The Warlock Enraged

3

We’re getting pretty close to the Romanov border now, aren’t we?”

“Aye, my lord. Tis mayhap a day’s journey further.” Gwen was holding up bravely, but she did seem tired.

Rod frowned. “Look—they know we’re coming; there’s no point in keeping our disguise. Why’re we still walking?”

“To save fright, Papa,” Gregory looked down at his father, from his seat on Fess’s pack. “If the good peasant folk see us flying north, they would surely take alarm.”

Rod stared at his youngest for a moment, then turned to Gwen. “How old did you say he was? Three, going on what?”

But Gwen frowned suddenly, and held up a hand. “Hist!”

Rod frowned back. “The same to you.”

“Nay, nay, my lord! ‘Tis danger! Good folk come, but flee toward us in full terror!”

Rod’s face went neutral. “What’s chasing them?”

Gwen shook her head. “I cannot tell. ‘Tis human, for I sense the presence—yet there’s a blank where minds should be.”

Rod noted the plural. “All right, let’s prepare for the worst.” He put two fingers to his mouth, and blasted out a shrill whistle.

Like tandem firecrackers, Magnus and Geoffrey popped out of nowhere, and Cordelia swooped down to hover behind them. “Why didst thou not but think for us, Papa?” Magnus inquired.

“Because we’re up against an enemy that can hear thoughts farther than whistles. All right, kids, we’ve got to set up an ambush. I want each of you high up in a tree, doing your best imitation of a section of bark. Your mother and I’ll take the ground. When the enemy shows up, hit ‘em with everything you’ve got.”

“What enemy, Papa?”

“Listen for yourself. Mama says it’s human, but nothing more.”

All four children went glassy-eyed for a moment, then came out of their trances with one simultaneous shudder. “ ‘Tis horrible,” Cordelia whispered. “‘Tis there, but—‘tis not!”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Rod said grimly, “and just in case you don’t, I’ll think ‘Havoc!’ as loudly as I can. Now, scoot!”

They disappeared with three pops and a whoosh. Looking up, Rod spotted three treetops suddenly swaying against the wind, and saw Cordelia soar into a fourth. “Which side of the road do you want, dear?”

Gwen shrugged. “Both sides are alike to me, my lord.”

“What do you think you are, a candidate? Okay, you disappear to the east, and I’ll fade into the left. I keep trying, anyway.”

Gwen nodded, and squeezed his hand quickly before she sped off the road. Leaves closed behind her. Rod stayed a moment, staring north and wondering; then he turned to the underbrush, muttering, “Head north about ten yards, Fess.”

The robot sprang into a gallop, and almost immediately turned off the road onto Rod’s side.

The leaves closed behind him, and Rod turned to face the roadway, peering through foliage. He knelt, and let his body settle, breathing in a careful rhythm, watching the dust settle.

Then, around the curve of the roadway, they came—a dozen dusty peasants with small backpacks and haunted faces. They kept glancing back over their shoulders. The tallest of them suddenly called out, jerked to a halt. The others hurried back to him, calling over their shoulders to their wives, “Go! Flee!” But the women hesitated, glancing longingly at the road south, then back at their husbands. The men turned their backs and faced north, toward the enemy, each holding a quarterstaff at guard position, slantwise across his body. The women stared at them, horrified.

Then, with a wail, one young wife turned, hugging her baby, and hurried away southward. The others stared after her; then, one by one, they began to shoo their children away down the road.

Then the men-at-arms strode into sight.

Rod tensed, thinking, “Ready!” with all his force.

They wore brown leggings with dark green coats down to midthigh, and steel helmets. Each carried a pike, and a saffron badge gleamed on every breast. It was definitely a uniform, and one Rod had never seen before.

The soldiers saw the peasants, gave a shout, and charged, pikes dropping down level.

Rod thought the word with all his might, as he muttered it to Fess: “Havoc!”

He couldn’t have timed it better. Fess leaped out of the underbrush and reared, with a whinnying scream, just as the last soldiers passed him. They whirled about, alarmed, as did most of their mates—and Rod leaped up on the roadway between peasants and soldiers, sword flickering out to stab through a shoulder, then leaping back out to dart at another footman even as the first screamed, staggering backward. Two soldiers in the middle of the band shot into the air with howls of terror, and slammed back down onto their mates, as a shower of rocks struck steel helmets hard enough to stagger soldiers, and send them reeling to the ground.

Rod threw himself into a full lunge, skewering a third soldier’s thigh, as he shouted to the peasants, “Now! Here’s your chance! Fall on ‘em, and beat the hell out of ‘em!”

Then a pike-butt crashed into his chin and he spun backward, vision darkening and shot through with sparks; but a roar filled his ears and, as his sight cleared, he saw the peasant men slamming into the soldiers, staves rising and falling with a rhythm of mayhem.

Rod gasped, and staggered back toward them; there was no need for killing!

Then another thought nudged through: they needed prisoners, for information.

He blundered in among the peasants, took one quick glance at the remains of the melee, and gasped, “Stop! There’s no need… They don’t deserve…”

“Thou hast not seen what they’ve done,” the peasant next to him growled.

“No, but I intend to find out! Look! They’re all down, and some of ‘em may be dead already! Stand back, and leave them to me!”

A rough hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. “I’ truth? And who art thou to command, thou who hast not lost blood to these wolves?”

Rod’s eyes narrowed. He straightened slowly, and knocked the man’s hand away with a sudden chop. It was ridiculous, and really shouldn’t have made any difference to anybody—but it would work; it’d get their cooperation. “I am the High Warlock, Rod Gallowglass, and it is due to my magic and my family’s, that you men stand here victorious, instead of sprawling as buzzard’s meat!”

He didn’t have to add the threat; the man’s eyes widened, and he dropped to one knee. “Your pardon, Lord! I… I had not meant…”

“No, of course you didn’t. How could you tell, when I’m dressed as a tinker?” Rod looked around to find all the peasants kneeling. “All right, that’s enough! Are you men or pawns, that you must kneel? Rise, and bind these animals for me!”

“On the instant, milord!” The peasants leaped to their feet, and turned to begin lashing up the soldiers with their own belts and garters. Rod caught the belligerent one by the shoulder. “How are you called?”

Apprehension washed his face, and he tugged at his forelock. “Grathum, an it please thee, milord.”

Rod shrugged. “Whether or not it pleases you, is a bit more important. Grathum, go after the women, and tell them the good news, will you?”

The man stared, realization sinking in. “At once, your lordship!” And he sped away.

Rod surveyed the knot-tying party and, satisfied everything was well under way with the minimum of vengeful brutality, glanced up at the trees and thought, Wonderful, children! I’m a very proud daddy!

The branches waved slightly in answer. Rod could have bent his mind to it, and read their thoughts in return; but it still involved major effort for him, and he couldn’t spare the concentration just now. But he turned toward the underbrush, and thought, Thanks, dear. It was nice to see you throwing somebody else’s weight around for a change.

“As long as ‘tis not thine, my lord? Thou art most surely welcome!”

Rod looked up, startled—that was her voice, not her mind. Gwen came marching up, with the women and children behind her. Grathum hurried on ahead, face one big apology. “ ‘Ere I could come unto them, milord, thy wife had brought word, and begun their progress back.”

She had obviously run the message on her broomstick; the wives were herding their children silently, with covert glances at her, and the children were staring wide-eyed.

Rod turned back to Grathum. “Any more of these apes likely to be following you?”

The peasant shook his head. “Nay, milord—none that we know of. There were more bands—but they chased after others who fled. Only these followed the high road, when we who escaped to it so far as this, were so few.”

“ ‘Others who fled?’ ” Rod frowned, setting his fists on his hips. “Let’s try it from the beginning. What happened, Grathum? Start back before you knew anything was wrong.”

“Before…?” The peasant stared at him. “Tis some months agone, milord!”

“We’ve got time.” Rod nodded toward the north. “Just in case you’re worried, I’ve got sentries out.”

Grathum darted quick looks about him, then back at Rod, fearfully. Rod found it unpleasant, but right now, it was useful. “Several months back,” he prompted, “before you knew anything was wrong.”

“Aye, milord,” Grathum said, with a grimace. He heaved a sigh, and began. “Well, then! ‘Twas April, and we were shackling our oxen to the plows for the planting, and a fellow hailed me from the roadway. I misliked his look—he was a scrawny wight, with a sly look about him—but I’d no reason to say him nay, so I pulled in my ox and strode up to the hedge, to have words with him.

“ ‘Whose land is this?’ he did ask me; and I answered, ‘Why, o’ course, ‘tis the Duke of Romanov’s; but my master, Sir Ewing, holds it enfeoffed from him.’

“ ‘Nay,’ quoth this wight, ‘ ‘tis not his now, but the Lord Sorcerer Alfar’s—and I hold it enfeoffed from him.‘

“Well! At this I became angered. ‘Nay, assuredly thou dost not,’ I cried. ‘An thou dost speak such treason, no man would blame me!’ And I drew back my fist, to smite him.”

Rod’s mouth tightened. That sort of fit in with his overall impression of Grathum’s personality. “And what’d he do about it?”

“Why! He was gone ere I could strike—disappeared! And appeared again ten feet away, on my side of the fence! Ah, I assure thee, then fear did seize my bowels—but I ran for him anyway, with a roar of anger. Yet up he drifted into the air, hauling a thick wand out from his cloak, and struck down at me with it. I made to catch it, but ever did he seem to know where I would grasp next, and ever was his stick elsewhere; and thus did he batter me about the head and shoulders, till I fell down in a swoon. When I came to my senses, he stood over me, crowing, ‘Rejoice that I spared thee, and used only a wooden rod—nor tossed a ball of fire at thee, nor conjured a hedgehog into thy belly!’… Could he do such, milord?”

“I doubt it highly,” Rod said, with a dry smile. “Go on with your story.”

Grathum shrugged. “There’s little more to tell of that broil. ‘Be mindful,’ quoth he, ‘that thou dost serve me now, not that sluggard Sir Ewing.’ The hot blood rushed to my face, to hear my lord so addressed; but he saw it, and struck me with the wand again. I did ward the blow, but he was behind me on the instant, and struck me from the other side—and I could not ward myself, for that the arm that should have done it, was beneath me. ‘Be mindful,’ quoth he again, ‘and fear not Sir Ewing’s retribution; ere the harvest comes, he’ll not be by to trouble thee further.’ Then he grinned like to a broad saw, and vanished in a crack of thunder.”

Rod noted that all this junior wizard seemed to have done, was teleport and levitate—but he had used them to give him an advantage in a fight!

“This worm of a warlock was fully lacking in honor,” Gwen ground out, at his elbow.

“Totally unethical,” Rod agreed, “and, therefore, totally self-defeating, in the end. If witches and warlocks went around behaving like that, the mobs would be out after them in an instant—and how long could they last then?”

“Forever,” Grathum said promptly, “or so this Lord Sorcerer and his sorcery-knights do believe. They fear no force, milord, whether it come from peasants or knights.”

The fright in his tone caught at Rod. He frowned. “You sound as though you’re talking from experience. What happened?” Then he lifted his head as he realized what someone like Grathum might have done. “You did report this little incident to Sir Ewing, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Grathum bit his lip. “And I wish that I had not—though it would have made little difference, for each and every other plowman on Sir Ewing’s estates told him likewise.”

“The same warlock in each case?”

“Aye; his name, he said, was Melkanth. And there was no report of him, from any other manor; yet each had been so visited by a different warlock or witch. Naetheless, ‘twas our Sir Ewing who did rise up in anger and, with his dozen men-at-arms, rode forth to seek out this Melkanth.”

Rod clamped his jaw. “I take it Sir Ewing found him.”

Grathum spread his hands. “We cannot think otherwise; for he did not come back. Yet his men-at-arms did; but they wore this livery thou seest on those who pursued us.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the heap of bound soldiers. “Aye, they came back, these men that we’d known since childhood; they came back, and told us that Sir Ewing was no more, and that we served His Honor Warlock Melkanth now.”

Rod stared, and Gwen caught at his arm. That jarred Rod back into contact with reality; he cleared his throat, and asked, “Anything odd about ‘em? The way they looked?”

“Aye.” Grathum tapped next to his eye. “Twas here, milord—in their gazes. Though I could not say to thee what ‘twas that was odd.”

“But it was wrong, whatever it was.” Rod nodded. “What’d the soldiers do? Stay around to make sure you kept plowing?”

“Nay; they but told us we labored for Melkanth now, and bade us speak not of this that had happed, not to any knight nor lord; yet they did not say we could not speak to other peasant folk.”

“So the rumor ran?”

“Aye. It ran from peasant to peasant, till it had come closer by several manors to our lord, Count Novgor.”

Rod kept the frown. “I take it he’s vassal to Duke Romanov.”

“Aye, milord. The Count called up his levies—but scarce more than a dozen knights answered his call; for the others had all marched forth to battle the warlocks who challenged them.”

“Oh, really! I take it rumor hadn’t run fast enough.”

Grathum shrugged. “I think that it had, milord; but such news only angered our good knights, and each marched out to meet the warlock who claimed his land, thinking his force surely equal to the task.”

“But it wasn’t.” Rod’s lips were thin. “Because they went out one knight at a time; but I’ll bet each one of them ran into this Lord Sorcerer and all his minions, together.”

Grathum’s face darkened. “Could it be so?”

Rod tossed his head impatiently. “You peasants have got to stop believing everything you’re told, Grathum, and start trying to find out a few facts on your own!… Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m as sane as you are! What happened to Count Novgor and his understrength army?”

Grathum shook his head. “We know not, milord—for fear overtook us, and we saw that, if the sorcerer won, we would be enslaved to fell magic, and our wives and bairns with us. Nay, then we common folk packed what we could carry and sin’ that we would not have the chance to fight, fled instead, through the pasture lanes to the roadway, and down the roadway to the High Road.”

“So you don’t know who won?”

“Nay; but early the next morning, when we’d begun to march again, word ran through our numbers—for it was hundreds of people on the road by then, milord; we folk of Sir Ewing’s were not alone in seeing our only chance to stay free—and word ran from the folk at the rear of the troupe, to us near the van, that green-coated soldiers pursued. We quickened our pace, but word came, anon, that a band of peasants had been caught up by soldiers, and taken away in chains. At that word, many folk split away, village by village, down side roads toward hiding. But when we came to high ground, we looked back, and saw squadrons of soldiers breaking off from the main host, to march down the side roads; so we turned our faces to the South, and hurried with Death speeding our heels—for word reached those of us in the van, that the soldiers had begun slaying those who fought their capture. Then did we take to a byway ourselves; but we hid, with our hands o’er our children’s mouths, till the soldiers had trooped by, and were gone from sight; then back we darted onto the High Road, and down toward the South again. Through the night we came, bearing the wee ones on litters, hoping that the soldiers would sleep the whiles we marched; and thus we came into this morning, where thou hast found us.”

Rod looked up at the sky. “Let’s see, today… yesterday… This would be the third day since the battle.”

“Aye, milord.”

“And you, just this little band of you, are the only ones who made it far enough south to cross the border?”

Grathum spread his hands. “The only ones on the High Road, milord. If there be others, we know not of them… and had it not been for thee and thy family, we would not be here, either.” He shuddered. “Our poor Count Novgor! We can only pray that he lives.”

Air cracked outward, and Gregory floated at Rod’s eye level, moored to his shoulder by a chubby hand.

The peasants stared, and shrank back, muttering in horror.

“Peace.” Rod held up a hand. “This child helped save you from the sorcerer’s soldiers.” He turned to Gregory, nettled. “What is it, son? This wasn’t exactly a good time.”

“Papa,” the boy said, eyes huge, “I have listened, and…”

Rod shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly a private conversation. What about it?”

“If this Count Novgor had won, these soldiers in the sorcerer’s livery would not have been marching after these peasant folk.”

The folk in question gasped, and one woman cried, “But the bairn can scarcely be weaned!”

Rod turned to them, unable to resist a proud smirk. “You should see him think up excuses not to eat his vegetables. I’m afraid he’s got a point, though; I wouldn’t have any great hopes for Count Novgor’s victory.”

The peasants sagged visibly.

“But it should be possible to get a definite answer.” Rod strode forward.

The peasants leaped aside.

Rod stepped up to the bound soldiers. He noticed that one or two were struggling against their ties. “They’re beginning to come to. I think they might know who won.” He reached out to yank a soldier onto his feet, then turned to the peasants. “Anybody recognize him?”

The peasants stared and, one after another, shook their heads. Then, suddenly, one woman’s finger darted out, to point at the soldier on top of the third pile. “But yonder is Gavin Arlinson, who followed good Sir Ewing into battle! How comes he to fight in the service of his lord’s foe?”

“Or any of them, for that matter? Still, he’ll do nicely as a representative sample.” Rod gave the soldier he was holding, a slight push; the man teetered, then fell back down onto his comrades. Rod caught him at the last second, of course, and lowered him the final inch; then he waded through the bound men, to pull Gavin Arlinson onto his feet. He slapped the man’s face gently, until the eyelids fluttered; then he called, “Magnus, the brandy—it’s in Fess’s pack.”

His eldest elbowed his way through to his father, holding up a flask. Rod took it, noting that nobody seemed to wonder where Magnus had come from. He pressed the flask to Arlinson’s lips and tilted, then yanked it back out quickly. The soldier coughed, spraying the immediate area, choked, then swallowed. He squinted up at Rod, frowning.

Just the look of the eyes made Rod shiver. Admittedly, the glassiness of that stare could be due to the head knock he’d received; but the unwavering, unblinking coldness was another matter.

Rod pulled his nerve back up and demanded, “What happened to Sir Ewing?”

“He died,” the soldier answered, his tone flat. “He died, as must any who come up against the might of the Lord Sorcerer Alfar.”

Rod heard indignant gasps and muttering behind him, but he didn’t turn to look. “Tell us the manner of it.”

“Tis easily said,” the soldier answered, with full contempt. “He and his men marched forth to seek the warlock Melkanth. They took the old track through the forest, and in a meadow, they met him. But not Melkanth alone—his brother warlocks and sister witches, all four together, with their venerable Lord, the Sorcerer Alfar. Then did the warlocks and witches cause divers monsters to spring out upon Sir Ewing and his men, while the witches cast fireballs. A warlock appeared hard by Sir Ewing, in midair, to stab through his visor and hale him off his mount. Then would his soldiers have fled, but the Lord Sorcerer cried out a summoning, and all eyes turned toward him. With one glance, he held them all. Then did he explain to them who he was, and why he had come.”

“I’ll bite.” Rod gave him a sour smile. “Who is he?”

“A man born with Talent, and therefore noble by birth,” the soldier answered tightly, “who hath come to free us all from the chains in which the twelve Lords, and their lackeys, do hold us bound.”

“What chains are these?” Rod demanded. “Why do you need freeing?”

The soldier’s mouth twisted with contempt. “The ‘why’ of it matters not; only the fact of enslavement’s of import.”

“That, I can agree with—but not quite the way you meant it.” Rod turned to his wife. “I call it hypnosis—instant style. What’s your diagnosis?”

“The same, my lord,” she said slowly. “ ‘Tis like to the Evil Eye with which we dealt, these ten years gone.”

Rod winced. “Please! Don’t remind me how long it’s been.” He submitted to a brief but intense wave of nostalgia, suddenly feeling again the days when he and Gwen had only had to worry about one baby warlock. And, of course, a thousand or so marauding beastmen——

He shook off the mood. “Can you do anything about it?”

“Why… assuredly, my lord.” Gwen stepped up to him, looking directly into his eyes. “But dost thou not wish to attempt it thyself?”

Rod shook his head, jaw clamped tight. “No, thanks. I managed to make it through this skirmish without rousing my temper—how, I’m not sure; but I’d just as soon not tempt fate. See what you can do with him, will you?”

“Gladly,” she answered, and turned to stare into the soldier’s eyes.

After a minute, his lips writhed back from his teeth. Rod glanced quickly at the thongs that held his wrists, then down to his lashed ankles. His muscles strained against the leather, and it cut into his flesh, but there was no sign it might break. He looked back up at the soldier’s face. It had paled, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Suddenly, he stiffened, his eyes bulging, and his whole body shuddered so violently that it seemed it would fall apart. Then he went limp, darting panicked glances about him, panting as though he’d run a mile. “How… Who…”

Gwen pressed her hands over her eyes and turned away.

Rod looked from her to the soldier and back. Then he grabbed Grathum and shoved the soldier into his arms. “Here! Hold him up!” He leaped after his wife, and caught her in his arms. “It’s over, dear. It’s not there anymore.”

“Nay… I am well, husband,” she muttered into his doublet. “Yet that was… distasteful.”

“What? The feel of his mind?”

She nodded, mute.

“What was it?” Rod pressed. “The sense of wrongness? The twisting of the mind that had hypnotized him?”

“Nay—‘twas the lack of it.”

“Lack?”

“Aye.” Gwen looked up into his eyes, a furrow between her eyebrows. “There was no trace of any other mind within his, my lord. Even with the beastmen’s Evil Eye, there was ever the sense of some other presence behind it—but here, there was naught.”

Rod frowned, puzzled. “You mean he was hypnotized and brainwashed, but whoever did it was so skillful, he didn’t even leave a trace?”

Gwen was still; then she shrugged. “What else could it be?”

“But why take the trouble?” Rod mused. “I mean, any witch who knows more than the basics, would recognize that spell in a moment.”

Gwen shook her head, and pushed away from him. “ ‘Tis a mystery. Leave it for the nonce; there are others who must be wakened. Cordelia! Geoffrey, Magnus, Gregory! Hearken to my thoughts; learn what I do!” And she went to kneel by the bound soldiers. Her children gathered about her.

Rod watched her for a moment, then turned back to Arlinson, shaking his head. He looked up into the man’s eyes, and found them haunted.

The soldier looked away.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Rod said softly. “You were under a spell; your mind wasn’t your own.”

The soldier looked up at him, hungrily.

“It’s nothing but the truth.” Rod gazed deeply into the man’s eyes, as though staring could convince him by itself. “Tell me—how much do you remember?”

Arlinson shuddered. “All of it, milord—Count Novgor’s death, the first spell laid on us, the march to the castle, the deepening of the spell…”

Rod waited, but the soldier only hung his head, shuddering. “Go on,” Rod pressed. “What happened after the deepening of the spell?”

Arlinson’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What more was there!”

Rod stared at him a moment, then said slowly, “Nothing. Nothing that you could have done anything about, soldier. Nothing to trouble your heart.” He watched the fear begin to fade from the man’s eyes, then said, “Let’s back it up a bit. They—the warlocks, I mean—marched you all to the castle, right?”

Arlinson nodded. “Baron Strogol’s castle it had been, milord.” He shuddered. “Eh, but none would have known it, once they’d passed the gate house. ‘Twas grown dank and sour. The rushes in the hall had not been changed in a month at the least, mayhap not since the fall, and each window and arrow slit was shuttered, barring the daylight.”

Rod stored it all away, and asked, “What of the Count?”

Arlinson only shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving Rod’s.

Rod leaned back on one hip, fingering his dagger. “How did they deepen the spell?”

Arlinson looked away, shivering.

“I know it’s painful to remember,” Rod said softly, “but we can’t fight this sorcerer if we don’t know anything about him. Try, won’t you?”

Arlinson’s gaze snapped back to Rod’s. “Dost thou think thou canst fight him, then?”

Rod shrugged impatiently. “Of course we can—but I’d like to have a chance of winning, too. Tell me how they deepened the spell.”

The soldier only stared at him for a time. Then, slowly, he nodded. “ ‘Twas done in this manner: They housed us in the dungeon, seest thou, and took us out from our cage, one alone each time. When my turn came, they brought me into a room that was so dark, I could not tell thee the size of it. A lighted candle stood on a table, next to the chair they sat me in, and they bade me stare at the flame.” His mouth twisted. “What else was there?”

Rod nodded. “So you sat and stared at the flame. Anything else?”

“Aye; some unseen musicians played a sort of music I never had heard aforetime. ‘Twas a sort of a drone, seest thou, like unto that of a bagpipe—yet had more the sound of a viol. And another unseen beat on a tambour…”

“Tap it out,” Rod said softly.

The soldier stared, surprised. Then he began to slap his thigh, never taking his eyes from Rod’s.

Rod recognized the rhythm; it was that of a heartbeat. “What else?”

“Then one who sat across from me—but ‘twas so dark, I could tell his presence only by the sound of his voice—one across from me began to speak of weariness, and sleep. Mine eyelids began to grow heavy; I remember that they drooped, and I fought against drowsiness, yet I gave into it, finally, and slept—until now.” He glanced down at his body, seeming to see his clothing for the first time. “What is this livery?”

“We’ll tell you after you’ve taken it off,” Rod said shortly. He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Be brave, soldier. You’ll need your greatest courage when you find out what’s been happening while you were, uh… while you ‘slept.’ ” He turned to Grathum. “Release him—he’s on our side again.” And he turned back to Gwen, just in time to see the children, as a team, wake the last soldier, while Gwen supervised closely. “Gently, Magnus, gently—his mind sleeps. And Geoffrey, move slowly—nay, pull back! Retreat! If thou dost wake him too quickly, thou’lt risk driving him back into the depths of his own mind, in shock of his waking so far from his bed.”

The soldier in question blinked painfully, then levered himself up on one elbow. He looked down and stared at his bound wrists. Then he looked up, wildly—but even as he began to struggle up, his eyes lost their wildness. In a few seconds, he sank back onto one elbow, breathing deeply.

“Well done, my daughter,” Gwen murmured approvingly. “Thou didst soothe him most aptly.”

Rod watched the man growing calmer. Finally, he looked about him, wide-eyed. His gaze anchored on Gwen, then took in the children—then, slowly, tilted up toward Rod.

“All are awake now, husband, and ready.” Gwen’s voice was low. “Tell them thy condition, and thy name.”

“I am named Rod Gallowglass, and I am the High Warlock of this Isle of Gramarye.” Rod tried to match Gwen’s pitch and tone. “Beside me is my lady, Gwendylon, and my children. They have just broken an evil and vile spell that held you in thrall.” He waited, glancing from face to face, letting them take it in and adjust to it. When he thought they’d managed, he went on. “You have been ‘asleep’ for three days, and during that time, you have fought as soldiers in the army of the Lord Sorcerer, Alfar.”

They stared at him, appalled. Then they all began to fire questions, one after another, barking demands, almost howling in disbelief.

They were building toward hysteria. It had to be stopped.

Rod held up his hands, and bellowed, “Silence!

The soldiers fell silent, as military discipline dug its hooks into their synapses. But they were primed, and ready to explode, so Rod spoke quickly. “What you did during those days was not truly your doing—it was the ‘Lord’ Sorcerer’s and his minions. They used your bodies—and parts of your minds.” He saw the look that washed over the soldiers’ faces, and agreed, “Yes. It was foul. But remember that what you did was their crime, not yours; there is no fault of yours in it, and you cannot rightly be blamed for it.” He saw their foreboding. Well, good—at least they’d be braced, when Grathum and his peasants told them what had been happening. He glanced from face to face again, holding each set of eyes for a moment, then breathed, “But you can seek justice.”

Every eye locked onto him.

“You have pursued these goodfolk, here…” Rod jerked his head toward the peasants. “…southward. You have passed the border of Romanov, and are come into Earl Tudor’s land. Wend your way on to the South, now, with the folk you did chase—only now, be their protectors.”

He saw resolve firm the soldiers’ faces.

Rod nodded with satisfaction. “Southward you go, all in one body, to King Tuan at Runnymede. Kneel to him there, and say the High Warlock bade you come. Then tell him your tale, from beginning to end, even as Gavin Arlinson has told it to me. He will hear you, and shelter you—and, if you wish it, I doubt not he will take you into his army, so that, when he marches North against this tyrant sorcerer, you may help in tearing him down.”

Rod glanced from face to face again. He hadn’t said anything about guilt or expiation, but he could see remorse turn into fanaticism in their expressions. He turned to Grathum. “We can trust them. Strike off their bonds.”

Grathum eyed him uncertainly, but moved to obey.

Rod felt a tug at his belt, and looked down.

“Papa,” said Gregory, “will the guards allow them to speak to the King?”

“I’ll have to see if I can get you a job as my memory.” Rod turned away to fumble in Fess’s pack, mumbling, “We did bring a stylus and some paper, didn’t we?”

“We did,” the robot’s voice answered, “but it is at the bottom, under the hardtack.”

“Well, of course! I wasn’t expecting a booming correspondence on this jaunt.” Rod dug deep, came up with writing materials, and wrote out a rather informal note, asking that the bearer be allowed to speak with Their Majesties. He folded it, tucked the stylus away, and turned to Cordelia. “Seal, please.”

The witchlet stared at it, brow puckering in furious concentration. Then she beamed, and nodded.

“All done?” Rod tested it; the paper was sealed all around the edges; molecules from each half of the sheet had wandered in among the other half’s. Rod grinned. “Thanks, cabbage.” He turned to Grathum, handing him the letter. “Present this to the sentry. Not being able to read, he’ll call the captain of the guard, who’ll call for Sir Maris, who’ll probably allow only two of you to come before Their Majesties—and even then, only when you’re surrounded by ten of the Queen’s Own Bodyguard. Don’t let them bother you—they’ll just be decoration.” He pursed his lips. “Though I wouldn’t make any sudden moves, when you’re in the throne room…”

Grathum bobbed his head, wide-eyed. “E’en as thou dost say, milord.” Then he frowned. “But… milord…”

“Go ahead.” Rod waved an expansive gesture.

Grathum still hesitated, then blurted, “Why dost thou call thy lass a ‘cabbage?’ ”

“ ‘Cause she’s got a head on her shoulders,” Rod explained. “Off with you, now.”