Jord studied his face, realizing what he meant—what the options were for where Niobhyte would be. Finally he said, “I’ll thank you, then, and hope. Take me to this church, and a priest.”
“Okay, then.” Matt grabbed a stout branch and stood up, heaving with all his strength. The trunk rolled, and Jord scuttled free.
He stared up at Matt, face pale in the moonlight. “You are as strong as a knight!”
“That’s because I am a knight.” Matt slapped him on the shoulder, turning him toward the village.
“A knight and a wizard? I’ve never heard of such a thing! Except for …” Jord’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened and he realized to whom he was talking.
“Keep it to yourself,” Matt told him severely. “We’ve got half a mile to cover, and I’d rather not attract any more attention than necessary.”
A wind blew up out of nowhere, moaning in the treetops.
“Too late,” Jord groaned. “Some spirit has heard me, or heard the name of… the Chief Druid. He is gathering his companions to punish me.”
“You’re reading an awful lot into a breeze,” Matt snapped. “Come on, let’s get going. Maybe we can beat the storm.”
But it seemed to follow them, the wind moaning more and more loudly, though they didn’t feel it at all. Tree branches began to whip about them, slapping at them from ahead in front, swinging at them from behind.
“No wind makes them move that way,” Jord cried. “The spirits are coming for me!”
“Then let’s give them a run for their money! Come on!”
But the moon darkened, and Matt began to feel as though someone was watching him—someone, or something. He hurried Jord along the trail, glancing up to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sky between whipping boughs. It was clear as a bell, stars bright in their scatter—but where the moon should have been was only darkness. Matt didn’t know how Niobhyte had done it, but he was beginning to hope he wouldn’t meet the man—if he was a man. Even more if he wasn’t. They hurried down the trail. Matt caught sight of things moving at the edges of his vision—huge dark forms, shadows within shadows, not clear enough to recognize. He thought he could make out roughly human shapes—head, arms, and legs—but wasn’t sure; whenever he tried to look directly at one of them, he saw only darkness and brush. He muttered,
Then the laughter began.
Low and ominous, it sounded behind them, and Jord started to run. Matt caught him, snapping, “No! Show fear and you put yourself in its power! Walk fast, but walk!”
They strode on through the darkness, setting a record for cross-country hiking, with the laughter building to the sides, then in front of them, finally echoing all about. Other voices joined in, laughing maniacally, gloatingly, insanely, giggling, gibbering, and the almost-seen shapes pressed closer, but seemed unable to touch them. Jord began to whimper, and Matt felt like joining him.
Then, suddenly, they were out of the trees with cottages before them. “Hurry!” Matt snapped, and they rushed down an alley between houses with the laughter slapping off the walls and the unfelt wind howling overhead.
“Can not the people hear?” Jord cried.
“I doubt it,” Matt called back. “Besides, if you were safe inside a house and heard something like this, would you look out?”
“I am afraid to look out already,” Jord whimpered.
Then they were out of the cottages and crossing the village green. Jord looked up, saw the church, and dug his feet in. “You’re taking me to the priest I burned this afternoon!”
“He’s human,” Matt admitted, “but he’s a priest, and he believes in forgiveness. Besides, I healed his burns. Move! Or do you want to stay here and wait for whatever’s around us to close in?”
With a wail, Jord gave in and let Mart’s arm pull him over the green and toward the waiting chapel. Matt still wouldn’t break into a run, but he felt a presence following him, something bigger, something more powerful, something much worse than the half-seen night-walkers that shadowed them to either side. He muttered prayers under his breath, wondering if Banalix’s mockery of a ceremony, and his own interruption, had wakened some form of elemental with which Niobhyte had nothing to do. They strode toward the church.
Mama and Papa came to the next town about noon—and a town it was, no mere village; they could see down the main street to shop after shop with the emblems of trade hung over their doors—a half-dried bush for the tavern, three gilded balls for the goldsmith’s, a red-and-white-striped pole for the barber/surgeon, and so on. The church’s steeple towered twice as high as that of any village chapel they had seen, and there were four two-storied buildings with their lower halves built of stone. As they neared the first hut a voice behind them shouted, “Make way! Make way for the Baron Fontal!”
They scurried to the side of the road just in time, for the baron and his score of men-at-arms weren’t about to wait for anyone—they came galloping by, past Mama and Papa and into town.
Mama looked up indignantly as the last went by. “I know we are disguised as commoners, but the aristocracy could still have more respect for their people than that!”
“There is more to their hurry than arrogance.” Papa clasped her hand, frowning. “Let us go quickly into this town, Jimena. I fear mischief.”
Mama looked up at him in surprise. “I thought I was the intuitive in this pairing.”
“You are, you are,” Papa agreed, hurrying her down the road. “You have amazing intuition, my dear. I only have hunches. Come, let us hurry.”
At least that explained their intuitive son. Mama sighed and did her best to match Papa’s pace.
By the time they arrived at the town square, two of the men-at-arms were dragging a tradesman out of his shop while a crowd of his neighbors gathered—but at a wary distance. The poor man bawled for help, and as Mama and Papa came up, another merchant told a small boy, “Fetch the priest, and quickly!”
The boy took to his heels as though his own life depended on it.
The men-at-arms slammed the tradesman up against the wall of his shop and held him pinned there while three others gathered around, looking menacing. Here and there in the crowd, a man tightened his hold on a staff or a flail, but a glance at the glowering men-at-arms still on horseback was enough to make him loosen his hold again.
“Now, Master Gilder,” the baron said, “how is this? My steward tells me you refused his request for a loan of fifty pounds of gold, though it was given in my name!”
“Gold?” Papa turned to Mama with a frown. “He must be a goldsmith.”
Mama nodded. “Who else would have such a sum?”
“But—But Your Lordship, I have given you such loans three times before!” the goldsmith protested.
“Nonetheless, I require it again,” the baron said, his tone iron. “Do you dare tell me you fear I will not repay you?”
“I—I—” Gilder glanced at the halberd aimed at his middle and swallowed thickly. “What I fear, my lord, is the loss of my trade! I have only forty-three pounds of gold left, and if I give you that, I shall have nothing left with which to craft the ware I sell to make my living!”
“Then you shall have to do your smithing in silver,” the baron grated. “I require the rest of your gold!”
“One side! One side!”
Everyone looked up, to see the village priest come panting up. He was a middle-aged man, a little portly, and his tonsure may have owed more to baldness than to a razor, but he looked to be as stalwart as any of the men-at-arms. His robe was charcoal-gray, but aside from that, he looked very much like any friar.