The Oathbound Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  He was very glad.

  A huge cabbage appeared in front of the spark. It, too, was sliced neatly through.

  "What was that?" Sir Guy asked, wide-eyed.

  "An enemy sorcerer trying to put some kind of demon in Max's way," Matt answered. "True to Puck's word, he said 'cabbage' when he meant 'devil.' Artificial encoding error."

  A huge asparagus towered up in Max's path. It fell a moment later, like a felled redwood.

  "If naught else," Friar Tuck said, "we'll eat vegetable broth enough when this is done."

  Two giant knights suddenly appeared, twenty feet tall, barring the path. A second later, they crashed together and were buried under an avalanche of tumbling men.

  "There is a strong sorcerer near," Friar Tuck noted. "He did not completely miss his mark."

  "Then we'd better give him a little more to worry about." Matt weighed the wand in his hand, shrugged, and whipped it overhand to point eastward.

  "When the wind is in the east,

  'Tis neither good for man nor beast."

  He flourished the wand overhand and snapped it down toward the north.

  "When the wind is in the north,

  The skilful fisher goes not forth."

  Then he swung the wand to each of the other two points of

  the compass as he recited:

  "When the wind is in the south,

  It blows the bait in the fish's mouth.

  When the wind is in the west,

  Then 'tis at the very best."

  Then, finally, he swung the wand around in a great circle, chanting,

  "When all winds blow in unison,

  Our foes do flee our benison!

  "Bless them, Tuck!" he shouted.

  A look of delight broke over the friar's face. "Why, certes! What could weaken a foe of evil, so much as a blessing?" He turned to face the camp, sketching the Sign of the Cross in the air, and began to chant in Latin, his face softening, turning wistful, almost fond. Matt realized that, no matter how much evil the enemy had done, there was still room in this huge friar's heart to forgive, to understand, for they were God's handiwork, and he believed to the core of his soul that they were redeemable.

  Sir Guy frowned. "What use were these invocations?"

  But Friar Tuck caught his shoulder, eyes alight, grinning. "Hark! Do you not hear?"

  Sir Guy bent his head, listening carefully.

  Faintly at first, then louder and louder, a whistling came toward them, building into a how!. Sleeves and robes began to stir, then to whip in the wind.

  "Grab something solid!" Matt yelled, and the word was relayed all along the battlements. Knights and men-at-arms grabbed at crenels, arrow loops, doorways—and just in time, before the storm hit.

  It was a hurricane. It was a whirlwind. It was a tornado, and the castle was in the center. The wind screamed around the walls, tearing at the stone and howling in frustration. It careened off looking for less-guarded targets—and found the enemy's camp. There, it roared in glee, plucking up tents and horses and men and juggling them with a fine disregard for class or dignity.

  But only outside.

  Along the ramparts, the wind whipped and tugged at clothes and men—but only in passing, only as an afterthought—and within the courtyard, there wasn't even a breeze, though men and women crouched in hiding, fearful of the tempest.

  Matt let it run, fifteen minutes, an hour, while he and Friar Tuck took turns, one watching for attempts at retaliation while the other tried to explain things to Sir Guy. But there was no reaction—neither from the sorcerers, who were too busy trying to cope with both the black hole and the wind, nor from Sir Guy, who could only understand the effects of the magic and was beginning to be bored with the causes.

  Then, finally, as the sky lightened with false dawn, Matt called out,

  "A rushing noise he had not heard of late,

  A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame,

  In short, a roar of things extremely great,

  Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim—

  And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

  I left him practicing the Hundredth Psalm."

  As suddenly as they had come, the four winds sped away. The moaning faded off into the distance, like an express train leaving. Trees on the horizon, just barely visible in the predawn light, whipped about crazily for a minute or two, then were still.

  They listened. The only sound from outside the walls was a low and constant moaning. They stepped up to the crenels and the arrow slits to look out—and saw a scene of utter devastation, broken tents and overturned carts, dead and wounded in winnows showing Max's trail—and the remnants of the Army of Evil, just pulling themselves together as they set out toward the east in a ragged double column.

  The shouts of victory began along Matt's wall and spread all around the battlements, then down into the courtyard. Men and women laughed and shouted for joy, hugging one another and dancing—and, palely seen in the dawn light, a ghost appeared atop the gate house, now brighter, now dimmer. From what they could tell when he was visible, he was dancing a jig.

  "Wizard," said the Demon, suddenly appearing before him, "shall we attempt some other device to confound the enemy?"

  "Uh, no," Matt said. "I think that'll be enough for the moment."

  CHAPTER 20

  Guerrillas in the Mist

  Sir Guy kept sentries posted, and a complement of men-at-arms within the castle, in case the rout had really been a ruse. But he threw open the castle gates and lowered the drawbridge, and the peasants streamed out to bring in all the provisions the king's army had left behind—salted meat, hardtack, grain, and even some fresh meat and fruits that the officers and sorcerers had kept for themselves. Squadrons of soldiers fanned out to both sides of the looting party, keeping pace with them to guard against any sudden reappearance by the besiegers—but the foraging went smoothly.

  Not that Matt was up to participating. His head hurt, his chest hurt, and his arm hurt. More accurately, it felt as if slow fire streaked his scalp and his arm, while he was having a double heart attack. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Unfortunately, this made it very hard to chant a healing spell.

  Friar Tuck saw and, in spite of his own wounds, tottered over to lay a reassuring hand on Matt's shoulder—gently, of course. "Be of good heart, Lord Wizard," he gasped. "I'll have us hale and sound directly." He sat down beside Matt, muttering in Latin.

  Matt's head stopped hurting.

  He looked up at the rotund priest, amazed. Of course, it could be prayer—and in this universe, the power of prayer could be greater than antibiotics were in his home world, maybe much greater. But somehow, Matt didn't think that was what the friar was doing. Knowingly or not, Tuck was working magic—and Matt suspected it was knowingly. Unfortunately, he didn't know enough Latin to be sure.

  Either way, his arm had stopped hurting, and his chest. He yanked up his sleeve and watched as the wounds closed, then smoothed as neatly as if they had never been there. Matt found himself wondering if they had.

  Then he bent his arm, and decided they'd been real. He'd have to use that arm delicately for an hour or two—and take shallow breaths.

  He glanced at Tuck. The color had returned to the friar's face, and he was breathing more easily. "Praise Heaven!" He sighed. "We are well again."

  Matt glanced out over the courtyard and saw a few men picking themselves up, looking amazed and making the Sign of the Cross. Apparently Tuck's spell had been broadcast; Matt wondered how many of the enemy's wounded the friar had healed, too. That wasn't so good—they could have hundreds more enemies to fight, all over again...

  He leaped up, winced, and climbed up to the battlements—stiffly, but without much more than a set of aches. He looked out over the slope and saw all the enemy wounded still lying where they lay, calling out for help.

  "I can only aid those who are in a state of Grace, or wish to be."

  Matt turned around to see that
Friar Tuck had come up behind him. "I should think," he said slowly, "that they're in great shape to realize the error of their ways."

  "Some, no doubt—mayhap most, now that they are removed from the influence of their army's sorcerer."

  "Or now that he has removed himself from them," Matt demurred.

  "Even so. But there be those in whom hatred for all things good and Godly has grown so strong that they will not even now repent."

  That struck a false note. Matt looked at him narrowly. "Not trying to come up with excuses ahead of time, are you?"

  "Never!" Tuck looked up at him in indignation.

  "Sorry, I didn't really mean it," Matt said quickly. "Just habit. I owe you an awful lot of thanks, Friar."

  "Then aid me with these enemy wounded." Tuck turned away. "Come with me; I must visit the sick."

  Matt frowned, wondering why the friar wanted him along. Then he remembered that he could heal the bodies as soon as Tuck had healed the soul, and followed after.

  They joined the soldiers who were collecting fallen weapons and stray arrows. They also gathered up the extra crossbow bolts and other munitions that had been stored away, plus any hardware the army had left in its flight. Then they filed back into the castle, much more slowly than they had gone out, for Friar Tuck checked every load to be sure that nothing under an evil spell was being brought back into the castle. A few items did indeed grate on him, apparently having been put to some rather gruesome uses; Tuck even drew away, repulsed, by one or two. The soldiers threw them back among their dead owners. The incident set Matt to thinking of Trojan horses, and being very glad Friar Tuck was there.

  The checking would have been even slower if Puck hadn't been screening the peasants before they got to the friar. He rode unseen within Sir Guy's helmet, murmuring to him as he walked among the peasants and soldiers. Ostensibly, the Black Knight was keeping up morale that had never been higher, congratulating the defenders and thanking them for their loyalty and faithfulness.

  Matt, however, had adamantly refused to help out. He knew his own limitations and had no illusions about the amount of goodness in his soul. He knew himself to be secretly vengeful, with a repressed streak of cruelty. It never occurred to him that Tuck might have had similar failings, kept in check only by stern self-control. Matt had not quite yet realized that morality is not an inborn trait and does not come naturally.

  "We can't stay here, though," he told Sir Guy, when all the peasants and soldiers were back in, and the gates had been closed with the drawbridge up. "We're sitting ducks."

  Sir Guy nodded. "It was needful to seek refuge within this castle when the Army of Evil was hot on our heels; but now that they are gone, we may sally forth once more and carry the battle to them."

  Matt felt cold inside at the thought of deliberately confronting that army again—but he nodded anyway. "That's what we came here to do, isn't it? Besides, if we let our soldiers disperse and go back to their homes, they'll be overwhelmed by local sorcerers and their henchmen."

  "In unity there is strength," Sir Guy agreed, "though there is no safety for good folk in this land—and none for evil folk, either, if they only knew it."

  "Yes. It's just a question of how soon the wolves will turn on each other, isn't it?"

  "Not whiles we do move, I fear. Nay, we must band together, no matter where we go. As an army, we have at least some chance of survival."

  Matt didn't bother mentioning that, in the position they were in, survival depended on winning. It went without saying.

  So they gave everyone a chance to catch up on eating and sleeping—though they still rationed the food, at Matt's insistence; he knew what gorging could do to people who'd been on a bare subsistence diet for so long. Between snoozes, the peasants packed food, and the soldiers packed weapons—Sir Guy made it very clear that personal possessions would have to stay behind.

  So it was, a long triple file that flowed out across the drawbridge, in the early morning light two days later—an inner file of peasants, many driving carts filled with provisions, with soldiers pacing them on either side. Robin and his band led the way, right behind Sir Guy and Matt.

  "So why don't I get to carry the knight?" Narlh growled. "Too low-class, huh?"

  "Now, Narlh, you know 'tis naught of the sort," Yverne soothed him. " 'Tis only that Sir Guy is accustomed to the dragon—and I most surely am not." She shuddered.

  Narlh immediately softened. "Oh, all right, lady. Yeah, you need to ride just as much as any of the other women—and I wouldn't trust you to that big lunk of lizard. And I suppose the knight shouldn't do much walking, in all that tin he's wearing."

  "It would overtax him sorely," Yverne agreed.

  Matt reflected that they were in the right country for over-taxing.

  The day was bright and clear when they set out—but it clouded up fast. About noon, with the clouds lowering about them, Matt began to feel a thickening in the air—not really the atmosphere, of course, but his own personal ambiance. He stepped over next to Stegoman and called upward toward the knight. "Sir Guy?"

  "Aye, Lord Wizard?"

  "I'm feeling magic thickening about me. Not much, yet, you understand, just the first traces."

  The knight frowned and glanced back at Friar Tuck. The clergyman was marching along with a strained face. "Our holy man must sense it, too," Sir Guy said. "He is telling his beads."

  Matt looked behind, startled. Sure enough, Friar Tuck had hauled out a rosary large enough to qualify as a minor weapon and was mumbling the old, simple prayers as he fingered the beads.

  "What ill do our sorcerous enemies brew for us?" the Black Knight demanded.

  Matt shook his head. "I don't know—too early to tell. But tell everybody to brace themselves for an attack."

  "Whence could it come?" Sir Guy waved an arm at the wide plain all about them. The land stretched away to the horizon, golden with ripening grain—except for the swath of waste where the fleeing army had trampled it. They were marching down the middle of that swath, for it spread twenty yards on either side of the road, reminding Matt that they were marching toward their enemy—who might have pulled his men together by now. The notion didn't exactly improve Matt's state of mind.

  Still, Sir Guy had a point. How could there be an ambush in the middle of a plain that made Kansas look hilly? Where would the ambushers hide?

  The answer to his question came right after lunch. The army had rested and eaten, packed up the leftovers, and set forth again—but as they marched, the clouds lowered farther and farther, until they touched the earth. The feeling of magic was as thick as the humidity.

  "Faugh!" Yverne's voice called from ahead. "What stench is this!"

  " 'Tis truly appalling," Maid Marian's voice agreed from farther off. "What evil mist has risen about us?"

  "It's the work of sorcerers, whatever it is," Matt called back.

  "Are they nearby?" Sir Guy's voice demanded.

  "I doubt it," Matt called back. "They're probably still with their army. They can hex us quite easily from there, I assure you—especially since they've already been over this bit of terrain, and we haven't."

  "Anything could hide in this fog!" Sir Guy growled.

  "You can say that again," Matt called back. "In fact, say anything! Just keep talking, or I won't be able to tell where you are."

  "Halt!" the Black Knight cried, and Stegoman slowed and stopped. Matt fumbled toward them, felt a scaly hide under his hand, then saw the slab of Stegoman's side loom out of the mist—and, above, some dark object that must be Sir Guy. "We cannot march amid such blindness," the knight called down. "Hold to the dragon's tail, Lord Matthew, and bid another hold to you. Then, mayhap, we can wend our way to light and safety."

  "Not too much wending," Matt cautioned. "We could get trapped going around in a circle forever."

  "Thou hast the right of it," Stegoman agreed. "Nay, are we marching west still? Or have we turned already?"

  "I'll find out," Narlh's voice sai
d. "Lady, if you would climb down for a few minutes?"

  "Surely." There was the slithering sound of cloth against scales. "But what mean you to do, good monster?"

  "There's the wizard, over there. Say something, Wizard!"

  "Right over here, Yverne," Matt called. "That's right, here—take my hand..."

  Yverne caught his fingers and stepped close to him with a shudder. "I had thought myself lost, even in the space of two strides!"

  "You could have been," Matt assured her. "But back to your first question—Narlh, what're you trying—"

  Wings thundered as huge feet pounded away, then ceased.

  "Alley!" Matt swore, not daring to use the first word in Ibile. "He's flying!"

  "He shall lose himself!" Stegoman cried. "Knight, dismount—or ride high!"

  "What do you mean to do!" Sir Guy cried—but he slid to the ground anyway, then was almost bowled over in the backblast from Stegoman's wings as the dragon leaped into the sky.

  "Watch out!" Narlh's voice thundered from overhead. "Where do you think you're going, you plate-nosed platypus?"

  "To find thee!" Stegoman rumbled, his voice dwindling. "Nay, come down! Thou'lt be lost forever in this fog!"

  "There's got to be a top to it, somewh—Ow! Get off my back!"

  "I am not on it, thou dunderheaded drake! Thou hast e'en now collided with mine!"

  "Yeah, and those fins hurt, too! What're you doing flying upside down?"

  "Upside down?" Stegoman cried, outraged. "Why, thou half-brained half hawk, I am an upright dragon in every sense of the term! 'Tis thou who art inverted!"

  "Look, lay off the fancy language and tell me why you're flying with your back to the earth!"