The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (25 page)

The voice was distant thunder. 'I charge you, then, with the exorcizing of this demon altar and the rending of its rag-tag priests.'

The old boy, Rod decided, had definitely slipped a cog. The ghost's sword flashed out of its scabbard; involuntarily, Rod fell back into defense stance. Then he straightened, cursing himself; a spectral sword could scarcely hurt him.

The sword floated before him, point downward, a glittering cruciform ghost-light.

'Swear now upon the hilt of this my sword, that you shall not rest until you have purged this land of corruption in the seats of power, that you shall exorcize this dark altar and all its minions, and more: that you shall never till you die desert this Isle of Gramarye in the hour of its peril'

Awe slacked Rod's jaw; he stared wide-eyed at the sudden power and majesty of the ghost. An 'alien, formless dread crept into his belly. The hairs at the nape of his neck lifted with a chill of nameless apprehension.

He shrank back. 'My lord, this scarce is necessary. I love the Isle of Gramarye; I would never-'

'Lay your hand upon this hilt and swear!' The words were terse and stern.

Rod fairly cowered, well aware that the oath would bind him to the planet for life. 'My lord, are you asking me to take a loyalty oath? I am insulted that you should doubt my-'

'Swear!' the ghost thundered. 'Swear! Swear!,

'Art there, old mole?' Rod muttered under his breath, but it didn't work; he had never felt less funny.

He stared at the glowing hilt and the stern face beyond it, fascinated. Almost against his will, he took one step forward, then another; he watched his hand as it closed itself around the hilt. His palm felt nothing within it, no pressure of solid metal; but the air within his fist was so cold it paralyzed the knuckles.

'Now swear to me and mine!' Horatio rumbled.

Oh, well, Rod thought, it's only words. Besides, I'm an agnostic, aren't I?

'I. . - swear,' he said reluctantly, fairly forcing out the words. Then inspiration glimmered in his brain, and he added easily.

'And I further swear that I will not rest until the Queen and all her subjects with one voice shall rule again.'

He took his hand from the sword, rather pleased with himself. That additional clause gave him a clear track to the goal of his mission, whether or not Horatio counted democracy among the perils of Gramarye. The ghost frowned. 'Strange,' he grumbled, 'a most strange oath. Yet from the heart, I cannot doubt, and binding to you. Of course, Rod admitted to himself, the oath still bound him to Gramarye; but he would bridge that gulf when he came to it. The sword glided back to its scabbard. The ghost turned away, his voice trailing over his shoulder. 'Follow now, and I shall show you to the halls within these halls.'

Rod followed until they came to the wall. The ghost pointed a long, bony finger. 'Grope until you find a stone that yields to your hand.'

Rod reached for the stone the ghost pointed to, and pushed, leaning all his weight against it. The stone groaned and grudgingly gave way, sliding back into the wall. As it fell back, a door ground open with the protest of hinges that were long overdue for an oil break. Cold, dank air fanned Rod's cheek.

'Leave me now,' said the ghost, tall and regal beside him, 'and go to your duty. Yet remember, Man, your oath; and be assured that if ever you should lay it aside, the first Duke Loguire shall ever stand beside your bed until at last you yield to fear.'

'Definitely a comforting thought,' Rod mused. He groped his way down the moss-grown steps, humming 'You'll Never Walk Alone'. This time, the door to the loft was open, and Tom's deep earthquake snores echoed in the rocky chamber.

Rod paused in the doorway, chewing at his lip. He went back into the hall, pulled a torch from its bracket, and thrust it ahead of him into the room, peering in cautiously, just to be sure there was no one trying to rearouse Tom with a paternity suit in mind. The wavering light of the torch disclosed the stocky peasant's slumbering form, his cape thrown over his body from the rib cage down. One ursine arm was curled comfortably about the soft, rounded body of a blonde, covered (or uncovered) to the same degree by the cape. Her small, firm breasts were pressed against Tom's side; her head rested on his shoulder, long hair flung in a glorious disarray over her shoulders. One sun-browned arm was flung possessively across the big man's beer-keg chest.

Rod frowned, and stepped over for a closer look. The face was slender, the nose tilted, mouth small, with a smug little smile of content. It was obviously not the brunette who had accosted Rod in the hallway earlier. He grunted in surprise; so the wench hadn't gone after the servant when she was refused by the master.

Of course, it might be just that she hadn't moved fast enough But no, Big Tom would've been glad to accommodate both. He replaced the torch, came back to the loft with a nod of grudging admiration at Big Tom, and without bothering to pull off his doublet, dropped into the heap of hay that served for a bed. It brought back fond memories. He yawned, cushioned his head on his forearm, and drifted slowly toward sleep.

'Man Gallowglass!'

The voice boomed in the little room. Rod jerked bolt upright; the girl screamed, and Big Tom swore.

A ghost towered before them, glowing cold in the dark. Rod came to his feet, flicking a glance at Tom and the girl. She cowered in abject terror against the bear-hide of his chest. Tom's face had already settled into surly (and probably frightened) defiance. Rod switched his eyes to the ghost, standing tall above him in plate armor, its face incredibly long and thin. The sword at its hip was a rapier; it was not Horatio Loguire.

Rod reminded himself that he was boss, a fact he bad almost forgotten. He repaid the hollow gaze with the haughtiest look he could manage.

'What sty were you raised in,' he snapped, 'that you come before a gentleman with such ill ceremony?'

The cavern eyes widened, the ghost's jaw dropping down inside its mouth. It stared at Rod, taken aback.

The mortal pressed his advantage. 'Speak, and with courtesy, or I'll dance on your bones!'

The ghost fairly cringed; Rod had struck pay dirt. Apparently there was some sort of ectoplasmic link between a ghost and its mortal remains. He made a mental note to track down the graves of all relevant ghosts.

'Your pardon, milord,' the ghost stammered. 'I meant no offense; I only-'

Rod cut him off. 'Now that you have disturbed my rest, you may as 'well speak. What brings you to me?'

'You are summoned-'

Rod interrupted him again. 'None summon me.'

'Your pardon, lord.' The ghost bowed. 'Milord Loguire requests your presence.'

Rod glared a moment longer, then caught up his harp with a sigh. 'Well, he who deals with spirits must deal at odd hours.' He cocked his head.

'Horatio Loguire?'

'The same, my lord.'

The servant girl gasped.

Rod winced; he had forgotten his audience. His reputation would be all over the castle by noon.

'Well,' he said, shouldering his harp, 'lead on.'

The ghost bowed once more, then turned toward the wall, stretching out a hand.

'Hold it,' Rod snapped. Better to leave the secret passages secret. 'Go ye to Milord Loguire and tell him I shall come to him presently. You forget that I cannot walk through walls, like yourself.'

The ghost turned, frowning. 'But, my lord...'

'Go to Milord Loguire!' Rod stormed.

The ghost shrank away. 'As you will, my lord,' it mumbled hastily, and winked out.

In the sudden darkness, the girl let out her breath in a long, sobbing sigh; and, 'How now, master,' said Big Tom, his voice very calm with only a trace of wonder, 'do you traffic with spirits now?'

'I do,' said Rod, and flung the door open, wondering where Tom had picked up a word like 'traffic'.

He turned to look at the couple in the light from the doorway, his eyes narrowed and piercing. 'If word of this passes beyond this room, there shall be uneasy beds and midnight guests for the both of you.'

Big Tom's eyes narrowed, but the girl's widened in alarm. Good, thought Rod, I've threatened her income. Now I can be sure she'll keep quiet. He spun on his heel, pulling the door shut behind him. Big Tom would console her, of course, and his master's control over ghosts wouldn't exactly hurt his standing with her.

And, of course, she'd keep her mouth shut.

Which was just as well. For a man who didn't believe in magic, Rod already had altogether too much of a name as a warlock. He prowled along the hall till he found an empty chamber with access to the hidden tunnel. The granite blocks of one wall had been carved into a bas-relief of an orange flute being burned at the stake; apparently the Loguires took their adopted Irish name rather seriously. Rod found the one coal in the pile of faggots that was cut a little deeper than the rest, and threw all his weight against it, pushing it to his right. The ancient machinery gave a deep-throated grumble, and a trapdoor pivoted up from the stone flags of the floor.

Rod felt for the steps with his toes, reached up for the great iron ring set in the underside of the trapdoor, and pulled it shut as he went down the stairs.

He emerged from the massive door in the great hall with the dark altar. His phantom guide was there before him, waiting.

The ghost bowed. 'If you would be so good as to follow me, master . . .' It turned away, drifting toward the archway into the corridor.

Rod followed, muttering, 'A little lighter on the sarcasm there.'

They came out into the corridor; and, off to his right, Rod saw the fox-firelight of a cluster of ghosts. They were motionless, their heads bent, looking at something on the floor in the center of their circle.. Rod heard a very mortal, and very terrified, whimper. Horatio looked up at Rod's approach. He glided apart from the knot of ghosts, his cadaverous face knotted with anger.

'My Lord Loguire!' Rod bowed his most courtly, straightened. 'Why do you summon me?'

The ghost's brow smoothed a little, somewhat mollified. 'Man Gallowglass,' it growled, 'wherefore did you not tell me you had come accompanied into our halls?'

'Accompanied?' Rod's eyebrows lifted. 'Oh, was I, now?'

Loguire's frown deepened again, puzzled: 'In truth, there was one who followed after you, as I found upon my outgoing from the chamber with the strange device.'

'Excelsior,' Rod murmured.

'Gesundheit,' said Loguire. 'If we are to have a continual passage of mortals here, I shall have to see to the heating of these halls. But anon: I found your servant, as I have said, directly without the chamber.'

'Servant?' Rod frowned. 'How do you know it was a servant?'

'It was listening at the door. And we may know that it is yours, for when we advanced upon it, it cried your name.'

'Oh.' Rod scratched the base of his skull, frowning. 'It did, did it?'

'Aye; else would we have slain it. And therefore did I send to you to claim it.'

Loguire stepped aside; the circle of ghosts parted, and Rod stepped up. By the cold light of the ghosts, he saw a huddle of misery trying to push itself into the wall. The face was turned away from him. Long black hair flowed down over the shoulders. It wore white blouse, full skirt, and black bodice. The last was very well filled.

'My Lord Loguire,' Rod began; his voice cracked; he tried again. 'My Lord Loguire, this is scarcely an "it".' Then, in the gentlest voice he could manage, 'Look at me, wench.'

The girl's head jerked up staring, lips parted. Joy and relief flooded her face. 'My lord!'

Then her arms were about his neck, so tight he had to fight for breath; and her body was pressed tight against him, head burrowing into his shoulder, her whole frame trembling with sobs. 'My lord, 0 my lord!'

'My Lord!' Rod echoed, prying at her shoulder to get clearance for his larynx.

He recognized her, of course. It was the servant girl who had propositioned him earlier in the evening.

'There, there, now, lass, it's all right,' he murmured, rubbing her back. The room seemed to reel about him; he picked out a fixed point of light and stared at it.

It turned out to be Horatio Loguire, face contorted by a touch of disgust. 'Take her out from my halls, Man. They are damp enough of their own.'

Rod was just noticing how nicely the peasant girl fitted in his arms. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth and closeness of her. He nodded. 'Aye, my lord, that I shall. There, there, now, lass, you mustn't cry.' He pulled a handkerchief from his cuff and dabbed at her cheeks with it. 'No more tears, there's a darling, you're raising the humidity, and Horatio's got arthritis, if he can just remember where he put his bones - there, that's right.'

Her head lay against his chest, sniffling. Her eyes closed, her face relaxed; it almost seemed she was asleep. Rod was swept with a sudden wave of tenderness, aided and abetted by a feeling of towering strength contributed by his protective instinct, and silently cursed the adhesive effect of a damsel in distress.

He looked up into the brooding, empty eyes of the Loguire.

'Thou'rt ensnared, Man.'

'Who, me?' Rod scowled and thumped his throat in the carotid region.

'Fire seven times tried this.'

'And found it wanting,' Loguire agreed, 'and seven times tried that judgment is. Take her from my halls, Man.'

Rod threw him one last look of defiance and turned to the girl. 'Come, lass,' he murmured, 'we must go out from this place now.'

He swung her up into his arms. She stirred, murmured petulantly, and burrowed her head tight into his shoulder again, her arms tight about his neck.

Babies and women, Rod thought, exasperated; they're worse than quicksand.

'My lord,' he said to Loguire, 'will you lead me? You may understand that I am somewhat turned about....'

'Aye,' said the ghost, and turned away down the hall; but not before Rod had glimpsed a faint, phantom smile on the ghost's face. . He came out into the torchlit corridor, where he had met Durer earlier. The little man was gone; apparently he had assumed the worst and gleefully gone his way.