Rod decided he’d better find a new interrogation technique; this one was obviously so easy to invent that it boded fair to becoming common.
“From his mind,” Alfar went on, “I gained the image of the man who’d broke his spell…” He nodded toward Simon. “And I saw, to my surprise, that he was accompanied, by a most ill-favored, surly peasant.”
Rod straightened in indignation. “Hey, now!”
Alfar smiled, satisfied that his barb had drawn blood. “But ‘twas easily seen that the spell-breaker must needs be the High Warlock. Why, he had so great a look of dignity!”
Simon looked up, startled.
Alfar’s eye glinted. “And his serving man had so churlish a look!”
But Rod wasn’t about to bite on the same bait twice. He shrugged. “I won’t argue. When it comes to churls, you should know what you’re talking about.”
Alfar flushed, and dropped a hand to his dagger.
Rod leaned back lazily. “What did you do with the soldiers?” He was tense, dreading the answer.
Alfar shrugged. “What ought I to do? I enchanted the auncient too, and sent them on northward to rejoin mine army.”
Rod lifted his head, surprised. “You didn’t punish them? No racks, no thumbscrews? No crash diets?”
Alfar looked equally surprised. “Dost thou punish an arrow that has fallen to earth, if thine enemy hath picked it up, and set it to his bowstring? Nay; thou dost catch it when he doth loose it at thee, and restore it to thy quiver. Oh, I sent them on northward. I did not wish to chance their beholding thee again—or, more’s to the point, thy spell-breaker. But at the next guardpost, I showed my badge of authority…” He fingered the medallion on his breast. “…and bade the soldiers disguise themselves as peasants, to wait in ambush where a country way joined the High Road. Then I summoned a lesser warlock to abide with them, in readiness to transmit orders to march, when he should receive a thought-code—Alfar’s greatness, and why all witches ought to join with him.” He smiled, vindictively.
Rod knew better than to withhold ego-oil when the one with the inferiority complex held the knife. “So that’s why the sudden diatribe, eh?”
“Certes.” Alfar’s eyes danced. “There’s method in aught I do. Then did I march southward, my thoughts ranging ahead of myself, till I heard Simon’s. I found a village warlock, then, and bade him lead his people out to chase me…”
“The little fat guy. But of course, you made sure all their rocks would miss, and they wouldn’t catch you.”
“Why, certes.” Alfar grinned, enjoying the account of his own cleverness. “And as I had foreknown, thou couldst not forebear to save a poor weakling, beset by human wolves.”
“Yes.” Rod’s mouth twisted with the sour taste of his own gullibility. “We fell right into it, didn’t we? Just picked you up, and carried you right along.”
“Thou wast, in truth, most gracious,” Alfar said, with a saccharine smile. “Twas but a day’s work to discover that ‘twas Simon broke the spells, yet that he could do little more—and that thou must needs be the High Warlock.”
“My natural greatness just shone through those peasant rags, huh?”
“Oh, indubitably. Yet ‘twas more truthfully thy face.”
“Naturally noble, eh?”
“Nay, only familiar. Mine agents had borne me pictures in their minds, more faithful than any painter could render. Oh, thou hast disguised thyself somewhat, with peasant’s smock and grime; yet I know something of deception myself, and can look past surface features to those that underlie them. Yet I knew thee even ere I’d set eyes upon thy face; for thou wast there to mine eyes, but not to my mind, and only a most puissant warlock could shield himself so thoroughly.”
Rod shrugged. “I seem to have had that knack before I started doing any of what you call magic… But, go on.”
“Pay heed!” Alfar held up a forefinger. “Even then, I offered thee thine opportunity to join with me and mine! And only when thou didst refuse, and that with such force that I knew thou couldst not be persuaded, did I seize thee.” His gaze intensified, locked on Rod’s eyes. “E’en now, an thou dost wish to join with me, I will rejoice, and welcome thee!”
“Providing, of course, that I can prove I mean it.”
“Of course. What use art thou, if I cannot rely on thee to the uttermost?” His eyes glittered, and his mouth quivered with suppressed glee. “Indeed, I’ve even now the means to insure thy loyalty.”
Dread shot through Rod and, hard after it, anger. He throttled it down and growled, “What means?”
“Thou hast no need to know. Thou dost not, after all, wish to ally thy fortunes with mine.”
The rage surged up, and Rod let it rise. “I’ll grind your head under my heel, if I can ever find a forked stick big enough to hold your neck down!”
Alfar went white, and sprang at Rod, his knife slipping out. Fear shot through Rod, like a spark to gunpowder and the anger exploded, shooting through his every vein and nerve, smashing out of him in reaction.
Alfar slammed back against the far wall and slid to the floor, dazed.
Rod’s chains jangled as they broke apart, and fell.
He thrust himself away from the wall, rising to his feet, borrowed rage-power filling every cell of his body. The headache throbbed through him, darkening all he saw except for an oval of light that contained Alfar, crumpled in a heap. Rod waded toward the fallen man, feeling anger envelop him, pervading him, as though Lord Kern’s spirit reached across the void between the universes, to take possession of him. His finger rose with the weight of all his man-slayings, pointing out to explode the sorcerer.
Then Alfar’s eyes cleared; he saw Rod’s face, and his eyes filled with terror. Rod reached out to touch him—but thunder rocked the cell, and the sorcerer was gone.
Rod stood staring at the empty space where the sorcerer had been, finger still pointing, forgotten. “Teleported,” he choked out. “Got away.”
He straightened slowly, thrusting outward with his mind, exploding his mental shield, opening himself to all and every sense impression about him, concentrating on the human thoughts. Nowhere was there a trace of Alfar.
Rod nodded, perversely satisfied; Alfar hadn’t just teleported out of the cell—he’d whipped himself clean out of the castle, and so far away that he couldn’t be “heard.”
14
Rod sagged back, sitting against the cell wall as the biggest reason for his anger abated. His emotions began to subside, but still within him there was an impulse toward violence, a lust for battle that kept the anger and built it, filling his whole body with quaking rage.
That scared Rod. He tried to force the mindless rage down; and as he did, Simon’s voice bored through to him: “Owen! Owen! Lord Gallowglass! Nay, I’ll call thee as I knew thee!” A hand clasped his wrist; fingers dug in. “Master Owen! Or Rod Gallowglass, whichever thou art! Hast thou lost thyself, then?”
“Yes,” Rod grated, staring at the wall, unseeing. “Yes. Damn near.”
Simon groaned. “Is there naught of the High Warlock left in thee?”
“Which one?” Rod growled. “Which High Warlock?”
Simon answered in a voice filled with wonder. “Rod Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! What other High Warlock is there?”
“Lord Kern,” Rod muttered, “High Warlock of the land of Tir Chlis.” He rose to his feet, and stood stock-still, stood against the humming in his mind, the thrumming in his veins. Then he forced the words out. “What is he like—this High Warlock?”
“Which one?” Simon cried.
“Yes.” Rod nodded. “That’s the question. But tell me of this Rod Gallowglass.”
“But thou art he!”
“Tell me of him!” Rod commanded.
Simon stared, at a loss. But no matter what he thought of the oddness of Rod’s question, or the irrationality of what he did, Simon swallowed it, absorbed it, and gave what was needed.