The Oathbound Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Come to think of it, that was just what he had done.

  Stubbornly, his maverick side asserted itself again. He was enjoying this, blast it—except for the dangerous parts; and only Gordogrosso had really been a threat,—so far. All in all, he liked the feeling of being back in control of his own life again. Alisande was, when you got right down to it, a very domineering sort of female.

  But wasn't that what you would expect in a queen?

  A strange, sick gargling noise sounded.

  Matt sat up, frowning, looking about him into the night. What kind of creature was in trouble? And what kind of trouble? He glanced at Yverne again, to make sure she was all right—and she wasn't.

  Fire?

  Yes, she looked as if she were too close to the fire. Matt sat bolt upright. It couldn't really be!

  It was. Her form had begun to soften and grow lumpy, like wax left too close to a flame. Her outline began to flow, and Matt watched, shocked into inaction, while the cold realization diffused through him that a sorcerer was trying to destroy Yverne. Was he determined that, if he could not have her, no one would?

  Or was the lady a more important figure in the power struggles of this kingdom than Matt knew?

  He was frozen, appalled, sitting in mute impotence as her form grew more and more fluid, slowly sinking as if it were a jelly figure on top of a radiator. Her substance was being sucked away; she was being taken from him, just as his friends and his world had been...

  The thought jolted him out of paralysis. This, he could do something about; he wasn't being held by dependence. He rolled upright onto his knees, chanting,

  "A-roving, a-roving,

  Roving will be your ru-aye-in!

  Oh, go no more a-roving,

  Will you, fair maid?"

  Yverne's form didn't grow any stronger—but it didn't melt any more, either. A strange sensation seemed to emanate from her, like waves from a pebble; Matt felt it, and more—he sensed it with every nerve his body had. It was like a touch of slime all over him, a reek in his nostrils, a discord in his ears.

  He had to pull her loose from it. That last one hadn't been much of a verse, anyway—and it was progress, at least. Matt drew a breath, wiping sweat from his forehead, and intoned:

  "But come ye back, for summer's in the meadow,

  And all the land is green, and bright with morn;

  It's I'll be here, in sunlight or in shadow,

  Oh maiden, do not leave me all forlorn."

  Yverne's form grew a little stronger, feminine contours coalescing from the flowing wax—but only a little. Matt gasped for breath and wiped his forehead; he could feel an ominous pressure all about him, two opposed magical "fields" gathering about him and Yverne, and they were growing stronger. The chill ran through him once more, at the thought that one misspoken word might trigger some huge release of energy—and what would happen then?

  He looked about him wildly. If only he could see the enemy sorcerer, he might be able to make the magic field recoil on him. But all he could see were tree branches moving in the moonlight, up the slope on the other side of their camp, away from the stream...

  There! On the side of the slope. A dark figure, silhouetted against the lighter gray of the sky, blocking the stars—and waving a glowing baton. Matt caught his breath—it was another wand-wielder! And as he watched, a ball of fire seemed to blossom from the tip of the wand and shot rolling down the hill, straight toward Yverne!

  No doubt the wicked one thought that a visual symbol would strengthen his melting spell—and he was probably right, too. Matt had to think quickly.

  "Thou the stream and I the willow,

  Thou the current, I the wave;

  Thou the ocean, I the billow,

  Thou the fountain..."

  It worked! A jet of water shot up from the soil, just at the edge of the ring. The fireball bounced into it, then on through it—but only a sopping cinder rolled up near the half-melted figure by the fire.

  Narlh lifted his head, growling and blinking sleep out of his eyes—and Fadecourt sat bolt upright, staring about him.

  He saw the half-melted form and bellowed anger. But Matt couldn't spare him any attention; he was too busy working on his counterattack. He called out,

  "Bend and turn, and form a curve,

  Be a circle, quickly swerve.

  Turn yourself into a coil—

  Then hiss and strike, his spell to spoil!"

  The wand suddenly began to flex, coming alive, sprouting a head, and turning back on its owner. He dropped it, waving his hands—and Matt took advantage of the lull to ready another spell.

  "The fire seven times tried this,

  Seven times tried that effort is,

  That once more goes amiss..."

  Almost at the end, Matt wondered why the enemy sorcerer didn't run—until he saw the man bend down and pick up a straight wand again.

  Matt didn't delay. He chanted the last line:

  "Earth may quake, and so will this!"

  The earth beneath the sorcerer's feet trembled and caved in. He fell sprawling. Matt grinned and started on another verse.

  "There be fools alive, I wis,Silvered o'er, and so was this.Take what wife you will to bed,I will ever..."

  Suddenly, he couldn't say another word. He just stood there, mouth open, staring at the enemy sorcerer, who had picked himself up and was pointing his wand straight at Matt—and Matt couldn't lift a finger. He strained, trying to move his tongue, wiggle a little toe, move his...foot, anything—but that glowing wand tip held his gaze, seeming to grow and grow like an expanding ball, swelling, filling all Matt's vision...

  He heard an angry roar beside him and saw a small boulder sailing toward the glowing ball...

  Then, suddenly, the ball was gone, somebody was howling from where it had been, Narlh was racing past him and hurdling the guarding circle, out into the darkness—and Matt could move again. "What...how...?"

  "A rock from the fire ring," Fadecourt said, gloating. "Betimes, Wizard, you workers of magic cease to be mindful that good, old-fashioned physical violence can take out an enemy as well as a spell. I caught him in the midriff, even as I'd aimed. He'll be meat for our monster ere he can do more."

  Apparently, the sorcerer thought so, too. He saw Narlh coming, gave a howl of horror, leaped to his feet, and went limping away.

  "Well, the hip," Fadecourt amended. "I missed not by much, at least."

  "Hardly at all." Even as Matt watched, the running sorcerer suddenly erupted into flame. Narlh put on the brakes, just managing to skid to a stop before he was singed. The flames died down as abruptly as they'd flared up, and the night was dark again.

  "What..." Matt stared. "They sure do make spectacular exits around here, don't they?"

  "Aye." Fadecourt frowned. "If he did go."

  Matt turned. "Why, what else could he have done?"

  "Naught—but his master might have done it for him," Fadecourt explained, "in punishment for his having failed." Matt stared, horrified.

  Then Narlh came panting up beside him. "Nothing...left of him. Not even an ash."

  Somehow, Matt felt better about it, though he knew that didn't prove anything.

  Then he remembered what the fight had been about. "The maiden—quick! We'd better get her back together, before it's too late!"

  "Aye!" Fadecourt spun about, to kneel by the half-melted form. "Quickly, Wizard!"

  What did you say to a half-melted lady? That it was just supposed to be a metaphor? Matt collected his wits and chanted,

  "Pygmalion, Pygmalion,

  Who turned cold marble into flesh,

  Let your hand and eye now mesh!

  A sculptor's art you must employ,

  For a thing of beauty's a lasting joy!"

  The wax softened, then remolded itself, pulling back into the contours of Yverne's body, separating its colors into those of her gown and her face and hair. Her chest began to rise and fall again.

  Fadecourt knelt b
y her, touching her hand, almost shyly, and murmuring, "Maiden, wake!"

  He, Matt thought, had a very bad case.

  Yverne rolled onto her back, eyelids fluttering, then opening. She looked up at the three males gathered about her, then sat up, staring in alarm. "Is aught amiss?"

  They just stood there, staring.

  "Nay, tell me!" she demanded. "Are enemies nigh upon us?"

  Narlh looked away, expelling a long breath, and Fadecourt said gently, " 'Tis past now, milady. We only waked you to be sure you were well."

  "Wherefore ought I not be?"

  Fadecourt gazed into her eyes before he said, "You remember naught?"

  Yverne shook her head. "I lay me down, and prayed, and thought upon the day's events—and slept. What chanced whiles I dreamed?"

  Fadecourt exchanged a glance with Matt, who shook his head. The cyclops turned back to the lady. "The sorcerer who pursued you came again, milady—but the wizard drove him off."

  "No, be fair!" Matt turned to Yverne. "I just distracted the villain, lady. It was Fadecourt who knocked him out with a rock."

  "Oh, you have saved me!" She looked from one to the other of them—but it was Fadecourt's hand she squeezed.

  Matt turned away, seething. Here he'd fought for her, risked being frozen and having his mind blasted, saved her from being melted into a puddle—and she hadn't even known about it! He'd been the hero who had saved the maiden—and she couldn't remember a bit of it! There was, he decided, no justice in matters heroic.

  Narlh nudged his shoulder.

  Matt looked up, hauling himself out of a nice, soothing wallow of self-pity. "What's up?"

  The dracogriff pulled something from under his wing, biting it by the end, then opened his mouth and let it fall at Matt's feet. "Found this out there, where the sorcerer was. He left in too much of a hurry, forgot to take it with him. Thought you might want it."

  Matt stared down at the sorcerer's magic wand.

  "Go on, go on!" Narlh urged. "You got to have a wand around here, Wizard, or we're all done for!"

  Remembering how the wand had held his eyes and been on its way to burning out his mind, Matt was tempted to agree—but he felt reluctant. "It's a dead man's tool, Narlh. Besides, it's been used for witchcraft."

  "Mayhap," Fadecourt said, tearing his gaze away from Yverne, "but when all is said and done, Wizard, 'tis only a stick of wood. I pray you, take it up and learn the use of it."

  "Well—okay." Matt bent down and picked up the stick, alert for the slightest feeling of wrongness—but there was only a lingering sensation of faint unpleasantness, like the musty odor of a shut-up room. "I don't promise to be able to learn how to use it, though."

  "Oh, you shall," Fadecourt said, with full confidence.

  Much more confidence than Matt felt. "To tell you the truth, Fadecourt, I'm not exactly eager to use a thing of evil."

  " Tis neither good nor evil in its own right," Fadecourt assured him.

  "I think I've heard that argument before—that no object is good or evil in itself, just in how we use it."

  "Oh, no, friend Matthew! In this world, at least, there are some things that are evil in themselves, such as demons and lamias, and things that are good in themselves, such as churches and bells. A good thing can be profaned and turned to evil uses, it is true, yet a wand of holly branch is not among these, though it is a tree of power, like the rowan and the hazel."

  "And the oak, and ash, and thorn? Not to mention the mistletoe, and the ivy, and the brier rose and..."

  "I take your point; it may be that each wood has its own certain power. I would not know of such things—I am not a magic-worker," Fadecourt said, aggrieved.

  Matt felt instantly contrite; a friend did not deserve that of him. "Sorry, Fadecourt. I just get nervous with things I don't understand."

  "You shall come to understand it presently, friend Matthew, I am sure."

  Matt looked down at the wand. It was almost certainly a powerful gadget, to be used for good or ill. He hefted it, making slow, experimental passes toward the darkness as the night murmured about him.

  He was careful not to say anything, though—not yet.

  CHAPTER 12

  Work in Progress

  Fortunately, the one wand spell Matt finally decided to try that night was putting people to sleep. He pointed it at each of his friends in turn and recited,

  "Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,

  Wake with smiles when you arise!"

  And in each case, the friend in question promptly grew heavy-lidded, started yawning, and was asleep in minutes. Matt didn't sleep himself, though—he wasn't too sanguine about pointing the wand at himself. He had a notion it might set up a feedback cycle, and that was one magical equivalent to physics that he didn't want to find out about—t least, not from the inside. Besides, somebody had to stand watch.

  It was a good excuse. The reality of the matter, of course, was that after that attack, he didn't feel much like sleeping. Neither had his friends, he supposed, but he hadn't been about to give them much choice. They had to be fresh and alert for tomorrow. So did he, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it—though not until after he'd checked under the boards.

  It was a good thing Matt had specified that they wake with smiles on their faces, for as soon as they remembered the night's events, they began to feel nervous again. By joking and forcing laughter, they managed to keep each other halfway cheerful; but as soon as they set out, they began to sag. Everybody was eyeing the low grass and scrub around them suspiciously. Matt made a few tries at light conversation, but they sank without a trace.

  When Fadecourt figured out that they weren't having much luck trying to bolster their spirits, he began telling them the tale of Worlane, greatest of Hardishane's paladins—of his unrequited love for the eastern princess Lalage, and how that love drove him mad when he learned she had married. He turned out to be an excellent storyteller, so the tale caught them up and out of their own predicament very quickly.

  They had hiked perhaps an hour when they topped a rise and saw a dark line shadowing the western horizon, with flashes of green where leaves tossed.

  Matt halted. "What's this—a major forest on our line of march?"

  "It would appear so." Fadecourt frowned, perplexed. "I came this way not five days ago, and there was naught but meadow and thickets."

  "Your thickets have thickened." Matt felt his scalp prickle. "I think I smell sorcery at work."

  Yverne looked up, startled. "Can you smell it, then?"

  "Well, not literally," Matt admitted, "though there is a sort of...Well, no, it's not a feeling either, it's..." He ran out of words and threw his hands up in exasperation. "What can I tell you? There isn't any word for it! It's a sixth sense, I guess—the one I use to do magic with." He frowned down at Yverne. "Does that explain anything?"

  "Enough," she answered, but her eyes were glazing.

  Matt turned away. "Come on. I want a closer look at that forest."

  Narlh and Fadecourt exchanged looks of misgiving, but they all went forward.

  Matt stopped a few hundred feet from the forest. He didn't like what he saw. It was a dark, somber place of gnarled oak trees and bristling thorns, set against the backdrop of huge old evergreens. Matt mistrusted it on sight—any forest that was halfway between conifers and deciduous trees would have had relatively young oaks and elms. Whatever kind of forest it was, it wasn't natural.

  In fact, it fairly reeked of sorcery, filled with menacing shadows and gnarled, evil-looking trees. Fadecourt could only scowl, shaking his head. "I could have sworn this forest was not here, Lord Matthew."

  "And you would have been right, too." Matt pointed at a huge old trunk. A vine was writhing up through the underbrush at its base, moving even as they watched, rising and thickening as it wrapped itself around the huge old bole. It wasn't the only one—other vines were twining up around other trunks and sagging down from the branches.

  "Work in progress,"
Matt explained. "This forest is still under construction."

  Fadecourt said slowly, "It is true, by all the stars! The wood is not quite finished yet; it is still a-building!"

  Yverne tore her gaze away and turned to Matt. "Yet how can it be new-made, and still be aged?"

  "It just looks that way," Matt explained. "I suspect that, in reality, if the term applies, it only came into existence last night, after I managed to win that little clash with the local wand-waver and pull Yverne back together."

  "Wherefore?" Fadecourt asked.

  "To stop us, of course." Matt frowned. "My only question is, what to stop us for?"

  "To kill us," Narlh growled, half opening his wings.

  "How?" Matt asked, feeling very practical. "They could have sent an army against us back uphill—they could have caught us in any of those gullies."

  "Yes," Fadecourt said, "but the armies could not have come to us in time."

  Matt absorbed that for a minute before he answered, "Then this forest is just here to hold us up while they mobilize the militia."

  Fadecourt nodded.

  "So the last thing we want to do is stand still."

  "Well said." Fadecourt strode resolutely toward the forest wall.

  "Uh, maybe not." Matt held out an arm, to bar the way. "I don't know if I'm eager to go into a place when I'm being invited."

  Fadecourt turned back to frown. "What do you mean? I see no one who gives us invitation."

  But Yverne gasped, and Matt just nodded toward the trees. Fadecourt turned back to look.

  A faint trail had appeared, not much more than a deer run. By its side stood an old man in a robe that must have been at least two hundred years out of date. Matt squinted, but he couldn't make out the details of its decoration—nor of the oldster's face, though he could see a long, gray beard.

  Fadecourt frowned. "Odd."

  "Yes, isn't he?" Matt joined him in his frown. "You don't suppose he grew up in there, and hasn't heard that fashions have changed, do you?"