“They feared the coming of more soldiers, mayhap…” the messenger muttered.

The Queen gave him all the scorn she could jam into one quick glance. “And ‘twere so, they would be lesser men than our breed; and ours are, Heaven knows, slight enough.”

The messenger stiffened. The King’s face turned wooden.

He leaned back slowly, gaze fixed on the messenger. “Tell me, good fellow—how was it a whole troop of cavalry could not withstand these pirates?”

The Queen’s lip curled. “How else could it chance?”

The King sat immobile, waiting for the messenger’s answer.

“Sorcery, Majesty.” The messenger’s voice quavered. “Black, foul sorcery. The horsemen rode doomed, for their foes cast the Evil Eye upon them.”

Silence held the room. Even the Queen was speechless, for, on this remote planet, superstition had a disquieting tendency to become fact.

The King was the first to speak. He stirred in his throne, turned to the Lord Privy Councillor.

This meant he had to look down; for, though Brom O’Berin’s shoulders were as broad as the King’s, he stood scarcely two feet high.

“Brom,” said the King, “send forth five companies of the King’s Foot, one to each of the great lords whose holdings border the sea.”

“But one company to each!” the Queen fairly exploded. “Art thou so easily done, good mine husband? Canst thou spare but thus much of thy force?”

The King rose and turned to Sir Maris the Seneschal. “Sir Maris, do you bring forth three companies of the King’s Guard. The fourth shall bide here, for the guarding of Her Majesty Queen Catharine. Let the three companies assemble in the courtyard below within the hour, provisioned for long and hard riding.”

“My liege, I will,” said Sir Maris, bowing.

“And see that mine armor is readied.”

“Armor!” the Queen gasped. “Nay, nay, O mine husband. What wouldst thou do?”

“Why, what I must.” The King turned to her, catching her hands between his own. “I am King, and my people are threatened. I must ride to the wreck of this village and seek out the trail of these beastmen. Then must I build ships and follow them, if I may, to their homeland.”

“Oh, nay, good my lord!” Catharine cried, clinging to him. “Have we not men-at-arms enough in our armies but you also must ride forth to die? Oh, my lord, nay! What would I do if thou shouldst be—if thou shouldst take hurt?”

The King held her close for one moment, then held her away, tilted her chin, and kissed her lips gently. “Thou art Queen,” he said softly. “The brunt of this sorrow must thou bear; such is the office of Queens. Here in the place of power must thou bide, to care for our people while I ride. Thou must hazard thine husband for the good of thy people, as I must hazard my life—for such is the office of Kings.”

He held her close for a long, timeless while, then kissed her lingeringly. He straightened, her hands clasped between his, then turned to go.

An embarrassed cough stopped him.

He turned, frowning. “Art still in this place, Brom? I had thought…”

“My liege,” the dwarf interrupted, “what thou shalt command, I shall do—but wilt thou command nothing more?”

The King’s face darkened.

Brom’s voice was tight with determination. “If there is the Evil Eye in this, Majesty, ‘tis matter for witches.”

The King turned away, glowering, his lips pressed thin.

“Thou hast the right of it, Brom,” he admitted grudgingly. “Well enough, then, we must. Send to the witches in the North Tower, Brom, directing them to summon”—his face twisted with dislike—“the High Warlock.”

The High Warlock was currently leaning his back against a tree trunk with his fundament firmly founded on terra firma, watching the sunrise with one eye and his wife with the other. Both were eminently worth watching.

The sun was splendor itself as it rose orange-gold out of the oiled green of the pine-tops into a rose-and-blue sky; but his flame-headed wife was all that was grace and loveliness, singing lightly as she sank her hands into the tub of dishwater beside the cooking-fire in the dry warmth of their cave home.

It wasn’t just the domesticity that made her lovely, of course. Her long, loose red hair seemed to float about her, framing a round face with large, sea-green, long-lashed eyes, a snub nose, a wide mouth with full, tempting lips. Her figure was spectacular under the white peasant blouse and tight bodice and long, full, bright-colored skirt.

Of course, her figure was, at the moment, more a matter of inference than observation; but the Warlock had a good memory.

The memory was a little too good; his wife’s beauty occasionally reminded him of his own—well, shall we say, plainness?

No, we should say ugliness—or, rather, homeliness; for there was something attractive about his face. He had the appeal that is common to overstuffed armchairs, old fireplaces, and potbellied stoves. Hounds and small children loved him on sight.

And by this quality he had won her (it would be, perhaps, more accurate to say that she had won him, after an extended battle with his inferiority complex); for if a beautiful woman is betrayed often enough, she will begin to value trustworthiness, warmth, and affection more than romance.

At least, she will if she is the kind of woman to whom love is the goal, and romance just the luxury; such a woman was Gwen.

Such a woman will eventually be capable of loving a man with a good heart, even though his face be a bargain assortment of inclined planes, hollows, and knobs in Expressionist juxtaposition; and such a man was Rod Gallowglass.

He had a receding hairline; a flat, sloping forehead; prominent bushy eyebrows; deep eye-sockets with a matched set of gray eyes; a blade of a nose; high, flat cheekbones; and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. The mouth kept a precarious perch on top of a square, jutting chin.

Nevertheless, she loved him, which fact was to Rod a miracle, a flagrant violation of all known laws of nature.

Not that he was about to object, of course.

He slid down onto the base of his spine, let his eyelids droop, and let the peace of the summer morning seep into him, lulling him into a doze.

Something struck his belly, knocking the wind out of him and jolting him wide awake. He jerked upright, knife in hand.

“Da-dee!” cooed the baby, looking enormously pleased with himself.

Rod stared at the kid. Little Magnus was holding tight to the bars of his playpen; he hadn’t quite learned to stand by himself yet.

Rod managed a feeble grin and levered the corner of the oak playpen off his belly. “Very good, Magnus!” He patted the baby’s head. “Good boy, good boy!”

The baby grinned, fairly hopping with delight.

The playpen rose six inches from the ground.

Rod made a frantic grab and forced it back down, hands on the lid.

Ordinarily, playpens do not have lids. But this playpen did; otherwise, the baby might have floated out.

“Yes, yes, that’s a wonderful baby! Smart little fella, there! Very good baby—Gwen!”

“What dost thou wish, my lord?” Gwen came up to the mouth of the cave, drying her hands on her apron.

Then she saw the playpen.

“Oh, Magnus!” she mourned in that tone of hurt disappointment only mothers can master.

“No, no!” Rod said quickly. “He’s a good boy, Gwen—isn’t he? I’ve just been telling him what a good boy he is. Good boy, good baby!‘’

The baby stared, tiny brow wrinkling in utter confusion.

His mother had much the same look.

But her eyes widened as she realized the only way the playpen could’ve moved out of the cave while her back was turned. “Oh, Rod!”

“Yeah.” Rod grinned with more than a touch of pride. “Precocious, isn’t he?”

“But—but, my lord!” Gwen shook her head, looking dazed. “Only witches can move things other than themselves. Warlocks cannot!”