My Son, the Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  By that time, though, the black horse was almost to the gates. The dark-clad rider waved and shouted. The officer on the wall shouted back, raising his arm.

  “It’s him!” Saul cried.

  “Who?” Mama demanded.

  The gates groaned open, and the rider reined in, dancing his horse to the side of the road. His sword flashed in the light of the fires as his men streamed past him.

  The mob saw the open gate and belled like hounds sighting a fox. They actually crowded aside to let a few riders pass, and half a dozen horsemen charged uphill. Arrows flashed, but fell short of the dark-clad men.

  On the wall, the officer shouted and swung his arm down. Catapults snapped, and fireballs arced through the air.

  The Moorish horsemen shouted and pulled up sharply. The fireballs crashed into the street before them, breaking apart into shards of blazing tow. The Moors hurdled them, rode between them, and charged uphill again. The footmen streamed after.

  The officer on the wall bawled again, raising his arm and chopping down. A flight of arrows sprang out, arcing toward the Moors. They saw in time and tried to back away, but the men pushing behind them prevented retreat, and half a dozen fell. So did two horsemen; the others bellowed in rage and charged at full gallop, hanging their bows on saddle hooks and drawing scimitars.

  The last of the dark-clad men ran through the gate, and the huge portals began to swing shut. The officer shouted and chopped with his arm again. Another flight of arrows sprang out. The Moors reined in, cursing, and the arrows fell short. They waited for the rest of their army to catch up—and another flight of arrows shot up. The Moors retreated beyond bowshot, but the dark-clad men scrambled up to the wall and loosed a hail of crossbow bolts. Two more Moorish horsemen fell; the others retreated farther, commanding the mob to halt. Reluctantly, they did, milling about, shaking their fists at the defenders, and cursing in Arabic and Berber.

  The black horse trotted up toward the castle, two knights of the guard escorting him.

  “Now we will learn who our unexpected ally is,” Mama said. “Can he really be the one who burned the ships?”

  “Only if he knows about Greek fire,” Saul answered.

  “I have heard of it,” Sir Gilbert said, “and if he is a knight, he may have, too. He may even know the making of it. He could be our firestarter, Lady Mantrell.”

  “How?” Saul challenged. “The line of fire came from the breakwater, not the docks.”

  “He is mounted,” Sir Gilbert said. “He could have set the flames, then ridden to join his men in the alleyways.”

  A cry of delight went up from the gatehouse, and the soldiers cheered as the black horse came riding into the bailey—a black horse with a knight in black armor.

  Saul stared. “It is him!”

  “Who?” Mama demanded. “May not I know him, when even your soldiers seem to?”

  “They do indeed,” Gilbert said, grinning from ear to ear. “Heaven be praised! I need no longer command this garrison! But how he knew of our plight I cannot guess.”

  “He knows everything that goes on in Europe, especially if it’s dangerous,” Saul said. Then, as the rider came trotting up below them, he told Mama, “Let’s go downstairs—I want to introduce you. This is Sir Guy Toutarien, the Black Knight, and one of your son’s strongest allies.” He started down the stairs, calling, “Hail, Sir Guy! Come on and meet the family!”

  The Pyrenees loomed high in front of the army by the time Doman caught up with them. One sentry ran ahead to tell the queen of his coming; two others escorted him in.

  “Well done, faithful servant!” she said, and the soldier glowed with praise from his sovereign. She asked, “Was your passage dangerous?”

  “I went as secretly as I could, Majesty,” he answered, “but by sunset of my first day, they were on my trail—how, I do not know.”

  “A rider coming from Bordestang and following my army would be cause enough for their concern.” But her brow creased with concern of her own. “What manner of hounds did they set on your trail?”

  What could Doman say? A giant rat wasn’t a hound. Of course, there had been hounds of a sort, and Doman shuddered at the thought of the huge things, heads tall as his horse’s shoulder, with eyes glowing red as fire—but with dark green scales instead of fur, and beaks instead of muzzles. They had run on all fours like dogs, but huge leathery wings had unfolded from their backs as they had sprung into the air to search for him. He had taken cover at the first sound of their strange cries, half bay and half crow, and lay huddled in a thicket holding Bubaru’s nose desperately closed. The horse kept trying to tug its head free, eyes wide and rolling with fear, but Doman hung on with a death grip. He was very glad that he had waded a hundred feet down every stream he’d come to.

  Bubaru jerked its head, frightened by the strange creatures—Doman wondered if it could smell them, or if it was taking fright from sight alone. Certainly that was horrifying enough. If the horse whinnied, they were lost...

  But Doman kept firm hold over its muzzle, and the horse gave only a grunt or two. The lizard-hounds didn’t hear; they banked away and flew off into the night, their strange cries dwindling behind them.

  And, of course, Doman remembered the beauiful spirit and her command to tell no one of their encounter—so when the queen seemed concerned about his journey, all Doman could say was “It had its worrying moments, Your Majesty, but I am come safely to bring you the message that Lady Mantrell sends.”

  Alisande frowned at the title—it reminded her of an oversight—but said, “Speak.”

  “Your castle stands,” Doman recited, “but hundreds of Moorish ships have come sailing into Bordestang’s harbor, bringing thousands of soldiers to besiege your city. More come every day.”

  “A siege!” Alisande stared, thunderstruck, and in an instant the strategy was clear to her. “They waited until my army and I were gone, then struck!”

  She didn’t ask how the ships had come so far without hindrance—she saw that clearly, too, and knew with bitter certainty that she must build a fleet, and quickly.

  But if the Moors’ strategy was clear, so was her own, and her obligation to her countrymen. Her heart twisted within her as she realized what she must do, and that she must leave Matt and his father to fend for themselves.

  Her face became a granite mask. “Turn the army! We must march back toward Bordestang, and quickly!”

  “Return to Bordestang?” Her aide, Lord Gautier, stared. “Why, Majesty? Surely the castle can hold long enough for us to put paid to these Moors!”

  “They are doughtier soldiers than you know, my lord, and there are very many of them,” Alisande replied. “They might occupy us for a very long time—but that is of little consequence. What matters most is that, by returning, we may catch one army of Moors between the city and our ranks.”

  Her aide’s eyes widened. “Why, so we may! Surely King Rinaldo can wait a few days longer for our rescue!”

  Again, foreboding shadowed Alisande. It was excellent strategy on the Mahdi’s part, to prevent her from coming to Rinaldo’s aid. She wondered if he might really manage to conquer northern Ibile while she countermarched to save her capital, and if his armies might then prove too strong for her.

  Her face stayed frozen while she told Lord Gautier, “Our obligation is to Merovence first, and our more important foes are those already on our own soil. Time enough to keep other enemies from crossing the Pyrenees when we have routed those already here.”

  “Of course!” her aide cried. “Why did I not see it? We may strike down tens of thousands of them, and there will be that many fewer to fight in Ibile!”

  “We cannot let the chance pass us by.” Sudden anxiety twisted Alisande’s heart again. “But O, my husband! How shall he fare?”

  “The Lord Wizard?” Lord Gautier stared. “How could we help him, Majesty? He has gone to face the paynim with only his magic for his strength!”

  “But he may be relying upon my army
to rescue him, if he encounters magic too strong for him!”

  “Magic too strong for the Lord Wizard?” Lord Gautier exclaimed in disbelief. “Majesty, he has always been able to spell his way out of any trap into which he has fallen!”

  Alisande’s anxiety abated a little. “There is some truth in that...”

  “Great truth, be sure! Lord Matthew has a knack of summoning up whatever sort of magical friend he needs, to face any given crisis.” He smiled. “Rather, ask how we will manage without his aid!”

  Alisande wished he hadn’t brought up that point. “We can, at least, send a messenger to tell him what we do! See that this courier who brought the news is given meat, ale, and rest, then send him after the Lord Wizard!”

  “Majesty, I shall.” Her aide bowed. “I know it is useless to tell you not to be concerned for your husband, but I shall say it anyway. No matter what his danger, the Lord Wizard shall prevail.”

  “I hope you are right, my lord.” But Alisande wondered just what kind of predicament Matt would get himself into this time. Considering that his goal was to meet the Mahdi, she was more afraid of his succeeding than of his failing.

  “That’s the Mahdi’s camp?” Matt stared down, appalled at acre after acre of campfires.

  “Surely you are not surprised!” Lakshmi boomed. “You knew his armies were mighty, did you not?”

  “Yeah, but not so close! I mean, this is just on the other side of the Pyrenees!” Matt glanced back at the bulk of the mountains, looming huge in the darkness, black against the stars. “I didn’t know they’d marched this far! Weren’t they supposed to be attacking the north?”

  “They did, then gave over that campaign quite suddenly, to march east to this camp. Did you not know all of Ibile is theirs, save the northeast?”

  “Only the northeast, now? I thought it was the whole north! So the whole point of the attack was to secure this base, huh? But why?”

  “Perhaps the Mahdi is more concerned about the Queen than the King of Ibile,” Papa offered.

  “Really reassuring,” Matt growled. “I’m beginning to have a very bad feeling about this.”

  “I shall leave you and be done!” Lakshmi declared. “Where would you stand?”

  “Well, facing the Mahdi, of course!” Matt said. “That’s what we’ve come for, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps just outside his tent,” Papa suggested, “so that his guards may announce us.”

  “Announce you? They would slay you on the spot!” Lakshmi told him. “If you would meet the Mahdi, then meet him you shall!” She caught them to her and began to spin around and around, chanting a verse in Arabic, becoming translucent, then transparent, then a whirlwind. Matt shouted in protest as the wind that had been Lakshmi whirled him about and about, and the whole world became a blur of darkness streaked with orange light.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Matt’s stomach churned even faster than the whirlwind. “Somebody stop the merry-go-round!”

  “Close your eyes!” Papa shouted.

  Matt squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Papa was right and that it would help the motion sickness. He wished for a Dramamine, but had sense enough not to say it out loud.

  Then the ground jarred up against his feet, canvas was flapping about him, and he spun one last time, then fell over. Dizzy and seasick, terrified that enemies might jump him, he tried to push himself to his feet, groping for his sword hilt.

  Sure enough, rough voices shouted, and rougher hands clamped down on his own. Somebody snatched the sword hilt out from under his hand; somebody else yanked his arms up high behind his back. He bent forward, still trying to struggle up from his knees.

  “No more!” a clear tenor commanded. “I must speak clearly with men who come by such magic as this!”

  Finally Matt’s vision cleared, and he found himself staring at a Persian carpet. Panting, he glanced around frantically and saw Papa kneeling, bent forward, arms forced up behind his back by a robed and turbaned African. Matt felt massive relief that Papa was okay, or at least no worse off than he himself. He resisted the urge to transport them both out of there with a spell. After all, he’d worked very hard to come here, hadn’t he? He turned his gaze forward and stared up at the figure reclining before him in a sea of cushions.

  “I am Tafas bin Daoud,” the young man said. “Who are you, and how have you come here?”

  Matt stared, and had to suppress an urge to call the roll. The kid looked scarcely old enough to have graduated from high school. He was slender and fine-featured, with dark skin, a high forehead, straight nose, and smooth cheeks—either he had a really excellent barber, or he had just had this week’s shave. But his chin was strong, the set of his mouth was determined, and his eyes flashed with a lively and curious intelligence. Somehow, Matt felt certain he would have been an ideal student in an American university.

  But he wasn’t in a classroom; he was in a tent big enough to be a small house, with tapestries hanging as partitions between rooms and big, stern-faced men in turbans and robes watching him with eagle eyes over hawk noses, hands fingering the hilts of scimitars and curved knives. Some of them were very dark-skinned, some light, some every gradation between; some were clearly Africans and some equally clearly Arabs. Some wore mustaches, some were clean-shaven—but all looked ready to kill Matt on the spot. They were only waiting for the Mahdi’s nod—and he was only waiting to hear what these strangers said.

  Matt had better make it good.

  “Good evening...” Matt wondered about the form of address, and settled for “...Lord Tafas. I am Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence.” He snapped a glare over his shoulder at the man holding him. The soldier stared in surprise; his hold loosened for a second, and Matt forced himself to his feet. “May I introduce my father, Ramón, Lord Mantrell.”

  Papa looked up, eyebrows raised at the title.

  The Mahdi’s eyes widened. “Ramón? You are of Ibile?” He finally seemed to notice Papa’s indelicate position and waved impatiently at the guard holding him. “Let him stand—we must honor enemies of such caliber.”

  The guard reluctantly let Papa up, but kept hold of his hands.

  “I am not of Ibile, Lord Tafas,” Papa said, “but my grandfather was. He crossed the Pyrenees in his youth to escape an evil tyrant.”

  “Gordogrosso.” Tafas nodded. “Yes, the sage could not bid us march against Ibile until that corrupted king’s vicious force was gone.”

  Matt thought of explaining that Papa had been talking about Franco, not Gordogrosso, but decided to let it pass.

  “So now you come to reclaim your father’s estate,” the Mahdi inferred.

  “No, Lord Tafas, we come to protest servants of the same God fighting one another.”

  The kid on the throne stared, amazed by Papa’s audacity. So did Matt, though he’d been planning to say the same thing. The guards and officers around the room muttered in anger.

  Tafas turned to Matt. “Do you, too, wish to follow your father’s cause?”

  “Of course.” This wasn’t the time to explain who was following whom. “But at the moment, Lord Tafas, I’m astounded that you have come so far from Gibraltar so fast.”

  Tafas waved the hidden compliment away. “These cowards of Ibile do not even stay to fight—they are gone before our army so much as sees their towns.”

  So King Rinaldo was evacuating the towns that he knew he couldn’t defend, and avoiding a pitched battle. Wise. Probably overly cautious in getting the civilians out—Tafas’s troops seemed to be tightly disciplined—but soldiers on campaign had reputations for their dealings with civilians, so Rinaldo was probably wise. Besides, though most Muslims didn’t convert people by the sword, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t start, and there were always people hungry for martyrdom.

  It also smacked of Rinaldo’s gathering his forces. He wondered what the King of Ibile was planning.

  Tafas’ turn. “By what magic have you come here?”

  “Oh, that?”
Matt tried to be nonchalant. “A djinna gave us a ride.”

  A murmur of surprise and wariness passed through the tent, and Tafas stared, a piercing look that seemed to go right through Matt. The young man asked, “A djinna? A female of the djinn? They are rarely seen!”

  “Yes,” Matt agreed, “but very much worth the seeing. Seemed to be powerful enough, too.”

  “How did you compel one of the djinn?” the Mahdi asked, wide-eyed.

  “I didn’t.” Matt shook his head. “Just the other way, in fact. Her mortal master sicced her on me, sent her to try to kill me, so I had to free her from his spell in self-defense.”

  The murmur was one of awe and fear now, and Tafas exclaimed, “Freed her? But a djinna must have been compelled by the Seal of Solomon!”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Matt said. “I mean, once you seal a djinni in a bottle with the Seal of Solomon, he stays there—and if you let him out, he’s a wild force. No, tying djinn to lamps and rings and such is another spell entirely.”

  The whole crowd stared. Even Tafas seemed suddenly nervous. “You are indeed a master of magic, are you not?”

  For the umpteenth time, Matt felt like an absolute charlatan. He’d been studying everything he could find about the lore of magic ever since he’d come to Merovence, but still felt that he barely knew how much he didn’t know, and it didn’t help to remember that every brand-new Ph.D. in any field of study felt the same way. But in this universe, poetry was magic, and he did know verse. “Let’s say I’m an apt student.”

  “Surely if you can loose the djinn from their bonds of magic, you are a master, not a student!”

  “Well, yes, but we’re never done learning, are we?”

  “Are we not?” Tafas asked, round-eyed, and watching him, Matt could see that the so-called Mahdi had just absorbed something vital—and had suffered a major blow to his overconfidence.

  Suddenly, Matt felt vastly wiser than the boy, and very, very old. “No one can make you keep learning, milord—but I’ve seen people who stopped. They grow stiff and narrow in their minds; they see less and less of the world around them, and never realize that it has changed since they were young, when everything was new and they delighted in each discovery. After a while, they grow so bored with life that they start wanting to die.”