She spun toward Rod and Gwen. “And yet, fear not; thy folk shall not go all unaided! There lives, at least, still one old witch of power threescore-years-and-ten in learning, who will not desert her countrymen in this time of need! There lives still one, aye, be assured; though this old gelding”—she jerked her head toward Galen—“will idly stand and watch thy folk enslaved, a power strong as his will guard thy land!” She stretched out her hand. “Come take me with thee, get us gone, for my stomach crawls within me at his presence! He thinks of naught but himself.”
“And thou dost not?” Galen grated, glaring at the old witch. “Is this aught but a sop to thy thwarted wish for mothering of a child thou never hadst?”
Agatha flinched almost visibly and turned, hot words on her tongue; but Galen raised an imperious hand and intoned:
“Get thee hence, to Runnymede!”
White light flared, burning, blinding.
When the afterimages faded, Rod could see, as well as feel, Gwen in his arms, which feeling had been very reassuring while the sun went nova.
He could dimly make out Agatha too, leaning shaken against a wall, a gray granite wall.
And a high timbered ceiling, and a knot of young witches and warlocks gathered around them, staring, eyes and mouths round.
Their voices exploded in clamoring questions.
Yep, home, Rod decided. It was obviously the Witches’ Tower in the King’s Castle at Runnymede.
He wondered what would happen if Galen ever got mad enough to tell someone to go to Hell.
One young warlock’s face thrust closer as he dropped to one knee. “Lord Warlock! Where has thou been?”
“Galen’s Dark Tower,” Rod croaked, and was rewarded with a huge communal gasp. He looked around at eyes gone round as wafers. “And as to how we got here—well, he sent us home.”
The teenagers exchanged glances. “We can wish ourselves from place to place,” said one of the warlocks, “but none of us can do it to another.”
“Yeah, well, Galen’s a little older than you, and he’s learned a few more tricks.” Privately, Rod wondered—that did amount to a new kind of psi power, didn’t it? Well, he was prepared for constant surprises. “Your name’s Alvin, isn’t it?”
“Thus am I called, Lord Warlock.”
Rod rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I seem to remember, before I lit out to find Gwen, something about the beastmen attacking?”
“Aye, milord. Their three long ships were only the vanguard. Behind them, their fleet did darken the waters.”
“Fleet?” Rod snapped completely out of his grogginess. “How many of them were there?”
“An army,” a girl answered from behind Alvin. “Thou couldst not call it less.”
Rod staggered to his feet, looking around. He saw the great black horse standing stiff-legged, head hanging low. Rod stumbled over to him and slid a hand under the head. It lifted, turning to look at him. Rod frowned. “No seizure, huh?”
“Indeed I did not,” the robot’s voice said in his ear only, “since I had experienced it once, and knew it to be possible. It thus did not cause great enough anxiety to trigger a seizure.”
“So,” Rod said carefully, “you were awake during the whole thing.”
The horsehead lifted higher. “I was. I… recorded it… all… I must play it back… very slowly… later… later…”
“Just offhand, what would you say… happened? Just at a guess.”
“A preliminary analysis would indicate that we passed through another dimension.” Fess’s body shuddered. “At least, I hope that is what I will decide happened.”
“Yeah.” Rod swallowed. “Uh. Well… decide it later, okay?” He set his foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the saddle. “We’ve got to get to the coast. Where’d you say they landed, Alvin?”
“At the mouth of the River Fleuve, milord. We wait as reserve, yet have heard no call.”
Rod took a more thorough look at the handful left in the room and realized there wasn’t a one over fourteen. Small wonder they hadn’t been called. If they had been, things would have been really desperate. Rod nodded. “The Fleuve isn’t too far. I might still get in on the action.” He leaned down from his saddle to plant a quick kiss on Gwen. “Keep the home fires burning, dear. Come help pick up the pieces when you’ve got your strength back.” He swung back upright and kicked his heels against Fess’s sides. The black horse started trotting toward the doorway, protesting, “Rod, the lintels are too low.”
“So I’ll duck. Upward and onward, Steel Steed! Ho, and away!”
“You forgot the ‘horse and hattock,’ ” Fess reminded.
Fess swept down the road to the south in the easy, tireless, rocking-chair gait possible only to electric horses. Rod sat back in the saddle and enjoyed the ride.
“Of course,” he was saying, “it’s possible this revivalist is just what he seemed to be, nothing more—just a neurotic, unordained religious nut. But somehow I find myself able to doubt it.”
“Coincidence is possible,” Fess agreed, “though scarcely probable.”
“Especially since his activities are weakening the war effort very nicely—nicely for the beastmen, that is. And why else would he start operating at just this particular time? He must have begun preaching a week or two before Catharine began recruiting; otherwise we would have had at least a few volunteers.”
“We may assume, then, that there is some correlation between the two phenomena—the war and the preacher,” Fess opined.
“Correlation, Hell! He’s working for ‘em, Fess! How else could you explain it?”
“I do not have an alternate theory prepared,” the robot admitted. “Nonetheless, the probability of direct collusion is extremely low.”
“Oh, come off it!”
“Examine the data, Rod. The Neanderthals and the preacher are separated by approximately a hundred miles of ocean. Moreover, there is no physiological resemblance apparent from the reports we have received.”
“A point,” Rod admitted. “Still, I say…”
“Pardon the interruption,” Fess said suddenly, “but… you are aware that I am using radar…”
“I should hope so, when we’re going sixty miles an hour!”
“Two flying objects have just passed overhead.”
Rod’s stomach sank. “Just a couple of birds, right?”
“I’m afraid not, Rod.”
Rod darted a glance at the sky. There they were, already dwindling in the distance—two broomsticks, with women attached. “They didn’t!”
“I fear they did, Rod. I estimate their equivalent ground speed in excess of one hundred miles per hour. And, of course, they can fly in a direct, straight line.”
“They’re gonna get to the battlefield before us!” Rod glared after the ladies, then heaved a sigh and relaxed. “Well… I suppose I should be glad they’ll be there in time to help out… Gwen will have enough sense to keep them both up in the sky, won’t she?”
“I trust not, since she will need to be able to concentrate all her powers in fighting the Evil Eye.”
“Yeah… I’d forgotten about that. Well!” Rod sighed and sat back. “That’s a relief!”
“I should think it would cause greater anxiety, Rod.” Fess actually sounded puzzled.
“No—because she’ll probably settle down wherever the Royal Witchforce is stationed—and Tuan’ll have ‘em very well guarded.” Rod grinned. “She’ll be safe in spite of herself. But just in case… step up the pace, will you?”
“Then did the Foemen fall upon us in endless waves. Their long ships were myriad, a plague of Dragons clawing up out of the ocean onto the beach, vomiting forth beastmen in their thousands. Tall, they were, and fanged, with their heads beneath their shoulders, and Murder in their eyes. Our doughty soldiers blanched and fell back; but the King exhorted them, and they held their places. Then did the High Warlock rise up before them, and Thunder smote the air, and Lightning blasted the ground about him. In a voice like unto a trumpet, he swore unto the soldiers that his Witches would ward the Evil Eye away from them; therefore he bade them march forth to meet and best the foemen, for the sakes of their Wives and Daughters and Sweethearts. Courage flowed from him to the heart of every soldier, and they began their march.