The thugs were making too much noise to hear, until the soldiers were only thirty feet away. Then one of them looked up and shouted. The other two turned, stared for one moment of panic, then whirled and plunged into the underbrush with howls of dismay.

The sergeant reined in just in front of the older man.

“I thank thee, Auncient.” The traveler bowed, leaning on his staff. “They’d have stripped me bare and left me for wolf-meat!”

“Nay, certes! We could not allow such work, could we, then?” The sergeant grinned to his men for a chorus of agreement, and turned back to the traveler. “Such goods as wayfarers own, are ours to claim.” He leaned down, shoving an open palm under the traveler’s nose. “Thy purse, gaffer!”

The older man stared at him, appalled. Then he heaved a sigh, and untied his purse from his belt. He set it in the sergeant’s hand. “Take it, then—and surely, I owe thee what I can give, for thy good offices.”

“Dost thou indeed?” The sergeant straightened, opening the purse with a sly grin. But it faded quickly to a scowl of indignation, as he looked into the little bag. He glared down at the traveler. “Here, now! What manner of jest is this?”

“Why, naught!” the traveler said, surprised. “What few coins I have, are there!”

“Few indeed.” The sergeant upended the purse, and five copper coins clinked into his palm. He growled and tossed them into the dust. “Come, then! None take to the road without a few shillings at least, to provide for themselves.”

The older man shook his head. “I had no more—and my daughter’s near to term with her first. I must be there; she’ll have need of me.”

“She will, indeed,” the sergeant growled, “and thou’lt be wanting.” He nodded to his men. “Strip him, and slash his clothes. We’ll find shillings, though they be within his flesh.”

The traveler stepped back, horrified, as the soldiers crowded in, chuckling. Then his face firmed with resignation, and his staff lifted.

“Seize him!” the sergeant barked.

“So much for natural processes.” Rod’s anger surged up, freed. “Now, Fess!”

The great black horse sprang forward.

One of the soldiers chopped down at the traveler with his pike; but his victim’s quarterstaff cracked against the pike-shaft, and it swerved, crashing into the shield of the trooper next to him. “Here now!” the man barked, and swung his own axe.

“Nay, nay!” the sergeant cried in disgust. “Is one lone…”

A bellow of rage drowned him out, and his eyes bulged as Rod’s whip wrapped itself around his throat. Rod yanked back as Fess crashed into a trooper, and the sergeant shot out of his saddle. The trooper screamed as his horse went flying. Fess slammed into another horse, reaching for its rider with steel teeth, as Rod turned to catch up a club he’d hidden among the grain sacks, and whirled it straight-armed down at the steel cap of a third trooper with a bellow of fury. The blow rang like the parish bell on a holy day, and the soldier slumped to the ground, his helmet flying off. Fess tossed his head as he let go of the second trooper’s arm, and the man spun flying to slam into a tree. Rod turned, just as the fourth trooper hit the ground. The traveler’s staff rose, and fell with a dull thud. Rod winced, his rage ending as suddenly as it had begun, transmuting into leaden chagrin. He looked about him at the three fallen men. He fought against it. He’d been right, damn it! And none of them were really hurt. Nothing permanent, anyway…

Then he turned, and saw the older man looking up, panting, eyes white-rimmed, staff leaping up to guard again.

Rod dropped the reins and held his hands up shoulder-high, palms open. “Not me, gaffer! I’m just here to help!”

The staff hung poised as the battle tension ebbed from the traveler’s muscles. Finally, he lowered his guard, and smiled. “I give thee thanks, then—though I’m no one’s ‘gaffer.’ ”

“Not yet, maybe—but you will be, soon.” Rod forced a weak smile. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Nay, I think thou didst attempt such hearing—and I thank thee for it.” The traveler grounded the butt of his staff, and held out his hand.

“I am called Simon, and my village is Versclos.”

“I am, uhhh…” Rod leaned down to shake Simon’s hand, groping frantically to remember the name he’d used for his “old farmer” act. “Call me Owen. Of Armand.”

“Owen of Armand?” Simon lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve not heard of that village.”

“It’s far from here—to the south.” Galactic south, anyway.

“I thank thee for thy good offices, Owen of Armand.” Simon’s handclasp was warm and firm. “Indeed, had it not been for thee…” He broke off suddenly, staring.

Rod frowned.

Simon lifted his head with a jolt and gave it a quick shake. “Nay, pardon! My mind wanders. Had it not been for thee, these liveried bandits would have stripped me bare—and sin’ that there were no shillings for them to find…”

Rod’s mouth thinned and hardened. “They probably would have stripped you down to your skin, then used their knives to look for pockets.”

“I do not doubt it.” Simon turned toward the soldiers. “Yet ‘tis not their doing. They labor under a wicked enchantment. Come, we must attend to them.” And he turned away, to kneel down by one of the troopers, leaving Rod with a puzzled frown. That had been rather abrupt—and, polite though he was, Simon had very obviously been trying to change the subject. What had he suddenly seen in Rod, that had so offended him? “Odd victim we have, here,” he muttered.

“Odd indeed,” Fess agreed. “To judge by his vocabulary and bearing, one would think him too well-qualified to be a road wanderer.”

Rod lifted his head slowly. “Interesting point…Well, let’s give him a hand.” He lashed the reins around the top bar of the cart and swung down to the ground.

Simon was kneeling by the sergeant, hand on the man’s shoulder, but still holding to his staff with the other. He stared into the man’s face, frowning, head cocked to the side, as though he were listening. Rod started to ask, then saw the abstracted glaze in Simon’s eyes, and managed to shut his mouth in time to keep the words in. He’d seen that same look in Gwen’s face too many times to mistake it—especially since he’d seen it in all his children’s faces, too, now and then—especially Gregory’s. Exactly what was going on, Rod didn’t know—but it was certainly something psionic.

The sergeant’s eyes opened. He blinked, scowling against pain, then sat up, massaging his throat. “What hast thou…” Then his eyes widened in horror. “Nay, I! what have I done to thee?”

Rod relaxed, reassured. The sergeant had his conscience back.

The man’s eyes lost focus as he took a quick tour back through memory. “I have… nay, I have oppressed… I have murdered! Eh, poor folk!” He squeezed his eyes shut, face clenched in pain. “I have seen these hands cut down fleeing peasants, then steal what few coins they had! I have heard mine own voice curse at villagers, and hale forth their sons to serve in the sorcerer’s army! I have…”

“Done naught.” Simon spoke sternly, but without anger, his voice pitched and hardened to pierce the sergeant’s remorse. “Be of good cheer, Auncient—for thou didst labor under enchantment. Whilst thy mind slumbered, ensorceled, thy body moved at the bidding of another. His commands were laid in thee, and thy body remembered, and governed its actions by his orders. Whatsoe’er thou dost recall thine hands doing, or thy voice crying, ‘twas not thine own doing, but Alfar’s.”

The sergeant looked up, hope rising in his gaze.

Rod held his face carefully impassive. Interesting, very interesting, that Simon knew the nature of the spell. Even more interesting, that he could break it.

Which meant, of course, that he was a telepath. And which meant that the startled look he had given Rod, was because he saw a man before him, but didn’t sense a mind to go with it. Rod could understand his amazement; he’d felt the same way a few times, himself…