" 'Tis that part of thy mind that doth make dreams," the nun reminded him. "The witch-moss doth lend it strength, doth enhance its power, so that thy waking mind doth perceive the dreams it doth show. Yet now thou hast had fairy ointment on thine eyes, and whatsoever the Wee Folk did place in it hath convinced thy mind that thou wilt no longer have waking dreams, and thereby doth banish any vision that the witch-moss within thee doth show."
Rod frowned, wondering about residual effects, but he didn't want to know—that word "enhance" worried him.
The man in the red robe turned toward the gate with a gesture of exasperation and called, "Wilt thou speak or not? We know thou hast ta'en the High Warlock within thy wall, sore wounded! Surrender him now, or it shall go hard!"
Mother Paterna Testa looked up at Rod in mild surprise. "So, then. Thou art the High Warlock."
"Sorry not to mention it," Rod muttered. "It's just that some clergy have strong ideas about people like me."
"We know that magic is a gift from God, and that on this Isle of Gramarye, those whom the simple folk call 'warlock' are no more like to be wicked than any other men. Why doth this man seek thee?"
"To kill him," Magnus grated. "My father doth stand between him and the power he doth seek."
Rod stood immobile.
" 'Tis true, what the lad doth say?" the nun asked quietly.
Rod nodded. "This man is part of a crew that seek to overthrow the King and Queen. So far, the only thing that's been stopping them is me and my family."
The nun stood quiet for a moment. Then she turned and called out, "The High Warlock hath claimed the sanctuary of the Church! He shall have it! And thou must needs honor this sanctuary; it must not be violated, at thy soul's peril!"
The men behind Brume stirred and muttered uneasily, but he turned on them, crying, "What! Wilt thou be frightened by a nurse's fable? Dost truly think thou hast souls to imperil?"
The men stopped stirring, but they glared at him, stone-faced.
Mother Paterna Testa relaxed.
Brume tossed his head, exasperated. "Well enough, then! Bring the stake, and the woman!"
This, the men were willing enough to do. They ran into the forest and ran back a moment later with a post and some bundles of wood. They jammed the stake into a hole in the ground that they had already dug and piled sticks around it. Then another pair hustled a woman in pastel robes and a coronet out of the forest.
Mother Paterna Testa gasped. "The countess!"
"She rode out a half hour since," said the nun beside her, pale-faced. "She did say her lord did need her ere noon. We begged her to take escort, but she would not hear of it!"
The countess fought them every inch of the way, kicking and biting, but the bandits brought her up onto the pile of wood and bound her to the post. Brume turned back to the convent, a sneering grin on his face. "Send out the High Warlock, or thy patron shall go to her ancestors!"
The nuns' faces were pale, but the countess herself cried, "Do not! Thou must needs not violate sanctuary!"
"That's right, you mustn't." Rod turned back to the stairwell. "So I'll go."
"Sisters!" Mother Paterna Testa called, and two nuns stepped together, to block Rod's path. He turned back to Mother Paterna Testa, his face thunderous. "I'm not that important."
"Thou hast had thy warning!" Brume shouted, and threw a torch into the kindling. Flame billowed up, and smoke rose in a shroud.
"See!" Brume gestured. "Her ancestors come to escort her!"
And as they gazed, the smoke formed itself into amorphous heads with empty eyes and moaning mouths, surging up toward heaven.
The nuns cried out, but Rod called, "Don't let him scare you! We know he's a projective—and smoke is even easier to move around than witch-moss! He's making those heads, not her ancestors!"
"But she will burn!" moaned one of the nuns.
"Not if I go," Rod answered, and dove out the steeple window.
"Papa!" Magnus protested, and plunged out after him. "Thou hast not thy full strength! Thou shalt fall!"
But Rod had leveled off and was flying nicely. He looked back over his shoulder. "What was that?"
Magnus gulped and said, "Naught."
Rod landed with a jolt, right in front of Brume, sword out and thrusting. Brume parried, riposted, and returned the thrust. Rod leaned aside and thought, Fess!
The monastery gates burst open, and the great black horse charged out with a screaming whinny.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rod was rather busy cutting and parrying, but he did manage the occasional glimpse out of the corner of his eye. Fess was knocking over bandits with his front hooves, then reaching out to grasp a collar with his teeth and toss the man aside. They were coming at him from all directions, of course, which would ordinarily have given him a seizure—but Magnus was on his back, keeping three captured swords busy, two with his hands and one behind him with his mind, fending off culprits until Fess could take care of them.
Then a flying squad charged out of the underbrush and hit the convent wall. Since it was only eight feet high, they were up and over in a matter of seconds.
Magnus whirled, appalled.
In the steeple, Mother Paterna Testa narrowed her eyes. "Aid me, Sister Lynne."
As the bandits hurdled the wall, their feet shot out from under them, and they kept hurdling, slamming down to the ground on their backs.
Then Modwis rose up with his mace.
The Mother Superior squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head sadly. "Pray God they may live!"
"Amen," murmured Sister Lynne.
But Magnus's concentration had flagged, and bandits hit Fess from all four sides. Magnus shouted and lashed out with his right and back swords, and the bandits there danced away as Fess reached for the one in front while he tried to strike a hoof at the one on the left, then caught the one in the front while he lashed out with his hind legs— and went stiff.
Magnus gave a cry of anger and exasperation, and the soldiers in front of him shot bodily off the ground and went flying toward the trees.
Meanwhile, Rod was cutting and thrusting with panic and anger, afraid for the poor, innocent countess. Already she was coughing in the smoke of her bogus ancestors.
Then a brisk breeze whipped up and blew the ghosts away to her right.
Rod didn't want to know where the breeze had come from, but he was afraid he knew, anyway. He blocked a cut, parried a thrust, riposted, and thrust, scoring Brume's shoulder. The sorcerer shouted an oath and leaped back, then narrowed his eyes and growled.
Yes, growled—and right about then, the elves' ointment must have worn off, because he seemed to grow and swell, towering eight feet above Rod with a fanged mouth and a huge club.
The ogre was back.
All about them, trolls shambled, stabbing with crude spears—and the young wolf danced about them, leaping in to slash with his teeth, then darting out before they could strike.
He was in horrible danger, and Rod's heart lurched. "Magnus! Get out of here, quick…"
The instant's distraction was enough. The huge club smashed down. Rod saw it coming, too late to more than lean away, and the bludgeon smashed into his side, sending him flying. He landed with cracking and crunching, and extra pains shot up his back and sides. Flame danced by his head, and he realized, with horror, that he'd fallen into the pyre around the stake. He struggled to rise—but even as he did, he realized the flames hadn't grown, and were even now dying. He scrambled to his feet, racked with pain, the world swimming about him, and staggered toward the ogre, aiming his sword at its navel…
Modwis was there in front of him, mace slamming into the ogre's kneecap.