Privately, he wondered where Siflot was. He couldn’t really ask the vagabond to actively help Lord Aran escape, since that was flatly against Allouene’s orders, and would jeopardize Siflot’s whole career. But he was grateful to his friend, already.
They moved out across the plain; campfire coals glowed sullenly ahead. They had a camp to traverse. As silently as possible, Magnus threaded his way between tents, hoping against hope that all of the soldiers were in the boats.
They weren’t.
A trooper rose up in front of them, staring, amazed. He was just beginning to open his mouth in alarm when Magnus’s hand closed around his throat. His fist slammed into the man’s jaw, and the soldier’s eyes rolled up as he dropped.
But another soldier saw and howled, “Enemy! Captain of the Guard! They’re upon us!”
Magnus leaped to the side and felled the man with a chop—but an avalanche of bodies hit, and bore him to the ground, kicking and punching. He surged back up, throwing men off him like a bear rising from its winter’s sleep, and saw Lord Aran fencing with expert skill against two young officers. Magnus slammed heads, kicked bellies, and troopers fell around him. A club swung at his sinuses, but he leaned aside. It exploded like fire against his ribs, but he held his breath as he caught it and yanked; its owner stumbled after it, and Magnus felled him with a chop. A sword stabbed toward him, but he knocked it aside with the club.
Then the second wave hit.
It hit, but it fell back remarkably quickly. Magnus chopped and punched, rolling with the blows and striking back—and suddenly, he was standing, his head swimming, chest heaving, looking about at a score of fallen men …
And a tattered jester with a quarterstaff in his hands.
Magnus grinned and stepped forward to clap his friend on his shoulder. “Prince of jesters! You stood by me after all!”
“You and the lord,” Siflot returned, grinning. “Your cause is just, for the lord is, too.”
“Is just?” Magnus smiled, amused. “But your career, Siflot! If you help me keep him alive, Oswald will have your hide!”
“No, he won’t,” the jester said, with remarkable assurance, “though I don’t doubt he’ll try. The career can go hang, Gar—I never wanted it.”
“Then what did you want with SCENT?”
“Why, to help people who needed it most.” Siflot turned to Lord Aran with a bow. “And at the moment, Your Lordship, that is yourself.”
“I thank you, Fool,” Lord Aran panted. Then suddenly, his eyes went wide, and he looked about him in a panic. “My granddaughter! The Lady Heloise! Where is she?”
Magnus looked about too, suddenly realizing that the old lord had an Achilles’ heel.
“I saw two small things go flitting away over the plain as I came to join you,” Siflot said, “though truth to tell, the lady did not seem to be all that willing.”
Lord Aran sagged with relief. “Yes, Captain Pike—you did bid the boy take her to safety.” He looked up, still alarmed. “But how shall we find them now?”
“He will find us as easily as we him,” Magnus answered. “She could have no better guide when it comes to running and hiding. Still…” He turned to Siflot with a surge of relief; he had found one solution to two problems—how to find the children, and how to keep Siflot from active involvement in his own crime. “Siflot, would you go search out the nooks and crannies, and bring them back to us?”
“Why, I will try” Siflot said slowly, “but even if I find them, they may not come to me.”
Magnus remembered something that he had said half seriously, and grinned. “I told them that if they found a ragtag jester who played the flute and tripped over his own feet while he juggled, they were to trust him with their lives.”
Siflot answered his grin. “Why, I think I can do all that, though perhaps not at once. May you fare well, my lord! We shall meet you anon!” He started away, then swung around on one foot and turned back. “Where are you bound, by the way?”
Magnus glanced at Lord Aran, and the answer sprang full-blown into his head. “Castlerock, Siflot! The island in the inland sea, where all the serfs have fled!” He turned back to Lord Aran. “You will be safer there, my lord, than any place else in this world! Will you go?”
“Aye, willingly,” the old lord said slowly. “The escaped serfs might welcome me, might they not? Now that I, too, am a fugitive.”
“They might,” Magnus agreed. “Then, ho! Off to Castlerock!”
He turned away, and Lord Aran gasped beside him. “The jester—where did he go?”
“Oh, Siflot?” Magnus shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll find your granddaughter, my lord, and my apprentice—and they couldn’t be in safer hands. He will assure the Lady Heloise that her grandfather is well, and will meet her at Castlerock. You would not want him to tell an untruth, would you?”
“No, surely not,” said Lord Aran, with the ghost of a smile. “I suppose that, after all, I shall have to live, shan’t I? To Castlerock!”
But they underestimated their enemies. Perhaps Magnus should not have stolen the two horses—or perhaps the soldiers they had vanquished gave the alarm when they came to. At any rate, Magnus and Lord Aran had only an hour’s grace before the sounds of dogs echoed in the distance, and a new moon glided across the heavens, coming from the camp.
“A flier with a searchlight!” Magnus cried, glancing over his shoulder. “Ride, my lord! We’re nearly to the trees!” And he slapped the rump of Lord Aran’s horse.
“What good will the forest do?” Lord Aran called over the pounding of hooves. “The hounds will still follow our scent!”
“Perhaps, but their flier won’t do them much good. Quickly, my lord! At least give them a race!” Then the trees were closing about them, and Magnus reined in. “Dismount, my lord!” He swung down off his horse.
“Why?” Lord Aran dismounted even as he asked. “What good will it do? Will we not still need the horses?”
“No, my lord, for they can’t go any faster than we, in underbrush—and if we use the forest trails, they’ll find us in an instant!” He turned his horse about, shouted and spanked it, and the horse broke out of the forest with a startled whinny. Lord Aran imitated him, and the two horses together fled out over the plain.
The flier veered to follow them.
“That will not buy us much time,” Lord Aran said, but he was turning his back on the plain even as he said it.
“True,” Magnus agreed. “They’ll catch up to the beasts in a few minutes, and see the saddles are empty. Then they’ll start combing the wood for us—but in that few minutes, we can become very thoroughly lost.”
“I am already,” Lord Aran grunted. “Have you any idea where you’re going?”
“Toward the center of the wood, my lord. The thicker the trees, the better our chances. Have you ever hunted the fox?”
“Why of course!” Lord Aran looked up, startled. “Many, many times!”
“Then think like a fox, my lord, for you are in his place right now, with the hounds baying after you, leading the lords on their horses. Where would a fox hide?”
“In a dozen places, but ever on the move.” Lord Aran grunted. “I take your meaning, Captain—and you may take the lead.”
They plowed on through the night, breathing in hoarse gasps, thorns and briars tearing their clothing. After half an hour’s movement, they began to hear the hounds again; ten minutes more, and the baying was closer.
“Into the stream!” Magnus jumped into the water. “Break our scent-trail!”
The old lord jumped in after him—and stumbled and fell. Magnus was by his side in an instant, hauling him back to his feet—but the old lord still sagged. Magnus hauled an arm about his neck, pushed a shoulder under Aran’s, and half-dragged him along the stream bed, looking frantically for a hiding place. Aran was spent, and Magnus, to tell the truth, wasn’t feeling terribly energetic himself.