"And what of the sorcerer, Master Saul?" Frisson asked.
"You saw that sculpture I was just making with the string?"
"Aye, though I would not term it art." Frisson frowned.
"Make up your mind whether you're an artist or a critic, will you? Okay, we'll call it a model. Have you ever played the two-person version?"
"Aye, when I was a child."
"Well then, let's get childish." I picked up the string and started weaving. "Here's how it goes..."
The army came marching down the road, singing a deep baritone chant that somehow reeked of menace. We sat in the road ahead of them, our hearts in our mouths, Frisson taking the cat's cradle from me with trembling fingers. Gilbert stood behind us, ostensibly watching the road, actually ready to signal his slingers. He was nervous, too, but he had said he was more worried about some hothead striking too early than about his own safety.
The vanguard saw us, raised a shout, and came running.
Gilbert waited until they were only fifty feet away from the furrow plowed across the road, the pounding of their boots filling the night, before he signaled.
A hail of stones shot out of the trees to each side of the road. Then fifty peasants pounded out into the road between us and the oncoming soldiers, and started slinging.
Howls of anger and pain erupted from the army, but the soldiers in front bellowed in rage and charged down on our bodyguard. Their halberds swung down...
...and bounced off a surface they couldn't see.
They bounced hard; most of the weapons struck their owners, or the men behind. They bellowed again, but this time, there was as much fear as anger in the sound.
Their mates, back along the road, loosed a volley of arrows at the trees along each shoulder. The arrows darted up...
...and bounced.
They fell back, but they fell hard, with almost as much velocity as they'd had when they hit; it was a resilient invisible wall. So the points scratched and pierced soldiers, not peasants. The soldiers howled in surprise and alarm—and another hail of sling-stones fell on them, striking on foreheads and temples, denting helmets and breaking collarbones. Soldiers fell with shouts of pain. More of them fell in total silence, out cold.
The sorcerer reared up in their middle, shouting a chant and making passes.
I took the cat's cradle from Frisson. He stuck his thumb up in the middle, and I chanted,
"Blest be the tie that binds
That man who'd work us ill,
By sorc'rous spells unkind.
Now, let his tongue be still!"
As I finished the last line, I pulled the strings tight, imprisoning Frisson's thumb.
The sorcerer's chant ended in a frantic yell, as something invisible pinned his arms to his sides. He struggled to free himself, tripped over a fallen soldier, and rolled on the ground, squalling and bellowing, inarticulate.
"Why can he not chant?" Frisson asked, huge-eyed.
"Because I paralyzed his tongue," I answered. "Hear how his yelling keeps making vowels sounds? He's trying to chant a spell, but he just can't form the consonants."
I kept the pressure on Frisson's thumb, only letting up a little when it started turning blue. I waited, grinding my teeth, until the yelling and rattle and clatter had diminished and turned into groaning.
"They are all down," Gilbert told me. "Shall I send men among them to kill those who still live?"
Still live! I hadn't stopped to think that those sling-stones had probably killed a fair number, not just knocked them out. "No," I said, then cleared my throat to stop my voice shaking. "No, it's more important that we get to the capital. Besides, most of them are just peasant boys who were pressed into the army against their wills. They will probably be more than glad to run on home if they have the chance."
"Like enough," Gilbert agreed, "but to have that chance, the sorcerer must die."
The words hit my stomach hard enough to make it sink to my boots, but I knew he was right. Leave the man alive, and he'd just rally the remains of his army to strike at our backs. "Couldn't we give him a chance to repent?"
"Aye, but even so, we must kill him then. If we do not, he will likely renew his bargain with Satan as soon as we are out of sight."
I knew he was right, but I still hated to give the go-ahead. "If we kill in cold blood, we've started selling our own souls to Satan."
"That is true of slaying the peasant soldiers," Gilbert said inexorably, "but it is not true of their master. The knight and the sorcerer must die, or they may find a way to murder us all."
"Yeah, I know you're right." I sighed. "Take Friar Ignatius and a dozen men to guard him. And pass the word when you've got the sorcerer gagged and hog-tied, so I can let up on Frisson's thumb."
Gilbert stared at the imprisoned digit, then said, "You are truly amazing, Master Saul, and Master Frisson, too."
"Only because we don't do things the way we're supposed to," I told him. "It throws everybody off stride—and makes 'em madder 'n Hell when it works. Go send somebody to Purgatory, Gilbert."
He did.
That wasn't the last army we faced, of course, but it was the easiest. The next army got crafty and surrounded us on all four sides before it marched in chopping. But we had the best intelligence in the country: a couple of dozen local peasants, who knew the terrain as well as they knew their dinner bowls. They came in unbidden, with exact details of troop placement and strength—so when the army swooped in on our camp, all they hit were a couple of hundred simulacra that turned back into sticks of wood at the first sword-stroke. Then our tree-top peasants cut loose with their slings, and the archers barely got off one volley before they were all felled by flying pebbles. Of course, their sorcerers had dispelled my invisible shield before they even charged, so we did lose a dozen men... but they lost two thousand.
The third army tried to draw us into a trap by having a dozen pretty maidens doing a fertility dance involving taking off their clothes in the moonlight, but Friar Ignatius and his fellow monks went through the camp quickly, telling the peasants in no uncertain terms that in this case, at least, feminine pulchritude really was a wile of the Devil. Our men kept ranks and marched on by, to the great indignation of the young ladies, who yelled catcalls and insults after them—until Frisson and I finally managed a spell that showed them as they really were, without the demonic cosmetic spells. When our peasant boys got a sight of the naked, withered old hags and young but very ugly girls they really were, they all shuddered, looked away, and praised Friar Ignatius at the tops of their voices.
The army charged out in pursuit, of course, but they weren't really trying—they knew they didn't have a chance. They were right, too. Frisson and I changed the ground in front of them to bog, and they all floundered down in the mire. Their sorcerers firmed the ground up fast, of course, but they forgot to pull their men out first, and most of them were trapped hip-deep in hardpan. A few unlucky ones were completely underground, but I think their mates dug them out. They didn't have anything better to do, after all; our army was long gone.
Besides, we were two thousand strong by that time, with more coming in every night—and older peasants constantly bringing in baskets of provisions. I was having nightmares, remembering the peasants of the First Crusade and all the burglaries they had committed on the way to Constantinople, trying to keep themselves fed. I talked to Gilbert about it, and he understood immediately. He set up a system of command ranks, making each officer or NCO responsible for the conduct of his men. Then he appointed a few MPs, to patrol the perimeter of the vast mob and check to see if anyone was getting out of line. A few did; he expelled them from the troop and left them to the tender mercies of the peasants they'd robbed.
Because a mob it was, even with Gilbert's impromptu chain of command. There wasn't time to drill them, but he did manage to get across the idea of marching in order, teaching his officers a few marching songs to help. Frisson grew very thoughtful, was seized with inspiration, and dashed
off a few poems that he then proceeded to sing to Gilbert. Gilbert loved them, gave them to the officers, and we marched along singing. They could hear us a mile away, but we weren't exactly any big secret, anyway.
After the second day of orderly marching, Gilbert was beginning to look worried. I took him aside and asked why.
"They have not attacked again," he told me. "Surely the Army of Evil does not intend to let us pass unchallenged!"
"Haven't you heard what your men are singing?" I asked.
He frowned. "Aye, but what has that..." There he broke off, turning to stare out at his army as they marched past, singing:
"Sons of Might and Magic,
Will you let this tragic
Moment pass from history?
Hearts that know uniqueness,
Will you let this weakness
Daunt you with its mystery?
Onward, onward! Never shall the foe
Dare come near, as in serried ranks we go!
All step as one, unbending!
Strength wells up, unending!
Enemies shall distant be!
Never shall we tire
Until this sovereign dire
Shall be hanging from a tree!"
"Why, they dispel attack!" Gilbert cried.
I nodded. "It would take an awful lot of black magic to squelch that much enthusiastic spell casting. On top of which, they're giving themselves constant energy input, and keeping themselves in order."
"Amazing, Wizard!"
"Yes, isn't he?" I nodded at Frisson. "But don't try to convince him of it; he thinks he's just writing what comes to him."
Still, I worried. Two thousand enthusiastic peasants were good protection on the march and could be very useful for general brawling—but they weren't going to stand a chance against disciplined, professional troops.
Which was exactly what we saw, when we came up to the top of the ridge that overlooked the capital, Todenburg. There it lay, a half-mile-wide town with a river flowing through it and a huge castle on the hill in its center. It had a high, thick wall all around it, and between the wall and us, a solid band of troops a hundred yards thick.
We stared, appalled, and I whispered, "How are we going to get through this?"
CHAPTER THIRTY
"Surely we have strong enough numbers to force a passage." But Frisson didn't sound too sure.
"We have not," Gilbert assured him. "They outnumber us by five soldiers of theirs for every one of ours, at the least—and theirs are trained and seasoned veterans, whiles ours are boys who have come straight from the plow."
"But our men believe in our cause!"
"And these soldiers believe in the profit they shall gain by victory," Gilbert returned.
"Surely the love of money is not so strong as the will to be free!"
"Perhaps not—but when 'tis coupled with skill and strength, it will suffice." Gilbert turned a grim face to me. " 'Tis for you to say, Master Saul. What may we do?"
"Why," I said slowly, "we'll just have to find some soldiers who are even better than they are."
Gilbert smiled bleakly. "Well thought, if we could find such so quickly. Yet even if we could, we would need very many, for greater skill and strength mean little, in the end, 'gainst such numbers."
"Not entirely true." I was thinking of Crécy and Agincourt. "Besides, we don't have to wipe out the whole army—just force our way through to the gates and knock them open."
"And how shall we do that?"
"It was one of the first verses Frisson wrote, and I've been saving it for just such an occasion."
The poet looked up, startled. "Which... Oh! My angry verse 'gainst the walls built by wealth and might, to pen the poor!"
"Yes, and the refrain about tearing down the walls—I think you even made some references to Joshua and Jericho."
"I can only trust in you for such," Gilbert said slowly, "but if you say it, Master Saul, I am sure it shall be done."
My heart sank. I hated the idea of having people depend on me—it resulted in responsibility, and responsibility involved commitment. But there wasn't much choice, now.
A shout went up from my "army." Looking up, I saw a double file of soldiers coming over the ridge a quarter of the way around the valley, at least a mile distant, with knights at their head and rear. Their armor and weapons clashed and clattered, and their chanting came to us faintly over the distance too faintly to make out the words, but I went cold at the sight of them. "Just what we need—enemy reinforcements!"
"And more coming in all the time, I doubt not," Frisson said, very nervously. "Whate'er we are to do, Master Saul, 'twere best if 'twere done quickly."
"Yet where are we to find these skilled soldiers you spoke of?" Gilbert asked—and, with a sardonic smile, "Have you a receipt for such an one?"
" 'Receipt'?" I frowned, then remembered that it was an old word for "recipe." I could feel inspiration strike—or in this case, memory, of an evening watching Gilbert & Sullivan's Patience. My grin grew. "Yes, now that you mention it, I do." And I began to pantomime taking ingredients off shelves and mixing them in a bowl, as I recited:
"If you want a receipt for that popular mystery
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
Rattle them off to a popular tune."
I proceeded to do so, running quickly through the first verse, and putting in a quick chorus:
"Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set them to simmer and drain off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!"
"Aye, guv'nor!" a beery voice said two feet above my head.
My buddies drew back with a moan, looking up. Even Gruesome muttered with nervousness.
There he was, chestnut stallion and all—six feet plus of resplendent dress uniform and ferocious mustache.
"Just in time!" I grinned. "Assault the enemy—they're down below you! Cut me a way through to the gates of the city!"
"As you sye, Capting!" the dragoon bellowed, wheeling his horse toward the nearest footman. "God save the Queen!"
And he rode full-tilt down the slope and into Suettay's infantry, laying about him with his saber. Gilbert shouted and galloped to back him up.
I would have, too, but I knew the enemy was too many for only three men and a troll, even if one of those men was a dragoon. I signaled Gruesome to wait, and before Gilbert even hit the first rank, I chanted:
"Let us have a thousand like him!
Appear here now, his taste to cater!
Multiply him; thousandfold,
By ditto, Spirit Duplicator!"
They appeared with a huge shout, charging after their prototype with flourishing sabers, and slammed into the enemy with a crash like the meeting of two tidal waves. Gilbert churned back out of the press, looking dazed. Somewhere at the front, a joyous Cockney voice bellowed, "Just like Waterloo!"
Gilbert came panting up along their back trail. "They have no need of me. A most amazing company, Master Saul!"
"Sure are." I grinned. "Forward the heavy brigade!"
The enemy soldiers were trying to rally their men, but the explosions of the dragoons' muskets had them spooked. They drove into the press, clearing the way in front with musket blasts, then widening the path with their sabers. Pole arms reached for them, pikes stabbing and halberds slashing, but the dragoons mowed through the shafts as if they'd been butter, and their horses struck out with steel-shod hooves. A few arrows found their marks, and a few dragoons fell, but not many.
Then, suddenly, they were almost to the gate. The press of dragoons began to part, leaving a clear path paved with fallen pikes.
"Time to move," I pointed out, and Gruesome bellowed and waddled forward. I turned to Gilbert.
"Let's go!" he bawled to our peasants.
The dragoons cleared before us to my shouted commands, and Gruesome plowed t
hrough to take the point, with Gilbert just behind and to his right, a dragoon just behind and to Gruesome's left. They bored into the enemy army like a diamond bit, fire and armor, and the dragoons carried away the military detritus they churned up. It as a mad quarter hour, with the enemy pulling back from Gruesome's roars and teeth and trying to cut in from the sides, only to meet Gilbert's and the dragoons' blades, before the dragoons pulled in to chew them up. My head filled with shouting and the clash of steel...
Then, suddenly, we were through, with the city gates in front of us.
I pulled out Frisson's poem and chanted,
"Really break, locks! And really break, bolts!
And really break, gate that we come nigh!
And as we come to this double door,
'Twill break itself quite handi-ligh!"
The wood began to crumble even before I'd finished. Splinters shredded loose, then kindling-size chunks, as gravel began to fall from the great stone blocks to either side.
The Army of Evil let out a huge roar and crowded in behind us and on all sides.
The peasants were in the center, shielded by eight hundred surviving dragoons, and the enemy medieval footmen weren't making much progress against the case-hardened steel and flashing hooves of the Victorian heavy cavalry... but for every one my horsemen killed, three more popped up in his place. Dragoons went down—slowly, but steadily. They chopped and stabbed frantically, desperately outnumbered. The stones of the walls were flaking, but slowly; glancing back, I was seized with the sudden overwhelming fear that the soldiers of corruption would wipe us out before the wall crumbled. I turned, pulling out my clasp knife for whatever it was worth, and readied myself for a last-ditch fight.
Then, suddenly, a howl of fear and disgust erupted in the distance.
"What comes?" Frisson gasped.
"If it can affront such soldiers of sin," Gilbert said, blanching, "how can we stand against it?"
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