“They begin to feel brave again, milord.” One of the soldiers was lying among the seaward rocks, peering out between two boulders. “They are stepping away from their dragon.”

“Any sign of the villagers?”

“None, milord. All fled in time.”

Rod nodded. “Well, it’s a shame about the village, but they can rebuild it.”

“ ‘Tis not destroyed yet, milord.”

“Yet,” Rod echoed. “There’s a wineskin in my saddlebag, boys. Pass it around.”

A soldier leaped and wrenched the wineskin out. He squirted a long streak into his mouth, then passed it to his comrade.

“Toby!” Rod yelled. Nothing happened.

Gwen stirred in Rod’s arms, squinting against a raging headache, looked up, saw Rod, and relaxed, nestling against his chest, closing her eyes. “I am safe.”

“Praise Heaven,” Rod breathed.

“What doth hap, my lord?”

“We lost, darling. You came up with a good idea, but they outnumbered you.”

She shook her head, then winced at the pain it brought. “Nay, my lord. ‘Twas the lightning.”

“Lightning?” Even through his exhaustion, Rod felt something inside him sit up and take notice. “Well…”

“Milord,” the sentry called, “fire blossoms in the village.”

Rod nodded with a grimace. “Whole place’ll be one big torch in a few minutes. The beastmen won’t find much to pick there, though. Peasants don’t own much—and what they do have they can carry.”

“There is the granary, milord,” one of the locals pointed out, “and the smokehouse.”

Rod shrugged. “So they’ll have a picnic on the way home. Don’t worry, lad—the King and Queen will send you food for the winter. Grain they could’ve had for the asking.” He looked down at Gwen. “Can you find Toby, darling?”

Gwen nodded and closed her eyes, then winced. Rod felt a stab of guilt—but he needed the young warlock.

Air slammed outward with a soft explosion, and Toby stood before him. “Milord Warlock?”

One of the soldiers stared, then turned away, muttering and crossing himself.

Rod pretended not to notice. “Feel up to some action again?”

“Assuredly, an’ thou dost wish it, milord.” Toby’s knees were shaking with exhaustion.

“I do,” Rod said. “I hate to ask it of you, but we’ve got to salvage something out of this. When they ship out, can you follow them?”

Toby stared off into space for a moment, then nodded. “There are clouds. They will not see me.”

“You don’t have to go all the way,” Rod pointed out. “Just see ‘em on their way, then call for one of your mates. He can teleport out to you, and you can disappear. Just get them started.”

Toby nodded slowly. “Wise, milord. We will.”

“The flames slacken, milord.”

“Yes. Thank heaven for the rain.” But Rod looked up, frowning; the sentry’s voice had changed. A different soldier lay among the rocks, his arm in a fresh, gleaming sling.

Rod stared. “Hey—who gave you that?”

The sentry looked up, surprised, then nodded toward another soldier who sat, teeth gritted against pain, while a chubby figure in a brown robe wrapped linen around a long gash in his arm.

“Father Chillde,” Rod said slowly.

The monk looked up, then smiled sadly. “I fear I have come too late, Milord Gallowglass. At least I may be of some service now.”

“We appreciate it, of course—but the chaplain doesn’t have to come into battle.”

The sad smile stayed. “There are two ways of thinking of that, milord.”

Nice to know they had a dedicated one—and his mere presence was definitely a comfort to the soldiers. Him, and the wine.

“They move back toward their ships,” the sentry reported.

“There will be much work for me when they have gone,” the priest said sadly.

Rod shook his head. “I don’t think so, Father. From what I saw during battle, they didn’t leave any wounded.”

The priest’s mouth pressed thin. “ ‘Tis to be lamented. But there will be other work, more’s the pity.”

Rod turned toward him, frowning. “What…? Oh. Yeah—the Last Rites.” He turned back toward the beach. “But it won’t just be our dead down there, Father. How about the beastmen? Think they have souls?”

“Why—I had not thought of it,” the priest said, surprised. “But is there reason to think they would not?”

One of the soldiers growled a reply.

The monk shook his head. “Nay, goodman. I ha’ known Christian men to do worse—much worse.”

“I would, could I but get one of them alone,” another soldier snarled.

“There—do you see?” The priest spread his hands. “Still, souls or none, I misdoubt me an they be Christian.”

“They called upon their false god at the battle’s beginning, did they not?”

“Was that the burden of their chant?” another soldier wondered. “ ‘Go Bald,’ was it not?”

“Something of the sort,” the first growled.

Rod frowned; he’d heard ‘Cobalt,’ himself. Well, each interpreted it according to words he knew. What did it really mean, though? He shrugged; it could be some sort of heathen god, at that.

“They have boarded their ship,” the sentry called. “They are launching… they turn…”

“May I build a fire now?” Father Chillde asked.

Rod shrugged. “Please do, Father—if you can find shelter for it and anything dry enough to burn.” He turned to the young warlock. “Sure you feel up to it, Toby?”

The esper nodded, coming to his feet. He was looking a little better, having rested. “I will start them, at least. When I’ve learned the trick of following a ship without being seen, I’ll call another of our band and teach it to him.”

Rod nodded. “See you soon, then, Toby.”

“Thou shalt, Lord Warlock.” Toby sprang into the air. The soldiers stared after him, gasping, as he soared up and up, then arrowed away over the waves. A few crossed themselves, muttering quick prayers.

“There is no need for that,” Father Chillde said sharply. “He is naught but a man, like to yourselves, though somewhat younger and with a rare gift. But he is not proof ‘gainst arrows or spears; if you would pray, beseech God for his safety.”

Rod stared at the chubby priest, surprised. Then he nodded his head in slow approval.

“He has gone through the clouds,” the sentry reported.

Rod nodded. “Wise, once he’s figured out which way they’re headed. He’ll probably drop down for a quick peek now and then, just to check on them.”

“They have crossed the bar,” the sentry reported. “They stand out to sea.”

Rod sighed and came to his feet, cradling Gwen in his arms. “It’s over, men. Let’s go.”

Below them, on the beach, the village smoldered.

“Nay, my lord. ‘Twas the lightning, I am certain of it!” Gwen spoke calmly, but her chin was a little more prominent than usual.

“Lightning!” Queen Catharine cried. She threw her hands in the air. “Why not the thunder, then? Or the wind, or the rain? Lightning, i’ sooth!”

“Nay, Majesty—hear her out.” Tuan touched her arm gently, restraining—but Rod noticed he’d become awfully formal all of a sudden.

“ ‘Majesty,’ indeed!” Catharine stormed, turning on him. “What wouldst thou, mine husband? To blame it on the lightning! Nay, ‘twas these beastmen only—themselves, and no more! They are vile sorcerers, and the spawn of Hell!”

“You may have a point there,” Rod admitted. “We’re not really disagreeing, you see—we’re just getting into the how of their sorcering.”

“Why, by peering into thine eye,” Catharine shrieked, whirling back on him. “Lightning, forsooth! Was it at lightning that thy soldiers stared?”

“Nay, certes,” Gwen said wearily. “ ‘Tis true, when they stared at the beastmen’s eyes, then could the beastmen cast their spell. And ’tis a foul spell!” She shuddered. “I had some taste of it when I sought to lift it. ‘Tis a vile thing that doth fascinate with ugliness!”

“ ‘Fascinate’ is the term,” Rod agreed. “They focused all the soldiers’ attention on one single point—the beastmen’s pupils. Then…”