Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock is Missing

Dorlf dropped to the ground, unconscious or worse.

"Kill them!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, his face dark with anger.

The soldiers turned on the children, chopping with swords and pikes—but their weapons jerked in their hands and slammed back against their chests, knocking them into the peasant recruits trying to come up from behind.

Gregory clung to Cordelia's skirts and stared at the soldiers behind his big sister and brothers—and pebbles and sticks shot up at them from the forest floor. The farm boys stumbled backward, swearing; then their faces hardened, and they stepped forward again, arms up to guard their faces. But Gregory had found the larger rocks now, which cracked into the soldiers' heads. They bellowed in pain and retreated. One dropped his sword, and it leaped up, whirling in midair like a windmill in a gale, turning from side to side as though it were looking for someone to slice. The peasant soldiers stepped back farther, poised to dart in at the sign of an opening—but there wasn't one.

Fess's hooves and teeth seemed to be everywhere, and the unicorn's horn darted about, bright with blood—but there were a hundred soldiers, and more.

Geoffrey stepped forward, pale with rage. The soldiers in front of him knocked backward, sprawling against the ones behind them to either side as though a snowplow had hit them. The invisible plow moved onward, shooting off bow-waves of soldiers.

No, Geoffrey ! Magnus thought; but his younger brother didn't even seem to hear him. He stepped forward, a foot at a time, as though he were wading through molasses. One thought, and one thought only, rang through his mind, again and again, like the tolling of a funeral bell: The Shire-Reeve! Though I die, I will slay the Shire-Reeve !

Magnus leaped in behind, adding his power to Geoffrey's, slamming soldiers back against one another. He didn't want to see murder—but if someone had to die, it was going to be the Shire-Reeve, not his brother.

"Slay them!" the Shire-Reeve shouted, pale with fright, and the soldiers leaped in. There were fifty of them, all grown men, and only two young boys. A wave of peasants slammed into the backs of the front rank, and the front rank pitched forward, crashing down on top of the boys. Cordelia screamed in rage, and rocks struck the soldiers nearest the pile—but they fell forward, on top of the stack. Underneath, Geoffrey squirmed, pinned to the ground, fighting for breath he couldn't get; then more soldiers slammed down on top, more and more, pinning him down, crushing him, and the fear of death seeped through his every fiber. He fought back hysterically, and his brother did, too, repelling the crushing pile above them with every ounce of adrenaline shooting through them. The pile lurched, heaved—and steadied. More soldiers leaped on, and more, collapsing the bubble of telekinetic force that protected the young warlocks, jamming the huge pile of flesh down on top of them, crushing, flattening…

A hoarse shout rang through the forest: "For the Queen and for Gramarye!" And, suddenly, soldiers in the royal colors were leaping out of the trees around the clearing, faces shadowed under brimmed metal helmets, the blazon of the King's elite Flying Legion on their surcoats, charging in at the Shire-Reeve's ragtag peasant boys, chopping down at them with pikes, stabbing with long spears. The Shire-Reeve's men turned, with howls of terror and rage, fighting back. Pikes flashed; men dropped with blood pumping from their chests, gushing out of slashed necks. A head went flying; a headless corpse fell to the forest floor.

With a tearing scream, the huge black horse reared, steel hooves lashing out, the unicorn beside it, goring men with its silver horn. The Shire-Reeve's men howled in superstitious fear and crowded back against their own companions in a huge knot, surrounded by King's men.

Through it all raged a great chestnut warhorse with a golden knight on its back, shouting, "Onward, brave fellows!

Onward! For glory and freedom! Hurl the soldiers aside! Hack through to the core! Seize the vile recreant who seeks to slay children!"

"King Tuan!" Cordelia cried, eyes streaming.

The King it was, laying about him, hacking and hewing his way to the pile of men on top of the boys.

That pile exploded with sudden, shattering force, a dozen men flying outward, striking their fellows and knocking them down. An eighteen-inch elf stood where they'd been, face pale with fury, as the two boys scrambled to their feet, gasping for breath.

"Ga-a-a-llowgla-a-ss!" a great voice bellowed, and a small dark body shot from the King's horse like a cannonball, landing beside the two boys, laying about him, two feet high, huge-headed and black-bearded—Brom O'Berin, the King's Privy Councillor, come to defend the children who were his favorites in all the land. He leaped, kicking and slamming punches. Armed soldiers fell back from his blows. Foot by foot, he cleared the path between the boys and Cordelia, and she caught up Gregory and ran to her brothers with a glad cry.

The Shire-Reeve's men turned to face the new enemy—but they were all about, ringing in the whole clearing, crowding in by the hundred, against fifty. The Shire-Reeve's guards fought with the desperation of men who know they cannot retreat; but one young soldier cried, "Mercy! I yield me! Have mercy!" and dropped his pike, throwing his arms up, palms open. A King's soldier yanked him by the collar, hurling him behind and out of the fight, where more soldiers, coming out of the trees, stood ready to catch him and tie him up.

Seeing him still alive, other soldiers began to cry, "I yield me!"

"I yield me!" The King's men caught them and pulled them out of danger.

"He is a traitor who yields him!" the Shire-Reeve shouted. "A traitor and a fool! Fight! 'Tis thine only hope—for the King shall hang thee if thou dost surrender!"

"A pardon to any man who yields him!" King Tuan bellowed. "Full pardon and mercy! I shall hang no man who was constrained to fight! Surrender and live!"

"He lies!" The Shire-Reeve screamed; but the King knocked the last bodyguard aside, and his horse leaped up to the Reeve.

The Shire-Reeve howled like a berserker in fury and stabbed at the King, sword-point probing for the eye-slits in the helmet; but Tuan's sword leaped to parry, whirled about in riposte, and stabbed down as the King lunged, full extension. The Shire-Reeve gave a last curdling scream, and his eyes glazed even as the sword transfixed him, piercing his heart. Then he fell, and Tuan yanked the sword free. "Thy master is dead!" he roared. "Yield! What cause hast thou for fighting now? Yield thee, and live!"

The Shire-Reeve's soldiers hesitated, for but a second— but that was enough for Tuan's finest. In that moment, they struck the weapons from their enemies' hands and set the points of their pikes to the throats of the Reeve's men. The enemy shouted, "I yield me! I yield me!" holding up their empty hands, and King Tuan wiped his blade and cried, "Let them live!"'

When the soldiers had shackled the Shire-Reeve's officers and led them away, Tuan nodded to his own men. "Let them flee."

Glowering, the legionnaires stood aside, and the Shire-Reeve's peasants blinked up at them, trying to believe they were really free, but afraid they were not.

"I did declare I would not harm any man who hath been constrained to fight for the Shire-Reeve," Tuan said. "Now go, and tell thy fellows what hath happed here."

With a glad cry, the peasant boys turned and bolted.

As they disappeared among the trees, Brom O'Berin rumbled, "Was that wise, Majesty?"

"It was," Tuan said, with full certainty. "They will bear word to the Shire-Reeve's army, and the army will disband, each man going to his home, as most of them wish to do. The remainder will know their cause is lost with the Shire-Reeve's death." Then he turned to the children.