The Warlock in Spite of Himself

There was a moment's silence; then a voice called, "What was that?" Then, "Eh, you there! Egbert! Rouse yourself, sot, and have a mind for the stairs you're guarding!"

"Eh? Wot? Wozzat?" muttered a bleary, nearer voice; and, "What fashes ye?" grumbled a deeper, petulant voice from the fireplace. "Must ye wake me for trifles?"

There was a pause; then the first voice said, with a note of obsequiousness, " 'Twas a noise, Captain, a sort of a knock 'mongst the tables."

"A knock, he says!" growled the captain. "A rat, mayhap, after the leavings, nowt more! Do ye wake me for that? Do it more, an' thou'lt hear a loud knock indeed, a blow on thy hollow head." Then the voice grumbled to itself, "A knock, i' faith! A damned knock!"

Then there was silence again, then a muted clang as one of the sentries shifted his weight uneasily.

Rod let out a sigh of relief, slow and silent.

He waited for the sentry to start snoring again.

Then he wormed his way forward again, till at last he lay quiet under the table nearest the stairway.

It seemed he lay there for a very long time.

There was a piercing whistle from the fireplace, and a clatter as Big Tom overturned a stool in his charge.

Rod sprang for his man.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tuan leap upright, his sling a blurred arc; then Rod crashed into the sentry, fist slamming at the midriff, left hand squeezing the throat.

The man folded. Rod chopped at the base of the skull lightly, just under the iron cap, and the sentry went limp.

He looked up just in time to see a sentry on the balcony sag to the floor. The other lay writhing on the stones, hands clasped at his throat.

Rod was up the stairs in five leaps. He landed a haymaker on the man's jaw. The man's eyes closed as he went under.

His larynx was pushed out of line. It was not a pretty sight.

But at that, he'd been lucky. If it had been a direct blow, his trachea would have been crushed.

His companion hadn't been so lucky. The pebble had crushed his forehead. Blood welled over his face and puddled to the floor.

"Forgive me, man," whispered Tuan, as he contemplated his handiwork. Rod had never seen the boy's face so grim.

"Fortunes of war, Tuan," he whispered.

"Aye," Tuan agreed, "and had he been my peer, I could dismiss it at that. But a man of my blood is intended to protect the peasants, not slay them."

Rod looked at the boy's brooding face and decided it was men like the Loguires who had given aristocracy what little justification it had had.

Tom had glanced once and turned away to bind the remaining man, his face thunderous.

There had been only the one casualty; the captain and stair-guard lay securely trussed with Tom's black thread.

Tom came up, glowering at Tuan. " 'Twas well done," he growled. "You took two of them out, and were able to spare the one; tha'rt braw fighter. And for the other, do not mourn him: thou couldst scarce take the time for better aim."

Tuan's face was blank in confusion. He couldn't rightly object to Tom's manner; yet it was disquieting to have a peasant offer him fatherly advice, and forgiveness.

Rod gave him an out. "You used to sleep there?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door the sentries had guarded.

He broke through Tuan's abstraction; the youth turned, looked, and nodded.

"Well, that's where the Mocker'll be, then." Rod looked up at Tom. "That captain downstairs was one of the Mocker's cadre?"

"Aye."

"That leaves two lieutenants, then. How's chances for one of them being in each of these rooms next to the Mocker's?" As Tom pulled at his lower lip and nodded , Rod went on: "One for each of us, then. You boys take the lieutenants. I'll take the Mocker."

He turned to the door. Big Tom's meaty hand fell on his shoulder.

"How now?" growled the big peasant. "How is the Mocker your meat, not mine?"

Rod grinned. "I'm the middleman, remember? Besides, what belt do you hold?"

"Brown," Tom admitted.

"And the Mocker?"

"Black," Tom answered reluctantly. "Fifth dan."

Rod nodded. "I'm black, eighth dan. You take the lieutenant."

Tuan frowned. "What is this talk of belts?"

"Just a jurisdictional dispute; don't worry about it." Rod turned to the center door.

Big Tom caught his arm again. "Master," and this time he sounded like he meant it. "When this is done, thou must teach me."

"Yeah, sure, anything. I'll get you a college degree, just let's get this over with, shall we?"

"I thank thee." Tom grinned. "But I've a doctorate already."

Rod did a double take, then stared at him. "In what?"

"Theology."

Rod nodded. "That figures. Say, you haven't come up with any new atheist theories, have you?"

"Master!" Tom protested, wounded. "How can one prove or disprove the existence of a non-material being by material data? 'Tis an innate contradiction of—"

"Gentlemen," said Tuan sarcastically, "I greatly dislike to interrupt so learned a discourse, but the Mocker awaits, and may shortly awake."

"Huh?Oh! Oh, yes!" Rod turned to the door. "See you in a few minutes, Big Tom."

"Aye, we must have further converse." Tom grinned and turned away to the right-hand door.

Rod eased his own door open, hands stiffened.

The door creaked. It groaned. It shrieked. It lodged formal protest.

Rod threw himself forward, having just time to realize that the Mocker had left his hinges carefully unoiled as a primitive but very effective burglar alarm, before the Mocker screamed "Bloody Murder!" and jumped from his bed, hands chopping.

Rod blocked an overhand blow and thrust for the solar plexus. His hand was skillfully rerouted, the Mocker's scream for help dinning in his ears.

Rod had just time to appreciate the humor of a black belt calling for help before he saw the kick smashing at his groin.

He leaped back, and the Mocker leaped after him. This time, the kick landed.

Rod rolled on the floor, curled around his agony.

He saw the foot aimed at his jaw and managed to turn his head aside just enough; the foot glanced off the side of his head.

He saw a shower of red asterisks, glowing against black, and shook his head frantically, trying to clear it.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard another scream, suddenly cut off, then a thud; then Big Tom was bellowing, "Thy sling, Tuan! There'll be guards to answer that scream!"

Then the big man was bending over him, face close. "How bad art thou hurt, master?"

Rod had never known stale beer and onions could smell so good.

"I'm all right," he gasped. "The blow landed a little off-center, thank heaven!"

"Canst thou stand?"

"In a minute. Gwen may be in for a temporary disappointment, though. How'd you do it, Big Tom?"

"Caught his foot on the upswing," Tom grinned, "and threw him high. Then I got in an uppercut ere he landed."

Rod stared. "A what?"

"An uppercut. A haymaker."

Rod rolled over, got his knees under him, shook his head in amazement. " 'Uppercut takes out Black Belt.' Call the newspapers."

There was a cry outside, choked off suddenly.

Rod's head snapped up, listening. Then he stumbled to his feet, hands still pressed to his groin, and all but fell out the door, ignoring Big Tom's solicitous protests.

Three more bodies lay on the stone floor of the common room.

Tuan stood at the balcony rail, sling stretched tight between his hands, jaw clamped shut, bleak dismay in his eyes.

"First the one came," he said in a monotone, "then the other, then the third. The first two I dispatched ere they could cry; but on the third, I was tardy." Tuan turned back to the hall. After a moment, he said, slow and hard, "I do not like this killing."

Then his vision cleared.

"Huh." Rod nodded, gasping, as a brief spasm of nausea made him clutch at the railing. "No man worthy to be called a man does like it, Tuan. Don't let it worry you. It's war."

"Oh, I ha' slain before." Tuan's lips pressed thin. "But to slay men who three days agone drank my health…!"

Rod nodded, closing his eyes. "I know. But if you have any hope of being a king, Tuan, or even a good Duke, you've got to learn not to let it bother you."

He looked up at the boy. "Besides, remember— they'd have killed you if they could."

Tom came out on the balcony, carrying the trussed-up Mocker in his arms, like a baby.

He looked briefly at the common room; his face hardened. "More killing?"

He turned away, laying the Mocker carefully on the floor next to the prone bodies of his lieutenants, and sighed. " Ay de mi ! But 'tis the times, and the fashion ."

He bent to the work of binding up one of the lieutenants, a tall, emaciated skeleton of a man with a scar where he should have had an ear, a souvenir of royal justice.

Rod looked, and nodded; the Mocker had chosen his confederates well. They had cause for hating the monarch.

Rod slowly straightened, wincing at the pain.

Tuan glanced at him. "Thou ought to seat thyself and take rest, Rod Gallowglass."

Rod pulled in a sharp, quick breath and shook his head. "It's just pain. Hadn't we better cart these three down to the dungeon?"

A gleam sparked in Tuan's eye. "Nay. Bind them and keep them here; I have uses for them."

Rod frowned. "What do you mean, uses ?"

Big Tom held up a hand. "Do not ask, master. If Tuan has need of them, let him have them. This lad knows his craft; I ha' ne'er seen, and but rarely heard, of any man who could so sway the mob."

He turned and leaped down the stairs, checked for heartbeats in the fallen men, bound up the one that still lived, and dragged them all under the balcony. Then he caught up the their lieutenant from the hearth, slung him over a shoulder.

"Tom!" Tuan called, and the big man looked up.

"Bring that horn that hangs o'er the mantle, and the drum beside it!" Tuan called.

Tom nodded and took down the battered, curled hunting horn from its nail and plucked one of the rude drums—nothing more than an empty cask with hide stretched over each end—from its place on the mantle.

Rod frowned, perplexed. "What do you want the drum and bugle for?"

Tuan grinned. "Canst play at the horn?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly qualify for first chair in the Philharmonic, but…"

"Thou'lt do," said Tuan, eyes dancing.

Big Tom bounded back up the stairs with the Mocker's lieutenant over one shoulder and the trumpet and drum over the other.

He dropped the instruments and laid the bound man by his companions.

He straightened, fists on hips, grinning. "Halloa, my masters! What would you have us do with 'em, lordling?"

"Do thou take the drum," said Tuan, "and when I give the word, hang these four from the balcony rail, but not by their necks. Tis far more to our credit we've taken them living."

Rod cocked an eyebrow. "Not that old wheeze about being powerful enough to be merciful?"

He didn't hear the answer, because Tom started pounding the drum. The tenor throbbing filled the room.

Rod caught up the horn.

Tuan grinned, jumped up on the rail, stood with feet wide apart and arms folded. "Summon them, Master Gallowglass," he shouted.

Rod set the mouthpiece to his lips and blew "Reveille."

It sounded rather weird on a hunting horn, but it had its effect. Before he was halfway through with the second chorus, the hall had filled with beggars, muggers, lame, one-armed, thieves and cutpurses and murderers .

Their muttering, surf and wind before a storm, filled the hall as an undercurrent to the drum and horn. They were fresh-woken, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-brained, hurling a thousand incredulous questions at one another, shaken and cowed to see Tuan, whom they had jailed, standing tall and proud in the hall he'd been exiled from.