"Aye, wherefore not?" Gregory said, eyes alight as he stepped away from Gwen.
"Yet would real folk see the seeming?" Geoffrey frowned. "Ghosts are illusions themselves, and would certainly hold another such to be as real as they. Folk of flesh and blood, though, might not."
"Yet 'tis ghosts we fight at this time and place," Gwen reminded, "and Fess's devising is most puissant with them."
Magnus's lip curled. "Assuredly, we shall have no difficulty with so tattered a band."
"We won't have any trouble with his lordship, either," Rod said, "except that he'll come back every time we tear him apart. We need to banish him, not kill him."
"How will that aid the damsel Sola?"
"It will not." Gwen touched Rod's shoulder. "Hurt his pride."
"Of course." Rod lifted his head with a grin. "He's nothing but egoplasm, now—where else would he be vulnerable?"
The Count had rallied his courtiers now, primarily by banishing their horses. "Slay them!" he screamed, pointing toward the Gallowglasses.
The ghosts turned to look, then began to march with low, gloating laughs.
"Show me how he looked when he was old,'' Rod suggested.
Magnus frowned, concentrating—and, at the head of his troops, the Count began to age visibly. His hairline receded, then crept down the back of his head as his belly grew, and his whole body began to swell. His cheeks thickened as liver spots bloomed all over his skin.
His courtiers began to mutter among themselves, pointing. Someone giggled.
The Count halted, his lascivious leer turning into a scowl. He turned to look at his retainers, saw the pointing fingers, and turned to look back at the Gallowglasses. His face had swollen with fat and sagged into jowls.
"Is this how he truly looked at the end of his life?" Gwen asked.
Magnus nodded. "So say the stones."
"What kind of illnesses did he have?" Rod asked.
Magnus grinned.
The Count took another step, and howled with pain. "My gout!"
"Thou art no longer young," Gwen informed him. "Thou art an aged fool!"
But the malice in those eyes was anything but foolish.
"Didn't you say something about jaundice?" Rod muttered.
Magnus nodded, and His Lordship's skin gained a pale yellowish cast.
"Summon Sola," Gwen ordered.
Sweat beaded Magnus's brow, and the ghost-girl was there, wailing, "Wherefore hast thou brought me forth?"
The Count looked up, aghast, trying to balance on one foot while he cradled the other.
"Behold," Gwen called out, "thy tormentor's triumph! Old age!"
Sola turned, her weeping slackening. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. Then she began to laugh.
"Be still!" the Count commanded, alarmed.
Sola laughed the louder.
"Now!" Rod said to Magnus. "The pratfalls!"
The Count's remaining foot skidded out from under him, and he landed flat on his back with a howl.
Sola howled, too.
His courtiers stared, astounded.
The Count scrambled to rise, but he was too heavy. He roared in anger, trying to turn over, but even then, he had to kick a few times before he could finally work up enough momentum.
Someone in his court began to snicker.
"I—I shall be… revenged!" the Count panted, getting his feet under him, and treating his courtiers to a great view of his expanded backside. They began to laugh openly. He looked back at them, startled, then managed to heave himself to his feet and turned on them, his hand going to his sword, crying, "Be still, dolts!"
"The sword," Rod muttered. Magnus nodded.
The Count tugged at his hilt. He tugged again, then frowned and looked down. It was still there, all right. He set himself and gave a mighty pull—and the blade flashed out, describing a glittering arc through the air, heaving him around. His feet tangled, and he fell again.
The courtiers bellowed with mirth.
Livid, the Count tried to scramble to his feet once more, giving Sola the posterior vista. She howled the louder. "I should… not…"
"Nay, do!" Gwen encouraged. "Thou dost owe him far more!"
Sola's eye gleamed.
The Count struggled to get his knees under him.
Sola stepped forward, her dainty foot swinging hard in an arc.
The Count slammed down on his face again, and the Great Hall rocked with hilarity.
"Husband, this is humor of the lowest," Gwen said, trying to contain her laughter.
"Not quite." Rod turned to Magnus. "Aren't there always dogs under the tables, at these feasts?"
And the dogs were there, sniffing at the Count and wrinkling their noses in disgust. One fastened its teeth in his pants, then let go with surprising haste, hacking and coughing as it backed away. The rest of the curs gave a snort, turned their backs, and scratched dust into his face. He was roaring, of course, but nobody could hear him any more.
"Nay, let me join this mirth," Gwen said, and, suddenly, a duplicate of the Count appeared, advancing toward Sola, but with his rum-blossom nose a bit more swollen, the malice in his face somehow become foolish. "Behold, milord!" Gwen called, and the Count turned about, on hands and knees, and looked up to see—himself.
Himself, as others saw him, waddling toward a pretty girl with a swollen paw outstretched, burbling, "Nay, my pretty, dost thou wish advancement?"
"Why, aye, my lord," the ghost-girl responded, and stepped aside. The doppelganger blundered on by, groping about, finally managing to stop, while Sola watched it, giggling. There was nothing threatening about it now—it turned back, still groping and loosely grinning, merely an old, ugly, coarse, and foolishly leering dotard.
But Count Foxcourt laughed, too. "Why, what old fool is that?"
"Who?" Cordelia cried indignantly. "Art thou so blind? Nay, then, here's thy mirror!"
And a full-length cheval glass appeared in front of Foxcourt, right next to his doppelganger. He could not help but see, and blanched, turning to stare at the co-walker, then back to stare at the mirror, glancing from one to the other as his visage slackened.
Then rage contorted his features. "Nay, thou shalt not mock me! All men of mine attack! Or wouldst thou yet be banished?"
The laughter died as though it had been cut off, and the ghosts stared, horrified. They all knew what awaited them.
"Now!" the Count howled, and they started forward, faces grim.
"Remember, all they can do is scare you," Rod said quickly to his children. "Everybody take a dozen or so, and keep them from being scary."
"Like this, dost thou mean?" Gregory chirped, and Sir Boreas's ghost slipped, skidded, and flopped floundering down.
"Yeah, that's the idea! Keep it up!"
Sir Dillindag hauled out his sword, and found it was a daisy. A man-at-arms chopped with his halberd, and it kept on going, spinning him around and around in a circle while he howled.
"Good idea," Rod grunted, and another halberdier went spinning, but this time rose up slowly, his halberd acting as a helicopter rotor, until he dropped it, screaming with fright.
Then Fess reared, his whinny a scream of fury as he whirled and struck out with his forehooves at advancing knights.
It was a mistake; this, they could understand. The knights descended on Fess shouting, englobing him in seconds, a melee of flailing swords and ghostly battle axes.
"Get away from that horse!" Rod shouted, humor forgotten in the threat to his old friend, and he waded through the knights, struggling to reach his companion.
He got there just in time to see Fess go rigid, knees locking; then his head dropped to swing between his fetlocks.
"A seizure," Rod groaned. "Too many enemies, too fast."
"Who is elf-shot?" cried a treble voice.
" 'Tis the horse!" answered a crackling baritone. "Yet who did fling the shot?"
" 'Twas none of us," answered a countertenor, and Rod drew back, staring in disbelief—for miniature ghosts were climbing out of chinks in the walls and coalescing out of thin air, translucent and colorful, and none more than a foot high.
"Mama," Cordelia gasped, "they are ghosts of elves!"