The Oathbound Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Matt shook his head. "Spells are like money—you shouldn't spend them unless you have to." For some reason, he was a little reluctant to tell this stranger about the problem of attracting sorcerous attention by using magic.

  He pulled out a ham, drew his knife, and started to cut a slice—then stopped, amazed. It was like cutting wood. He struck it with his knuckles, and heard a definite knock.

  "You might want to boil it," Fadecourt suggested. "It's dried, you see—and quite salty."

  "I suppose I'll have to use a spell, then." Matt sighed. "I don't happen to have any pots with me."

  "Come, sir! Have you never made a bark bucket?"

  Matt looked up, surprised. "No, can't say that I have."

  "Only the work of a few minutes! I'll be back in a jiff." The cyclops uncoiled, ending up standing, and prowled off into the night, slipping a flint knife from his belt.

  Matt watched him go, pleasantly surprised—he'd expected the stranger to be panting with eagerness to see Matt work a spell. Apparently, he didn't have too many doubts about Matt's powers.

  Or didn't it matter to him?

  Matt shrugged, and rummaged around among the firewood he'd collected to start lashing together a tripod.

  A long throat cleared itself off to his left.

  Matt looked up, surprised, then smiled. "Thanks for the warning, Narlh."

  The dracogriff came up and dropped a wild boar by the fire. "Why you humans can't hear a guy making a racket coming through the brush, I'll never know."

  "Small ears," Matt answered. "How come you can find game when nobody else can?"

  "They don't seem to want to stay hid when they see me coming." Narlh walked around a half circle, letting his hindquarters lie down and ending with his front section recumbent, too. "You might want to turn your back a little—I'm not big on table manners."

  "Might help if you had a table." But Matt did hike himself a little way away.

  "Where's the uninvited guest?"

  "Oh, I took care of that—I invited him. He's off making a bark bucket for me, so I can boil some life back into this ham."

  "Trying to butter you up, huh? Look, if you want some pig meat with the juice still in it, hack off a slice!"

  Matt turned back, overcoming revulsion, and took out his knife. "Don't mind if I do, thanks." He skinned a hindquarter and cut off several foot-long wedges of meat. Then he skewered them on green sticks and hung them over the fire. "I appreciate it."

  "I'll never miss 'em."

  "Oh! I see you've managed!" Fadecourt came up to the fire, hauling a bucket.

  "Yes, but we can fry the ham for breakfast—if we can make it chewable." Matt reached up, took down the bucket, and hung it from the tripod. "Thanks for filling it."

  "Don't mention it." The cyclops folded himself and eyed the pork hungrily. He took up the hindquarter of venison, cut a strip, and munched.

  The fact that he made some try at table manners impressed Matt more than the bucket.

  "If you'll excuse me." He got up, went to rummage in the provisions sack.

  "Certainly." Fadecourt's gaze followed Matt as he lifted out the can of talcum powder and went to the limit of the firelight, shaking out a white stream as he went backward around the camp fire, completing the circle, then making a second one. When he finished, he put away the powder and came to sit down by the fire again. "Just like to have it ready if we need it, you see."

  "But of course." Fadecourt looked a little puzzled.

  Trees whipped in a sudden wind Matt shivered and pulled his cloak over his shoulders. "Looks as though we may be in for a wet night."

  "Ah, yes. The advantage to my sort of raiment is that it dries out rather quickly."

  "Why not keep it from getting wet in the first place? A brush hut isn't that hard to cobble."

  "So I see." Fadecourt eyed Matt's shelter. "I just may imitate you in that."

  "Be my guest. I take it you were heading for Merovence, to get away from being chased?"

  "Yes, but only until I had gathered the wherewithal to return."

  "And what would that be?"

  The cyclops' shoulders sagged. "I haven't the foggiest, really. I'm not in a position to hire an army—and I don't really imagine too many citizens of Merovence would be ready to march against the sorcery of Ibile. I suppose the best I could find would have been a wizard, who might have been willing to teach me some spells."

  Matt definitely didn't like the sound of that. "It takes time to learn enough magic to protect yourself in this kind of country, you know."

  Fadecourt heaved a sigh. "Well, if years it takes, then years I must give to it—but I'll not forsake my fellow citizens in their extremity!" He looked up at Matt. "And how do you come to be in the middle of a tearing wilderness on such an ugly-seeming night?"

  "I'm questing. You know—it's really in fashion."

  "No, I don't." The cyclops frowned. "Certainly not in so hazardous a place as a mountainside in Ibile, in the company of a dracogriff—deuced prickly, the beasts are."

  A snort answered him from behind Matt.

  "No offense," the cyclops said easily. "I'm in something of the same position myself, d' you see."

  "Being very prickly?"

  "No—being engaged in a search. It's a quest, in its way. A lost article, you might say."

  "Oh." Matt frowned. "Where was it lost?"

  "At the king's court," the cyclops said. "I had word of it from a friend who has some acquaintance there."

  Matt remembered that he might be the target of an effort to impress, and automatically demoted the "acquaintance" from a courtier to a servant. "I gather the party who lost it will reward you handsomely for its return?"

  "Oh, quite! Or, rather, he'll reward me rather unpleasantly if I return with no chance of retrieving it." Fadecourt gave him a toothy smile. He had very large, very even, very white teeth.

  "I see," Matt said with great originality, trying not to think about those teeth. "Is it of intrinsic, sentimental, or aesthetic value?"

  "Oh, of only sentimental and practical value, I assure you." The cyclops' eye took on the gleam of delight that comes from recognizing a kindred soul—and, just possibly, a good conversation. "At least, I don't believe anyone would pay more than a few coppers for it."

  "I take it," Matt said, "that if you discover its whereabouts, it might be rather dangerous to go after it."

  "It might that, yes. You see, I've little magic and less sorcery."

  "Is that all?" Matt stared, frankly amazed. He recovered quickly and managed a smile. "I'd think you might have a problem with, um, guards, if there are any."

  "Oh no, not a lick! I mean, yes, there probably will be men-at-arms, but I'm not at all concerned about them. Strength of arms, don't you know."

  "No," Matt said, taking in the nearly naked form before him, "I don't know. You don't have a weapon on you, except for that little flint knife."

  "No, I meant my actual arms—limbs, do you see."

  "Oh, yes." Matt remembered how Fadecourt had collected boulders for the fire ring. "But don't overestimate your strength. Sheer lifting power won't help you against armed guards."

  "There's a bit more to it than you've seen. Have a look." The cyclops rose and turned in one lithe, fluid motion, then stepped away to a four-foot boulder that must have weighed half a ton. He didn't even set himself, just took hold under the curve on both sides, hefted it up over his head (Matt ducked aside, panicked by the backswing), and tossed it off into the night.

  Matt just stared, gaping.

  There was a long hiss behind him—Narlh, with eyes glittering.

  Somewhere out in the darkness, there was a faint crash.

  The cyclops turned back to them with a shrug. "That's the way of it."

  "Very impressive," Matt murmured, eyes glazed.

  A little too impressive, in fact—not the kind of display calculated to win you a welcome to a stranger's fireside. From the sound of him, the cyclops must have been able
to realize that; did he really think he was so engaging that Matt would chum up to him when he'd just proved he could probably tie Matt's guardian dracogriff in knots?

  Or did he think Matt needed his strength badly enough to strike an alliance?

  He just might have been right on that one.

  "But that's all." The cyclops sat down again. "I can knock down any army, if need be. Of course, I'd rather not hurt the poor chaps, but I can if I have to. Or knock a hole in a castle wall, for that matter. But if they send the most junior of apprentice sorcerers after me, I'm lost."

  "And," Matt said slowly, "you've taken the notion that I can counter a sorcerer."

  "Quite. You do have something of a reputation in wizardry."

  "But I could be lying—you don't know that I'm really the Lord Wizard." Matt frowned. "What gave you the idea I might really know something about magic?"

  "Partly the fact that you're riding a dracogriff, a beast so scarce that any sorcerer would quite willingly kill for its blood—kill not just it, but anyone nearby."

  Matt heard the long hiss behind him again, and a rustle of wings. "This makes you want to get near it?"

  The cyclops shrugged. "I'm not afraid to, if that's what you mean."

  Because he knew there was a wizard along? Or because he was too stupid to be scared?

  Matt had a notion Fadecourt was anything but stupid. "Anything else that might make you think I'm a wizard?"

  "Well, apart from the fact that you're sitting inside a magical guarding circle on a hillside in a country devoted to sorcery—no, not really."

  "Just a few little simple facts." Matt nodded.

  He straightened up and cleared his throat. "Ever do any painting?"

  "Eh?" The cyclops stared, startled. "Why, yes, actually—quite a bit. What made you think so?"

  "Just a wild guess. What instruments do you play?"

  "The double flute and bassoon." The cyclops frowned. "How could you know that?"

  "Just going by your general ambiance. What's your favorite book?"

  "I would have to say The Odyssey," Fadecourt said slowly, "though I know it would be more politic to refer to the lays of Hardishane, in this part of the world."

  Matt tried not to show his surprise. "Where did you find a translation?"

  "Oh, I couldn't, of course. I had to learn Greek in order to read it."

  That, Matt noted silently, was more than he had done. "How about the Necronomicon?"

  "Never heard of it." The cyclops frowned. "Is it good?"

  "Sheer madness—evil, too, I hear. Never read it myself, of course. Have you heard about the Cabala?"

  The cyclops shook his head. "Not my cup of mead. Only interested in tales and histories, I blush to say." He wasn't reddening noticeably, but then, Matt was only seeing him by firelight.

  "Histories? Say, I've always wondered—when was Hardishane crowned?"

  "In the year of our Lord 862, and he died in 925, rich in virtue and still mighty in arms. While he lived, he drove the forces of Evil back from all these lands of the middle realm, and they basked in the light of goodness and order."

  "Even Ibile?"

  "Even here," Fadecourt confirmed. "Before his coming, the land was held by a people made brutish by sorcery—but he, and the good emperors of his line, held the land so clearly in the light of goodness that, within two generations, the folk of Ibile were courteous, peaceful, and cultured."

  "While Hardishane's heirs ruled over the Empire." Matt frowned. "But the last Emperor fell, and the kings came again."

  "Quite so—in 1084."

  Matt looked up in surprise. "They held Europe united that long?" In his own universe, Charlemagne's empire hadn't really lasted more than a generation after his death, though it had continued in name down to the eighteenth century.

  "They did, but Lornhane, the last reigning Emperor, was foolish and weak."

  Matt noticed the qualifier. "The last reigning emperor?"

  "Indeed. Tradition has it that Hardishane's line endures, and that his descendants still wander Europe, awaiting the time when the Empire must be reestablished, or all the lands fall to evil and sorcery."

  Matt nodded slowly—he had heard the legend. In fact, he had met the current heir. He traveled under the name of Sir Guy Losobal, and he was spectacularly reluctant to seek dominion. "So Lornhane did not die childless."

  "No, but his heir was carried away to be reared in secrecy—which was well, for he doubtless would have been haled down and slain when his father died—for Lornhane's last years were made miserable by the chaos that reigned within his empire. However, he did have the wisdom to appoint kings to Ibile, Merovence, Allustria, and all the Northern Lands and Isles, to quench the feuding of the barons and establish some echo of Hardishane's order within their domains, by the time Lornhane died."

  "And that line of kings endures in Merovence," Matt said slowly.

  "Yes, though the forces of Evil nearly toppled them. I understand the queen's return to her throne was largely your own doing."

  Matt waved away the flattery. "That's a bit of an exaggeration. I just did what I had to do. Not given much choice, in fact."

  "Enough to have betrayed her and devoted yourself to Evil, had you wished." Fadecourt's eye glittered. "A worker of magic always has that opportunity, ever-present before him."

  "Yes." Matt's voice hardened. "It's a constant temptation—and it must be constantly resisted."

  "Of course," the cyclops said quietly, but Matt had the eerie feeling that he had just passed some sort of test.

  He shifted uneasily. "How long did the line of kings endure in Ibile?"

  "Oh, the line endures to this day, though none know where the rightful heir may be," Fadecourt answered, "and I assure you that the strongest sorcerers have exerted their greatest efforts to find him."

  Matt lifted his head. "That must be some spell that's guarding him!"

  "It must indeed. For myself, I fancy it was the doing of Saint Moncaire—that he crafted the spell to protect all of Hardishane's descendants, no matter how tenuous their relationship."

  "But if he's hiding, he's not ruling." Matt frowned.

  "Quite so. The reigning king was betrayed and slain some two hundred years ago, and a foul usurper seized the crown."

  "And his grandson rules now?"

  Fadecourt shook his head. "Such orderly succession is not the way of sorcery. The usurper Yzrprz was in his own turn assassinated, and the throne seized by the more-evil sorcerer Dredplen. His reign was long, though filled with terror—yet he died at the hands of a sorcerer more foul than he: the tyrant Gordogrosso, whose descendant reigns in the city of Orlequedrille still."

  Matt winced. "Do me a favor, okay? Don't say the king's name aloud—it might attract his attention."

  Fadecourt shrugged. "He cares naught—I am too insignificant."

  "I might not be, though."

  Fadecourt stiffened. "Quite true! My apologies, Wizard. Yet be assured, he knows not that I am with you."

  "Yet," Matt said.

  "Aye." The cyclops seemed unnerved. "Even the land may report your presence to him! Daily, his corruption widens, and may some day include even plants and rocks."

  "It just gets worse as it goes along," Matt said, feeling numb.

  "It does, and it will—until some man of good heart arises to overthrow this vile king." Fadecourt gave Matt a singularly penetrating glance.

  Matt returned it, trying to reach a decision. He couldn't trust a total stranger, could he? For all he knew, Fadecourt might be a spy, just trying to get him to trick himself into saying he was planning to overthrow the king, so that some true testimony could be used at his trial. The cyclops might yell for reinforcements as soon as Matt said it, and he could find himself on his way to a hanging court before he knew it. Not that King Gordogrosso needed actual evidence, really, though it did tend to make things neater.

  But the doggone stranger practically knew...

  Then it occurred to M
att to relax and listen for guidance within him. Divine guidance, hopefully, though he'd settle for a good word from Saint Iago. He relaxed suddenly, smiling, and tried to feel some kind of nudge within his mind. In his own universe, some might think that such a method of decision making would be the height of stupidity; but here, it should be foolproof...

  He felt the impulse. Desperately, he hoped it was right. "Well, now that you mention it, that just happens to be my quest."

  "What?" Fadecourt looked up with glowing eye. "The freeing of Ibile?"

  "Good way to phrase it." Matt nodded. "Yes, I like your words better. Can you give me any idea what I'm up against?"

  "Gladly, good Wizard! There will be some that you will rejoice to hear, but much that you will deplore."

  "You're so encouraging," Matt murmured. "Tell me something good."

  "Well, the best part of it is that Gordogrosso has not left his castle since he took power."

  "Agoraphobia?" Matt looked up, interested. "Or is he just too paranoid to trust his advisers?"

  "I cannot say—but he has not come out these fifteen years. You shall not, therefore, need to concern yourself about meeting the sorcerer in person."

  "Until we come to his castle." Matt raised a finger. "I'm afraid that's part of the plan."

  Narlh growled.

  "Brave man!" Fadecourt cried. "And what will you do when you've come there?"

  "Think fast," Matt said. "Actually, I hope to have come up with some sort of strategy by then. But you don't think we'll have any trouble getting there?"

  "Oh, I did not say that! For look you, Gordogrosso's evil has so deeply taken hold of the land that only a few attempt any degree of goodness, and they must hide it."

  "So. Every man's hand is turned against me, huh?"

  "And every woman's. Each day, such few good folk as are left seek to flee the land—and are more often than not cut down in their flight."

  Matt thought of the family he'd met earlier in the day, and was glad he'd found an excuse to give them a little help. "I suppose he's got a pretty good spy network."

  "He has no need of it—for 'tis as though the very ground, the leaves of the trees, are so permeated with his corruption that he can see where any person is at any time. If some event is to happen, he can view it."