Stasheff, Christopher - Warlock 2 - The Warlock Enraged

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This book is an Ace Science Fiction original edition,

and has never been previously published.

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED

An Ace Science Fiction Book/published by arrangement with

the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace Science Fiction edition/December 1985

Cover art by Stephen Hickman

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-87340-5

Ace Science Fiction Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For some time now, I've been getting worried about the

steadily increasing number of hopeful historians on this Isle

of Gramarye. There weren't any when I came here—none

that I was aware of, anyway. Then Brother Chillde started

keeping his chronicles, and, first thing I knew. there were

five more just like him. Not that this is all bad, of course—

Gramarye'II be much better off if it has an accurate record

of its history. What bothers me is that each one of these

young Thucydideses is conveniently forgetting all the events

that make his own side look bad, and definitely overdoing

it more than a bit, about the happenings that make his side

look good. I'm mostly thinking of the Church here, of course,

but not exclusively—for example, I know of one young

warlock who's taken to keeping a diary, and a country lord's

younger son who's piling up an impressive number of jour-

nals. So, in an effort to set the record straight, I'm going

to set down my version of what happened. Not that it' II be

any more objective, of course; it'll at least be biased in a

diff-

" 'Tis my place, Delia!"

"Nay, Geoffrey, thou knowest 'tis not! This end of the

shelf is mine, for the keeping of my dolls!"

" 'Tis not! I've kept my castle there these several weeks!"

2 Christopher Stasheff

Rod threw down his quill in exasperation. After three

weeks of trying, he'd finally managed to get started on his

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history of Gramarye—and the kids had to choose this mo-

ment to break into a quarrel! He glared down at the page...

And saw the huge blot the quill had made.

Exasperation boiled up into anger, and he surged out of

his chair. "Delia! Geoff! Of all the idiotic things to be

arguing about! Gwen, can't you..."

"Nay, I cannot!" cried a harried voice from the kitchen.

"Else thou'lt have naught but char for thy.... Oh!" Some-

thing struck with a jangling clatter, and Rod's wife fairly

shrieked in frustration. "Magnus! How oft must I forbid

thee the kitchen whiles I do cook!"

"Children!" Rod shouted, stamping into the playroom.

"Why'd I ever have 'em?"

"Di'nit, Papa." Three-year-old Gregory peeked over the

top of an armchair. "Mama did."

"Yeah, sure, and I was just an innocent bystander.

Geoffrey! Cordelia! Stop it!"

He waded into a litter of half-formed clay sculptures,

toys, and pieces of bark twisted together with twigs and bits

of straw that served some fathomless and probably heathen

purpose known only to those below the age of thirteen.

"What a mess!" It was like that every day, of course. "Do

you realize this room was absolutely spotless when you

woke up this morning?"

The children looked up, startled, and Cordelia objected,

"But that was four hours ago. Papa."

"Yeah, and you must've really worked hard to make a

mess like this in so short a time as that!" Rod stepped down

hard—into a puddle of ocher paint. His foot skidded out

from under him; he hung suspended for a split second, arms

thrashing like the wings of a dodo trying to fly; then his

back slammed down to the floor, paralyzing his diaphragm.

For an instant of panic, he fought for breath, while Cordelia

and Geoffrey huddled back against the wall in fright.

Then Rod's breath hissed in and bounced back out in a

howl of rage. "You little pigs! Can't you even clean up after

yourselves!"

The children shrank back, wide-eyed.

Rod struggled to his feet, red-faced. "Throwing garbage

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 3

on the floor, fighting over a stupid piece of shelf space—

and to top it off, you had the gall to talk back!"

"We didn't... We..."

"You just did it again!" Rod levelled an accusing fore-

finger. "Whatever you do, don't contradict me! If I say you

did it, you did it! And don't you dare try to say you didn't!"

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He towered over them, a mountain of wrath. "Naughty,

stupid, asinine brats!"

The children hugged each other, eyes huge and fright-

ened.

Rod's hand swept up for a backhanded slap.

With a crack like a pistol shot, big brother Magnus ap-

peared in front of Cordelia and Geoffrey, arms outspread to

cover them. "Papa! They didn't mean to! They..."

"Don't try to tell me what they were doing!" Rod shouted.

The eleven-year-old flinched, but stood up resolutely

against his father's rage—and that made it worse.

"How dare you defy me! You insolent little..."

"Rod!" Gwen darted into the room, wiping her hands on

her apron. "What dost thou?"

Rod whirled, forefinger stabbing at her. "Don't you even

try to speak in their defense! If you'd just make your children

toe the line, this wouldn't happen! But, oh no, you've got

to let them do whatever they want, and just scold them, and

that's only when their behavior's really atrocious!"

Gwen's head snapped back, stung. "Assuredly, thou'rt

scarce mindful of what thou sayest! 'Tis ever thou who dost

plead leniency, when I do wish to punish..."

"Sure, when!" Rod glared, striding toward her. "But for

the thousand and one things they do that deserve spanking,

and you let them off with a scold? Use your head, woman—

if you can!" His gaze swept her from head to toe, and his

lip lifted in a sneer.

Gwen's eyes flared anger. "'Ware, husband! Even to

thine anger, there doth be a boundary!"

"Boundaries! Limits! That's all you ever talk about!" Rod

shouted. '"Do this! Do that! You can't do this! You can't

do that!' Marriage is just one big set of limits! Will you

ever..."

"Peace!" Magnus darted between them, holding out a

palm toward each. "I prithee!" His face was white; he was

Christopher Stasheff

4 oniioiu^nu. _.__

trembling. "Mother! Father! I beg thee!"

Rod snarled, swinging his hand up again.

Magnus stiffened; his jaw set.

Rod swung, with his full weight behind it...

... And shot through the air, slamming back against the

wall.

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He rolled to his feet and stood up slowly, face drained

of color, rigid and trembling. "I told you never to use your

'witch powers' on me," he grated, "and I told you why!"

He straightened to his full height, feeling the rage swell

within him.

Geoffrey and Cordelia scurried to hide behind Owen's

skirts. She gathered Magnus to her, but he kept his face

toward his father, terror in his eyes, trembling, but deter-

mined to protect.

Rod stared at them, all united against him, ready to pick

him up with their magic and hurl him into his grave. His

eyes narrowed, pinning them with his glare; then his eyes

lost focus as he reached down inside himself—deep down,

reaching across an abyss—to the psi powers that had lain

so long dormant, but which had been awakened by the

projective telepathy of Lord Kem, in another universe, one

in which magic worked. His powers weren't as readily ac-

cessible as his family's; he couldn't work magic just by

willing it, as easily as thinking, but once he'd drawn them

up, his were at least as great as theirs. He called those

powers up now, feeling their strength build within him.

"Mother," came Magnus's voice, across a huge void,

"we must..."

"Nay!" Gwen said fiercely. "He is thy father, whom thou

dost love—when this fit's not on him."

What did that mean! The powers paused in their build-

ing...

A smaller figure entered his blurred field of vision, to

the side and a little in front of the family group, gazing up

at him, head tilted to the side—three-year-old Gregory.

"Daddy is'n' there," he stated.

That hit Rod like a bucketful of cold water; the complete,

calm, sanity of the child's tone—so open, so reasonable—

and the totally alien quality of the words. His eyes focused

THE WARLOCK ENRAGED 5

in a stare at his youngest son, and fear hollowed his vitals—

fear, and a different anger under it; anger at the futurians

who had kidnapped him and the rest of his family away

from this child while Gregory was still a baby. The deser-

tion, Rod feared, had totally warped the boy's personality,

making him quiet, indrawn, brooding, and sometimes, even

weird. His gaze welded to Gregory's face, his fear for Gregory

burying his anger at the rest of the family; it ebbed, and

was gone.

"Who's not there?" he whispered.

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"Lord Kem," Gregory answered, "that Daddy like thee,

in that Faerie Gramarye thou'st talk of."

Rod stared at him.

Then he stepped closer to the boy. Magnus took a step

toward Gregory, too, but Rod waved him away impatiently.

He dropped to one knee, staring into the three-year-old's

eyes. "No... no. Lord Kem isn't anywhere—except, maybe,

in his own universe, that Faerie Gramarye. But why should

you think he was?"

Gregory cocked his head to the other side. "But didst

thou not, but now, reach out to touch his mind with thine

own, to draw upon his powers?"

Rod just gazed at the boy, his face blank.

"Gregory!" Gwen cried in anguish, and she took a step

toward him, then drew back for Rod still knelt staring at

the child, his face blank.

Then he looked up at Gwen, with an irritated frown.

"What am I—a bear? Or a wolf?" He raked the children

with his glare. "Some kind of wild animal?"

They stared back at him, eyes huge, huddled together.

His face emptied again. "You think I am. You really

think I am, don't you?"

They stared back, wordlessly, eyes locked on him.

He held still, rigid.

Then he swung up to his feet, turning on his heel, and

strode to the door.

Cordelia darted after him, but Gwen reached out and

caught her arm.

Rod paced out into the bleakness of a day veiled by

clouds. A chill wind struck at him, but he didn't notice.

6 Christopher Stasheff

• • •

Rod finally came to a halt at the top of a hill, a mile

from home. He stood, staring down at the broad plain below,

not really seeing it. Finally, he sank down to sit on the dry

grass. His thoughts had slowed in their turmoil as he walked;

now, gradually, they sank away, leaving a blank in his mind.

Into that, a niggling doubt crept. Softly, he asked, "What

happened, Fess?"

The robot-horse answered, though he was a mile away

in the stable. Rod heard him through the earphone embedded

in his mastoid process, behind his ear. "You lost your tem-

per, Rod."

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