“How now, my lord!” he cried. “Do you seek to rob this poor man again?”
“Do not seek to catechize me, peasant!” the baron snarled. “I know far more of the world than any shave-pate.”
The priest halted dead, staring, appalled by such disrespect. The crowd murmured, half in shock, half in anger. Then the priest’s face darkened. “A peasant I may be, my lord, but I have learned to read and write, and know the law of God! I must insist that you leave off this theft!”
“Theft?” The baron turned his horse to the priest, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Do you call me a common thief?”
“Not common at all,” the priest protested, “but still a thief, for you have had three loans from this goldsmith, and when have you ever repaid him an ounce?”
“He shall have his due in good time! I promise to repay, and therefore is it a loan, and no theft!”
“If it were not theft,” the priest returned, “you would not need to do it at the point of a halberd. It is a direct breaking of the Seventh Commandment, my lord, and therefore a mortal sin! Worse, you threaten the poor man with harm to his body, and that breaks the Fifth Commandment! For the welfare of your immortal soul, I bid you leave off!”
“I am no Christian anymore, priest, and therefore do not fear your Christian Hell,” the baron snarled.
The people burst into a babble of scandalized confusion. Mama and Papa stared at one another in shock, then turned back to the baron.
“No longer a Christian?” The priest seemed as shaken as any of them. “Surely you do not deny the existence of God!”
“Of the gods, say rather,” the baron snapped, “for I have returned to the faith of my ancestors. My holy men now are druids, who tended the souls of this island before your kind came, and who will tend them again. And the Old Gods do not pretend that there is anything wrong with the strength of a man’s arm or the edge of his sword! They bestow power and glory upon the warrior, and give him dominion over his fellows.”
The priest recovered enough to glare. “Do you say that might makes right? If so, you are very wrong, and your immortal soul—”
“My immortal soul shall rule yours in the Land of the Dead!” the baron shouted. “Men of mine, I weary of this priest. Shut his mouth for me, and be sure he shall not speak again till I am done!”
Papa started forward, but Mama caught his arm and shook her head, then nodded toward the goldsmith’s shop. Papa, understanding, nodded, and they faded back among the cottages, then moved behind them.
One of the men-at-arms advanced on the priest. The people, seeing his intention, closed ranks with a roar, barring the way between soldier and priest with their own staves and cudgels. The warrior hesitated, but only long enough for four of his fellows to join him. Then they plowed into the crowd, shouting battle-cries, and knocked peasants away to left and right. The priest stood his ground, glaring at them and holding up the crucifix on the end of his rosary—but a pike butt cracked his knuckles and made him drop it, and a second slammed against his skull, knocking him out.
“Now fetch out your gold!” the baron thundered at the goldsmith.
“Yes, my lord!” the man cried, almost tearfully. He glanced at his fallen priest with a piteous expression, then turned back into his shop. Two men-at-arms followed him closely.
In they came, and the goldsmith stopped short, staring. So, perforce, did the soldiers, seeing as he did the strongbox with the hasp and lock wrenched askew, turned on its side with its top thrown open, its emptiness for all to see.
Then the goldsmith ran to the chest with a piercing cry, dropping to his knees and running a hand around its inside. “It’s gone! My gold is gone! While your lord howled and berated a priest, a thief came in and stole my gold!”
Mama and Papa found a woodlot a quarter of a mile past the town and hid in a thicket. They were just in time; ten minutes later the lord and his men came thundering by. When they were gone, Mama said, “We can bring the gold back when it has been dark for an hour.”
“Yes, and check on the priest, too,” Papa said. “I saw through the window how the soldier swung that pike. I don’t think he gave the reverend a concussion, but you never can tell.”
Matt and Jord were halfway across the green when the presence struck in the form of a sudden baying and tattoo of soft feet. Half a dozen huge dark forms swept past them and slowed to a halt in front of them, gray fur luminous in the starlight against the darkness of the night, teeth flashing a startling white in long muzzles.
“Wolves!” Jord raised his druid’s staff, but the baying was behind them, in front of them, all around them.
“Back-to-back!” Matt snapped, drawing his sword. The wolves drew back at the sight of cold steel, giving Matt time to pivot and set his back against Jord’s. At this slight sign of retreat, the wolves snarled and leaped.
Matt slashed, and dark blood spurted. Behind him, he heard Jord howling with fear, but also heard the staff knocking against skulls. He hewed and slashed and chopped. Wolves fell back, wounded, and their fellows turned on them with a massed barking snarl, but more pressed in. He slashed and hewed, but his arm began to feel heavy, tiring. He howled as teeth closed on his lower leg. He slashed, and the teeth sprang away, but more teeth soared at his face, and he barely managed to swing his sword around in time. The wolf fell back, but another sprang and bit his left arm. He screamed and lashed a kick into its stomach.
The massed snarl sounded behind him; he knew Jord had lamed one of the wolves, and the others were turning on it. It might give the false druid a moment to snatch a breath, but it was just a question of time—there were so many of the blasted animals! How could the whole forest have held so huge a pack?
Then something dark shot through the wolves, blurring with speed, and some fell. Their mates turned on them, snarling and fighting over them, but the shadow whizzed among them again, and more fell dead. The rest, finally scenting whatever it was, turned tail and ran howling with fear.
Matt let the tip of his sword fall, panting, unable to believe his luck. “They’re running, Jord! We’re safe!”
His answer was a raging scream. Matt spun again, sword snapping up, and saw the former druid facing him, staff swinging high to strike, his face contorted with fury, almost demonic.
Demonic! In a flash Matt understood the tactic. If Jord slew him, that ended the threat to the Chief Druid. If he slew Jord, the Devil had one more unshriven soul in Hell. Niobhyte or Satan, the goals coincided—to keep Matt and Jord away from that church. Somehow he knew it wasn’t Jord himself who was in control of that body now.
He leaped back, sheathing his sword, and the staff whizzed by. Matt had to take it away, had to subdue Jord, but Jord was swinging the staff in a blurring circle now and howling.
Matt took a chance, lunging in a feint. The staff whizzed down, and Matt darted back, not quite quickly enough—the staff cracked against his shin, the same leg that was bleeding from wolfbite. The leg gave way, and Jord screamed with triumph, swinging the staff high for a killing blow. His arms, his whole body, jerked forward—and jolted still. Behind him towered another dark form, holding the end of the staff. Not seeing it, Jord strained against it, cursing. Matt snapped out of his daze and shouted,