Magnus ran up to him. “They surrounded us with energy projectors, my lord, including two fliers overhead, and all blasted at us at the same moment.”
“We must shoot back! To the cannon!”
“We have, my lord,” Magnus said, lying only a little, “and their guns are silenced—but their soldiers come.”
“To the guns again! Sink their boats!”
“They are too close, my lord, and too many!” Magnus shouted to be heard over the din. “See!”
He pointed at the lake. The old lord looked, and the blood drained from his face. He saw his castle encircled by boats, three concentric rings of them, the nearest only a hundred yards away—and huge gaping breaches in his wall. His face calmed with the resignation of the doomed, and he laid his hand on his sword. “Then we must fight till we die.”
“No, my lord!” Magnus shouted. “We must flee! They will not harm your serfs or gentlemen, for they’ve done nothing wrong—only obeyed their lord, as they must. But you they will execute. Away! It is far more important to your people, to all the people of this benighted world, that you live, so they may know there is still a champion of their rights somewhere!”
“Rights?” Lord Aran turned to stare at him. “What word is that?”
“It means charity for serfs! Protection from wanton cruelty! The chance to become happy! It means life! So long as you live, so does that dream! My lord, come away!”
“But … how?” Lord Aran looked about him, a lion at bay, for the first time uncertain.
“Never mind how!” Magnus swung hard. His fist cracked into the lord’s jaw, and the old man folded. Magnus dropped down and caught him over his shoulder. Grabbing hand and foot in a fireman’s carry, he hurried down the stairs and through the nightmare.
“Grandfather!”
Magnus heard it with his mind, not his ears—they were too filled with the roaring of the flames and the screaming of the serfs. He looked back and up, and saw the small white gauzy form at the door to the keep. Beside her, there was a fainter glow—a boy’s face. “Ian!” he called, knowing his voice would not reach and projecting it mind to mind. “Bring the Lady Heloise! Follow!” For of course, he could not leave the heir—the other lords would need to wipe out Aran’s heresy, root and branch.
The blur that was Ian’s face jerked as though it had ben slapped; then the girl was stumbling toward the steps as though someone were pulling her, and the boy’s face floated before her as he struggled to follow.
Magnus turned away, thanking his stars for the one that had led him to Ian, and wormed and jostled his way through the throng toward the postern gate.
None sought to block his way; there was too much confusion. No one could take the time to see who he carried.
Then, suddenly, a tatterdemalion figure rose up in his path. “Gar! Stop!”
Magnus jarred to a halt, staring in disbelief at the motley tunic with the patchwork robe. “Siflot! What the hell are you doing here!”
“Message from Allouene!” the juggler yelled. “She says to get out fast! And whatever you do, don’t try to save Lord Aran! He has to be a martyr!”
Magnus just stared at him, appalled. Then he called, “Siflot! Can you honestly believe that this fine old man deserves to die?”
The vagabond stared back at him—until his gaze faltered. “I cannot.”
“Then stand aside! Or help me—but get out of my way!” Magnus bulled his way through, and somehow, Siflot wasn’t there anymore. But the postern gate opened just before Magnus reached it, and Siflot was in the boat to catch the unconscious lord as Magnus lowered him in, then gone again as Magnus stepped down—but Ian shouted behind him, and Lady Heloise squealed, “Who did that?”
Turning, Magnus saw them in the boat and grinned. “Did what, chil … milady?”
“Dropped me into the boat!”
“Oh, that.” Magnus turned to cast off the ropes. “Your guardian angel, milady.”
“My angel?” She looked around, wide-eyed. “Where is she?”
“Well, perhaps not an angel,” Magnus allowed as he took up the oars, “but surely your guardian. If you ever meet a patchwork man who plays the flute and trips over his own feet while he juggles, trust him with your life.”
Lady Heloise glanced about. “I see no such man here.”
Magnus looked up, startled, but sure enough, there was no sign of Siflot. Another boat was moving away from the postern’s water stairs, though, and Magnus realized his friend was taking out water-accident insurance. “No, but he’ll be there when you need him,” he cried. “Down, now, children! Our enemies must not see you!”
He ducked down himself, and stayed that way, ostensibly rowing by feel, actually moving the boat by telekinesis and probing the night with telepathy. It seemed to take a century, but he wound them unseen through the cordon, then out across the dark lake, shushing the children periodically in a lightless, interminable journey. Halfway through it, there was stirring and clunking in the boat, and Lord Aran’s voice said thickly, “What … where …?”
“Grandfather!” Lady Heloise cried, but Magnus called out in a whisper, “Quietly, milady, quietly! My lord, be silent, I beg of you! We are on the lake, in the midst of your enemies!”
Aran was silent a moment. Then, “My serfs,” he groaned.
“They are as well as they would be if we had died for them, my lord,” Magnus pointed out. “In any case, we can do no more for them—save to keep their hopes alive, by keeping you alive! Softly, now, I beg!”
Then the old lord was quiet, but Magnus was sure he was awake—with an aching head and jaw. Magnus hoped the old man could overlook the blow of mercy.
Finally, the bottom of the boat ploughed into mud with a sucking noise, and the bow thudded against a bank. Magnus rolled out, stepped down through two feet of water into muck that swallowed his foot—and ankle, and calf, but not fast enough to keep him from throwing his upper body onto the bank. He clawed at grass, pulled his foot free, and rolled onto the turf with a gasp of relief. Then he reached out for the gunwale, but it wasn’t there. “Ian!” he cried in desperation. “Take my hand!” He groped blindly in the dark—but a small hand caught his, and pulled with amazing strength for its size. “Here, Master Gar! What shall I do?”
“Why, just as you are doing,” Magnus assured him. “Keep pulling, lad—there! I’ve caught the gunwale!” He turned about, holding the boat with both hands against the bank. “Out, now, but help the lady first!”
Heloise stepped out onto the bank, steadying herself on Ian’s shoulder. Then the boy climbed out and turned back to hold out his hand. “My lord?”
“Thank you, boy.” Aran steadied himself with Ian’s hand as he climbed out. “Strong as a serf, you are! Your mother should be proud!” He turned toward Magnus. “All right, mercenary—you have saved me, whether I would or no. But I am grateful, for I would not leave my granddaughter alone in this world. Now where shall we go?”
“To shelter, my lord.” Magnus climbed to his feet and looked down at Lord Aran. “There we shall rest, and consider what we may do. Ian!”
“Yes, sir!”
“We’re going to try to travel by night, boy, and there’s an outside chance that we might become separated. If we do, stay with the Lady Heloise at all costs! Do you understand? Guard her at whatever price you must—from this time until we reach safety, your life is hers. If we’re attacked, your first task is to get her to safety; your second task is to fight any who attack her. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Ian’s eyes were huge in the night. “I shall guard her with my head.”
“Good.” Magnus nodded, satisfied with both meanings of the phrase. He clapped Ian on the shoulder. “Stout fellow! For now, follow.” He turned away, offering the old lord his arm.