Free The warlock insane by Christopher Stasheff Page A

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    "My pleasure." Rod rose, sheathing his dagger and sizing up his new acquaintance. Modwis was about three feet tall, broad in the shoulder, chest, and hips. He had arms as thick as Rod's thighs, and thighs as thick as tree trunks. His long hair fell loose to his shoulders; it and his beard were ginger, sprinkled with gray. He wore buff-colored leggings, green boots and tunic, a red cloak, and a red cap with a fur brim. He carried a dagger the size of a short sword, with elaborate carving on the hilt and scabbard. He returned Rod's gaze with a frank stare, up and down.
    Rod took the hint. "Who would set a silver snare?"
    "One who wished to catch elf-folk, belike."
    "Guess so… Hey !" Rod felt something clutch at his own ankle.
    "What moves?"
    "Something under the snow." Rod kicked out—and his leg jolted to a halt. A length of silver stretched up from the frost. "You didn't tell me there were more of them!"
    "In truth, I did not know." Modwis caught up a broken branch, stepped toward Rod—and fell flat on his face. " 'Ware!"
    "Don't worry, I will." Rod reached down to take Modwis's arm—and silver links shot round his wrist, pulling taut. "Not wary enough! Quick, get up—before they tie you down." Modwis was scrabbling, trying to push himself up—but silver chains held down his forearms. "I cannot!"
    "Why didn't you tell me—no, strike that. You weren't foolish enough to go reaching down, were you?"
    "Nay, though I came near to falling when first the chain pulled at me. Nay ! Forfend!" More chains were snaking out of the snow to wrap around his chest and torso. Rod sliced the links holding his wrist, then severed the chain around his own ankle. "Well, Cold Iron works against them…"
    "But thou canst not cut them more quickly than they rise against me! Nay, leave me! Save thyself!"
    "I, uh, don't think that'll be necessary." Rod turned to his mount. "Fess?"
    "Yes, Rod—my hooves are of steel." The horse strode into the patch of writhing chains. Silver strings snaked around his fetlocks—and parted, as the robot's strength snapped their links. He trampled carefully around Modwis's torso, one hoof to either side, standing over him. "Tell the gentleman to grasp the cinch."
    "That's right, he can't hear you. Yo, Modwis! Reach up and grab the horse's belly band! That'll get your upper body out of range, at least."
    Modwis lunged, and caught the strap under Fess's belly. "Yet what of my legs?"
    "Oh, he's very precise." Rod watched as Fess kicked through the chains beside Modwis's hip and right Page 45
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    side. "Now! Get your right leg up!"
    Modwis kicked high, and Fess scythed the chains along his left. "Get ready—and hold tight !" Fess leaped away into the trees, Modwis hanging on for dear life. The horse landed, and Modwis scrambled free. "I thank thee, good folk!"
    "Up!" Rod called. "Into the saddle! If there're any more near you…" But Modwis was already in the air, landing in the saddle in one clean bound. Fess turned back, and Modwis wrapped one hand in his mane, reaching out with the other. As they swept past, Rod caught Modwis's forearm and swung up behind him, onto Fess's rump. The horse cleared the patch of snares and slowed, turning back toward the glitter of broken links as he stopped.
    "Nay, fear not," Modwis rumbled. "We are clear of them, and they cannot follow."
    "Still," Rod said, "we can't be sure. Better make tracks, Steel Stud."
    "Rod, you should not refer to biological impossibilities…"
    "Okay, Manganese Mule! Just go!"
    "Well, if you insist on being rude about it," Fess huffed, but he turned and trotted away down the trail. Modwis turned his head to look back at Rod. "I ken not who thou art, Rod Gallowglass, but thou art most assuredly well met. I thank thee, mortal, and thine horse."
    "Always glad to help a fellow being in distress." Interesting that he wasn't known here, Rod