Her Majesty's Wizard

CHAPTER 14

"Awake."

Matt swatted at the steel hand and rolled over on his back, glaring up at Sir Guy. "It's too early."

The knight only pointed to the sky, and Matt realized Sir Guy was silhouetted against a brightening ceiling. Looking out, he saw the hellhounds still slavering and clawing at the force-field, without the slightest slackening of berserk ferocity.

"They will flee with sunrise," the knight explained, "but we must be ready to ride when they do, to make as many miles as we can by daylight."

Matt nodded. "So we have to start early." He clambered to his feet, sighing, and helped Sir Guy waken Alisande and Sayeesa. They breakfasted on journey bread, huddled in their cloaks and watched the dogs clawing at the eastern space between stone blocks.

The sky grew rosy as they watched. They finished breakfast and saddled up. The hounds went crazy as they mounted and rode to the center of the Ring, watching the east.

A sudden line of burning red bulged above the horizon. Scarlet rays stabbed out, flooding through the eastern portal.

The dogs screamed, wheeled about, and fled out over the moor.

But they'd overstayed; they seemed to grow thinner as they ran, translucent, and transparent, then ...

"Gone." Matt exhaled a long, shaky breath.

"Back to whatever lightless place gave them being." Sir Guy nodded heavily. "Now let us ride."

They turned their horses, setting their backs to the sun, and rode out of the Stone Ring-quite reluctantly, with the possible exception of Sayeesa. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and slumped in her saddle as they passed between huge sarcens.

They rode west, alternating between walk and canter again. Alisande rode beside Sayeesa, chatting; and there was nothing particularly royal about her manner. She seemed only a young woman, wanting a good gossip. Sayeesa was wary at first, but she thawed quickly.

Matt kept trying to catch the princess's eye, but she always seemed to be looking the other way at just the wrong moment. After a while, he began to suspect it was more than coincidence. Finally, about midmorning, he managed to cut in between the two women during a canter and was next to Alisande when they slowed to a walk. "Good morrow, your Highness."

"Good morn." Her neck was ramrod stiff, and she didn't quite meet his gaze. "Lord Wizard, I must ask you to forget any words that passed between us yesterday. You will understand that, due to the nature of the Stone Ring, I was not myself."

It hurt. It stabbed in and twisted, letting anger spurt out. "Of course -I should have expected remorse this morning. After all, you'd never felt like a woman before."

Her head snapped back as if she'd been slapped, and anger flared in her eyes - but beneath it, he could see the hurt. She inclined her head with cold courtesy. "I thank you for instruction, Lord Wizard. I assure you, I'm schooled - never to risk personal converse again."

She straightened in her saddle with the dignity of a glacier and rode away, turning her back to him.

Matt watched her go, cursing under his breath.

A spark hovered near him, visible even in sunlight, humming, "You may understand perversity, Wizard, yet you cannot prevent it."

"Oh, go make a hotbox," Matt growled.

By late afternoon, they were out of the plains, into a rolling, hill-and-gully land. Sir Guy was in excellent spirits. "We shall not lack for shelter this night, praise Heaven! We shall be well-housed indeed, at the monastery of Saint Moncaire!"

"Moncaire?" Matt frowned. "Hardishane's war wizard? What kind of monks live in his house?"

"A warrior order." Sir Guy gazed off into the distance with nostalgia. "Worthy men, sworn to holy orders as well as to arms, devoted to the protection of the helpless against the wicked. For years they maintained themselves in readiness, with fasting, drill, and marches, as if the time of their need should come on the morrow."

"And tomorrow's here." Matt chewed at his lower lip. "But isn't war a rather strange profession for a monk, Sir Guy?"

The knight shook his head. "'Tis a matter of whom the arms are borne against, Lord Wizard."

"Malingo." Matt nodded. "I keep forgetting that, in this universe, it really is possible to tell the good from the bad - and without much likelihood of rationalizing. Let's have a look at this monastery."

The monastery was there. So was an army!

It was a rather motley horde, falling into definite groupings by uniform color; but it surrounded the monastery on all four sides in a vast, sprawling circle.

Sir Guy drew in a long, whistling breath. "We have been anticipated."

"It is the army of evil," Alisande confirmed.

Matt frowned, brooding. "How far from the mountains are we?".

"Two days' ride," Alisande answered.

"What now is our order?" Sayeesa demanded. "Can we go around them?"

"We can," Sir Guy said judiciously. "But if we do, night will catch us far from any habitation."

"No." Matt shook his head sharply. "We might not find a convenient Stonehenge this time; and I somehow suspect Malingo hasn't run out of hellhounds."

"We go in, then." Alisande's sword hissed out of its sheath. "Come, gentles. We shall hew a way to those walls, or die with our swords reaping a harvest of evil about us."

"Very commendable." Matt touched a restraining hand to Alisande's hilt. "But personally, I'd prefer not to die. There's a better way. Max!"

"Aye, Wizard." The dot of arc light hovered in the air before him. Sir Guy and Alisande pulled back involuntarily, and the stallion shifted restlessly. Matt ignored them. "Does your power extend to time, Max?"

"Things move in time as in space. Thus there is energy spent; and where it is spent, I can hoard. 'Tis in my province."

Matt took a deep breath, sure of his words this time.

The dot of light winked out. Matt swallowed and settled in the saddle, motioning the others forward.

They rode down the hill at a trot and came to the rear of an army strangely stalled; all about them, soldiers and animals stood frozen in mid-movement.

"What has happened, Lord Wizard?" Alisande's voice was hushed. "Have you and this Demon of yours frozen this whole army in death?"

"No, Highness. They are not dead, but frozen in time, so that it might take a day for one to blink his eyes." Matt looked around him, trying to suppress a shudder. "But do not touch them. They move so slowly that each must seem as immovable as a whole mountain of granite."

They went through the army at a crawl, moving very carefully. It was slow going. Finding ways for the horses to move through the bunched soldiers was difficult, and they often had to backtrack and try another way. But they persevered and were almost to the wall when the men about them began to move again, very slowly, but getting faster.

"The spell's broken!" Matt bellowed. "Ride, and don't count the bumps!"

Horses lurched into a run as a midnight-blue figure thrust up above the crowd, its hands weaving an unseen pattern.

"Faster!" Matt called. "There's a sorcerer with a whammy back there!"

But the footmen were coming alive, with groans that rose to howls. Pikes thrust up at them from all sides. Sir Guy shouted and plowed ahead, bowling them out in a bow-wave; but the more adroit soldiers sprang back, then leaped in again, thrusting. Matt whipped out his sword and parried a pike, slicing its haft in the process. On the far side, Sir Guy dished out death, cut-and-parry.

The sorcerer's arm swung down in an arc, forefinger stabbing out at the company.

"Fight!" Alisande cried. "They are no longer helpless!"

Matt turned toward her, startled. Her voice had deepened, grown husky. Her body had thickened; laugh lines cupped her mouth. As he watched, crow's-feet sprouted, and silver salted her hair.

"You're aging!" Matt cried, and turned to Sir Guy. The knight was hewing and hacking, but more slowly now, and his hair was grizzled. Matt yanked his hand up in front of his eyes and felt his joints resist the movement. The hand was blue-veined and wrinkled. "He's hexed us! We're aging a year every second! Max!"

"Aye, Wizard?" The Demon danced before him.

"Make us younger, fast! Back to our natural ages! The sorcerer over there has speeded our time up!"

"Then I shall reverse it," the Demon chuckled. "What words will you give me?"

"I go, I go!" the Demon sang, and exploded into a sheet of flame, to clear some working space. Soldiers sprang back, screaming and beating their clothes. Matt felt his joints loosen and saw Sir Guy and Alisande quicken their movements as the wrinkles faded from their faces.

A despairing shriek rose over the battle; Matt yanked his head around in time to see the sorcerer collapse. Max had drained the magician's power - all of it.

A pike jabbed up at Matt's eyes. He flinched, pulling back, and it grazed his shoulder instead. Matt bellowed as pain seared him, and thrust with his sword. The pike head went flying, but two more jabbed in, and more soldiers were following from Matt's blind side. He swung his monofilament-edged sword like a scythe, reaping pike heads. "Your Highness! Get the gate open!"

"Aye; 'tis my task," Alisande cried, turning her horse. The Demon blasted some space for her as she rode to the fore, leaving Sayeesa sandwiched between Sir Guy and Matt.

Alisande cupped a hand around her mouth and called out, "Open to friends! Open the gate!"

Matt heard a shouted command above, and a torrent of crossbow bolts plummeted down all around them. Soldiers screamed and fell back, and few seemed disposed to replace them. A knight swore in the background, swatting at his men with the flat of his sword; but they pressed back away from the company, for the crossbow bolts continued to fall in a drizzle.

"Who cries for entry?" a basso voice bawled above.

Alisande's mouth hardened. "Alisande, Princess of Merovence, commands you to open!"

The basso swore a startled, but very pious, oath, and the huge doors bowed outward on the instant, swinging wide. The besiegers howled and surged forward. But bolts hailed down, slowing them. Alisande galloped in through the gate with Sayeesa behind her, and Sir Guy tuned his horse, facing outward, pulling in against Matt's side, retreating toward the gate while he hacked and slew about him. Matt admired his endurance; his own arm was ready to fall off.

They backed toward the gate. Within the archway, Sir Guy tuned and galloped in. Matt slewed about, blocking the door. He clipped three pike heads with one last weary chop before he cried, "Max! Flambea!"

The Demon blasted a ten-foot half circle of charred earth clear around the gate. While the enemy was trying to rally, the rear ranks trying to shove through the huddle of moaning men in front, Matt pivoted and lurched into the monastery.

A moment later, the huge doors boomed shut behind him, and the foot-thick bar crashed home to hold them. Something huge and heavy slammed against them, rattling the bar; then howls of frustration filled the air outside the wall. Matt went limp in the saddle. Let them bring up a battering ram, now; his party was safe.

"Where's she that does claim to be Princess of Merovence?" the stern basso voice cried out above them. A tall, heavy figure in full plate armor clanked down the steps from the battlement, his breastplate embossed with a bright green cross. A cloak of the same green, with a gold border, snapped in the wind behind him.

"My Lord Abbot!" Sir Guy cried cheerily, saluting with his sword. "Well met in a dark hour!"

"Who speaks so?" The tall knight rumbled, lifting his visor to disclose a glowering face with a bush of moustache.

Sir Guy threw up his own visor, and the abbot's stern face broke to a slight smile, a warm glow in his eyes. "Sir Guy Losobal! It is long since I beheld your countenance. Have you come, to strive by our sides in our hour of need?"

"Nay, Lord Abbot - we have come to cry sanctuary from a house of God! And as to her whom we guard, look and see - can you hold doubt of her lineage?"

The abbot turned, frowning down at Alisande. His eyes widened slightly. "Nay - I cannot," he breathed. "Her parentage is written in her features."

Matt was amazed that so huge a man could move so quickly. He was at the bottom of the stairs in an instant, kneeling by Alisande's horse. "You honor our house, Highness, and have come to give heart to your most loyal liegemen in the darkest of hours! Forgive my rash doubts of your person!"

"Your caution was well-founded, Lord Abbot." Alisande sat straight in the saddle, royalty enfolding her like great, closing wings. "The thanks and praise of a princess, for all you and yours, who have held out 'gainst all hope."

"Thus we have ever done; thus we shall ever do," the abbot responded, rising. "Yet we fought with little heart, for we thought our cause doomed. But we know, now, that you live and are free! Nay, let them batter our gates! With their own swords, we shall dig them their graves!"

Alisande beamed, basking in the glow of his homage. "I am greatly blessed to have such vassals! Yet I err in etiquette. Lord Abbot, may I present my worthy companions." She indicated Sayeesa. "A penitent bound for the convent of Saint Cynestria."

The abbot bent an armored glance on Sayeesa. "Women are forbidden within these precincts; yet any attendant upon her Highness is welcome. Still must I bid you to the guest house in the eastern tower, milady."

"I cry grace for your courtesy." Sayeesa bowed her head. "Yet you have no need of such chivalry; I am lowborn."

"Your speech denies it," the abbot said, frowning. "Naetheless, you are welcome to such sanctuary as we can offer." He turned away, studying Matt. "And this, your Highness."

"This is Matthew, Lord Wizard of Merovence." Alisande's voice rang out.

The abbot stared, taken aback. "Lord Wizard! You dare to proclaim this, with the usurper's foul sorcerer claiming the title?"

"I do," Matt said grimly. "I have an ace up my sleeve."

"An ace?" The abbot turned to the princess with a frown. "What is this he speaks of?"

"I have not heard the term," she answered. "He is a rare scholar, Lord Abbot, and much that he speaks is quite strange. Yet I think that he speaks of the small bit of light which he term--" She hesitated. "-a Demon."

"But be assured, Lord Abbot - he's not of the Hell-crew," Matt added quickly.

"How could that be?" the abbot growled. "A Demon, and not of Hell?"

"Well, that's just a label fastened on him from the outside, mostly, I think, because he wasn't human and produced heat."

"Nay, that cannot be!" the abbot said sternly. "None but God can create!"

"You're right! But you can take what heat is available and concentrate it in one place. That's really all you do when you boil water, isn't it?"

"Aye, in a manner of speaking." The abbot still frowned. "Is it thus your familiar does its work?"

"Not all that familiar," Matt said judiciously. "But yes, he does - and he sticks with me because I understand how men are basically self-defeating."

"Ah." The abbot nodded, his face clearing. "That the fault is not in Creation, but in man. Yes, I see - and if your spirit declares that, it could not be of the Hell-breed." He took a deep breath, his shoulders lifting. "Well, then - what would you say to hot meat and good wine?"

For the first fifteen minutes, they were rapt in total silence, broken only by the clink of knife on plate - the kind of silence which was the hungry man's highest tribute to good cooking.

After two pounds of beef, some scallions, and a glass of wine that out-burgundied Burgundy, the abbot heaved a satisfied sigh and set down his glass. "Tell me what you have seen as you rode from the East."

"Banditry and lawlessness," Alisande said darkly. "Poor folk striving still to be good, but with sad moral weakness come upon them." She looked up at the abbot. "Which should be little surprise to you - for I see many coats, other than those of your monks, here in your monastery, Lord Abbot."

It was a monastery, Matt had to admit - he'd found that out as they came through the inner gate. Suddenly it had been spread out before him-a collection of low-lying buildings, dormitories, cloisters, common hall, chapel, brewery, bakery, armory-all the buildings of a medieval monastery, with a few martial additions. Even an orchard, and a large truck garden. But the whole thing was enclosed by the great curtain-wall, turreted and battlemented. The House of Moncaire was a strange hybrid between monastery and fortress. It said a lot about its inhabitants.

"Aye, many liveries, Highness," the abbot answered. "The Duke of Tranorr is here, and the Duke of Lachaise. Earl Cormann has come, and Earl Lanell and Earl Morhaisse. Beneath them are Barons Purlaine, Margonne, Sorraie -- the list is long, Highness."

"Tranorr, Mochaisse, Purlaine ... those estates are near to Bordestang." The princess frowned.

The abbot nodded. "When the usurper's armies closed about them, they could choose only death or flight. They fled, that they might fight again for your cause. They came here, where the power of God strengthens the power of arms. Here, too, have come peasants made homeless by banditry, or by wars between barons men who live now only to strike down the emissaries of Evil. We have footmen aplenty, and knights; those whose lords died in the war have come to us, masterless, seeking a suzerain, for they disdained to serve the usurper."

"Then your numbers are adequate?" Alisande inquired.

"They have been, till now." The abbot's face darkened. "Your presence here is a blessing, Highness - yet 'tis also cause for concern. Many of our men have fallen to wounds, and more than a few to vice. Our arrows and bolts are spent faster than our fletchers and smiths can renew our stock. We are weakened, in truth; for we've been here besieged nigh onto a twelvemonth. Till now, the usurper and his sorcerer have had to fight in many places at once; the troops before our walls are, therefore, a moiety of their force. Yet with your Highness here guesting, I doubt not they'll bring all their horses and men to this place and strike us with all their weight here this night."

"Do you say we are doomed?" Alisande demanded.

"Nay, surely not." The abbot smiled bleakly. "Yet I misdoubt our power to maintain our walls."

"I wouldn't worry too much, milord." Matt glanced down at the brilliant spark hovering in his cupped palm. "I think we'll manage."

The abbot's back stiffened as he turned ponderously toward Matt, inclining his head in a stiff, too elaborate bow. "I thank you for your words of good hope, Lord Wizard; but while her Highness has paid tribute to your scholarship, I must ask: How sound is your knowledge of warfare?"

It was a good question, Matt admitted to the Demon-later. "How about it, Max? Can we hold out, you and I between us?"

"'Tis a fine question, Lord Wizard," the spark hummed. "I've not yet gauged the strength of your spells; that, you must judge for yourself, 'gainst what you know of their sorcerers."

"Yeah." Matt grinned. "You were able to counter that portable potion pusher very easily, though."

"Aye, easily, against one alone. Yet do not think me more than I am, Wizard. Had yester-night's stone circle been wider by two paces, I could not have closed the Wall of Octroi about it."

"Oh." Matt pursed his lips. "Limited range, huh?"

"Even so. Be mindful that mine is the power of concentrating or dissipating a force. I can do great works in small spaces - but only as you direct. I will not suggest."

The view from the battlements was less than encouraging. The army of sorcery lay all about the monastery like a human sea. Rivulets trickled into it from the hills-columns of footmen and knights trooping in.

"The abbot was right," Matt mused. "Malingo's gathering the, troops." He was beginning to feel a bit chilly in the base of the stomach.

"I think we shall see the sun rise," Sir Guy said judiciously. "But 'twill be long till the dawn, Lord Wizard."

The twilight faded; night deepened over the valley, and stars pricked out. A vast, screaming howl rose from the besiegers, and arrows filled the sky, hailing down onto the battlements. The Knights of Moncaire crouched under shields with their allies, letting the hail of death roll off their tracks with a long, rolling clangor. Here and there, a man shouted in agony, and brown-robed monks rushed out with shields strapped to their bent backs, braving the hail of arrows to drag the wounded man to cover.

"This is a covering fire," Matt called to Sir Guy. "What's it covering?"

"Yonder." the Black Knight pointed out toward the field. Matt looked down and saw the infantry charging all along the line, with scaling ladders angled like lances.

"Shoot not afar," the abbot commanded his men. "Hold till they're close; then pick your man and see him laid on the turf... Loose!"

Arrows leaped out over the wall to rain down on the infantry. The scaling ladders faltered, then halted, swaying - and swayed on down in slow, graceful arcs to slam into the sod. The infantry turned and fled, leaving windrows of dead and wounded.

"'Tis hard," the abbot said, glowering down at the casualties, "for most of these are constrained to be here. A year agone, I would have fought to save them, not to slay them. Yet now I must kill them in sheaves, or surrender my fortress - and with it, the hope of the land."

Matt pointed. "What's that?"

"Which?" The abbot sighted along Matt's arm. "'Tis the sorcerer who has command of this horde."

"And the two in dark gray there, with him?"

"His apprentices." The abbot stepped back, frowning. "What manner of wizard are you, that you know so little of sorcerers?"

"One who never had time for the formalities," Matt snapped. "What are they brewing?"

The three sorcerers stood hunched over a huge cauldron, the gray-clad men stirring the stew and occasionally tossing something in. Their chief bent low, making mystic passes over the pot and, presumably, chanting.

"Evil spells," the abbot said heavily. "Yet I do not too much fear them; for this is a holy place. We must trust to God and Saint Moncaire to protect us."

A sudden, faint sound caught at the back of Matt's brain. He looked up, frowning. "Milord Abbot! What's that?"

"Which?" the abbot demanded.

"That sound!"

"I hear naught."

"Under the sound of the battle-that buzzing! Hear it? It's getting louder!"

"Nay, I hear no such..." the abbot broke off, eyes widening.

Now they all heard it - a humming buzz, like a sixty-cycle square wave in quadrophonic sound, filling the sky.

Then the plague hit-like a plague of locusts, but worse: gnats, mosquitoes, bees, horseflies, swarming so thickly they blocked out the stars. The knights swore and leaped back from the wall, swatting at their armor-mosquitoes were small enough to get into the chinks. One knight howled and tore off his helmet-bees make unpleasant padding.

Matt looked up, startled, just as two three-inch sticks thudded against the battlements in front of him.

"Trespassers!" he bellowed. "Repel boarders! We're invaded!"

The knights forgot the insects and lugged out their swords; but footmen were streaming onto the battlements. Swords rang on shields; armor clashed; men screamed and died, flipping backward off the wall. Matt chopped through a shield, blessing his monofilament sword; but men were coming at him from all sides.

A voice behind him keened, "Wizard, to me! I'll clear space for your work!"

But the footmen heard the word "wizard" and fell on Matt like a screaming horde. He caught one sword on his shield, blocked another from his right with the flat of his sword, kicked the guy in the middle in the knee, turned his own blade and struck down, cleaving a head in half. Blood and brains started to spill, but he was already turning back to the man on the left - with his stomach starting to rise. He swallowed hard, clamping his jaws, as he swung up his shield to catch another blow, then turned to block another early chopper from his right. But he forgot to flatten the blade, and the soldier chopped at Matt's sword edge - and stared, horrified, at the stump of a sword he was left holding. He threw it at Matt and fled, howling. Matt ducked, but not enough; it clipped him on the side of the head, ringing a gong in his helmet and sprinkling stars across his vision; there wasn't much padding between steel and head. He turned, dazed, in time to see a sword chopping down at his nose. He rolled back, swinging his shield up. The sword ricocheted off the shield, and Matt thrust while the man's guard was down. The soldier screamed, arcing backward. Matt yanked his sword out and turned away before he could see the man fall. "Max, clear for me!"

"Aye," the Demon sang. Flame gouted over Matt's head to sweep an arc clear on the battlements. Matt ran till he slammed full against the inner rampart wall and leaned against it, shuddering, gulping breath. How did you get rid of a plague of insects?

You swallowed them, of course.

High-pitched cries filled the air, drowning out the buzzing. A horde of dark wings filled the battlements, swooping and diving. Knights and footmen alike shouted and hid their faces. The defenders came out of it first, realizing their advantage, and rushed the attackers with a shout while swallows dive-bombed bugs all about them.

When the sky cleared about ten minutes later, so had the battlements. Wounded men groaned on the stone, mixed in with dead bodies. Grim-faced knights stalked the length of the wall, dispatching wounded enemies with quick cuts or stabs.

"The birds were your work?" the abbot demanded, and Matt nodded. So did the abbot. "Where have they gone?"

"Back to fulfill their mission. Don't you take prisoners?"

The abbot turned to watch the slaughter, his face a stone. "'Tis hard. But we have no food to spare, nor medicine; and there is no way to say which one of them might turn against us."

Matt noticed each of the knights making the Sign of the Cross while his lips moved in prayer, before he stabbed his enemy. "What's this, Lord Abbot?"

"'Tis the words of conditional absolution they pronounce, Lord Wizard, if the men cannot speak repentance of their sins, they are forgiven."

Matt turned to watch brown-robed monks lifting wounded knights gently onto stretchers and carrying them away. "Where are they going?"

Sir Guy looked up. "To the chapel, Lord Matthew, there to be tended; they will heal more quickly there, and the sanctity of a church will protect them best in such a war as this."

"These guys really prefer to pray when they're wounded?"

"These are holy men. And, too, they know that each man praying in the chapel sends greater strength of grace to fortify us who maintain guard."

It was working, Matt realized - his body felt a little lighter, refreshed; magical power tingled in his limbs. Somehow, by the weird metaphysics of this world, prayer could translate into physical strength. The power of prayer was no empty phrase here.

"Ram!" a lookout bellowed.

Matt ran to the wall, craning his neck to get a view.

A wooden tunnel, thirty feet long, was approaching through the enemy forces, like a giant centipede.

"It has as many men as its length," the abbot growled by his shoulder, "and a great trunk of a tree within, I doubt not, hung from timbers. The armored roof protects the men from arrows, bolts, or aught else we might hurl down upon them. Well, let it come; of that, I have no fear."

"Malvoisin!" another lookout cried, and voices took it up, aghast. "Malvoisin! Malvoisin!"

The abbot's head snapped up. Matt followed his glance.

A fifty-foot-high scaffold was rolling toward them, three hundred feet away. It was a siege tower, a square, ugly, unfinished wooden structure, pulled by five teams of horses; but inside, there were steep stairways, and soldiers could run up them at amazing speed to come out the top door, and cross onto the battlements. The name meant "bad neighbor," which it certainly was.

"That," the abbot grated, "I fear."

He swung away. "Ho, archers! Slay me those horses! Have no regard for the tunnel; but put to death the horses that drag that foul scaffold hither!"

A heavy chant sprang up from the archers as they bent their bows and filled the air with volley after volley:

It seemed sacreligious, but Matt realized they meant it from the depths of their hearts. He didn't know enough theology to say whether the saint actually might bless an arrow aimed at another human being, even under these conditions; but it seemed to be working, whether magically or psychologically. In -five seconds, the horses stumbled, fell in their traces, and rolled over, dead.

But the hail of steel points drew an answer-arrows rattled down onto the battlements, sticking in shields or clattering off them. An occasional one pierced armor, and a knight howled, falling. The brown-robes scrambled to pull him in, so the loss in firepower was almost balanced by the increase in spiritual power from the prayers of the wounded. Matt could feel a magic potential rising in him, singing; he felt like a capacitor waiting to be discharged. He wondered if he'd be able to keep from working magic.

Enemy footmen ran in to form a shield-wall around the horses. Hostlers ran in behind them, to unharness the dead beasts and put in replacements.

"Guard them!" the abbot called to the archers. "When you see an opening, loose!"

"The ram, Lord Abbot," Sir Guy reminded.

"What of it?" The abbot frowned down at the tunnel. It was only a few feet from the gate.

"Ought we not to fire upon them now?" Sir Guy demanded.

"Nay." The abbot grinned like a wolf. "Let them swing, their ram."

The tunnel groaned on and connected with the gate, making a hollow boom. Its mouth nearly covered the great doors. A moment later, a huge thud shook the wall.

"Porters!" the abbot called. "Ready at the bar!" He began to count. "One ... two..."

The porters yanked the great oaken beam loose, tossed it to the side.

"Five!" the abbot cried. "Prepare to open!"

The footmen set hands to the handles of the doors and braced their feet.

"Six!" the abbot shouted. "Pull!"

The porters heaved the gates wide open, and the butt end of a huge tree-trunk shot through. It posed for a split second, then shot on in with a series of machine-gun snaps, broken ropes festooning it, soldiers tumbling in off-balance in its wake. Fiery swords flamed in their hands.

"Max!" Matt shouted. "Douse those blades!"

The flames slackened and guttered out as two barons, with five knights and twenty footmen, shouldered the attackers aside and charged out through the gate, laying about them with swords. The attackers, taken by surprise, roared and turned to attack the sally-party's rear; but the knights above upended a huge copper cauldron, and scalding water drenched the attackers. They screamed and pulled back into the courtyard.

"Archers! Loose!" the abbot cried, and the courtyard was suddenly filled with arrows. Matt turned away, sickened by the slaughter, looking out at the tunnel for an excuse. The sally-party was doing very well; the tunnel roof was fallen,-and the framework halfway to kindling. While the laborers hacked at oak, the knights and infantry hewed at soldiers. It was all over in ten minutes, and the barons and their liege men pulled back to the sides just as the few surviving attackers poured out through the gate. The barons and their men chopped at them as they came; only a handful were left to stagger back into the enemy line.

"In!" the abbot cried, for a regiment was finally pulling out of the enemy line for a counterattack. The barons bawled orders; knights and footmen alike leaped to catch up their wounded and dead, then rushed back in through the gate. The huge doors boomed shut behind them, and the great oak bar dropped into its brackets as an exclamation point.

"Let them learn from this," the abbot growled; but there was no joy in his eyes, for the talus slope outside the gate was filled with dead and moaning bodies.

"Hold fire!" he bawled, as a small running party charged up the slope from the enemy line. "Let them recover their wounded!"

They took care of their wounded, all right-with quick, sharp, sword strokes.

The abbot shrugged. "Their comrades' swords or ours-what matter?" But his face was long, and he made the Sign of the Cross over the dead, muttering the Latin words of conditional absolution.

The inhumanity of the spectacle was clawing at Matt's brain, trying to paralyze him, and he couldn't quite shake it off.

"Wizard," hummed the Demon by his ear, "I sense expending of- some force beneath us."

"Probably just the brown-robes, coming out to pick up the dead," Matt muttered.

"Nay; I mean beneath the ground, within this mound of earth beneath us."

"Down inside the motte itself?" Matt looked up, a surge of adrenaline banishing the tendrils clinging to his brain. "Check for miners, will you? Sappers, men trying to dig a tunnel under the battlements and up into the courtyard. If you find them, bring the roof down on them."

"And how shall I do that?" From its tone of voice, the Demon knew quite well, but wanted to make sure Matt did, too.

"Weaken the bonds between molecules, of course!"

"There are few men within this world who'd know such things," the Demon chortled. "I go to search the underground."

It winked out. Matt stood scowling. The Demon was testing him, trying to find his limits. Why?

"Malvoisin!"

Matt looked up at the cry. The siege tower was rolling again, without horses. Faintly, he could hear a heavy work-chant. "They're pushing it from behind," he growled. "What can you do about that, Lord Abbot?"

"I can-Ho!"

Fog, sand, and a tidal wave of dust hit the battlements, churning so thickly that Matt could scarcely see the abbot, ten feet away. Men shouted, startled and frightened; then they began to cough all along the rampart, hacking and wheezing.

"Let fly at the malvoisin!" the abbot cried in despair, then broke off in a coughing fit. The archers began their chant, with many breaks for coughs and wheezes, loosing their arrows blindly into the dust.

This was a real emergency, Matt realized. The enemy could roll up their malvoisin under cover of the storm and send their men in, ready and equipped for dust.

"Use your power, Wizard," the abbot managed between coughs from somewhere near. "Banish this fell storm!"

Matt nodded, forcing his voice to be steady.

The western wind howled in. Men shouted; all about him, clanking spoke of knights clutching one another, to brace themselves against the blast ... But the dust thinned with amazing speed and blew away. Matt turned, looking up, and saw a mammoth slab of whirling dust, its front as flat as if it had been planed, standing like a wall between the monastery and its enemies. That wasn't going to help much; it could still hide the malvoisin till it was too close to stop.

A knight howled as the wind hurled him before it, toward the outer edge. His comrades dived and caught his arms just in time. They hauled him back onto the parapet.

"Secure yourselves!" the abbot bellowed, then turned to Matt. "Wizard, this is your doing! Can you stop this wind?"

Matt shook his head. "If I do, the dust will come pouring back in. It's up to the enemy sorcerers to make the dust disappear; then I can stop the wind. What hour is it?"

"Midnight," the abbot shouted. "Five more hours till the dawn; and my men cannot hold against this wind!"

A roar, like a dozen subways homing in, filled the valley. Matt froze, startled. Then he ran to the wall, more blown than running, brought up sharply against the stone, hung on for dear life, and dared a peek out.

The roar was fading. A huge trench had opened in the field, arrowing from the wall straight back into the dust-wall. Dirt was still pouring in all along its length, along with an avalanche of enemy soldiers and knights from the bottom of the dust-wall.

"What means this, Wizard?" Sir Guy called.

"Sappers," Matt shouted back. "Miners. They were trying to dig their way under the wall."

"But how knew you..." The abbot's face froze; he shook his head sharply. "Do not say; I do not wish to know."

The dust began to thin.

"Ready your archers, Lord Abbot!" Matt called. "The enemy's realized he has to dump the dust! I can stop the wind in a minute or two!"

The abbot bawled orders as the dust dissipated; the last few tag ends disappeared. Matt heaved a sigh of relief, and called,

The wind slackened and died-and fog rolled in, worse than London with a three-day calm. Thick, opaque fog settled over the battlements in a few seconds, hiding Sir Guy five feet away. Matt froze, alarm thrilling through him as he saw it hit. A freezing thought nudged his brain. Just before the fog wrapped around him, he took the deepest breath he could and hid his face in the crook of his arm. Around him, he heard men shout, then the clank and thud as bodies hit the stonework. Men choked and hacked as if they were trying to cough up their entrails. This fog wasn't just water vapor; it was a gas attack.

Matt spent all his breath in four lines:

Then he clamped his jaws shut, trying not to breathe, as the Western wind howled in, hurling the fog out toward the enemy, and revealing the malvoisin, only a few yards from the wall. A knight stood in the doorway at the top. His knees buckled as a tag end of fog coiled into his helmet, then he fell forward, hurtling down. The enemy line filled with a single, roaring cough as the gas attack hit. But even as it struck, the fog thinned, faded, disappeared-and the malvoisin rolled forward the last few feet, almost touching the wall itself.

The boarding ramp fell down, and arrows began to plummet from the top. Swords rang, footmen fell, and the parapet ran red.

The defenders were forced onto the defensive, being driven back toward the stairway, though every inch was bought with blood.

Now, what would stop these enemy soldiers? Most of them were here only because they'd been forced to it. What could buy them off?

Gold, of course. Matt shaped his spell on that idea.

The attackers shouted in horror as every, bit of steel and iron about them turned to gold - pure gold. The Moncairean knights and soldiers shouted triumph as their steel cleaved through golden armor like hot knives through margarine. The attackers howled and turned, trying to jam back into the malvoisin en masse. But the ramp was narrow, and there were six feet of open space between malvoisin and wall, enough for ten or twenty men to plummet screaming to their deaths before the last footman could scramble back over the ramp. Footmen braced their pikes and heaved, pushing the malvoisin away from the wall; and knights stalked the battlements again, intoning conditional absolution and plunging their swords into the wounded.

The sounds of a howling, cursing brawl came from the malvoisin, like a congregation of fishwives. The whole structure trembled.

"What broil is that?" the abbot growled.

"The enemy." Sir Guy grinned. "They squabble over treasure. Yet 'ware; look down." He pointed. Matt, and the abbot craned their necks, looking down over the wall, to see fresh troops running into the bottom door of the malvoisin.

"Max!" Matt bellowed, and the Demon hung before him in the air. "Aye, Wizard?"

"Upgrade the entropy on that firetrap." Matt pointed at the malvoisin.

"Aye," the Demon chortled, and winked out.

"What was that spell?" the abbot demanded.

"Watch." Matt's eyes glittered.

The malvoisin gave a long, preliminary groan; then, with a roar, the whole structure fell apart, beams crumbling into dust as they fell.

"Dry rot," Matt informed the abbot. "Accelerated."

A ten-foot heap of wood dust lay before the gate, filled with struggling, shouting troops.

"Scald!" the abbot called out, granite-faced. "Wash this dust away!"

Two knights upended a hundred-gallon kettle. Boiling water gouted down into the dust-heap. The enemy soldiers screamed, leaping out of sudden mud, landing running. But some of them only made about ten feet before they fell; and some never even got out of the dust pile.

"Archers!" the abbot bellowed, and arrows leaped down from the battlements to turn the fallen into pincushions, while the abbot recited the conditional absolution.

"A horrible end," he growled then, "but we could not have them there, upon our gate. Yet most shall live."

The last few golden-armored men staggered back into the enemy lines. They'd barely gotten there when knots of howling struggle erupted all along the line as footmen and knights alike fought over golden armor, swords, and pike heads.

"'Twill be some time ere they restore order." The abbot leaned back, lifting his helmet to wipe his brow. "We have some breathing space, I think. Brother Thomas! What's the hour?"

"The eighth of the night, milord," a brown-robe shouted back.

"An hour left till dawn." The abbot secured his helmet again. "Prepare yourselves, good knights! They'll not give us overlong to rest!"

But it was long-ten minutes went by, then fifteen.

Matt bit his lip. The enemy only had forty-five minutes left. What were they cooking up that took so long and could be worth the time when there was so little of it left?

His answer appeared, only a hundred feet away from the wall, diminished by distance - but her body glowed in the dark, and every detail was crystal-clear, the more so because she was nude.

All the defenders stared, transfixed.

Matt couldn't see her face too well, but her body was the most voluptuous he'd ever seen, fairly reeking of desire and secret, almost unbearable, pleasures. She stood turned three-quarters toward the monastery, long black hair flowing down over shoulder and breast, looking up at the wall sidelong.

Then most of the knights tore their eyes away, squeezing them shut, bowing their heads over clasped hands, and mouthing prayers as if they were racing to see who could finish the Rosary first.

"Lord above!" A black-bearded knight near Matt shuddered. "'Tis Anastaze -- she whom I wronged, who slew herself, ere I came here repentant! Dear Lord, what have I done, to put her in the mouth of Hell?"

"'Tis not your lass!" the abbot boomed, clasping the man's shoulder. "'Tis a succubus from Hell! Or a foul glamour, made to look like one you knew! Up, away! Get you to the chapel! Pray! You cannot stand 'gainst this enemy!"

The knight rose and turned, stumbling past the abbot to the stairway.

"Mother of God!" a young knight at Matt's right breathed. "Lord above, save me!" His eyes fairly bulged.

"Why, then!" Sir Guy clapped him on the shoulder. "You came a virgin to this place? Nay, be proud! It lends you greater power, in such a war as this! Come, lad, shield your eyes and pray!

There's nothing nearer Heaven than a true, good woman; but there's nothing farther than yon succubus!"

Succubi, he should have said - for there were many of them now, sauntering past the wall in a languorous parade.

The young knight hid his eyes and began to pray.

"Hold firm!" The abbot clasped his shoulder. "Each temptation refused gives greater strength to withstand the next!"

Matt looked up; all along the battlements, odd knights were stumbling toward the stairways - more casualties than any other single attack had taken. But most of them watched without flinching, with chilled eyes. Each man's lips moved in silent syllables of prayer; they stood with arrows nocked, or swords half-drawn, charged with tension, waiting for an enemy to strike at.

But the auxiliaries were another matter.

"By Heaven!" a baron's knight gasped, "see you not yon damsel? Nay, I've never seen a wench so fair! Come, we must have at them!"

"Hold!" The nearest Moncairean clasped the knight's forearm in a grip of iron. "They are but fell illusions!"

"Then let me die in dreams," a footman cried. "Nay, brothers! See you not those lips, those hips, that tumbling hair? What beauty's there!

"I must have one!" another gasped, and started toward the outer wall at a stumbling ran. The Moncaireans turned to catch him. Hoarse shouts sounded all along the wall as a hundred others followed his lead. Shouting erupted, and the ringing of steel on steel.

"Nay, nay!" cried one lay knight, twisting and writhing in the monk-knights' grasp. "I must to them, must touch them! Nay, my manhood will mock me till my death, if I go not to them!"

"And your death will mock you to your manhood," the Moncairean growled. "You forget a hundred feet of empty space beyond that wall."

"Then let me die in ecstasy!"

"And fry in Hell," the other Moncairean grunted. "Yon's a succubus."

"Men!"

The single word cut through the clamor, flat and harsh, charged with woman's most stinging contempt. The fighters looked up, startled.

Sayeesa and Alisande stood at the base of the tower, bright in the moonlight. They sauntered toward the soldiers, looking at the knights and footmen with sneering contempt.

"How is it every man's a dog, when moonlight and a figure fair play upon his mind?" Sayeesa demanded.

"'Tis true," Alisande agreed. "Their tongues grow thick; they sweat and drool like feeble dolts."

"Aye. They withstand fire and steel, arrows, and the hail of bolts - but show them once a woman's form, and they'll crawl upon their bellies to be near her."

Were they out of their minds? They were fairly daring the soldiers to try rape!

Then Matt looked at the faces about him and saw them darkening with sullen anger - but looking at Sayeesa and Alisande, not the succubi. He looked at the women again. They were both beautiful in the torchlight; but the beauty was in their faces, for their bodies were draped and hidden. Somehow, neither looked the least bit sexually attractive at the moment. Even Sayeesa seemed to carry a frigid shield before her. Anger and scorn brightened her face, but the anger was cold, and all that radiated from her was chill. They were rousing anger, but also stilling lust. Matt found himself remembering that this was Sayeesa's area of power; but he hadn't known she could quench lust as well as she could raise it.

"Let them say what they will," one man-at-arms growled. "If I must choose 'twixt their like, and the ones without the walls, I'll go to those outside-or call them in!"

He scrambled to his feet and ran for the stairs. A dozen men shouted approval and ran after him. The rest snapped out of their dazes and made flying grabs at the renegades, who twisted aside and ran down the stairs, heading for the gate.

"Stop them!" the abbot bellowed. "Slay them as they fly, if you must! They must not near that gate!"

The porters sprang to readiness, whipping out their swords, and nearby brown-robes caught up staves.

"Max!" Matt bellowed. "Stop 'em!"

The Demon appeared between the two bodies, then exploded into a sheet of flame, filling the stairway just in front of the charging renegades.

The leader shrank back against the men behind him. They clambered back up the stairway as a party of Moncaireans clattered down to meet them, grappling their former fellows. There was a brief, chaotic clamor, shouting and the clash of steel; then it was stilled, as the Moncaireans dragged unconscious renegades off to a lockable room.

"The spell's not broken yet!"

Matt looked up, startled by the fury in Sayeesa's voice.

"See you not what happens there?" she demanded, pointing.

Matt looked out over the wall and saw some of the things the succubi were doing. He also heard the harsh, wet hiss of in-drawn breath all along the wall.

"These men are goodly and strong," Sayeesa snapped, "yet they are only men, and many will not withstand that sight! Hide them, Wizard, ere your army's broken!"

"Uh-yeah." Matt pulled his eyeballs back into his head with an almost-audible snap and nodded, catching his breath. "You're right. Yeah. Sure.

It boiled in, filling the air just beyond the battlements, thick enough to hide the succubi from sight. The defenders shook themselves, seeming to come out of a trance.

"Nay! What hell-brought spell was that which almost sucked us to our doom?" one gasped.

"Cover your mouths," Matt called. "The wind might blow our way!" To Sayeesa, he asked, "How long till the sorcerers get the idea, do you think?"

"Not long," she replied. "They'll forego them spell, when they see there is no profit to it."

Double sticks thudded against the outer wall, and mail-clad men scrambled up over the battlements.

"Invaders!" Matt bellowed, and the cry ran along the wall as knights lugged out swords and footmen hefted their pikes, turning on the attackers with a roar of delight; they were charged with tension and needed an outlet. The parapet turned into churning chaos, filled with the clangor of swords and the bawling of soldiers. But attackers kept pouring in, and the garrison was weakened.

"We must die in this last hour!" The princess loomed up next to Matt, her sword a flickering death about her. "Can you not expel this army of sorcery?"

"I was thinking along that line." Matt wielded his sword, blocking blows, feeling the charge of spiritual power that had been building in him as more and more knights went to the chapel.

As the dust dwindled and disappeared, the battlements began to glow with pale fire, brightening till it nearly hurt the eyes. All the soldiers froze in superstitious terror, with oaths and cries of fear.

"It's cold fire," Matt cried. "It will not hurt the godly!"

The Moncaireans came out of their trance with a shout. Discipline took over as the abbot bawled, "Attack!" The, soldier-monks went to it with a roar. The attackers backed away in fear, until they realized their choice was between St. Elmo's fire and certain death from steel. Then they clambered back into the battle, but it was too late. The Moncaireans had gained momentum, and the enemy soldiers fought in fear. Bodies flew from the wall; men screamed and clutched the steel that bit them. From there on, it was a cross between a slaughter and a clean-up session.

Matt decided not to give the sorcerers a fighting chance. He took a breath, searching his memory and adapting:

Nothing seemed to happen, and Matt felt a stab of dismay.

Then he realized that this spell might take a few minutes to work.

Soldiers were pouring down the scaling ladders! The battlements were almost clear, except for the dead and wounded. The Moncaireans began to push the scaling ladders over with bellows of joy, and the attackers were running back to their own battle line, while their captains bawled threats, trying to rally another charge. Troops being shoved forward met fleeing troops returning; they clashed and churned into swirls of shouting confusion.

Then a high, piercing shriek wafted dimly over the noise of battle-men in absolute terror. Matt's eyes snapped to the far side of the enemy army. Something had taken a nice, semicircular bite out of the back of the enemy line-no corpses were left, just empty grass where a hundred men had stood.

The Snark, it seemed, was a Boojum!

Howling shrieks of fear and confusion filled the field, and the whole attacking army turned into one vast-muddle, while the silent semicircle expanded and kept expanding.

Then the growth stopped. Somehow, the enemy sorcerers had managed to stop the Boojum without knowing exactly what they were fighting.

Matt tried another spell:

The wind sprang up, but even so, the stench rising to the battlements from the enemy army was disconcerting. Below, the whole field was a vast sea of coughing and choking.

"They are beaten, Wizard!" a spark hummed at Matt's shoulder.

"For a moment. And it's almost daylight. But I'd like to stack the deck a little ... Know what metal fatigue is?"

"Metal crystalizing, hardening until it falls apart at the slightest blow."

"Right. Suppose you give every bit of enemy metal a case of such fatigue?" Matt suggested.

"'Tis done!" The Demon winked out.

That would destroy their weapons. Sorcerers could whip up new ones quickly. But there were other things they might not be able to counteract so easily, knowing nothing of microbiology. Matt considered that, then decided to add a bit of comfort for his side:

Then he added a second spell:

The wind slackened and died; the odor of skunk reeked, but was only an inconvenience on the battlements. The enemy army still churned; it would be some time before they managed to restore order.

The sun's edge swelled above the horizon.

A shout of triumph rose from the monastery walls. Knights embraced; footmen danced jigs. The abbot stood, seeming to rise a little as relief filled him-relief and, Matt saw, something more, almost awe. And as the din of celebration slackened, he began to chant:

One by one, the Moncaireans took up the chant, and the auxiliaries after them, till the whole length of the battlements thundered.

The hymn died, and the abbot removed his helmet, mopping his brow.

Matt turned to survey the enemy army, still disordered. "Congratulations, milord. We held out against the worst Malingo could throw at us."

"Worst?" The abbot looked up, startled. "You did not sense the slackening?"

"Slackening?" Matt's euphoria vanished. "No, I didn't"

"'Twas hard after midnight, Lord Wizard. The force of their attack failed to strengthen, as I'd thought it would, in the darkest hours of the night. There was not light enough to see, nor time enough to survey; but I'd wager forces trooped away into the hills!"

Matt stood very still, watching him.

"This attack, though worse than any we have had, was still far weaker than I'd feared," the abbot went on. "I had thought to face foul monsters, spells to chill our marrow, Hell-spawned nightmares. Nay, Lord Wizard - this was far less than Malingo's fullest force!"

Matt swallowed, heavily. "So. Just a good training session, huh?"

"Nay; far more;" the abbot admitted. "There was more magic in this battle than ever I have faced. I am glad that you were here, Lord Wizard."

Matt just stood for a moment; then he bowed. "Thank you, Lord Abbot. I am pleased that I was some worth to you."

But he began to wonder. If this army had been depleted since midnight, what had Malingo done with the spare troops? And why? And what was it going to be like when Matt had to fight the whole mess of them?

As he started to dive-bomb toward depression, a sentry cried out, "Hold! Who comes?"

Matt looked up, startled.

Beyond the far side of the army, around the base of the hill, a great dark-green shape waddled, with a dot of black on its shoulders.

"Stegoman!" Matt grabbed the abbot's shoulder. "That's a friend of mine-and the guy on his back is one of your own kind! A little remiss, maybe, but yours nonetheless! If they try to get in here, we've got to get them through!"

"Enough, enough, Lord Wizard!" The abbot twisted free and clamped his helmet back on. "We'll see them in!" the distance-dwarfed dragon paused; then it charged at the back of the swirling army, a great gout of fire clearing its way. Shrieks came dimly to Matt's ears, and a path opened before Stegoman. He bulldozed through, roaring; but a baron bawled orders, and a knot of soldiers began to form up against danger. Nearer the wall, a sorcerer rose up, arms weaving a spell.

"Max!" Matt snapped. "Drain that wizard!"

"Done!" the Demon sang, without even bothering to appear; and the sorcerer tumbled.

"Great!" Matt shouted. "Now clear a path for my friend!"

Soldiers and knights began to drop of sudden exhaustion, in a straight line that met the dragon's flaming breath.

Stegoman plowed on through, waving his head from side to side, cutting a great circle of flame, like a pie with a slice missing, about him. Pikes and swords rushed toward him, then rushed back as the heat wave hit.

"I believe he will come to us unharmed!" Alisande cried, gripping Matt's forearm.

"Well, there's a good chance, at least." Matt frowned, peering down. "What's happening there?"

A last rally of men had formed, splitting off from the army of sorcery to gather in a skirmish line between the dragon and the monastery gate, just out of bowshot.

Stegoman bulled his way through the last ranks and paused, glaring at the battle line.

A baron barked out a set of orders, and the archers bent their bows. But a spark of light danced among them, and the bows snapped, sending the archers staggering back. Soldiers propped pike butts against earth, pointing the spear blade tops at Stegoman's chest height; but Matt could see the bright metal browning with rust.

Stegoman bellowed and charged.

Pike points broke against his scaly hide; swords cracked and crumbled at the first stroke. The dragon blasted flame about him, and the soldiers ran screaming.

"He has triumphed!" the princess cried.

"Thanks, Max," Matt muttered.

"'Twas pleasure," the spark sang. "You have irony."

The dragon charged headlong at the gates, and the abbot cried, "Open! These are ours!"

The doors groaned wide, and the sorcerers' army howled, seeing their chance. A thousand footmen sprinted for the portal, pikes high, while sorcerers popped up behind them, hands weaving frantic spells.

"Stegoman! Torch 'em!" Matt yelled, and the dragon slewed to a stop in the gateway, skidding in a full turn. He roared, and a ten-foot bar of flame shot out toward the attackers.

"Give him a boost there, will you?" Matt said, aside, and Max sang, "Aye, Wizard!" and winked out.

Stegoman's flame shot out to thirty feet. The dragon's head whipped back in surprise, accidentally charring a careless sorcerer who'd thought he should lead, for a change. Then Stegoman recovered and depressed his aim, turning his head. Flame swept a clear arc around the gateway, and enemy footmen screamed; body armor conducted beautifully. They pulled back-or ran, more truthfully, the ones who were still ambulatory. Stegoman bit off his flame and shifted into reverse, backing up fast. Monks heaved, and the great doors boomed shut.

A shriek of frustration went up from the enemy lines, and the abbot turned to Matt with a hard smile. "Well done, Wizard. They'll not prevail 'gainst our gates."

"'Tis a priest, Lord Abbot," a knight called from below, "one near to exhaustion."

"We ha' known it," the abbot called down. "Bring him up to us."

"Must he come up?" Sayeesa objected. "Can he not speak from below?"

"I think it unlikely," the abbot said, frowning. "Did you not hear Sir Pedigraine? The man's nearly spent!"

Brunel appeared at the top of the steps, gasping, propped up by a knight and a novice. "God be ... praised! I ha' ridden as though ... a demon pursued me this night, in hope ... I would find you!"

"Welcome, Father." But there was a dubious undertone to the abbot's greeting.

Matt tried to sound hearty. "Good to see you again, Father! Did you rouse any monks?"

Brunel nodded, beginning to catch his breath. "The Knights of the Cross, and ... the Order of Saint Conor. And, yestere'en, I rode toward the convent of Saint Cynestria."

"The convent?" Sayeesa cried. "What business had you there?"

"There are warriors among them," the priest said simply.

"Yes, and probably some beauties, too." Matt frowned. "I should think that wasn't too wise, Father - for you."

The abbot frowned, puzzled and angered; but Brunel smiled sourly. "Secure, I assure you. There may be beauty there, but a man who shows recognition of it might suffer - and harshly. With such knowledge in mind, there's scant chance of desire arising."

The abbot lifted his head, beginning to understand; and Matt hurried on before the knight could start catechizing. "You only said you rode toward the convent. Did you get there?"

"To the hill above the plain that surrounds it, aye. But there, in the dark of the moon, I saw an army of Evil gathering about its walls!"

Alisande gasped, hand covering her mouth, and the abbot swore, "By'r Lady!"

But Sayeesa gave a short, mocking laugh. "A fool's errand, that! If any, could withstand a fell Hell-host, 'twould be the House of Saint Cynestria!"

"There is truth in that," the abbot said, frowning, "yet they, too, are only mortal ..."

"It may be as you say." Brunel avoided looking at Sayeesa. "But there were foul beasts among them and fell things of most unholy sorcery. Still, their walls were unbreached when I turned, and this great dragon and I rode to find you."

"Siege," Matt mused. "About what hour did you come there?"

"The fifth, after midnight." The priest frowned. "Does that signify?"

"Aye!" The abbot's eyes lit. "'Twas midnight when their host round our walls did lessen!"

"You must go!" Father Brunel blurted. "Do not ask the why of me; still, I know it, and my bones know it, that 'tis yourselves must ride to their aid!"

"So we shall," Alisande said, with iron resolution. "You are right in this, Father-I am certain."

That decided the issue, Matt knew. Still... "Uh, with all due respect, your Highness-wouldn't an army do little more good?"

"What army?" The princess rounded on him. "Those gathered here? If they come out as slowly as an army must, there will be a great battle outside these walls-and, even though lessened, the warriors of Evil outnumber the Knights of Moncaire!"

"'Tis as her Highness says," the abbot agreed somberly. "A small party can travel quickly; with support from the walls, they might carve a path through this host. But an army could not; there are too many to travel quickly enough to avoid all the blows. Yet I am loathe that ye should depart; for Heaven knows we might have fallen this night past without the aid of this good wizard and his ... spirit."

Still avoiding the word "Demon," Matt noted. "I wouldn't worry too much about that, milord. You see, Max did a number on their weapons and armor, and set a microorganism on their food supplies."

The abbot frowned. "What means this?"

"It means that, by nightfall, their metal will fall apart at the slightest blow." Matt grinned. "And right after dinner, the effects of breakfast and lunch should start showing-abdominal cramps, nausea, diarrhea, and fever. They won't have much stomach for fighting-those who survive."

The abbot stared, his mouth gaping open.

Then he grinned and clapped Matt on the shoulder. "Aye, we should live through the night, even without you! Go, then, with good heart! I would I could lead my hosts out behind you. Yet after your spell has done its work, by morning there should be but a remnant of their army still standing. Then may we sally out to cleanse our environs and, after, ride west to meet you at the convent."

"Great." Matt smiled. "And, uh - I don't want to sound unduly optimistic, but - if the army's gone from the convent when you get there, keep riding west, will you? Be nice if you could meet us in the mountains."

"Aye; we will have strong need of you there," Alisande agreed.

The abbot bowed to her. "We will, then, your Highness. At the convent, then, or the mountains."

"And we will ride to the convent - now." Alisande turned away, toward the stairs.

Matt could have pointed out a few unpleasant facts, such as the unlikelihood of four people and a dragon being able to help much against an army that included a strong corps of sorcerers; but he knew what the answer would be. This was a public matter, so Alisande had to be right. He sighed and turned to follow her.

"'Tis my choice also," Sayeesa breathed, cutting ahead of him. "I cannot see Saint Cynestria's walls too soon!"

"I, too, shall come." Father Brunei started to limp after her.

Sayeesa spun about, rage flaring in her eyes; but the abbot pulled rank.

He put out a palm and caught Brunei in the breastbone. "Nay, Father. Methinks you will stay here amongst us; for you are wearied and not fit for travel."

Father Brunel started to stutter a refusal, but there was the gleam of combat in the abbot's eye, and he did rank a simple country priest. Brunel swallowed his objections and lowered his eyes. "Even as you say, of course, Lord Abbot."

"Of course," the abbot echoed grimly. "And when you have rested, good Father, I wish to have some converse with you."

Father Brunel looked up, alarmed. Then he swallowed heavily and looked away again.