“ ‘Tis the only mortal thing we value,” the faery said slowly, “yet scarcely worth the fighting for. We’ve ways of gaining mortal children, at far less cost than war.”
And he turned on his heel, and strode away.
Duke Foidin stared after him, unbelieving, rage rising. “Thou knavish wraith!” he fairly screamed. “Will nothing move thee?”
The faery duke stopped, then slowly turned, and the air seemed to thicken and grow brittle, charged to breaking. “Why should we of Faery care what mortals do?” His voice grew heavy with menace. “Save to avenge an insult. ‘Ware, mortal duke! Thou mayest gain the war which thou dost seek, but with the folk of Faery seeking thy heart’s blood! Now get thee hence!”
Duke Foidin stood, white-lipped and trembling, aching to lash out, but too afraid.
“Mayhap thou dost doubt our power.” The faery duke’s voice suddenly dripped with honey. “Then let us show thee how easily we gain all that thou didst offer.” And his left hand shot up with a quick circling motion.
Suddenly, unseen cords snapped tight around Rod’s body, rolling him over and pinning his arms to his sides and his legs to one another. He let out one terror-stricken, rage-filled bellow; then something sticky plastered itself over his mouth. He could still see, though—see Gwen and the children, even Elidor, bound hand and foot, and gagged, as he was, fairly cocooned in shining cords. Grotesquely ugly sprites leaped out of the grass all about them, stamping in a dance and squealing with delight. Their shaggy clothes looked to be made of bark; they had huge jughead ears, great loose-lipped mouths, and bulbous, warty noses dividing platter-eyes. The biggest of them was scarcely three feet high.
“They ever come, the prying big ‘uns!” they cried.
“They never spy the sentry-Spriggans!”
“Well caught, spriggans!” the faery duke called. “Now bring them here!”
The spriggans howled delight, and kicked Rod up to the top of the rise, then shoved him over. Sky and grass whirled about him and about as he rolled down the hill, with spriggans running along, whooping, rhythmically pushing him, as a child rolls a hoop. Panic hit, fear for Gwen and the kids—and behind it, a feeling of some sympathetic Presence, its anger beginning to build with Rod’s.
He brought up with a thump against the Duke’s feet. Gwen slammed into his back, softening the bumps as the children knocked into her.
Foidin stared down at them, horrified. “Elidor!”
“The King?” The faery duke looked up, interested. “Of great account! We’ve never had a mortal king to rear!”
Foidin’s gaze shot up at him, shocked. Then he glared down at Rod, pale and trembling. “This is thy doing! Thou hast brought the King to this! But… how? What? How hast thou brought this thing to pass? I left thee safe, behind stout locks and guards!”
Rod mumbled through his gag.
The faery duke nodded contemptuously. “Allow him speech.” A spriggan hopped to pull Rod’s gag.
“Yeeeowtch!” The sticky plaster hurt, coming off. He worked his mouth, glaring up at the Duke. “You should know, Milord Duke, that locks and guards cannot hold a warlock, if he does not wish it. Your lock did open without a human hand to touch it; your guards all sleep.”
“It cannot be!” the Duke fairly screeched, white showing round the borders of his eyes. “Only magics most powerful can bring such things to pass!”
Rod smiled sourly. “Be more careful of your guests—and hope this faery duke doth hold me fast. For now we have a score to settle, you and I.” He felt the touch of the helping spirit again, but its rage was growing—and so was his. “You would have sold all my family, to gain this faery’s aid! Be sure that never do I have a chance to come at thee alone—for I’ll not trouble to use my magic! And this child…” It seemed, now, as though it weren’t himself talking, suddenly, but the Presence. “…who was this babe you would have sold? How shall you gain possession of it?”
The Duke turned away to hide a sudden look of fear, trembling.
“Turn not away!” Rod barked. “Face me, coward, and give answer—what child was this?”
“Indeed, do stay,” the faery duke murmured. “Or wilt thou so straightaway abandon this thy King?”
“The King!” Foidin gasped, whirling back. “Nay, assuredly, thou shalt not keep him—for if thou dost, my power fails!” He stared at the faery duke, drawn and palsied, nerving himself up to it—then his hand flashed to his sword.
The faery duke snapped his fingers contemptuously, and Foidin doubled over a sudden stabbing pain. “Aieeengggh!”
Gwen seized the moment; Rod’s sword shot out of its scabbard to slash his bonds, then whirled to cut Gwen’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Magnus’s little blade shearing his ropes; then he sailed into the faery duke, knocking him back by sheer surprise, over Rod’s knee, Rod’s dagger at his throat. “Release my family, milord—or feel cold iron in your veins.”
But Magnus had slashed his siblings’ bonds, and he and Geoff were holding off a band of spriggans, who were throwing stones but retreating steadily before the boys’ swords. Gwen and Cordelia crouched, waiting, as the faery band ran forward with a shout, glowing blades whipping through the air. “Now!” Gwen cried, and a hail of stones shot toward the faeries, bruising and breaking. Some screamed, but most pressed on—and the thrown stones whirled back to strike at them again.
Duke Foidin saw his chance to curry favor, and whipped out his blade. “Nay, Theofrin,” he grunted around his pain, “I will aid thee!” And he leaped forward, blade slashing down at Rod.
Rod had no choice; his sword snapped up to guard, and Theofrin whiplashed out of his arms as though they were rubber. The Duke’s blade slid aside on Rod’s, but the faery duke Theofrin seized Rod’s sword arm, snatched him high, whirled him through the air, and tossed him to the ground as though he’d been a bag of kindling. Rod shouted, and the shout turned into a shriek as he hit and felt something move where it shouldn’t. His shoulder screamed raw pain. Through its haze, he struggled to his knees, right arm hanging limp—and saw Theofrin stalking towards him, elf-sword flickering about like a snake’s tongue.
Beyond him, Duke Foidin and his men frantically parried faery blades; his try for favor hadn’t worked. One courtier howled as a faery blade stabbed through him, and whipped back out; blood spurted from his chest, and he collapsed.
And Theofrin’s blade danced closer. Rod whipped out his dagger—what else did he have left? Theofrin sneered, and lunged; Rod parried, but the faery duke had overreached, and Rod flicked his dagger-blade out to nick the faery’s hand. The faery shrieked at the touch of cold iron, and clasped his wounded hand, the elfin sword dropping to the ground. Rod staggered to his feet, and waded forward. Theofrin’s face contorted with a snarl; his own dagger whisked out, left-handed.
“Papa!” Magnus’s scream cut through the battle. Rod’s head snapped up; he saw his eldest on the ground, spread-eagled, struggling against invisible bonds. A tall, thin faery stood above him, face lit with glee, as he chopped downward with his sword.
Adrenalin shocked through him, and Rod charged. Theofrin stepped to block his path. Rod barrelled into him, dagger-First, and the faery duke skipped aside with a howl of rage, the cold-iron dagger barely missing his ribs. Then Rod’s shoulder caught his son’s adversary in the midriff, and the sword-cut went wide, slicing his dangling right hand. Rod bellowed with the pain, but caught the hilt and wrenched the sword free. He howled again; it was cold, burning his flesh like dry ice; but he clung to it, lunging after the faery, stabbing. The sword cut into the faery’s belly, and it folded with a scream, sprawling on the ground. Rod didn’t stay to see if it were dead; he whirled back to his son, and saw the blood flowing from Magnus’s shoulder as he struggled up on one elbow, the invisible bonds gone with the faery whose spell had forged them. “Magnus!” Rod clasped the boy to him. “What’ve they done to you!”