“Almost?” Papa asked, still sadly smiling.
“Almost,” Lakshmi confirmed. “To a djinna who has only now regained her freedom, a bond smacks too much of bondage. Does it not chafe you? Do you not long for freedom?”
“There was a year or two when I did,” Papa admitted, “but even then, I wished even more to be with my Jimena. For all the rest of my married years, I have scarcely missed my freedom at all, for I have treasured my love far more.”
Lakshmi shivered. “Yes, I wish I could know such a feeling,” she said slowly, “but not for long. Still, that is not possible, is it?”
Papa shook his head, eyes glowing. “If it is only for a short time, it cannot give the warmth and closeness and delight of which I speak. Do not misunderstand me—there is great pleasure in falling in love for a few months, even a few years—but it is a different sort of delight entirely.”
“Oh, a pox upon it!” Lakshmi jammed her fists on her hips, stamping her foot.
Matt had to catch his breath all over again at the vividness her anger gave her.
“It is disgusting, it is outrageous, and I must be done with it!” Lakshmi threw an arm around Papa, growing as she did, so that it only took her one step to seize Matt in her other arm. She continued to grow, swelling into a giant again, the men clasped to her bosom like toddlers as she sprang into the air. Her contralto deepened to basso, almost too deep to hear. “I shall take you to the Mahdi, and be done with you for once and for all! When you have come to your goal, you shall have no need to travel where I may see you!”
Behind them, a roar of outrage split the night with flickering flame.
“Follow, dragon!” the djinna called. “But do not land within the ranks of the Moors, for they are desert folk, and may take a fancy to reptile’s flesh!”
Somehow, her expansion in size killed off Matt’s lust completely; she no longer seemed human. He glanced down past the huge curve of her bosom to the ground far below and swallowed heavily. He hoped she was still enough enamored of him to hold tightly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Go with God, and good luck ride with you!” Sir Gilbert clapped each man on the shoulder.
“Thank you, sir,” each said. Then the postern gate opened, and Marl, Hode, and Doman led their horses out into the night, mounted, and sped away under the stars, with Bordestang and its castle between themselves and the Moors.
At the foot of the slope they came to a crossroads. Hode rode to the left, to join the river upstream, following it away from the Moorish army. Doman turned to the right, riding toward the distant bulk of the forest, and Marl rode straight ahead, down a road that would curve east, then south toward the mountains.
Marl rode through the night, rested in the morning, then rode through the afternoon. He slept that night, then rode out again at sunrise. The Pyrenees were a dark line on the horizon ahead when he came to the fork in the road, and the Moorish patrol emerged from behind a roadside thicket to surround and imprison him.
Hode rode along the river through the night, kept riding after dawn, then dismounted, hid, ate, and slept in the afternoon. He began his ride again in the evening, and came to the forest as the day was breaking. He slept in a thicket at the edge of the trees and woke at sunset. He came out of the thicket, leading his horse, and found the boat waiting. He froze in surprise, and the soldiers stepped out from behind trees to surround him. One look at their conical helmets, and he knew he had failed.
Doman rode through the night but, when the sky lightened, drew off to find a hiding place, chewing hardtack as he searched. He slept in a barn and woke at dusk, saddled his horse, and rode on through the night, munching his hard biscuits on horseback whenever he grew hungry. He rode around the forest in the dark until he came to a road that led east, and followed it until dawn, when he hid and slept again. When he woke, he heard hooves approaching, and had just time enough to soothe his horse Bubaru and hold its mouth shut while voices spoke in foreign words outside the cave in which they’d hidden. When the hoofbeats faded into the distance, he came out and rode again.
The third night found him in the mountains. He was climbing a mountain path scarcely four feet wide when a giant rat came scuttling out of the rocks ahead. Bubaru shied from the creature, and only hauling savagely on the reins and kicking with the off-side spur kept him from going over the edge. Then the horrible rodent ran at them, baring long, slimy teeth, reaching high to bite the horse’s side, Doman’s leg, whatever it could reach. Again Doman spurred frantically to keep from going over the edge while he drew his sword and plunged it down the rat’s throat. The beast screamed, scrambling, but was dead as it fell over the cliff, almost dragging Doman with it—but he had the presence of mind to let go of the sword at the last moment. He felt horribly vulnerable without it, but he was alive. Bubaru took a deal of calming, but finally they went on their way. Doman still trembled. Were such rats native to the mountains? He’d never heard of any. Or had a Moorish sorcerer set it to guard the passes? If so, did that sorcerer now know where Doman was?
“You’re borrowing trouble,” he scolded himself, and tried to shut off his thoughts as he rode on up the pathway through the night—but he couldn’t help thinking that he might switch to daytime riding now.
By the end of the week, an army of thirty thousand Moors was camped around Bordestang, with more arriving every day. Gilbert and Mama stood with Saul on the castle battlements, looking down over the capital at the new city of tents that had grown up past the frame houses beyond the wall. To their right, a dozen ships lay moored, having just disgorged their cargoes of men and horses. They would sail with the morning tide.
“They will stage their assault soon,” the young monk-knight said, “perhaps even tomorrow.”
“It’s a wonder they haven’t attacked already,” Saul said.
“They were wary,” Gilbert told him, “because we did not resist their coming ashore.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Mama said. “They fear a trap, do they not?”
“When they come and find the docks deserted, and all the houses outside the walls too? When they find their moorings ready and their quarters swept and waiting? Yes, I would be wary, too.”
“Which explains why they set up their tents instead of moving into the empty houses.” Saul nodded. “Too bad—we had some nice booby traps planted. So what makes you think they’re going to attack tomorrow?”
“It is in the air. Can you not feel it?”
“I can,” Mama said. “Their fear has faded. They know now that we cannot meet them in the open field, but must wait upon their siege.”
“And their scouts can find nothing to fear, no traps or spirit-weirs,” Gilbert agreed.
“Spirit-weir?” Saul looked up, interested. “What’s that?”
“A sort of trap for men’s enthusiasm.” Gilbert sounded surprised. “There is also a trap that gathers in ghosts, to loose them upon an enemy. I am astonished you did not know of these, Master Saul.”
“Hey, I’m always willing to learn.” Saul turned to watch the last fingernail of sun slip below the horizon. “You sure they’re going to attack tomorrow?”
Trumpets sounded in the distance. Deep-voiced drums rolled. The Moorish soldiers came riding to assemble in the plaza where the boulevard debouched onto the docks.
“I was mistaken,” Gilbert said. “They attack tonight! Beware sorcery, Master Saul. Why else would they charge at dusk?”
The first riders trotted into the boulevard as others were coming up from the plaza, while a steady stream of riders poured into it from the camp. The army rode up toward the town wall, four abreast.
As Doman rode down to the foothills, dirt and dust suddenly boiled in front of him. Bubaru shied, whinnying fear, and Doman clutched at his empty scabbard, heart racing. Then the dust cleared, and a huge man floated there before him, bare-chested, bearded, and turbaned, with legs tapering into a wisp. “Queen’s man, where do you go?”
“To—to join my queen
,” Doman stammered.
“What message have you for her?”
Doman thought fast. “That I am well at last, and able to fight with her troops!”
The genie drifted closer, looming over him with menace, glowering, and Bubaru shied again. The genie put out a huge hand that grew and grew on an arm that stretched around the horse’s rump to hold the horse in place as he demanded, “Empty your pouch!”
Doman stretched his arms wide, heart thumping, overwhelmingly glad that Lady Mantrell had entrusted the words to Doman’s memory and not to paper. “I bear none!”
“Your saddlebags, then!”
Doman took out journeybread and cheese, then turned the pouches upside down to show there was nothing more.
“Even so, why should I take a chance?” The genie scowled like a thundercloud. “Each soldier less is one more who cannot slay a Moor!”
Doman raised a hand to ward off any blow that might come and cried out the verse Lady Mantrell had given him, though the words made no sense to him.
“Whatever spirits aid Mantrell,
Come to me, and grief dispel!
Rescue me from hateful shades!
Ward me now from spells and blades!”
The chant had its effect, though—the genie halted and stared. “What good can the Queen’s Wizard do you? He is far from here!”
A gust of wind blew past Doman’s ear, and a huge but somehow feminine voice commanded, “Leave the boy, djinni!”
The genie stared up, awed. So did Doman, for he found himself gazing up and up past gauzy trousers that grew from a point to hint at perfectly tapering thighs swelling into the alluring curves of hips. He stared, astounded, past a magnificent bosom to a face that awed him with its beauty—and with its anger.
He wondered why he felt not the slightest ounce of desire.
“As you command, my princess!” The genie bowed and, bowing, disappeared.
The huge djinna glared down at little Doman. “Who bade you summon me with that verse?”
“The—the Lady Mantrell!” Doman stammered.
“His wife?” The djinna stared—then frowned. “Perhaps she knows more than a Christian should.” The huge face turned brooding for a moment. “Or a Muslim, for that matter—especially a spouse.” Then her eyes snapped as they focused on Doman again. “Begone, wretch! Do not recite that verse again—and tell no one that you have seen me!”
Gilbert grinned. “Their mounts will do them no good, in a narrow street facing a city wall. What do they think to do—stand on their saddles and leap to the top of a thirty-foot wall?”
All along the city ramparts, archers nocked arrows to their bowstrings. Other soldiers readied small catapults, while still others stood by with forked sticks to push away scaling ladders. Spears lay ready to hand in case some Moors actually managed to reach the battlements.
“A snake of fire!” Gilbert pointed toward the river.
Mama and Saul spun to look. A trail of flame ran along the surface of the water, blossoming into a fence of fire.
“It cannot be!” Gilbert cried. “Water cannot burn!”
A moan of fear went up from the soldiers on the battlements. Men crossed themselves.
“Water can’t burn, but something floating on that water can!” Saul grabbed the knight’s shoulder, pointing. “Can’t you see where it’s going?”
Gilbert gave a shout of delight, fear forgotten. “Toward the Moorish ships!”
The trail of fire expanded, mushrooming into a blazing lake that swallowed all the anchored ships. The few that were moored at the docks stood unscathed—until each exploded into flame.
“The Moors are burning their only escape!” Gilbert cried.
The sound reached them, and the town shook with the soft basso roar of the explosion. A cry of fear went up from the Moorish army, and the advance stalled as all men turned to watch the fire.
“No, it was not their doing,” Mama said. “They will blame us!”
“Hey, cool.” Saul grinned. “Let ’em think we’re that much more powerful, and that much more ruthless. The truth would just make them cocky.”
“There is truth in what you say,” Gilbert said, frowning, “but who did set that blaze?”
The Moors poured onto the docks. Buckets appeared, and they formed chains to try to drown the fire; each charred ship meant fewer reinforcements.
A brisk breeze sprang up, fairly sopping with humidity. Mama and Saul stared in surprise as storm clouds gathered over the burning ships. Then Mama cried, “The Moorish sorcerers! They seek to drown the blaze with rain!”
“Son of a gun!” Saul exclaimed in admiration. “Would I ever love to have those boys handy in a Nebraska summer!”
Mama frowned, concentrating, making shooing motions while she chanted. The clouds stopped moving together, hanging motionless. They darkened, and the rain-breeze freshened, sharpened. The first drops began to fall.
Mama scolded them sternly in Spanish, waving her hands, palms up.
The raindrops froze in midair. More and more fell, but held firm at an invisible line.
“Witch Doctor!” Gilbert caught Saul’s shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. “Look! At the edge of the crowd, there in the plaza!”
Saul looked, and saw, here and there, a Moor clutching his chest and falling from his horse. Their friends didn’t seem to notice—everyone was too busy trying to save the ships. “Who’re the snipers on our side, Gilbert?”
“None of our folk are down there, unless it be some householders who seek to protect their dwellings!”
But the Battle of the Fireships claimed Saul’s attention. He saw Mama clenching her fists, arms curved as though she were holding up a barbell. Drops of perspiration began to appear on her forehead.
Saul realized what she was doing. “You can’t hold a ton of water all by yourself, Lady Mantrell. We’d better slope the line, make it a roof.” He propped his fingers together like a rooftop and tried to think of a verse.
But Mama beat him to it. Her voice turned sonorous as she chanted in Spanish. Saul managed to pick out the words for “forbidding” and for “rain.” It gave him an idea.
“Get busy on a day that’s fair and bright,
And patch the old roof till it’s good and tight!
Then you’ll never have to worry,
And you’ll never have a pain—
Your roof will never leak no matter how much rain!”
The water began to flow down, running at an angle until it splashed into the river—fifty feet to each side of the ships.
The flames started to die down anyway.
“They are quenching the blaze by commands alone!” Mama cried.
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that,” Saul said, grinning, and recited,
“Fire answers fire, and through their pale flames
Each pyrotic sees the other’s umbered face:
Steel rasps on flint, and sparks dry wood ablaze.
Piercing the night’s dull ear, infernoes race.”
The fire billowed higher. For a split second, Saul saw a face in the flames, a familiar face whose eyes widened in amazement as it recognized Saul; then it was gone. The Witch Doctor cried out, then muttered to himself, “No, can’t be! He’s not a magus!”
The Moors seemed to have forgotten that the ships weren’t going to take them back; they churned into a shouting mob, pouring bucketful after bucketful onto the wharf-side ships.
Saul grinned and chanted,
“Pour it on, invincible!
But let it be immiscible.
Oil in water, though unseen—
Each bucket now pours kerosene!”
The ships exploded into flame, and the Moors staggered back with cries of distress, certainly never noticing that more and more of their mates lay dead on the fringe of the crowd with crossbow bolts in their chests.
“That’s not just a few outraged citizens, Gilbert,” Saul said, frowning. “I think we have some unexpected a
llies.”
“Yes, but can we afford allies we do not know?” Gilbert asked nervously.
“I know what you mean,” Saul said grimly. “I’ve had people pitch into a fight to help me out, but I wouldn’t have wanted to know them if I hadn’t been distracted at the time.” Then he noticed that the ship fires were starting to gutter. “I think you can let the rain come down now, Lady Mantrell. The ships have burned down to the waterline.”
Mama dropped her hands, trembling with relief, and gasped for air. “That was a heavy burden indeed!”
“Heavy, but very effective,” Saul assured her. “I just hope we like the guy who started those fires.” He frowned. “Can’t be who I think it is...”
A moan swept the Moorish ranks as they saw that their transportation was charcoal. They began to mill about, and the sound rising from their ranks was angry.
“Here we go.” Saul tensed. “Payback time.”
A howl of rage went up, and the mob surged toward the boulevard.
“They’ve found the dead bodies,” Saul said, leaning on a crenel to look, every muscle tense. “They’re chasing somebody!”
Shouting, the mob streamed into the boulevard, most of them on foot. The few horsemen couldn’t make much headway among all the infantry. Light gleamed off scimitars and spears, but the Moorish footmen could only come twelve abreast in the boulevard, and the whole front rank suddenly fell with crossbow bolts in their chests. The second rank tripped over them and went sprawling, then the third rank and the fourth. The mob stalled, milling and trying to sort themselves out with angry cries at one another.
A black horse burst from an alleyway and galloped uphill. A score of dark-clad men burst from the alleys and ran after it.
The Moors howled and scrambled over their fallen comrades. The second-rankers struggled frantically to their feet. Finally the whole mob was charging again.
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