor." The single word was loaded with skepticism.

Rod turned to Gwen. "Why does that worry me more than

his saying, 'Emergency?'"

" 'Tis naught but experience," Gwen assured him. "Shall

I 'company thee?"

"I'd appreciate it," Rod sighed. "If it's a 'minor' matter,

that means social amenities first—and you know how

Catharine and I don't get along."

"Indeed I do." Gwen looked quite pleased with herself.

Catharine the Queen may have spread her net for Rod, but

it was Gwen who had caught him.

Not that Catharine had done badly, of course. King Tuan

Loguire had spent his youth as Gramarye's most eligible

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      11

bachelor—and it must be admitted that Rod had been a

very unknown quantity.

Still was, in some ways. Why else would Gwendylon,

most powerful witch in circulation, continue to be interested

in him?

Rod looked up at Puck. "Would you mind. Merry

Wanderer?"

The elf sighed and spread his arms. "What is time to an

immortal? Nay, go about the King's business!"

"Thanks, sprite." Rod turned back to Gwen. "Your broom,

or mine?"

Gwen bent over the hanging cradle swathed in yards of

cloth-of-gold, and her face softened into a tender smile.

"Oh, he is dear!"

Queen Catharine beamed down at the baby. She was a

slender blonde with large blue eyes and a very small chin.

"I thank thee for thy praise... I am proud."

"As thou shouldst be." Gwen straightened, looking up

at her husband with a misty gaze.

Rod looked around, hoping she was gazing at someone

else. On second thought, maybe not....

Catharine raised a finger to her lips and moved slightly

toward the door. Rod and Gwen followed, leaving the child

to its nanny, two chambermaids, and two guards.

Another two stood on either side of the outer doorway,

under the eagle eye of the proud father. One reached out to

close the door softly behind them. Rod looked up at King

Tuan, and nodded. "No worries about the succession now."

"Aye." Gwen beamed. "Two princes are a great bless-

ing."

"Well I can think of a few kings who would've argued

with that." Rod smiled, amused. "Still, I must admit they're

outnumbered by the kings who've been glad of the support

of their younger brothers."

"As I trust our Alain shall be." Tuan turned away. "Come,

let us pass into the solar." He paced down the hall and into

another chamber with a wall of clerestory windows. Rod

followed, with the two ladies chattering behind him. He

reminded himself that he and Gwen were being signally

honored; none of the royal couple's other subjects had ever

12 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 13

been invited into their majesties' private apartments.

On the other hand, if Gwen had been the kind to brag,

they might not have been invited in, either.

And, of course, there was old Duke Loguire. But that

was different; he came under the alias of "Grandpa." And

Brom O'Brien; but the Lord Privy Councillor would, of

course, have access to the privy chambers.

On the other hand. Rod tried not to be too conscious of

the honor. After all, he had known Tuan when the young

King was an outlaw; exiled for courting Catharine; and

hiding out in the worst part of town, as King of the Beggars—

and unwitting party to the forming of a civil war. "As long

as they grow up friends," he reminded Tuan, "or as much

as two brothers can."

"Aye—and if their friendship doth endure." A shadow

crossed Tuan's face, and Rod guessed he was remembering

his own elder brother, Anselm, who had rebelled against

their father, and against Queen Catharine.

"Then must we take great care to ensure their friendship."

Catharine hooked her arm through Tuan's. "Yet I misdoubt

me, my lord, an our guests did come to speak of children

only."

"I'm sure it's a more pleasant subject than whatever he

had in mind," Rod said quickly.

"And 'twould have been cause enow, I do assure thee,"

Gwen added.

Catharine answered with a silvery laugh. "For thou and

I, mayhap—but I misdoubt me an 'twould interest our hus-

bands overlong."

"Do not judge us so harshly," Tuan protested. "Yet I must

own that there are matters of policy to be discussed." He

sighed, and turned away to a desk that stood beneath the

broad windows, with a map beside it on a floor stand.

"Come, Lord Warlock—let us take up less pleasant mat-

ters."

Rod came over, rather reassured; Tuan certainly didn't

seem to feel any urgency.

The young King tapped the map, on the Duchy of

Romanov. "Here lies our mutual interest of the hour."

"Well, as long as it's only an hour. What's our bear of

a Duke up to?"

'"Tis not His Grace," Tuan said slowly.

Rod perked up; this was becoming more interesting;

"Something original would be welcome. Frankly, I've been

getting a bit bored with the petty rebellions of your twelve

great lords."

"Art thou so? I assure thee," Tuan said grimly, "I have

never found them tedious."

"What is it, then? One of his petty barons gathering arms

and men?"

"I would it were; of that, I've some experience. This,

though, is a matter of another sort; for the rumors speak of

foul magics."

"Rumors?" Rod looked up from the map. "Not reports

from agents?"

"I have some spies in the North," Tuan acknowledged,

"yet they only speak of these same rumors, not of events

which they themselves have witnessed."

Rod frowned. "Haven't any of them tried to track the

rumor to its source?"

Tuan shrugged. "None of those who've sent word. Yet

I've several who have sent me no reports, and mine em-

issaries cannot find them."

"Not a good sign." Rod's frown darkened. "They might

have ridden off to check, and been taken."

"Or worse," Tuan agreed, "for the rumors speak of a

malignant magus, a dark and brooding power, who doth

send his minions everywhere throughout the North Country."

"Worrisome, but not a problem—as long as all they do

is spy. I take it they don't."

"Not if rumor speaks truly. These minions, look you, are

sorcerers in their own right; and with the power they own,

added to that which they gather from their sorcerer-lord,

they defeat the local knights ere they can even come to

battle. Then the sorcerers enthrall the knights, with their

wives and children, too, and take up lordship over all the

serfs and peasants of that district."

"Not too good a deal for the knights and their families,"

Rod mused, "but probably not much of a difference, to the

serfs and peasants. After all, they're used to taking orders—

what difference does it make who's giving them?"

"Great difference, if the first master was gentle, and the

14           Christopher Stasheff

second was harsh," Tuan retorted. His face was grim. "And

reports speak of actions more than harsh, from these new

masters. These sorcerers are evil."

"And, of course, the peasants can't do much, against

magic." Rod frowned. "Not much chance of fighting back."

Tuan shuddered. "Perish the thought! For peasants must

never resist orders, but only obey them, as is their divinely

appointed role."

What made Rod's blood run cold was that Tuan didn't

say it grimly or primly, or pompously, or with the pious air

of self-justification. No, he said it very matter-of-factly, as

though it were as much a part of the world as rocks and

trees and running water, and no one could even think of

debating it. How could you argue about the existence of a

rock? Especially if it had fallen on your toe...

That was where the real danger lay, of course—not in

the opinions people held, but in the concepts they knew to

be true—especially when they weren't.

Rod shook off the mood. "So the chief sorcerer has been

knocking off the local lordlings and taking over their hold-

ings. How far has his power spread?"

"Rumor speaks of several baronets who have fallen 'neath

his sway," Tuan said, brooding, "and even Duke Romanov,

himself."

"Romanov?" Rod stared, appalled. "One of the twelve

great lords? How could he fall, without word of it reaching

us?"

"I could accomplish it—and I am no wizard." Tuan

shrugged. "'Tis simplicity—close a ring of iron around his

castle under cover of night, then hurl an army 'gainst his

barbican, and siege machines against his towers. Invest the

castle, and trust to thy ring of knights and men-at-arms to

see that not a soul wins free to bear off word."

Rod shuddered at Tuan's sangfroid. "But he had a couple

ofesp- uh, witches, guesting in his tower!"

"More than 'guesting,' as I hear it," Tuan answered, with

a grim smile. "They were thoroughly loyal to Milord Duke,

for he had saved them from the stake and embers. They've

been of great service tending to the ill and injured and, I

doubt not, gathering information for him."

Rod frowned. "They must have been very discreet about

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      15

it. We make it a practice, in the Royal Coven, not to pry

into the minds of anyone except your enemies."

"Or those who might become so," Tuan amended. "Who's

to say his witches did more? Nay, once Catharine showed

them the way of it, and thou and thy good wife did aid her

in forming that band into a battle-weapon, all the lords did

leam, and followed suit."

"And Romanov's witches couldn't give him enough ad-

vance warning?" Rod pursed his lips. "This sorcerer is ef-

fective. But speaking of mental eavesdropping, that's a way

to check on the rumors. Did you ask any of the Royal

Witchforce to try and read Romanov's mind?"

"I did. They could not find him."

"So." Rod pursed his lips. "What minds did they hear,

to the North?"

Tuan shrugged. "Only what should be. The plowman

followed his oxen, the milkmaid coaxed her swain—naught

was there to bring alarm, save that the warlock who listened,

could not find the minds of any knights or barons."

"How about vile thoughts, from evil sorcerers?"

Tuan turned his head slowly from side to side.

"So." Rod's gaze strayed back to the map. "On the face

of it, nothing's wrong; it's just that the Duke of Romanov

seems to have taken a vacation to parts unknown, with all

his aristocratic retainers."

"Thou dost see why I do suspect."

Rod nodded. "Sounds fishy to me, too... not that I can't

understand why the noble Duke would want to take off for

a while, though. I've been feeling a bit too much stress

lately, myself.... Gwen?" He turned, to find Gwen standing

near. "Been listening?"

"I have." She smiled. "And I do think thou dost make

a great coil of naught."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say we're making a lot of fuss."

Rod locked gazes with Tuan. "Where's the weeping and

wailing? The yelling and hair-tearing?"

'"Tis even as thou sayest," Tuan turned to Gwen. "I do

not see great danger here. Lady Gwendylon—only the abuse

of witch-power, over those who have it not."

"And witches ganging up on normals," Rod added. "But

that can all be cured by even more witches—from the good

76           Christopher Stasheff

guys. After all, we have a vested interest in the public's

opinion of witches, dear."

"In truth," Gwen said firmly, "and we cannot have the

folk afeard that witches will seek to govern by force of

magic,"

"Of course not," Rod mumured, "especially when every

right-thinking individual knows it has to be done by force

of arms."

Tuan frowned. "How didst thou speak?"

"Uh, nothing." Rod turned to Gwen. "How about it,

dear? A family vacation, wandering toward the North?"

When Gwen hesitated, he added, "I don't really think there's

any danger—at least, none that you and I can't handle

between us."

"Nay, surely not," Gwen agreed, but her brow was still

furrowed.

"What, then? The kids? I really don't think they'll mind."

"Oh, certes they will not! Yet hast thou considered the

trials of shepherding our four upon the road?"

"Sure." Rod frowned. "We did it in Tir Chlis."

"I know," Gwen sighed. "Well, an thou sayest 'tis for

the best, my husband, we shall essay it."

2

Rod turned the key in the lock, pulled it out, set it in Gwen's

palm, and wrapped her hand around it. "Your office, 0

Lady of the House." He studied her face for a second and

added gently, "Don't worry, dear. It'll still be here when

you get back."

"I know," she sighed, "yet 'tis never easy to leave it."

"I know." Rod glanced back at the house. "I'll get half-

way down the road, and start wondering if I really did put

out the fire on the hearth."

"And thou dost, but call it out, and an elf shall bear word

to me," Brom O'Berin rumbled beside them. "Mere minutes

after thou hast uttered it, an elf shall spring out of the

ingelnook to douse thy hearth—if it doth need."

"I thank thee, Brom," Gwen said softly.

The dwarf scowled, becoming more gruff. "Nay, have

no fear for thine house. Elves shall guard it day and night.

Ill shall fare the man who doth seek to enter."

Rod shuddered. "I pity the footpad Puck catches! So

come on, dear—there's nothing to worry about. Here, any-

way. Time for the road." He grasped her waist, and helped

her leap to Fess's saddle.

"May we not fly. Papa?" Cordelia pouted. Her hands

were clasped behind her back, and a broomstick stuck out

from behind her shoulder.

17

18           Christopher Stasheff

Rod smiled, and glanced at Gwen. She nodded, almost

imperceptibly. He turned back to Cordelia. "As long as you

stay near your mother and me—yes."

Cordelia gave a shout of joy and leaped onto her broom.

Her brothers echoed her, drifting up into the air.

"Move out. Old Iron," Rod murmured, and the great

black robot-horse ambled out toward the road. Rod fell into

step beside him, and turned back to wave to Brom.

"A holiday!" Geoffrey cried, swooping in front of him.

"'Tis ages since we had one!"

"Yeah—about a year." But Rod grinned; he seemed to

feel a weight lifting off his shoulders. He caught Gwen's

hand and looked up at her. "Confess it, dear—don't you

feel a little more free?"

She smiled down at him, brightening. "I do, my lord—

though I've brought my lock and bars along."

"And I, my ball and chain." Rod grinned. "Keep an eye

on the links, will you?... Magnus! When I said, 'Stay near,'

that meant altitude, too! Come down here right now!"

The tinkers strolled into the village, gay and carefree,

smudged and dirty. Their clothes were patched, and the pots

and pans hanging from their horse's pack made a horrible

clattering.

"This is rather demeaning. Rod," Fess murmured. "Ad-

ditionally, as I have noted, no real tinker family could afford

a horse."

"Especially not one fit for a knight. I know," Rod an-

swered. "I'll just tell them the last stop was a castle, and

the lord of the demesne paid us in kind."

"Rod, I think you lack an accurate concept of the financial

worth of a war-horse in medieval culture."

"Hey—they had a lot of pots." Rod grinned down at his

own primitive publicity agents. "Okay, kids, that's enough.

I think they know we're here."

The four little Gallowglasses slowed their madcap danc-

ing, and gave their pots and pans one last clanging whack

with their wooden spoons. "You spoil all the fun. Papa,"

Cordelia pouted as she handed him the cookware.

"No, just most of it. Magnus? Geoff? Turn in your weap-

ons, boys. Gregory, you, too—ah, a customer!"

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      19

"Canst mend this firkin, fellow?" The housewife was

plump, rosy-cheeked, and anxious.

Rod took the little pot and whistled at the sight of the

long, jagged crack in the cast iron. "How'd you manage

that kind of break?"

"My youngest dropped it," the goodwife said impatiently.

"Canst mend it?"

"Yeah," Rod said slowly, "but it'll cost you a ha'penny."

The woman's face blossomed in a smile. "I have one,

and 'twill be well worth it. Bless thee, fellow!"

Which sounded a little odd, since "fellow" was a term

of semicontempt; but Rod blithely took out a hammer and

some charcoal, laid a small fire, and got busy faking. Magnus

and Gregory crouched on either side of him, obstensibly

watching.

"This is the manner of the Grafting of it, Gregory," big

brother Magnus said softly. "Let thy mind bear watch on

mine. The metal's made of grains so small thou canst not

see them..."

"Molecules," Rod supplied.

"Aye. And now I'll make those molecules move so fast

they'll meld one to another. Yet I must spring them into

motion so quickly that their heat will not have time to spread

through the rest of the metal to Papa's hands, the whiles he

doth press the broken edges together—for we'd not wish

to bum him."

"Definitely not," Rod muttered.

Gregory watched intently.

So did Rod. He still couldn't quite believe it, as he saw

the metal spring into cherry-redness all along the crack,

brighten quickly through orange and yellow to near white-

ness. Metal flowed.

"Now quickly, cool it!" Magnus hissed, drops of sweat

standing out on his brow, "Ere the heat can run to Papa's

hands!"

The glow faded faster than it had come, for Gregory

frowned at it, too; this part was simple enough for a three-

year-old.

Simple! When only witches were supposed to be tele-

kinetic, not warlocks—and even the best of them could

only move objects, not molecules.

20 Christopher Stasheff

But there the pot stood, round and whole! Rod sighed,

and started tapping it lightly with the hammer, far from

where the crack had been—just for appearances. "Thanks,

Magnus. You're a great help."

"Willingly, Papa." The eldest wiped his brow.

"Papa," Gregory piped up, "Thou dost know that elves

do 'company us..."

"Yeah." Rod grinned. "Nice to know you're not alone."

"Truth. Yet I've thought to have them ask for word from

their fellows in the North...."

"Oh?" Rod tried not to show it, but he was impressed.

Three years old, and he'd thought of something Tuan and

Rod had both overlooked. "What did they say?"

"The goodwives no longer call warnings to the Wee Folk

ere they empty garbage out upon the ground," Gregory's

eyes were large in his little face. "They no longer leave

their bowls of milk for the elves, by their doors. Each house

now hath cold iron nailed up over its door, whether it be

an horseshoe or some other form, and hearths go unswept

at eventide."

Rod felt a chill and glanced at a nearby tree, but its leaves

were still. "Well, I guess no housewife there is going to

find sixpence in her shoe. What are the elves doing about

it?"

"Naught. There is some spell lies o'er the plowed land

there, that pushes against all elfin magic. They have turned

away in anger, and flitted to the forests."

Rod struck the pot a few more times, in silence.

"Is this coil in the North so light as thou hast told us,

Papa?" Gregory finally asked.

Rod reflected that, for a three-year-old, the kid had one

hell of a good vocabulary. He put down his hammer and

faced the child squarely. "There's no real evidence, yet,

that it's anything major."

"But the signs..." Magnus murmured.

"Are not evidence," Rod answered. "Not firm evi-

dence—but I'm braced. That's why we're travelling in dis-

guise—so we can pick up any rumors, without letting people

know we're the High Warlock and Company."

"Thou dost not wish our presence known, for fear the

evil folk will hide till we've gone by?" Magnus asked.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      21

"No, because I don't want to walk into an ambush. Not

that I expect to, mind—I just don't want to take any chances."

He gave the pot a last tap and held it up to admire. "You

boys did a good job."

"We shall ever do our best, for thee," Magnus responded.

"Papa... if thou dost gain this firm evidence that thou

speakest of... What then?"

Rod shrugged. "Depends. If it's nothing major, we'll fix

whatever's wrong, and go on to the northern seacoast for a

couple of weeks of swimming and fishing. You've never

tried swimming in the ocean, boys. Let me tell you, it's

very different from the little lake near our house."

"I shall hope to discover it," Gregory piped. "Papa...

what if the evidence is of great wrongness?"

"Then you three boys will turn right around, and take

your mother and your sister right home," Rod said promptly.

"And thou... ?"

"I'm the High Warlock, aren't I?" Rod grinned at them.

"They gave me the title. I've got to live up to it."

Gregory and Magnus looked at each other, and locked

gazes.

"I prithee, my lord, calm your heart," Gwen eyed him

anxiously as she laid the campfire. " 'Twas not the forester's

fault that we may not hunt."

"Yeah—but the way he dragged Magnus in, as though

he were some kind of criminal!" Rod folded a hand around

his trembling fist. "He should only know how close he came

to disaster! Good thing Magnus remembered his disguise."

" 'Twas not the child's self-rule that troubled me." Gwen

shuddered. "My lord, if thou couldst have but seen thine

own face...."

"I know, I know," Rod snapped, turning away. "So it's

not surprising he reached toward his knife. But so help me,

if he had touched it..."

"He would have died," Gwen said simply, "and men-at-

arms would have caught us on the morrow."

"Oh, no, they wouldn't," Rod said grimly. "They

wouldn't've dared touch the High Warlock!"

"Aye—and all the land would have known we ride north."

She sighed. "I rejoice thou didst throttle thy temper."

22           Christopher Stasheff

"No, I didn't, and you know it! If you hadn't butted in

and taken over, raining thanks and praise on the forester,

as though you were a waterfall..."

Gwen shrugged. "'Twas naught but his due. A less kind

man would have beaten the child, and haled him off to his

knight's gaol."

Rod stared, appalled.

Gwen nodded. "Oh, aye, my lord. And the law allows

it. Nay, more; for this good warden who did find our son,

might be censured if his lord did know of his forbearance."

Rod shuddered. "I'm glad I let him go, then. But, my

lord! It's not as though the boy'd been trying to bring down

a deer! All he was after was a rabbit!"

"Even so, the Forest Laws would say 'twas theft," Gwen

reminded him. "Every hare and goose—nay, each mouse

and sparrow—doth belong unto the manor's lord; and to

hunt them is to steal!"

"But how do these people live?" Rod cupped an empty

hand. "We didn't do badly today, for tinkers—we made a

penny and a half! But we had to spend the penny for a

chicken, and the half for bread! What would we live on, if

nobody broke a pot?"

"The law..." Gwen sighed.

"Well, it won't, for long." Rod curled the hand into a

fist. "I'm going to have a few words with Tuan, when we

get back to Runnymede!"

"Do," Gwen said softly, "and thou'lt have proved the

worth of this journey, even an we find naught wrong i' the

North."

"I'm afraid that's not very apt to happen." Mollified,

Rod watched her stare at the kindling. It burst into flame,

and he sighed, "I'd better see how the kids are coming along

with their foraging." He stiffened at a sudden thought, star-

ing at her. "We are allowed to gather berries, aren't we?"

Rod sat bolt upright with a hissing-in of breath, staring

about him, wide-eyed.

The night breathed all around him, hushed. Far away,

crickets and frogs wove counterpoint that darted harmony

with the myriad of stars. The land lay deep in peace.

Rod sagged against the prop of his arm, relieved by

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      23

reality. Adrenalin ebbed, and his hammering heart began to

slow. He couldn't even remember the nightmare—only that,

vaguely, the face was Lord Kem's.

This had to stop. Somehow, he had to break this spell.

Somebody moaned; not surprising, the way he felt.

Then he stiffened, all his attention concentrated on his

ears. Whoever had moaned, it hadn't been him.

Then, who...?

The sound came again, louder and closer. It wasn't a

moan, really—more of a grinding sound. Not moving. Rod

murmured, "Pess?"

"Here, Rod." Being a robot, Fess never slept. In fact,

he scarcely ever powered down.

"Hear anything out of the ordinary?"

"Yes, Rod. The sound is that of rock moving against

rock. When the frequency of its repetitions is accelerated,

there is a discernible Doppler shift..."

"Coming, or going?"

"Coming—and rather rapidly, I should..."

Trees at the edge of the meadow trembled, and a huge,

dark form came into sight. The silhouette was crudely hu-

man.

Rod was on his feet and darting over to Fess. He yanked

a light out of the pack, aimed it at the dark form, and pressed

the tab. "Gwen!"

Gwen raised her head just as the beam struck the huge

figure.

If it was female, it was a caricature. If it had breasts, it

also had shoulders like a fullback's and arms like a gorilla's.

It did have long fingernails, though—and they glinted dan-

gerously in the actinic glare. Its face was blue. It flinched

at the sudden stab of light, lips drawing back in a snarl—

revealing fangs.

"Black Annis!" Gwen gasped in horror.

The monster froze for a moment, startled by the beam—

and Rod snapped, "Magnus! Cordelia! Wake the babies and

get into the air!"

The elder children snapped out of sleep as though they'd

been jabbed, galvanized by Gwen's mental alarm. Geoffrey

rolled up, sitting, knuckling his eyes and muttering. "Not

a baby! Six!" But Gregory just shot straight into the air.

24 Christopher Stasheff

Then the monster roared, charging, and caught up

Geoffrey with one roundhouse swipe. He squalled, but in

anger, not fright, and wrestled his dagger out of its sheath.

But Rod thundered rage, and the monster rose into the air,

then slammed down onto its back. Geoffrey jabbed the huge

hand with his dagger, and Black Annis howled, dropping

him. He shot into the air, while Rod stalked toward the

horror. Red haze blurred his vision, obscuring all but Black

Annis struggling to its feet in the center of his field of view.

The familiar roaring thundered in his ears, and power thrilled

through every vein. One thought filled him, only one—to

see the creature torn to bits.

Behind him, though, Gwen retreated, keeping her face

toward the monster, pulling Magnus and Cordelia by their

hands, along with her.

The monster floundered to its feet and turned toward

Rod, its face contorted with hate, claws lifting to pounce;

but Rod's arm was raising, forefinger stiffened to focus his

powers.

Gwen's eyes narrowed, and her children squeezed their

eyes shut.

Black Annis exploded into a hundred wriggling frag-

ments.

Rod roared in rage, cheated of his revenge; but Gwen

cried to her two youngest, "Rise and follow!"

For the wriggling fragments kept writhing and, as they

fell to earth, ran leaping away, long-eared and puff-tailed,

fleeing back toward the wood.

Rod clamped his jaw and ran after them.

But Gwen was beside him, pacing him on her broom-

stick, gripping his arm and calling to him through the blood-

haze. Distantly through the roaring, he heard her: "My lord,

it was not real! 'Twas a phantom, made of witch-moss!"

That stung through; for 'witch-moss' was a fungus pe-

culiar to this planet, telepathically sensitive. If a projective

esper thought hard at a lump of it, it would turn into whatever

he or she was thinking about.

Which meant there had to be a projective esper around.

Gwen was tugging at his arm, falling behind. "Softly,

mine husband! Fall back, and wait! If this monster was

made o' purpose, 'tis toward the purposer that these conies

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED      25

we've made from it do flee! Yet if that villain doth take

sight of thee, he'll flee ere we can seize him!"

"I'll blast him into oxides," Rod muttered, but sense

began to poke through his battle-madness.

"A pile of dust cannot tell us what we wish to know!"

Gwen cried, and, finally, Rod began to slow. The master

who had made this monster, was nothing; what mattered

was the one who'd pulled his strings. That was the ogre

who'd threatened Rod's children. "Black Annis eats ba-

bies," he muttered, and the rage began to build again.

"Black Annis is an old wives' tale!" Gwen's voice

whipped, and stung through to him. "In Tir Chlis she did

truly live, mayhap, but not in Gramarye! Here, she's only

crafted out of witch-moss! Here, 'tis a sorcerer who doth

scorn babes!"

Rod halted, trembling, and nodded. "And it's the scor-

cerer we've got to catch—yes! But to find him, we have

to question the minion that sent the monster against us!"

His lips pulled back against his teeth. "That questioning, I

think I'll enjoy!"

Gwen shuddered, and implored, "Hold thyself in check,

I prithee! Knowledge is our goal, not joy in cruelty."

"Just tell me where he is. Who's spotting?... Oh. The

kids." He stilled, listening mentally for his children's call—

and muttering, "Fess, to me. When we need to ride, we'll

need full speed."

The great black horse drummed up beside him, just as

Cordelia's cry came, "Here!"

Rod leaped astride Fess, and they tore off through the

night. The robot's radar probed the darkened landscape, and

Fess hurdled fallen trunks and streams as though he rode a

close-clipped steeplechase course. Gwen swooped above the

trees; but Fess broke from cover as she began her downward

strike.

Her target was a high-walled wagon with a roof. A woman

stood in its open door, silhouetted by candlelight. She darted

a glance at Gwen, then whirled, to stare first toward the

north, and Cordelia, then toward the east, and Gregory, then

toward Geoffrey, then Magnus. She darted back inside,

slamming the door; but she reappeared at the driver's seat,

catching up the reins. Her horses lifted their heads and

26 Christopher Stasheff

turned out into the meadow, pulling the caravan about...

And she stared, appalled, at the horde of rabbits who

filled the meadow—and the great black horse who thun-

dered up behind them.

Then both her arms snapped out straight, fingers point-

ing—The rabbits leaped together, melded, coalesced, me-

tamorphosed—and a lion, wolf, and bear whirled about, to

turn on Rod.

He howled in rage and glee as the blood-haze enfolded

him again, obscuring all but the monsters. They were re-

lease; they were justification for lashing out with his power.

He would blast them; then his path would be clear, to smear

the woman over the meadow grass.

The wolf was gaunt, with eyes of fire, impossibly huge.

The bear, shambling upright, had a human face; and the

lion's mane was flame, its teeth and claws were steel.

Rod hauled on the reins and Fess dug in his hooves,

throwing his weight back, plowing up the meadow in his

halt, as Rod rose in the stirrups, stiffened arm spearing out.

The wolf exploded.

Rod's head pivoted deliberately.

The lion's mane expanded, flame sweeping out to en-

velop its body. But the beast didn't seem to notice; it bounded

on toward Rod, roaring.

Rod's eyebrows drew down, his brow furrowing.

The lion's head whipped around in a full turn and whirled

spinning away. Fess sidestepped, and the body hurtled on

by, to collapse in a writhing heap.

Rod pivoted toward the bear, his sword hissing out of

its sheath; then the beast was on him. A great paw slammed

against the side of Rod's head. For a moment, he was loose

in space, the blackness shot with tiny sparks; then the earth

slammed into his back, and his insides knotted, driving the

breath out of him. But the blood-haze still filled his sight;

he saw Fess rearing up to slam forehooves into the bear's

shoulder. It stumbled, but came on, manlike face contorted

in a snarl.

Rod clenched his jaw, waiting for breath, and glared at

his sword-blade. Flame shot down its tip, billowing outward

as though it were a blowtorch with a three-foot blast.

The bear halted, and backed away, snarling.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED     27

Rod's diaphragm unkinked, and he drew a labored breath,

then thrust himself to his feet, staggering toward the bear.

It threw itself on him with a roar.

He swung aside, squinting against pain, glaring at it. It

flared like magnesium; but it had barely begun its death-

howl when its fires flickered, guttered, and went out. Where

it had stood, only ashes sifted to the ground.

Rod stood alone in the darkness, swaying, as the haze

that filled him darkened, faded, and retreated back within

him. He began to realize that a breeze was blowing...

Fire.

He'd left a burning corpse. The breeze could spread that

flame over all the meadow, and into the woods.

He swung toward the remains of the lion—and saw

Gregory floating near it, ten feet away, staring at the charred

hulk. Even as Rod watched, bits of it were breaking loose,

and moving off through the meadow grass. He turned toward

the bear, and saw Geoffrey turning it into a herd of toy

horses, which galloped toward the wood.

"We cannot leave such large masses of witch-moss whole,"

Gwen's voice said softly behind him, "or the first old aunt,

telling of a frightful tale, will bring it up unwittingly, in

some horrible guise."

"No." The last of the anger ebbed, and remorse rushed

in to fill its place. Rod spoke roughly to counter it. "Of

course you couldn't. What happened to the witch?"

"She fled," Gwen said simply.

Rod nodded. "You couldn't follow her."

"We could not leave thee here, to fight unaided." Cordelia

clung to her mother, watching her father out of huge eyes.

"No." Rod turned to watch his two youngest dismember

the remains of what had been horrors. "On the other hand,

if I hadn't stayed to fight them, you could've just taken

them apart, and still had time to follow her."

Gwen didn't answer.

"Where's Magnus?" Rod sighed.

"He did follow the witch," Cordelia answered.

Air blew outward with a bang, and Magnus stood beside

them. Rod usually found his sons' appearances and disap-

pearances unnerving, but somehow, now, it seemed remote,

inconsequential. "She got away?"

28           Christopher Stasheff

Magnus bowed his head. "She fled into the forest, and

I could no longer see her from the air."

Rod nodded. "And it would've been foolish for you to

try to follow low enough for her to get at you. Of course,

if I'd been following on Fess, it would've been another

matter."

Nobody answered.

He sighed. "How about her thoughts?"

"They ceased."

Gwen stared down at Magnus. "Ceased?" She looked

up, eyes losing focus for a few seconds; then her gaze

cleared, and she nodded affirmation. " "Tis even as he saith.

But how... ?"

"Why not?" Rod shrugged. "I was telephathically invis-

ible for years, remember? Sooner or later, somebody was

bound to learn how to do that whenever they wanted."

"My lord," Gwen said softly, "I think there is more dan-

ger in these Northern witches, than we had thought."

Rod nodded. "And, at a guess, they're better mind read-

ers than we gave them credit for—'cause they certainly

knew we were coming."

Gwen was silent, digesting that.

Rod shrugged, irritably. "Oh, sure, it's possible this one

sorceress has a hatred for tinkers, especially when they come

in families—but, somehow, I doubt that. Conjuring up a

Black Annis for the average wanderer is a bit elaborate,

No, they've spotted us."

He straightened his shoulders and clapped his hands. "All

right, so much for our night's adventure! Everybody back

to bed."

The children looked up, appalled.

"Don't worry, Mommy'11 give you a sleep spell." Gwen's

lullabies were effective projective telepathy; when she sang,