Twenty-Four

SIR ORGON STARTED TO ANSWER, THEN CAUGHT himself.

'Too late for what, Vice of Betrayal?" Anselm stood and stepped over to Sir Orgon's chair. 'Too late for other lords whom you have subverted? Too late for a mine you have dug beneath the castle?"

Sir Orgon glared up at him.

"Speak, worm of doubt!" Anselm seized the front of Sir Orgon's doublet and yanked him to his feet.

Sir Orgon's hand flashed; pain coursed through Anselm's arm; he cried aloud, holding his wrist in his other hand.

"I have spoken to good purpose all this long day," Sir Orgon said angrily, "but since it boots me not, I shall burden your hospitality no further." He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door.

"Seize him!" Anselm cried, and his two men-at-arms leaped to capture the knight. Sir Orgon snarled, whipping out a sword and turning on them, and they backed warily, lifting iron-banded staves.

Geordie came running into the room, his own sword drawn. "Father, why all the ..." He saw Sir Orgon with a naked blade and knew all he needed to know. Dropping into a fighter's crouch, he advanced on the knight.

The men-at-arms circled Sir Orgon, stepping apart as they did. He couldn't follow both and knew that one was working his way behind—so he whirled, slashing out as he did. Geordie leaped in, and Sir Orgon's sword rang off his. As it did, Anselm stepped up and swung a fist at the knight's head. Sir Orgon reeled, stumbling, and the men-at-arms were on him, pinioning his arms. Sir Anselm turned back to the fireplace, yanked loose the rough rope that had held the latest bundle of logs, and tossed it to his men. "Oh, for a proper dungeon! But we shall have to make do with the cellar. Bind him there and watch him closely." He turned to Geordie. "Timely come, my son."

"You are hurt!" Geordie stepped forward, taking his father's arm.

"Only numbed for the moment," Anselm assured him. "The snake knows some underhanded fighting tricks. At dawn we shall take this traitor to your uncle and let the King decide his fate."

Bound tightly to a cellar post with a man-at-arms giving him a stony glare, Sir Orgon bowed his head in dejection. The peasant army would reach Runnymede the next day and would no doubt do an excellent job of distracting the royal family—but there would be no cadre of lords to seize the royal castle and bring down the Queen. One more chance to win Gramarye for SPITE would slip away—and with it, Sir Orgon's career. He would be stuck on this dreary medieval planet forever, and would never again know the pleasures and luxuries of the future metropolitan capital his colleagues were working so hard to subvert!

FALSE DAWN FILLED the sky; the horizon glowed over the river, about to explode with sunlight. Diru stepped out of the woods and looked for the witch-sentries the minstrel had sung about—the crown's tame warlocks, set to guard the river to keep anyone from inviting the monsters out. There, he saw one, high atop the cliffs! But the woman only paused a minute or two, looking down over the river meadow, then turned away and paced out of sight.

Now would be the time, while she was gone! Diru dashed out across the meadow toward a huge boulder that stood twenty feet from the water. He crouched beside it, waiting for the mist to rise. Tendrils curled up from the water, thicker and thicker; the first ray of sunlight turned them golden as they merged into a swirling wall.

Now! Diru called out, "Monsters of the mist, come forth! Enter my land, and revenge me upon my enemies!"

For a minute, nothing moved, and Dim's heart sank— but that movement in the foggy wall turned into a whirlpool that opened, wider and wider. A giant tuft-eared cat leaped out of it onto the turf of Gramarye with a yowl of victory.

For behind it came a horde of them pouring out behind the giant cat, wailing and howling and chittering and bellowing, and the sight of them made Dim's blood run cold—a huge stiff-legged thing that looked to be some kind of giant insect with sharp hooks on the ends of its arm, and another with gleaming sickles for a mouth. Crowding behind them came creatures that were part wolf and part lion, great lumbering shaggy upright things grinning with multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth, huge lizards with fangs as long as his hand, and in the center of them all, riding a dragon with tentacles instead of wings, came a man gorgeously clad in robes of midnight blue and silver, grinning through a neatly-trimmed black beard as he shouted his triumph.

Then the huge cat came bounding over the meadow straight toward Dim. For a moment, he thought he was going to be praised, thanked, honored—but its mouth yawned wide showing teeth like scimitars, and Dim had just time to realize what a horrid fool he had been before he died.

THE PEASANTS CAME trooping into the meadow outside the walls of Runnymede, brandishing their scythes and flails but seeming nonetheless uncertain. Knowing they would be, agents circulated among the men, saying, "Remember your children! Do you want them to grow up to a life like yours?" And, "Why should the ladies dwell in marble palaces, wearing silk and surrounded by tapestries, when your wives wear homespun and walk on dirt floors?" or, "Bring down the lords, or your wives will forever sneer at you for cowards, and your beds will be cold all your lives!"

The men heeded and, little by little, began to remember their anger. The crowd began to chum into a restless and wrathful mob. Someone began shouting for blood; others took up the cry. Soon thousands of voices echoed the call: "Down with the King! Down with the Queen!"

The gates of the city opened, and the mob surged toward them, howling—but a score of armored knights rode out, each followed by a hundred armed and armored soldiers. The crowd began to slow, and their shouts gained an uncertain tone.

Then someone bellowed, "Yonder!" and everyone looked up to see another score of knights riding down into the valley from the west with two thousand soldiers behind them. Another panicked cry turned the crowd to the east to see yet another army advancing. The crowd's tone took on a note of fear. One voice shrilled above the others: "They're a long way away! We can still run for… ADEEE!"

With a gasp of horror, peasants pushed backward, leaving an open space around the fallen man, blood flowing from the dent in his skull. Before they could recover from violence within their own ranks, a voice cried, "Thus be it ever to traitors!" and others took up the call, "Face the knights and chop down their horses!" Still another called, "We'll be forever shamed if we go home empty-handed!"

"The King!" a dozen voices cried, and the whole mob turned to see three men riding out from the gate, flanked by palace guards. A golden crown glittered around the helmet of the middle one.

"I AM LOATH to strike down my own people, Father," Alain said.

"I am even more loath to let them strike down you," Geoffrey said from Tuan's other side.

"Is it kill or be killed, my son?" Tuan asked. "Do you see no other way?"

"Let me talk to them, at least," Alain urged.

Tuan thought a moment, then nodded slowly. "They are your people now and will be your subjects soon. Test their loyalty."

Alain nodded and kicked his horse into a trot. Geoffrey stared, then sped after him—but Alain heard the hoofbeats and turned back with a radiant smile. "I thank you, my friend," he said, "but this I must do alone."

Geoffrey reined in, exasperated. "Do you speak as my liege lord?"

"As your future liege," Alain qualified.

"Then I shall do as you bid," Geoffrey had to force out the words, then cried, "If they harm a single hair on your head, I'll see every one of them hang!"