"Why, to conquer Glynn's county." Drosz turned to Geoffrey with a contemptuous smile. "Why else would a nobleman be abroad in another's demesne?"

"But thy county is within Duke Hapsburg's lands, and we stand now within Earl Tudor's feif! Will not thy Duke bid thee hold, ere thou canst come to Glynn's castle?"

Drosz laughed. "Nay, foolish bairn! I am Hapsburg's vas-sal. Thus any land that I seize will enlarge his demesne!"

"Yet Tudor must needs then declare war on Duke Haps-burg," Geoffrey pointed out.

"And if he doth?" The count shrugged. "What matter?"

"Why, there will be battle!" Cordelia cried.

The count nodded. "There will."

The children stared at him, unnerved. He cares not a whit if he doth plunge two whole provinces into civil war! Cordelia thought.

Aye, not a whit. Magnus glowered up at the count. Surely he doth know the death and suffering he will cause!

That matters naught, to him, Geoffrey explained. Naught, against the prospect of glory and power. Aloud, he said, "Surely Glynn left a home guard. Doth none oppose thee?"

"None," the count confirmed. "'Tis as though he hath disappeared from the face of the earth, and his family with him; and his knights, not knowing what to do, have lain down their arms."

Geoffrey stared, outraged. "Assuredly he would have given commands to defend!"

"Defend what? He is gone, and his wife and bairns with him! His knights have none to turn to for direction—and they have not the rank to deny another nobleman's commands. Nay, they do not oppose me, save one or two." He dismissed them with a wave of his gauntlet—which he had probably done.

"Then thou art master of this county, also," Magnus said. "Why hast thou wasted time seizing mere children?"

"Credit me with some sense, young one." The count's smile was brittle. "There's not a nobleman in the land that doth not know the faces of the High Warlock's children."

The children were silent. The count chuckled, gloating,

looking from one little face to another.

"Then!" Magnus spoke with anger. "Then an thou dost know our rank, wherefore hast thou permitted thy minion to strike me!"

"Why, for that thou art my prisoners now, and subject to me." The count lounged back in his saddle with a toothy grin.

Magnus's eyes narrowed. He wondered if the nobleman was only stupid, or really so rude and arrogant as to treat another nobleman's children with contempt. "Well, then, we are thy prisoners." But the tone of his voice did not really acknowledge it. "What purpose can we serve in thy conquest?"

"Why, thou art hostages, ignorant child! And while I do hold thee, neither Earl Tudor, nor Duke Hapsburg, nor even King Tuan himself will dare to attack me, for fear of the powers of the High Warlock's brood!"

Magnus was silent, glaring at him. Then, just as Geoffrey started to speak, 'he said, "Thou mayest hold our bodies—but thou dost not command our powers."

The fist exploded against his ear again, and his head filled with the rough mocking laughter of the soldiers. Through the ringing, he heard the count gloating, "Thou wilt do as thou art bid, boy!"

Magnus just barely managed to hold onto his temper—and that, only because he could tell Geoffrey was about to erupt. Nay! he thought. There are too many of them! We cannot fight a whole army alone!

We cannot submit without fighting, either! his brother thought back in boiling rage.

Nor will we! Yet save thy power for the moment when it will suffice to topple them, the whiles they fight another army!

Geoffrey held himself in, but just barely. He glowered up at the Duke and thought, But will there be another army? Will there truly?

Never doubt it, Magnus assured him; and,

Puck will see to it, Gregory added.

As though he had overheard, one of the knights moved his horse up next to Count Drosz's mount and advised, "My lord, hear me, I implore thee! 'Tis known far and wide that the Wee Folk do hold these children under their especial care!"

"What! A grown man, and thou dost yet believe in the power of the Little People?" Drosz scoffed. "Assuredly, Lan-

gouste, thou must needs know that elves can be no threat to we who are clad in Cold Iron!"

Langouste glanced over his shoulder with apprehension. "My lord, I implore thee! Do not scoff at the power of the Wee Folk!"

"Power?" Drosz laughed and scooped something out of his saddlebag. He held it up for Sir Langouste to see. "Behold the bane of the Little People, and the counter to all of their powers—a handful of nails! Common nails! They cannot even stand against these! See!" And he whirled, hurling the sharp iron points into the underbrush. A scream tore from the thicket, and another, and another, a dozen or more, all about them. As they faded, the children saw the count was laughing.

"Nay, then," he assured his men, "'tis even as thou dost see. These elves must quail before armed might. Any man who wears Cold Iron need not shrink from them."

Cordelia stood trembling, wide-eyed with horror, and Geoffrey was quaking with rage. Gregory stood like a statue, staring at the count.

But the nobleman only smiled, and turned his horse toward a gap in the trees, calling "Ride!" and trotted off into the night.

His men threw the children across their horses' backs in front of their saddles, and followed the count; but they were pale, glancing at one another with wide, apprehensive eyes.

The horses' backs jolted into the children's stomachs, driv-ing the wind out of them with every step; they had to gasp for air between hoofbeats. They gritted their teeth and bore the pain, while their thoughts flickered back and forth.

He hath injured a dozen elves at least, Cordelia thought, outraged, and may have slain some.

And he doth not respect his neighbor's demesne, Geoffrey added. He doth respect naught but force of arms.

There may be good within him, but we have not seen it, Magnus replied, and that which we have seen is vile. Canst thou bethink thee of any cause to spare this count?

Nay!

Nay!

Nay!

We are agreed, Magnus thought, with the weight of a judge's sentence. We will await opportunity.

They jolted on down the trail, gasping for snatches of

breath between hoofbeats, but every sense was wide open now, waiting for the opportunity. Trees blurred past on both sides, dark in the moonlight. Magnus turned his head, craning his neck to peer ahead, trying to see where they were going, but it was no use; the darkness was too complete in this leafy tunnel. Only scraps and patches of moonlight glinted through.

A roar shook the wood, and something huge and massive humped up from the forest floor right in front of the count. Red eyes burned through the darkness. Horses screamed and reared, throwing their riders, trying to turn, trying to gallop away; but they slammed into each other in the confines of the trail, in panic.

The count fought his bucking, twisting horse to a standstill, crying, "Stand and fight! For whatever it is, it cannot stand against Cold Iron! Dismount and draw your swords!"

The few soldiers who hadn't been thrown leaped down; their comrades struggled to their feet, drawing their blades and staggering after the count, tripping on tree roots and stumbling in holes, but charging toward the hulking, roaring shape.

It saw them coming and bellowed, lashing out at the count with a huge dark paw; claws like scimitars slashed past him. His mount screamed and pawed the air, twisting away.

The soldiers lurched and tripped on something that heaved upward against their feet. They cried out in fear and anger, tumbling down in a crashing clatter. A host of little forms rose among the tangled mass of men and struck downward with six-inch cudgels, right at the base of the skull between helmet and collar. Soldiers yelped and stiffened, then slumped, unconscious.