For a moment, panic seized Reginald. Could the elf speak truly? But he forced the fear down; the goblin was only trying to frighten him, to defeat him by destroying his confidence! Yet Reginald would confound him; Reginald would face the King and beat him. But he would not go on to take the title of "dictator," as the peasantish wizards wished him to, nor would he set up their odd system of officials to control every aspect of the people's lives. Neither would he continue to battle the noblemen and kill them all off, letting the serfs and peasants run riot, as the spiteful wizards wanted him to. Nay, he would seize the crown!
"Thou dost seek to establish thine own dynasty." Puck glared into Reginald's eyes, and the Shire-Reeve felt as though they pierced him to his very soul. "Thou dost seek to beget sons, who will take the title of King from thee when thou dost die."
"Nay!" Reginald said. "'Tis not one word of truth in it!" But there was, of course—and not just one word, but every word.
Puck looked up at the children. "Thou hast heard his thoughts—he doth seek to rule. Yet he hath neither the wit nor the strength for it." He turned back to the Shire-Reeve. "Thou wilt finish by serving the ends of the spiteful wizards —for of such ambitions as yours, is anarchy bred."
The Shire-Reeve stared into Puck's eyes, and realized that the elf and the children had heard even the thoughts he'd sought to suppress. With a sinking heart, he read his doom in their faces.
"What shall we do with him?" Magnus whispered.
A brawny forearm slammed into his face, and a knife-point poised in front of his eye. "Hold!" snarled a voice like a bro-ken garlic bottle. "Witch's brat!"
On the other side of the knife, Magnus saw another soldier with a sword pricking his sister's stomach and, beside her, Gregory at arm's length over a third soldier's head, squalling with terror, about to be thrown. Terror for his younger brother galvanized Magnus. Without even thinking, he aimed the emotion with the old sorcerer's torture-spell, and the third soldier screamed in agony, clutching his head as burning pain stabbed through it, dropping Gregory. The little boy drifted downward and landed as lightly as a feather.
Geoffrey was struggling and kicking in a fourth soldier's arms. A rock shot up off the forest floor and crashed into the second soldier's head. He gave a hoarse shout, then folded, sword dropping harmless to the ground. Cordelia stared at it, and it swooped up toward the soldier holding Magnus.
"Hold!" the man shouted. "An it comes nearer, thou'lt have a blind brother!"
The children froze.
Soldiers stared at them, warily. Then a sergeant barked, and farm boys leaped in to point pitchforks at the children.
The Shire-Reeve grinned. "Well done, Bardolf! Now, Harold—cut my bonds!"
A man-at-arms hurried over to cut through the ropes that held his master. The Shire-Reeve sat up, rubbing his wrists, then caught Harold's arm for support as he climbed to his feet.
How did they find us? Geoffrey thought.
A slender man in herald's livery stepped forth from the group of soldiers with a contemptuous smile.
He is a warlock! Cordelia thought.
The slender man gave her a mock bow. Dorlf Carter at thy service, lady.
I wonder that he gives us his name, Geoffrey thought darkly. Come what may, we'll know who to hang.
Dorlf glared at him with narrowed eyes. Then he turned to the Shire-Reeve. "Thou shouldst slay that one with no more ado, Squire."
Cordelia's gaze leaped up to him, startled. Then she glared at the pitchfork that was pointed at her tummy.
Magnus followed suit, staring cross-eyed at the dagger in front of his eyes.
The nearest soldier swung his pike up, and would have died in agony at that moment, if the Shire-Reeve had not held up a hand. "Nay, hold! These children are of too great value to be slain out of hand! King Tuan will never dare fight us, so long as we hold these!"
His face hard as flint, Geoffrey gave the telepath a stare like a poniard, and Dorlf shrieked, clapping his hands to his temples, back arched in agony.
"Stop him!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, and soldiers leaped to Dorlf's aid. "Not him, you fools—the child!"
A tendril of smoke spun up from the hand of the soldier guarding Cordelia, and he howled with pain, dropping his sword.
The knife in front of Magnus's eyes glowed cherry-red, and the soldier dropped it with a bellowed oath. Both blades landed in dried leaves; flames bloomed and soldiers shouted in panic, stamping at the blaze.
Dorlf dropped to the ground, unconscious or worse.
"Kill them!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, his face dark with anger.
The soldiers turned on the children, chopping with swords and pikes—but their weapons jerked in their hands and slammed back against their chests, knocking them into the peasant recruits trying to come up from behind.
Gregory clung to Cordelia's skirts and stared at the soldiers behind his big sister and brothers—and pebbles and sticks shot up at them from the forest floor. The farm boys stumbled backward, swearing; then their faces hardened, and they stepped forward again, arms up to guard their faces. But Gregory had found the larger rocks now, which cracked into the soldiers' heads. They bellowed in pain and retreated. One dropped his sword, and it leaped up, whirling in midair like a windmill in a gale, turning from side to side as though it were looking for someone to slice. The peasant soldiers stepped back farther, poised to dart in at the sign of an opening—but there wasn't one.
Fess's hooves and teeth seemed to be everywhere, and the unicorn's horn darted about, bright with blood—but there were a hundred soldiers, and more.
Geoffrey stepped forward, pale with rage. The soldiers in front of him knocked backward, sprawling against the ones behind them to either side as though a snowplow had hit them. The invisible plow moved onward, shooting off bow-waves of soldiers.
No, Geoffrey! Magnus thought; but his younger brother didn't even seem to hear him. He stepped forward, a foot at a time, as though he were wading through molasses. One thought, and one thought only, rang through his mind, again and again, like the tolling of a funeral belclass="underline" The Shire-Reeve! Though I die, I will slay the Shire-Reeve!
Magnus leaped in behind, adding his power to Geoffrey's, slamming soldiers back against one another. He didn't want to see murder—but if someone had to die, it was going to be the Shire-Reeve, not his brother.
"Slay them!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, pale with fright, and the soldiers leaped in. There were fifty of them, all grown men, and only two young boys. A wave of peasants slammed into the backs of the front rank, and the front rank pitched forward, crashing down on top of the boys. Cordelia screamed in rage, and rocks struck the soldiers nearest the pile—but they fell forward, on top of the stack. Underneath, Geoffrey squirmed, pinned to the ground, fighting for breath he couldn't get; then more soldiers slammed down on top, more and more, pinning him down, crushing him, and the fear of death seeped through his every fiber. He fought back hysterically, and his brother did, too, repelling the crushing pile above them with every ounce of adrenaline shooting through them. The pile lurched, heaved—and steadied. More soldiers leaped on, and more, collapsing the bubble of telekinetic force that protected the young warlocks, jamming the huge pile of flesh down on top of them, crushing, flattening…
A hoarse shout rang through the forest: "For the Queen and for Gramarye!" And, suddenly, soldiers in the royal colors were leaping out of the trees around the clearing, faces shadowed under brimmed metal helmets, the blazon of the King's elite Flying Legion on their surcoats, charging in at the Shire-Reeve's ragtag peasant boys, chopping down at them with pikes, stabbing with long spears. The Shire-Reeve's men turned, with howls of terror and rage, fighting back. Pikes flashed; men dropped with blood pumping from their chests, gushing out of slashed necks. A head went flying; a headless corpse fell to the forest floor.