Fadecourt struck another pike out of a soldier's hand, and the man tried to shrink back—but that was very hard to do, sideways, and Fadecourt had set the stakes too close together for a head-on advance. As a result, he had time to turn and clobber the hand of the next pikeman, who was trying to sidle through the stake next door. But the men on either side were almost through, and Matt ran at the left-hand one with a yell that would have done credit to a Georgia rebel, while Narlh advanced on the right-hand one. All he had to do was advance; the man took one look, paled, and tried to pull back. But of course, the pressure of the men behind was too great, and the disarmed ones were being forced, bit by bit, through the fence of stakes—largely because, behind them all, the fully armored and thoroughly protected knights were shouting, "Advance! Smite them down! Or you shall feel my sword in your back!" And, "Charge them and risk death—for if you do not, I'll give you certain demise!"
Matt felt a surge of class resentment, even as he grabbed up a discarded sword, blocked the next pike, and chopped through the shaft. How gung ho would those knights be without their armor and horses, he wondered?
It was an intriguing notion. He jumped back into the clear—but before he could frame the verse, he saw a sight that took his breath away. Yverne was sparring with a pikeman who had managed to squeeze through the barricade. He leaped to help her—but even as he did, she blocked the soldier's jab, pushing his blade down, caught him in the jaw with the butt of her own pike, then jabbed him hard under the sternum and managed to get a foot on his pike so that it pulled loose from his hands as he fell back.
Matt skidded to a stop, with the vague notion that his help wasn't needed. He wondered where Yverne had picked up such skill with a weapon, but it was only a fleeting thought—he had to get back to the battle! Let's see, what had he been about to do?
Oh yes, cast a spell! On the knights. He called out:
"His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking his foes in the throat of death."
The two knights suddenly shot downward, disappearing behind their men with a double crash that told Matt his effort had been successful. The soldiers crowded back from their fallen leaders, and Matt could see them struggling to get up. Their squires hurried in and tried to haul them up, bawling to the soldiers to help.
They would get the knights back on their feet, given enough time—which Matt didn't intend to allow. He added,
"This tight-fitting cuirass
Is but a useless mass,
It's made of steel
And weighs a deal.
A man is but an ass
Who fights in a cuirass—
So off goes that cuirass!"
He heard two howls of shocked surprise quite clearly over the din of the fight, as the two knights suddenly found themselves devoid of breastplates, protected only by the thick padding of their gambesons. Matt grinned wickedly. Somehow, he wasn't hearing the knights threatening their men any more—and a few soldiers were developing gleams in their eyes, lowering their pikes.
Matt didn't stay to watch. He ran back to the barricade, blocked a pike but found it was a halberd that cut down at his foot. He hopped back, but the blade caught his leg, and pain seared through. He cried out, but muffled it quickly, shifting his weight as he chopped through the shaft and riposted with a thrust toward the halberdier. The man leaped back with alacrity, and Matt was grimly pleased to note that there wasn't any great push to shove him forward.
Then a halberdier on his right knocked the sword out of his hand.
Matt leaped back from the fight—he knew better than to try to pick up the sword. A quick glance showed him Fadecourt with a captured pike, beating back soldier after soldier, Narlh catching soldiers in his jaws and tossing them away, and Yverne, bleeding from two cuts but fighting with the deftness of an expert and a very pale face.
The sight of her blood made Matt's plasma boil. He caught up a fallen halberd and jumped back into the fray just as a pikeman wriggled through the chevaux-de-frise. Matt slammed a chop at him—but the pikeman blocked the blow and slammed the butt of his pike into Matt's knee. Pain exploded as the knee folded, and Matt sank down before his enemy, whose point was spearing right toward him...
A pike butt whistled around and clipped the pikeman under the chin. The man fell back, and Fadecourt leaped up to stab down. The man screamed, then sprawled loose, and the cyclops jumped back to his own sector, crying, "Desist, Lord Matthew! You are not accustomed to the halberd! Devote yourself to spells for our defense!"
Matt staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the pain in knee and shin. He stepped back from the battle, using the halberd as a staff to support his injured leg. His face burned with shame—at having a woman outdo him with a weapon, but also at his failure to aid his friends by fighting with his strongest weapon—magic.
And he'd better get with it—it was very odd that no junior sorcerers had started magical support for the attackers yet. If he moved fast, maybe he could forestall them...
With a meteor.
"Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root..."
A roar split the night. Matt stared, mouth hanging open, last line unfinished, because a towering flame swept toward him. The ranks of attackers split with a huge shout to make room for it, and Matt found himself wondering, Oh, no! Did I do that?
Not with the verse about the meteor, at least—for as it came closer, Matt saw a twelve-foot tree trunk, blazing like a Yule log, stamping up on two legs made by a split in its bottom end. Two fiery knots toward its top glared down at him; a gash below them opened and bellowed, "You! Vile sorcerer! Most evil of magi! Never did I do you hurt! Innocent was I of any wrongdoing! Wherefore did you cast me into the fiery furnace?"
Matt was so startled he could only stare back at it and stutter.
The tree blundered into the barricade, and three stakes caught fire. It glared down at them, then sought out Matt again. "Will you now condemn these poor twigs, also, to the eternal flame? Will you damn them, as you damned me?"
"But—I didn't!" Matt bawled. "I've never seen you before in my life!"
"Of a certainty, you have," the flaming tree bellowed, "though the powers of Hell have magnified me so that I may be the instrument of your destruction! I was the twig you set into the earth as a marker, the poor, unoffending stick that you threw from you with a curse!"
Even through his panic, Matt recognized the reference to Gordogrosso. The sorcerer-king had magnified the little stick he had thrown away with a "Damn you!" and pulled it back from Hell to threaten Matt.
Wait a minute...The torture chamber for damned souls...
"You can't have been damned!" Matt cried. "You didn't have a soul!"
The tree froze in place, its fiery eyes widening in astonishment.
Matt pressed his point. "Hell is only for the souls of the wicked! And no other person can send you to Hell—only yourself, by refusing God's help! Did you ever refuse God?"
"Nay..." the tree admitted.
"And you didn't have a soul to send to Hell in the first place! Material things don't go to Hell—not flesh, or stone, or wood! Only souls!"
"If that is true," the tree said, "I cannot have been damned." Its flames began to shrink.
"Right!" Matt cried. "And if you weren't damned, you can't be on fire!"
"Aye...that is true..." The flames guttered out.
"In fact," Matt shouted, "you can't even be alive! Some idiot sorcerer just made you think you were, so he could give you the tortures of the damned!"
That did it. The last spark of light died from the tree's eyes, and it began to tilt.
"Timber!" Matt shouted, and the smoldering trunk came crashing to the ground.
But it left a hole in the defenses, three broken stakes.
On the other hand, those stakes were burning, and the soldiers were staring at the flames in horror and fascination.
Matt saw his chance. "Quick! Flee! Hide yourselves in the
hills and repent! Or you, too, will fall into everlasting hellfire!"
The soldiers howled in despair, turned, and fled. They left two men, clad in the padded jackets of gambesons, waving swords at them and shouting frantically, "Hold! Do not believe this madman! Come back! What is the fury of Hell in the next world, against the rage of King Gordogrosso in this?"
Apparently, the men were suddenly much more aware of the next world's perils, because they didn't come back.
The one unarmored knight turned to the other. "I, at least, fear Gordogrosso more than God! I would rather die in battle than face the king!" And he turned to advance with determination toward the burning stakes.
Reluctantly, the second knight started to advance.
"Stop and think!" Matt held up a hand. "If you die serving Gordogrosso, you'll go right to Hell!"
The second knight hesitated.
"Fool!" the first knight cried. "Will you lose all the manor and lands the king has given you? Not I!" And, with a bellow, he charged, leaping the burning stake and whipping his sword down in a huge cut as he landed.
Fadecourt leaped back from the sword, then leaped in again as soon as it had passed. Before the knight could recover, the cyclops stabbed with the pike. The knight tried to block with the shield that wasn't there, and the pike scored his arm, leaving a gash of blood as its point transfixed his throat. Fadecourt yanked the spear out in some agitation. " 'Tis too slow a death! I'll not leave thee to suffer, enemy or no!" And, as the knight's knees folded, the cyclops drew back the pike for the death-blow.
Yverne touched his arm. "His soul!"
Fadecourt froze. "Do you repent of all your sins?"
The knight managed a feeble nod.
"We can save him!" Matt cried. Then he saw how much blood had already pumped out onto the earth, and said, "No, we can't."
The pike flashed down through the heart and pinned the knight to the earth.
Fadecourt released the shaft and turned slowly to the other knight.
The knight stared at him, white showing all around his irises, gave a cry of despair, and lurched into a stumbling run.
Fadecourt skipped aside, only to trip on the dracogriff's tail.
The knight barreled straight on, heading right toward Yverne.
Matt howled and threw himself forward in a flying tackle, just the way he'd seen it done in the movies.
He slammed into his quarry right behind the knees, and the knight went sprawling. Matt's shoulder added its pain to balance that of his opposite leg. He tried to scramble up, but only managed to roll over onto his elbow—where he saw Yverne, standing over the man with a pike point poised over his face, crying, "You bastard! You bully, you false knight! How could you be so dishonorable as to strike at a poor, defenseless maid?"
"Yes," Matt agreed. "Totally despicable."
"You should hesitate to speak for shame, sir!" Yverne reproached him. "You, who do not scruple to strike the lowest blow!"
"So," Matt said, "did he."
Fadecourt resolved the argument by stepping forward and kicking the sword out of the knight's hand. "Your life is the lady's, sir. Beg her indulgence, or die."
"I yield me," the knight groaned. "Claim what forfeit you will.
Triumph gleamed in Yverne's eye, but she kept the spear poised "Why, then, my forfeit is this—that you kneel to God and swear to lead a life of virtue, defending the weak and punishing the wicked, as a knight should!"
The knight groaned. "Mercy, lady! To seek to live virtuously in King Gordogrosso's Ibile is to seek one's own death!"
"Not to mention the loss of your house and land, of course?" Matt put in, as Narlh gave a disgusted snort.
"That also," the knight agreed morosely.
"You have but to choose," Yverne said sweetly. "A short life of virtue, or a long death in Hell."
"Maybe not," Matt said thoughtfully. "We're not all that far from the border—if you move fast, you might be able to make it into Merovence before King Gor—before the king catches up with you."
The knight shuddered. "You know not Gordogrosso's power."
"I know he doesn't dare do anything in Saint Moncaire's domain," Matt said sharply. "Get far enough into Alisande's territory, and the king can't touch you."
"Even in Ibile, there is some defense," Fadecourt advised. "Seek the sacraments of your faith, sir, and maintain your soul in a state of Grace, and you put yourself beyond the reach of the evil king."
"My soul, perhaps," the knight said mournfully. "Not my body."
"Even your body may be protected, by sacramentals—by the wearing of scapular and crucifix, by the carrying of holy water and rosary."
"It is, at least, a chance, sir," Yverne said with pity.
The knight lay immobile for a moment.
"Of course," Matt said, "you could let him repent, then kill him instantly."
"For shame, sir!" Yverne cried.
"Wouldst kill in cold blood!" Fadecourt demanded, shocked. "I gave the other his death wound in battle, Lord Matthew! The coup de grace only finished more quickly what had been wrought in hot blood!"
"I suppose so." Matt sighed. "It was just an idea."
"One well intended, I am certain, sir," the fallen knight said, "but I quail at the thought of the centuries in Purgatory awaiting one who has lived so vile a life as I have. Nay, I thank you all and will accept your kind offer. I will brave the king—and if I die in torment, at least it will be brief."
Matt had a vision of a medieval torture chamber, and what he had heard about making the pain last for days. But the knight was right, it was brief—compared to his probable sentence in the domain of the spiritually deficient.
"Kneel, then." Yverne withdrew the spear point.
The knight rolled up to his knees, joined his hands in prayer, and bent his head.
The companions waited.
After a short while, the knight raised his head "I have made my peace with God, as well as I may. And I swear, by all that is holy, to try with all my heart to live a virtuous life henceforth, defending the weak and punishing the wicked. Now I must needs find a priest"
"Rise," Yverne said.
The knight stood, and Fadecourt clasped him by the hand, slapping his shoulder. "Welcome back to the world of the living in spirit, brother!"
"I thank you." The knight managed a smile. "Yet forgive my abruptness, but I must ride as soon as I may."
"Aye." Fadecourt stepped back. "Away with you, then!"
The knight looked about him, at something of a loss. "Wizard...if I may..."
"Oh, sure." Matt snapped his fingers.
"I have many spells—what say they?
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
A sharp whinny split the night, and the knight's charger came trotting up. It pulled up beside its master and blew. The knight managed the ghost of a smile, patted the beast's neck, and mounted.
"Ah," Yverne breathed, "so there was hope for him, ere he met us."
Matt wasn't quite sure what she meant, unless it was that love for a horse was better than no love at all.
"I shall chance finding sanctuary, ere the minions of Satan find me," the knight said, turning his horse's head toward the west.
"Remember the sacramentals," Matt advised.
The knight gave him a sardonic smile. "And what such may I take from here, Lord Wizard?"
"Hymns," Matt said. "After all, the lyrics rhyme. There's a definite chance that singing holy songs will protect you, at least a little."
The man looked startled, then nodded slowly. "Aye, there is truth in what you say. At the least, it cannot hurt me. I thank you, Wizard."
"You're welcome. Uh, do you know any hymns?"
"One or two, from my childhood. Hail, Wizard, lady, cyclops! Hail, great beast! Hail, and farewell!" And he turned, riding off into the darkness, disappearing in the murk. But they could still hear him, chanting a Latin hymn in a loud, off-key baritone.
Fadecourt winced at the man's grating voice. "Na
y, I doubt not he will be quite safe indeed."
"You can say that again," Matt agreed. "Who'd want to come anywhere nearer any singing like that than they had to?"
Privately, he suspected that the knight would renege on all his promises as soon as he was out of sight and return to his lord's castle—what difference did honor make, in Ibile?
But he hoped he was wrong.
CHAPTER 14
Negative Narcissus
When they started out the next morning, patched up and refreshed, they chatted happily with each other, in perfect accord. Matt decided that he must have made up for his lapse with the stick and restored his companions' faith in him.
The slope was angling downhill, and the land they had ridden yesterday was now discernible as a mountain behind them—but a mountain without the plateau that would have held the enchanted forest they had marched around and around. That forest had disappeared, and their path wound down in switchbacks through a maze of evergreens, dark and massive to either side of the path, but the roadway filled with light, due to the angle of descent. This forest had very little underbrush, and certainly no aura of evil; it filled their heads with the clean scent of pine and spruce.
But they came out of the forest about noon and, as they rode on after the midday meal, they began to see deciduous trees. They were stunted and gnarled, though; every other tree seemed to be smothered by a vine whose leaves were so fine they resembled fungus, and between the trunks, the underbrush was a waist-high tangle of thistles, thorns, and leprous-looking blossoms.
"Ugly-looking plant life they have around here," Matt noted.
Fadecourt nodded, looking around him with heavy brow, and his tension was almost palpable. "We have come down out of the borderland, Lord Matthew. We are in Ibile now."
Then he saw the flat-topped boulder ten yards down the hill and halted so suddenly that Matt almost bumped into him. Matt stared at the rock in surprise—and saw a lizard sunning itself. It was pointed away from them, so he couldn't really see much of its face, but he had certainly never before seen anything like the fleshy excrescence that bulged out of its head, ending in five points that glistened like polished horn. Matt stared—never before had he heard of a lizard with antlers!
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