The warlock insane by Christopher Stasheff Page B
Authors: Christopher Stasheff
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy
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hearts of others to God's grace, Lord Gallowglass. Yet whether they do or not, we can but do our part, and be merciful toward fallen foes."
Rod had it on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. This was, after all, his grandfather's universe, and a realm of complete fantasy. Here it was quite possible that bloodthirsty monsters could be reformed and recruited. In fact, wasn't there a story, in his childhood, of the giant Blunderthud, who became one of the Four Kings' most ardent supporters?
He sighed and turned away to grope beneath Fess's saddle for the reset switch, then in one of the saddlebags for the medical kit. As he knelt beside a moaning troll, a thought of reality intruded for a moment, and he seemed to see a genuine peasant rolling in agony, not a troll. Then the moment was gone, and the troll was back.
Shaken, Rod sponged up ichor and sprinkled in antiseptic powder. He pressed down firmly as the troll roared and tried to rise, murmuring, "Yes, I know it hurts, but that's the medicine burning up all the nasty little germs that would try to give you gangrene and make your arm fall off. Just hang in there, and the pain will fade."
Suddenly, he was very glad that Beaubras had been such a stickler about chivalry. If his flash of insight was accurate, he was treating a human being, and the troll was only a hallucination. Or was the troll real, and the peasant a hallucination? He went to reset his horse. "Fess?"
"Uhhaaaeee… chadd… uh seizurrre, Rrrrodd?"
"Yeah, you did." He'd have to wait a little while for the truth; it took Fess's perceptions a few minutes to clear.
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When they were back on the road, the moaning trolls staggering to their feet behind them, Rod asked, under his breath, "What did we fight back there, Fess?"
"Five peasants, Rod—though they were remarkably tall and well fed for Gramarye field hands."
"Futurians?" Rod wondered. "What're they doing here?"
"More probably local agents brought up by the Futurians. But high-technology intervention is quite likely—the heads of those halberds were strangely free of the slightest trace of rust, and the shafts were tipped with lenses."
"Lasers?" Rod frowned. "Good thing they didn't get a chance to use them." Then the shocking thought hit—if Beaubras wasn't really there, who had finished off that one bandit, and wounded the other two?
Fortunately, Modwis spoke up before Rod could try to answer that question, and Modwis was real—within limits. "Sir and lord, trolls own little magic, and assuredly cannot change their shapes." Beaubras and Rod were both silent, digesting the point. Then Beaubras said, "Thou speakest sooth, good Modwis. What dost thou infer from this impossibility?''
"Why, that a sorcerer must have aided them."
"The Lady Aggravate?" Rod asked.
"More likely the crazed old sorcerer who set silver snares for me, and caught thee in glamours—the wicked Saltique."
Rod tried that one on for size, and didn't like the fit. "What's he got against us, anyway?"
"Mayhap he doth see the future," Beaubras said slowly, "and doth know that we shall be his bane."
"He doth fear us for some reason, that's certain," Modwis qualified, "and doth seek to prevent our coming to his lair."
Beaubras grinned, with a toss of his head. "Why, then, let us not dispute his sagacity, my companions!
Ride, for the death of sorcerers!" And he kicked his horse into a trot. Modwis and Rod had perforce to hurry to keep up with him.
"Do I detect a certain lack of logic there?" Rod sub-vocalized.
"If you do, your perceptions are fallacious," Fess assured him. "Modwis's logic is correct, the more so since he is careful to state his inference as a hypothesis. It is Beaubras who leaps to the conclusion that what Modwis infers must be fact."
"Yes, Beaubras was never in doubt," Rod said with a sardonic smile. "But you don't think there really is a genuine sorcerer involved
Rod had it on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. This was, after all, his grandfather's universe, and a realm of complete fantasy. Here it was quite possible that bloodthirsty monsters could be reformed and recruited. In fact, wasn't there a story, in his childhood, of the giant Blunderthud, who became one of the Four Kings' most ardent supporters?
He sighed and turned away to grope beneath Fess's saddle for the reset switch, then in one of the saddlebags for the medical kit. As he knelt beside a moaning troll, a thought of reality intruded for a moment, and he seemed to see a genuine peasant rolling in agony, not a troll. Then the moment was gone, and the troll was back.
Shaken, Rod sponged up ichor and sprinkled in antiseptic powder. He pressed down firmly as the troll roared and tried to rise, murmuring, "Yes, I know it hurts, but that's the medicine burning up all the nasty little germs that would try to give you gangrene and make your arm fall off. Just hang in there, and the pain will fade."
Suddenly, he was very glad that Beaubras had been such a stickler about chivalry. If his flash of insight was accurate, he was treating a human being, and the troll was only a hallucination. Or was the troll real, and the peasant a hallucination? He went to reset his horse. "Fess?"
"Uhhaaaeee… chadd… uh seizurrre, Rrrrodd?"
"Yeah, you did." He'd have to wait a little while for the truth; it took Fess's perceptions a few minutes to clear.
Page 60
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
When they were back on the road, the moaning trolls staggering to their feet behind them, Rod asked, under his breath, "What did we fight back there, Fess?"
"Five peasants, Rod—though they were remarkably tall and well fed for Gramarye field hands."
"Futurians?" Rod wondered. "What're they doing here?"
"More probably local agents brought up by the Futurians. But high-technology intervention is quite likely—the heads of those halberds were strangely free of the slightest trace of rust, and the shafts were tipped with lenses."
"Lasers?" Rod frowned. "Good thing they didn't get a chance to use them." Then the shocking thought hit—if Beaubras wasn't really there, who had finished off that one bandit, and wounded the other two?
Fortunately, Modwis spoke up before Rod could try to answer that question, and Modwis was real—within limits. "Sir and lord, trolls own little magic, and assuredly cannot change their shapes." Beaubras and Rod were both silent, digesting the point. Then Beaubras said, "Thou speakest sooth, good Modwis. What dost thou infer from this impossibility?''
"Why, that a sorcerer must have aided them."
"The Lady Aggravate?" Rod asked.
"More likely the crazed old sorcerer who set silver snares for me, and caught thee in glamours—the wicked Saltique."
Rod tried that one on for size, and didn't like the fit. "What's he got against us, anyway?"
"Mayhap he doth see the future," Beaubras said slowly, "and doth know that we shall be his bane."
"He doth fear us for some reason, that's certain," Modwis qualified, "and doth seek to prevent our coming to his lair."
Beaubras grinned, with a toss of his head. "Why, then, let us not dispute his sagacity, my companions!
Ride, for the death of sorcerers!" And he kicked his horse into a trot. Modwis and Rod had perforce to hurry to keep up with him.
"Do I detect a certain lack of logic there?" Rod sub-vocalized.
"If you do, your perceptions are fallacious," Fess assured him. "Modwis's logic is correct, the more so since he is careful to state his inference as a hypothesis. It is Beaubras who leaps to the conclusion that what Modwis infers must be fact."
"Yes, Beaubras was never in doubt," Rod said with a sardonic smile. "But you don't think there really is a genuine sorcerer involved
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