“We do know that the Tyrant Sorcerer is aged,” Gregory piped up.
The others stared at him. “What makes thee say so?” Cordelia demanded.
“I heard the soldier speak thus, when he told Papa of the battle with Count Novgor.”
“Such as it was.” Rod searched his memory, and realized Gregory was right. But it was such a slight reference! And “venerable” didn’t necessarily mean “old.” He glanced at Gwen, and found her eyes on him. He turned back to Gregory. “Very good, son. What else do we know?”
“That he has gathered other witches and warlocks about him!” Cordelia said quickly.
“That they are younger than he,” Magnus added, “for Grathum did not mention age when he spoke of the warlock Melkanth.”
“He did not say Melkanth was young, though,” Gregory objected, “and neither he nor the soldier said aught of the other sorcery folk.”
Magnus clamped his jaw, and reddened. “Other than that there were more than a few of them—and enough to defeat a dozen armed men!”
“Well, he did use the plural,” Rod temporized, “and Grathum and Arlinson both probably would’ve mentioned it, if they’d been old.”
Magnus glanced up at his father gratefully.
“Still…” Rod glanced at Gregory, whose face was darkening into obstinacy. “…that is something we’ve guessed, not something we know. We’ve got to be ready to change that opinion in a hurry.”
Gregory’s expression lightened.
“We know there is a crafter of witch-moss among them,” Gwen said slowly, “and I would presume ‘tis the one we met with two nights agone.”
“Probably,” Rod agreed, “and at least one of their witches is good enough at telekinesis, to come up with fireballs.”
“That doth take skill,” noted Gwen, who could light both a match and a barn a mile off.
“And a projective who can manage a quick hypnotic trance that’s good enough to hold a dozen demoralized soldiers,” Rod mused. “Presumably, that’s the tyrant himself.”
“Thou dost guess, Papa,” Gregory reminded.
Rod grinned. “Good boy! You caught it.”
“And one among them can plan the use of all these powers, in such wise as to easily defeat an armed force,” Geoffrey said suddenly.
Rod nodded. “Good point—and easy to miss. What was their strategy?”
“To gobble up first the peasants, then the knights,” Geoffrey’s eyes glowed. “They began with the small and built them into strength, then used them to catch something larger. They should therefore attack Duke Romanov and, after him, some others of the Great Lords—Hapsburg and Tudor, most likely, sin’ that they are nearest neighbors. Then they might chance attack on the King and Queen, sin’ that they’ll have the Royal Lands encircled—or, if they doubt their own strength, they might swallow up Bourbon, DiMedici, and Gloucester ere they do essay King Tuan.”
The family was silent, staring at the six-year-old. Rod reflected that this was the child who hadn’t wanted to learn how to read, until Rod had told him the letters were marching. “That’s very good,” he said softly, “very good—especially since there wasn’t much information to go on. And I did say strategy, when I really meant tactics.”
“Oh! The winning of that one battle?” Geoffrey shrugged. “They sent witch-moss monsters against the armed band, to busy them and afright them. Then, the whiles the monsters held their attention, the other warlocks and witches rained blows on them from all sides. ‘Twas simple—but ‘twas enow; it did suffice.”
“Hm.” Rod looked directly into the boy’s eyes. “So you don’t think much of their tactician?”
“Eh, I did not say that, Papa! Indeed, he did just as he should have—used only as much force as was needed, and when and where it was needed. I doubt not, had Count Novgor proved stronger than he’d guessed, he’d have had magical reserves to call upon.” Geoffrey shook his head. “Nay, I could not fault him. His battle plan in this skirmish may have been, as thou hast said, simple—but he may also be quite able to lay out excellent plans for elaborate battles.” He shrugged. “There is no telling, as yet.”
Rod nodded slowly. “Sounds right. Any idea on the number of subordinate warlocks and witches?”
“Four, at the least—one to craft witch-moss, and direct her constructs; one to fly above, and drop rocks; two, at least, who did appear and disappear, jumping from place to place within the melee, wreaking havoc and confusion. There may be a fifth, who threw fireballs; and also a sixth, who did cast the trance spell.”
“Hypnosis,” Rod corrected.
“Hip-no-siss.” Geoffrey nodded, with intense concentration. “As thou sayest. And, of course, there was the Tyrant-Sorcerer, this Alfar; it may have been he who cast the trance spell, which would make his lesser warlocks and witches only the five.”
Rod nodded. “So. We can be sure there’re Alfar, and four subordinates—but there may be more.” He checked his memories of Gavin Arlinson’s account, but while he was checking, Gregory confirmed, “‘Tis even as Geoffrey doth say. Word for word, he hath counted them.”
Geoffrey cast him a look of annoyance. “Who did ask thee, babe?”
Gregory’s face darkened.
“Children!” Gwen chided. “Canst thou not allow one another each his due share of notice?”
Cordelia sat up a little straighter, and looked virtuous.
Rod leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky. “Well! I didn’t know we knew all that much! I expected you children to help out on the odd jobs—but I didn’t expect this!” He looked down at his brood, gloating. “But—if they’ve got all that going for them—why did they worry about some escaping peasants? Why did they send their brand-new army to chase them down?”
“Why, ‘tis simply said!” Geoffrey looked up, startled. “ ‘Twas done so that they might not bear word to Duke Hapsburg, or Earl Tudor—or e’en Their Majesties!”
They were quiet again, all staring at him.
Geoffrey looked from face to face. “But—‘tis plain! Is’t not?”
“Yes, now that you’ve told us,” Rod answered. “But what bothers me, is—why doesn’t Alfar want anyone to know what he’s doing?”
“Why, ‘tis even plainer! He means to conquer the Duke, and doth not wish any other Lord to send him aid!”
His brothers and sister watched him, silent.
Rod nodded, slowly. “Yes. That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”
Count Drulane and his lady rose, and all their folk rose with them. At the farthest end from their dais, the family of tinkers rose, too—though Gwen had to prod Geoffrey into putting down his trencher long enough to remember his manners.
“A good night to you all, then,” the Count intoned. “May your dreams be pleasant—and may you wake in the morning.”
The habitual phrase fell rather somberly on their ears, considering the tenor of the table conversation. The Count may have realized it; certainly, his departure through the door behind the dais, with his lady, was a bit brusque.
Gwen leaned over to Rod and murmured, “Is such fear born only of silence?”
Rod shrugged. “You heard what they said. The peasants are used to meeting Romanov peasants at the markets, and suddenly, they’re not there. And the Count and Countess are used to the occasional social call—but there haven’t been any for two weeks, and the last one before that brought rumors of the Romanov peasants being upset about evil witches.”
“I would fear,” said Magnus, “if such visits stopped so suddenly.”
“Especially if you had relatives up there,” Rod agreed, “which most of them seem to. I mean, who else are the knights’ daughters going to meet and marry?” He clasped Magnus’s shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s help them clean up.”
“Geoffrey, now!” Gwen said firmly and the six-year-old wolfed the last of his huge slice of bread as he stepped back from the table. Then he reached out and caught his wooden cup just as Rod and Magnus lifted the board off its trestles and turned it sideways, to dump the scraps onto the rushes.