This Scepter'd Isle (32 page)

His apprehension returned, and then a deeper fear. Perhaps Harry was
not
out of their reach, after all. Enough goblins, however small, could overwhelm anything.

As to why here rather than in the wilds of Yorkshire? Probably no one among the Sidhe would notice what sort of tiny beastie was attacking the horses. The concord would not be violated. And because this road was often traversed by patrols guarding against outlaws, the guards would not be expecting trouble. Their reins would be loose in their hands, their weapons seated solidly in their sheathes. They would scatter when their horses were panicked.

No, Harry was
not
safe. And neither was he.

:Where?:
Denoriel sent with considerable force, hoping to pierce the air spirit's terror.

:Near! Near! Near! Let me go! Let me go!: 
 

:I cannot reach you to take off your collar. Stay in your basket. You will be safe.:

Near? How near? Denoriel was afraid to open his mind fully for fear Rhoslyn would sense it and launch a violent strike at him. He thought he could resist her alone, but if Pasgen joined with her . . . Gingerly he extended his feeling for magic and more rapidly closed it down. There was a foul stench, a disgusting miasma all along the ground.

Now! Now Miralys was uneasy. The elvensteed's steady pace did not vary, but Denoriel could feel the tension in his mount's body.

"Harry," he said urgently, "if the other horses run away, don't be frightened. Just hold on tight and if I have to draw my sword, try to lie down alongside the pommel and curl around it."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure, little friend. I just . . . There's something nasty in the woods. I . . ."

Then it came. The ground seemed to heave—black, brown, gray—at the edge of the woods that bordered the road and roll forward over the green grass verge. Denoriel shouted a warning. Harry's four guards looked wildly around, drawing their weapons, but they were looking for men charging out of the woods.

"Look at the ground," Denoriel shouted. "Hold your horses hard."

"Rats!" Nyle yelled. "A plague of rats!"

They looked like rats only if you didn't look at them too closely. Those were tiny hands, not foreclaws, and wizened faces beneath cowls of dirty hair, but their mouths were full of needle-teeth, and those fingers ended in talons. Whoever had called them up must have forgotten how little power was available to them in the mortal realm—that was why they were so tiny—

Denoriel only cried out to beware, that the creatures bit, but chaos had already engulfed the rank of guardsmen ahead of them. Horses screamed and plunged. Others bucked and leapt sidelong. Still others ran across the verge and burst through the brush on the side of the road into the field beyond. The troop of ten was scattered in moments.

Clutching Harry to him, Denoriel called up the strongest shield he had. Unaware that he was protected, the boy clung to the pommel with one hand; the other lay on his chest, ready to pull his cross out of its pouch.

Meanwhile, panic had cleared the road immediately ahead. Miralys suddenly made a gigantic leap, right over the squirming pall of brown, black, gray that covered the road ahead of him. Denoriel turned and cast a spray of levin-fire behind, sure it would not be noticed in the panic. However, even as the power flowed out of him and cold weakness flowed in he knew it had been wasted. Oh, possibly a few dozen of the horrid little beasts had been destroyed, but they had not been following Miralys. They were streaming down the road, sending all the horses mad and even attacking the riders and those in the char.

He patted Harry's arm. "It's all right Harry," he said. "They won't bother us."

The boy let go of his cross. "Nyle? Gerrit? Dickson? Shaylor?" he asked anxiously.

"Here they come now."

And so they were, controlling their frantic horses and forcing them forward through the thinning tide of goblins to close on their charge. One stubborn goblin clung to Dickson's breast, trying to gnaw through the leather and he swatted it hard with one hand. There was a moment's resistance as the tough skin held against the pressure and then the creature burst. All the men cried out at the terrible stench.

Denoriel backed Miralys a little farther up the road so he could watch both sides. Usually ambushers would follow after an initial attack, but sometimes they would wait on the opposite side the better to surprise their victims. Only no one burst out of the woods on either side of the road. Although Denoriel half drew his sword, he was not really surprised by the lack of a second charge to follow the first. If the purpose of the attack had been to seize Harry, those who sent the goblins must already have realized they could not succeed.

"Should we go see if we can help?" Dickson asked doubtfully, watching the chaos spread back down the cortege.

"What could you do?" Denoriel asked, holding Harry tight against him. "Sword or bow, even a knife, can't be used against them. You'd do more harm than good, getting in the way of people driving them off. Besides, God knows what started them. Your duty is to stay by His Grace and protect him. What if outlaws should chose this time to rush the cortege?"

The men began anxiously to scan the road ahead and both sides. Denoriel himself no longer had the smallest desire to laugh at the tiny, nearly powerless goblins. He swallowed.

He and Harry were in no danger because Miralys could easily outrun the little horrors and his shield protected them, but for those whose horses had become uncontrollable a multitude of dangers loomed. A man thrown from his horse could be badly injured by the fall, swarmed over in moments and badly clawed, probably could be eaten alive in a quarter hour if he were knocked unconscious and could not defend himself. The horses would be slashed and bitten; some might succumb to the poison in the goblins' claws and bite. That might happen to the servants in the char, too.

He thought of Mistress Bethany and gritted his teeth. There was nothing he could do. The largest shield a Major Magus could cast could not cover the entire cortege, particularly as it scattered in panic. And he could feel his own power draining; he should never have tried to use levin-fire against the goblins.

All he could do was watch—as helpless as any mere mortal!

And hope that the worse was not to come.

It took hours to reassemble the cortege, which dragged itself into Maidenhead after the sun had set. Long before that, Denoriel and Mistress Bethany had settled FitzRoy in the very best chamber of the best and largest inn of the town. Without argument, Denoriel took possession of a tiny servant's room that opened into FitzRoy's bedchamber, the nurse having elected to sleep in a trundle bed right beside her nurseling. All with approval of Sir Christopher.

Even while most of the cortege was fighting goblins and the disorder was spreading, Sir Christopher and his guard had forced their way to Denoriel. Both were bleeding, as were their horses. However, Sir Christopher's relief at seeing FitzRoy no worse for the event, not even badly frightened, was enormous, and ensured Denoriel's continued supervision of his precious charge. And Denoriel's suggestion that he go ahead with FitzRoy's four guards and another four of the guardsmen who had regained control of their horses and returned, also obtained instant approval. In fact, Sir Christopher nearly groaned with pleasure at having one burden removed so he could attend to reordering the cortege.

Denoriel sent Nyle and Shaylor to collect Mistress Bethany—if she were in condition to ride pillion behind one of the men. She too was bitten and bleeding but came, perched determinedly behind Nyle, utterly furious, and the white kitten's basket was fastened behind Shaylor.

"What were they, Lord Denno?" she asked as soon as she was close enough to speak without shouting. "Those weren't no rats I've ever seen before. And they were after my kitten. Ten of them I squashed, I swear, trying to get into her basket. And the others in the char must have took out near fifty. We all nearly fainted from the smell."

"I have no idea," Denoriel answered mendaciously. "I never saw one close enough. Miralys here didn't like them one bit and he's got a mighty jump. He just sailed right over them, and then they went down the road so we didn't see any more."

"And you're all right, Your Grace?" she asked looking at FitzRoy. "You weren't bitten or scratched?"

"No, Mistress Bethany. Lord Denno took good care of me."

"He always does," the nurse said, with a warmly approving glance. "Still, the sooner we're under a tight roof the better I'll like it. And better still if we can get a priest to come bless us! Those weren't no natural rats, that I'll swear!"

That was true enough. She obviously relaxed when they arrived at the inn and were welcomed with every honor and grace the innkeeper could devise. Even so, when Denoriel said he would like the servant's chamber, she was clearly glad. The kitten was released. It had recovered from its panic and investigated every inch of the chamber, even darting out the door when an inn servant came bringing warm water for washing. It soon returned, calming the nurse's anxiety, and settled in her lap.

Fortunately for Denoriel, reaction from the excitement soon overtook everyone. Someone managed to find a priest, a little mendicant friar of one of the begging orders, who looked greatly perplexed at what he heard, but obediently went around signing the cross, muttering Latin, and splashing holy water over everything. That settled the nurse further. FitzRoy ate well, but with half-closed eyes and he barely managed to finish his sweet before the eyes closed completely. Mistress Bethany was little better off. Denoriel urged her to go to her bed also, promising that he would keep watch.

She accepted his assurance with heartfelt thanks, but when both were asleep, he swathed one hand in layers of silk and pulled the boy's cross from its pouch, arranging it to lie naked on FitzRoy's chest. Then he gathered the last remnants of his strength and cast a shield over FitzRoy and most of the bed. Afterward, he clung to the bedpost, eyes dim, shaking, drained nearly to his core.

For a while he simply breathed, eyeing the glittering white lines of power that alone were clearly visible to him and seemed to waver toward him seductively.
Not yet,
he thought.
Some day I may be desperate enough to take the chance of burning out my magic completely, but now I have Harry to guard.
 

As some purely physical strength slowly came back to his muscles, the temptation receded; however, he knew that keeping watch in his present condition would be useless. He must go Underhill. Perhaps Mwynwen could do something to restore him or teach him how to absorb power a little faster.

He left the room, saying to Gerrit and Dickson, who were on guard by the door in the corridor, that he needed to catch a breath of air. He knew they were tired, he added, but he begged them to be extra alert, at least until he returned. And then he walked around the side of the inn.

Miralys was there, which was just as well because his shaking knees might not have carried him much further. How he got into the saddle—not the mortal-world leather and wood construction, but something Miralys himself created to hold him—he never knew. He had barely enough consciousness to tell the elvensteed to take him to Mwynwen. Freed of the restraints of looking or acting like a mortal horse, the elvensteed sped across the distance from Maidenhead to the nearest Gate in less than an hour.

She greeted him with reservation, even with guarded hostility, blocking the doorway.

"And what is it you want now?" she asked coldly.

Tears stung Denoriel's eyes at the icy rejection. He would have retreated, but his need was too great; also he doubted his ability to leave with dignity. "My lady—" he faltered, in a voice like a croak. "—I fear I need your help—"

Then she seemed to recognize his debilitated state and softened, reaching out to help him into the house.

When she had told him to lie down on the bed in a small room well away from the chamber to which he had carried the changeling, she asked what he had been doing to so deplete his reserves. He told her of the goblin attack, watching her eyes widen in dismay.

"If I had not had the lad with me—it would have been desperate. As it was, nothing came of it. But when we came to shelter, I had to shield Harry," he finished wearily. "I still have to. But I am—spent."

She nodded vigorously to that but then bit her lip and stood staring down at him as if she wished to sieve out his soul.

After a while she sighed and began to pass her hands over him repeatedly, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, murmuring softly all the while. Denoriel knew it was a spell, but he could not make out the words no matter how closely he listened. And then she bound the spell to him so that it sank into flesh and bone, becoming part of him.

Denoriel gasped in surprise at the flood of warmth and power that seemed to ooze from everywhere into him. He sat up, restored, and stared at her.

"What? What did you do? I am filling with power like a well that has reached an underground river!"

She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "It is indeed an ill wind that blows no one any good. That is a mortal saying—the child is full of mortal sayings. What I have given you is a spell I devised to feed power to poor Richey."

"The child!" Denoriel exclaimed. "Oh, wonderful. Can it save him?"

There was a little silence and then, her voice grown harsh in a way Denoriel had never heard, she said, "You cannot have him."

Denoriel drew a sharp breath. So that was why she had nearly refused him entrance. She thought he had come for the child.

"No," he said. "My lady, I have no wish for him. I have Harry. And I know Richey must stay with you. I fear even with the spell you have devised that he will never be strong—but I was saddened by the thought that he was made to be more fragile than even a mortal child, and that this would bring you sorrow."

"No," she sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. "Even with the spell, I do not know how long . . ." Then she smiled. "But he is happy. He is like a bright-feathered bird, always chirping merrily, filled with one clever notion after another. The toys he loves best are those from which he can build other toys, and what he creates is wonderful."