A cry of alarm went up from the men who were hiking south. Matt turned and looked; they were lifting and shaking their feet, exclaiming in fear. One phrase rose from the hubbub clearly, from hundreds of throats in fear and panic: “Flood! Flood!”
“Seek the high ground!” Niobhyte shrieked. “March quickly, fools, or you’ll drown!”
The men started running.
“That is well advised,” Brion told his men. “March quickly, before the water claims you.”
Mama and Papa caught up with Matt, panting. “Son,” said Mama, “what have you done?”
“Created the English Channel,” Matt told her. “A real druid in Ireland gave me the spell.”
“But all the people who live in that neck of land will be drowned!”
“Everyone left alive is in one of Niobhyte’s bands, or fled,” Matt said. “Refugee management is already a problem, right?”
“We have seen many fleeing north, yes,” Papa said.
“And everyone else has been sacrificed, or killed simply for the thrill of it by Niobhyte’s thugs, since he told them it’s just fine for the strong to prey upon the weak. There won’t be many drowned. I’ll tell Brion to send his fishermen out to pick up anybody they do find floating.”
Papa looked over his shoulder. “Where do you think the synthodruids will end up?”
“Stranded on some plateau that’s about to become an island.” Matt looked back, too. “Judging from where I think we are and the direction they’re going, I’d say they’ll end up in a new Jersey.” He turned back to follow Brion. “Hurry, folks. The land is breaking and crumbling, leaving sea cliffs behind, and they’ll stop tidal waves, but the sea will come in—more slowly and more gently, maybe, but it’s coming.”
“Time and tide wait for no man,” Papa agreed, and walked a little faster.
“You did not tell me you had such power as this,” a shaky basso said on Mart’s other side.
Matt looked up to match stares with Buckeye. “You didn’t ask. Besides, I’ll admit I didn’t know that spell when we met.”
“It is not the spell—it is the ability to gather and contain so much of the magical force!”
“Well, sure, but who’s counting?” Matt didn’t tell him that was due to the quality of the old Celtic poetry.
“Who is counting?” Buckeye cried. “I am counting! Counting the days left to me, and mightily relieved that you have been so merciful! Nay, I’ll play no more tricks upon you, or upon anyone of your blood!” He inclined bis head. “Have I your permission to leave your service?”
Matt’s heart soared, but caution lingered. “I might require one last service of you.”
“Done! Only call, and I shall be by your side!”
“Then you have my permission.” Matt grinned, holding up a hand in farewell. “It’s been a very interesting journey, Master Bauchan.”
“I shall never forget you,” Buckeye promised, “no matter how hard I try.” Then he turned away, dodged in among the peasants, and disappeared in the crowd.
Mama sighed. “If only you could solve all your problems so easily.”
“Yes.” Matt turned back to follow Brion and Rosamund, his face grim. “We do have one little problem left, named John—and something tells me he’ll be just as hard a nut to crack as Niobhyte was.”
Matt’s apprehension increased as they climbed the raw stair-steps in the land that led up to the new island of Bretanglia. He felt rather guilty at the thought that even these steps would probably be part of the ocean bed in very short order.
No one came out to harry them, no army came to confront them, though they took several days marching inland, with the sea never more than a mile behind them at nightfall, nor a few hundred yards at sunrise. There was plenty of time to arrange an ambush or even a pitched battle, but no enemy army showed itself.
“I can’t understand this,” Matt said. “John has the professional army, the trained and seasoned veterans! All you have are raw recruits fresh from the plow!”
“John is a coward,” Brion said, as though he had to force out the insult to his brother. “He will not fight me unless he has to, no matter how strong his odds. Even then he will take refuge in a castle, and hope that 1 will waste my strength battering at his walls.”
Matt looked back to exchange glances with his parents. They nodded. He turned back to Brion. “We can do something about stone walls. But which castle will he take?”
“The nearest,” Brion said. “You may be sure he was close when we met Niobhyte—near enough to look, but far enough away not to suffer.”
He was right. As they neared Hastings, they found an old Roman tower, and around it were an army’s tents. The army itself stood in a long line three deep between the tower and Brion’s force.
Brion drew rein. “I am loathe to kill mine own people, Lord Wizard, even if they do serve a usurper—especially since I doubt not that the commoners have been forced to it. Can you not crack him out of his shell of a tower?”
Matt was about to answer when a storm of raucous cries broke, and ravens swarmed upward from the tower. Cries behind Brion’s army answered, and the sky darkened with clouds of more ravens winging in to join the flock from the tower. The cawing and croaking passed overhead, and the peasants pressed hands over their ears, eyes wide with superstitious fear.
The incoming ravens joined the central flock, then all wheeled and dove upon Brion’s army.
A shout of terror went up from the ranks.
Brion fought to control his and Rosamund’s horses, calling, “Wizard, can you not bring them down?”
“Me? Why should I work?” Matt answered, and recited,
The answering roar seemed to shake the sky, and Stegoman came soaring from the nearby hills. He had followed faithfully, as he had told Matt he would. A twelve-foot tongue of flame preceded him, and the birds were singed and roasted before they passed down his gullet. He passed through the flock and, licking his chops, turned to pass again.
But the ravens had had enough. Squawking in fright, they wheeled and fled. Stegoman came roaring after in glee, each roar a four-yard flame.
They passed out of sight over the inland hills, and Matt turned back to the tower. “Now to some serious work.”
“That is my part first,” Brion said, his face hard. “I am loathe to spend men’s lives, especially good men who have had little experience of war, but it must be done.”
“It is what we have come for, my liege,” called the young Marquis of Simmery Mead. He turned and called to the peasants behind him. “How say you, men of hard hands? Do we fight or retreat?”
“Fight!” the army yelled with one voice, and lifted their weapons.
“So be it.” Brion turned to Rosamund with a courtly bow. “My dearest one, I have no armor to fit you. I beg the favor of your retiring to yonder hilltop, to await the outcome of the battle.”
“I suppose I must.” Teary-eyed, Rosamund pushed her horse forward and kissed Brion lingeringly, then pulled back and lowered his visor. He saluted, but she didn’t stay to see, only turned her horse and rode away.
Brion turned forward and couched his lance—then stared, for a dozen knights were riding forward, and the one at their fore held a white flag.
“Majesty, will you parley?” asked Sir Orizhan.
“I will.” Brion’s tone was iron, hiding relief. “Give me white cloth.”
Mama took off her kerchief—not as white as it had been at the beginning of their journey, probably, but white enough— and tied it to the tip of Brion’s lance. The king rode forth, with Matt, his companions, and half the knights of the company behind him.