The warlock insane by Christopher Stasheff Page A

arms. "TheMiddle Way is forbidden!"
    "There is nothing amusing in synthesis!"
    Fess took two leaps and stood astride the trail between the two Rods and the two-faced man, who blundered into him with a loud "Oo/!" and rebounded, falling over his own feet and collapsing. He was scrabbling back up in a minute, but Fess had turned away, and the guardian of extremes found himself facing a horsetail.
    With a sigh and a shake of his head, he turned back to face the single trail again. Rod had to kick his way through leafless ground vines, last year's leaves and fallen sticks, to find the path. He was glad he favored stout boots, and kept them heavily waxed. "I assume this will take us someplace."
    "Someplace not overly favored by those who search for fame and fortune, at a guess," the doppelganger returned.
    "Well, yes," Rod agreed, "but not too many of those find either one, do they?" The doppelganger shrugged. "Myself, I wouldn't know. I keep trying for obscurity." Rod nodded. "I know the feeling. All I want is a calm, peaceful, quiet, contented existence."
    "Wonder why we never get it?" the doppelganger mused.
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    "Because we want it, of course… Whoa! What's this?"
    Rod had parted a screen of brush, and they found themselves staring out at a broad road on top of a ridge.
    "It's the King's Highway." said the doppelganger softly. Rod grinned. "Of course. We go looking for a quiet life, and what do we find?"
    "I'll take the low road," the doppelganger said quickly.
    "But you'll get the high one," Rod answered. "Come on—let's see what tranquillity and solitude await us here."
    It was out onto the highway then with Fess scrambling up behind them. They mounted the great iron steed and set off down the middle of the road.
    The chill deepened as the sky darkened. To make matters worse, the trees began to crowd in at either side of the road.
    "Maybe we ought to stop and consider digging in for the night," the doppelganger suggested.
    "Just what I was thinking." Rod shivered. "A nice campfire and some roasting pheasants…" A huge snarling yowl tore the stillness, and six strapping figures leaped out of the woods, three on each side, muscles rippling under fur. They stood upright like men, but had the heads of cats. Their feet were encased in boots, but their arms ended in genuine hands, albeit fur-covered and clawed; and they wore knee-length mail-shirts, criscrossed by weapons belts.
    They attacked with feline screams, two of them leaping for Fess's bridle; but the great black horse tossed his head, knocking one of them aside, and struck the other away with a hoof. Rod spun around on the horse's rump, drawing his sword and dagger, setting his back against the doppelganger's. A huge cat-man sprang up on the horsehair, scimitar swinging down. Rod parried, just barely managing to keep his blade intact, and riposted. The point struck a leather belt, skidded, and scored through fur. The cat shrank back, screaming—and slipped off the rump. Another landed in its place, splitting and snarling, sword flashing around in a flat arc. Rod ducked and lurched forward, hooking upward with his dagger. A tremendous shock jarred him, but he held his place, and the cat screamed, its eyes beginning to dull even as it slipped back and away. Then, suddenly, it was over. Two dead cats lay staining the snow with their blood, and the other four were fleeing back into the trees, spitting and snarling. Rod stared in surprise, then turned with a grin. "I don't know what you managed to do to them, O alter ego, but you…" The doppelganger slumped, slipped out of the saddle, and sprawled on the ground. Rod stared in shock.
    "Rod?" Fess asked. "What has happened?"
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    "Can't you seeT' Rod leaped down and knelt beside his own huddled form. "Where'd they get you?
    Quick! Maybe I can staunch the