They stepped into a scene out of “Sleeping Beauty.” The third guardsman sat slumped in a chair, chin on chest, snoring. Beyond him, a half-open door showed a nanny in a rocker, dozing over her needlework. Rod stepped forward and pushed the door the rest of the way open. Elidor looked up from belting on his sword. His hair was tousled, and his eyes bleary from slumber, red and puffy; Rod had a notion he’d cried himself to sleep.
“Almost ready, Papa.” Magnus picked up a cloak and held it out.
Elidor stepped over; Magnus dropped it over his shoulders.
“God save Your Majesty.” Rod bowed. “I take it Magnus has informed you of our invitation?”
“Aye, and with right good heart do I accept! But why art thou willing to take me from mine uncle’s halls?”
“Because my sons have taken a liking to you.” You couldn’t exactly tell a King that he triggered every paternal response you had. “If you’re ready, we shouldn’t linger.”
“Ready I am!.” The King clapped a hat on and headed for the door. Rod bowed him through, and waited as Magnus stepped through behind him.
He found Elidor staring at the snoring guard. “Magnus had told me of it,” the boy whispered, “but I scarce could credit it.”
“You’re moving in magic circles.” Rod gave him a firm nudge on the shoulder. “And if you don’t keep moving, we’ll wind up back where we started.”
Elidor paced on forward, pausing for a bow to answer Gwen and Cordelia’s curtseys. Rod took the opportunity to dodge on ahead.
Magnus stepped up beside him, as pilot, and they padded silently through dim, torch-lit halls. Whenever Magnus stopped and nodded to Cordelia, she skipped on ahead, singing, to engage whatever unsuspecting person happened to be walking the halls at this late hour, in conversation, until Magnus could knock them out. After the fifth guardsman, Rod noticed the man was twitching in his sleep. “Getting tired, son?”
Magnus nodded.
So did Rod. “I’ll take over for a while.”
Fortunately, there weren’t too many more; the old-fashioned method is a little risky.
Elidor just followed along, his eyes getting wider and wider till they seemed to take up half his face.
Finally they crossed the outer bailey—it was really the only one; the castle had grown till it absorbed the inner. Rod’s commando tactics couldn’t do much about the sentries on the wall, so Magnus padded along, alert and ready; but the sentries were watching the outside, so they came to the main gatehouse without incident.
There they stopped, and Gwen gathered them into a huddle. “Here’s a pretty problem,” she whispered. “A sentry stands on each tower, a porter by the winch, and six guardsmen in the wardroom—and thou art wearied, my son.”
Magnus was looking a little frayed around the edges. “I can still answer for two, Mama, mayhap three.”
“That leaves six.” Rod frowned. “What’re they armed with, Gwen?”
Gwen gazed off into space for a moment. “All bear pikes, save the Captain; he wears a sword.”
“Could you and Cordelia bop them with their own pike-butts?”
“Aye, but they wear their helmets.”
“So.” Rod rubbed his chin. “The problem is, getting them to take off their helmets.”
“Why, that can I do!” Elidor declared, and marched off towards the guardroom before anyone could stop him.
Rod looked up after him, startled, glanced back at Gwen, then turned and sprinted after Elidor. What was the kid trying to do, blow the whole escape?
But the boy moved fast, and he was hammering on the door before Rod could catch him. It swung open, and Rod ducked into the nearest shadow and froze. He could see through the open door, though, as Elidor marched in.
The guardsmen scrambled to their feet. “Majesty!” The Captain inclined his head. “What dost thou abroad so late o’ night?”
Elidor frowned. “I am thy King! Art thou so ill-bred as not to know the proper form of greeting? Uncover, knaves, and bow!”
Rod held his breath.
The soldiers glanced at the Captain, whose eyes were locked with Elidor’s. But the boy-King held his chin high, glance not wavering an inch. Finally, the Captain nodded.
The guardsmen slowly removed their helmets and bowed.
Their pikes leaped to life, slamming down on the backs of their heads with the flats of their blades. They slumped to the floor with a clatter.
All except the Captain; he didn’t have a pike near. He snapped upright, terror filling his face as he stared at his men.
Then the terror turned to rage.
Rod leaped forward.
“Why, what sorcery is this?” the Captain snarled, coming for Elidor and drawing his sword.
The boy stepped back, paling—and Rod shot through the door and slammed into the Captain. He went down with a clatter and a “ whuff,” the wind knocked out of him; but his sword writhed around, the point dancing in Rod’s face. Rod yanked the sword to one side, rolling the man half-over, and dived in behind him, arm snaking around the Captain’s throat. He caught the larynx in his elbow, and squeezed. The Captain kicked and struggled, but Rod had a knee in his back, so all he could do was thrash about.
But Elidor was loose. He darted over to pluck the Captain’s helmet, yanked his dagger out, and clubbed down with all his strength, just the way he’d seen Rod do. The Captain heaved, and relaxed with a sigh.
Rod let go and scrambled out. “Well done, Your Majesty! You’ve got the makings of a King, all right.”
“There’s more to that than battle,” the boy said, frowning.
“Yes, such as wisdom, and knowledge. But a lot of it’s the ability to think fast, and the willingness to act, and you’ve got those. And style and courage—and you’ve just demonstrated those, too.” Rod clapped him on the shoulder, and the boy seemed to visibly expand. “Come on, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t say the rest of our party is dying to find out what happened, but they’ll be vastly reassured to actually see us intact.” He ushered the boy out the door.
“Six down and three to go,” he whispered as they came up to Gwen and the children in the alcove.
Gwen nodded. “ ‘Twas well thou followed Elidor. Well, if thou wilt hide thee near the porter, I think I can distract him for thee.”
Rod set his palms against his buttocks and leaned back, stretching. “Okay, but give me a minute. I’m beginning to feel it, too.”
A few minutes later, he waited just outside the doorway leading to the giant windlass that controlled the drawbridge. The porter paced the floor inside, humming to himself—trying to stay awake, probably.
Suddenly the rope that held the windlass slipped loose, and the ratchet chattered as the great drum began to turn.
The porter shouted and leaped for the crank-handle.
Rod leaped for the porter, plucked off his helmet, and clubbed him.
A few minutes later, he rejoined Gwen. “All secure. I take it I should run back there and drop the bridge.”
“Aye, and raise the portcullis. Yet attend a moment.” She turned to Magnus. “Son?”
Magnus was gazing off into space. A few seconds later, he relaxed and turned to her. “The sentries on the towers are asleep.”
Gwen nodded at Rod.
He sighed, and trudged back to the windlass. Being a telepath must certainly save a lot of hiking.
The portcullis rose, the drawbridge fell, and Rod almost did, too. He straightened up, aching in every joint; it was getting to be a long day.
“My lord?” Gwen’s head poked around the doorway. “Wilt thou join us?”
“Coming,” he grumbled, and shuffled toward the doorway. How could she still look so fresh and cheery?
They went across the drawbridge, as fast as Geoffrey and Rod could manage. Fifty feet from the castle, Gwen stopped the party, and shooed them into the shadow of a big rock. She ducked her head around it, staring back at the castle. Curious, Rod peeked around the other side. He saw the drawbridge slowly rise.