The Warlock in Spite of Himself

If Fess's guess was right, and the House was backed by an off-planet power, they definitely might suspect something—never mind how.

But wasn't Rod letting his paranoia show again?

He was wide awake, every muscle tense. He sighed and rolled out of bed; he couldn't sleep now. Better reset Fess and have a talk. Rod needed the robot's electronic objectivity; he had very little of his own.

Big Tom stirred and wakened as Rod lifted the rusty door latch.

"Master? Where dost thou go?"

"Just got a little worried about my horse, Big Tom. Think I'll run down to the stables and make sure the hostler's treating him right. Go back to sleep."

Big Tom stared a moment.

"Certes," he said, "thou'rta most caring one, master."

He rolled over and burrowed his head into the folded cloak he used for a pillow. "To be so much concerned for a horse," he muttered, and snored again.

Rod grinned and let himself out of the room.

He found a stairway a few paces away—dark and musty, but closer to the stables than the main door.

There was a door at the bottom of the stair, one that was not very often used; it groaned like a bullfrog in heat when he opened it.

The inn-yard was flooded with the soft, golden light of the three moons. The largest was only a little smaller than Terra's, but much closer; it filled a full thirty degrees of sky, a perpetual harvest moon.

"Great planet for lovers," Rod mused; and, because his eyes were on the moon, he didn't notice the gray strand of cord stretched a little above the doorstep. He tripped.

His arms swung up, slapping the ground to break his fall. Something hard struck the back of his head, and the world dissolved in a shoal of sparks.

There was a ruddy glow about him, and a throbbing ache in his head. Something cold and wet moved over his face. He shuddered, and came wide awake.

He lay on his back; a limestone roof vaulted over him, glimmering with bits of captured light. Pinch-waisted limestone columns stretched from the roof to a green carpet—stalactites and stalagmites joined. The green carpet stretched away in all directions for at least a mile. He was in a vast underground cavern. The light seemed to come from everywhere, a dancing, wavering light, setting the sparks in the ceiling into an intricate ballet.

The green carpet spread under him; he could feel it, cold and springy, damp, under his back: moss, three inches thick. He tried to put out a hand to touch the moss, and discovered that he couldn't move his arms or legs. Lifting his head, he looked for ropes binding him, but there was not so much as a thread.

He shook his head, trying to get the ache out of it so he could think clearly.

"Fess," he muttered, "where am I?"

There was no answer.

Rod bit his lip. "Come on, iron horse! Are you asleep at the switch?"

Switch…

Fess had had a seizure. Rod had been en route to reset him.

Rod was on his own.

He sighed and lay back on the green moss carpet.

A deep voice began singing, off to his right. Rod looked.

A fire fluttered in a bare stone circle. A tripod stood over it, supporting a cauldron—a covered cauldron, bubbling merrily, with a tube leading from a hole in the cover. Drops of water fell from the roof, striking the tube; and a beaker sat under the far end of the tube, collecting drops.

A primitive still.

And a moonshiner, a moonshiner perhaps eighteen inches high, very broad-shouldered and generally stocky, clad in doublet and hose. He had a round, cheerful face, twinkling green eyes, a snub nose, and a very wide mouth curved in an impish smile. To top it off, he wore a Robin Hood hat with a bright red feather.

The green eyes looked up and caught Rod's. "Ha!" said the little man in a buzzing baritone. "Tha'rt come to thy senses, warlock!"

Rod scowled. "Warlock? I'm not a warlock!"

"To be sure," said the little man, "tha'rt not. Thou comest in a falling star, and thou hast a horse made of cold iron…"

"Just a minute, there," Rod interrupted. "How'd you know the horse was made of cold iron?"

"We are the Wee Folk," said the little man, unperturbed. "We live by Oak, Ash, and Thorn, by Wood, Air, and Sod; and those who live by cold iron seek the end of our woodlands. Cold iron is the sign of all that cannot abide us; and therefore we know cold iron, no matter what form or disguise it may be in."

He turned back to the kettle, lifting the lid to check the mash. "Then, too, thou canst hear what is said a good half mile off; and thy horse can run as silent as the wind and faster than a falcon, when it has cause to. But tha'rt not a warlock, eh?"

Rod shook his head. "I'm not. I use science, not magic!"

"Assuredly," said the little man," and a rose by any other name… Nay, tha'rt a warlock, and as such tha'rt known already throughout the length and the breadth of Gramarye!"

"Gramarye? What's that?"

The little man stared in surprise. "Why, the world, warlock! The world we live in, the land between the Four Seas, the realm of Queen Catharine!"

"Oh. She rules the whole world?"

"Certes," said the elf, giving Rod a sidelong glance.

"And the name of her castle? And the town around it?"

"Runnymede. In truth, tha'rt a most untutored warlock!"

"That's just what I've been trying to tell you," and Rod sighed.

The little man turned away, shaking his head and muttering. He opened a pippet on the collection beaker and drained some of the distillate into a shot-glass-sized mug.

Rod suddenly realized he was very thirsty. "Uh, say—what're you brewing up there? Wouldn't be brandy, would it?"

The elf shook his head.

"Gin?Rum?v4gwa Vitae ?"

"Nay; 'tis spirits of another sort." He bounced over to Rod and held the miniscule mug to the man's lips.

"Thanks." Rod took a sip. He looked up at the roof, smacking his lips. "Tastes like honey."

"Where the wild bee sucks, there suck If" The little man hopped back to the fire.

"Not bad at all. Could you spare the recipe?"

"Aye, assuredly." The elf grinned. "We would do aught within our power for a guest."

"Guest!" Rod snorted. "I hate to impugn your hospitality, but immobilizing me isn't exactly what I'd call a welcome."

"Oh, we shall make amends ere long." The little man lifted the cauldron lid and stirred the mash.

Something clicked in Rod's mind. The hairs at the base of his skull began to prickle.

"Uh, say, uh…I don't belive we've been introduced, but… your name wouldn't be Robin Good-fellow, would it? Alias Puck?"

"Thous speakest aright." The elf replaced the lid with a clang. "I am that merry wanderer of the night."

Rod fell back onto the moss carpet. It'd make a great story to tell his grandchildren; nobody else would believe it.

"Say, Puck—you don't mind if I call you Puck?"

"Oh, nay."

"Thanks, uh… I'm Rod Gallowglass."

"We ha' known it."

"Well, just thought I'd make it official. Now, you don't seem to spare me any particular ill-will, so, uh, may I ask… uh… why am I paralyzed?"

"Ah, that," said Puck. "We must find if you are a white warlock, or black."

"Oh." Rod chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. "If I'm a white warlock, you'll, um… let me go?"

Puck nodded.

"What happens if you decide I'm a black warlock?"

"Then, Rod Gallowglass, you shall sleep till the Trump of Doom."

Rod felt as though a weak electric current had been applied to his jaw. "Great. The Trump of Doom. And I never was much good at bridge."

Puck frowned. "How…?"

"Skip it. 'Sleep till the Trump of Doom.' A very neat euphemism. Why don't you just come right out and say you'll kill me?"

"Nay." Puck thrust his lower lip out, shaking his head. "We would not kill you, Rod Gallowglass. Thou shouldst but sleep forever, and with pleasant dreams."

"I see. Suspended animation?"

Puck's brow wrinkled. "I know not that word. Yet rest assured, thou shalt not be suspended. The Wee Folk have no fondness for a hanging."

"Well, I suppose that's something of a comfort. So how do I prove I'm a white warlock?"

"Why," said Puck, "by our enlarging you."

Rod stared. "How's that again?

"Aren't I big enough already?"

The elf's face split into a broad grin. "Nay, nay! Enlarging you! Removing the spell that binds you!"

"Oh." Rod lay back with a sigh of relief. Then he jerked back up. " Freeing me? That's going to prove I'm a white warlock?"

"By itself, no," said Puck. " 'Tis a question where we free you."

He clapped his hands. Rod heard the scurrying of scores of small feet coming from behind him; a fold of dark cloth was drawn over his eyes, knotted behind his head.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Peace," said Puck. "We do but bear you forth to your freedom."

A host of tiny hands lifted Rod. He resigned himself and lay back to enjoy the trip.

It was a rather pleasant way to travel, actually—like an innerspring mattress with four-wheel drive.

His feet tilted up higher than his head and the pace of the scuttling feet under him slowed—they were mounting an incline.

Damp night air struck his face; he heard the breeze sighing in the leaves, accompanied by a full complement of crickets, with an owl and maybe a curlew providing the harmony.

He was dropped unceremoniously; the blindfold was whipped from his eyes.

"Hey!" he protested "What do you think I am, a sack of potatoes?"

He could hear a stream gurgling off to his left.

"Tha'rt free now, RodGallowglass," Puck's voice husked in his ear. "May God be with you!" And the elf bounded away.

Rod sat up, flexing his limbs to make them realize they could move gain. He looked about.

It was a moonlit forest glade, with a silver stream trickling past on the left. The trees were bright steel trunk and tinsel leaf, and black shadow among the trunks.

One of the shadows moved.

It stepped forward, a tall figure in a dark, hooded monk's robe.

Rod scrambled to his feet.

The figure moved slowly toward Rod, halted ten feet away, and threw back the hood.

Wild, disordered hair over a long, thin face, with hollows under the cheekbones and caves for eye sockets, with two burning coals at their backs—and the whole face twisted, curdled with bitterness.

The voice was flat and thin, almost a hiss. "Are you, then, so tired of life that you come to a werewolf's cage?"

Rod stared. "Werewolf!"

Well, why not! If elves were a basic assumption…

Then Rod frowned. "Cage?" He looked around. "Looks like the great outdoors to me."

"There is a wall of magic around this grove," hissed the werewolf. " Tis a prison the Wee Folk have made me—and they do not feed me in my proper fashion."

"Oh?" Rod looked at the werewolf out of the corner of his eye. "What's your proper fashion?"

"Red meat." The werewolf grinned, showing a mouthful of canines. "Raw, red meat, and blood for my wine."

Something with lots of cold little feet ran down Rod's spine.

"Make peace with your God," said the werewolf, "for your hour has come."

Fur appeared on the backs of his hands, and his fingernails grew, curving outward. Forehead and cheeks sprouted fur; nose, mouth, and chin slipped together and bulged, tapering outward to a muzzle. His ears moved upward to the top of his head and stretched into points.

He flung off the dark cloak; his whole body was silvery fur, his legs had become haunches.

He dropped to all fours. His upper arms shortened and his forearms lengthened; his hands had become paws. A tail sprouted and grew into a long, silvery plume.

The silver wolf crouched close to the earth, snarling, growling low in its throat, and sprang.