That meant that it was time to clean up, get everything squared away, and then set about transforming Gorgorians into miscellaneous wildlife. The question of whether to tackle the job on his own, or to contact the Black Weasel and his Bold Bush-dwellers and use them as his staff, was not yet settled. As his head cleared, though, the possibility that the Black Weasel might not immediately agree to yield command had occurred to him. There might be more to this liberating-the-kingdom stuff than he had initially thought.
First things first, though. The cave had to be straightened up, the empty bottles disposed of, the bedding replaced. Clootie gathered his strength and called, “Wulfrith!”
The cry echoed in the stony depths, but no other answer came. The wizard frowned. With a supreme effort he got to his feet and called again.
Still, no one answered.
Clootie’s frown deepened. He tried to think over the entire celebration.
He had given the lad the day off, of course—partly so Wulfrith could celebrate on his own, but mostly to get him out of the cave so that he wouldn’t be corrupted by the succubus, or drink an unreasonable share of the wine. That had been on the afternoon of the feast day of Himpi-Himpi, god of small furry animals with excessive numbers of sharp teeth. Clootie had worked the summoning that evening, and the succubus had arrived around midnight, and then…
Well, there was no need to go into detail, but Clootie was fairly certain that at least three days had passed since he had last seen Wulfrith.
That was worrisome. Wulfrith was a good lad, and entirely trustworthy, in Clootie’s experience. He should have returned long ago.
Something must have happened to him. Hildie, perhaps, or that ale Armetta sold.
Or, of course, it might have been something bad. The boy didn’t know all that much about the outside world; Clootie had told him a few things, but that wasn’t the same as living them. Wulfrith might have run into serious trouble of some sort. If he had let slip that he was a wizard’s apprentice…
Well, of course, everyone in Stinkberry who had ever met Wulfrith knew that he was a wizard’s apprentice, but if word had somehow reached King Gudge and his simian subordinates that there was a Hydrangean wizard who was not only still alive, but who had the audacity to be training an apprentice…
Clootie did not care for that line of thought.
Maybe, he told himself, the boy had come back, but he was sleeping, or out at the privy. He set about searching the cave, just to be sure.
Half an hour later he no longer doubted; Wulfrith was missing.
And he would have to be found. Clootie began gathering clothing, including his cloak and boots.
He was rather surprised to discover that it was market day in the village. He tried to tell himself that this was good, that maybe Wulfrith had just stayed to see the market, but he didn’t convince anyone. More people just meant more to look at, and more trouble the boy could be in.
It was with a sudden burst of relief that Clootie spotted a familiar face, standing by the inn door and listening to the old codgers arguing on the bench out front.
“Wulfrith!” he called.
The boy didn’t turn.
The relief was suddenly laced with anger. The lad must have heard.
“Wulfrith!” he bellowed.
Several people turned to look, but the boy at the inn was not one of them. Furious, Clootie marched down the street and thrust himself in front of the lad.
“Wulfrith,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here?”
The boy blinked. “I’m not doing anything. What does ‘wulfrith’ mean?”
“It’s your name, you little idiot!”
Since the lad was two or three inches taller than Clootie and at least as broad, “little” was not, perhaps, the best possible choice of words. The boy just looked more confused than ever.
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “At least, I never heard it before.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did.”
“Didn’t.”
Clootie frowned. Something was not right here. “All right, then,” he asked, “what is your name?”
The boy hesitated. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” he said.
“But it’s not Wulfrith? And I suppose you aren’t my apprentice?” Clootie glared menacingly at the youth.
“Um,” the boy said.
“What’s that mean?”
“I dunno.”
“You don’t know that you’re my apprentice?”
“I don’t know what I meant. But I don’t think I’m your apprentice.” He blinked, and added belatedly, “Sir.”
Clootie glared more balefully.
“I don’t remember being anyone’s apprentice,” the lad said.
An angry mutter distracted Clootie from whatever he had intended to say next; startled, he looked around, and discovered that his argument with this person who denied being Wulfrith had attracted a small crowd.
“Let him alone, why don’t you?” someone called. “If he’s your apprentice, can’t you see he’s half-witted? What’s the use of shouting at him?”
Several people murmured agreement. Clootie blinked.
Wulfrith, half-witted?
Wulfrith could be reckless, thoughtless, and clumsy, but he was certainly not half-witted, nor had he ever before denied his name or his apprenticeship.
“Um,” Clootie said, his anger vanishing.
Something was wrong here. Wulfrith was a straightforward, honest boy. If he had wanted to quit his apprenticeship, he would have just said so, he wouldn’t have claimed to be someone else or denied remembering Clootie.
So in that case, Clootie decided, it seemed that Wulfrith genuinely didn’t remember his name, or who he was.
“Boy,” Clootie asked, “have you been hit on the head recently?”
The lad shrugged. “No more than usual,” he replied.
That was not quite the clear and definite answer Clootie might have hoped for. He tried to think what else could make a man forget everything.
“Have you been keeping company with a woman, then?”
A puzzled look settled on the lad’s face. “Which one?”
That response seemed to rule out a normal infatuation, Clootie thought; the identity of his love was the one thing an ardent young swain did not forget.
But there was another possibility. For years, Clootie had heard the stories about the Gorgorians—why they thought wizards were unmanly, why they kept their women locked away. Gorgorian warriors used no sorcery of any kind, but their women had a sort of hedge magic, female magic, crude and simple ensorcelments that they used to assist their natural feminine wiles.
Poor Wulfrith must have run afoul of woman’s magic, weak and treacherous and incomprehensible. Proper wizardry might be able to cure the effects, but alas, Clootie had no idea how to go about it.
The witch who had cast the spell, though, would surely know how to reverse it, or at the very least could give Clootie some pointers.
“Have you been bothering any Gorgorian women?” Clootie asked.
The lad frowned. “Not that I know of,” he said.
Clootie turned to the villagers gathered around. “Have any of you seen my apprentice with a Gorgorian woman lately?”
“Why?” one belligerent fellow demanded.
“I think he’s been enchanted, that’s why.”
“I haven’t been enchanted!” the youth protested.
“You wouldn’t know it if you had,” Clootie told him in his most reassuring tone.
“But I haven’t!”
Clootie ignored the protest. “Anyone seen any Gorgorian women around here?”
The observers looked at one another.
“I might’ve maybe seen one,” a man admitted. “Young and pretty, too. In the inn, there.”
“And that young man was with her,” a woman agreed.
“So was another fellow.”
The pieces we
re falling into place. Clootie could imagine what must have happened; some Gorgorian wench had flirted with poor, innocent Wulfrith, her boyfriend had taken umbrage, and to prove her loyalty she had thrown a spell on Wulfrith. Clear as anything, it was.
“Anyone know who she was?” Clootie asked.
“Wasn’t any such person!” the lad protested, but he was ignored as the little crowd babbled about the Gorgorian woman—what she wore, what she looked like, her anatomy and probable sexual habits, the beady-eyed, untrustworthy, curly-haired city man who had been with her.
Eventually, Clootie came to the conclusion that nobody actually knew anything about her beyond what they had glimpsed as she walked past on the street.
She had been served at the inn, however.
“I’ll ask Armetta,” Clootie said. “Wulfrith, you wait here.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but ducked quickly through the door of the inn.
Dunwin looked after him, then muttered, “My name’s not Wulfrith, and I’ll be damned if I’ll wait here.” No lunatic was going to make him be an apprentice. No Gorgorian woman had done anything to him.
Head held high, he marched off home, to see Bernice. She was sensible and reliable, not like these crazy villagers.
Ten minutes later, Clootie emerged from the inn; Armetta had admitted that a Gorgorian girl had been there, three days before, but would say no more than that. Clootie was unsure whether she knew any more than that.
He stepped out the door into an empty street; the crowd had dispersed.
And Wulfrith had vanished.
The only person anywhere near was an old man seated on the bench, doing nothing, his head leaned back comfortably.
“Where did he go?” Clootie demanded.
The old man lifted his head. “You mean the boy?”
Clootie nodded.
“That way,” the old man said, pointing. “Up the mountain.”
Clootie followed the pointing finger.
The boy had, indeed, headed up the mountain, probably trying, in his dazed and confused way, to get home to the cave. He had, however, picked the wrong mountain.
Cursing, Clootie trotted after him.
Chapter Thirteen
Dunwin was climbing the fence, and could see Bernice grazing quietly a dozen yards higher up the slope, when he heard the voice.
“Wulfrith!” someone was calling. “Wulfrith! Wait!”
Dunwin sighed. That fat little lunatic from the village was following him.
Well, there wasn’t any point in putting it off; sooner or later, if he wanted to be rid of this nuisance, Dunwin knew he would have to confront the maniac and somehow convince him that there was no such person as Wulfrith.
Might as well get it over with. He sat down on the top rail of the fence and waited.
A moment later Clootie came puffing up the trail, still calling occasionally for Wulfrith to wait. Dunwin resisted the temptation to shout back either, “I am waiting,” or “My name isn’t Wulfrith!”
Instead, he sat silently as Clootie staggered up. He watched without a word as the older man struggled to catch his breath.
“You walk fast,” Clootie gasped out at last.
“Helps keep up with the sheep,” Dunwin said.
Clootie ignored this remark, and continued, “Listen, Wulfrith, I know you don’t remember, but you really are my apprentice. That Gorgorian witch must have put a spell on you, made you forget it all—maybe she was frightened by the idea of real magic.”
Dunwin frowned. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What witch?”
“That Gorgorian girl, at the inn down in Stinkberry. Armetta—you remember Armetta?”
“Of course I remember Armetta, and she’s no Gorgorian!” Dunwin protested. “Not much of a girl any more, either,” he added thoughtfully. He was beginning to notice the ages of women lately, though he wasn’t all that sure why, as yet—only that the ones between puberty and parenthood looked like the best company.
“No, no,” Clootie said, “of course not, she’s an innkeeper, and a loyal Hydrangean, I’m sure.”
“Then why did you say she was a Gorgorian witch?”
“I didn’t, I…let me start over.”
“Go ahead.” Dunwin was determined to give this lunatic every chance. Maybe the poor man would realize how foolish he was being, if Dunwin let him ramble on about his fantasies.
Clootie took a deep breath.
“I talked to Armetta,” he said, “and she told me that she saw you talking to a Gorgorian woman, three days ago—a girl who was traveling with a male companion. That was the day I let you take a day off and go into town, and you were supposed to come home that night. So today, I came looking for you, to see why you hadn’t come home, and I found you like this, with no memory of your true identity, wandering up the wrong mountain. So the Gorgorian must have been a witch, and she’s put a spell on you.”
Dunwin scratched his head, dislodging minor vermin.
“I wasn’t in town three days ago,” he said. “And I never met any Gorgorian girl, and nobody put a spell on me, and this isn’t the wrong mountain. See? There’s Bernice, waiting for me.”
Clootie looked. He saw no woman or girl who might have been the Bernice the boy referred to, only a rather fat sheep and some rocky hillside. He sighed.
“Listen, Wulfrith,” Clootie said, “I don’t know what she’s done to you, exactly, but if you’ll come home with me, I’m sure we can fix it.”
“I’m going home, and my name isn’t Wulfrith.”
“Of course it is. Your name is Wulfrith, and you’re my apprentice, and we live in a cave over that way.” He pointed.
“What sort of apprentice lives in a cave?” Dunwin asked curiously.
“An apprentice wizard, of course,” Clootie answered.
Dunwin snorted. “There aren’t any wizards any more,” he said. “And even if there were, you couldn’t be one!”
“Why not?” Clootie demanded angrily.
“Because you’re too short,” Dunwin said. “And too fat. And your beard’s crooked; who ever heard of a wizard with a crooked beard? And your hair isn’t white.”
“Well, it just so happens that I am a wizard!” Clootie replied, hands on hips. “If I looked like a wizard, the Gorgorians might have decapitated me with the rest of ’em!”
“I’m not sure there ever really were wizards at all,” Dunwin said. “I think it might’ve all been a bunch of tricks; how else could the Gorgorians have caught and killed them all so easily? I mean, if there were real wizards, couldn’t they have just blasted all the Gorgorians into little tiny bits?”
“No,” Clootie explained, “because they’d gotten out of practice and forgotten all the big, showy spells like that.” That was the short and inaccurate version, of course; he didn’t see any point in taking the time just now to lecture his poor deranged apprentice about the hazards of over-refinement.
“Well, maybe,” Dunwin said, “but you still aren’t a wizard, you’re just a fat little lunatic. My name isn’t Wulfrith, it’s Dunwin, and I never saw you before in my life, and I don’t live in a cave, I live up on the mountain here with my Dad Odo.”
“I am a wizard, damn it to the forty-six exquisite hells of the ancients!”
“No, you aren’t,” Dunwin insisted.
“Yes, I am!”
“Then do some magic, show me a spell!”
“You think I can’t?” Clootie began. He raised his hand, then stopped.
The boy might be right, in a way—maybe he couldn’t. He hadn’t brought his staff, or his orb, or any of the tools of the arcane trade.
But there was the transformation spell—that didn’t need any gadgets!
“Not a wizard, eh?” He laughed. “Watch this!” Clootie raised both hands, gestured, and spoke the Word of Power, thrusting out his fingers.
Dunwin watched with tolerant amusement until the brief incantation was complete. Before he could say anything about the perfor
mance, however, Bernice bleated; Dunwin whirled.
As the lad watched, the ewe’s wool turned iridescent green and seemed to shrink down around her. Her neck and tail began lengthening rapidly. Crooked little growths sprang from her back and expanded swiftly. Her cloven hooves grew longer and curved, and split further, until she had four claws on each foot. Her legs were thickening, her body growing. Her eyes turned to golden slits, her snout stretched; gleaming white fangs appeared.
“Bernice!” Dunwin shrieked. He tried to jump down from the fence, but his tunic snagged on a splinter and held him, the laces almost strangling him as he struggled.
Bernice cried out again, and this time it was no bleat, but a choking roar, accompanied by a thin jet of smoke. Her serpentine tail lashed; the growths on her back spread wide, and Dunwin and Clootie could see that they were gigantic bat wings.
Her wool had become shining scales, her hooves were razored talons; head to tail she was now easily thirty feet long.
Dunwin finally managed to detach himself from the fence and promptly tripped over his own feet, landing face down on dried mud.
By the time he untangled himself and got upright once again, the transformation was complete; Bernice had become a dragon. This was completely obvious to both Dunwin and Clootie, though neither of them had ever actually seen a dragon before.
It was not, however, obvious to Bernice. Bernice had never heard of dragons; as a sheep, she had never had much of an education in folklore, or for that matter in anything else. Dunwin had told her a few things, but he had never mentioned dragons, and her understanding of the Hydrangean tongue had been very limited, in any case. Sheep are not noted for linguistic talent.
Sheep, if the truth be known, are not noted for any sort of intellectual accomplishment. They are, in fact, generally believed to be quite stupid.
This belief has a sound basis in fact.
However, even to a sheep, it was quite obvious that something out of the ordinary had happened. Bernice could see her claws, great nasty-looking things; her head was much too far off the ground, and there were these odd things on her back that were fanning her. She felt oddly light on her feet. Her tail, which had heretofore generally hung there uselessly but had not gotten in the way, was dragging on the ground and whacking uncomfortably against various rocks and stones.
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