The warlock insane by Christopher Stasheff

High Dudgeon are always incensed?" Rod gave his head a shake.
    "No, what's the matter with me? Of course they are." He shuddered. "A grim and awful keep indeed, Sir Page 57
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    Beaubras! You must not go alone against such a horrible castle!"
    "I cannot ask thee to accompany me into so fell a place, Lord Gallowglass.''
    "You didn't—I volunteered. Unless you think I'll be in the way, of course." The knight turned, a smile making his countenance radiant. "Of a certainty, thou shalt not! Thou art a wizard, art thou not? And assuredly, thou shalt be of most timely aid against this sorceress Aggravate!" Rod hoped he was right.
    The sun was just past noon, and Rod was on the watch for an inn, when Modwis brought them up with a raised hand. They reined in, and the knight frowned. "What stirs, friend?"
    "I mislike the sense of this place." Modwis scowled at the roadway ahead of them. The farmlands narrowed, then gave way to tall, dark oaks and elms that overhung the road. "There have been bandits here in times gone by."
    "Like enough; 'tis well suited to an ambush." Beaubras lifted his head, baring his teeth in a grin. "So much the worse for them, then. How good of thee, Modwis, to find that with which to cheer me! Lord Gallowglass, an there do be bandits, I doubt me not they warrant punishment. What sayest thou?"
    "Mostly surely," Rod said bravely, but his spine crawled with apprehension as they rode under the boughs. He wished he could be as delighted at the prospect of…
    A roar like a score of locomotives let loose at once, and a handful of bandits leaped out from the trees. They were scruffy but stocky, their clothes as ragged and dirty as their weapons were bright. Two of them had halberds; two had swords; one had only a club. But the club was huge and had a spike, and the spike was swooping toward Rod's temple. He ducked, shouting a totally unnecessary warning to his companions. Fess dodged, and between the two of them, he only got hit with the side of the club as it shot past. But the blow hit a lot harder than a five-and-a-half-foot malnourished thug should have been able to manage; Rod flew from the saddle and landed, hard, on his back. It knocked the wind out of him and paralyzed his diaphragm; he struggled to pull in a breath at the same time as he struggled to get up. Fess screamed a threat and warning, and leaped to stand over him, shielding Rod with his own steel body from the ministrations of the club-wielder and a sword-swinger who swerved over to join in. Fess tried to lash out with a front hoof and a back hoof simultaneously, and promptly had a seizure, legs locking stiff over his master, head dropping to swing between his fetlocks. But he had given Rod enough time to thrash his way up on one elbow and get a look at the bandits, through the tears in his eyes. They looked wobbly and out of focus— but they also looked to be moving inside vague, hulking, translucent outlines that were half again as tall as they were, and much more misshapen. Then he blinked away the tears, and saw only bandits again—but the clue was enough.
    "Trolls!" he shouted to his companions. "They're really trolls in disguise!" It was enough for Beaubras. He changed his style of attack on the instant, aiming a ringing blow two feet above the head of the nearest bandit.
    The blow rang indeed, and struck sparks, too. The bandit gave a scream and fell back a pace, shocked. As well he might be. Beaubras's magic blade, Coupetou, had carved a gash out of the troll's granite hide. For all that Rod could see, the sword hadn't come anywhere near the bandit—but a gash had opened in Page 58
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    the air above him, welling bright green ichor, and Beaubras was slashing at it again. Not that Rod had time to look. He had spared a quick glance before he turned to block the next blow, dodging aside from it