“Aye, he did indeed! Then, knowing this, I went back to the village where half had been of one thought only, and that thought Alfar’s. I found only ten of a hundred still free in their thoughts, and those ten walking through a living nightmare of fear; for I spoke with some, and heard within their thoughts that several of them had defied the warlocks, and died as Tom Shepherd had. Even as I stood there, one broke beneath his weight of fear, and swore inside himself that he’d be Alfar’s man henceforth, and be done with terror.“ Simon shuddered. ”I assure thee, I left that village as quickly as I might.”
He turned to look directly into Rod’s eyes, and his gaze seemed to bore into Rod’s brain. “I cannot allow such obscenities of horror to exist, the whiles I sit by and do naught.” He shook his head slowly. “Craven was I, ever to think I could walk away and leave this evil be.”
“No,” Rod said. “No, you can’t, can you? Not and still be who you are.”
Simon frowned. “Strangely put—yet, I doubt me not, quite true.”
The campsite was quiet for a few minutes, as both men sat watching the flames, each immersed in his own thoughts.
Then Rod lifted his head, to find Simon’s gaze on him. “Now,” said the innkeeper, “ ‘tis thy turn. Is’t not?”
“For what?”
“For honesty. Why dost thou go North?”
Rod held his gaze for a few moments, then, slowly, he said, “Same reason as yours, really—or one pretty much like it. I’ve seen some of Alfar’s work, and it’s sickened me. I can’t call myself a man if I let that happen without fighting it. At the very least, I’ve got to help keep it from spreading—or die trying.”
“As indeed thou mayest,” Simon breathed. “Yet that is not the whole of thine answer, is it?”
“No—but that’s all you’re going to get.”
They gazed at one another for several heartbeats, the blade of Rod’s glare clashing off the velvet wall of Simon’s acceptance. Finally, the innkeeper nodded. “ ‘Tis thine affair, of course.” He sounded as though he meant it.
He turned back to the fire. “Thou art mine ally for this time. I need know no more than that the sorcerer’s thine enemy.”
“Well, that—and that the stew’s ready.” Rod leaned over to sniff the vapors. “Not bad, for field rations. Want some?”
When Simon rolled up in his cloak to sleep, Rod went over to curry Fess. The job wasn’t really stage dressing at all—Fess’s horsehair may have owed more to plastic than to genetics, but it still collected brambles and burrs on occasion.
“So.” Rod ran the currycomb along Fess’s withers. “Alfar started out with nothing but feelings of inferiority, and a grudge against the world.”
“An ordinary paranoid personality,” Fess noted.
“Yeah, except that he was an esper. And somewhere along the line, he all of a sudden became a lot more powerful than your average warlock.” He looked up at Fess. “Maybe just because he managed to talk some other witches into joining him?”
“Perhaps.” The robot sounded very skeptical. “I cannot help but think there is more to the matter than that.”
“Probably right, too… So. Alfar had a sudden boost in power, and/or got together a gang. Then he started leaning on the local citizenry, like any good gangster.”
“The process seems to begin with intimidation,” Fess noted.
Rod stopped currying for a minute. “Maybe… Even the soldiers were scared, when they were marching against him…” He shrugged. “Hard to say. In any event, he’s finally able to mass-hypnotize whole villages—though from the soldier’s account, it needs to be redone in depth, on an individual basis.”
“The soldiers’ mass hypnosis was done during the heat of battle, Rod, and very quickly. The peasant villages seem to have been done more leisurely, by Simon’s statement—over a period of days, perhaps even weeks.”
“True—so it would be more thorough. Though, apparently, some are harder to hypnotize than others.” He looked up at Fess again. “And espers appears to be immune.”
“So it would seem, to judge by Simon.”
“Yes…” Briefly, Rod wondered about that. Then he shrugged it off. “Anyhow. When Alfar’d built enough of a power base, one of the local knights got worried, and tried to knock him down before he grew too big. But he was already too big.”
“Indeed,” Fess agreed. “He was already powerful enough to overcome a knight with his village force.”
Rod nodded. “And by the time he was big enough to worry the local baron, he’d absorbed the forces of several knights. So the baron fell, and the chain reaction began—the baron, then the count, then finally the duke himself—and it doesn’t end there, does it?”
“Certainly not, Rod. After all, he now has the resources of a duchy to draw on.”
“Yes. We all know what he’s going to do now, don’t we?”
“But surely Gwendylon and the children have already borne word to Tuan and Catharine, Rod—and the Duchess’s personal account must certainly have been very persuasive. I doubt not that Tuan is already gathering his forces.”
“Gathering them, yes. But it’s going to be at least a week or two before he can march North.”
“Surely Alfar cannot consolidate his newly won forces with sufficient speed to enable him to carry the attack to Tuan!”
“Oh, I don’t think he would, anyway.” Rod looked up into Fess’s imitation eyes. “All the Duke’s horses and all the Duke’s men aren’t quite enough to take on the King’s army.”
“True,” the robot conceded. “Therefore, he will attack Earl Tudor.”
“You really think he’d dare strike that close to Tuan?”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps he will seek to conquer Hapsburg first.”
“It’s just great, having outgoing neighbors… and if he manages to swallow Hapsburg, he’ll have to digest him before he can take on Tudor.”
“I doubt that he would try. He might be able to defeat the Earl quickly, but he must surely need a week or two to complete the indoctrination of the captured soldiers.”
“And while he’s digesting, he’s right next to Tuan. No, you’re right. He’d try to march through Tudor, and attack Tuan right away. Which means our job is to keep him from being able to attack another baron, before Tuan attacks him.”
“What methods do you propose, Rod?”
Rod shrugged. “The usual—hit and run, practical jokes, whispering campaigns—nothing sensible. Keep him off-balance. Which shouldn’t be too hard; he’s going to be feeling pretty insecure, right about now.”
“He will indeed. And, being paranoid, he will seek to eliminate whatever enemies he does see, before he turns his attention to attack.”
“Maybe. But a paranoid also might decide to attack before the next baron can attack him, and start his own secret police to take care of internal enemies.” Rod clenched a fist in frustration. “Damn! If only you could predict what a single human being would do!”
“Be glad you cannot,” Fess reminded, “or VETO and its totalitarians could easily triumph.”
“True,” Rod growled. “Truer than I like. And speaking of our proletarian pals, do you see any evidence of their meddling in this?”
“Alfar’s techniques do resemble theirs,” Fess admitted.
“Resemble? Wish fulfillment, more likely! He’s got the kind of power they dream of—long-distance, mass-production brainwashing! What wouldn’t any good little dictator give for that?”
“His soul, perhaps?”
“Are you kidding? Totalitarianism works the other way around—everybody else gives their souls to the dictator!”
“Unpleasant, but probably accurate. Nonetheless, there is no evidence of futurian activity.”
“Neither totalitarians nor anarchists, huh?”
“Certainly not, Rod.”
“Not even the sudden, huge jump in Alfar’s powers?”
“That ability does bother me,” Fess admitted. “A projective telepath, who seems to be able to take on a whole parish at one time… Still, there’s no reason to believe the totalitarians would be behind it.”