“Why, that you have come too late,” Groldor told him. “Even now, that Mahdi comes to personal combat with your queen.”
Matt stared at him for a long minute of horror.
Then he grabbed the man by the hair and the bound wrists, ignoring his howl as he shouted, “Callio, hold tight! Princess, I’ll see you back home!
“Lalinga wogreus marwold reiger
Athelstrigen marx alupta
Harleng krimorg barlow steiger.”
The warehouse wavered around them, then turned into formlessness as the dizziness struck.
Of course, to the two conscious thugs, it was Matt, Groldor, and Callio who had turned formless, then disappeared. The two men stared, their injuries forgotten for the moment. Voice taut with pain, the left-hand guard asked, “You think we oughta tell the cops when they get here?”
“Hey, why not?” His partner shrugged, then winced at the pain it caused. “They wouldn’t believe us anyway.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The fleet of fishing boats waited until the morning tide to sail into the mouth of the river, then coasted upstream all day. Late in the afternoon they anchored, a day’s march from Bordestang. Rinaldo hoped the Moors wouldn’t have thought to have sentries watch the river. Just in case they had, though, he waited until after sunset. Then, when his own scouts reported no trace of enemy troops, the king gave the order to land, and the long process of ferrying men and horses to shore began.
It was the middle of the night by the time the whole of the little army was landed. Then, without waiting for sunrise, King Rinaldo gave the order to march. Slowly and with muffled curses, his men picked their way through the dark until they found a river road. Then, with many glances over their shoulders, wary of ghosts and other night walkers, they marched on down the road in the moonlight.
King Rinaldo hoped nobody was watching.
The sentry skidded to a halt by Saul’s chamber door, crying, “Witch Doctor, come quickly!”
“Why?” Saul bolted to his feet, leaving the ancient text he’d been trying to puzzle out. “What is it? More djinn?”
“No, my lord! It is the battlements themselves, the very stone! It has begun to flake and chip and fall away—and the mortar is loosening and trickling out!”
Saul gave an antiseptic curse and followed.
On the battlements, he found Mama already at work with a spell that was more of a song than a chant. As Saul came up, she finished and said, “I have bound their spells at least a little—the stone flakes more slowly. Can you think of a counterspell?”
“You stay with the competitive stuff,” Saul told her. “I’m better at being constructive.” He whipped a piece of string out of his pocket, tied the ends, and began to rig a cat’s cradle while he chanted,
“Weave the bonds about them tight,
The molecules of silicates,
The crystal lattice twisting light,
Valences umbilicate,
Edge to edge and plane to plane,
Renew the bonds between the atoms,
Strengthen them and let them gain,
Like chains of reason binding datums,
Countering spells and entropy.
Let this wall of durance be,
Blocks adamant and inchoate,
Integral, inviolate!”
Sir Gilbert stared. “Why do you play a child’s game as you cast your spell?”
“Because a cat’s cradle is a model of a crystal lattice,” Saul explained. “Each of the fingers is a molecule, see, and the string connecting them is an energy bond... Oh, never mind.”
“I see again why I have not attempted to learn magic,” Gilbert said, awed.
“You’d see it fast enough if I had time to start from the beginning.” Saul was piqued at his failure as a teacher. “If I could tell you what a molecule of salt is, and how it can bond to several others, but only at angles...”
“When we have won this war, then,” Sir Gilbert said hastily. “For now, it is enough to know that your strings hold the blocks of stone in place.”
“Too bad they didn’t do much for the cat,” Saul said.
Sir Gilbert frowned. “Which cat, Witch Doctor?”
“The one that wasn’t there,” Saul explained, “but that wasn’t the point, was it?”
Sir Gilbert asked, thoroughly confused, “Then what was?”
“That there was no cradle,” Saul answered. “In fact, nothing really existed except the uncountable molecules in a handful of dust—all the rest was energy.”
“Ah!” Sir Gilbert managed to get his chin above the depths long enough to catch a breath. “You mean that the Creator made everything from nothing, and made Man from dust! Moreover, that religion holds people together as with invisible bonds, to form a community!”
“That isn’t quite what I had in mind,” Saul said slowly, “but you’ve got the basic idea.” He turned away to the stones of the ramparts, feeling the need of a change of topic. “How’re we holding?”
“Quite well, now that you are done with your philosophical discourse,” Mama said. Her brow was bedewed with perspiration. “But look you, the Moors march!”
Saul turned to stare out beyond the walls of the city and, sure enough, the enemy army was pressing in from every side. Sir Guy was down on the city wall with a handful of junior knights, directing the defense. As they watched, soldiers wound a small catapult—but half-cocked, it suddenly fell apart. A cry of distress went up from a company of archers.
“I’d better get down there fast and see what’s going on,” Saul said.
There was a horse waiting, and the citizens had the good sense to get out of his way—very far out; they were already running for their houses to take cover. Saul reined in at the foot of the stair up to the ramparts of the city wall, threw the reins to a waiting soldier, and ran up two steps at a time. He grabbed a sergeant and demanded, “What’s going on?”
“This!” The sergeant lowered his pike and pointed to the head. It was freckled with spots of rust that multiplied even as Saul watched. “It spreads like rot in summer! The catapults fall apart as their fittings break; the arrows lose their heads!”
“I think I’ll let that one pass,” Saul muttered, then began to mime forging and dipping, chanting,
“Rust must every smith beware,
For moisture’s in the very air.
Since folks need water, can’t be rainless,
Chemists made a steel that’s stainless.”
A cheer went up from the archers. “I think you have succeeded, Witch Doctor,” the sergeant said.
“I’ll take what I can get,” Saul told him. “Tell the artillery-men they can start lobbing rocks again.”
Then a roar engulfed them, scaling ladders slammed against the wall, and the wave of Moors washed over them.
Saul, who never carried a sword, on general principles—the principle being that if he had one, he might use it—was very busy for a few minutes, repelling invaders with every karate technique he had ever learned and wishing he’d studied longer. He ducked a sword cut and winced as it hit another Moor, who howled and turned to slash at Saul.
“Hey, not me!” Saul cried. “Your buddy threw that cut!” He ducked another slash, then came up inside the Moor’s guard to hit him hard and fast in the solar plexus. The chain mail hurt like the very devil, but the Moor doubled over in silent agony, and Saul turned to kick another assailant out of the way long enough to whirl back and chop at the first attacker’s neck. The man fell, unconscious, and Saul yanked the light shield off his arm.
Someone struck him in the back.
He fell forward, struggling for breath and furious at the foul blow, then pushed himself over and up to swing the shield up just in time to deflect another sword cut, then caught his breath and pushed himself to his feet, shoving the edge of the shield into the attacker’s belly. The man doubled over, eyes bulging, mouth gaping in a scream that was lost in the melee, and fell. Saul saw a broken spear on the pave
ment, scooped up the butt, and jabbed it into the belly of an oncoming Moor, then knocked him aside with the shield and stepped forward.
Suddenly, there was the edge of the wall, pitted and scarred, a scaling ladder leaning on it. Saul set his spear half against the top rung and pushed just as another conical helmet poked above the rim of the stone. The Moor’s eyes were coming into sight as the ladder shot away from the wall, paused in balance a moment, then fell.
All along the wall, other defenders had managed to reach the ladders; they fell back one by one, with two or three Moorish soldiers on each, falling with howls and hideous curses—at least, Saul assumed they were hideous; he didn’t speak Arabic or Berber. He had a notion he was going to learn, though, and fast.
The battlements were clearing quickly as groups of three and four defenders closed on single Moors. The attackers fought valiantly but fell with Frankish steel in their ribs, or fell unconscious, fit to be tied. Saul winced and turned away from the sight.
He was just in time to see the Black Knight come striding up to him, breathing like a blast furnace. He swung his visor up and called, “We have won, Witch Doctor!”
“This assault, yes.” Saul turned to see the Moors regrouping beyond the walls. “They’ll try again in a few minutes. How long can we last, Sir Guy?”
“As long as we must,” the Black Knight grated.
But atop the castle wall, Mama was in her element, swaying as she chanted in Spanish. The world seemed not quite real as she told it how El Cid had led his men in defense of the city of Valencia. Tears ran from her eyes as she told of his death and his wife’s sorrow, then of her great self-denial as she ordered his body to be tied to his horse.
It worked far better than she could ever have imagined, for as the Moorish army threw itself forward in the charge, King Rinaldo led his own army over the ridge and down at the rear of Beidizam’s host. Beside him ran Papa, bawling in verse how El Cid led his army in capturing the city of Saragossa.
On the wall, though, a huge suckered tentacle suddenly shot up, waving, then slammed down, striking several soldiers aside and wrapping itself around another. A second tentacle joined it, and a third. They hoisted the body of the monster up; a yard-wide eye peered over the wall, and the soldiers howled in fear, backing away.
“What is it, Witch Doctor?” Sir Guy called.
“A devilfish!” Saul answered. “A giant squid! But how in blazes are they keeping it alive without water?”
“There are more!” a sergeant screamed. “One for each quarter of the wall!”
Then Saul realized that what mattered was that the devilfish was breathing air with no problems, and shrugged. If squids could breathe, whales could fly.
“Up the food chain go we gaily:
Every creature has its prey.
Life yields life to raptors daily.
Small mammals drained the dinos’ day.
The giant squid makes all turn pale,
But even krakens fear the whale.
Moby-Dick, arise and fly!
Sperm whales, come! Your dinner’s nigh!”
Shadows darkened the battlements, and Saul couldn’t tell whether the defenders or the Moors were screaming louder. Huge forms shot down out of the sky; gaping jaws closed on the bodies of the giant squids. Ink jetted, and the huge tentacles let go of the wall to wrap about the sperm whales. The attacking Moors slowed, then retreated as the monsters rolled on the fields outside the town.
Saul winced at the plight of the fish out of water. The heck with breathing—that tonnage had to fall in on itself, without water to support it.
“Embraced and beached, you’ll both die stranded!
Begone, get hence, to where no land is!
You’d better fear the summer’s sun,
And gravity’s full fateful rages!
You your landward tasks have done—
Now get you gone, or death’s your wages!
Whales and giant squids both ought ter,
As melting snowballs, turn to water!”
Sir Guy stared. “What was that?”
“Not my best,” Saul said sheepishly, “but I was copying from somebody good. Did it work?”
Huge sucking sounds burst from beyond the walls. Soldiers ran, craning over the crenels, crying, “They fade! They shimmer! They’re gone!”
“It worked,” Saul sighed. “My friends back home would never have talked to me, if I’d left a whale to die on the beach.”
“Still,” Sir Guy said judiciously, “it would have given us oil for our lamps for quite a...”
“You’ll have to use olives,” Saul snapped. “What are the Moors doing?”
Sir Guy stepped up to the crenels and stared. “They turn to fight another foe! Witch Doctor! We are rescued!”
Saul ran to stare, and saw a phalanx of knights charging full-tilt into the rear of the Moorish army. The one in the lead wore a crown around his helmet, and beside him, in hauberk and helm, was Papa, singing for all he was worth—off-key and hoarse, but loudly! The Moors, taken by surprise, turned to fight the new foe, but many, still intent on reaching the city, fought their own men, and for a few minutes the army boiled in disarray while the men of Ibile took advantage of the opportunity, laying about them with sword and mace, pike and halberd.
“Sally forth!” Sir Guy roared. “We have an ally! We must join him in the fray!”
The soldiers answered with a shout of glee and ran toward the gatehouse.
The drawbridge lowered, the portcullis shot up, and the front-rank Moors, not yet knowing what was happening a quarter-mile behind them, shouted triumph and charged. They crashed headlong into a line of full-speed knights, and though the Moorish cavalry may have had it all over the heavily armored knights in maneuverability, they were no match for tons of galloping steel head to head. Sir Guy and his knights bowled them over and plowed them under, ramming deeply into the enemy army before their advance slowed. Behind them came a thousand soldiers, hewing and stabbing with halberd and pike. The Moors gave ground—but at a relayed signal from Beidizam, the flanks suddenly stretched out and flowed forward, turning inward to engulf the defenders.
Then the gates of the city opened again, and Sir Gilbert came charging out with the reserves, to hit the Moorish line.
A few hundred Moors, thinking they saw a chance, galloped toward the open gate—but archers atop the wall rained arrows on them. Many fell, man or horse; the others turned to run, and took the opportunity to attack Sir Gilbert’s force in the rear.
The archers aimed and loosed, flight after flight, until Sir Gilbert’s rear was clear.
All of a sudden, the ground began to shake under Sir Guy’s force and under King Rinaldo’s, but not under the Moors’.
On the wall, Mama chanted in Spanish, and the ground stilled.
A dozen djinn appeared, reaching down to pluck individual soldiers one by one.
Mama’s chant changed, and the soldiers fell from nerveless fingers. The djinn howled with anger and turned, streaming toward the lone, lithe figure atop the castle wall.
In the midst of the battle, Papa looked up, saw his wife’s peril, and shouted out the verse his son had used on Lakshmi. The djinn shot upward, shouting in joy, then fell back to the battlements, shrinking to human size, and knelt in homage to Mama’s beauty. She stared, taken aback for a moment—but only for a moment. Then she began to ask a few favors of the free djinn.
Finally, King Rinaldo hewed his way through to the pavilion, and the Moorish commander turned at bay—but Papa looked up, startled, hearing a malicious chant. Eyes narrowed, he turned his horse to ride down upon Beidizam, singing the verses of the death of the traitor Gamelon.
Halfway there, an invisible fist struck him off his horse.
With a cry of victory, Beidizam stepped up, swinging a scimitar—and the Genie of the Ring, freed by Papa’s chant, boiled out of his confinement and struck his former master a blow that knocked him flat and senseless. Then the genie turned and bowed to Papa.
“I have returned your kindness, O Wizard. Call upon me for a reward of three wishes, when you know them.”
“The first is that you never slay or cause more pain than necessary, to any living creature!” Papa cried. “The second is that you make clear to these Moors that their battle is lost!”
The genie swelled, shooting up to tower twenty feet high. He surveyed the field from that vantage point, then turned his huge face down to grin at Papa. “There is no need to tell them that, honored sir, for they know it already.”
That evening, Papa strolled the battlements with his arm around Mama, looking out over the field where defeated Moors huddled over thousands of campfires, penned inside invisible walls raised by genie-magic. “You have defended the castle and capital most excellently, my love.”
“I thank you, mi corazón,” Mama said, “but I doubt we could have withstood this battle without your rescue.”
“Oh, you would have found a way.” Papa smiled down at her. “You always do.”
They gazed into one another’s eyes, mightily content after their celebration of their reunion. Slowly, Papa lowered his head for a long and lingering kiss.
Finally, Mama sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Must you leave tomorrow with the king, then?”
“I must,” Papa said, “for he says he cannot leave Queen Alisande to fight the Mahdi alone—and I am his wizard now, at least for this campaign. Besides, we cannot leave our new daughter-in-law to face her enemies without our help.”
Mama looked up. “ ‘We’?”
“Yes, both of us, if you are willing. I have spoken with Saul, and he is confident of his ability to hold the castle without you, now that the Moors are beaten.”
“Do you not fear having me ride into danger with you?”
“I do not think it will be so very dangerous now—at least, not if you are with me.”
Mama smiled and gave him another lingering kiss. Then she said, “The Moors will still outnumber both armies by at least a third.”
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