Part 25 (1/2)

Rod supposed it was a compliment.

11.

They were up at first light, and on the road by dawn. With the main issues out of the way, the two of them chatted together easily-Simon the innkeeper, and Owen the farmer.

And if, as morning wore on, Owen's tales of his children bore a startling resemblance to the experiences of Rod Gallowgla.s.s, it can scarcely be surprising. On the other hand, all the stories had nothing to do with juvenile witch powers; Rod stayed sufficiently on his guard not to make that particular slip.

It wasn't easy. Rod found they had a lot in common- wives, and children. He also found Simon to be surprisingly refres.h.i.+ng. Instead of their usual dire predictions about the horrors of adolescence that lay in store for the unwary father, Simon restricted his anecdotes to childhood disasters- though, when pressed, he admitted that all his children were grown, and the tale of his daughter's impending first birth was quite true. Rod immediately began insisting, all over again, that Simon turn back to the South and his daughter, the more so because Simon had mentioned earlier that his wife had died quite a few years ago; but the innkeeper merely informed Rod that his daughter really lived north of his home village-wherefore, he had been doubly cowardly to flee. There wasn't much Rod could say to that, so he relaxed 768.

169.

and enjoyed Simon's company. So, by the time they came to the first village. Rod was feeling in fine form-which was fortunate, because they were greeted by a mob.

The peasants stormed out of the village, howling and throwing stones and waving pitchforks-but not at Simon and Rod. Their target was a small man, who sprinted madly, managing to stay a dozen yards ahead of them.

”Slay the warlock!” they cried. ”Stone him!” ”Stab him!

Drain his blood!” ”Burn him! b.u.m him b.u.m Him BURN HIM!”.

Simon and Rod stared at each other, startled. Then Simon snapped, ”He could not be of Alfar's brood, or soldiers would even now be cutting down these peasants! Quickly, Owen!”

”You heard him!” Rod cracked the whip over Fess's head, keeping up the act. ”Charge!”

Fess leaped into a gallop. Cartwheels roared behind him.

Rod pulled up hard as they pa.s.sed the fleeing warlock, and Simon shouted, ”Up behind, man! For thy lifeblood's sake!”

The running man looked up, startled, then jumped into the cart, as Simon rose to his feet and cried out, in a voice that seared through the crowd's shouting: ”I, too, am a magic worker! Two warlocks face thee now! Dost thou still wish wood to kindle?”

The crowd froze, the words of violence dying on their tongues.

Simon stood relaxed, but his face was granite. Slowly, he surveyed the crowd, picking out individual faces here and there. But he didn't say a word.

Finally, a fat little man stepped forward, shaking a club at Simon. ”Step aside, fellow! Withdraw thy cart and horse!

Our quarrel's with this foul warlock, not with thee!”

”Nay,” Simon answered. ”To the contrary; every war- lock's business is every other's, for there are few of us indeed.”

”Every warlock?” the fat man bleated in indignation. ”Is Alfar's business also thine?”

His words set off an ugly murmur that increased in ug- liness as it built.

770 ”Alfar's business ours?” Simon's eyes widened. ”Why would it not be?”

The noise cut off as the crowd stared at him, frozen.

Then the people began to mutter to one another, worried, a little fearful. One scrawny warlock by himself was one thing-but two together, with Alfar's backing...

Simon's voice cut through their hubbub. ”'Twould be better an thou didst now go back unto thine homes.”

”What dost thou speak of!” the fat little man cried. ”Turn to our homes? Nay! For we have one who must be punished!

What dost thou think thyself to...”

His voice ran down under Simon's stony glare. Behind him, the crowd stared, then began to whisper among them- selves again. Rod heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of ”Evil Eye!” ”Evil Eye!”

He did the best he could to reinforce the idea, staring at the fat little leader with his eyes narrowed a little, teeth showing in a wolfish grin.

”Thou wilt go,” Simon said, his voice like an icepick.

Rod could scarcely believe the transformation. He could've sworn Simon was at least two inches taller and four inches broader. His eyes glowed; his face was alive and vibrant. He fairly exuded power.

Cowed, the crowd drew in upon itself, muttering darkly.

Simon's voice rose above. ”We have shown thee plainly wherein doth lie the true power in this land-but it need not be turned against thee. Go, now-go to thine homes.”

Then he smiled, and his aura seemed to mellow-he seemed gentler, somehow, and rea.s.suring. ”Go,” he urged, ”go quickly.”

The crowd was shaken by the transformation. Their emo- tions had been yanked back and forth; they didn't know whether to resent Simon, or be grateful to him. For a mo- ment, they stood, uncertain. Then one man turned away, slowly. Another saw him, and turned to follow. A third saw them, and turned, then a fourth. Then the whole crowd was moving back toward the village.

The fat little man glanced at them, appalled, then back toward Simon. ”Retribution shall follow,” he cried, but fear hollowed his voice. ”Retribution, and flames for all witches!”

Rod's eyes narrowed to slits, and he gathered himself; but Simon laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, and said 171.

mildly, ”Go whilst thou may-or retribution there shall be indeed, and I shall not lift one finger to stay it.”

The little man glanced at Rod in sudden terror, then whirled about, and hurried to follow the villagers back to- ward the houses.

Rod, Simon, and the stranger only watched him, frozen in tableau till he'd disappeared among the buildings. Then, the moment he was out of sight, Simon heaved a long sigh, going limp.

”I should say,” Rod agreed. ”You do that kind of thing often?”

”Nay.” Simon collapsed onto the board seat. ”Never in my life.”

”Then you've got one h.e.l.l of a talent for it.” Privately, Rod had a strong suspicion that Simon was at least a little bit of a projective, but didn't realize it.

Even with his nerves a-jangle from facing down a mob for the first time, Simon remembered the fugitive. He turned, looking back into the cart. ”Art thou well, countryman?”

”Aye,” the stranger wheezed, ”thanks to thee, goodmen.

And thou hadst not come, there had been naught but a b.l.o.o.d.y lump left of me. E'en now I tremble, to think of them!

From the depths of my soul I thank thee. I shall pray down upon thee one blessing, for every star that stands in the sky!

I shall...”