Startled, Sterren stared at him. “Buzzing?” he said.
“Humming, buzzing, something like that. It’s not really a sound, it’s a source, a mental sensation, like the whisper, but this one isn’t a voice, isn’t an intelligence at all, it’s a mindless drone, like a beehive or a millstone. And... well, have you ever lived somewhere where you hear some unpleasant noise constantly, a loud one? It gives you a headache.” He sighed. “But after a while, you get used to it and, in time, you don’t even notice it any more. I expect that eventually I won’t notice this any more. At present, I’m still constantly aware of it, but my head doesn’t hurt.”
Sterren nodded.
He thought he understood the analogy the warlock made and had an idea what it must feel like, but he had no idea what could be causing the buzzing the warlock described.
But then, nobody knew what the Aldagmor Source was, either. Presumably there was another, different one somewhere near Semma, one that had never created its own magicians the way the Aldagmor Source had back in 5202, but which warlocks could perceive.
“If it’s like the Source,” he asked, “can you draw Power from it?”
The warlock looked at him, startled. “I have no idea,” he said. “I haven’t been able to so far; it doesn’t offer Power the way the Source does. But it... I don’t know.”
He chopped his words off short and stopped speaking.
Sterren decided not to push the matter. He peered over the farmhouse ridgepole and said, “I think they’re getting ready to load. It looks like pitch. A ball of pitch. I suppose they’ll light it right before they release.”
The warlock stared. “Yes,” he said.
“Can you crack the beam?”
The warlock didn’t answer; Sterren glanced over and saw his jaw clenched with strain, his eyes narrowed.
Sterren shaded his eyes with a hand and stared at the trebuchet. Was the beam starting to bend a little more than it should, perhaps?
He shifted, squinted, and stared harder.
The catapult exploded. One moment it was there, the crosspiece bending only slightly; and the next instant the entire superstructure was gone, lost in a spreading cloud of red-hot debris. The great wooden bucket of stones that served as the counterweight crashed to the ground and shattered, the ball of pitch burst into flame and rolled back onto the crew that had just loaded it, and the framework simply vanished in the burst of glowing fragments. The earth shook, and a tremendous rolling roar reached the two men on the rooftop.
Sterren gaped and clung desperately to the thatch as the building swayed beneath him.
A long moment later, burning splinters began to rain down about him, spattering onto the thatch. The scent of burning reached his nose, and he began sliding quickly backward down the slope.
He stopped at the edge and looked back up the slope.
The warlock was still lying there on the roof, but nothing touched him; fragments that might have struck him instead swerved aside as they approached.
“Gods,” Sterren said, “What happened?”
The warlock turned and grinned down at him, by far the broadest smile Sterren had ever seen on that dour face. “Can’t you guess?” he said. “It was your idea, you know.”
Sterren shook his head.
“I’ve tuned into the buzzing; I’m drawing Power from it. I’m as powerful as I ever was!” He rose upright, in a totally unnatural manner; his hands and knees never moved, but his body simply swung up unsupported. Once standing, he lifted further, up into the air. His black robe spread into great flapping wings, and he laughed triumphantly. “Sterren,” he called, “there are no voices! It’s just Power, nothing but Power!” He laughed again, and thunder rolled overhead.
The warlock looked up at the sound, and, without warning, a bolt of lightning flashed down and incinerated the remaining fragments of the catapult.
The lightning was not the natural blue-white; it was a fiery orange-red. Warlock lightning. Sterren had heard of it, but never seen it.
Another bolt struck off to the left, destroying another catapult; then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and the enemy’s long-range arsenal was gone.
The wind was rising, and Sterren decided that a roof was not a good place to be. He was unsure how completely the warlock was actually controlling this sudden storm and did not care to risk a miscalculation, or even a deliberate attack, since after all, he hardly knew the warlock. He slid down until his feet caught on the ladder they had used to climb up, then descended quickly.
Thunder boomed again, and this time even the thunder was clearly unnatural, it was great rolling laughter.
It was recognizably the warlock’s voice.
He hurried around the corner of the house and was in time to see the wind sweeping soldiers off their feet, knocking them flat to the ground.
The wind stopped, and the braver Ksinallionese — Sterren had learned the different uniforms and could see no Ophkarites on this side of the castle — got to their feet again.
The thunder-voice spoke again, in words this time.
“Go home!” it roared, “This land is under the protection of Vond the Warlock! To stay here is to die!”
Then, again, laughter rolled across the plain.
Sterren saw the enemy milling in confusion at first; then a mounted officer panicked and spurred his horse to a gallop, bound north toward Ksinallion.
Panic spread like a wave through the besiegers, rippling out from that fleeing lieutenant, and in minutes the entire army was in full flight, pursued by howling unnatural winds.
Their morale had been deteriorating for days, men dying mysteriously, explosive booby traps scattered about, strange figures flying overhead invulnerable to arrows. This supernatural storm and voice like an angry god was more than these frightened soldiers could take. Individually or in groups, they broke and ran, bound for their homes.
Sterren did not blame them in the least for running. He stood and watched, smiling happily, as the storm swept on around the castle, driving the besieging army away from every side.
He had won the war. He and his six magicians had defeated fifty times their number. He was safe from execution by either side. In fact, he would be a hero to the Semmans.
He looked up at the warlock, hanging in mid-air, his black robe transformed into immense black wings that gave him the appearance of a hovering hawk, and waved triumphantly.
Vond, as the warlock had called himself, returned the wave. Thunder rumbled about him, and clouds gathered thickly overhead, ready to burst.
Sterren looked at the distant castle. The inhabitants had a celebration coming. They were saved.
At least, Sterren corrected himself, they were saved from Ophkar and Ksinallion. He supposed they would now have to deal with Vond, he would presumably want to stay here permanently, away from the whispering of Aldagmor. Having so powerful a warlock around the place might well change a few things. He might not be satisfied with the handful of gold and gems he had been promised. At the very least, Agor would probably be displaced as royal magician in short order.
But, Sterren thought, his grin returning, that wasn’t his problem. He remembered the peasants whose only interest in the siege was knowing when it would be over, so they could go home, regardless of who won. They probably wouldn’t care about anything Vond did, either. It wasn’t their problem.
King Phenvel might have a problem. Agor might have a problem. Any number of other people might have problems.
Right now, Sterren felt as if he had none at all. Vond probably felt the same way, Sterren thought, and a tiny little thought poked its way into his mind, like a pin working into a quilt.