The Warlock Rock (33 page)

The witch saw them, though, and had time to ready herself, reaching behind her to draw on the power of the storm, gathering in and drawing up the strength of sickened souls, then lashing out an arm, a taloned finger pointing at them. They could almost see the bolt of thought that rocked them, made their heads ring. For a moment, Rod could see only a wash of red, hear only a roaring. He shook his head, cried out, strove to hear again the sound of song, then looked up to see the sorceress's minions pulling themselves up off the rocky floor, dazed by crashing blows from steel hooves—and a steel horse, legs stiff, head swinging, beset by too many enemies, too many sights and sounds, seized by unconsciousness. Then Rod saw Gwen go down, too, and his anger erupted. He dropped to one knee, cradling his wife in his arms, and all the rage that he had ever felt, all the buried angers, leaped up and shot out from him in white-hot fury.

The sorceress staggered back and would have fallen—but his mental blow slammed her against the side of her immense reservoir of vice. She straightened slowly, seeming to swell up larger than human, eyes widening into moons, filling with corrupted power, becoming a channel for her own creation. Then she released all her hatred toward him, all her sickened fury for the world that had disdained her, aimed at the High Warlock.

But Gwen had pulled herself up, supported by Rod's chest and shoulder, and held up the amulet as a barrier between themselves and the witch.

The sorceress's eyes bulged; her skin seemed to go taut as the hatred she'd released rebounded on her. There was no bolt of energy, no explosion, no flare of all-consuming fire—only a sudden slackness as she slumped and went limp, her eyes rolling up.

A wave of nausea swept Rod as he felt her memories fleet through him and past him; then she was gone, and only an empty hulk fell off from the giant cocoon behind her.

Dimly, Rod could hear the snarling music halt as, all around them, a despairing moan rose up to a wail. Then it slackened and died—but eyes kindled with glee, crooked teeth gleamed in gloating grins, and the grinding music rose up again, to decorate the whirlwind's roar.

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"She set up a feedback circuit!" Rod shouted. "She started something she couldn't control—she could only be a conduit for it! It was burning her out—but it became self-sustaining, it's still going!" With a howl, the sorceress's minions fell on them.

But a choir of voices lifted in exultation within Rod and Gwen; incense seemed to wreathe them, and Gwen spread her hands in an open fan. Inches away, the human jetsam jarred to a halt, then shrank back with howls of fright.

Gwen didn't notice; she was concentrating on the huge cocoon, her eyes narrowed. "Husband, 'tis no power of mind that doth hold that force of minds chained."

Rod's eyes were fixed on his wife.

Then, cradling her in his arm, he rose to his feet, lifting her, and moved, step by step, toward the altar.

"What dost thou?" Gwen cried.

"If it isn't psi, it's tech," he answered, "and if it's built, the builders put in controls." Gwen stared; then her eyes lost focus as her mind sought out electron paths. "The altar," she said. "There is a reactor buried in it, and a valve to hold it."

The miasma of evil surrounding the altar was enough to make Rod dizzy—and nauseous; he wondered what deeds had been done there. He clung to Gwen, who wasn't in much better shape—but together they held each other up as they rounded the huge stone block.

The coven saw and moaned with sick horror, but were too weakened to do much. A few clambered toward them, but far too slowly.

Rod and Gwen tottered in the shadow of the huge cocoon; its roaring drowned out the sound of the choir. That was scary enough, but the true fear was in realizing what might happen when the force that chained the whirlwind was released. If this is it, my only , Rod thought, know that I love you . It almost melted her. And I thee, my love — -forever!

Then Gwen's hand found the patch, and pressed.

Then universe erupted in an explosion that surpassed their ability to hear. Roaring filled the world, roaring and a tumbling whirl of light that sent them spinning off into the void, still clinging tightly to one another in overwhelming, all-consuming fear.

Then the world steadied and clarified—above them. Rod realized they were out of whatever had happened, were out but still flying away, up. He longed for the earth with sudden, frantic hope of survival, then with a surge of fear for his children. The world rocked about them, sideslipped, and swung beneath them. They looked down, and found that same world rushing up at them. A world devoid of an amphitheater now—only a huge, ragged hole in the rock. The plain about it was blasted raw for half a mile in every direction, but a handful of ants well beyond that had to be his children and the two monks. Then Rod could feel it through Gwen, the frantic fear and hope borne on the
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tranquility of the chant, and knew his children were alive and safe. Finally, he could look for the psi storm.

We fall, Gwen reminded him, panic controlled now.

Somewhere, she'd lost her broomstick. Rod thought about the earth, and their descent slowed and stopped. They hovered a thousand feet above the ground, watching the whirlwind move around and about in a widening spiral.

"It could do some damage that way," Rod called into Gwen's ear. "Let's give it a little push, shall we?" She nodded, and he knew again the sweetness of her mind joined with his, as they stared at the churning cloud, freed from its chrysalis now. Slowly, it began to move out of its circle, farther and farther, in a lengthening arc.

"Lift," she called, and the storm ascended, high enough to roar over the distant hills that stood between the plain and the coast.

Beyond glittered the sea.

Concentrating all their energy, they pushed and kept pushing and, slowly, the maelstrom moved away, over the shore, over the waves, until it was only a smudge on the horizon—a smudge that spread, and widened, and dissipated.

"The trade winds," Rod called. "The winds that follow the current from the mainland. They tore it apart, shredded it."

Gwen nodded. "And the evil powers with it. They are tattered, and have lost their strength."

"We won," Rod said, marvelling. "The good guys." Then he remembered where they were. "Can I collapse now?" She looked up at him with a weary smile. "Not quite yet, prithee. Set me first upon the earth."

They came back to find Brother Dorian still at his keyboard, and the children, caught up in his music, still with their instruments. Rod paused to watch, astonished—the sound of the pipe and tambour, the sweeps of the harp and the doubled pure-tone chords, all fitted perfectly with Brother Dorian's melody, punctuating and underscoring it as though they, too, were parts of his instrument. All about them, angels danced.

At least, if angels could really be seen, they might have looked like this—no wings or long white robes, but abstract glowing forms, fluxing and shifting in time to the music. The pillars of a cathedral soared up around them, pillars that seemed real even though Rod could see through them, supporting a dome inlaid with abstract designs that somehow blended tranquility with excitement.
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Around them wreathed the aroma of incense.

Father Thelonius finished veiling the chalice and looked up to give them a taut smile. He started toward them, but Rod could see his strain and held up a palm. The monk stopped, nodding his thanks, then stilled as his eyes lost focus.

Rod glanced at Gwen; she nodded, and the two of them opened their minds to the conceit Brother Dorian led.

It was glorious—a heavenly choir singing to the tones of massed strings, with trumpets now and again gliding high above. The tones of the children's instruments were there, though subtle, and nowhere nearly as vivid as their delight. Rod sensed a hundred souls or more, all welcoming, all exalted with the beauty of the music and the glory of their praising; the beneficence of their purpose was still there, but less important than the wonder of the experience itself.

Gwen's mind blended with his own, and they saw together why the choir still sang, felt the waves of dissonance and the clashing chaos of interference arising from the turmoil of despairing, angered minds all across Gramarye—from youth led into confusion by the sorceress, seduced into the nightmare disorientation that made them malleable and would have brought them eventually to her coven, to swell her power.

But the harmonies of the choir of linked minds rolled out over the land now, welling from the monastery in the southeast and this small fountain in the northwest, to soothe and calm and reassure, lifting souls from despair and giving them the inspiration of a fundamental certainty that there was some sort of sense to existence somewhere, that harmony and hope still existed, though the troubled young might not yet perceive them—but could eventually find them, and the peace and, perhaps, even the happiness they sought.

Finally, Rod could feel exhaustion dimming Brother Dorian's music, could feel the choir weakening—but they had lasted long enough. The worst of the standing waves of confusion and chaos spreading outward from the psychic storm had decayed; physical entropy had subsumed emotional entropy. The energy input was gone, and the nightmares it had generated had begun to die. Slowly, Brother Dorian began to soften his tones. The glowing forms around him dimmed, then faded. Finally, his chords were silenced, and only a single melodic line held sway. One by one, the Gallowglasses laid down their instruments as the single tune resolved the whole symphony, was met with a final chord, and was done. Brother Dorian stood, face uplifted, exhausted but exalted, immobile.

" 'Twas miraculous," Cordelia said softly.

"A miracle of thine own making, then." Brother Dorian's voice seemed to come from far away.

"Nay, Brother," Father Thelonius demurred. "Miracles come from God alone—we can but hope that they flow through us."

Still, Brother Dorian's voice was not of this world. "There are more miracles than we realize, then, for they are all about us, and need not be great and mighty. Grace comes to all who are open to it; miracles hap in places far removed from fame. Tis only the few that catch the eye of mighty folk that do astound us all."

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"Thy work this day hath astounded me," Geoffrey said, and that was enough to make Rod marvel.

"I believe more strongly in Heaven, for having been a part of this upwelling of souls," Cordelia said. "Can we never be of it again?"

"Mayhap thou canst." Finally, Brother Dorian's gaze met theirs, and he came back to the present. "You have but to learn to make music yourselves, and play it together—and, now and again, when all is true and right, this feeling may come upon you. Not in such intensity, no, for such as this is rare, that so many souls be conjoined—but enough, enough."

"Then I will anticipate it," Magnus murmured.

Gwen turned to Father Thelonius. "What form of Mass was this, that had every form of sense involved, and made so many folk a channel for the common greatness?"

"Each one of us was a medium for the goodness in the hearts of all others," Father Thelonius answered,

"and for a while, we were able to put aside our jealousies and spites, our shadows' hungers and desires. For some brief time, we learned again that what is good in us is of greater moment than what is fell." That wasn't much of an answer, Rod decided, but it was enough.

"Yet what of thee?" Father Thelonius' tone sharpened with anxiety. "How didst thou fare, who took the brunt of peril upon thee?"

The children looked up, suddenly aware again of the potential for horror. "Oh, Mama!" Cordelia fled to embrace Gwen, and the boys crowded round.

"Nay, child, I am well." Gwen caressed Cordelia's hair. " 'Twas harrowing, I will own, but 'tis done, and though thy father and I had some pain in the doing of it, we emerge unscathed."

"What pain?" Magnus cried, but Gwen said, "Hush. 'Twas of the passing moment, and is gone."

"Forgive me, then, when thou art so wearied." Father Thelonius wasn't looking too spruce himself. "But I must know, if I can—didst thou discover aught more of the way in which this blasphemy came to be? I must forestall its recurrence, if I can."

Rod shuddered at the thought. "I'm afraid we had a good summary of that, Father." Gwen nodded, gaze fixed on Thelonius' eyes. "As the sorceress died, her memories sped through our minds. We know more of her than we wish."

"Say, then—what manner of thing was she?"

"Only another peasant with a modicum of talent of the mind," Gwen explained. "Partly for this, and partly for her misshapen features, she was scorned and shunned by her fellows, till their contempt did fester within her soul and yield conviction that she was far better than any, though her qualities were hidden. Yet she was certain that they would one day burst forth to bring her power and glory—and scope for revenge."

Father Thelonius nodded sadly. " 'Tis an old tale and a sad one, told out aye many times. Its only cures are grace and faith, and devotion to charity. Yet lacking these, she was fertile ground for those who
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sought to make a tool of her."

Rod nodded. "You have it. That was no psionic construct that held that tornado in check—it was a force field, set up by electronic devices and maintained by the power of a nuclear reactor."

"Ah." Father Thelonius lifted his head. "It was an agent from off-planet, then, who played her tempter."

"He was indeed," Gwen said, "though she knew it not. He came to her in the guise of a devil, pleading for her sympathy and offering her the satisfaction of her lust. If she would worship him, he said, he would give her power— power to destroy. He gave her a mission—to reduce theland ofGramarye to anarchy. And he showed her the way to it—told her of the peasant who did make the witch-moss stones, and how to entice him to make rocks that would bend to her will the common folk who have no witch-talent of their own. Then did he show her how, once bent, she could bring them to her, could use music to entice them into blending what little mind-power they had with her own talent, thus shaping a stronger power to bend more folk and bring them in. Thus did she gather a 'coven' of deluded mortals who, like herself, did think themselves great because, in their hidden hearts, they believed themselves diminished. She promised them the power of the devil who had appeared to her, and aided them in deluding themselves to believe they had witch-powers."