"More likely my conscience. Of course, you could be a real ghost—in which case, you could give me an unbiased view."
"Scarcely unbiased—yet I'll tell thee that thine old enemies, and mine, did thus taint thy food, and thy mind, and do reinforce the dose whene'er they can, to keep thee crazed and disabled."
"The anarchists? Then there's an uprising going on back in Runnymede!"
Big Tom nodded, eyes glowing.
"How about your old buddies? Don't tell me the totali-tarians are letting a chance like this slip away!"
"As thou dost wish—I shall not. There's no need, sin that thou hast said it thyself.''
Rod scrambled to his feet. "I've got to get back to Runnymede! Tuan and Catharine must be going crazy." He stopped, jarred by the sound of his own words.
"Crazed, in truth," Big Tom murmured. "What of thine own mind?"
"With a rebellion going on, what's a little paranoia more or less?"
"And thy wife and bairns?"
"I'll stay far away from them, of course."
"Thou canst not; they'll be working in aid of the King and Queen."
Rod froze.
"And what of thine hallucinations?" Big Tom demanded. "Shalt thou see an enemy knight, when 'tis truly thy son?"
"So I can't go help fight." Rod turned slowly, eyes narrowed. "Did you come here only to gloat?"
"Thou dost know I did not. Yet I bid thee cure thyself ere thou dost return."
"Look, I don't know how long it will take for these chemicals to pass out of my system, but by the time I've purged myself, the war will be over!"
"Mayhap," Big Tom said judiciously, "or mayhap thou canst learn to master the witch-moss."
Rod stilled, gazing at him intently.
" 'Tis witch-moss, after all," Big Tom explained, "and thou hast crafted the stuff aforetime. Canst thou not assert dominion o'er it even now, when 'tis within thee?"
"I might be able to learn," Rod said slowly, "but how will I know if I have or not? It couId just be hallucination!"
Big Tom shook his head. "Thou dost speak as though thou art truly crazed. I tell thee, thou art not. 'Tis but a substance in thy system."
"A substance that has changed my ability to see the world as it really is. No, Big Tom—that's a description of a crazy man. Just because the madness is artificially induced doesn't make it any less a madness."
The ghost shrugged. "Mayhap. Yet an thou art beset by delusions, mayhap thou canst counter them with illusions."
Rod pondered. "Why, how do I do that?"
"I cannot say." Big Tom sighed and shoved himself to his feet. "Thou must needs find those who know the manner of dealing with such unbonded imagery."
"A poet, you mean?"
"A poet, or a priest—or both. A doctor of the arts who is also a doctor of the soul."
"Great," Rod said with a sardonic smile. "Where do I find somebody with that combination?"
"I ken not. Yet thou canst, at least, take arms against the illusions thou dost know to be false."
"Wait a minute," Rod protested. "You're saying that I'm not really crazy—I'm just going to have to learn a new way of thinking?"
"In some fashion. Thou must needs learn to think in lifelike images, to oppose these false illusions with counterillusions. Thy wife and bairns were born to this mode of thought, and have no difficulty in dealing with it—yet to thee, 'tis alien."
"Then I'm not so much poisoned, as simply having had my mind fouled," Rod said slowly, "and I have to learn to deal with the foulness in its own terms." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."
"Then strive until it doth," Big Tom said. "Thy subconscious hath emerged into the perceptions of thy conscious mind, which cannot deal with its wild and rampant nature. As a beginning, take arms against those illusions thou canst be sure are only that—or are truly evil things."
"You mean Brume." Rod nodded. "Yes, I think I can go up against him with a clear conscience. He's either a total hallucination, or an esper who's out to victimize the whole countryside."
"Therefore," said Big Tom, "let us strike."
Somewhere there was a banshee howl, and a myriad of imps descended on them out of some nameless dimension.
Big Tom looked up with disgust. "The sorcerer Brume hath heard my thought, and hath called up his minions." He turned, setting his arms akimbo, and bellowed, "Avaunt!"
The imps halted in a hollow globe around them, shocked. Then their faces creased with anger, and their mouths opened in yowling.
"I bade thee hold!" Big Tom thundered, and their tentative advance halted. The yowling took on a definite halfhearted tone.
"They dare not strike whiles I am nigh," Big Tom said aside to Rod. "Do thou ope the door, whilst I hold them at bay."
"Good division of labor," Rod agreed, and he turned to the door, letting his mind drift into a trance, reaching out to the lock, probing, finding, pulling…
The bolt slid back.
Rod hauled the door open. "Care to join me?"
"Aye, and gladly." Big Tom stepped up to the doorway with a grin. The gibbering chorus started up again behind them, and the big ghost called back, without even looking at them, "Follow, an thou durst." And to Rod, "I doubt me not Brume hath penned them in here, to torment his enemies. Let them now come loose!"
Chapter Sixteen
A lone torch burned in the hallways outside the cell, illuminating a curving stair that rose up into gloom. As they started climbing, the gibbering behind them grew louder. By the time they'd reached the top of the stair, it was turning into yowling again, with the occasional manic giggle.
They came out of the stairwell into the Great Hall, and the imps spilled free in their wake, filling the hall with batwings and howling.
The sorcerer was ready for them—whatever kind of psionic warning system he had, had worked perfectly. The first fireball hit before they were five steps from the stairwell. Rod dodged aside, but the fireball swerved to follow, and swords yanked themselves off the walls to come arrowing toward Rod.
He saw them through clear syrup, for he was in a trance, willing entropy—and the fireball faded and died before it reached him. His own blade was out, parrying, and with a thought, he wrenched a shield off the wall. It flew to interpose itself between Rod and the other two swords, hovering as he slipped his arm through the old, stiff straps.
Then the floor heaved under his feet and, on top of everything else, he had to frantically levitate. The distraction was enough—one sword shot past his guard. He parried frantically, but it nicked his chest before he could swat it down.
Then the imps hit Brume, and the swords fell to the floor as the sorcerer shifted his attention to the little devils. They burst into flame, filling the air with shrieks of agony.
Rod set himself and marched toward the throne.
Brume glanced up, saw him, and a knife flicked itself from his belt, flying straight toward Rod.
Rod caught it on his shield, batted it out of the air—and the other knife he hadn't seen flashed before his eyes. He recoiled, falling back, and the blade shot by—but it opened his forehead on its way, and blood welled up. Rod bellowed with anger and leaped back to his feet, charging toward Brume through a rain of charred imps.
Brume turned to glare at him, and Rod quickly averted his eyes—he wouldn't be caught with the projected migraine again! But flame exploded all around Rod, and every nerve in his body screamed with pain. He ran toward the sorcerer, trying to break through the wall of fire, but it stayed with him, and he couldn't breathe, the flames had swallowed the oxygen…
Through the sheet of fire, he saw Big Tom's ghost towering over the sorcerer, fist slamming down toward the bald head. But the sorcerer's hands were sawing the air, and Big Tom disappeared like a soap bubble on the breeze.