“Save one!” the wizard grated.

“Save none! Thine every lust, desire, and sin are each and all alike to mine, though hidden deep within thy heart!”

Galen’s head snapped up and back.

Agatha’s eyes lit with glee. She stalked forward, pressing her newfound advantage. “Aye, thy true self, Galen, that thou secretest veiled within thy deepest heart, is like to me! The lust and body weakness that ever I made public thou hast in private, mate to mine! Thus thou hast hid for threescore years thy secret shame! Thou hast not honesty enow to own to these, thy covered, covert sins of coveting! Thou art too much a coward…”

“Coward?” Galen almost seemed to settle back, relaxing, smiling sourly. “Nay, this is a cant that I ha’ heard afore. Thou wanest, Agatha. In a younger age, thou wouldst not so soon have slipped back upon old argument.”

“Nor do I now,” the witch said, “for now I call thee coward of a new and most unmanly fear! Thou who cry heed-lessness of all the world without the walls of thy Dark Tower; thou, who scornest all the people, fearest their opinion! Thou wouldst have them think thee saint!”

Galen’s face tightened, eyes widening in glare.

“A saint!” Agatha chortled, jabbing a finger at him. “The Saint of Hot and Heaving Blood! A saint, who hast as much of human failing as ever I did have, and great guilt! Greater! Aye, greater, for in thy false conceit thou hast robbed me of mine own true place with thee! For thou art mine by right, old Galen; ‘twas thou whom God ordained to be my husband, long before thy mother caught thy father’s eye! By rights, thou shouldst be mine; but thou hast held thyself away from me in cowardice and pompousness!”

Galen watched her a moment with shadowed eyes; then his shoulders squared, and he took a breath. “I receive only the curse that I have earned.”

Agatha stared for a moment, lips parting. “Thou wilt admit to it!”

Then, after a moment she fixed him with a sour smile. “Nay. He means only that he hath saved mine life six times and more; and thus it is his fault that I do live to curse him.”

She lifted her head proudly, her eyes glazing. “And in this thou mayst know that he is a weakling; for he cannot help himself but save us witches. It is within his nature, he who claims to care naught for any living witch or plowman. Yet he is our guardian and our savior, all us witches; for, if one of us should die when he might have prevented it, his clamoring conscience would batter down the weakness of a will that sought to silence it, and wake him in the night with haunted dreams. Oh, he can stand aloof and watch the peasant and the noble die, for they would gladly burn him; but a witch, who has not hurt him, and would render him naught but kindness—had he the courage or the manhood to be asking it—these he cannot help but see as part and parcel like him; and therefore must he save us, as he ha’ done a hundred times and more.”

She turned away. “Thou mayst credit him with virtue and compassion if thou wishest; but I know better.”

“ ‘Tis even as she saith,” said the old man proudly. “I love none, and none love me. I owe to none; I stand alone.”

Old Agatha gave a hoot of laughter.

“Uh… yes,” said Rod. The fight seemed to have reached a lull, and Rod was very eager to be gone before it refueled.

And since Galen’s brow was darkening again, it behooved Rod to make haste.

“Yes, well, uh, thanks for the timely rescue, Galen,” he said. “But now, if you’ll excuse us, we really gotta be getting back to Runnymede, uh—don’t we, Gwen?”

He paused suddenly, frowning at the old wizard. “I don’t, uh, suppose you’d consider coming back with us?”

Agatha’s head lifted slowly, fire kindling in her eye.

“I thank thee for thy kindness in offering of hospitality,” said the old wizard in a voice rigid with irony. “Yet greatly to my sorrow, I fear that I cannot accept.”

“Oh, to thy sorrow, to be sure!” spat Agatha. “Indeed, thou art the sorriest man that e’er I knew, for thou hast brought me sorrow deep as sin!”

She spun toward Rod and Gwen. “And yet, fear not; thy folk shall not go all unaided! There lives, at least, still one old witch of power threescore-years-and-ten in learning, who will not desert her countrymen in this time of need! There lives still one, aye, be assured; though this old gelding”—she jerked her head toward Galen—“will idly stand and watch thy folk enslaved, a power strong as his will guard thy land!” She stretched out her hand. “Come take me with thee, get us gone, for my stomach crawls within me at his presence! He thinks of naught but himself.”

“And thou dost not?” Galen grated, glaring at the old witch. “Is this aught but a sop to thy thwarted wish for mothering of a child thou never hadst?”

Agatha flinched almost visibly and turned, hot words on her tongue; but Galen raised an imperious hand and intoned:

“Get thee hence, to Runnymede!”

White light flared, burning, blinding.

When the afterimages faded, Rod could see, as well as feel, Gwen in his arms, which feeling had been very reassuring while the sun went nova.

He could dimly make out Agatha too, leaning shaken against a wall, a gray granite wall.

And a high timbered ceiling, and a knot of young witches and warlocks gathered around them, staring, eyes and mouths round.

Their voices exploded in clamoring questions.

Yep, home, Rod decided. It was obviously the Witches’ Tower in the King’s Castle at Runnymede.

He wondered what would happen if Galen ever got mad enough to tell someone to go to Hell.

One young warlock’s face thrust closer as he dropped to one knee. “Lord Warlock! Where has thou been?”

“Galen’s Dark Tower,” Rod croaked, and was rewarded with a huge communal gasp. He looked around at eyes gone round as wafers. “And as to how we got here—well, he sent us home.”

The teenagers exchanged glances. “We can wish ourselves from place to place,” said one of the warlocks, “but none of us can do it to another.”

“Yeah, well, Galen’s a little older than you, and he’s learned a few more tricks.” Privately, Rod wondered—that did amount to a new kind of psi power, didn’t it? Well, he was prepared for constant surprises. “Your name’s Alvin, isn’t it?”

“Thus am I called, Lord Warlock.”

Rod rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I seem to remember, before I lit out to find Gwen, something about the beastmen attacking?”

“Aye, milord. Their three long ships were only the vanguard. Behind them, their fleet did darken the waters.”

“Fleet?” Rod snapped completely out of his grogginess. “How many of them were there?”

“An army,” a girl answered from behind Alvin. “Thou couldst not call it less.”

Rod staggered to his feet, looking around. He saw the great black horse standing stiff-legged, head hanging low. Rod stumbled over to him and slid a hand under the head. It lifted, turning to look at him. Rod frowned. “No seizure, huh?”

“Indeed I did not,” the robot’s voice said in his ear only, “since I had experienced it once, and knew it to be possible. It thus did not cause great enough anxiety to trigger a seizure.”

“So,” Rod said carefully, “you were awake during the whole thing.”

The horsehead lifted higher. “I was. I… recorded it… all… I must play it back… very slowly… later… later…”

“Just offhand, what would you say… happened? Just at a guess.”

“A preliminary analysis would indicate that we passed through another dimension.” Fess’s body shuddered. “At least, I hope that is what I will decide happened.”

“Yeah.” Rod swallowed. “Uh. Well… decide it later, okay?” He set his foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the saddle. “We’ve got to get to the coast. Where’d you say they landed, Alvin?”

“At the mouth of the River Fleuve, milord. We wait as reserve, yet have heard no call.”

Rod took a more thorough look at the handful left in the room and realized there wasn’t a one over fourteen. Small wonder they hadn’t been called. If they had been, things would have been really desperate. Rod nodded. “The Fleuve isn’t too far. I might still get in on the action.” He leaned down from his saddle to plant a quick kiss on Gwen. “Keep the home fires burning, dear. Come help pick up the pieces when you’ve got your strength back.” He swung back upright and kicked his heels against Fess’s sides. The black horse started trotting toward the doorway, protesting, “Rod, the lintels are too low.”