The Warlock in Spite of Himself

They watched from the rooftop as the chanting mob poured out the south gate. Somehow, by means of the chant, Tuan had gotten them moving in good order, almost marching.

"Do you think he needs any help?" Rod murmured.

Tom threw back his head and guffawed. "Him, master? Nay, nay! Rather, help those who come up against him, with that army at his back!"

"But only one man, Tom! To lead two thousand misfits!"

"Canst doubt it, master, when thou hast seen his power? Or didst thou not see?"

"Oh, I saw." Rod nodded, light-headed. 'There's more witchcraft in this land than I thought, Big Tom. Yes, I saw."

"Waken the Queen, and beg of her that she join us here in her audience chamber!" Brom snapped at a hastily-wakened lady-in-waiting. "Go!"

He slammed the door and turned to the fireplace, where Rod sat with a bleary-eyed Toby, rudely awakened after only an hour o sleep; the nightly party in the Witches' Tower had run a little late tonight. He held a steaming mug in his hand and a throb in his head.

"Assuredly," he muttered thickly, "we wish to aid the Queen in any manner we may; but what aid would we be in a battle?"

"Leave that to me." Rod smiled. "I'll find something for you to do. You just get the Queen's Witches down to Breden Plain by… uh…"

"Three days hence." Brom smiled. "We march at dawn, and will be three days in our journey."

Toby nodded, hazily. "We shall be there, my masters. And now, with your leave…"

He started to rise, gasped, and sank back in his chair, hand pressed to his head.

"Easy there, boy!" Rod grasped an elbow, steadying him. "First hangover?"

"Oh, nay!" Toby looked up, blinking watery eyes.

" 'Tis but the first time I've been wakeful when the drunk turned to the hangover. If you'll pardon me, masters…"

The air slammed at their eardrums as it rushed in to fill the space where Toby had been.

"Uh…yes," Rod said. He shook his head and eyed Brom. "Teleportative, too?"

Brom frowned. "Tele-what?"

"Uh…" Rod closed his eyes a moment, cursing the slip of the tongue. "I take it he's just gone back to bed."

"Aye."

"He can disappear from here and reappear there?"

"Quick as thought, aye."

Rod nodded. "That's what I thought. Well, itoughta come in handy."

"What wilt thou have them do, RodGallowglass?"

"Oh, I dunno." Rod waved his mug airily. "Conjure up feathers inside the Southern knights' armor, maybe. Or something like that, good for a joke. They'll just die laughing."

"Thou knowest not what thou'lt be having them do, yet thou would bring them?"

"Yeah, I'm beginning to think a little witchcraft can come in handy at times."

"Aye." Brom smiled covertly. "She hath saved your life twice over, hath she not?"

Rod swung about. "She? Who? She who, huh? What're you talking about?"

"Why, Gwendylon!" Brom's smile absorbed mischief.

"Oh, yes! Uh… you know of her?" Rod raised a cautious eyebrow; then he smiled, relaxing. "No, of course you'd know of her. I forget; she's on pretty good terms with the elves."

"Aye, I know of her." Brom's eyebrows pinched together. "Nay, but tell me," he said, almost anxiously, "didst thou love her?"

"Love her?" Rod stared. "What the hell business is that of yours?"

Brom waved a hand impatiently." Tis of concern to me; let it pass at that. Dost thou love her?"

"I won't let it pass at that!" Rod drew himself up with a look of offended honor.

"I am Prince of the Elves!" Brom snapped. "Might I not have concern for the most powerful witch in all Gramarye?"

Rod stared, appalled. "The most… what ?"

Brom smiled sourly. "Thou didst not know? Aye, Rod Gallowglass. 'Tis a most puissant wench thou hast grappled with. Therefore, do you tell me:dost thou love her?"

"Well, uh, I, uh…I don't know!" Rod sat, cradling his head in his hands. "I mean, uh, this is all so sudden,I, uh…"

"Nay, nay!" Brom growled impatiently. "Surely thou must know if thou lovest!"

"Well, I mean, uh… well, no, I don't know! I mean, that's a subject that it's a little hard to be objective about, isn't it?"

"Thou dost not know?" Thunderclouds gathered in Brom's face.

"No, damn it, I don't!"

"Why, thou fool of a puking babe, thou mock of a man! Dost thou not know thine own heart?"

"Well, uh, there's the aortic ventricle, and, uh.

"Then how am I to know if thou lovest her?" Brom thundered.

"How the hell should I know?" Rod shouted. "Ask my horse!"

A quivering page thrust his head in, then came quivering into the room. "My lords, her Majesty the Queen!"

Brom and Rod swung about, bowed.

Catharine entered in a dressing gown of the royal purple her loosened hair a pale, disordered cloud around her head. She looked very tired, and scarcely wakened.

"Well, milords," she snapped, seating herself by the fire, "what great news is it makes you waken me at so slight an hour?"

Rod inclined his head toward the page. The boy paled, bowed, and left.

"TheHouse of Clovis is up, into arms, and away," Rod informed her.

She stared, lips parting.

"They have boiled out of the south gate, and this very night run south toward Breden Plain."

Catharine's eyes closed; she sank back in her chair with a sigh. "May Heaven be praised!"

"And Tuan Loguire," Rod murmured.

Her eyes opened, staring. "Aye. And Tuan Loguire," she said reluctantly.

Rod turned away, running his hand over the mantle. "They must be sent food and drink, so that they will not strip the countryside as they pass. And a courier must ride ahead to tell soldiers to let them pass."

"Aye," she said grudgingly, "surely."

Her eyes wandered to the fire. "And yet it is strange, that they who have ever raised their voices in clamor against me, now should fight for me," she murmured.

Rod looked at her, his smile tight and ironic.

"Tuan…" she murmured.

Brom cleared his throat and stumped forward, hands locked behind his back. "And this very night," he growled, "have I spoken with the King of the Elves; all his legions are ours."

She was her old self again, smiling sourly. "Legions of elves, Brom O'Berin?"

"Oh, don't underestimate them." Rod rubbed the back of his head, remembering a clout on the skull and a prisoned werewolf. "And to top it off, we've got your own personal coven of witches…"

"… and the most powerful witch in all Grama-rye," Brom interjected.

"Uh,yes, and her," Rod agreed, with a shish-kebab glance at Brom. "All ready and eager to serve the only ruler in history who has protected witches."

Catharine's eyes had slowly widened as she listened; now her eyes took on a distant look, and wandered to the fire. "We will win," she murmured. "We will win!"

"Well, uh, with all due respect to your Majesty, uh, it might be a trifle more correct to say we stand an even chance."

Breden Plain was a delta, open to the south but closed on the north by the meeting of two rivers. A dense thicket of trees ran along each river, bordering the field. The field itself was tall grass and lavender.

Not that they could see much of it, Rod thought as he squatted by a campfire. A thick, chill mist covered the field; at least Rod, who had seen something of civilized smog, would have called it a mist; but Tuan, chafing his hands across the fire from Rod, shook his head and muttered, "A most dense and unclement fog, Master Gallowglass! 'Twill weigh heavily on the spirit of the troops!"

Rod cocked an eyebrow at him and listened to the sounds of revelry drifting over the field from the beggars' pickets. The witches were at it, too; the usual party had started at noon today, out of respect for the weather.

His shoulders shrugged with a snort of laughter. "Well, don't let it worry you, Tuan. The precog—uh, witches, say it'll be a beautiful, sunny day, tomorrow."

"And St. George be praised, we will not have to fight until then!" Tuan drew his cloak about him, shivering.

The latest word from Brom's miniature spies— whom Rod had immediately dubbed the Hobgoblin Associated Reconnaissance Korps—was that the Southern troops were just half a day away. Catharine had arrived with Brom and her army the preceding evening, and the beggars had been resting a full day already. They were, in fact, so primed and ready that Tuan was having a little trouble holding them in check; they were all for marching south and attacking the noblemen on the run.

"Still," said Rod, tugging at his lip, "I don't see why we should wait for morning to do the fighting. We could ambush them tonight, when they're drawing up their troops."

"Attack at night!" Tuan gasped, horrified.

Rod shrugged. "Sure, why not? They'll be tired from a day's march, and won't know where we are. We'd stand a much better chance of winning."

"Aye, and you would stand a better chance of killing a man if you kicked at his head while he was down!"

Rod sighed and forebore saying that he had once done exactly that, when the man was one of five excellently trained, seasoned killers who'd ambushed him. As a matter of fact, he'd fought dirtier than that with a lot less justification; but this didn't seem quite the time for telling it.

He did say, "I thought the point in fighting was to win."

"Aye," Tuan agreed, staring out into the fog toward the south end of the meadow, "but not by such foul means. Who would be loyal to a Queen who maintained her power thus?"

And that, Rod admitted, was the kernel of it. Prestige was everything on this world; and honor was the cornerstone of prestige.

"Well," he sighed, "you're the doctor."

Tuan frowned at him. "Doctor? I have no skill in healing."

"No, but you're an excellent practical psychologist. So I'll follow your lead when it comes to handling people."

Tuan smiled sadly, shaking his head. "FriendRod, I have no skill at ruling."

Rod allowed himself a skeptical look. "Well, maybe not, but you're one hell of a leader."

"Ho!" a voice bellowed.

Rod turned and grinned at the huge shape that loomed in the fog. "Everyone happy over there?"

Big Tom shouldered his way out of the mist, grinning. "Most happy, master. They've ne'er in their lives drunk such wine, or so much of it."

"Hmmm." Rod tugged at his lip. "Better roll the wine away in a little while. We don't want them drunk so soon before battle."

But, "Nay," Tuan corrected, almost automatically, Rod noticed. "Let them drink their fill; 'twill put them abed sooner. Then rouse them early in the morning and give each a tankard or two—then they'll fight like the very demons."

Well, Rod had to allow that was true. They weren't asking precision from the beggars, just wanted them to get out and beat up the enemy.

The night was pricked with the pinholes of watch-fires, softened by the lifting mist.

More dots of light sprang up to the south, where the noblemen and councillors were bringing up their army.

In the northern meadow, there was bawdy laughter and shouting, and the din of music, where the beggars were in the last stages of gleeful compliance with the order to get drunk as fast as possible.

On the hillside across the river there was a stern, disapproving silence, and the gentle glow of lamps within silken tents, where Catharine and her army of regulars went sober to bed.

But in the largest tent, Catharine's, things were anything but quiet.

"Nay, nay, and again I say nay!" she cried, angrily pacing the floor.

She swung about, clapping her hands sharply. "I shall have no more of your arguments! Have done, have done; for I will ride tomorrow at the head of my armies! I shall brook no further objection!"

Rod and Brom exchanged glances.