The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 by Cristopher Stasheff Page B

sausage!
    Grass whispered by his knee; he looked into the smiling eyes of Robin Goodfellow.
    'Return with us if you will, Rod Gallowglass, for our paths are yours, to walk at your pleasure, now.'
    Rod smiled wearily. 'He might have killed me,' he said, with a nod at the unconscious werewolf.
    Puck shook his head. 'We looked on, and would have prevented death to either of you; and as for your wounds, why! we shall quickly have them mended.'
    Rod rose, shaking his head in disbelief.
    'Then, too,' said Puck, 'we knew you to be a warlock of such potency that you could defeat him - ... if you were a white warlock.'
    'Oh?' Rod raised an eyebrow. 'What if I wasn't? What if I was black?'
    'Why, then,' Puck said, grinning, 'you would have leagued with him against us, and sought to fight loose of the prison.'
    'Um.' Rod gnawed at his lower lip. 'Wouldn't that have put you in a rather delicate position?'
    'Nay.' Puck grinned again. 'The magic of a score of elves has never been equaled by two warlocks.'
    'I see.' Rod rubbed his chin. 'Hedged your bets, didn't you? But you couldn't let me know, of course. As long as I was in the dark, fighting the werewolf proved I was one of the good guys?'
    'Partly.'
    'Oh? What's the other part?'
    'Why, Rod Gallowglass, there were several times when you had rendered the werewolf helpless, but you did not kill him.'
    'And that shows I've got a good heart.'
    'That,' Puck agreed, 'and also that you are sure enough of your own power that you dare be merciful. And there is proof that you are white, but greater proof that you are a warlock.'
    Rod squeezed his eyes shut. With exaggerated patience, he said, 'Of course, it might just be that I'm a trained fighter.'
    'It might,' Puck agreed, 'but it was by sorcery that you overcame him.'
    Rod took a deep breath. 'Look,' he said carefully - 'I am not a warlock. I have never been a warlock. I never want to be a warlock. I'm just a mercenary soldier who happens to know a few tricks.'
    'Assuredly, Master Warlock,' said Puck cheerfully. 'Will you come back to the cavern? We shall guide you forth to your inn.'
    'Oh, all right,' Rod grumbled.
    But he turned to look at the miserable collection of bone and sinew that was the sleeping werewolf, lying in the center of the glade.
    'Master Gallowglass?' Puck's voice was puzzled, disturbed. 'What troubles you?'
    Rod shook his head, coming out of his reverie. 'Nothing,' he said, turning away. 'Just wondering.'
    'What of, warlock?'
    'They used to call me a lone wolf when I was a schoolboy ... Never mind. Which way did you say the cavern was?'
    The stars wheeled toward dawn as 'Rod stumbled, footsore and weary, across the inn-yard and into the stable.
    A single candle-lantern lit the row of stalls, serving only to deepen the shadows.
    Rod flung an arm across Fess's back to steady himself, his other hand groping across the robot's withers till he found the enlarged vertebra that was the reset switch. He pressed; the steel body stirred under its horsehair camouflage. The velvet black head lifted, shook twice, turned to look back over its shoulder, great brown eyes focusing on Rod. The robot was silent a moment; then the voice behind Rod's ear spoke with a touch of reproach:
    'You have left me inactive a long time, Rod, I have no aftereffects from the seizure.'
    'Sorry, old iron.' Rod kept his arms across the horse's back; his legs felt a trifle wobbly. 'I was on my way to reset you when I got clobbered.'
    'Clobbered!' Fess's voice writhed with shame. 'While I slept! May my casing lie forever corroding on the junkpile! May my germanium be consigned to the Converter for reclamation! May my-'
    'Oh, stow it!' Rod growled. 'It wasn't your fault.' He stepped away from the horse, -straightened his shoulders. 'I wasn't in any real danger, anyway. Just a busy night, that's all.'
    'How so, Rod?'
    Rod started to answer, then changed his mind. 'I'll tell you in the morning, Fess.'
    'I have reoriented my circuits to accept the discrepancies