Rod lost track of his whereabouts very quickly; the dungeon was a virtual maze. Probably intentionally…

Finally the warder stopped, jammed a one-pound key into a porthole lock in a door that was scarcely wider than he was. He turned it with both hands, and the key grated through a year or two’s worth of rust. Then the warder kicked the door open, revealing a twenty-foot-square chamber with a twelve-foot ceiling and five glowering beastmen who leaped to their feet, hands reaching for daggers that weren’t there any more. Then the flickering light of the warder’s torch showed them who their visitor was, and they relaxed—or at least Yorick did, and the others followed suit.

Rod took a breath to start talking, then had to shove his face back into the hall for a second one. Braced against aroma, he stepped through the doorway, looking around him, his nose wrinkling. “What in the name of Heaven do you call this?”

“A dungeon,” Yorick said brightly. “I thought that’s where we were.”

“This is an insult!”

Yorick nodded slowly. “Yeah… I’d say that was a good guess…”

Rod spun about, glaring at the warder. “These men are supposed to be our guests!‘’

“Men?” the warder snorted. Then he squelched his feelings under an occupational deadpan. “I but do as I am bid, Lord Warlock.”

“And what’s this?” Rod reached out a foot to nudge a wooden bowl next to Yorick’s foot.

“Gruel,” Yorick answered.

Rod felt his gorge rise. “What’s in it?”

“They didn’t bother telling us,” Yorick said. “But let me guess—an assortment of grains from the bottom of the bin. You know—the ones that fell out of the bag and spilled on the floor…”

“I hope you didn’t eat any of it!”

“Not really.” Yorick looked around. “To tell you the truth, it’s not what’s in it that bothers me. It’s how old it is.”

Rod scowled. “I thought that was a trick of the light.”

“No.” Yorick jerked his head up at a window set high in the wall—barred, of course. “We took it over into the sunshine while there still was some. It really is green. Made great bait, though.”

“Bait?” Rod looked up with foreboding.

“Yeah. We’ve been holding a rat-killing contest.” Yorick shrugged. “Not much else to do with the time.” He jerked his head toward a pile of foot-long corpses. “So far, Kroligh’s ahead, seven to four.”

Against his better judgment, Rod was about to ask who had the four when the warder announced, “Comes Sir Maris.”

The old knight stepped through the door, his head covered with the cowl of his black robe; but the front was open, showing chain mail and a broadsword. “Well met, lord Warlock.”

That’s debatable, Rod thought; but he had always respected and liked the old knight, so he only said, “As are you, Sir Maris.” He took a deep breath to hold down the anger that threatened to spill over now that it had a logical target. “Why are these men housed within a prison?”

Sir Maris blinked, surprised at the question. “Why—His Majesty bade me house them according to their rank and station!”

Rod let out a huge, gusty breath. “But, Sir Maris—they are not criminals! And they are not animals, either.”

“Assuredly they cannot be much more!”

“They can—vastly more!” Rod’s anger drowned under the need to make the old knight understand. “It’s the soul that matters, Sir Maris—not intelligence. Though they’ve enough of that, Lord knows. And their souls are every bit as human as ours. Just as immortal too, I expect.” Rod didn’t mention that there were two ways of interpreting that statement. “Their appearance may differ from ours, and they may wear only the skins of beasts; but they are free, valiant warriors—yeomen, if you will. And, within their own land and nation, the least of these is the equal of a knight.”

Sir Maris’s eyes widened, appalled; but Yorick had a complacent smile. “A little thick, maybe, milord—but gratifying. Yes, gratifying. We are refugees, though.”

Rod clasped Sir Maris’s shoulder. “It’ll take a while to understand, I know. For the time being, take my word for it: the King would be appalled if he knew where they were. Take them up to a tower chamber where they may climb up to the roof for air.”

“To walk the battlements, my Lord Warlock?” Sir Maris cried in outrage. “Why, they might signal the enemy!”

Rod closed his eyes. “The enemy has never come closer than the coast, Sir Maris—hundreds of miles away. And these men are not the enemy—they’ve fled from the enemy!” He glanced back at the Neanderthals. “And, come to that—please give them back their knives.”

“Arms!?” the old knight gasped. “Lord Warlock—hast thou thought what they might do with them?”

“Kill rats,” Rod snapped. “Which reminds me—give them rations fit for a fighting man. Bread, Sir Maris—and meat!”

The old knight sighed, capitulating. “It shall be as thou hast…”

“Dada!” Rod’s shoulder suddenly sagged under twenty pounds of baby. He reached up in a panic to catch Magnus’s arm, then remembered that, for Magnus at least, falling was scarcely a danger. He let out a sigh of relief, feeling his knees turn to jelly. “Don’t do that to me, Son!”

“Da’y,‘s’ory! Tell’s’ory!”

“A story? Uh—not just now, Son.” Rod lifted the baby from his shoulder and slung him in front of his stomach. “I’m a little busy.”

The beastmen stared, then began muttering apprehensively to one another.

“Uh—they’re saying that baby’s gotta be a witch,” Yorick advised gently.

“Huh?” Rod looked up, startled. “No, a warlock. That’s the male term, you know.”

Yorick stared at him for a beat, then nodded deliberately. “Right.” He turned and said something to the other Neanderthals. They looked up, their faces printed with fear of the supernatural. Yorick turned back to Rod. “They’re not what I’d call ‘reassured,’ milord.”

So, it started that early, Rod noted. He shrugged. “They’ll get used to it. It’s endemic around here.” He looked directly into Yorick’s eyes. “After all, we’re not exactly used to your instant freeze, either, are we? I mean, fair is fair.”

“Well, yeah, but the Evil Eye isn’t witch-power, it’s…” Yorick held up a finger, and ran out of words. He stared at Rod for a second, then nodded his head. “Right.” He turned back to the beastmen to try to explain it.

“No, no time for a story.” Rod bounced Magnus against his belt. “Go ask Mommy.”

“Mommy gone.” The baby glowered.

Rod froze.

Then he said, very quietly, “Oh.” And, “Is she?”

Magnus nodded. “Mommy gone away!”

“Really!” Rod took a deep breath. “And who’s taking care of you while she’s gone?”

“Elf.” The baby looked up, grinning. “Elf slow.”

Rod stared at him. Then he nodded slowly. “But elf catch up with Baby.”

The child’s smile faded.

“Baby naughty to run away from elf,” Rod pursued, punching the moral of the story.

Magnus hunkered down with a truculent look.

“Baby stay with the nice elf,” Rod advised, “or Daddy spank.” Rod tried not to look too severe.

Magnus sighed, took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, no! Don’t go back quite yet!” Rod squeezed the kid a little tighter.

Magnus opened his eyes in surprise.

“Let’s get back to Mommy for a second,” Rod said casually. “Where… did Mommy… go?”

“Dunno.” The baby shook his head, wide-eyed. “Mommy say…”

“There thou art, thou naughty babe!” A miniature whirl-wind burst through the door and up to Rod, where it screeched to a halt and resolved itself into the form of an eighteen-inch-high elf with a broad mischievous face and a Robin Hood costume. At the moment, he looked definitely chagrined. “Lord Warlock, my deepest apologies! He did escape me!”

“Yes, and I’ve scolded him for it.” Rod kept a stern eye on Magnus. The baby tried to look truculent again, but began to look a little tearful instead. “I think he’ll stay with you this time, Puck,” Rod went on, smiling. The baby saw, and tried a tentative smile himself. Rod tousled his hair, and he beamed. Rod eyed the elf sideways. “Did Gwen tell you where she was going?”