The Warlock is Missing (26 page)

When darkness enveloped the forest glade, Puck moved silently among the sleeping children, shaking them and murmuring, "Wake. The moon is up, as thou must be, also."

One by one, they sat up, stretching and yawning.

"I could sleep the night through," Geoffrey sighed.

"Do so, then!" said Magnus. "Puck and I will suffice to tend to this Shire-Reeve."

"Nay," Geoffrey said quickly. "I am fully awakened."

Cordelia lay nestled against the unicorn, who lay on her side, tummy against the girl's back. Now she sat up, blinking, cuddling Gregory against her. That meant the little boy had to sit up, too, but as soon as he did, his eyes sagged shut again.

"Do thy best to waken him," Puck advised. "Thou two must be most alert, when we do return."

Cordelia kissed Gregory on the forehead and gave him a little shake, murmuring, "Waken thou, mannikin." Little Brother lifted his head, blinking; then his eyelids closed, and so did hers. Cordelia shook her head and turned to Puck. "He shall be wakeful, when thou dost return."

Puck nodded and said, "Keep safe, then. Fairies do watch thee." He turned to Magnus and Geoffrey, "Let us go. I have been to the Shire-Reeve's tent already, and long did I wait till he ceased his work with parchments, and lay down to steep; yet now he doth slumber, and I've deepened his sleep with a spell."

Magnus nodded. "Aye, let us away."

Puck caught their hands and nodded. All three disappeared. With a boom, air rushed in to fill the space where they'd been.

Two young men stood guard at the door to the Shire-Reeve's tent. One had been a member of the Reeve's trained band of armed men for several years; the other was a raw recruit, a shepherd boy, who kept watching his veteran partner closely, trying to imitate him, holding his pitchfork the same way the constable held his pike.

Something exploded inside the tent. The two men whirled about, staring. They heard the Shire-Reeve cry out, then heard the explosion again. The two men stared at each other in alarm, then crashed together as they both tried to jam through the tent flap at the same time.

They tumbled in, weapons at the ready, staring about them wildly.

"Hold up the tent flap," the veteran barked.

The shepherd turned and yanked the flap high. Moonlight streamed in, enough to show them the Shire-Reeve's cot, empty.

In the forest glade, the two boys appeared with a thunder-crack, a full-grown man held horizontally between them. His feet dropped to the ground, and he thrashed his way upright, shaking off the boys' hands. "Witchcraft! Vile dwarves, who…"

He broke off, staring at the small figure confronting him, only as high as his knee, but with a very stony look on his face. "Thou, who dost nail up Cold Iron over every door, and dost never leave milk for the brownies," Puck grated, "wilt now face the Puck!"

While the Shire-Reeve stood silent for just that one moment, Cordelia, in the shadows, stared at the quarterstaff that lay hidden in the grass. It leaped up and cracked into the Shire-Reeve's head. He fell like a pole-axed steer.

The Shire-Reeve awoke, frowning against a splitting headache. He tried to sit up, but couldn't lift his arms to support himself. In sudden panic, he thrashed about, trying to move his hands and legs, but found they were lashed securely together, with the arms bound tightly to his sides. He looked about him, panting, wild-eyed, and saw four children of varying sizes, gazing down at him. A shadow moved behind them; he recognized it for a huge black warhorse with glowing eyes, and a chill ran down his back. Then something stepped up beside the horse into a patch of moonlight, and he saw a silver head with a long, straight horn spearing out from the forehead —and centering on him. The chill spread into his belly, and turned into dread.

"Look down," suggested a deep voice.

The Shire-Reeve did, and turned completely cold. There, in front of the children, stood a foot-and-a-half-high elf with blood in his eye.

"Be honored," the mannikin grated. "Few mortals ever do see the Puck."

The Shire-Reeve lay stiffly, panting, wide-eyed. Frantically, he strove to compose himself, to collect his thoughts.

"I know thee," Puck said. "Thou art Reginald, son of Turco, who was squire to Sir Bartolem—and thou dost call thyself 'squire' too, though thou hast no right to it, sin that thou hast never borne a knight's armor, nor cared for his horse."

The middle-sized boy started at that, then glared down at the man.

The Shire-Reeve nodded, trying to slow his breathing. He swallowed and said, "Aye." He swallowed again and said, "Then the Wee Folk are real."

As real as thou, but with a deal more sense," Puck said with sarcasm. "
We
do not make spectacles of ourselves, flaunting our power for all men to admire—or women, in thy case."

Reginald's face darkened. He was glad of the anger he felt; it helped restore him to himself.

Puck nodded toward the children behind him and said, "I can see in thine eyes that thou dost dismiss these children as being of no consequence. Thou art a fool; they are the High Warlock's brood."

Reginald stiffened, staring from one little face to another.

Puck nodded. "Aye, thou hast cause to fear them. They will have little mercy for the man who did kidnap their parents."

"I did not!" Reginald cried. "Who saith this of me? 'Tis a false lie!" And it was, in a way—he had only spoken with those odd scrawny men with the gaunt faces and the wild looks in their eyes, telling them that the King was a tyrant, and so was Earl Tudor and even Count Glynn. He had claimed to believe all the noblemen were, and had sworn he wished to destroy them all, letting the people live freely on their own, with none to oppress them. And the odd men had smiled, eyes glittering, and promised to aid him in any way they could— they were wizards, after all, and owned a kind of magic that few witches knew of.

So he had asked them to kidnap the High Warlock and his wife.

All of that passed through his mind as he stared at the elf with the High Warlock's children behind him, their faces growing darker and darker with anger. He hadn't asked enough of the weird men; he should have asked them to take the children, too…

He let none of that show in his face. He only said stoutly, "I did not abduct the High Warlock!"

But the children didn't believe him, he could see it in their faces. With a sinking heart, he remembered that they were warlocks and a witch, and that they could hear thoughts. "'Tis not true!" he burst out; but the elf only said, "We had guessed already what thou hast thought. Yet who put this notion of conquest into thy mind? Was it the other wizards, they who go about dressed as peasants and speak to the common folk of their miseries? Or didst thou come to think of it by thine own self?"

"Nay, 'tis all false!" Reginald insisted. "I did but seek to keep the peace in mine own shire! And when I saw there were bandits throughout all of Tudor, I marched out against them!" He tried desperately not to think of those scabrous, tattered men coming to him when he was, very truthfully, only seeking to keep the peace, which did not take much doing—only the occasional poacher, and the peasant who drank too much on a feast day; but it was enough to earn the King's silver, and keep him in his grand, stone house. But those false peasants with the burning eyes had convinced him he could have more, so much more—the whole Earldom, perhaps even the whole kingdom! And they were right, it was possible—for he had an army now, and those magical weapons the wizards had given him! He would defeat the King, with the aid of those foolish counts. Or, rather, with the help of the other wizards, the ones who said they were spiteful, and who swore they could persuade a few of the counts to attack the King from the rear. For a moment, the fear clamored up in him—what if they did not? What if he attacked the King's army, and found himself fighting alone?

Then he thrust the fear down. It was needless; the wizards had sworn he would win, both the peasant ones and the spiteful ones.

"The King hath the aid of the Wee Folk," Puck grated, "and the magic of all the royal witches and warlocks—and even these half-fledged ones are mighty. Be sure, an thou dost fight His Majesty, thou shalt lose."

For a moment, panic seized Reginald. Could the elf speak truly? But he forced the fear down; the goblin was only trying to frighten him, to defeat him by destroying his confidence! Yet Reginald would confound him; Reginald would face the King and beat him. But he would not go on to take the title of "dictator," as the peasantish wizards wished him to, nor would he set up their odd system of officials to control every aspect of the people's lives. Neither would he continue to battle the noblemen and kill them all off, letting the serfs and peasants run riot, as the spiteful wizards wanted him to. Nay, he would seize the crown!

"Thou dost seek to establish thine own dynasty." Puck glared into Reginald's eyes, and the Shire-Reeve felt as though they pierced him to his very soul. "Thou dost seek to beget sons, who will take the title of King from thee when thou dost die."

"Nay!" Reginald said. "'Tis not one word of truth in it!" But there was, of course—and not just one word, but every word.

Puck looked up at the children. "Thou hast heard his thoughts—he doth seek to rule. Yet he hath neither the wit nor the strength for it." He turned back to the Shire-Reeve. "Thou wilt finish by serving the ends of the spiteful wizards —for of such ambitions as yours, is anarchy bred."

The Shire-Reeve stared into Puck's eyes, and realized that the elf and the children had heard even the thoughts he'd sought to suppress. With a sinking heart, he read his doom in their faces.

"What shall we do with him?" Magnus whispered.

A brawny forearm slammed into his face, and a knife-point poised in front of his eye. "Hold!" snarled a voice like a bro-ken garlic bottle. "Witch's brat!"

On the other side of the knife, Magnus saw another soldier with a sword pricking his sister's stomach and, beside her, Gregory at arm's length over a third soldier's head, squalling with terror, about to be thrown. Terror for his younger brother galvanized Magnus. Without even thinking, he aimed the emotion with the old sorcerer's torture-spell, and the third soldier screamed in agony, clutching his head as burning pain stabbed through it, dropping Gregory. The little boy drifted downward and landed as lightly as a feather.

Geoffrey was struggling and kicking in a fourth soldier's arms. A rock shot up off the forest floor and crashed into the second soldier's head. He gave a hoarse shout, then folded, sword dropping harmless to the ground. Cordelia stared at it, and it swooped up toward the soldier holding Magnus.

"Hold!" the man shouted. "An it comes nearer, thou'lt have a blind brother!"

The children froze.

Soldiers stared at them, warily. Then a sergeant barked, and farm boys leaped in to point pitchforks at the children.

The Shire-Reeve grinned. "Well done, Bardolf! Now, Harold—cut my bonds!"

A man-at-arms hurried over to cut through the ropes that held his master. The Shire-Reeve sat up, rubbing his wrists, then caught Harold's arm for support as he climbed to his feet.

How did they find us
? Geoffrey thought.

A slender man in herald's livery stepped forth from the group of soldiers with a contemptuous smile.

He is a warlock
! Cordelia thought.

The slender man gave her a mock bow.
Dorlf Carter at thy service, lady
.

I wonder that he gives us his name
, Geoffrey thought darkly.
Come what may, we'll know who to hang
.

Dorlf glared at him with narrowed eyes. Then he turned to the Shire-Reeve. "Thou shouldst slay that one with no more ado, Squire."

Cordelia's gaze leaped up to him, startled. Then she glared at the pitchfork that was pointed at her tummy.

Magnus followed suit, staring cross-eyed at the dagger in front of his eyes.

The nearest soldier swung his pike up, and would have died in agony at that moment, if the Shire-Reeve had not held up a hand. "Nay, hold! These children are of too great value to be slain out of hand! King Tuan will never dare fight us, so long as we hold these!"

His face hard as flint, Geoffrey gave the telepath a stare like a poniard, and Dorlf shrieked, clapping his hands to his temples, back arched in agony.

"Stop him!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, and soldiers leaped to Dorlf's aid. "Not him, you fools—the child!"

A tendril of smoke spun up from the hand of the soldier guarding Cordelia, and he howled with pain, dropping his sword.

The knife in front of Magnus's eyes glowed cherry-red, and the soldier dropped it with a bellowed oath. Both blades landed in dried leaves; flames bloomed and soldiers shouted in panic, stamping at the blaze.

Dorlf dropped to the ground, unconscious or worse.

"Kill them!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, his face dark with anger.

The soldiers turned on the children, chopping with swords and pikes—but their weapons jerked in their hands and slammed back against their chests, knocking them into the peasant recruits trying to come up from behind.

Gregory clung to Cordelia's skirts and stared at the soldiers behind his big sister and brothers—and pebbles and sticks shot up at them from the forest floor. The farm boys stumbled backward, swearing; then their faces hardened, and they stepped forward again, arms up to guard their faces. But Gregory had found the larger rocks now, which cracked into the soldiers' heads. They bellowed in pain and retreated. One dropped his sword, and it leaped up, whirling in midair like a windmill in a gale, turning from side to side as though it were looking for someone to slice. The peasant soldiers stepped back farther, poised to dart in at the sign of an opening—but there wasn't one.

Fess's hooves and teeth seemed to be everywhere, and the unicorn's horn darted about, bright with blood—but there were a hundred soldiers, and more.