The bull stepped back again.
“Try it without the boys.” Rod caught Geoff’s and Magnus’s hands, and Gwen stepped forward again.
The bull held its place—warily, but holding.
Gwen took another step, then another, and another.
Great. Just great. Now Rod had both his womenfolk at peril!
Then the boys shouted with delight, and both little hands wrenched out of his. “Hey!” Rod made a frantic grab—but he landed on his face, as two small booms told him they’d teleported. He scrambled back to his feet, just in time to see them reappear at the far end of the meadow, way over against the trees on the other side, along with…
That was the attraction—another little boy!
But what a boy—or at least, what an outfit! His doublet was dark green, with a golden surcoat; its sleeves belled out to brush the ground. His hose were buff, and fitted like second skins—and was that the glimmer of gold in his hair? Not a coronet, surely!
Whatever he was, he was moving very slowly toward a shaggy-looking horse that seemed to be waiting for him, head up and turned toward him, ears pricked forward. But it was bare-backed.
Wild?
Magnus whooped a greeting, and the boy looked up. The horse tossed its head angrily, and sidled closer. Magnus ran toward the new boy, with Geoff hurrying after.
Rod squeezed his eyes shut, gave his head a quick shake in disbelief, and looked again. It was! The horse’s body had grown longer—say, long enough for a couple of more riders!
Rod decided he didn’t like its looks. He lit out running, sword in hand.
The boys had gotten past the opening wariness, and were shaking hands. Now the new boy was pointing to the horse—and Magnus was nodding eagerly—and the horse was kneeling down!
Then Gwen cried out in fright, and Rod whirled. She was running after him, waving frantically at the boys. Behind her, Cordelia was shrieking and kicking her heels against the bull’s sides. It rumbled, and lumbered into motion.
The boys screamed behind him—high, hoarse, with raw, absolute terror! Rod spun about again, running. The horse was running flat-out toward the lake, and the boys were yanking and tugging, trying to pull themselves loose from its back.
Rod swerved, and fear shot a last ounce of adrenalin into his veins. He tore through the grass, shouting.
The horse hit the water with a huge splash; fountains of foam shot high. When they cleared, its back was bare; it reared up, wheeling about and plunging down at three small heads in the water, mouth gaping wide—and Rod saw carnivore’s teeth!
He bellowed rage, and leaped.
Spray gushed about him as he hit, directly under the horse. It surged down, jaws gaping wide; he leaned to the side and slashed, back-handed, straight into its jaws. It screamed, rearing back, and lashed out at him with razor-edged hooves. Fire raked his side; then a thundering bellow shook the earth, and a juggernaut knocked him back, floundering. Water closed over his face; daylight glimmered through water. He fought his way back, broke surface, and stood—to see the horse twenty feet farther from shore, scrambling back upright, wheeling about in time to catch the bull’s second charge.
The great dun beast slammed into the chestnut stallion. It folded over the bull, gleaming hooves slashing, needle-teeth ripping. The bull bellowed in anger and pain, and dove down. Blood sheened the water as both animals went under.
Rod didn’t stay to wait for the curtain call. He floundered over to his boys, shot a hand down under water to grapple Geoff’s collar and yanked him back above the surface, spluttering and wailing.
“Papa!” Magnus yelled. “Elidor! He can’t swim!”
Rod wallowed over to the sinking princeling, bellowing, “Get to shore!” Water whooshed in as Magnus disappeared, shooting Elidor briefly to the surface. Rod caught him under the arms in a cross-body carry and backed toward shore, towing both boys. He stumbled and fell as he hit shallow water, scrambled back up, and hauled the two boys out onto the grass. And he kept hauling, yanking them up, one under each arm, and ran. He stopped when he fell, but Gwen was there by that time, with Magnus beside her, to catch Geoff in her arms. “Oh, my boy, my foolish lad! We near to lost thee!”
Rod followed suit, yanking Magnus to him, hugging him tight to reassure himself the boy was still there. “Oh, thank Heaven, thank Heaven! Oh, you fool, you little fool, to go near a strange animal like that! Thank the Lord you’re alive!”
A high, piercing scream shattered the air.
They whirled, staring.
For a moment, the horse and bull shot out of the water, the horse leaping high to slash down at the bull with its teeth, catching it where neck joined shoulders. But the bull twisted, catching the horse’s hind leg in its own jaws. Even a hundred feet away, they could hear the crunch. The horse screamed, and the bull bellowed, rearing up to drive down with its forelegs, slamming its opponent back under the water with the full force of its weight. It sank, too, but the water churned like a maelstrom, and the blood kept spreading.
Gwen shuddered and turned the children’s heads away. “ ‘Tis a horrid sight, and one that only thy father need watch, that he may warn us to flee if need be.” Then she noticed the blood dripping from Rod’s doublet. “Milord! Thou’rt wounded!”
“Huh?” Rod looked down. “Oh, yeah! Now I remember. Unnnngh! Say, that’s beginning to hurt!”
“Indeed it should,” Gwen said grimly, unlacing his doublet. “Cordelia, seek out St. John’s Wort and red verbena! Boys, seek four-leafed clovers! Quickly, now!”
The children scampered to search. Elidor stood, blinking in confusion.
“Four-leafed clovers, lad,” Gwen urged. “Surely thou mayst seek them, no matter how little herb-lore thou knowest! Quickly, now!”
Elidor stared at her indignantly; then fright came into his eyes, and he ran to join Magnus and Geoff.
“Strange one, that,” Rod said, frowning. “Ow! Yes, dear, the skin’s broken.”
“ ‘Tis not pretty,” Gwen said, tight-lipped. She tore a strip from the hem of her skirt.
“Here, Mommy!” Cordelia was back, leaves in hand.
“Good child,” Gwen approved. A flat rock lifted itself, a few feet away, and sailed over to land at her feet. She plucked Rod’s dagger and dropped to her knees, pounding the herbs with the hilt.
“Here, Mama!” Magnus ran up, two four-leafed clovers in hand, with the other boys right behind him.
“Any will aid. I thank thee, lads.” Gwen added them to the porridge, then gave Rod’s ribs a swipe with his doublet and plastered the herbs on the wound.
“St. John’s Wort, red verbena, and four-leafed clovers,” Rod winced. “Not exactly the usual poultice, is it?”
“Nay, nor wast thou ripped by a usual beast.” Gwen wound the improvised bandage around his torso.
Rod tried to ignore the prickling in his scalp. “As I remember, every one of those herbs is supposed to be a sovereign against fairies.”
“Indeed,” Gwen said, carefully neutral. “Well, I have never seen such as these two beasts afore—yet I mind me of certain tales from my childhood. There, now!” She fastened the bandage and handed him his doublet. “Walk carefully a week or so, mine husband, I pray thee.”
A long, piercing shriek echoed over the meadow. Before it died, a rumbling, agonized bellow answered it.
They spun about to face the lake. The maelstrom subsided; the waters grew calm. Finally, they could make out the body of the bull drifting toward shore.
“Children, be ready!” Gwen warned.
“No, I don’t think so.” Rod frowned, and stepped carefully toward the lake. About twenty feet away, he could see a thick stew of blood and chunks of flesh drifting away toward the east. A passing crow noticed, too, circled back, and flew down for a sample. Rod shuddered and turned away. “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about the horse, either.”
“ ‘Tis courtesy of thy good rescue,” Elidor said solemnly. “An thou hadst not come to our aid, th
is land had lacked a sovereign. A King’s thanks go with thee!”
Rod looked down, startled. Then he darted a questioning glance at Gwen. She looked as startled as he felt, but she was nodding in confirmation.
Well, maybe she could read the kid’s mind, but he couldn’t. “Are you the King of this land, then?”
“I am.” Elidor was wet to the skin; his fine clothes were torn and bedraggled, and he’d lost his coronet somewhere along the fray—but he straightened his shoulders, and bore himself regally. “By courtesy of my mother the Queen, though I never knew her, and of Eachan, my father the King, dead these three years, I am King of Tir Chlis.”
Rod’s face composed itself, hiding a stewpot of emotions—incredulity, sorrow for the boy, a yearning to take him in his arms… and the realization that this could be a huge stroke of good fortune for a family of wanderers, marooned in a strange world. “It is my honor to greet Your Majesty. Yet I cannot help but notice your age; may I inquire who cares for you now?”
“A thousand thanks for kind rescue, brave knight and fair lady!” gasped an anxious voice.
Rod looked up, startled.
A gross fat man, a little shorter than Rod, with a gleaming bald pate surrounded by a fringe of hair around the back of his head, and a ruddy complexion, waddled toward them, swathed in an acre of white ankle-length robe topped with a brocade surcoat, and belted by a four-inch-wide strap. Behind him trooped thirty courtiers in bell-sleeved skirted coats and hose, and two peasants with a brace of belling hounds.
The courtiers all had swords, and the fat man had a lot of sweat and a look just short of panic. “Gramercy, gramercy! If aught had happened to mine nephew through my lack of vigilance, I had never come out of sackcloth and of ashes! Yet how didst thou know to set a bull of the Crodh Mara ‘gainst the Each Uisge?”
“Ag whisky?” Rod was watching Elidor; the boy had drawn in on himself, staring at the fat man with a look that held wariness, but a certain longing, too… “Uh, well… to tell you the truth…”
“We but knew the old grannies’ tales,” Gwen cut in hurriedly. “The water-bull and the water-horse—all else followed from reason.” Her elbow tapped Rod lightly in the short ribs.
They were the wounded ones; the stab of pain cut through the murk of sentiment. “Uh, yes, of course! Opposite forces cancel out.”
“Indeed, an thou sayst it.” The fat man’s brows were knit. “Though I do not claim to understand. Thou must be a warlock most accomplished.”
Typed again! Rod winced. There must be something about him… “A great part of wizardry is luck. By good fortune, we were here when we were needed.” He took a chance. “Your Lordship.”
Fatso nodded, but his gaze strayed to Elidor, as though to assure himself the boy was all right. “Fortunate indeed, else I had lacked a nephew—and this land, a King.” There was something of longing in his eyes, too.
He tore his gaze away from Elidor and turned back to Rod, forcing a little smile, “Forgive me; I forget the courtesies. I am Duke Foidin, Regent to His Majesty, King Elidor.” He extended a beringed hand, palm down.
Gwen beamed, but there was uncertainty in her eyes. Rod tried to convert his puzzled frown to a polite smile, but he kept his hands on his hips, and inclined his head. “Rodney d’Armand, Lord Gallowglass.” Some prick of caution kept him from using his real title. “And my Lady Gwendylon—and our children.”
“I rejoice at thine acquaintance, Lord and Lady… Gallowglass?” The Duke seemed a little puzzled. “ ‘Tis a title unfamiliar. Thou art, then, travellers from another land, far from thine own estates?”
“Very far,” Rod agreed. “A foul sorcerer’s curse has sped us here, far from our homeland; but we shall return with all due expedition.”
“Nay, not so quickly!” the Duke cried. “Thou must needs let us honor thee—for thou hast saved a King!”
Somehow, Rod didn’t want to spend a night under the man’s roof. “ ‘Tis courteously said—but time does press upon us…”
“Certes, not so much as that!” Wet and bedraggled, Elidor stepped up to his uncle’s side—but still with that look of wariness about him. “Surely thou’lt not deny the hospitality of a King!”
He was trying so very hard to be regal! Rod was about to cave in—but Gwen did, first. “Well, a night’s rest, then—we are sore wearied.”
But Rod was watching the Duke. The man’s face lit up at Elidor’s approach, and his hand hovered over the boy’s shoulder, but didn’t quite touch; Rod saw the longing in his face again, quickly masked, then a hint of a darker emotion that flashed upon his features, and was gone—but left Rod chilled. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d want to be around if the Duke lost his temper.
Then Elidor smiled bravely up at his uncle, and the man’s face softened. Troubled, he nodded reassuringly at the boy, forcing a smile; the hand hovered again, then fell to his side.
He turned the smile up to Rod. “Thou art in accord with thy Lady, then? Thou’It guest within our castle this night, that we may honor thee?”
Gwen’s elbow brushed his side again, and Rod winced again, too. She hadn’t had to do that! The Duke seemed nice enough, or seemed to be honestly trying to be—but somehow, Rod didn’t want to leave Elidor alone with him just yet. “Indeed we shall. We are honored to accept your invitation.”
“Most excellent!” The Duke’s face split into a huge, delighted smile. “Then come, in joy! To Castle Drolm!”
He whirled away, the hovering hand finally descending to clap Elidor’s shoulder, and clasp the boy against his side. Elidor seemed to resist a little, and the Duke’s hand immediately sprang free. Insecure, thought Rod, as he and his family were borne forward by the tide of the entourage that followed the Duke, roaring a victorious war-song.
“Papa,” Cordelia piped up through the din, “I don’t like going to that man’s house.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Rod reassured her. “We can always get out again—fast.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The excitement, the glory of it!” Brother Chard burbled. “Just think, Father, we may be the first clergy to contact these poor, benighted people in centuries!”
“Quite so, Brother.” Father Al couldn’t help smiling at the young pilot’s enthusiasm. “On the other hand, we may arrive to find them quite well-equipped with their own clergy; one never knows.” He gazed at the viewscreen, letting his subconscious read ecclesiastical symbols into the random swirls of color that hyperspace induced in the cameras.
“Roman Catholic clergy, in a society devoted to magic? Scarcely, Father! Just think, a whole new world of lost souls to save! We must try to get some estimate of the population, so that I can come back to His Grace with some idea as to how many missionaries we’ll be requiring! How long before we get there?”
“Why ask me?” Father Al hid a smile. “You’re the pilot.”
“Oh! Yes, of course!” Brother Chard peered at his instrument panel. “Let’s see, ten light-years… It should be about six more days.” He turned back to Father Al. “Sorry the quarters are so cramped, Father.”
“It’s easy to tell you’ve never spent much time inside a confessional. Don’t worry, Brother, the quarters are positively luxurious. Why, we even have a separate cabin for sleeping!… Ungh!”
His body slammed into his shock webbing, as though the ship had suddenly rammed a wall. Then it took off like a bear with a fire on its tail, slapping Father Al back into his couch. His vision darkened, and he fought for breath, waiting for the bright little stars to stop drifting across his field of view. They didn’t, but they did dim and fade, and the velvet blackness with them. Through its last tatters, he saw Brother Chard leaning forward groggily, groping toward his control console.
“Wha… what happened?”
“See for yourself.” The monk pointed at the viewscreen. Father Al looked, and saw the velvet darkness and bright little stars again; but this time, they stayed still. “We’re back in normal space?”
; Brother Chard nodded. “And travelling at sub-light-speed. Very high, but still below C. We’re lucky the difference in velocity didn’t smear us against the forward bulkhead.”
“It would have, without the webbing: What went wrong?”
Brother Chard peered at a readout screen, punching keys. “No significant damage; everything’s padded as well as we were… There! The isomorpher quit!”
“Quit? Just… quit? Why?”
“That is a good question, isn’t it?” Brother Chard loosed his webbing, smiling grimly. “Shall we go have a look, Father?”
They climbed into pressure suits, cycled through the tiny airlock one at a time, clipped their safety lines to rings on the ship’s skin, and clambered aft to the drive unit. Brother Chard slipped out a wrench and loosened the access hatch. He slid through head-first; Father Al followed, groping for the rungs set into the hull, gaze riveted to the mirror-surfaced unit before him. “Doesn’t appear to be a break in the shielding.”
“No,” Brother Chard agreed. “At least we can rule out any effects from stray radiation. Though you never know; if we can’t find anything else, we’ll have to go over it with a microscope.” He turned a knob, and the silver egg split open, the top half lifting up like a clamshell. A steady background of white noise faded in on Father Al’s helmet speaker. He frowned. “It is sick, isn’t it?”
“Yes; we should be hearing a 1650 Hz tone.” Brother Chard looked up. “I didn’t know you knew electronics, Father.”
Father Al shrugged. “Cathodeans pick up a lot from each other, especially during the seminary bull-sessions. I wouldn’t claim to be an FTL mechanic, but I know basically how the isomorpher works.”
“Or how it doesn’t. Well, let’s see where the circuit broke.” Brother Chard pulled out a set of probes and started poking at the isomorpher’s insides. Father Al crouched beside him in the crawl space, silent and intent, watching the meter on the forearm of Brother Chard’s suit, atop the pocket that held the probes.
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