“War always has a bad effect on crop yield,” Papa said.
Callio swallowed heavily and asked nervously, “What of the dragon?”
“Oh, he’ll be okay,” Matt said. “He’ll find something to eat, even if it’s only a mountain goat—but if it really does rain, he’ll find a cave for the night.”
“He will not come back to sleep in the mill?” Callio asked, relieved.
Matt shook his head. “Can’t get him through the doorway. He might try the stables back there in town, especially if they left a horse or two—but he won’t come back here until morning.”
“A lonely night for him,” Callio sighed.
“He’s used to it,” Matt said. “Dragons are basically solitary creatures. Oh, they like company, but they don’t feel they have to have a whole herd around them.”
“Unlike people?” Papa asked, smiling.
“We do seem to be social creatures,” Matt said. “Maybe that’s why empty towns are so depressing.”
“Places where the flock used to be, but is no longer?” Papa nodded. “There is sense to that.”
Thinking of the emptiness of the land loosed a tide of melancholy. Matt laid down his empty bowl and glowered into the fire. “Haven’t done much, have we? Most of Ibile is still a conquered Moorish province, its people fled to rally to their king.”
“True, but the Mahdi isn’t marching against that king yet,” Papa protested. “He has only mounted a diversion, then turned to camp by the Pyrenees.”
“Only because he’s waiting to fall on my wife as she comes out of the mountains with every soldier she’s got!”
Callio stared, wide-eyed and chewing, wondering what he’d wandered into.
“Meanwhile, Bordestang is besieged, and I’ve left my poor little mother to try to defend it!”
“Your ‘poor little mother’ is a holy terror, if she is angered,” Papa reminded, “and this war is scarcely begun. Be of good cheer, my son—it is not that you have lost, but that you have only begun to fight.” Papa clapped him on the shoulder. “You must not blame yourself when you have done nothing to deserve it.”
“I know,” Matt mumbled, but he stared into the fire anyway, feeling the melancholy descend further.
“There is no cause for such darkness of the heart,” Papa said softly, “and this mood has come very suddenly, suspiciously so. Might it not be a spell cast by an enemy?”
“Yes, it could!” Matt sat bolt upright, staring as though he’d never seen flames before. “Try to bury me under depression, will he? We’ll see how far he gets with that!”
They talked for half an hour longer, Matt trying very hard to be cheerful—but when he lay down, sorrow still tugged at his heart, and with it, fear. As his eyes closed, he couldn’t stave off the feeling of failure. Okay, so he was up against insurmountable odds—but even so, he had to be doing awfully poorly if the only ally he could find was a thief too inept to make a peacetime living, and too insecure to bury his loot when the countryside was deserted. So it wasn’t surprising that, when his eyes did close, he should dream of an empty land, bone-dry and breathless, under a lowering sky that darkened and deepened with a feeling of doom about to fall, the sun searing mercilessly in front of that purpling background. Maybe it wasn’t even surprising that bare bones should begin to rise from that dead land, rise and pull themselves together, until a nightmarish horde of skeletons came plodding toward Matt, skeletons of extinct rhinoceroses, chalicotheres, giant lizards, and even a few Neanderthals. We are the dead, they seemed to chant. We are what you shall become very soon. Welcome among us, for you shall never leave.
Matt screamed denial inside his head, but he couldn’t let the sound out, couldn’t utter, because he didn’t seem to have a body, was only a point of consciousness that the skeletons approached with a steady and inexorable tread.
Then a shout sounded behind him, hooves beat a tattoo, and an armored figure on a spavined horse sped past him. A broken, poorly mended lance dropped down.
The army of skeletons all turned their plodding gait toward the horseman, their very postures threatening to grind him beneath their hooves, their feet—but the broken lance touched the first bony mastodon, and it exploded into a shower of ivory. The horseman swerved, riding a great circle through the horde, and wherever his lance touched, bones shot into the air to fall as they had been before Matt saw them.
Then out he came at a wobbling gallop, turned his nag for another charge—and the half of the horde that was left turned and fled, bones clanking and clacking in their hurry.
One skeleton, though, somehow flew with no skin—its structure showed it to be a pterodactyl. It banked, turning back, and struck at the knight with a cawing shriek that extended into the sound of nails on glass as it flew apart, its bones raining down—but the knight swayed in the saddle.
Quicker hooves sounded, and a short, chubby man on a donkey galloped past Matt’s viewpoint to pull up beside the swaybacked nag. The knight leaned and fell, his brazen wide-brimmed helmet flying away, but the chubby man caught him and somehow bore up under the weight of his armor.
With the helmet gone, Matt could see that the knight’s hair was snowy white. He muttered his thanks to his squire and clambered back into the saddle. The squire turned the donkey and trotted after the helmet, and the knight turned to Matt. “You need not thank me, señor—it is I who must thank you, for an opportunity to strike a blow for Right and Goodness!”
Now Matt could see his face clearly. He was old and wrinkled, his beard sparse and patchy, his armor dented and rusty—but his eyes were young, and alight with zeal.
“No, it is I who must thank you, milord.” Matt tried to bow. “You have saved me when fear and self-doubt had paralyzed me.”
“Never doubt yourself!” the old knight said sternly, jamming his lance into its stirrup. “If you fight for Right and Good, your arm will always be strong, your sword keen! You may be struck down, but you shall rise again! You may lose the battles, but you shall win the war!”
And in Ibile rather than Spain, Matt reflected, the old cavalier was probably right. But how had a fictitious character from his own universe come to be in this one?
He was in Matt’s dream, of course. No doubt Matt had brought him along, unknowing, waiting to be needed—as he surely had been now. The idea seemed somehow wrong, but it would do for the time being.
“Never fear,” the old knight counseled, “or rather, pay no attention to your fears. No man can help being afraid now and again, but he can take that fear as a blow struck against him, and parry it, block it, let it serve only to inspire him to strike back with greater strength, to bend his mind more sharply to outwitting the enemy.”
“Yes, my lord.” Matt felt humbled and exalted at the same time.
“You must never cease to strive,” the old knight told him. “The good fight is worth fighting for itself, even if one loses.” A sudden grin broke the old leathery countenance into wrinkles of delight. “Besides, one always might win.”
“As I am sure you will.” Inspiration struck. “Could I ask you to help me, my lord? The paynim strike against the heart of Ibile, even to the mountains, even to the rivers of the north! The rightful king gathers his people there to make one last stand. With your arm to aid us, we might yet prevail!”
“A quest!” the old knight cried joyfully, and turned to his squire, who came riding up with the brass helmet. “Old friend, once again we ride on a quest!”
The squire grinned from ear to ear. “More misadventures!” He handed the helmet up to his knight.
The old knight clapped it on his head and turned back to Matt. “Be assured that we shall aid, señor—if we can only think how!”
“I am sure that you shall, my lord,” Matt said, grinning. “You never fail to be inspired with new blows to strike against the enemies of Right!”
“I shall ride through men’s dreams, I shall inspire women to esteem themselves!” The broken lance suddenly dipped, and Matt tried t
o flinch away, but its tip touched him somehow. Fear and melancholy vanished as the old knight intoned, “You, too, must believe in your own worth! The world falters, the world totters, and it is you who must brace it up! No, do not flinch away in false modesty, for I know you are equal to this task!” Then the old knight’s eyes seemed to expand; everything outside them became indistinct, and the rusty voice echoed in Matt’s head. “Awake now, freed from self-doubt and feelings of doom impending! Shoulder the world, and be glad of your purpose!” The slight pressure vanished, and Matt knew the lance had lifted, but the light old eyes still commanded every iota of his attention as the old knight intoned, “Awaken! Awaken in every fiber of your being; awaken in hope and in zeal!” Then the light eyes expanded still further until they were all that Matt could see; they turned blue, the pale blue of earliest dawn, a paleness that became tinged with rose at one side, tinged then swept with rays of gold, and Matt blinked, realizing that he was staring at the morning sky through the window of the mill, and that somehow the night had ended.
He levered himself up on one elbow and saw the campfire, bright and smokeless, with Papa watching a steaming bucket and toasting wheat cakes in the cracked skillet. He looked up, anxious, concerned. “Good morning, my son.”
Matt blinked, then smiled. “Good morning, my father.”
The concern lightened a little, and Papa asked, “Have you found a cure for your melancholy?”
Matt looked about him, and was amazed that the inside of the mill looked so bright, so golden. He was filled with elation, with a bubbling enthusiasm. He remembered the Mahdi, the towering djinn, the acres and acres of Moorish troops—but somehow he was sure that all these things would pass, that he and his family, and all the good folk of Ibile and Merovence, would still be standing and triumphant when they did. He turned back to Papa, grinning. “No. The cure found me.”
Unfortunately, the world wasn’t the only thing that was still with them—so was Callio. Papa generously slid pancakes onto the thief’s plate—he had saved one of his own, as well as a cup and spoon, out of his loot; the three were only wooden, so their owners hadn’t bothered taking them along. But when they had finished breakfast, washed their tableware, drowned the fire, and started hauling the hams out of the water trough and into the sunlight, Callio bent to help with a will. “Why do we set them outside? Ought we not to put them in my cart, so we can take them with us?”
“We’re not going far,” Matt told him, and they went back for a second load.
When they finished hauling, Callio was still tagging merrily along.
“I think we have gained a mascot,” Papa muttered, not entirely happily.
“Don’t worry,” Matt muttered back out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s bound to take off when he sees Stegoman again.”
“I think the dragon has seen us.” Papa nodded at the sky.
There, gilded by the morning rays, soared a creature that might have been an eagle, if it hadn’t been so long-necked. Callio came up with them, following their gazes, interested. “Is it a swan?”
“A little larger than that,” Matt explained. “He just looks smaller because he’s so far away.”
Callio’s eyes widened, and dread began to show. He backed away as the flyer banked, sliding lower and lower in a spiral, swelling into the form of a dragon, and Stegoman landed in a shower of dust.
“Good morning, High Rider,” Matt said with a grin—a grin because he’d noticed that Callio was no longer beside him. “How was the hunting?”
“I found a mountain goat just before the light left the hill-tops,” Stegoman grumbled. “He was small and tough. I am hungry, Matthew.”
“Help yourself.” Matt gestured at the hams, then stepped back. Stegoman stepped forward, lowering his head, and started gulping. Five minutes later, he sighed and nodded. “Well done. I shall be content for the day now. Will you fetch your packs and mount?”
“We’ll be glad to,” Matt said. “Thanks for the invitation.”
They went back inside the mill, and Matt found himself suddenly wondering if their belongings would be where they’d left them—but he did Callio an injustice; everything was there. They left the mill with their packs on their backs, then realized that their footsteps had developed an odd echo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Matt turned around, holding out a hand. “Well, Callio, it’s been nice meeting you. Have a nice trip.”
“Why, thank you, Lord Wizard!” Callio seized his hand and began pumping. “It’s so good of you to invite me!”
“Sarcasm is sometimes ill placed, Matthew,” Papa muttered in an undertone.
Even more silently, Matt cursed his own stupidity. In desperation, he said, “Oh, how silly of me! I can’t invite you—I’m not the one who’d be carrying you!” He looked up at the dragon and shook his head as he said, “Stegoman, you don’t really want to carry one more, do you?”
His heart sank when the dragon didn’t answer, but studied Callio long and hard.
Callio, no doubt wondering whether he’d been added to the menu, began to back away.
“There is a need to bring him,” the dragon rumbled. “I sense a rightness in his joining us.”
Callio looked relieved, then realized that he might have been dropped from the menu only to be put in the larder.
“Are you sure?” Matt wasn’t used to Stegoman having hunches.
“I know not how or why, only that he must come with us,” Stegoman said slowly. “But know, slight man, that your cart must stay here.”
Callio’s face twisted in agony.
“Yeah, can’t be without that,” Matt said quickly. “How would you carry your loot? But you can’t pack a cart on top of a dragon, not with three men along. Too bad, Callio. Guess you’ll have to stay here. Good meeting you, though.” He turned away to Stegoman—fast.
“If I must do without it, I must,” Callio cried. “I shall come, Lord Wizard!”
Matt slowed and muttered something under his breath.
“No, no, Matthew, he is only a thief,” Papa said, grinning. “I am sure he will prove invaluable in helping us find dinner. Let us accept your scaly friend’s invitation, and fly.”
Apparently Callio hadn’t really thought out the flying part. He clung to a back-plate, staring down in terror, rigid as a board the whole way. Matt’s reassurance that he wouldn’t let the thief fall didn’t seem to console him much.
“It is better if you don’t look down,” Papa said helpfully.
Callio tore his eyes away from the ground and stared ahead. “I would never have dreamed that I would ride a dragon!”
“Takes a little getting used to,” Matt called over the roar of the wind. “Just be glad he’s flying low.”
To be on the safe side, he touched his purse. Yes, it was still there. He tucked it down inside his hose and called, “Papa, how many fingers do you have?”
Saul and Mama patrolled the battlements, fidgeting. “Anyway, it’s quiet, Lady Mantrell.”
“Yes. That worries me.” Mama frowned. “I would expect them to attack now and then from sheer boredom, if nothing else.”
“Well, they’ve tried all the basic assaults and found that they don’t work. Sooner or later, every siege boils down to sitting still and trying to wait out the defenders.”
“But not so soon,” Mama said. “It has scarcely been a fortnight. Perhaps we should have men stab the earth with rods, all around the inside of the wall.”
“Checking for miners, you mean? Good thought.” Saul frowned. “Seems as though we ought to be able to do better than that, though. Maybe a magical equivalent of sonar...”
“Yes, and a warding spell! You can make a magical fence, no?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s fairly easy—but it’s also easy to bypass, since every magician knows about it.”
“But if they are stopped by a warding spell underground, they will not be looking for your alarm system! They will bypass the wards, but we will still know they are c
oming!”
“Great idea.” But Saul eyed Mama warily. “You have problems with home security?”
“No, I have Ramón,” Mama said absently. Her brows were knit; she was still worrying over some problem.
“What’s bothering you?”
“The commander of this assault,” Mama said.
“You mean the guy with the big gaudy turban and the huge gaudy pavilion? What about him?”
“He is too obvious,” Mama said, “and he is a general. Sorcerers began this war—does it not make sense that sorcerers would still command it?”
And Saul had thought he was paranoid! On second thought, maybe he was—Mama was just being rational, given the circumstances. “Why do you think there has to be a ruler behind the ruler, milady? Why won’t the obvious do?”
“Because we deal with a wily enemy, one who specializes in feints and diversions,” Mama said. “His drawing Alisande away from the city before the attack shows that—and his soldiers descending in force the day after she was gone. Additionally, he must know we have sent couriers after her and, even if his minions stop the riders, that we have magical means of sending. Would he not fear that she would turn back and attack him from the rear?”
“It makes sense, now that you mention it,” Saul said slowly, “but I would keep on going, trusting my castellans to hold the city for me.”
“You are not a general, though. We must ask Sir Guy. Before that, however, humor me, Saul—make your gazing bowl again and tell it to show us who truly commands this army.”
Saul looked down at her a moment, considering. She hadn’t been wrong yet, and she was a scholar who had read virtually all the medieval literature there was, with its descriptions of treacheries and double-dealing. Somehow, he didn’t doubt her hunches. “Right away, Lady Mantrell.”
So he filled the bowl, made the passes, and chanted the spell, then told the water,
“Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem,
A show of things that only seem.
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