“I shall hope to discover it,” Gregory piped. “Papa… what if the evidence is of great wrongness?”
“Then you three boys will turn right around, and take your mother and your sister right home,” Rod said promptly.
“And thou…?”
“I’m the High Warlock, aren’t I?” Rod grinned at them. “They gave me the title. I’ve got to live up to it.”
Gregory and Magnus looked at each other, and locked gazes.
“I prithee, my lord, calm your heart,” Gwen eyed him anxiously as she laid the campfire. “ ‘Twas not the forester’s fault that we may not hunt.”
“Yeah—but the way he dragged Magnus in, as though he were some kind of criminal!” Rod folded a hand around his trembling fist. “He should only know how close he came to disaster! Good thing Magnus remembered his disguise.”
“ ‘Twas not the child’s self-rule that troubled me.” Gwen shuddered. “My lord, if thou couldst have but seen thine own face…”
“I know, I know,” Rod snapped, turning away. “So it’s not surprising he reached toward his knife. But so help me, if he had touched it…”
“He would have died,” Gwen said simply, “and men-at-arms would have caught us on the morrow.”
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t,” Rod said grimly. “They wouldn’t’ve dared touch the High Warlock!”
“Aye—and all the land would have known we ride north.” She sighed. “I rejoice thou didst throttle thy temper.”
“No, I didn’t, and you know it! If you hadn’t butted in and taken over, raining thanks and praise on the forester, as though you were a waterfall…”
Gwen shrugged. “ ‘Twas naught but his due. A less kind man would have beaten the child, and haled him off to his knight’s gaol.”
Rod stared, appalled.
Gwen nodded. “Oh, aye, my lord. And the law allows it. Nay, more; for this good warden who did find our son, might be censured if his lord did know of his forbearance.”
Rod shuddered. “I’m glad I let him go, then. But, my lord! It’s not as though the boy’d been trying to bring down a deer! All he was after was a rabbit!”
“Even so, the Forest Laws would say ‘twas theft,” Gwen reminded him. “Every hare and goose—nay, each mouse and sparrow—doth belong unto the manor’s lord; and to hunt them is to steal!”
“But how do these people live?” Rod cupped an empty hand. “We didn’t do badly today, for tinkers—we made a penny and a half! But we had to spend the penny for a chicken, and the half for bread! What would we live on, if nobody broke a pot?”
“The law…” Gwen sighed.
“Well, it won’t, for long.” Rod curled the hand into a fist. “I’m going to have a few words with Tuan, when we get back to Runnymede!”
“Do,” Gwen said softly, “and thou’lt have proved the worth of this journey, even an we find naught wrong i’ the North.”
“I’m afraid that’s not very apt to happen.” Mollified, Rod watched her stare at the kindling. It burst into flame, and he sighed, “I’d better see how the kids are coming along with their foraging.” He stiffened at a sudden thought, staring at her. “We are allowed to gather berries, aren’t we?”
Rod sat bolt upright with a hissing-in of breath, staring about him, wide-eyed.
The night breathed all around him, hushed. Far away, crickets and frogs wove counterpoint that darted harmony with the myriad of stars. The land lay deep in peace.
Rod sagged against the prop of his arm, relieved by reality. Adrenalin ebbed, and his hammering heart began to slow. He couldn’t even remember the nightmare—only that, vaguely, the face was Lord Kern’s.
This had to stop. Somehow, he had to break this spell. Somebody moaned; not surprising, the way he felt.
Then he stiffened, all his attention concentrated on his ears. Whoever had moaned, it hadn’t been him.
Then, who…?
The sound came again, louder and closer. It wasn’t a moan, really—more of a grinding sound. Not moving, Rod murmured, “Fess?”
“Here, Rod.” Being a robot, Fess never slept. In fact, he scarcely ever powered down.
“Hear anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes, Rod. The sound is that of rock moving against rock. When the frequency of its repetitions is accelerated, there is a discernible Doppler shift…”
“Coming, or going?”
“Coming—and rather rapidly, I should…”
Trees at the edge of the meadow trembled, and a huge, dark form came into sight. The silhouette was crudely human.
Rod was on his feet and darting over to Fess. He yanked a light out of the pack, aimed it at the dark form, and pressed the tab. “Gwen!”
Gwen raised her head just as the beam struck the huge figure.
If it was female, it was a caricature. If it had breasts, it also had shoulders like a fullback’s and arms like a gorilla’s. It did have long fingernails, though—and they glinted dangerously in the actinic glare. Its face was blue. It flinched at the sudden stab of light, lips drawing back in a snarl—revealing fangs.
“Black Annis!” Gwen gasped in horror.
The monster froze for a moment, startled by the beam—and Rod snapped, “Magnus! Cordelia! Wake the babies and get into the air!”
The elder children snapped out of sleep as though they’d been jabbed, galvanized by Gwen’s mental alarm. Geoffrey rolled up, sitting, knuckling his eyes and muttering. “Not a baby! Six!” But Gregory just shot straight into the air.
Then the monster roared, charging, and caught up Geoffrey with one roundhouse swipe. He squalled, but in anger, not fright, and wrestled his dagger out of its sheath. But Rod thundered rage, and the monster rose into the air, then slammed down onto its back. Geoffrey jabbed the huge hand with his dagger, and Black Annis howled, dropping him. He shot into the air, while Rod stalked toward the horror. Red haze blurred his vision, obscuring all but Black Annis struggling to its feet in the center of his field of view. The familiar roaring thundered in his ears, and power thrilled through every vein. One thought filled him, only one—to see the creature torn to bits.
Behind him, though, Gwen retreated, keeping her face toward the monster, pulling Magnus and Cordelia by their hands, along with her.
The monster floundered to its feet and turned toward Rod, its face contorted with hate, claws lifting to pounce; but Rod’s arm was raising, forefinger stiffened to focus his powers.
Gwen’s eyes narrowed, and her children squeezed their eyes shut.
Black Annis exploded into a hundred wriggling fragments.
Rod roared in rage, cheated of his revenge; but Gwen cried to her two youngest, “Rise and follow!”
For the wriggling fragments kept writhing and, as they fell to earth, ran leaping away, long-eared and puff-tailed, fleeing back toward the wood.
Rod clamped his jaw and ran after them.
But Gwen was beside him, pacing him on her broomstick, gripping his arm and calling to him through the blood-haze. Distantly through the roaring, he heard her: “My lord, it was not real! ‘Twas a phantom, made of witch-moss!”
That stung through; for ‘witch-moss’ was a fungus peculiar to this planet, telepathically sensitive. If a projective esper thought hard at a lump of it, it would turn into whatever he or she was thinking about.
Which meant there had to be a projective esper around.
Gwen was tugging at his arm, falling behind. “Softly, mine husband! Fall back, and wait! If this monster was made o’ purpose, ‘tis toward the purposer that these comes we’ve made from it do flee! Yet if that villain doth take sight of thee, he’ll flee ere we can seize him!”
“I’ll blast him into oxides,” Rod muttered, but sense began to poke through his battle-madness.
“A pile of dust cannot tell us what we wish to know!” Gwen cried, and, finally, Rod began to slow. The master who had made this monster, was nothing; what mattered was the one who’d pulled his strings. That was the ogre who’d threatened Rod’s children. “Black Annis eats babies,” he muttered, and the rage began to build again.