"Rod—the only light is that of the moon."
Rod shook his head. "No. I thought so, too, but I took a closer look, and there's another kind. It looks like moon-light, yes, but it's different. Hold the fort, Fess." And he slipped off into the forest.
The robot hung poised between obedience and concern for his owner—but Rod had ordered him to stay, and there was no sign of an external threat, only Rod's own hallucination…
Which could be dangerous enough; but Rod had given an order. Fess heaved white noise and settled himself to wait—but he opened the channel to Rod's maxillary microphone, and boosted the gain.
Magnus's head nodded heavily, and the jerk woke him from his doze. Blinking, he glanced toward the campfire—
And saw Rod's bedroll empty.
Instantly, the boy was alert. He scanned the campsite and saw Rod slipping into the trees on the far side. Magnus pulled himself together and set off around the clearing, being careful where he stepped, moving almost silently through the winter wood.
He was a quarter of the way around when something hard and blunt cracked into his skull just behind the ear, and he dropped, senseless.
Chapter Eighteen
The ground sloped up, and the light grew brighter, until Rod found himself thinking dawn was near. But that was silly, of course—it couldn't even be midnight; Magnus wasn't back yet, and he never stayed out that late.
Then he came out of the trees into a hilltop meadow, one not made by nature—for in its center was a castle, glowing with its own inner light. The walls were translucent. It looked like a child's night-light, or a Christmas-tree ornament.
An ornament sixty feet high and a hundred yards square.
He came up to the drawbridge warily, but with determination—his son might be in there. After all, if it had drawn him, why might it not draw Magnus?
As he neared the drawbridge, the sight of the stone caught him. He stopped to take a closer look—and gazed at it, fascinated.
It was marble, all marble. By the subtle variations of shading, he could tell it was made of several different kinds of the stone—but all without a trace of grain. That was why it glowed—because it was completely pure.
No, not quite unmarked—there was something there, within the stone. He stepped nearer, went across the drawbridge to look more closely—and saw a man's torso and face, looking back at him. The stranger was surprisingly good-looking, and wore a doublet and cloak identical to Rod's own.
It took him a few minutes to admit that it was his own image.
But not himself as he had ever seen himself, for every mirror had always showed him a homely stranger who looked very competent, but strangely lacking in self-confidence. This image, however, wasn't homely at all, but was very good-looking—and if the modesty was there, it was balanced by a certain hardness, almost ruthlessness. In fact, Rod found himself recoiling—this was a very dangerous man!
But dangerous, he saw, not just because of his abilities, but because of his morality. He was safe to anyone who followed his moral code—but to anyone who lived far enough outside that code, he could be a ruthless and efficient killer; for if anyone broke the Law this man lived by, that person was completely outside that Law's protection, and the murderer before him felt justified in unleashing the fullest of his mayhem.
Rod felt himself cringing inside, even though he couldn't look away; he had always thought of himself as a nice guy.
And not without reason, he saw—there was mercy in that man's eyes, and his savagery was tempered by humor. Yes, he could be sudden death to anyone who lived outside his own ethical code—but very few people lived so completely within that code that they could knowingly break it enough to give the murderer his moral excuse. Only occasionally did he encounter such a person, a man or woman that he could truly say was evil, and then…
He enjoyed what he did.
Rod felt his soul shrivel, but there was no denying it. This man before him was a cold-blooded killer who enjoyed practicing his craft. That was the spectre that had been haunting Rod since he left Maxima; that was why he had felt the compulsion to chain this beast in morality; that was why, in his heart of hearts, he knew he was unworthy of Gwen, and of the children.
His children. What would happen if one of them ever broke that man's rules? Not just broke them—but smashed them, trampled on them.
A fierce surge of paternal protectiveness swept him. Never, he vowed silently, never would he risk a single one of them coming to harm. He swore to himself that he would kill the lizard before he could raise a hand against those kids.
But how could he kill himself?
Easy.
But he could see, behind the reflection, images of his children growing and striving in their own right, and felt reassured. They had been raised within his fence, and Gwen's. They might kick against it, they might break a rail or two in anger or resentment, but they would never try to tear it down. It was their protection as much as their prison.
But now that the scenes had begun, they continued— scenes of Rod's youth, not of the children. He saw himself again, among the mercenaries attacking a city guilty of no more than the urge to be free; he saw himself, a year later, struggling to atone by helping another band of patriots overthrow an off-planet tyranny. He watched himself duel with and kill the tyrant's bodyguard, while the locals swamped the tyrant himself. He saw himself between the stars, studying the history of the next planet Fess was taking him to in their asteroid-ship, saw himself strug-gling, manipulating, again and again, and all the time searching, hunting, for the love he knew he did not deserve.
He couldn't take his eyes off the pageant. Spellbound, he watched the scenes he remembered, but not as he remembered them; they were shown objectively, impartially. What he saw made him proud one instant and ashamed the next—exalted his spirit, but also left it humbled.
As he watched spellbound, his enemies stole up behind him.
Rod couldn't have said what it was that warned him—a creak of leather, a heavy tread—some signal that filtered through to him and broke his trance. He spun around, whipping his sword out, just in time to see an ogre followed by a handful of trolls, all advancing across the drawbridge. The ogre was ten feet tall, with legs a foot and a half thick, foot-thick arms, massive chest and shoulders, and nothing but a twist of loincloth for clothing. He was hairy and filthy. His eyes were tiny and bright with greed, peering out from under shaggy eyebrows. His nose was a blob, and two long fangs thrust up from his jaw. His trolls shambled behind him, their faces brutal, their bodies formidable, their fingers sprouting talons.
The ogre gave a little gloating laugh and slammed his club down at Rod.
Rod shouted and leaped back; the club spun by him. Then he leaped in again, slamming a kick into the ogre's solar plexus; but the monster only grunted, and swung from the hip. Rod was just landing as the blow struck, still a little off balance; he leaped to the side, but not enough; the club caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, and his whole right arm went numb. He tumbled into the snow on the drawbridge and saw a troll pouncing on him, claws winking in the castle's glow. Rod scrabbled frantically for the sword and managed to get it up between the troll and himself, clumsily, left-handed.
The troll couldn't stop; he skewered himself on the sword, knocking Rod backward onto the drawbridge. The monster screamed and died, but his flailing talons flexed in death, shredding Rod's doublet and chest. Blood welled, and his whole front blazed with pain. He yelled and struggled up, barely able to wrench his sword free in time to see the ogre towering over him, club high in both hands, trolls pressing in all about him, and the dead troll's scream still rang in his ears…