Fortunately it had been a relatively simple virus, and she had retailored a few specimens into antigens. They had propagated at the usual speed, neutralizing all the rest. She had left the epidemic well on its way to curing.
She idly noticed the hawk circling above her, as she noticed everything in the air when she was flying, but paid it no particular attention until it folded its wings and pounced on her.
With a cry of anger, she batted it away. The bird went spinning head over heels, and her broomstick, ignored for the moment, slipped to the left and started to dive. That saved her life, for the blaster bolt sizzled by a foot over her head.
Fear seared through her, but anger came hot in its wake. She spared a thought for the broomstick, bringing it up and around in an erratic zigzag as her mind probed for the gunner below. Instead she found another telepath, and the disorder and chaos in his mind sent a wave of dizziness through her. For a few seconds earth and sky reeled about her; for a few seconds, she was cut off from the outside world.
The broomstick, left to itself, promptly fell, and her with it.
Two blaster bolts sizzled overhead.
Then the enemy telepath's mind cleared with elation and Gwen's mind cleared with it. She saw treetops rushing up before her—but she saw her hands, too, clutching the broomstick white-knuckled as though they could pull it up and out of its tailspin by sheer strength. She poured the power of her mind into them, and the broomstick sheered off at the last second, though her shoes clipped leaves from the branches as she passed.
Then the hawk pounced again. She saw it coming a second before it struck and swerved to avoid it. A blaster bolt sizzled past and the hawk squawked in protest, sheering off. Smoke curled from the tips of its tail feathers.
Gwen threw her broomstick into a dance, erratic, chaotic. The enemy telepath's mind swept hers with a wave of hatred that made her recoil in shock—but she used the energy of the recoil to strike back, filling the foe's mind with an anger so hot that she felt the other lose consciousness. She withdrew from that mind immediately, rolled aside as a blaster bolt snarled past her, and sought for the minds of the gunners.
There were three of them. She struck with a sudden wave of self-hatred, and the first turned her own rifle on herself. Gwen withdrew the self-contempt quickly, and the gunner realized what she was doing. With a cry of terror, she threw the rifle from her.
But Gwen's mind was already moving to the second, making the rifle buck in his hands, twisting and turning. The man wrestled with it, and Gwen pulled hard, trying to yank the gun out of his hands. He clung desperately, and she reversed; the rifle jumped backward, striking the sniper in the forehead.
He slumped to the ground unconscious, and Gwen dove on general principles.
Not a moment too soon; her distraction had been long enough for the third sniper to aim. The straws of her broomstick burst into flame. Even so, the hawk struck again; claws bit into her shoulder, and she cried out with pain, her broomstick dropping like a stone.
The bird loosed its hold, tearing away; another blaster bolt missed it narrowly. Gwen pulled her broomstick out of its dive but felt another mind pulsing with dread, then relief, and recognized a second enemy telepath, one much weaker than the first.
Strong enough to control the hawk, though. His mind reached out to the bird's, making it circle and swoop again.
Gwen concentrated and took control of the hawk. Its trajectory swerved; it struck at the last sniper, who screamed with rage and swung his rifle around toward the raptor. But Gwen made the bird swoop aside at the last second and the blaster bolt sizzled harmlessly through the air. Gwen saw the sniper's position now, high in an oak. She sent the hawk striking. It was too close for the sniper to shoot; he fell back—and fell indeed, with a howl of fright. He dropped the rifle and caught at another branch—caught, and held.
Gwen reached out with her mind and made the branch whip back and forth through the air. The sniper bellowed in fear as his hold broke and he fell again. He landed crosswise on a lower bough; pain shot through him as his abdomen folded over the limb.
Gwen made a nearby limb swing and strike. A single bright pain filled the sniper's mind before darkness claimed it.
The hawk, though, was circling high to swoop again. Gwen took control of it once more and made it follow the thought that reached out for it frantically. The hawk plunged through the leaves, screaming as its claws tore at the face of its master. Somehow the falconer caught it, but the claws still scrabbled at his face. He stumbled backward, holding the writhing bird at arm's length, shouting commands at it. Gwen adjusted his path, and the man slammed backward into a tree. He slumped to the ground, unconscious, and the bird flew away, dazed and disoriented.
Now Gwen could take a deep breath, regain control of her broomstick, and send out a call for the royal witches to come arrest the assassins. Then, by sheer habit born of many sleepless nights listening for a sick child's breathing, she reached out to touch the minds of each of her family.
They were all under attack.
Geoffrey and Alain had dressed themselves up as common teamsters and had harnessed their chargers to a cart they had rented at an exorbitant sum. No one could see the swords slung across their backs under their cloaks.
They drove into the hamlet beneath Baron Gripadin's castle, a collection of a dozen very run-down cottages—in fact, so run-down that if the peasant girl hadn't told them otherwise, they would have thought the place abandoned. Nonetheless, they drove the cart in, having a fine old time with some very amateurish playacting.
"Well, Daw, what think 'ee?" Alain mimicked the accent of the peasants who served in the castle. "Ought we draw in the horses and buy summat to eat?"
"I see no inn," Geoffrey answered in a similar accent. "What could these people cook that would be worth a brass farthing?" Then, under his breath in his own accent, "Is this your village, maiden?"
"It is, sir." The young woman trembled beside him. "Pray the soldiers do not come!"
"We will pray that they do," Alain whispered grimly, his eyes bright with battle-lust.
"I must warn my family to stay indoors!" The young woman slipped down from the cart before they could stop her and ran for the door of a hut that opened just before she reached it.
For some reason, that rang Geoffrey's mental alarm. He opened his mind to listen and caught a host of angry, bloodthirsty thoughts. "To horse, Alain! On guard!"
He caught up his buckler from the cartbed and sprang onto his charger, drawing his sword and cutting the harness with two strokes. Alain blinked at him, taken by surprise; then he heard the roar of many throats as a dozen men burst from the doorways of the ruined cottages. He reached down, caught up his buckler, and vaulted onto the back of his warhorse, drawing his sword and cutting the straps as Geoffrey had done. "For the people and the right!" he shouted and turned at bay.
The assassins struck, the front rank slashing at him with swords, the back rank stabbing up with spears. Alain ducked to catch the blades on his buckler; one sliced his calf. He bellowed with anger and swung his blade, cutting off two spearheads.
Geoffrey faced a similar double rank and had to admit that this rabble had a commander who had some sense. He raised his buckler to deflect the spearheads while his mind wrenched at the swords. But another mind wrenched them back, cancelling his telekinesis and leaving the swordsmen free to chop at Geoffrey's ankles. He realized he was up against more than he had thought and called, "Up, stout fellow!" His horse reared, screaming, and struck at the footmen with its forelegs. They shouted in surprise and backed away.