Rod shouted in rage; a huge surge of anger tore out of him, and his envelope of flames scattered in shreds. He leaped up to the dais, his sword high…
Brume turned, hand flashing out as though throwing something, and a ball of force slammed into Rod's belly, knocking him down. For a moment, the world turned dim, the sorcerer's mocking laughter rang in his ears…
The laughter turned abruptly into a scream of pain and fear. Rod caught his breath, could see again—and saw a living torch, darting here and there at the sorcerer's head. Brume fended it off, but it came again, and again—and while it did, a lean young wolf clawed at his midriff, jaws snapping for his throat. A broadsword flashed through the air, cutting and slashing as it sang a song of bloodlust, filling all the room with its high, clear tone. The sorcerer had gained a shield somehow, but was hard put to block the sword cuts, the more so as a ball of lightning danced and dodged about him, seeking for an opening through the magical screen that he had managed to build, that glimmered about him like an aura.
Behind them stood their animating force—a fairy lady, impossibly tall, impossibly slender, an elongated woman with a coronet binding her silver rain of hair, her eyes hard and pitiless.
Brume fell back before her onslaught. He couldn't do anything else; he was barely able to keep his guard up, let alone strike.
Rod closed in, narrow-eyed but silent.
The sorcerer glanced his way, saw him, and howled in anger and frustration. Suddenly, flames sprang up around him—a veil of green fire, billowing up to hide Brume, then slackening and thinning into a green fog. It dimmed and diminished, thinned, and was gone.
So was the sorcerer.
Rod stood staring, amazed. "That is one trick that no esper has ever been able to do!"
Or had he? Brume might have teleported, under cover of his green fire. That was why it had dimmed and thinned, instead of dying down.
Or had he seen nothing but what really happened? That was the tricky part, the word "really."
"Am I in Grama-rye or Granclarte?"
"What is Granclarte?"
It was the fairy lady who spoke. Her voice was rich and melodious, and her eyes had become more human, but were still guarded and remote.
"Why, it is a fancy," Rod said slowly, turning to her, "or is at least just a figment of imagination. I thank you, lady, for your timely rescue. I doubt that I could have lived through that onslaught, without your aid."
" 'Twas given gladly, Lord Warlock—yet thanks is also due these instruments of mine." Her hand rested on the young wolf's head, her other hand cupping the ball of lightning. The torch flared by her side, and the singing sword balanced itself before her.
"Thanks due to things of enchantment, to your creations?" Rod frowned. "Well, if you say so. Sir Wolf—I thank you." Rod inclined his head and shoulders in a small bow. "And you also, Lightning, Torch, and Sword—I thank you all. Without your aid, I might have been a cinder."
The ball of lightning crackled in approval, and the torch flared brighter. The sword's pure tone rose to a high, clear pitch that rang on through the hall after the sword itself had ceased to sound.
"Though I greatly appreciate your assistance," Rod said, "I cannot help but wonder at it. What am I to you, milady, that you should aid me so?"
The wolf's jaw lolled as though it were laughing, but the lady only said, in cold, clear tones, "This vile sorcerer did cast awry the balance of Water, Earth, Air, and Fire within my domain. Therefore did I wish to move against him. Yet with all my force, I still could not break through his wards. Then thou didst come into his castle as though naught did prevent thee—and when thou didst come out from the dungeon, why, thou wast already within. Thou didst then so catch and hold the sorcerer's mind that I could come in past his wards, and these mine helpers. Thus did we come; thus were we right glad to aid thee.
"Yet he hath escaped," she went on, face hard, "and therefore must we beware. He will come again, I doubt not."
"He will," Rod agreed, "or I'm totally wrong about what he is."
The faerie tossed her head impatiently. " 'Tis plainly seen."
"Quite," Rod agreed. "Still, 1 don't think we should wait here for him to return. We should leave, milady, before he can bring back reinforcements."
The wolf sniffed and wrinkled its nose as it peered about into the gloom.
"Well said," the faerie agreed, "and the more so for that there may be all manner of venomous spirits that the sorcerer hath called up, but left here without restraint or ward, now that he hath fled. Aye, certes we should be out from this place."
Rod turned toward the portal. "And since you're leaving, could I ask a favor of you? Would you go to Runnymede, and see how Their Majesties fare? I'm afraid the rebellion might be too much for them, without supernatural aid."
The wolf stopped, staring, and the sword hummed with surprise. The faerie asked, "How didst thou know of the uprising?"
Rod shrugged. "Stood to reason." He didn't say whose. He ushered them out under the portcullis and came after them over the drawbridge. "It's probably nothing they can't handle—but they have some enemies who keep springing some nasty surprises on them."
"We shall go, then." The faerie frowned. "Yet I must profess concern for thee, mine ally. How wouldst thou fare an the sorcerer should come upon thee alone?"
"Oh, I have another ally who will forgive my last outburst, and come back to protect me, never fear. His patience and forgiveness are unlimited."
"Thou hast most amazing trust in thy deity."
"Only ultimately—I don't see much of a guarantee for immediate needs. But I had a different ally in mind."
"An thou sayest it." But the lady hesitated. "Still, an thou hast need, but cry aloud my name, and we will come."
"What name is that?" Rod asked politely.
"Mirabile."
"I thank you, Lady Mirabile." Rod bowed. "Be assured that I will call."
"Then for thy sake, I shall rescue thy monarchs." Mirabile drifted up into the air. "Farewell!"
Rod waved as she sped south, flanked by the ball of lightning and the torch, sword arrowing on ahead of her. The wolf looked up at Rod as though doubting his sanity (animals can be very perceptive), then gave a snort and turned away to lope south after his mistress.
Rod watched them go with a smile.
Then he turned back, to say goodbye to the one spirit that he was sure had not been raised by the sorcerer.
Mirabile and her ensemble flew down into a stand of pine trees. The faerie looked back over her shoulder, saw that Brume's castle was hidden from view, and said, "Well enough, children. We may come down to earth, and shed these forms." She suited the action to the word, drifting earthward like thistledown. As her toes touched, her form wavered and shimmered, and the faerie turned into a mother. She hopped off her broomstick with a sigh as the torch settled down beside her and turned into Cordelia. The ball of lightning resolved itself into Gregory; the singing sword keened down the scale to a snort, and turned into Geoffrey.
"Ere thou dost wear thy guise again," Cordelia told him, "thou must needs learn to hold a pitch."
Geoffrey's eyes narrowed. "Dost thou truly wish to burn?"
"Where is thy brother?" Gwen said sharply.
They looked up, startled. "We know not, Mama," Cordelia said after a moment. "How should we?"
"Belike hot afoot," Geoffrey said, scowling, "sin that his guise could not fly. He need not have stayed within it, though."
"An he had flown," Gregory pointed out, "Papa would ha' known him on the instant."
Before Geoffrey could think up a comeback, the lean and hungry one leaped out of the evergreens, came bounding up to Gwen, and sat up and begged, whining.