The people exclaimed in wonder, and the druid gestured to the piper, who began to play again. The people joined hands and began to dance again, faster and faster and wilder and wilder. Men gave women lascivious glances, and the women blushed and lowered their gazes, then looked up, their eyes huge. Women batted their eyelashes at men, glancing at them sidelong with inviting smiles, and the men grinned and moved closer in the dance. The circle broke up into smaller circles, with here and there a couple dancing alone. More and more couples stepped aside to dance, their movements becoming more and more erotic, while here and there a pair slipped away among the leaves.
Matt realized that this was one cult that was sure to catch on. Give people what they wanted—a sense of belonging mixed with booze and free sex, plus an excuse not to feel guilty about any of it—and they would join in droves. How the women would feel about it nine months later was another matter. Besides, Matt had a suspicion that where the letting of human blood was involved, no matter how voluntary, sooner or later human sacrifice would follow, and the victims wouldn't be all that willing.
He couldn't let things go that far. Stepping away into the bushes, he stripped off his doublet. Then he yanked down a vine from the nearest oak, hoping it wasn't poison ivy—and saw with delight that it was mistletoe! He twisted one end into a crown, set it on his head, wrapped it to frame his face, then looped the rest of the vine around his arms and torso. A good beginning, he decided, but not impressive enough. He looked about him, found a firefly, and tracked it with cupped hands until he clapped them shut around it. Then, peering through the aperture between his thumbs, he chanted,
"Little fly of fairy light,
Lend your glow to me this night!
Tinge me with your photon essence!
Make me shine with phosphoresence!"
His hands began to glow, and as he watched, the shining spread up his arms and all over his body. Somewhat shaken, he let his diminutive captive go with a muttered word of thanks, then turned to confront Banalix on his own territory.
Exactly on his own territory, as it turned out—his edging around the clearing had brought Matt up behind the grandfather oak. Using it to shield him from the dancing, chanting crowd, he sprinted first to its huge trunk, then edged around and dashed to the broad old stump that Banalix had used for a speaker's platform. Matt climbed up on it, then slowly raised his arms, chanting to himself,
"Now by chambers of reverberation,
Make my voice a huge sensation.
Amplify each word and phrase
With echoes often short delays!"
Then he raised his voice and cried, "Now I call HALT!"
His words reverberated through the clearing, loud as a thunderclap, and the people stopped and stared in sudden fear. Even the piper stopped his droning, and Banalix looked up and froze, wide-eyed.
"People of Morrigan and Lugh, give heed!" Matt called. "I, who love the trees and dwell in and by them, tell you to cease this blasphemy! You desecrate the spirit of the forest!"
A low moan began among the crowd. It jolted Banalix out of his stupor. His face contorted in anger. "Desecrate! It is you who desecrate our ceremony! Who are you who dares interfere!"
Matt's brain shifted into high gear, searching for a name and finding one. "I am he who stands for Oak, Ash, and Thorn! I am he who knows the heart of the woodlands! I am he who knows how the true druids worshiped—and knows what a mockery you have made of their services!"
"Liar!" Banalix screamed. He didn't use dramatic gestures this time, only pulled the naphtha ball from his sleeve, yanked the lid off the coal-box, and lit it as he shouted, "No one living can remember the ceremonies of the Old Ones! Deceiver you may be, but you cannot lie your way out of this!"
The ball burst into flame. Banalix hurled it, and he had a good arm—but Matt was already reciting,
"If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore.
Yet why should I your fire rekindle?
Be dark and cold forever more!"
The fireball shrank in on itself as it cooled, then flickered and went out. No one else could see the dark little ball that bounced off Matt's chest. A murmur of awe passed through the crowd.
"Charlatan!" Banalix bellowed. "Taste true magic now!" He gestured, reciting something that sounded like Gaelic, and Matt realized, with a chill, that he was pantomiming the tying of a noose. Matt remembered that one of the druids' forms of human sacrifice had been hanging, then throwing the body into a peat bog. Quickly, he chanted,
"Naked to the hangman's knot
A neck's set for abuse.
But vertebrae should stack intact.
Be good! Rope, be no noose!"
Something seemed to brush bis neck, tried to tighten, then was gone.
Banalix stared, fear shadowing his eyes.
"Cease your cowardly attacks!" Matt boomed. "They avail you naught!"
Banalix's eyes narrowed. He blustered to hide his fear. "Coward yourself, coward and trickster! By what magic you opposed my spells I know not, but taste this assault!"
His lips poured out a torrent of words as he pantomimed tossing, stiff-fingered, left hand, right hand, left hand, on and on.
Matt didn't know what he thought he was throwing, but he did think it was a good idea to turn aside anything he couldn't see.
"Deflect! Avaunt!
Come nowhere near!
My unseen shield, hold sure!
Whatever's thrown shall thus be seared
By wards both tough and dur!"
He didn't even feel the impacts. All anyone saw was a sudden burst of lights in front of Matt as unseen missiles flared against his shield and burned out.
The crowd murmured in fear and pressed away from Banalix. The false druid stood panting, staring at Matt, suddenly haggard.
Matt knew his chance when he saw it. "People of the Church! You have seen this impostor for what he is, a feeble and powerless trickster! Avoid his snares, avoid his web of deceit, for you know the source of lies and traps! Go now, go quickly, and never hearken to this man or any like him again!"
That galvanized Banalix into action as he saw all his gains slipping away from him. "Deceiver yourself!" he screamed. "You claim to be of the forest? Then let it judge you!" He chanted in the foreign language again, pointing up at the ancient oak, and a branch the size of a grown tree groaned downward to swat at Matt.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With a horrendous cracking, the branch began to split from the trunk. It wasn't just going to swat at Matt, it was going to fall on him! Quickly, he chanted,
"Oh, will this limb rejoice, or break?
Decide this doubt for me!
Close up the wound without an ache,
And heal this fractured tree!"
The fall of the branch slowed, then stopped, one huge burl only inches from Matt's head. Then, incredibly, it started to rise again, the base cleaving to the trunk, shaking, trembling, then stilling, and the branch stretched out whole again. Matt told himself he must have been imagining the huge sigh of relief that seemed to surround him.
The crowd burst into cries of awe—and fear. Those closest to Banalix tried to crowd farther away.
The false druid pointed at a dead tree behind Matt and screamed a verse. A groan began, softer, then louder and louder, as the tree leaned to fall on Matt.
"I leaned my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trustie tree,
But first it bowed, and now it creaks,
To crush the one who made it break!"
He hoped Cowper's ghost wasn't listening.
The trunk seemed to roll, changing the direction of its fall. Banalix stared in horror, then turned to run crosswise, out of the path of the tumbling skeletal branches—but the tree swung about, following him, tracking him, as it fell faster and faster, then slammed down on top of him. Banalix screamed in pure terror, then screamed again and again, for the tree had enough branches left so that
it hadn't crushed him, only formed a prison around him. He grabbed the dry old sticks and shook them, trying to break them, but they must not have been quite as dead as they seemed, for they held him penned in.
"Go now, quickly!" Matt boomed. "Go back to your cottages, back to your beds, and never follow such a deceiver again!"
The crowd broke and ran, howling with fright. Their voices faded away, and the clearing was still, except for the sobbing coming from the hollow tree.
Matt stood still, absorbing the whole of the night, letting the adrenaline ebb. When he trusted himself to be gentle, he whispered,
"The game is won, the quarry's fled,
The night regains its peace.
Let effects from my voice all be bled,
And sound processing cease!"
"Can you hear me, Banalix?" he said softly, but the spell seemed to have worked—he could scarcely hear himself, and the druid kept whimpering with no sign of having heard him. Matt jumped down from the stump and went slowly toward the dead tree, where he knelt down and gazed in at the prisoner.
The man stared at him for a frozen moment, then recoiled, hands up to defend, crying, "Who are you?"
"A wizard," Matt told him, "one who's on the side of the Church at the moment—and who knows what you're trying to do."
The man stared, then whispered, "For the Church? You are a godly wizard, and you defeated the powers of the Old Gods so easily?"
"Sure," Matt said. "They don't really exist, you know. The only power you had was some minor spells your boss taught you—and their impact comes from the music of the old language, not the strength of the old gods."
Banalix began to tremble. "But he told me the Old Gods live!"
"He lied," Matt said simply. "He's out to gain power, and he saw that he could do it by reviving his own version of the old religion. He even put together a mixture of excuses for people to do all the things they enjoy, but that have bad effects later on—guaranteed to win him converts, and by the time they realize all their partying has brought trouble, your boss figured he'd have them so securely under his thumb that they couldn't get away if they wanted to."
He almost felt sorry for Banalix as he watched the expressions that chased each other across his face as his wonderful new world collapsed around him. Finally he groaned, "I am lost!"
"You can find a way to rebuild," Matt told him. "For openers, tell me what I want to know, and I'll release you."
"Tell you...?" A crafty look came into the druid's eyes.
"Don't think you have anything to trade," Matt said quickly. "I have plenty of other ways of finding out, and I won't at all mind leaving you here to starve." The last part was a complete lie, of course, but Banalix didn't know that. "Now, who do you work for?"
Banalix stared at Matt in horror for a minute, then quavered, "The Chief Druid! Surely you know that!"
"Yes, I guessed that much," Matt agreed. "Tell me his name."
"I dare not! He will discover it, he will smite me down!"
"You can't really believe that." Matt's smile held a little contempt. "You know that most of the 'magic' he taught you was only trickery, don't you? And the few genuine spells are pretty feeble. I doubt very highly that he'll know if you tell me his name."
Banalix stared at him a moment, then whispered "Niobhyte" very softly.
The name meant nothing to Matt, but he couldn't let Banalix know that. "Very good. Now, tell me—what's your real name?"
The man flushed and looked away. "Jord," he said.
"Jord." It was a peasant's name. "And what did you do for a living before Niobhyte conned you away?"
"I was a serf on the estates of Lord Manerring," Jord said reluctantly.
Matt nodded. "Well, then, I would recommend you go back to your home village and stay there, at least until this is all over."
"I dare not!" Jord seized two branches and shook them, trying to break out. "Niobhyte will slay me if he learns I have failed and gone meekly home!" He shuddered. "And I will roast forever in Hell, for I have blasphemed and lured people away from God!"
Matt stared at the man a moment, then asked, "You mean you didn't believe a word of what you were telling those people?"
"I believed it," Jord told him, "but now that I have seen the power of the Old Gods so easily defeated, I can believe no longer!"
"So you fall back on the religion in which you were raised." Matt nodded. "Well, then, repent and confess your sins, and you should be safe from Niobhyte's power."
"But he is a sorcerer! A real sorcerer! Repentence will not save me!"
"It will save your soul, at least." Matt was beginning to have misgivings about having busted up Banalix's act—but could he really have let the man suck other people into the kind of tyranny he himself seemed to fear? "It might save your body, too, if you stay in the sanctuary of a church until this is all over."
Jord stared at him for a moment, then said, "Might."
"There are no guarantees in this life, I'm afraid," Matt told him, "especially when the country is in such upheaval. But I know a church that should be safer than most for the duration, and maybe when it's over, Niobhyte will have lost. If he has, he won't be in a position to hurt anybody."
Jord studied his face, realizing what he meant—what the options were for where Niobhyte would be. Finally he said, "I'll thank you, then, and hope. Take me to this church, and a priest."
"Okay, then." Matt grabbed a stout branch and stood up, heaving with all his strength. The trunk rolled, and Jord scuttled free.
He stared up at Matt, face pale in the moonlight. "You are as strong as a knight!"
"That's because I am a knight." Matt slapped him on the shoulder, turning him toward the village.
"A knight and a wizard? I've never heard of such a thing! Except for..." Jord's voice trailed off as his eyes widened and he realized to whom he was talking.
"Keep it to yourself," Matt told him severely. "We've got half a mile to cover, and I'd rather not attract any more attention than necessary."
A wind blew up out of nowhere, moaning in the treetops.
"Too late," Jord groaned. "Some spirit has heard me, or heard the name of... the Chief Druid. He is gathering his companions to punish me."
"You're reading an awful lot into a breeze," Matt snapped. "Come on, let's get going. Maybe we can beat the storm."
But it seemed to follow them, the wind moaning more and more loudly, though they didn't feel it at all. Tree branches began to whip about them, slapping at them from ahead in front, swinging at them from behind.
"No wind makes them move that way," Jord cried. "The spirits are coming for me!"
"Then let's give them a run for their money! Come on!"
But the moon darkened, and Matt began to feel as though someone was watching him—someone, or something. He hurried Jord along the trail, glancing up to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sky between whipping boughs. It was clear as a bell, stars bright in their scatter—but where the moon should have been was only darkness. Matt didn't know how Niobhyte had done it, but he was beginning to hope he wouldn't meet the man—if he was a man. Even more if he wasn't.
They hurried down the trail. Matt caught sight of things moving at the edges of his vision—huge dark forms, shadows within shadows, not clear enough to recognize. He thought he could make out roughly human shapes—head, arms, and legs—but wasn't sure; whenever he tried to look directly at one of them, he saw only darkness and brush. He muttered,
"From ghosties and ghoulies
And long-legged beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Dear Lord, preserve us!"
Then the laughter began.
Low and ominous, it sounded behind them, and Jord started to run. Matt caught him, snapping, "No! Show fear and you put yourself in its power! Walk fast, but walk!"
They strode on through the darkness, setting a record for cross-country hiking, with the laughter building to the sides, then in front of them,
finally echoing all about. Other voices joined in, laughing maniacally, gloatingly, insanely, giggling, gibbering, and the almost-seen shapes pressed closer, but seemed unable to touch them. Jord began to whimper, and Matt felt like joining him.
Then, suddenly, they were out of the trees with cottages before them. "Hurry!" Matt snapped, and they rushed down an alley between houses with the laughter slapping off the walls and the unfelt wind howling overhead.
"Can not the people hear?" Jord cried.
"I doubt it," Matt called back. "Besides, if you were safe inside a house and heard something like this, would you look out?"
"I am afraid to look out already," Jord whimpered.
Then they were out of the cottages and crossing the village green. Jord looked up, saw the church, and dug his feet in. "You're taking me to the priest I burned this afternoon!"
"He's human," Matt admitted, "but he's a priest, and he believes in forgiveness. Besides, I healed his burns. Move! Or do you want to stay here and wait for whatever's around us to close in?"
With a wail, Jord gave in and let Matt's arm pull him over the green and toward the waiting chapel. Matt still wouldn't break into a run, but he felt a presence following him, something bigger, something more powerful, something much worse than the half-seen night-walkers that shadowed them to either side. He muttered prayers under his breath, wondering if Banalix's mockery of a ceremony, and his own interruption, had wakened some form of elemental with which Niobhyte had nothing to do. They strode toward the church.
Mama and Papa came to the next town about noon—and a town it was, no mere village; they could see down the main street to shop after shop with the emblems of trade hung over their doors—a half-dried bush for the tavern, three gilded balls for the goldsmith's, a red-and-white-striped pole for the barber/surgeon, and so on. The church's steeple towered twice as high as that of any village chapel they had seen, and there were four two-storied buildings with their lower halves built of stone. As they neared the first hut a voice behind them shouted, "Make way! Make way for the Baron Fontal!"
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