The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2 Read online

  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.

  Rod whirled aside, but the wolf managed to change course in mid-air just enough; its teeth ripped Rod's forearm from elbow to wrist.

  The wolf landed and spun about with a howl of joy. It crouched, tongue lolling out, then it sprang again.

  Rod ducked, dropping to one knee, but the wolf checked itself in mid-leap and fell on top of him. Its legs clawed at his chest; the great jaws fumbled for ' on his spine.

  <*ed to his feet, bowing forward and shoving against the wolfs belly with all his strength. The wolf went flying, but its claws had raked Rod's back open.

  The wolf landed on its back, hard, and howled with the pain. It scrambled to its feet and stalked around Rod in a circle, growling with blood-lust.

  Rod pivoted, keeping his face toward the wolf. How do you handle a werewolf?Fess would know, butFess was still out of order.

  The wolf snarled and leaped for Rod's throat.

  Rod crouched low and lunged with his hand stiffened. His fingers caught the wolf right in the solar plexus.

  Rod leaped back, falling into a crouch. The wolf clawed at the ground, struggling to regain its breath as life poured back into its nerves. Rod circled around it, widdershins for luck.

  How do you fight a werewolf?

  Wolfbane, obviously.

  But Rod couldn't tell wolfbane from poison ivy without a botany text.

  The wolf dragged in a long, grating breath and rose into a crouch. It snarled and began to prowl, widdershins around Rod, watching for an opening.

  So much for widdershins, Rod thought, and reversed direction, circling clockwise in an attempt to get behind the wolf.

  The wolf sprang.

  Rod pivoted aside and let fly a right jab at the wolf's jaw; but the wolf caught his fist in its teeth.

  Rod bellowed with pain and kicked the beast in the belly. Fang went down for a breather again, freeing Rod's hand as the toothy jaws gaped for air.

  Silver bullets. But chemical sidearms had been out of vogue for thousands of years, and the DDT had gone off the silver standard quite a while before.

  A crucifix. Rod made a firm resolution to take up religion. He needed a hobby, anyway.

  His furry friend had meanwhile pulled itself back together. Haunches tensed, it sprang.

  Rod sidestepped, but the wolf had apparently counted on his so doing. It landed full on his chest, slavering jaws snapping for Rod's jugular vein.

  Rod fell on his back. He pulled up his legs, planted his feet in the wolfs belly, and shoved, catapulting the canine clear of his corpus. The wolf fell hard and squirmed, getting its feet under its body.

  What else didn't werewolves like?

  Garlic.

  Rod circled around the wolf, fumbling in his purse for the garlic sausage left over from dinner.

  The wolf spread its jaws wide and hacked a cough.

  Rod munched a mouthful of sausage.

  The wolf came to its feet with an ugly, very determined growl. It tensed and sprang.

  Rod caught the beast under the forelegs, staggering back under the weight of its body, and breathed full in its face. He dropped the wolf and sprang away.

  The wolf rolled, spitting and coughing, drew in a shuddering gasp, and collapsed.

  Its form stretched, relaxed, and slowly stretched again—and a tall, lean wiry man lay naked,face down, in the grass, unconscious body heaving with great panting breaths.

  Rod sank to his knees. Saved by garlic sausage!

  Grass whispered by his knee; he looked into the smiling eyes of Robin Goodfellow.

  "Return with us if you will, Rod Gallowgrass, for our paths are yours, to walk at your pleasure, now."

  Rod smiled wearily. "He might have killed me," he said, with a nod at the unconscious werewolf.

  Puck shook his head. "We looked on, and would have prevented death to either of you; and as for your wounds, why! we shall quickly have them mended."

  Rod rose, shaking his head in disbelief.

  "Then, too," said Puck, "we knew you to be a warlock of such potency that you could defeat him… if you were a white warlock."

  "Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "What if I wasn't? What if I was black?"

  "Why, then," Puck said, grinning, "you would have leagued with him against us, and sought to fight loose of the prison."

  "Urn." Rod gnawed at his lower lip. "Wouldn't that have put you in" a rather delicate position?"

  "Nay." Puck grinned again. "The magic of a score of elves has never yet been equaled by two warlocks."

  "I see." Rod rubbed his chin. "Hedged your bets, didn't you? But you couldn't let me know, of course. As long as I was in the dark, fighting the werewolf proved I was one of the good guys?"

  "Partly."

  "Oh? What's the other part?"

  "Why, Rod Gallowglass, there were several times when you had rendered the werewolf helpless, but you did not kill him."

  "And that shows I've got a good heart."

  "That," Puck agreed, "and also that you are sure enough of your own power that you dare be merciful. And there is proof that you are white, but greater proof that you are a warlock."

  Rod squeezed his eyes shut. With exaggerated patience, he said, "Of course, it might just be that I'm a trained fighter."

  "It might," Puck agreed, "but it was by sorcery that you overcame him."

  Rod took a deep breath. "Look," he said carefully, "I am not a warlock. I have never been a warlock. I never want to be a warlock. I'm just a mercenary soldier who happens to know a few tricks."

  "Assuredly, Master Warlock," said Puck cheerfully. "Will you come back to the cavern? We shall guide you forth to your inn."

  "Oh, all right," Rod grumbled.

  But he turned to look at the miserable collection of bone and sinew that was the sleeping werewolf, lying in the center of the glade.

  "Master Gallowglass?" Puck's voice was puzzled, disturbed. "What troubles you?"

  Rod shook his head, coming out of his reverie. "Nothing," he said, turning away. "Just wondering."

  "What of, warlock?"

  "They used to call me a lone wolf when I was a schoolboy… Never mind. Which way did you say the cavern was?"

  The stars wheeled toward dawn as Rod stumbled, footsore and weary, across the inn-yard and into the stable.

  A s
ingle candle-lantern lit the row of stalls, serving only to deepen the shadows.

  Rod flung an arm across Fess's back to steady himself, his other hand groping across the robot's withers till he found the enlarged vertebra that was the reset switch. He pressed; the steel body stirred under its horsehair camouflage. The velvet black head lifted, shook twice, turned to look back over its shoulder, great brown eyes focusing on Rod. The robot was silent a moment; then the voice behind Rod's ear spoke with a touch of reproach:

  "You have left me inactive a long time, Rod. I have no aftereffects from the seizure."

  "Sorry, old iron." Rod kept his arms across the horse's back; his legs felt a trifle wobbly. "I was on my way to reset you when I got clobbered."

  "Clobbered!" Fess's voice writhed with shame. "While I slept! May my casing lie forever corroding on the junkpile! May my germanium be consigned to the Converter for reclamation! May my—"

  "Oh, stow it!" Rod growled. "It wasn't your fault." He stepped away from the horse, straightening his shoulders. "I wasn't in any real danger, anyway. Just a busy night, that's all."

  "How so, Rod?"

  Rod started to answer, then changed his mind. "I'll tell you in the morning, Fess."

  "I have reoriented my circuits to accept the discrepancies between accepted theory and actual occurrence, Rod. You may confide in me without fear of overload."

  Rod shook his head and turned to stumble out of the stall. "In the morning, Fess. You might be able to believe it right now, but I'm not sure I could."

  Rod sat down to a whopping breakfast, but he was on a starvation diet compared to Big Tom. The man was surrounded by unbelievable stacks of food.

  Some of it was familiar to Rod—the eggs, pancakes, and ham. The 'cakes had a subtly alien flavor, though, and the eggs had three inch yolks. There was some sort of grain on any human-inhabited planet, usually a descendant of Terran cereals; but the soil of another planet sometimes produced weird variations in the grain. There was always some sort of domesticated fowl; but more often than not it was a local life-form. Hogs, of course, were ubiquitous; they were found on Terran planets even more consistently than dogs. Rod sometimes wondered about his species.

  The food was all digestible, of course, and probably nourishing: genetic drift couldn't change human metabolism all that much. But trace elements were another matter; Rod swallowed an all-pupose pill just to be on the safe side.