Christopher Stasheff - Warlock 11 - The Warlock Rock

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The Warlock Rock by

Christopher Stasheff

Chapter One

"Praise Heaven!" Cordelia sighed. She may have been overdoing the

sigh a little, but Alain had managed to sneak back to their table to join

them, and he was very handsome, in addition to being a crown prince.

Cordelia was fourteen, and noticing such things with great interest these

days. "Praise Heaven that Mama hath given it to the Lord Abbot!"

"Given what?" Prince Alain watched the High Table, where the

Gallowglass children's mother was slipping off a thick chain that held a

massive pendant.

She was thirty feet away, for the children sat at a side table, and the

Great Hall was seventy-five feet long by fifty wide, which may not be

gigantic, but was big enough for the ceiling and the corners to be lost in

shadow when the Hall was lit only by torches along the walls, and candles

on the tables—and, of course, the great fireplace in the north wall. In the

centers of the walls, though, there was enough light to make the lions and

dragons on the tapestries seem to jump out at you, and the knights in

their shining armor seemed much brighter, and the damsels much fairer,

than they ever could by daylight.

But Lady Gwendolyn Gallowglass seemed the fairest of all—at least, to

her children's eyes—as she held out the pendant to the Lord Abbot. As he

took it, Lady Gallowglass flipped the cover open, and the grown-ups all

gasped. Small wonder; even from ten yards' distance, Alain could see the

glow of the stone. "What is it?"

"Tis a circuit… ouch!" Geoffrey Gallowglass swore, grasping at his shin.

" Tis a rock that Father hath made," his sister Cordelia explained to

Alain.

"Say rather, 'found' or 'cut'," said Diarmid, Alain's little brother. "A

man doth not 'make' a rock."

"Speak of what thou knowest, sprat!" Alain scolded, and Gregory, the

littlest Gallowglass, said helpfully, "Papa doth. Thou canst, too, if thou

dost mix the right potion. Make a brine so salty it doth become thick, then

hang a twine in it—and in some days, thou wilt see rocks of salt growing

on it."

Diarmid stared; if Gregory said it, it had to be true.

Geoffrey managed to get his mind off his shin long enough to think of

revenge. He glared at Cordelia, and was just starting to speak when

something jolted him back. It was his older brother Magnus, hauling him

aside to whisper frantically in his ear.

"Salt rocks, but not rough," Cordelia agreed. "They are faceted as

sweetly as the finest jewel."

Alain frowned. "And thy father thus made that blue stone?"

"Aye," said little Gregory, "though 'twas a good deal more of a coil in

the brewing."

"Certes," said Alain. " 'Tis a jewel, after all, not a lump of salt."

"Yet it seems," said Cordelia, "that it was not what he meant it to be."

Geoffrey returned to the table, sulky but silent. Magnus sat down beside

him.

"What did he mean to make?" Diarmid asked.

"An amulet," said Cordelia, "that would give any who wore it magical

powers."

Alain could only stare.

"Havoc!" Diarmid said instantly. "There would be no law, no order!

Every man's hand would be turned against his neighbor!"

"Thou dost see to the heart of it," Gregory said, impressed. "Still,

friend, if all were witches, would not the world remain as it is? The strong

would rule, the good folk would obey."

Diarmid furrowed his brow, trying to find the flaw.

" 'Tis of no matter." Magnus waved the point away. "Papa's rock did

not what he wished; when he bade a plowman wear it and seek to work

magic, naught did hap. 'Tis what it did when Papa wore it himself, that

was the trouble."

"What trouble?" Diarmid asked; and,

"What did it do?" Alain demanded.

"He set it in a circlet," said Cordelia, "and wore it on his forehead

whiles he tried to uproot a sapling that was growing too near the house."

"Could not thy father do that without the jewel?" Diarmid asked.

"Aye, so he gave it only the merest thought—but naught did hap. So he

thought harder, then as hard as he could— and still the tree stood."

Alain stared. "The stone locked up his magic?"

"Nay," said Geoffrey, coming alive at last, "for when he thought his

hardest, the sky grew dark."

"Dost thou remember that sudden rain that did drench us a fortnight

agone?" Gregory asked.

"It was a totally new psi power," Rod Gallowglass explained, "new to

me, anyway. I mean, I'd heard of rainmakers before, and I still think it's

just another form of telekinesis…"

"But it was not the form thou didst wish at the moment." The Abbot set

the stone down on the table and took his hands from it.

"That is the point," Rod agreed. "Of course, I took it off right away and

came inside—and I made sure I put it in the safest place I could think of,

before I went to dry off."

Father Boquilva glanced at Gwen, but forbore to ask what that "safest

place" had been. "Then other than making the locket to hold it, thou hast

done naught with it since?"

"Nothing," Rod said firmly, "and Gwen was very careful with her magic

while we considered what to do."

"And what hast thou decided?" Queen Catharine asked.

"That I won't try any more experiments," Rod answered.

"Wise, until we are sure what thou hast wrought." The Abbot closed the

locket's cover gingerly. Father Boquilva watched him, looking rather pale

and a little green around the gills.

"Then," Gwen said, "we did concur that we should ask thee to take it to

thy monks at the monastery, who make a practice of investigating such

things, that they may decide if it is a thing of no use—or ill use alone."

Rod nodded. "If it's more trouble than benefit, please destroy it. Only

don't tell me you did," he said as an afterthought. "I was rather proud of

it…"

"It is indeed an immense accomplishment." The Abbot picked up the

amulet—warily, by the chain—and slipped it into a pocket hidden inside

his robe. "We shall do as thou dost ask—and my monks will use all possible

care, I assure thee. By good fortune, I've little enough of the Power myself,

so it should be safe with me as I take it back to the monastery. Which I

will do straightaway"—he turned to the King—"if thou wilt lend me some

few knights and men-at-arms to ward me as I ride."

"That will I, and right gladly," Tuan returned.

That was when the zombies walked in.

Well, they didn't walk, actually—they danced. And a queer, stilted,

stiff-legged sort of shuffle it was—but when the dead dance, you don't ask

them to be graceful. In fact, you don't ask them anything. You run.

Which most of the courtiers and ladies did, with a single unified

scream. They pushed away from the tables and backed up, hands out to

ward off the macabre things. Tables crashed over, platters and ewers fell

bouncing, and men shoved their wives and sweethearts behind them,

pulling out their swords and daggers with that sick sort of look that said

they knew it wouldn't do any good. Magnus pushed his two little brothers

and his sister behind him, of course, but Geoffrey ducked back out in an

instant, his sword drawn also, and Cordelia dodged around to his

left—only to jar into the back of Alain, who was insisting on being

protective, too. By way of saving face, she caught Diarmid and Gregory to

her and spat, "Lean aside! I must see!"

"Look, but meddle not." Somehow, her mother was there, right behind

her. Cordelia noticed that Gwen didn't try to get out in front of her

sons—after all, Magnus was seventeen now, and a young man—but she

knew that they were as well protected as though Gwen had.

Then the music caught her attention.

It was a jangly sort of sound that had a beat that kept thumping where

you didn't expect it to, a Jighthearted, carefree sort of melody that made

her want to dance, in spite of the gruesome pavane before her.

Magnus too was deciding that it really wasn't all that bad, once you got

used to it. In fact, if they weren't so stiff-jointed and dry-looking, he might

not have been able to tell the zombies from living people at first. They

wore winding-sheets draped for modesty, and their skin had

darkened—but their empty eye sockets were alive with sparks of light, and

they grinned with delight, not rigor mortis. They clapped and sang,

occasionally yelling something all together, though he couldn't make out

the words, and some of them held rocks which they clicked in unison with

that odd, off-beat rhythm.

"Calypso," Rod was telling Tuan. "It's definitely calypso."

"What?" said Father Boquilva. "The nymph who entranced Ulysses and

his crew?"

"No, the form of music. It's from ancient Terra."

"Yet how came it here?" Tuan demanded.

Rod shrugged. "How are they making the music at all? I don't see any

instruments."

The zombies all yelled a word in unison again.

The Abbot frowned. "Now I comprehend what they have said—but it

means naught."

"Jamboree!" the zombies cried again.

"It's a sort of a party," Rod explained. "A very big party."

Tuan stepped forward, holding his sword out. "Mayhap Cold Iron…"

"No." Rod stayed the king with a hand on his forearm. "Only salt will

waken zombies—but you have to put it in their mouths, and make it stay

there. Then they'll run back to their graves—but it's very dangerous for

anybody who happens to be in the way."

"It matters not," Catharine said, tight-lipped. "They leave."

Leaving they were, in a shuffling procession, clacking their rocks

together, snapping their fingers, clapping their hands, chanting the words

that the courtiers couldn't understand, punctuated now and again with

that shouted word, "Jamboree!"

Their singing faded; finally, they were gone. The whole of the Great Hall

stood in silence for a few minutes.

Then ladies collapsed onto benches, sobbing, and their gentlemen

turned to comfort them. Cordelia stood rigid, determined not to cry, and

Gwen was watching Diarmid and Gregory with concern—but Diarmid was

only grave, as he always was, and Gregory was fascinated.

"Come!" Alain cried. "Papa will say what to do!"

But as they approached the High Table, Tuan was saying to the priests,

"What was it we spoke of all day? A hodgepodge of hedge-priests, who we

thought might become a danger because they praised the life of poverty

and chastity?"

Rod nodded. "Somehow they don't seem all that pressing all of a

sudden."

"Indeed not." Catharine saw Gwen, and heaved out a sigh that seemed

to loosen every joint. "What can it mean, Lady Gallowglass? Whence came

they?"

But Gwen could only spread her hands and shake her head. "From their

graves, Majesty. Yet who hath raised them, I cannot say."

"Nor why they sent them here." Tuan began to frown.

"Oh, that is easily said!" Catharine snapped. "They have sent them to

afright the Crown and the Court, look you, and even now they dance out

through the town, like as not to send the citizens of our capitol screaming

in terror."

Tuan turned, snapping his fingers, and a guardsman appeared by his

side. "Tell Sir Maris I would have a troop of guards follow those

spectres—but stay at a distance, and do naught but watch till they have

fled the town."

"Yet if any are hurted in their fright," Catharine said quickly, "aid

them."

The guardsman bowed and turned away, but the look on his face said

that he was considering a career change.

"Fright is all that would hurt them," Tuan agreed. "Yet a fright of this

sort will have the whole land clamoring to the Crown, to banish these fell

revenants." He looked up at the Abbot. "And what can the Crown do?"

The Abbot was silent a moment, then said, "I shall consult with my

monks."

"Naught, then." Tuan turned back to Catharine. "And the people shall

see their monarchs powerless. This is the purpose."

"To hale us down," Catharine said, white-lipped. "Will they never be

done? Will they never leave us in peace?"

"Never," Rod said, "for your land and your people are far too important,

Your Majesties."

Catharine thawed a little, and there was a glimmer of gratitude in her

eyes. She didn't ask to whom she and her people were important; she and

her husband had wormed as much of that as they could from the Lord

Warlock, and Catharine wasn't sure she wanted to know any more.

But Tuan was another matter. "Who are the 'they' she doth speak of?"

"Why, the ones who raised the zombies," Rod hedged.

"And who did that, Papa?" Gregory asked.

"Nice question." Rod looked down at his youngest, trying not to let his

exasperation show. "Got any ideas, Gregory?"

"A sorcerer," said Diarmid.

"Fair guess." Rod nodded. "Which sorcerer?"

Gregory shook his head. "We do not know enough to guess, Papa."

"Then," said Catharine, "I prithee, go learn."

Chapter Two

"Because the Queen said, 'Go learn,' that's why." Rod tightened the

cinch on Fess's saddle.

"It seems to me, Rod, that you take virtually any excuse to go on a

journey these days." Rod picked up the great black horse's voice through

an earphone imbedded in his mastoid process. Of course, he could have

heard the robot without it, now that Fess had figured out how to transmit

in the family telepathic mode—but the earphone didn't demand any

concentration.

"Well, true," Rod conceded, "so long as Their Majesties are paying

expenses." He grinned wickedly. "Sometimes even if they're not. But it cuts

down on the explanations when it's official."

"Still, you are pursuing a manifestation that resembled walking

corpses. Do you truly think it is safe to bring the children along?"

Rod stopped with the saddlebags over his arm and ticked off points on

his fingers. "One: There was absolutely no sign of violence from the cold

ones. In fact, they seemed remarkably good-natured. Two: None of my

children showed much in the way of fear at the sight of them. Three: Do

you really think we could get them to stay behind, if we tried?"

"Not unless Gwen did"—the horse sighed—"and she does seem to have

her mind set on the expedition."

"And if she thinks it's safe enough for them to go, then it's safe."

"I concede the point." Fess sighed, again. "Still, as the children's tutor, I

must protest this interruption in their studies."

"Who said anything about stopping the homework? I'm sure you can

find time for a lecture or two." Rod slung the saddlebags over Fess's back,

led him out of the stable, and turned back to close and bolt the door.

"There is small need for that, Lord Warlock," said a small voice from

the tussock of grass beside the building. "We shall ward thy cot and barn

well in thine absence."

Rod inclined his head gravely toward the tussock. "I thank you,

brownie. Simply a matter of responsible behavior—I shouldn't task you

any more than is necessary. Oh, and I left the bowl of milk inside."

"We ha' known of it," the invisible manikin replied. "Godspeed, Lord

Warlock."

"I thank you, Wee Folk," Rod called out, then turned away to join his

wife and children, where they waited with their packs.

Gwen looked askance at him, then turned to watch the children. Rod

didn't need to read her mind to know she was wondering about the

wisdom of letting Fess try to lecture about mathematics when the children

had clearly decided they were on holiday. For his part, Rod was beginning

to think it wasn't such a hot idea, either, especially from the degree of

ruddiness in Geoffrey's countenance.

"Such a deal of parabolas and hyperbolas and tangents!" the boy finally

exploded. "What matter they to a warrior?"

"They will matter greatly," Fess responded, "if you lay siege to a castle."

Geoffrey stared at him. "How?"

"Excellent question. How do you aim a catapult, Geoffrey?"

"Thou dost point it at the castle, and loose!" The boy spread his hands.

"And if the rock falls short of the wall?"

Geoffrey expanded, delighted to talk about something he knew. "Thou

dost bring the catapult closer."

"But the castle's archers will make pincushions of your men if you come

too close," Fess pointed out.

"Why, then," Geoffrey said, disgusted, "one doth make a stronger

catapult."

"Good enough. But let us say that you make it too strong, and the rock

sails over the castle wall and into the bailey."

" 'Twill do some damage…"

"But it will not breach the wall. You could tilt it, though."

"Catapults do not tilt." Geoffrey scowled, suspecting a trick.

"Then you must invent one that does."

"Wherefore?" Geoffrey protested. "What good would it do?"

"Why not make a catapult, and show them?" Rod suggested.

Whatever Fess's answer was, it was drowned out by Geoffrey's cheer. He

and Gregory set about gathering sticks and creepers, and in ten minutes'

time had lashed together a serviceable imitation of a catapult, while

Cordelia and Magnus watched with indulgent smiles, trying not to look

interested.

Fess said, with resignation, "Load the catapult, Geoffrey. "

"Aye, Fess!" The boy snatched a three-inch pebble from the ground,

placing it into the cup at the end of the catapult's throwing arm.

"Aim it at that large oak tree at the side of the road ahead," Fess

instructed.

"'Tis the thickest for a rod's walk." Magnus grinned. "An thou canst not

hit that, brother, I shall have to fetch thee an oliphant."

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