blue? and Craumpalin's mark of C-R-p-N.
'Ah-ha! I'd recognize these anywhere.' She held one out. 'Evander water-'good for all.' Somebody likes you, little man, to be prescribing this. Both vigorant and restorative in one happy draft. Glorious day! Open up and don't mind the taste.'
Rossamund knew what they were and blessed the old dispensurist in his heart-as he had already, many times-for his generosity.
She broke the red wax seal and reached over to administer the restorative. If it had not come from his own belongings, had he not recognized his own bottles, he would never have let the fulgar so much as wave the stuff in his direction. Even so, he was still uneasy. As his lips came to the bottle, the smell of its contents rushed up his nose. Strong and sharp, it took away the heaviness and brightened his thoughts. Contrary to its smell, however, it tasted remarkably bland. If Rossamund was ever to eat chalk, he would have said that evander water tasted like that, a liquid with the flavor of powder. He was dosed with the whole bottle, about three swallows, and quickly began to improve-muscles loosened, vision cleared, the pain in his head lessened markedly. He arched his back and stretched his arms out and up with a groan, twisting his neck back and forth. Finding Europe watching him, he ducked his head self-consciously and offered a muttered thank-you to the lahzar.
The fulgar waved a hand. 'Tish tosh!'
He saw the little container of whortleberries and, with a cautious eye on the fulgar, took one. She watched him impassively and did not intervene. He ate eagerly. Now he felt much better: able to move once more, though still a little stiffly; no pain; able to see, able to flee-but to where? This forest was surely just as dangerous, and the leer would find him anyway.
'Well, now.' Europe seemed fidgety. 'I absolutely must do the brewing. Stay! I'll be back presently. Tomorrow we'll be coming to a wayhouse, so you can have that to look forward to.You'll be much… happier there, I'm sure.'
Rossamund did not doubt her.
As the fulgar climbed down from the landaulet bearing her black occult box, a noise came, distant yet distinct, from the direction of Licurius' exploration. Looking toward the sound with a frown, Europe stepped to the ground. 'That can't bode good,' she observed.
The sound came again-a series of sounds really. To Rossamund it was like someone thrashing about in the undergrowth. He opened his mouth to ask, but Europe silenced him with the palm of a hand. Though she held it there only for a moment, Rossamund noticed five small lumps upon her bare palm, raised and discolored like moles. He had no idea what they were.
The fulgar took something out of the black box and put it in her mouth, just as she had before the last fight. She grimaced in much the same way too as she chewed, putting the box back in the landaulet and adjusting the lantern, making it brighter. All the while she stared in the direction of the noises.
Was there going to be another fight?
Rossamund craned his neck, wide-eyed once more at an approaching, invisible threat. They were in a clearing just off the side of a road that crested this hill. All about were closely growing pines with only the narrowest space in between each trunk. The thrashing came closer through those small gaps.
Europe stirred up the fire, put on another log: she was trying to make more light. Far from wanting to hide from any danger, unlike Rossamund she wanted to see what was to come, confident of mastering any event. Pacing between the landaulet and the flames, she buckled up the frock coat, never taking her gaze off the wall of trunks.
There was a flash and a loud fizzing close by-some way to the right of where the leer had departed. Bright and blue, the trees obscuring it shown as black, stark poles. Rossamund almost fell over in fright and shrank down into the seat, peering over its edge. More thrashing about, the crashing of a heavy thing pushing through thin boughs. Smaller whippings. Closer, closer. Something appeared on the edge of the light.
It was Licurius!
The leer's tricorn was gone, his cloak badly torn, ripped almost from his frame, his sthenicon half wrenched from his face, yet he still clutched a pistol. Shocked, Europe took a step toward him. Bloodied and torn, he staggered into the clearing and, with a shuddering wheeze, rasped in the loudest, hoarsest whisper he possessed, 'M'lady, we are attacked!'
The dark erupted in shrieks and yells, one of them Rossamund's own as he gave cry to his fear. The landaulet jerked violently, throwing Rossamund from the seat to the floor as the horse started in fright at this assault and tried to bolt. Hobbled and hitched, it could not get far at all. After only a couple of yards, the carriage halted suddenly with a strangled whinny from the horse, tumbling the boy within about once more. He scrambled along the floor and peeked over the side.
Shadows dashed and darted on the fringes of the camp. Things with big heads and little bodies were pouring out from between the trees with triumphant yammering-hard to see despite the fire and lamplight. They overwhelmed Licurius as he turned to defend himself. Down he went, firing his pistol as he fell, pressed under a multitude of gnashing, nipping bogles. Europe cried wordlessly, yet before she could intervene, she too was set upon by many small terrors. They tore at her viciously, trying to pull her down too, shrieking 'Murderer! Murderer!' in shrill unison. She swatted each one as it came, throwing several off at a time with that powerful Zzack! that declared the fulgar was about her gruesome work. She stepped and pranced with venomous speed, spinning, striking, her eyes wide and wild, her hair standing on end, frock coat hems flying dramatically-as they were clearly meant to do-showing many-layered white petticoats beneath. It was a great spectacle of flickering sparks to see the fulgar fighting in the night. Every nasty, gripping horror that got a hold was soon sent flying, almost every strike she made giving a brisk crack! and a brilliant flash like little lightning. Several times one of the beastly little things was sent hurtling to its end with a great arc of electricity strobing in blinding green between it and the fulgar. In each brief glare the whole night scene would be quickly lit like a glimpse of day. None could best her. Even if they did get a good hold, the needlelike teeth and cruel claws of these grinning fiends proved almost useless against her stout proofing.
It was not over for the leer either.
There was a bright, hissing flare from beneath the writhing pile of bogles that sent them reeling and filled the air with a putrid stench-surely some powerful repellent. Licurius stood among them, dark and wet with gore, smashing one a deadly blow with the handle of his pistol. The sthenicon was gone, torn off in the brutal fray. The leer glared about with his terrible eyes and struck out again, causing something to yowl piteously. Amid all the confusion and alarm, Rossamund was, for a moment, transfixed by the leer's face! His horrible, indescribably broken face! Little wonder he wore that box! There was another fizzing, hissing flash as Licurius let off another repellent, driving a handful of the nickers hollering in agony back into the woods. But the rest came at him, leaping up, clutching, gouging, tearing at exposed places, bearing the leer down under their ferocity. Licurius disappeared once more beneath the whelming assault.
He did not rise again.
Europe fought on and on, heedless of anything but the deadly, desperate dance she played with her many foes. Some of the grinning horrors now lay still and smoldering; many had run off in dismay. Still she faced a baker's dozen more gathering themselves after the leer's fall. She saw him then, her factotum, or what was left of him. Rossamund had watched as the nickers wrenched and ripped at the leer until they were convinced he was destroyed-declaring their success with bloodcurdling cackles and whoops of glee. Now only a dark, deformed pile remained.
The sight of it brought Europe up short. She stood now, panting, seething, almost growling. With wide, near-maniacal eyes, she stared across the fire at thirteen little grinning bogles who waited and glared back, snickering, poking and prodding each other. These grinnlings had large heads with big, square ears, no noses and lipless mouths crammed with needle teeth. And, remarkably, they wore clothes-small copies of human fashion: shirts, coats, breeches, even little buckled shoes.
For a moment it remained like this, the enemies eyeing one another. Rossamund had expected an exchange of words, of taunts or threats, but there was just this dreadful, pregnant hesitation punctuated by the distant wailing of wounded, fleeing grinnlings. The campfire crackled, the small cauldron on it hissing quietly with boiling water.
The universe waited…
Europe shifted her stance.
