Christopher Stasheff

The dagger wrenched itself out of Rod’s shoulder; he felt the warm welling flow of the blood, and rolled away.

But the scarecrow was on him again. Rod groped, and by great good luck caught the man’s knife-wrist.

But the little man was unbelievably strong. He forced Rod’s arm down, down, and Rod felt the dagger’s point prick his throat.

He tried to force his other hand up to help push the needlepoint away. His shoulder screamed pain, but the hand wouldn’t budge.

The dagger pricked a fraction of an inch deeper. Rod felt blood rise on his throat, and fear clawed its way up from his guts.

Total, numbing, paralyzing fear - and Rod heard a booming moan.

Durer gasped; the poniard clattered to the floor, and the weight rose off Rod’s body.

The whole hail rang with a triple, very low moan, counter-pointed with shrieks of terror.

Three huge white forms towered high in the blackness. At the tops were skeletal faces, their mouths rounded into 0’s: Horatio and two other erstwhile Lords Loguire, having the time of their afterlives.

Rod forced a shout out of his terror. ‘Fess! Sixty cycles!’ His head clamored with the raucous buzzing, and the fear evaporated.

His light flicked again, found Loguire. Rod sprang, struck him in the midriff. The breath went out of the old lord in a whoof! and he doubled over Rod’s shoulder - the good one, fortunately.

Rod turned and ran, stumbling, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

Behind him, Direr was shrieking, ‘Clap your hands to your ears, fools! Fools! Fools!’

Rod blundered about in the dark, Loguire’s weight dragging heavier on his shoulder. He couldn’t find the door! And now he heard staccato steps in short, quick bursts - Durer, trying to find Rod by blind chance. And now that he had his earplugs I OC

in, Durer would once again be a formidable enemy. Also, Rod couldn’t fight with one shoulder shot and the other under Loguire.

Cold air fanned his cheek, and a dim white form brushed past him.

‘Follow!’ boomed Horatio Loguire.

Rod followed.

He ran after Horatio, his good arm out like a broken-field runner.

It didn’t help; his wounded shoulder slammed against the stone of Christopher Stasheff

the doorway and spun him around with a wrench of pain. He gasped, almost dropping Loguire, and stumbled back against the wall of the narrow passage.

He leaned against the wall, breathing hoarsely.

‘Quickly, Man!’ boomed Horatio. ‘The slab I You must close it!’

Rod nodded, gasping, and groped for the lever, hoping Loguire would stay balanced on his shoulder. His hand found rusty metal.

lie hauled upward; the door grated shut.

He stood hunched over, just breathing.

After a small eternity, Loguire began to struggle. Rod called up the energy to lower him to the floor. Then, still panting, he looked up at Horatio.

‘Many thanks,’ he wheezed, ‘for this timely rescue.’

Horatio waved away the thanks, coming dangerously close to a smile. ‘Why, Man, how could you fulfil your oath to me dead?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Rod sagged against the wall. ‘You seem to manage all right. I’d love to know how you pulled the fuse on those torches.’

‘Pulled . - . the fuse?’ Horatio frowned.

‘You know, the trick with the lights.’

The ghost’s frown deepened. ‘Was that not your doing?’

Rod stared. Then he raised a hand, palm out. ‘Now, wait a minute.

Wait a minute. Now. You thought I did it … and I thought you did it.’

‘Aye.’

‘But, you didn’t do it?’

‘Nay.’

‘And I didn’t do it.’

‘It would seem not.’

‘Then’ - Rod gulped - ‘who…?’

‘Who is this?’ Loguire rumbled at Rod’s elbow.

A beam of light stabbed through the peephole.

Horatio gave one moan of fear, and winked out.

Rod put his eye to the peephole. The torches were lit again. Durer was on the dais, stabbing the air about him with his dagger and screaming, ‘Where? Where?’

Rod lifted his head away from the peephole and smiled up at Loguire thinly. ‘I don’t think we ought to stay to find out, my lord. Shall we go?’

He turned to go, but Loguire’s fingers dug into his shoulder. Rod Christopher Stasheff

gasped. ‘Please, milord - would you mind - the other shoulder, please. - ‘What man was that?’ Loguire growled.

‘Man?’ Rod looked about him. ‘What man?’

‘Why, he who stood before us in white!’

‘Oh.’ Rod scanned the old man’s face. Apparently Loguire was still in shock, not quite yet ready to face reality, such as it was.

‘Uh, just a relative, milord’

‘Your relative? Here?’

‘No, milord. Yours.’ He turned away, groping down the passage.

After a moment, Loguire followed.

The light from the peephole fell off after a few yards. Rod groped his way, cursing; it would be pitch dark when they turned the corner to go down the narrow steps.

He turned the corner, fumbling out his dagger - and aw a ball of fox-fire before him. He stared, an eerie tingling nesting at the base of his neck; then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow, he made out a face and a body (it was impossible to see them as a unit, since each was worthy of independent study), one arm extended, with the fox-fire sitting on her palm. Her face was tense with worry.

‘Gwendylon,’ he stated.

Her face flooded with relief and joy, but only for a moment then the light of mischief was in her eyes.

She bobbed in a mock courtsy. ‘My lord.’

‘My Aunt Nanny!’ he growled. PWhat the hell are you doing here?’

Her eyes widened in offended innocence. ‘I followed you, lord.’

‘No, no, no!’ Rod squeezed his eyes shut. ‘That’s not in the script. You were supposed to hate me now. You were supposed to quit following me.’

‘Never, lord.’ Her voice was very low.

He looked up to see if she was joking. No luck. Tom’s line about farm girls ran through his mind.

‘What,’ he said, nodding at the ball of fox-fire, ‘have you got there?’

‘This?’ She glanced at the ball of light. ‘Only a little spell my mother taught me. ‘Twill light us through this maze, lord.’

‘Light,’ Rod agreed. ‘And may I ask how you killed the torches in the great hail?’

She started to answer, then frowned. ‘Tis not quickly said, lord.