There were also a lot of them—fifty or more, and others had begun clamoring for release, in the distance.
It gave Matt an idea. "Hold on! Don't hit that door—stand back!"
"Wherefore?" One of the prisoners glared at him as if suspecting treachery.
Matt couldn't blame him for a little suspicion. He explained quickly, "Your fellow prisoners are making a fair amount of noise. If there's a jailor on duty..."
"There is."
"He could be coming through that door any second."
The portal slammed open, and a hulking, barrel-shaped man, who would have given Quasimodo a beauty prize, came shambling through, with a squad of soldiers at his heels. "What clamor is this? What ails the fools? Have some..." Then he saw the prisoners, and his eyes went wide. The guards began to lower their pikes—
With a yell like a dam breaking, the prisoners swamped the guards. There were a few horrified yells and the dull, sick thud of steel against skulls; then the doorway was still, and the prisoners rose up, grinning.
Suddenly, Matt knew what was coming next, and tried to stop it. "Quietly, now! And slowly! We—"
They ignored him. Very loudly, they ignored him. With a shout of triumph, they ignored him and poured out through the dungeon door, howling for revenge—and freedom.
As they came out of the forest, relaxing and beginning to think the danger of ambush was over, the roof fell in.
Or at least Gordogrosso's soldiers did. They fell from overhanging branches and leaped out of the underbrush like living bushes, but ones with spear points. They made no sound, though, other than the scrape of metal and the clash of steel. They would have taken the queen and her men completely by surprise, if Sauvignon hadn't been watching, suspicious of magic.
He let loose a yell that could have waked the dead and whipped his sword out. Startled, Alisande looked up, saw a man leaping toward her, shouted, "Above!" and whipped out her blade as she kneed her horse aside.
Behind her, her men looked up, too, then let out a fearful shout as they crowded into clumps, trying to avoid the living projectiles.
So, of course, some of the enemy soldiers fell right atop the clumps.
Ugly cracking sounds came from their landings—before the broken ones' mates stabbed down with a bellow of anger. Other ambushers fell on the road, and the few that survived the fall were dazed and easy meat for Alisande's pikemen.
But the road before them filled in with mounted men, behind three ranks of foot soldiers.
"Retreat!" Alisande cried. "Back, in good order! We will come at these in another fashion!"
Emboldened, the enemy knights roared a command and rode slowly down the roadway behind the running ranks of their men.
Alisande set a good example by chopping down a few in the front rank even as she urged her horse backward. Behind her, grudgingly, her men gave way—save for a few who ducked around her to stab at the enemy. Still, foot by foot, the forces of Merovence retired, but thinned the ranks of their attackers as they went.
At the rear, Sauvignon bawled orders, and the more-alert footmen began to climb the trees.
Ten more paces, and the enemy army halted, seeing Merovencian soldiers perched up high among the branches. One or two of the climbers were hefting stones experimentally.
Ibilian men went scurrying up the trunks again, and the Army of Evil withdrew, slowly.
Alisande's footmen roared with delight and leaped in pursuit.
"Hold!" she bellowed. "That way lies death!"
Unconvinced but obedient, her men came to a surly halt.
"Retire to the edge of this wood," Alisande ordered, "for we cannot pass the night here."
"But, Majesty!" a sergeant protested, "we shall lose what we have gained!"
" 'Tis better than losing our lives," the queen rejoined. "Take your men and go."
The Ibilians drew back out of sight—but Alisande had no doubt they were there, crouched and ready.
As her men came back into the little meadow before the woods, Sauvignon bawled orders to pitch camp. Reluctantly, they turned to obey. Everyone knew right where to go—to the buried embers of last night's fire.
"How shall we dislodge the enemy from these trees, Majesty?" Sauvignon asked.
"Why, by sending rangers above, to find and strike down at them," Alisande said wearily, "and all the footmen to follow them. Then, when we have taken the heights, may we bring the horses through."
" 'Tis well." Sauvignon grinned beneath his visor. "Myself, I think I shall become a footman anon." And he turned to spread the good word.
Alisande watched him go and felt a pang of regret as she watched his athletic, mail-clad figure moving among the men. She turned away, murmuring, "Ah, Matthew! Wherefore could you not have been well born?"
It would be so easy if he were only here—or did it just seem that way? No, surely her Matthew could have wrought a spell that would have sent these hedge sorcerers packing, and would have made the Ibilian soldiers fall from their trees like ripe fruit before her army, ready for the gathering.
"Where are you now, my love?" she murmured, gazing off toward the woods and Orlequedrille. "Of what do you speak?"
Or to whom?
She felt a stab of panic at that—had he met another woman, one softer and more compliant? She had not forgotten how completely Matt had fallen victim to the charms of the lust-witch Sayeesa, nor how she had needed to hew her way in to rescue him. Even then, it was only his oath of fealty that had saved them all, not his love for her.
"What a fool I was," she swore, "not to make sure of him whiles I could! Ah my love, my love—an I find you again, be certain I shall wrap you quickly to an altar and a priest, ere you may make your escape from me again!"
But her heart sank at the very words. Did he truly think of his quest as an escape? Given his free choice, would he really choose her?
And would his choice be free? Would he, himself? Or did he, at this moment, languish in the dungeon of the sorcerer-king? Had he been put to the torture? Her heart began to race as she pictured him on the rack—though Heaven knew he deserved some pain, for abandoning her so!
But it was Heaven's doing after all, was it not? If Heaven had not wished him to sally forth against Ibile, surely his foolish oath would have had no effect.
Could Heaven strengthen him enough, against Ibile's sorcerers?
What blasphemy even to think it! If Heaven wished to scour the land of sorcery, assuredly it had the power...
But did the people wish it? The common folk, and the sorcerers who led them? For surely, God had given people the power to choose their own destinies, wisely or foolishly, and would not compel folk to choose well.
As Heaven would not constrain Matthew to choose wisely.
A stab of pure panic pierced her. Could her Matthew have wearied of virtue? Could he have fallen prey to the temptations of carnal pleasure and worldly power? For he was, surely, in a land where they who worked magic held dominion over all their fellows. Could Matthew have succumbed?
But no, he did not seek power...
Or did he?
All her old suspicions welled up again. Did Matthew want her because he loved her, or because he loved her power? Did he seek a love match, or a throne?
If only he had been well born, like Sauvignon!
Or, said the nasty voice of conscience, like Duke Astaulf? Duke Astaulf, who had usurped her father's throne, then slain him. His soul toiled in Purgatory now, though it had wrought enough evil here on earth, in its time. Surely birth could yield as much ambition as its lack. Nay, more, for it had an easier channel for its striving.
Might Matthew, then, have sought the easier channel? Might he, perish the thought, have joined with the sorcerers in their government of evil?
"Heaven forbid!" Alisande whispered with a shudder, and drew her cloak more tightly around her as she sent up an earnest prayer that her love would still be free when she found him, still devoted to God, Good, and Merovence...
&nb
sp; And to Alisande, of course. Pray Heaven he had not found another woman!
CHAPTER 28
Offensive Defenses
They burst out into the keep, a mob of filthy skeletons in tatters, wide-eyed and howling.
"After them!" Matt shouted. "There's still a chance!"
They charged up the dungeon stairs, nearly tripping in the dim light of the sconced torches, but by the time they reached the top step, it was too late. The huge oaken doors were broken; two mangled guards and a dying prisoner lay on the floor. The ground floor was an armory, and the prisoners were catching up weapons and turning on the guards like maniacs—which many of them probably were, by now. More guards came running, from the upper stories and from the courtyard.
"They blew it," Matt groaned. "What can we do for them now?"
"See that their sacrifice is not in vain." Sir Guy gripped his shoulder. "Use the diversion they have given you! Outside, Wizard! To the gate!"
Matt pulled himself together and stepped out into the armory. In the center of the huge room, guards were flailing at the riot of prisoners. Matt beckoned to his crew and sidled along the wall, heading for the main door.
They made it without a hitch, swinging around the side of the great portal—and coming face-to-face with a huge captain who was just running up with a dozen guards at his back. He put on the brakes and shouted, "Seize them!"
The soldiers dived for Matt and his people.
Maid Marian brought around her quarterstaff, the others raised their swords, and Fadecourt prowled forward, arms out to grab—but Matt shouted, "Hold, good guardsmen! Is't not enough that your king has scourged us forth with derision? Admittedly, our performance may not have been the most amusing—but are we to be pilloried for bad acting?"
He had an answer for that, but fortunately the captain didn't. He held up a hand to halt his troops, frowning. "What manner of vagabonds are you, then, who go armed in the king's castle?"
"Wandering players," Matt improvised, "and our weapons and armor are lath and buckram." He forced a laugh. "O worthy Captain! Would you believe that such poor folk as we could bear the weight of real armor?"
The captain glanced at Sir Guy, unsure—then his gaze lit on Fadecourt, and he relaxed. Matt didn't—he was waiting for the man to ask about Stegoman. He risked a glance back—and there was no sight of the dragon! Matt felt a moment of panic, afraid for his friend, then reminded himself that dragons can take care of themselves, and Stegoman probably had his reasons for hiding out.
Matt had to admit, it had been a good idea.
" 'Tis bad enough to have been cuffed and kicked for our pains," he grumbled, "when we had hoped for silver, and expected copper at least—or dinner, if naught else!"
The captain grinned. "The king is hard to please." He looked up over their heads, frowning. "What noise is that?"
"Critics." Matt sighed. "A disappointed audience. What, are they still shouting after us?"
The captain didn't look all that sure, but one of his men volunteered, "They are naught, Captain. Let us cuff them on their way."
"Aye," another said. "Only a few blows with a truncheon, Captain!"
But an evil grin spread over the captain's face as he looked over the motley crew before him. His eyes sparked as he looked at Yverne and Marian in their shifts, but the hullabaloo inside deterred him, and he only said, "Nay. We shall escort them to the gate. Will it not be pleasant to see them step out?"
His men frowned—but one of them, a little brighter than the rest, suddenly got the idea. His lips spread into a very nasty grin, and he elbowed his fellow, who turned to him, frowning, caught his wink, and suddenly grinned with him.
"Ladies!" The captain gave them a mocking bow and stood aside. "Gentlemen! After you!"
They stepped forward, seeming very uncertain—and Matt knew their hearts were thudding just as his was. The gate? Perfect.
But why were the soldiers so happy to guide them?
Because they knew there was an army of archers outside! They expected the vagabonds to be turned into pincushions!
"That one, at least, is too good to waste," a soldier muttered to his mate as Yverne passed by, pale but resolute.
"Damn your eyes!" the captain barked, and the soldier started with horror. No wonder, considering what words could do here.
They almost made it; it almost went without a hitch. But, about twenty yards from the gate, a man in a dark blue robe sprinkled with zodiacal signs turned to see what was going on—and his eyes locked on Matt.
Matt could feel the sorcerer's magical field probing his own, clashing with his own, saw the man's mouth opening, heard him shout, "Seize them! Slay them! That one is a white wizard!"
The captain jerked to a halt, startled, but Fadecourt knew what to do. He slammed into the officer, bawling, and ran right over him as he fell, diving toward the sorcerer—who made a small motion with his hand as he chanted a quick rhyme, and Fadecourt's trajectory abruptly swerved to miss. Instead, he slammed headlong into the gate.
Almost headlong—he managed to flip over in midair, landed feet first, and bounced to the ground.
Maid Marian was there by that time, heaving at the bar—and Yverne was stepping up to the sorcerer with a seductive smile and saying, "Why do you worry over such nothings? Nay, have you no time for a vagabond lass?"
The sorcerer looked startled, then began an, uncertain smile—and Yverne's little fist hooked up in an uppercut, slamming him back against the soldiers behind him.
But another sorcerer stood guard at the gate, and shouted, "Hold!" as he performed some elaborate gestures, ending with finger pointing stiffly at Marian and Fadecourt—who suddenly slowed, almost stopping, the huge bar in their hands.
Matt leaped up between them. The time for secrecy was over. He held up a hand like a traffic cop, shouting,
"Let the blow return unto the giver!
Turn and to its source deliver!"
It didn't quite make sense, but it was enough—Marian and Fadecourt staggered with sudden release as the sorcerer shot back against the wood of the gate. The cyclops and the maid heaved the bar up and out, and Matt shouted,
"Open locks,
Whoever knocks!"
The huge iron lock groaned as its innards turned; Fadecourt and Maid Marian threw their weight against the huge leaves, and the doors boomed open.
Sir Guy was fencing madly with sword and dagger, holding off three guardsmen who were frantically trying to hew their way to the portal, to close the doors. More guards came pounding, and Fadecourt and Marian turned to grapple with them. The maid's staff whirled like a flail, threshing a human crop, and Fadecourt picked up two soldiers at a time, hurling them back against their fellows. Yverne's sword was a blur, holding two soldiers at bay.
But two more minor sorcerers came running, their hands windmilling.
Matt decided to get the jump on them, and started reciting verses of his own—but he could see a veritable human wave building up inside the keep, about to fall on them...
Shouts of triumph pealed behind him, but he didn't dare to look until he saw the knights ride past him, men who had fought beside Sir Guy at the siege. Right behind them came a tide of Lincoln green, quarterstaves slamming out to break swords and pates, and a mob of commoners behind them with scythes and staves. Matt was caught up and borne by a human tide. He turned, bobbing in it like a cork, saw Robin's army streaming in through the gates, more soldiers thundering up behind him, and something towering against the sky, but he couldn't make out what it was before he was spun about to face front, as the human river slammed into the tidal wave of guards.
Then, for a few minutes, all was bellowing and screaming and confusion. Crossbow bolts hailed down from the walls, and attacking peasants fell, but so did defenders—the men of evil weren't worried about how many of their own they killed, as long as they wiped out the invaders. But Robin's merry men were already swarming up the stairs to the battlements, leaping on the crossbowmen and dispatching them
with well-aimed blows of the quarterstaves. They didn't fire down into the courtyard-too much chance of hitting their own men—but they did blockade the stairs and hold them against the king's troops rushing up to charge them. Quarterstaff met pike in a furious, staccato concerto, and the king's soldiers fell like the spume of a river running into rapids.
The other half of the merry men were following Robin back into the keep, or trying to—guards kept getting in their way. Robin squared off against the big captain; there was a furious clanging of swords; then the captain was falling, and Robin was turning to help Little John against a band of five. His men echoed him; throughout the courtyard, pairs of foresters stood back-to-back, dispatching soldiers left and right. Blood stained the Lincoln green, and here and there a man fell—but very few.
The peasants bellowed with ferocious joy. They had weapons in their hands, and the hated king's livery in front of them; they were busy paying back old scores. Many of them died, but the frenzy was on them, and they scarcely seemed to notice.
"I can't believe it!" Matt stared, then had to turn quickly to parry and cut. But it was incredible—his troops were winning!
Then the king began to call up his reinforcements. With a bellow, a horrendous lion, with the face of a man and several sets of jaws, came stalking out of a tower, roaring. It set upon the peasants, chewing them up and tossing them aside. From the opposing tower, another lion stalked—only this one had wings, and a dragon's tail.
"A manticore and a chimera!" Robin drew his bow. "Aid me, Tuck!"
Friar Tuck gave a last blow of his sword, dispatched an opponent, and made the Sign of the Cross over him as he stepped back, sword down but buckler up, lips moving in a quick prayer for the soul of the fallen man. Then he looked up at the manticore, held up his hilt as a cross, and looked up to Heaven, saying something Matt couldn't hear—but Robin loosed, and his arrow slammed into the manticore's breast. It howled and leaped into the air, clawing and biting at the arrow—and fell back, dead.
Robin drew another arrow—but Matt's attention was diverted by a shout from the walls. Tentacles slapped over the battlements, drawing up after them huge, loathsome forms, half squid and half man, reaching out to catch and crush. The merry men and peasants chopped off arms with swords, but the monsters only hissed in fury and squeezed harder.
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