Seventeen

THE VILLAGE MEN STARED AT ROD, THUNDER-struck; then they began to mutter fearfully to one another.

"What are you waiting for?" the Mocker cried. "Seize him! Tie him up! Hang him high!"

"He's a warlock," one of the villagers explained. "He'll freeze us with the Evil Eye, he'll turn us into toads!"

"He's only a man, like any of you!" the Mocker shrilled. "They may call him a warlock, but he's nothing of the sort—only a treacherous backstabbing spy!" He spun, lashing a kick at Rod.

Rod pushed himself up, but only enough so that the kick caught his shoulder instead of his head. Pain shot through his left arm, but he forced himself to his feet and blocked the next kick with his right, then countered with a feint to the head and a quick jab to the diaphragm. The Mocker fell back, clutching his belly but managing to cough out, "If he had magic, I'd be a toad, not a punching bag! He has no magic!"

"You're a little behind the times," Rod informed him, and projected a blast of pure mental energy at the man. The Mocker shrieked, seizing his temples and falling.

Rod let up as the tall black warhorse seemed to materialize out of the night. The villagers fell back with cries of superstitious fear. Rod mounted and turned Fess, looking into each one's eyes as he said, "Raven's gone from your village—I chased her away. She had magic of her own but couldn't stand against mine. I found your wives and children and parents and told them they could go back. Home with you, for I promised I'd find you and send you! Home with you, before some of you fall in battle with the Queen's soldiers and the rest rot in prison!"

"But… but the lords' tyranny …" the man who said it stared at the Mocker, limp and unconscious on the ground, and swallowed thickly.

"The Queen keeps the lords from abusing you," Rod explained, "but the lords have their council where they keep her from becoming a tyrant. Home with you, lads—this may be the Mocker's fight, but it isn't yours."

"What of all the rest of the men marching here?" Nicol asked with a dark frown.

"They don't care about you," Rod answered, "not the Mocker nor any of his men—-they care only about breaking the Crown and taking the throne for themselves. They disguise it as the people's battle, but it's really a fight to see who will govern you. Stay out of it, lads. Go home." Then he turned Fess and rode off into the night.

GEORDIE BROUGHT HOME one deer after another, keeping the peasants busy dressing and smoking the meat, which they did even though they were worried for his safety. After the third one, Geordie didn't even bother skinning and disguising what he carried—he brought the carcasses home over his shoulders and left them for the peasants to skin and dress out, which they did—and again, after the third deer, they gave up trying to talk him out of it. No one could turn him from his course, and the meat should not go to waste.

But his wife worried. "You must stop this, Geordie! The keepers will catch you, and, squire or not, they'll arrest you—or bring the shire-reeve himself to do it!"

"Don't fret yourself, sweet chuck—I know how to hide my trail." Geordie reached out to touch her cheek in reassurance.

Rowena struck his hand away. "This is no jest, Geordie! I've not even born a babe yet, and here you'd leave me a widow! I've no wish to lose my husband!"

"Darling, darling, don't fret!" Geordie held out his arms. "None will find me, none will catch me!"

"The keepers can track as well as you can hide your trail, Geordie! You must give this over! We'll find other ways to feed our peasant folk!"

"There is no other way." Geordie's face firmed. "I'll not see my tenants starve."

"But you'd see your wife left alone, vulnerable to the importuning of any man who wishes to insult her!"

"None will insult you, either." Geordie stepped forward. "Be easy in your heart, love. All will be well. Come, let me embrace you."

"No! If you'll not heed me, you cannot love me! Sleep by your own hearth!" She turned away and ran to her room; Geordie heard the latch fall. He sighed, bowing his head in defeat, and stood gazing at the fire a few minutes. Then he lifted his head and set about finding blankets, to make a bed by the fire.

AS THE FOREST closed behind Rod, he told the robot, "Thanks for perfect timing—as usual."

"I simply fulfill my programming, Rod."

"And very well, too, though it's not always that simple." Rod glanced over his shoulder and decided there were enough trees between himself and the mob that he could stop for a few minutes. He reined in and called, "Wee Folk! Is there a brownie about?"

"Not a brownie, but a wood-elf," chirped a voice above him.

"Or two or three," crackled an older voice below and behind him. "What would you have of us, Lord Warlock?"

"Communication," Rod said. "Bear word, I pray you, to my son Magnus in the Queen's castle at Runnymede. Tell him that thousands of men are marching through the greenwood, to rise against the Crown."

"We shall tell him," the crackling voice assured. "Go now, Lord Warlock, and lose yourself in the depths of the wood, for the Mocker will have men beating the thickets for you in minutes."

"I'm going," Rod said. "Don't get caught, eh?"

"Not half, mortal, not half," the crackling voice said dryly, "though the searching peasants might have a nasty surprise or two."

"Not a one of 'em has left a crumb for a brownie," the chirping voice said with an indignant sniff.

Rod shook his head, tut-tutting in indignation. "Mustn't let them forget who really runs this land, eh, folks?"

"That is what they seek to do." The crackling voice turned grim. "Never fear, Lord Warlock—we shall remind them most shrewdly."

Rod shuddered and rode off.

GEOFFREY CAME OUT onto the battlements and frowned as he saw Magnus standing by a crenel, watching the soldiers drilling in the bailey. Geoffrey stepped up beside his older brother. "I had not thought you took any joy in watching soldiers march, Magnus."

"There is always pleasure in watching something being done well." Magnus turned to him. "However, I came because I knew you would be here to make sure of their practice."

Geoffrey frowned. "You can always find me at dinner."

'True enough, but an elf brought word in the night," Magnus said. "Peasants are marching on Runnymede from all directions. By the time they reach the city, there will probably be ten thousand of them."

Geoffrey stared in shock.

"Didn't your spies tell you of this?" Magnus asked.

That restored Geoffrey's poise; he gave Magnus a sardonic smile. "I am a general, brother, not a spy-master. I leave that to Their Majesties."

Magnus nodded judiciously. "A wise course of action— except that they have never placed great emphasis on intelligence."

"How came the elf?" Geoffrey asked.

"Dad sent it," Magnus admitted. "I am no spy-master either."

"No, only a master spy." Geoffrey's smile returned. "Though that is not accurate, is it? On those other planets, you did not ferret out information and bring it back to those who could do something about it."

"No—I decided what to do about it when and where I was," Magnus said frankly. "However, that was myself with only one companion—first Dirk, then Alea. I can scarcely lay claim to commanding a force of spies."

"But Papa has." Geoffrey looked out over the courtyard, automatically noting slight flaws in the soldiers' marching. "Though that is not true either—he has never set up a spy ring of his own, only taken advantage of one already in place."

"Yes, the Wee Folk were sending word of troubling events back to Brom O'Berin before Dad ever arrived on the scene," Magnus agreed. "So what will you do about this growing mob, brother?"