The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (38 page)

'Still,' said Rod, tugging at his lip, 'I don't see why we should wait for morning to do the fighting. We could ambush them tonight, when they're drawing up their troops.'

'Attack at night!' Tuan gasped, horrified.

Rod shrugged. 'Sure, why not? They'll be tired from a day's march, and won't know where we are. We'd stand a much better chance of winning.'

'Aye, and you would stand a better chance of killing a man if you kicked at his head while he was down!'

Rod sighed and forebore saying that he had once done exactly that, when the man was one of five excellently trained seasoned killers who'd ambushed him. As a matter of fact, he'd fought dirtier than that with a lot less justification; but this didn't seem quite the time for telling it.

He did say, 'I thought the point in fighting was to win.'

'Aye,' Tuan agreed, staring out into the fog toward the south end of the meadow, 'but not by such foul means. Who would be loyal to a Queen who maintained her power thus?'

And that, Rod admitted, was the kernel of it. Prestige was everything in this world; an honor was the cornerstone of prestige.

'Well,' he sighed, 'you're the doctor.'

Tuan frowned at him. 'Doctor? I have no skill in healing.'

'No, but you're an excellent practical psychologist. So I'll follow your lead when it comes to handling people.'

Tuan smiled sadly, shaking his head. 'Friend Rod, I have no skill at ruling.'

Rod allowed himself a skeptical look. 'Well, maybe not, but you're one hell of a leader.'

'Ho!' a voice bellowed.

Rod turned and grinned at the huge shape that loomed in the fog.

'Everyone happy over there?'

Big Tom shouldered his way out of the mist, grinning. 'Most happy, master. They've ne'er in their lives drunk such wine, or so much of it.'

'Hmmm.' Rod tugged at his lip. 'Better roll the wine away in a little while. We don't want them drunk so soon before battle.'

But, 'Nay,' Tuan corrected, almost automatically, Rod noticed. 'Let them drink their fill; 'twill put them abed sooner. Then rouse them early in the morning and give each a tankard or two - then they'll fight like the very demons.'

Well, Rod had to allow that was true. They weren't asking precision from the beggars, just wanted them to get out and beat up the enemy. The night was prickled with the pinholes of watch-fires, softened by the lifting mist.

More dots of light sprang up to the south, where the noblemen and councillors were bringing up their army.

In the northern meadow, there was bawdy laughter and shouting, and the din of music, where the beggars were in the last stages of gleeful compliance with the order to get drunk as fast as possible. On the hillside across the river there was a stern, disapproving silence, and the gentle glow of lamps within silken tents, where Catharine and her army of regulars went sober to bed. But in the largest tent, Catharine's, things were anything but quiet.

'Nay, nay' and again I say nay!' she cried, angrily pacing the floor. She swung about, clapping her bands sharply. 'I shall have no more of your arguments! Have done, have done; for I will ride tomorrow at the head of my armies I shall brook no further objection!'

Rod and Brom exchanged glances.

Tuan's face was beet-red with anger, frustration, and worry. 'Begone,'

snapped Catharine, and turned her back. Reluctantly, the three men bowed, and filed out of the tent.

'What she will, she will,' Brom growled. 'We three must guard her, then, and leave the plan of the battle to Sir Mans.'

'That's one sure road to defeat,' Rod growled. 'His way of running a battle is as outdated as the phalanx.'

Brom sighed and rubbed his eyes. 'But as I have said, I will die by her. Yet mayhap we shall live, for I have a slight plan.'

He stumped away into the darkness before they could question him, from which Rod inferred that his 'plan' was limited to buoying up Rod's and Tuan's spirits by insinuating that there was yet hope.

'We shall die in her defense,' Tuan whispered, drawn and pale. 'Yet when we are gone, she will die too, and for that I am loath.' He spread his hands helplessly. 'But what can I do?'

'Well . . .' Rod pursed his lips, and looked back over his shoulder at the lighted tent. 'I know one way to make sure she won't ride tomorrow.

...

'Tell it, then!' Tuan's face lit with frantic eagerness.

'Make sure she won't be able to sit down in the morning.' Tuan stared. A slow flush crept into his face, then drained away, leaving him pale and trembling.

'What . . . dost. . . thou mean?' His voice was choked and threatening. He lifted a clenched, trembling fist.

Rod looked at him, frowned. 'Why, spank her. Smack her so hard she'll have to stand till next Sunday. How else would you do it?'

Tuan's fist slowly dropped; the color came back to his face in a blush.

'Oh,' he said, and turned away. 'I' truth,' he said, "twould be well done.'

'It's that, or let her die.'

Tuan nodded, life coming back to him. He turned to the Queen's tent, paused a minute, then squared his shoulders.

'That shall I do, then. Pardon me, friend Gallowglass, for my anger; for a moment I had thought you meant... something else.'

He took a deep breath and stepped off briskly toward the tent. He paused at the entrance, nodded at the guards, squared his shoulders again, and marched in.

Rod smiled, amused. 'And I thought I had a dirty mind!'

He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned toward the witches'

campfires, reflecting that Tuan's years in the House of Clovis had taught him a lot about life.

Gwendylon materialized out of the darkness (literally). She smiled shyly. 'What amuses my lord?'

Rod grinned, caught her by the waist, and swung her up for a kiss, a warm kiss, and lasting.

'My lord!' she said, blushing prettily, patting her hair back into place.

The night breeze wafted a sudden slapping sound to them, accompanied by squeals and cries.

The guards at the tent jerked bolt upright, then swung to-ward the tent. One put up a hand to swing aside the cloth of the doorway; but the second caught the hand and cried, 'Does your Majesty require aid?'

'Stay out!' squealed an agonized voice. 'On pain of your life, do not enter!'

The sentries exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged and turned back to their posts, albeit with some nervous looks over their shoulders. The squeals became muffled, then turned into sobs. The slapping sounds ceased.

Then all was still.

Rod looked down at Gwen. 'What are you grinning about?'

She looked up at him out of the corner of her eyes. 'I ha' told you, my lord, that I can hear all thoughts but yours.'

'Oh?'

'Aye. And there are most goodly thoughts in that tent at this moment.'

The lights in the tent went out.

Gwendylon giggled and turned away. 'Come, my lord. 'Twould be most improper to listen further. Come. Thou must be early abed this night.'

'Waken, Rod Gallowglass!'

Something jarred his shoulder.

Rod growled and levered his eyes open. 'What the hell do you think...'

He stopped as he saw the look on Brom's face.

'Aye,' Brom growled.. 'Now robe thyself and come with me.'

'I don't sleep naked on battle nights,' Rod growled, and rose very carefully, so as not to disturb Gwendylon.

His face softened for a moment as he looked down at her. He touched his lips to her cheek. She stirred, murmured in her sleep, and smiled. Then he rose, his face hardening.

Brom was already striding away through the chill pre-dawn mist, beckoning curtly.

'All right, what's happened?' Rod growled as he caught up with Brom.

'Nay, be still!' Brom snapped, and was silent till they had climbed the hillside far above the tents.

Then he swung on Rod and. snapped, 'Now tell me! Dost thou love her?'

Rod's face emptied.

Then he said, softly, 'You woke me just to ask that?'

'It is of some importance to me,' Brom snapped. 'Dost thou love her!'

Rod folded his arms, leaning back on one hip. 'Just what the hell business is it of yours? What right have you to know my soul?'

Brom looked away, his face working; and when he spoke, the words seemed almost dragged out of him.

'She is my daughter, Rod Gallowglass.'

He glanced up at Rod's stunned face, and a sardonic gleam came into his eye. 'Aye. Thou scarce can credit it, canst thou?'

He turned away, looking out over the valley. His voice softened with memory and musing.

'She was naught but a servant wench in the King's halls, Rod Gallowglass - yet I loved her. She was small, scarce half the height of another woman, yet still a head taller than I. And mortal, much too mortal.

'And she was beautiful, ah, so beautiful! And, strange though it may seem, highly desired by the men of the court. And yet' - Brom's voice took on a tone of wonder and awe - 'yet she loved me. She alone, of all women living, elf or mortal, saw me not as dwarf, elf, or Prince - but only as a man.

'And desired me... And loved me...'

He broke off, shaking his head in wonder.

He sighed. 'I loved her, Rod Gallowglass, I loved her only, and begat a child within her.'

His face darkened. He locked his hands behind his back and scowled at the ground. 'When she proved by child, and her time grew apace, and she would soon be so swollen that all would know, and would shame her with cruel jests, though we were wed, I sent her away to the wild wood, to my people. And there, midwived by elves and leprechauns, she birthed a beautiful, laughing, part-elven child.'

His eyes misted over. He lifted his head, staring through Rod. 'She died. When her daughter was aged of two years, she died of a chill. And we buried her there, 'neath a tree in the forest. And yearly I come there....

His eyes focused on Rod again. 'But I had, still, the child.'

He turned away, restless. 'Yet what should I do? Raise her near me, and have her know her father for a gnarled thing, and the butt of bad jests? Raise her to shame of me?

'She was raised in the woods, therefore, knowing her mother's grave and the elves, but never her father.'

Rod started to protest, but Brom waved him silent. 'Be still! 'Twas better so!'

He turned slowly, murder in his eyes. 'As 'tis still. And if ever she learns of it from thee, Rod Gallowglass, I'll hale out thy tongue by its roots, and lop off thy ears.'

Stone-faced, Rod studied him, and found nothing to say.

'And therefore, now tell me!' Brom slammed his fists against his hips, and lifted his chin, 'For know this: half mortal am I, and may therefore be slain, and it may be that this day I shall die.'

His voice lowered. 'So tell me, tell a poor, anxious father, an thou wilt: dost thou love my child?'

'Yes,' Rod said, low. Then, 'So it was no accident that I met her on my ride south?'

Brom smiled, sourly. 'Nay, of course not. Couldst thou ever have thought that it was?'

The east was reddening, embarrassed with dawn, and the mist lifting as Rod rode into the beggars' camp to waken them.

But Tuan was there before him, going from pallet to pallet, shaking the beggars awake. A soldier was with him, placing a mug of hot mulled wine by each pallet.

Tuan looked up, saw Rod, and came up to him with arms outstretched and a grin a yard wide.

He clapped Rod on the shoulder, gripped his hand in a crushing shake. There was a deep, almost intoxicated quiet content in his eyes.

'My thanks, friend Rod,' he said simply. 'Dost thou wish my life! Thou mayst have it! Such is the debt that I owe.'

Rod smiled slyly. 'So you made double sure, did you? Well, all the better.'

Tuan seemed to have things well in hand in the beggars' camp, so Rod turned Fess's steps toward the witches' lines.

All was in good order there; the baskets with ropes and harnesses stood ready; and the morning brew was passing from hand to hand. It was a potent beverage, something like concentrated tea with a touch of brandy, and served much the same purpose: a stimulant to bring the witch powers to their peak.

Elves were underfoot everywhere about the camp, distributing good-luck tokens and preventive-magic charms to all who would take them. Witches or no witches, the little folk argued, it never hurt to be sure. The charms could do no harm, and they might...

There was nothing for Rod to do there, either, so he rode in search of Gwendylon.

He found her seated in the midst of a knot of witches, old ones, as Gramarye witches went; they must have been into their twenties. Gwendylon seemed to be explaining something to them with great earnestness, marking diagrams in the dust with a pointed stick. They were hanging on her words as though every syllable might mean life or death.

It didn't look like a good time to interrupt.

Rod turned and rode through a maze of scurrying forms, cooking smells, clamor of voices and discordant bugle calls, out past the pickets into Breden Plain.

The first rays of sunlight slanted through the meadow now, burning away the last tatters of mist. The long grass was moist and chill with the dew, the sky clear and blue.

And the glitter of spear-points flashed from the south verge of the field. Sun gleamed off burnished armor. The wind blew him the metallic din, the horse-cries, and the mutter of a war-camp awaking. The councillors, too, were awake early.

Hooves approaching: Rod turned to see a page pelting across the meadows toward him.

'How now, my lad?' Rod called, grinning and waving for appearances.

'Thou must come to the Queen, Master Gallowglass,' the page gasped, out of breath, as he clutched at -Rod's stirrup. 'My Lord O'Berin and the Lords Loguire are there already before you. 'Tis a council of war!'

The council of war was quickly over, no more than a summary of existent plans, and a brief prayer, plus the news that Catharine wouldn't ride after all. Rod had noticed that Catharine had stood through the meeting. Then they were up and away, each to his station: Sir Mans to the center, old Duke Loguire to the right flank, and Rod to the left flank. Brom would stay high on the hillside with Catharine and Gwendylon, to direct the whole battle, an innovation Rod had recommended, and which Brom had accepted without reservation: the little man was a mighty fighter, but his legs weren't long enough to hold his seat in a joust. Tom, offered the option of fighting with the beggars or staying by Rod, had chosen the latter option, probably because he wanted to be in the thick of the battle.