The Duke and his train stopped, grins vanishing. Foidin’s eyes flicked from the floating sword to Rod’s dagger, then to Rod’s dangling arm, but back to the sword. He licked his lips, and swallowed. “Deliver up mine ward and nephew.”
“He comes with me,” Rod grated.
The Duke’s face darkened; he glanced back at his men, who glanced at one another. Hands felt for sword hilts, but they darted uneasy glances at Rod.
Gwen whispered to Cordelia, and the little girl stared at the sword. Gwen transferred her gaze to a three-foot-high boulder fifty feet from the Duke. It shuddered, then rocked, then began to topple, to roll—over and over, faster and faster, right at the Duke and his men.
The courtiers broke, and fled. The Duke stayed an instant longer, to cast a venomous glance at Rod; then he ran, too.
Rod glared after them.
Little Elidor breathed out a shaky sigh.
The little sound broke Rod’s trance; he dropped to the ground beside Magnus’s still form. “Gwen! Quickly!”
And she was there. She stared at her son, horrified.
Rod’s thumb was on the inside of Magnus’s wrist. “There’s still a pulse…”
“Quickly, children!” Gwen snapped. “Four-leafed clovers, red verbena, and St. John’s Wort!” Leaning forward, she ripped open Rod’s doublet and stripped the bandage from his wound. “ ‘Twill do, until they find afresh! He needs it now!” She tore the poultice free; Rod winced, and watched as she flipped the fresh side down with one hand as she yanked Magnus’s doublet loose with the other. She pressed the poultice down. “Ah, if only chanting spells could work!”
It seemed reasonable—or at least, in harmony with everything else that’d been happening here. A strange sort of dizziness took hold of Rod, and with it came again that sense of a stern but kindly presence. His lips opened, and he found himself chanting,
“Red blood rise, to fill Life’s way; Close the wounds of weapons fey! The elfin power hath lost its sway; Warrior, rise, to greet the day.”
Gwen shot him a startled glance.
His right arm gave a terrific wrench, and something popped. Rod clasped his shoulder with a gasp of pain. “Hahhhh… aieeee!” He gulped air, and swallowed hard. The glen swam before his eyes, then steadied, and the pain ebbed to a dull ache.
“My lord! What tortures thee?”
“Nothing—now.” Rod massaged his shoulder, marvelling. He moved his arm; it was stiff, and ached, but it worked. “Never mind me! How’s Magnus?” He looked down, and saw the color returning to the boy’s face. Gwen stared, then slowly peeled back the poultice. Beneath it, only a faint red line marked the sword-cut. Rod could scarcely hear her whisper; “He is healed!” Her head snapped up; she stared into Rod’s eyes. “Where didst thou learn that charm?”
Rod shook his head slowly. “Just came to mind… Uh—it was you who rang the church bells, wasn’t it?”
Her gaze held his; she slowly turned her head from side to side.
They knelt in silence, gazes locked.
Then Rod looked away. “There was a feeling—a sense of some… something… helping…”
“A spirit?” Gwen demanded softly.
Rod shrugged. “Good a name for it as any…”
Magnus groaned.
They both bent over him, holding their breath.
He levered himself up on his elbows, frowning and blinking. “Papa… sorry…”
“Sorry? For what?”
“For that… I had to cry for aid. ‘Twas… full puissant magic, do you see. The strength alone, I might have met, but… ‘twas strange, unlike to any I had dealt with aforetime.”
Rod met Gwen’s gaze. “That makes sense; whatever kind of magic these elves use, it’s probably not psionic. What kind of place is this, anyway?”
“One, I think, where magic truly reigns. Thou didst heal thy son with a spoken chant, didst thou not?”
“Well, yes—but the words just focused the power that did the healing.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “Hast thou such power?”
“Well, it was in me at the time.” Rod frowned. “That ‘spirit’ that I told you of. Or maybe it was me… Well, it doesn’t matter.” He looked back down at Magnus. “Just how well are you, son?”
“I do feel stiff—but strong as ever.” Before they could stop him, Magnus rolled to his knees and stood. He took a few tentative steps, then nodded. “I do feel wearied, Papa—but I am well.”
Rod let out a huge, shaky sigh of relief. “Well, whatever magic it was that did it, I’m all in favor of it!”
“Yet what was it, indeed?” Gwen wondered. “Or…whose?”
“I’m not so sure I want to know the answer to that,” Rod said slowly. “Come on, let’s get moving. As soon as Duke Foidin gets back to his castle, we’re going to have an army on our heels.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Not only had the trees changed—so had the time of day. It had been morning when Father Al stepped past Fess, over the line of stones; now it was night, with rays of moonlight sifting down through the tinsel leaves. He caught his breath at the beauty of the woodland glade. Yes. There could be magic here.
Then he remembered his mission, and looked about him to see if he could find evidence of the Gallowglasses. The mold of the forest floor was thoroughly churned up; a number of people had been walking about, surely. Bending closer, he was able to distinguish the prints of small feet and large ones; the Gallowglasses and their children, surely. He straightened up and looked about him; immediately he saw two tracks going away from him: a small one and a broad one. He weighed the evidence and decided the small track was a preliminary foray, while the broad one would be the whole family moving together. It was an easy enough trail to follow—last year’s fallen, moldering leaves were scuffed up; twigs were broken; and small plants had been trodden down. He wasn’t too far behind them, then—certainly no more than 24 hours. And if he hurried… He set off, following the moonlit trail.
He’d gone about twenty paces before he happened to glance up and see a blaze on a treetrunk.
He halted, grinning with delight. How considerate of them, to leave him so clear a way to follow! Not that they’d meant it for that purpose, of course—how could they have known someone would come after them? No doubt they’d wanted to make sure they could find their way back to the point they’d come from; presumably, it was the only place where this world was linked to their own.
World?
He looked about him, and silently revised that opinion. Silver trees had never grown on Terra, nor on any planet he’d ever heard of. Scarcely conclusive proof, that, but still… The chilling thought crept in that he might not even be in his own universe and, for the first time, it occurred to him that he should perhaps be concerned about getting back home.
Curiously, he wasn’t. If God wanted him to return to Gramarye, or Terra, no doubt He would make the means available. And if He didn’t, well, Father Al had long ago decided to do whatever work God sent him, wherever it should be. Dying on the planet of his birth mattered little, compared with doing God’s will.
So he turned ahead and sauntered away between the forest trees, following the trail of blazes, and whistling—and not just out of good spirits.
He came out onto the bank of a stream, and looked to either side, to see which had trees with—What the blazes! Nothing! Not a single trunk was marked!
Of course—they would be returning back along the river bank; they’d know which direction they’d gone in. The stream itself was enough of a trail. They only needed to know at which tree to turn back into the wood.