Her Majesty's Wizard

CHAPTER 16

Sir Guy pulled a strip of cloth out of his wallet and bound it around Matt's eyes.

Why the charade? As far as Matt could tell, they were just headed back toward the hillside.

Then something brushed his face, all of his face-and all of his body, too. For a few seconds, he felt as if he were wading through molasses that went clear over his head. Then he stepped past it into damp, cool air and stumbled, nearly falling. Sir Guy held him up and whisked off the blindfold. Matt stood inside a small cave, the roof a few feet over his head. It was filled with early morning sunlight. Ten feet ahead, the rock wall made a sharp turn.

"'Tis a hidden place," Sir Guy explained. "Come, now; I will show you your bed."

"Uhhh ... just a second." Matt held up a hand, weaving with exhaustion. "I've gotten to be a bug on security lately ... Max!"

"Aye, Wizard." The Demon hovered before him, lighting up the inside of the cave. Sir Guy took a half step away.

Matt looked around him, blinking out beyond the cave mouth to the sun-filled valley. Something was wrong there. He frowned, thinking it through, then turned to Sir Guy. "Hey! If this place is so secret I had to wear a blindfold, how come I can see the outside like a picture-window view?"

"Did you see it ere we came into it?"

"Well ... no..."

"Nor will any." The Black Knight smiled faintly. "We need no guard for our portal, Lord Wizard. No sorcerer can find this cave. If any, should stumble upon it, he would see only a hillside; and if, by great misfortune, he should stumble through what seems to be a grassy, boulder-strewn slope to the place where we stand, he would be blinded or dead."

Matt was suddenly fully awake again. "But how, then ... Sir Guy, I'm still alive. And I can see."

The Black Knight nodded gravely. "You are my guest, Lord Matthew. No power in this cavern will harm you."

Matt knew he should be grateful; but he was only numb-and getting number as the reassurance lulled his body, letting the adrenaline ebb and the drowsiness return tenfold. There was another question somewhere there that Sir Guy's answer had raised, but he couldn't quite phrase it; and there was some huge, hidden significance to what the Black Knight had just told him about the cave being hidden, but Matt couldn't think what it was.

He turned back to the Demon. "Just to reassure me, Max. Guard the door."

"'Tis a function with which I've some experience," the Demon hummed. "To your rest, Wizard."

He winked out of visibility, but Matt knew he would stay by the cave mouth, and woe betide the citizen who tried to pass him. He turned back to Sir Guy. "Okay. Where's the bunkhouse?"

The Black Knight turned away, going into the turn at the end of the cave. Matt followed him-and found himself in what seemed impenetrable darkness, after the glare of daylight. But there was some faint glow from the front. They came out of the tunnel into light-and Matt stood still, staring about him in wonder.

It was a cavern, lit by a soft bluish light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling a long, narrow, high-ceilinged vault. Along the walls stood pedestals four feet square and two feet high, each supporting a great, carven chair. Suits of antique armor sat in the chairs - haubergions, knee-length mail shirts.

And there were bodies inside the armor.

They sat upright, leaning against the wall, bullet-shaped helmets on their heads, with nose-guards but no visors. The faces they showed were those of old men, bearded, and very pale. They sat with their eyes closed, still as statues. Maybe they were; Matt had the eerie feeling that he'd stepped into a wax museum.

Opposite Matt and Sir Guy, at the far end of the hall, there was only one dais, larger than the others. It had to be; the chair it supported was a throne, and a throne for a giant, at that.

The giant in question was at least seven feet tall and proportionally broader than Sir Guy. His armor was gilded, and a crown circled his helmet. A huge red beard streaked with white spread over his chest.

Matt tried to shake off the eerie feeling that was stealing over him, prickling his scalp. Somehow, he didn't think it was a wax museum.

"Aye, they are real; but they are dead." Sir Guy might have read his mind. "Yet their spirits still dwell in those bodies, Lord Wizard, in a magic stillness."

Stasis, Matt thought.

"They live," Sir Guy explained, "but they are dead. Let us greet them." He stepped forward, and Matt had no choice but to follow him.

A great voice echoed from the far end of the hall, seeming to come from a vast distance. "Welcome, Sir Guy de Toutarien! It is long since you have passed here to speak with me!"

Sir Guy advanced halfway down the hall and knelt. "Forgive me, Imperial Majesty; but the world presses hard upon this land of Merovence, and my skills were needed."

"Then surely, duty must compel you far from me." There was a suppressed eagerness under the giant voice. "Speak and tell me! Is it time?"

An eager, rustling murmur passed through the hall, like dry leaves stirred by a late - rising wind - the dead knights, hoping for battle.

Sir Guy shook his head, almost sadly. "It is not, Imperial, Majesty. The nation can save itself, even in so hard a time as this."

Matt felt the hair at the nape of his neck prickle. But at least, he knew now where he was-in the tomb of Hardishane, the ancient Emperor. And those of the armored contingent were his Knights of the Mountain.

He stepped forward, taking his courage in both hands. "With all due respect, Sir Guy - can you be so sure?"

"Quite sure." The Black Knight gave him a reassuring smile.

"He speaks aright." Hardishane's voice rumbled with infinite regret. "There is no need for us yet, brave companions."

The whispering murmur filled the cavern again, a sad, disappointed sigh. It was eerie enough to chill Matt's thoughts for a moment. When they thawed, he began to wonder how Sir Guy had known what an Emperor confirmed.

And when had Sir Guy Losobal become Sir Guy de Toutarien?

"And who is this man you have brought guesting among us?" Hardishane demanded.

"He is Matthew, rightful Lord Wizard of Merovence, Majesty," Sir Guy answered, "a scholar of words and their power. Yet he is also loyal, courageous in battle, and sometimes humble to a fault. He is stout of heart and hardier than he knows. There is none I would rather have for shield-mate."

Matt stared at him, amazed to the point of shock.

"He is, then, worthy," Hardishane pronounced. "And who should be a better judge than Sir Guy de Toutarien?"

"Your Majesty does me too much credit," Sir Guy murmured.

"I do not." It was almost a rebuke. "Yet worthy as this wizard may be, he must bide in the chapel the whiles he is among us here."

Quarantine? Matt wondered. Maybe just a wise precaution, in case the wizard turned out to be a sorcerer.

"Escort him to the chapel, then." The dead Emperor seemed almost amused. "And show him there a pallet, for methinks that he is like to topple with his weariness."

Or maybe, Matt decided, it was plain old discrimination-they were knights, and he wasn't. They couldn't have the hoi-polloi mixing with their betters. He should have resented it, but he just didn't have the energy.

Sir Guy bowed and turned away. Matt turned with him automatically.

"Worthy knight."

Sir Guy turned back, eyebrows raised. "Majesty?"

"Moncaire must have the measure of this man."

Sir Guy inclined his head respectfully. "Your pardon, Majesty - but I believe he has taken it already."

"Well enough, then. To the chapel."

Sir Guy turned away again, and Matt stumbled after him, wondering what that business about measurements was. And what would Saint Moncaire have to do with it?

The chapel was a side cave, a nice little intimate grotto nestling up against the great hall. There were no pews-that had been a relatively late addition in churches-but the altar was gilded and very elegant, gleaming richly in the light of the single candle next to it. It was the only light in the place; mostly, the chapel was shadow.

Sir Guy led him to the back of the cave and put out a hand to stop him. "Here is your bed."

Matt couldn't see anything. He stuck out a tentative foot and felt-fur brush against his shin, nearly to the knee. He sighed and started to fold into it, when one last stabbing worry straightened him. "Sir Guy ... Malingo... are you sure.. ."

"Entirely, Matthew. There is not room for the slightest beginning of a doubt. Puissant as Malingo is, his power's not sufficient to find this cave; and even if he could, he'd not dare come in. His entrance here would be just such a sign as Hardishane awaits. He and his knights would rise, to charge throughout the Northern Lands, subduing all to remake the Empire anew. They would, in passing, obliterate the sorcerer who waked them. Rest your heart from fear and all concern."

Matt nodded, sighed, and let himself fold, tumbling forward. An ocean of fur pressed up against his side and cheek; his eyes closed automatically, and the darkness pressed in. After all, it had been at least three days since he'd had a full night's sleep.

"Matthew." Fingers touched his shoulder, and Matt came awake, tensed for battle, but feeling as if he were filled with sand. He could just barely make out Sir Guy's face, hovering over him. The knight had taken off his armor and had found a maroon robe of very rich material, belted at the waist. So this was how the local other half looked in their off-hours.

"Rise," the Black Knight said gravely, almost sternly. "You've slept the candle down."

Candle? Oh, yes-the one they used for telling time here, with alternating bands of red and white; each took an hour to burn through.

"How big a candle?" Matt muttered.

"Twelve hours," Sir Guy replied. "Rise and take up vigil."

Matt had never seen Sir Guy look so serious. He rolled off the pile of furs and came to his feet, frowning. "What's happening?"

But the Black Knight only turned away, beckoning. Matt followed, with a scowl.

Sir Guy paced down the nave to the altar. Matt stopped beside him and looked down at a suit of plate armor, just like Sir Guy's, only newer-brand-new, in fact; bright, silvery, untarnished steel.

"Kneel," Sir Guy instructed. "Begin your vigil."

Matt looked up, frowning. "Shouldn't we be back on the road? There's a war on, you know."

"The war may yet be lost, if you keep not this vigil."

Matt stared at him, but Sir Guy gazed back, unperturbed, with such a thorough sureness that Matt found himself turning and kneeling by the suit of armor. He tried one last, feeble protest. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Absolutely. Good fortune to you - and 'ware temptations. Newly wakened though you are, your eyelids will grow heavy. Impatience, ennui, hidden night-fears-all will assail you. Let them not disturb your watch. Be sure, 'tis vital. If you fail in this, dire actions will follow."

"But nobody's gonna come in and try to steal this stuff! Odds are, they couldn't even lift it! It can't walk off by itself, you know!"

"I do not know that, nor do you." Sir Guy's fingers dug into Matt's shoulder, almost as hard as his gauntlets. "Have faith in me, Matthew. I've never asked it ere this time. Have faith."

He turned away and was gone.

Faith! Matt looked up at the altar, glowering at the tabernacle. That's what it all came down to here, wasn't it? But he didn't doubt what the knight had said about this vigil's importance-to Matt's own life. Face it, he was a lackey here. He had no more place in that company of heroes outside than a private had in the officers' mess. If he tried to go back in there uninvited, those dead knights would find some way to skewer him. They didn't look as if they could lift their swords-but they didn't look as if they could still talk, either. Magic ruled here.

Okay. It was necessary for him to stay out of the way, and this was really a very polite way of making sure he did-instead of telling him to keep out, they gave him a job to do and told him it was important. Nice piece of face-saving; he'd be a fool to reject it and force them to get ugly. They were really being very nice.

But it rankled.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he got at being shuttled out of the way, so he wouldn't clutter up the space for the big guys! He had half a mind to charge out there and ...

You will be tempted. Sir Guy's voice seemed to ring through his head, and Matt sawed back on his emotions, suddenly alert to danger from inside himself. Even here, Evil could reach in to tempt him into a rash act that just might result in having his head handed to him. And, as he'd had pointed out to him far too often for comfort, if he failed, Alisande's bid for her throne failed with him.

He rolled back off his knees, folded his legs tailor-fashion, and settled himself for a long night, summoning the patience that had lasted him through long, dull undergraduate lectures. But patience wouldn't come.

Then think, he told himself. He was supposed to be a scholar with inner resources that should cope with any amount of unfilled time. This was a church, a place of religion, so he might as well pray, if he couldn't do anything else!

But he'd never had much use for prayer. Faith! It seemed such an empty word, yet it was the keystone of this culture. He rolled that around in his mind. Faith could be the core of magic, as it was the core of religion. This whole universe might be built on it, somehow. What would happen here if the people stopped believing God had created the universe? Would everything disappear? But that line of thought was getting him into the type of stuff the followers of supposed Eastern cults chewed on in their meditations.

Meditation, he thought. He'd never really tried it, but it might help to get him through the night. He settled himself again and began trying to regulate his breathing with the only mantra he remembered. Om mane padme om. Om mane padme ...

Abruptly, he jerked his head up, realizing he'd almost put himself to sleep. You will be tempted! To a man who'd only just wakened after days without rest, it was an easy temptation to give in to.

He began to regulate his breathing again until he had a slow, deep rhythm that would continue while he busied his mind again with the matter of faith.

Did Malingo have faith? In this world, he must; but he turned away from God and put his faith in the Devil. And it paid off, for a while. For now, Malingo's perverted faith gave him an edge.

He'd certainly proved adept at harassing Matt. There'd been the old witch and then Sayeesa; Malingo had moved her fifty miles or more, castle and all, to put her in Matt's path. Then there had been the peasants who came hunting her, whipping themselves into a lynch mob. And Father Brunel, who turned were again suddenly.

Something flickered at the edge of Matt's vision. Without turning his head, he began concentrating on the shimmer at the comer of his eye.

It took shape gradually, becoming almost solid-a figure in ancient armor. But its head was scarcely human. The face was piggish, lacking eyelids, and with a low brow; the mouth yawned wide, filled with three.-inch, pointed teeth.

It paced toward Matt, drooling. He watched it pensively, feeling no fear or tension, sure that the thing did not exist. It was only an illusion. What else could get into a chapel that was guarded by Hardishane's cave? Besides, he could still see through it faintly. He didn't know who had sent it or why-possibly his own subconscious.

Could it hurt him? Only if he believed in it. And he didn't.

He put out a hand, spreading the fingers. The monster loomed over him, lowering its head. The shark-jaws gaped, enveloping the hand-and paused, not closing. The lidless eyes glared into his. Then, slowly, the apparition faded.

Matt's neck muscles twitched in a faint, satisfied nod. He'd known it was illusion, so it hadn't been able to hurt him.

What did that mean for the people of this age and place? Did their magic and their monsters exist only because they believed in them? No, surely not! Stegoman had to have pragmatic reality on his own, didn't he?

His mind went cartwheeling off through the night, never following a train of thought, but moving from one concept to another in free association, revolving endlessly around and around the problem of faith and reality.

Then something flickered to the right of the altar.

It came toward him, gaining substance as it moved, dragging a hundred pounds of chain wrapped around its body and trailing on the floor behind. It wore the tatters of a nobleman's robe, a thatch of unwashed black hair, and a festoon of beard flecked with spittle. The face had a broad forehead, a high-bridged nose, and thin lips-an aristocratic face; but the eyes were wild, making the whole face obscene with madness. It came toward Matt, giggling and drooling, hands outstretched through the chains, fingers flexing, reaching for Matt's throat.

Matt watched it. He couldn't see through the madman, but it had to be illusion; it couldn't by anything else.

The madman stopped with fingers an inch from Matt's throat, staring at him. Then it pointed at him, giggling. The giggle grew and broadened. It threw its head back, cackling with insane, gleeful laughter.

Then the fingers shot out, seizing Matt's throat. The face swelled with homicidal rage, and the eyes lit with a strange, unholy glee. It cackled and gibbered as the fingers dug in. Dimly, far away, Matt seemed to feel a ghost of pressure. That was wrong; he knew this madman wasn't real. It couldn't really touch him, couldn't hurt him. It was only a phantom, sent to try and tempt him-to test whether he was sure of the basics, or didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

Matt knew. Now is an end to all confusion, he breathed, framing silent words with his lips. The figure stilled, staring into his eyes, and, staring, it slowly faded away, till there was nothing between Matt and the altar.

Matt sat immobile, filled with a satisfying sense of rightness, His sense of reality had corresponded with actuality; what he'd believed was illusion had actually been illusion; so he was still alive. Whatever faith had to do with existence couldn't really be known; but the faith in his own perceptions could be. The test was drastic, but simple; and Matt had passed it.

What if he'd believed it was real?

Then it might have been able to hurt him-which was to say, Matt would have been letting his own mind hurt him. Even in his own universe, men could be destroyed by their illusions. Here the process was more direct-

His mind went pinwheeling off again into a hundred assorted concepts, all dealing with matters of faith and existence-until the armor stirred.

It clanked. The pieces shifted about and rearranged themselves. The pile of spare parts sorted itself out and heaved. A steel man rose up over Matt, towering there, silent and menacing, wearing Matt's sword at its hip. Then the hollow knight drew the blade, grasped the hilt with both hands, and swung it up.

Every centimeter of Matt's skin crawled with horror. He knew what that blade could do. If it even touched him, he was dead. Whether by his own substantial death-wish or someone else's spell, that sword was threatening him.

He was aware, with sinking horror, that he had passed the border-he'd accepted the illusion's reality, at least partially. Now, illusion or not, if the sword hit him, he'd die.

The sword was swinging down.

Matt realized in near panic that magic could never work against his own mind. Faith, he thought-and prayer! He began hastily muttering words he was not sure of, words from earlier prayers, his eyes seeking the altar.

The sword started to swing down-and stopped. The armor fell into separate pieces, crashing down onto the stone. The sword struck and bounced, taking a piece out of the cave floor; then it lay still.

Matt sat motionless, hands still clasped, hearing the blood hammer through his head.

Faith! When all reasoning was stripped away, and a man had to confront himself, his gut response gave the truth of what he believed.

A hand touched his arm.

Matt started-and looked up to see a maroon robe, with Sir Guy's anxious face above it. The knight's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Are you well, Matthew?"

With infinite reluctance, Matt pulled himself back to reality, letting himself feel the stone of the floor and hear the echoes of Sir Guy's voice, until he was again immersed in the moment and life was real once more.

He looked down at the armor. It lay as it had fallen, not in the neat bundle he had first seen: And the great sword lay to the side and a little behind him.

He looked up at Sir Guy, smiling slowly. "I'm very well."

Relief lighted Sir Guy's eyes, but his face didn't move. He nodded, a smile coming to his lips. "And your watch?"

Matt grinned and stretched luxuriously, rising to his feet. "Well. Now I know what I believe."

Sir Guy's face registered a flood of joy. "Then you have it, Lord Matthew. Come, bear the armor out."

Matt frowned, not quite understanding. But he shrugged, bent down, and scooped up the pile of plate. It weighed at least a hundred pounds, probably much more; it felt heavier than that.

But he didn't even stagger under the load. Something had changed his body during the night, he thought, giving him unexpected strength. Or was that also faith? He followed Sir Guy out into the great hall.

The light had brightened. Somehow, there was a sense of anticipation in the air; the ancient knights were waiting for something big to happen. What was up? He turned to Sir Guy. "How long was I in there, anyway?"

"Only the night," Sir Guy answered. "Ten hours."

"Ten?" Matt stared. "I could have sworn it wasn't more than two or three."

"Nay, it was ten." Sir Guy watched him, with a slight smile. "And do you feel wearied?"

"Well, a little, maybe - but refreshed, at least in my head."

"But the body was tired. Might I suggest a bath?"

"A bath?" Mitt's eyes lighted. "Hell, yeah! I haven't had a bath in a week!"

"Remove your clothes, then."

Matt squatted, setting down the armor, then straightened and peeled off his tunic and hose. He was faintly surprised to see they still folded.

Then Sir Guy led the way to the "tub". It was halfway to Hardishane, under the noses of two of the dead knights. A section of floor had been removed, revealing a pool in the rock. Natural, probably-spring-fed. Just looking at it, Matt shivered:

"Enter," Sir Guy murmured.

Matt sensed that he was on trial again. He bit down on a surge of irritation and stepped into the water. Icy chills shot up his legs as his feet went in. He stifled a curse, took a deep breath, and ducked under.

He almost shouted with agony, under water or not. Liquid ice wrapped around every cell of him. Was this how the knights had been preserved - by cryogenics?

He surged back up, breaking water like a volcano, sucking in air that seemed very warm. A faint, approving murmur echoed through the hall; at least he'd done something right. He cupped a palmful of water and began scrubbing. Sir Guy had gone - for a towel, Matt hoped.

A voice in his left ear snapped, "What is the first duty of a knight?"

"To his lord," Matt said automatically, looking up in surprise.

A grim old knight sat there to his left; dead or not, Matt was sure he was the source of the voice. "Then to his lord's lady."

"And what of the king?" snapped a voice to his right.

Matt ladled water over his shoulder and shuddered. "A knight is loyal to the king, of course - but that loyalty goes up through the chain of vassal and suzerain to his lord, and his lord's lord, on up to the king."

"And if the king wars with the knight's lord?" demanded a third voice.

What was this, the oral exam for his doctorate? "Then the knight must side with the right. But if his lord is wrong, and the king is right, the knight must go to his lord and formally remove himself from the lord's service. After that, if there's anything left of him, he can go offer his services to the king."

"Well answered," a fourth voice approved. "What is the first rule of battle?"

Matt scowled. "Offensive or defensive?"

"Correctly asked," the voice applauded. "In offensive, what is the first concern?"

It went on like that for what seemed hours, while Matt shivered in the icy water. Sir Guy came back, bearing some cloth folded over his arm, and stood listening respectfully as the knights threw question after question at Matt. Sometimes his response was wrong, and the asking knight corrected him sternly. But his study of history gave him the right answers at least nine times out of ten. That should have been enough, but apparently wasn't for these dead knights. They must have been saving their questions for centuries.

At last, Hardishane spoke. "Enough! He knows the rules of chivalry as well as any knight. Withdraw him!"

Sir Guy bent down, holding out a hand. Matt caught his wrist and clambered gratefully out of the pool. The dark air of the hall felt almost hot by comparison. He bit down to keep his teeth from chattering, then began a vigorous toweling of his legs to keep his knees from knocking. When he got up to the waist, Sir Guy took the towel. Matt started to protest, but the Black Knight started drying his back, and Matt realized he was up against ceremony.

"All that you have spoken is truth."

Matt looked up toward the voice and saw a grizzled old figure with a bush of white beard. It didn't move, but its voice crackled around Matt. "Yet we have spoken here of chivalry only; we have not talked of magic. Now I shall do so. Beware Malingo, Lord Wizard. He is worse than he seems, for he is more demon than man. Yet therein lies his weakness."

Matt looked up, startled; but he didn't have time to think about it, because Sir Guy was handing him a set of hose-clean! Matt pulled them on; they fitted perfectly. Next came a tunic, then a quilted surcoat that went down to the top of the thigh. He was just finishing belting it when Sir Guy picked up a piece of armor and began buckling it onto him.

"Hey, wait a minute! I'm not supposed to wear a knight's armor!"

"Wherefore not?" Sir Guy picked up another piece and kept buckling.

"Well - isn't it against union rules, or something?"

Sir Guy shrugged. "You cannot deny you shall have need of it. We go to battle, Lord Wizard."

Matt gave up and, let Sir Guy finish encasing him. It did seem irregular - but who was he to argue?

The armor fitted perfectly. It was beautiful-and heavy! Matt took a step and almost fell down. This would take getting used to.

"Keep your back absolutely straight," the nearest knight advised. "You must bear the weight on your shoulders, till you're horsed."

"And move slowly at first," another put in. "Let your body have time; it must learn anew how to balance and shift."

They went on advising, and Matt walked experimentally at their direction. They were patient teachers, which was rather surprising, after that cross-examination. During the instructions, Sir Guy disappeared again.

When the knights finally let Matt pull out his sword and directed him in the fine points of chopping when his arm felt like lead, he guessed he'd passed another examination. Just about then, Sir Guy came back, wearing his own lobster shell. "Come, Lord Wizard."

"Time to hit the road again, huh?" Matt faced the nearest bunch of knights, managed a shallow bow, and, even more surprisingly, managed to straighten up. He turned to the other row of knights and bowed again. "I thank you, sirs and lords, for your instruction and counsel."

An approving murmur moved through the ranks, but the nearest knight said only, "Go with Toutarien."

Sir Guy caught his arm before he could answer and turned him toward the Emperor. Matt's eyes went wide, but Sir Guy was striding down the aisle toward Hardishane, and Matt had to follow suit.

He wished someone would tell him what was going on.

Sir Guy stopped about five feet from the Emperor and muttered, "Kneel."

Kneel? Matt had barely managed a bow!

But Sir Guy was the only one in the room who wasn't looking at him. How the dead knights could watch with their eyes shut, Matt didn't know, but he knew they did - and it made him feel very spooky indeed. Put it out of your mind, he told himself sternly and bent all his concentration on bending his knee. Slowly, very awkwardly, he knelt. Firmly established with one knee touching the floor, he tried looking up.

The dead Emperor towered over him, vast and golden.

"Will you now," the giant intoned, "swear fealty to me and all my line, to bear me service, answer my call, and be loyal to me and all I adhere to, defending me and mine with your body and life, if need be?"

Matt stared up at the golden giant, seized suddenly by the realization that this man was the embodiment of all that had ever been good in army or aristocracy, and that the centuries had left nothing evil or weak to purge from him. "I so swear, and gladly; I am deeply honored, Majesty. Without let or reservation, I am your man."

"Well spoken," the voice approved. "Bow your head."

As Matt inclined his head, he saw Sir Guy step up to Hardishane and lug out the giant's great broadsword, staggering under the load. Then all Matt could see was the floor; but he felt the great sword lowering down, to rest on his shoulder.

"With this sword," the Emperor rumbled, "I dub you knight."

Matt froze.

Then, slowly, he lifted wide, incredulous eyes to the great, golden Emperor - and he began to curse himself for a fool, not to have realized what was going on, not to have been willing to admit it to himself when he'd begun to suspect.

"Rise, Sir Matthew," the Emperor commanded.

Matt rose, feeling totally humbled and amazingly exalted at the same time.

"Now I counsel you," Hardishane boomed, "beware of fell illusions and glamours; above all else, beware the works of Evil that manifest themselves in complaints of purposelessness; for we, have ever purpose, if 'tis only to abide, to wait, and to insure that one waits after us, against the day that Evil shall arise; for only by awaiting thus, in readiness, can we forestall it."

"I shall remember, Majesty," Matt mumbled, head bowed.

"And do not bow your head, not even to me," the Emperor rumbled. "Stand tall and proud, for you are a knight of Hardishane's."

Matt snapped to attention.

"Now go, with this command." The Emperor's voice hardened. "Destroy the-sorcerer Malingo; hale down his pawn, corrupted Astaulf. Restore this land to cleanliness and to God!"

"I shall so endeavor, Majesty."

Sir Guy turned back from sheathing Hardishane's sword and stepped up to Matt, muttering, "Turn and leave."

Matt stood a moment, startled. Turn his back on an Emperor? Then he shrugged-or tried to, in his steel weskit. He bowed, straightened, and turned away with Sir Guy.

As he did, his gaze swept across an empty chair at the Emperor's right, one only slightly smaller than Hardishane's throne, with gilded carvings traced over the surface. For whom was that? A knight who'd died in some way that left no remains, or one who was missing at the moment? He shivered at the thought of one of the bodies walking. about the land. Then he put the puzzle aside for later consideration.

He and Sir Guy marched between the files of dead knights, while Matt seemed to hear a faint, distant choir intoning a triumphant hymn. And as they passed each ancient warrior, a word of advice sounded in his ear-a one-sentence summary of the wisdom of a lifetime:

"Never fight until your right cannot be questioned; then delay not to strike."... "Never fear to claim a higher place, for when you've reached your proper height, you will know."... "Never be too far from arms, for all men have the blood of Cain."... "Never seek more power than God gives, for He will match it to your tasks." ... "Know yourself and always question what manner of man you have become..."

It continued until Matt's mind seemed to ring with the tambour of iron men's experience. Then they were entering the low tunnel that led to the outside cave. They turned the corner, and the misty cavern was lost to sight. Matt felt a pang of regret.

They came into the outer cave, and a humming spark of light dropped down from the ceiling. "I thought to warm the water for you, Wizard. But I forebore."

Matt nodded numbly. "You were right," he said. "Very."

Stegoman flew down from a nearby mountain peak at Matt's hail. Sir Guy was looking about as if searching for something. Then he put his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. A few minutes later, his horse came trotting up. Apparently the nuns had released the beast, and it had found its way here, as the knight had said it would.

They rode up further into the mountains in the golden light of early morning. Matt was silent, riding with his eyes on the sky, head filled with the glory of the pageant he'd just lived through, ears ringing with the distant echo of broadswords clashing in ancient, fabled battles.

Then the ground swung upward into his field of view, and he saw a great cut through the peaks in front of him. The sides were long, sloping mounds of loose rock, with a sheer basalt face here and there, and clean-cut cliffs towering up above them.

It brought him out of his daze. "Uh, Sir Guy-where are we?"

The Black Knight turned in his saddle to grin back at Matt. "Do you wake, then? Nay, we ride through the peaks, to the Plain of Grellig. 'Tis a high valley, a bowl amidst the peaks, a day's ride off."

"And this is the pass that leads to it." Matt looked around him at the sheer cliff faces and the long, clean angles of the talus slopes. There was a trail here, but a very faint one; apparently the route wasn't traveled too often. There were patches of grass, and low bushes here and there, but nothing more. Nonetheless, the place had a stark majesty to it-one of the most beautiful places he'd seen. "Sir Guy, something occurs to me."

..Aye?..

"This is an excellent passageway through these mountains. Why is it so poorly traveled?"

Suddenly a figure roared down on them like an avalanche, eight feet tall, pop-eyed, hairy as a bear, with huge eyeteeth jutting like tusks from its lower jaw. It wore breastplate, greaves, and a helmet that looked faintly Greek; it bore two great broadswords, which it whirled about like daggers.

Matt shrank back in his armor. "What the hell is that?"

"An ogre." Sir Guy's sword hissed out. "Defend yourself!"

A surge of courage came up from some unidentified place, and Matt whipped out his blade.

The ogre bounded down on them with a bellow. Stegoman answered with a blast that sent flame gouting out a dozen feet, but the ogre leaped aside, then jumped in with a savage sword cut at Matt's head.

He swung up his shield. Then a bomb seemed to explode against it, and he was somersaulting off Stegoman's back to crash into the talus slope. Through the ringing of his head, he heard Sir Guy shout and the ogre answer with a roar.

Matt staggered to his feet and turned toward the battle. He saw the ogre whacking at Sir Guy from both sides, while the knight tried to riposte and the war horse lashed out with its hooves. Stegoman hovered before them, neck weaving and head bobbing, trying to get a clear shot at the monster. But the monster pressed so closely on Sir Guy that the dragon couldn't burn the ogre without destroying the knight.

Matt gathered himself and charged in.

The ogre turned on him with a roar, swinging one sword toward him. Matt met it with the monofilament edge of his blade. His arm throbbed with the blow, but the ogre was left with only half a sword as the severed point struck the ground. Then the half blade swung back in a vicious swipe, and Matt rolled desperately with the blow. It rocked him, but he managed to stay on his feet, turning and slicing at the huge thigh nearest him. The ogre jerked back, but the blade sliced a sliver from the skin.

The monster howled, slammed a blow at Sir Guy's shield, then turned with a series of cuts at Matt, who retreated until his back was pressed against something hard. The cliff face was behind him, thrusting up twelve feet to a slope of loose talus.

Matt ducked his head and swung up his shield just in time to catch another clanging blow. He saw that Sir Guy's horse was also backed against the cliff face, a few feet to his left.

"Curses upon all cowards in shells!" the ogre roared. He bent down to scoop up a boulder the size of a basketball.

"'Ware!" Sir Guy shouted, snapping his shield up to guard his head as the monster swung the boulder in a long, overhand pitch that sent it hurtling at bullet speed. Matt flinched under his shield, but he heard the rock strike far above. A rumble began overhead.

He took one step forward, shouting, "Sir Guy! Out, fast!"

Then rubble and pebbles were raining down and glancing off his armor. He managed to get his shield up. Pain shot through his shoulders, but he held it while the avalanche seemed to go on forever. Finally, a few last bits of rock struck; then all was quiet.

Matt looked about quickly. All around Sir Guy and himself, a long slope of rubble trailed down to the earth, spreading out on all sides. The talus slope had come down, burying them almost to their chins. Sir Guy's horse barely held his head above it.

The ogre brayed huge, harsh laughter. "Eh, may that serve ye! Fools, to enter my mountains!" He hefted a sword and stepped forward, an ugly gleam in his eye. "To let others know to fear for their lives and turn back, mayhap I should hang a sign at the mouth of this pass-your heads!" He leaped, swinging a side-hand chop that would have bisected a rhino quite neatly.

A sheet of flame filled the hillside, hiding the ogre; Matt heard him bawl in anger and pain. The firestorm snapped out as suddenly as it had come, showing the monster a good twenty feet further away, rubbing burns amid a flood of curses.

"Aye, you mistook," Stegoman rumbled, behind Matt and out of sight. "Be mindful of me, foul ogre; come not near my knights."

The ogre answered with another spate of curses, but he didn't step closer.

Matt heaved a huge sigh of relief. "Thanks, Stegoman."

"'Tis your due, Wizard. Would I could aid you more in this."

"You can't?" Matt looked down at the apron of rock before him and frowned. "I see what you mean. A lot of those rocks are going to have to be lifted out, aren't they?"

"Aye," Stegoman rumbled, "and my claws are suited to digging, but never to lifting."

"Definitely a problem." Matt chewed at his lower lip. "We do have to get out of here, somehow."

"Nay, ye do not." The ogre stepped forward, just outside of flame-range, and sat down with the air of a man who has come to stay. "I canna come near ye whilst the dragon is near; but ye canna come out. 'Twill take ye some while to die of hunger and thirst, but die ye shall. Then shall I have your heads."

"'Ware, foul parody of man!" Stegoman bellowed, and his head thrust forward into Matt's vision. .

The ogre hiked himself back a few feet and leered up at the dragon. "Nay, ye dare come no further away from them-for if ye do, I'll dodge past ye, to strike off their heads."

Stegoman roared out angry flame, but it was just punctuation, and when his fire died, the ogre still sat there, laughing.

Matt frowned, trying to figure it out. "You're one hell of a fighter - and you seem to have a pretty good brain. Why are you hiding out here, waylaying travelers?"

"Do not make mock of me!" the ogre bellowed, surging to his feet. "Is it not enough to be cursed with this form? Must ye now sneer at me for it?"

"He does not sneer," Sir Guy said, thin-lipped.

The ogre swung around toward him, staring in surprise.

The knight softened his voice. "My companion is a strange man - he seems to see only the abilities underlying the form. His question was honestly meant."

"Do ye think ye talk to a child?" the ogre growled. "Nay, I'll not be cozened!"

"Think what you want," Matt said, "but Sir Guy's giving it to you straight. Sure, you're ugly as sin - but the way you fight, I'd think any baron would be glad to have you in his army. Have you tried to enlist?"

"What need to ask?" the ogre grated. "Since men cast me out, they'd not wish me back."

"Cast you out?"' Matt raised an eyebrow. "For real? Or did they just make you feel unwanted?"

"'Twas a full outcasting." The ogre frowned, puzzled. "What manner o' man are ye, that ye ken not the rite?"

"Rite?" Matt frowned, turning toward Sir Guy. "This is an actual ritual?"

The knight nodded. "With bell, Book, and candle."

"The priest it was who led it." The ogre clamped his jaws shut, his face hardening. "I was a child like any other, though somewhat longer of leg and arm. Yet when I came thirteen, and hair began to grow all o'er my body and my eyeteeth to lengthen, they cried I was possessed. Aye, they swore I was a thing from Hell, and even my own dad did beg me to quit his house. Yet I did fear, what would his neighbors do to him, for fathering such a monster as I'd grown to be?

"So I stayed. Therefore did they all, goodfolk, beseech the priest to cast me out. He came, with armored soldiers at his back, with a reed of holy water and a candle lit, intoning verses from his Book. I knew that where one soldier's beaten, twenty more do come; soon or late, they'd bear me down. So I turned and walked out from that village.

"Then, two nights later, hiding in the wood, I heard some villagers speak of how they had burned my father's house and driven him to the Church for sanctuary. I came back then and burned their roofs about them. Thereafter I foreswore all folk and did come here."

"So." Matt pursed his lips.

The ogre's eyes kindled. "Aye, that is the way of it! That is myself! What words are these?"

"Shakespeare's, from Richard III." Matt had thought the quote might go over.

"His name was Richard? Mine is Breaorgh; it matters not! We are the self-same person!"

It was useful to know the ogre's name - but more useful for him to identify himself with Richard, Shakespeare's most evil king.

Richard hadn't always been the epitome of evil, though, even in Shakespeare's plays - he'd come by it gradually. Reverse the trend of the Bard's verses, and Matt might reverse Breaorgh's temperament.

Breaorgh nodded vigorously. "Aye, aye, 'tis me! For grief I've known, that should loose a flood of tears! Yet I'll withhold them, so revenge may burn!" And he took his unharmed broadsword by the point and drew it back, like a dagger ready to throw.

Matt put his next choice of verse in, fast.

Breaorgh's lip curled. "Aye. Thus are they all, the small men. They term me monster; but when 'tis time to show their courage, they show their backs instead."

"Do I mistake?" Sir Guy breathed, round-eyed. "Or have his fangs grown shorter?"

"They have." Matt felt relief starting to weaken his knees. "Look closely, there-he's shedding. And his eyes are receding. See, once he identified himself with Richard, whatever I did to Richard would be done to him - and I've been taking Richard backward. He may have been a monster in Richard III, but he was warm and human when he started off as a teenager in Henry VI, Part II."

He turned back to Breaorgh, feeling a chill grow within him. Now came the dangerous part - Prince Hal. Would the identity with Richard hold? It should - Hal and Richard were just opposite ends of one Shakespearean continuum. A case could be made that they were almost the same character, at two extremes - the character called King.

Well, nothing ventured ...

"Nay, ye canna mean that I am such!" Breaorgh bleated. "How could there be some beauty under my fell carcass?"

But he wanted to believe it. His eyes were almost normal, his hair cascaded down, and his fangs were just two white dots above his lower lip.

Matt grinned and went on.

"And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'll so offend, to make offence a skill, Redeeming time when men think least I will."

Breaorgh had a very thoughtful look when Matt finished. The only sound was the soft rustle of falling hair.

"'Tis a lie!" But Breaorgh didn't sound too sure. "There is nothing of the good or honorable that I do hide. I am what I have always been-an ugly monster, and of monstrous temper! Am I not?"

"Look at your feet," Matt suggested.

Breaorgh stared, startled. Then, in spite of himself, he looked down - and stared again. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the rest of his body.

"I yet would not call him clean-limbed," Sir Guy said judiciously, "but I've seen more hair on a country squire. And his fangs have quite vanished."

Matt had been so busy staring at the hair, he'd missed the final transformation of the face. "Hey! He looks almost handsome!"

Breaorgh looked up, fear in his eyes-the kind that can turn to fury. "What fell sorcery is this?"

"Wizardry," Matt corrected. "Looked in a mirror lately?"

The ogre glared. "A what?"

That was right, peasants wouldn't know about mirrors in this culture. "A slowly moving river," Matt suggested. "A pond. A puddle, even! Go look - you'll be surprised."

Breaorgh started to turn away, then hesitated, glancing at them sidelong.

"Don't worry, we'll still be here when you get back - not because we want to, maybe; but we'll be here."

Slowly, Breaorgh turned and started walking toward the slope he'd come from. His stride lengthened, quickened; then he was running up the slope, round a cliff-and was gone.

Matt heaved a huge sigh of relief and let himself hang limp inside his armor. "Of course, I wouldn't say the operation was a total success."

"Wherefore not? He is now clean-favored, even comely - if he bathes."

"Well, maybe. But there's still a little matter of an extra two feet of height..."

"A small concern," Sir Guy said airily. "Must you demand perfection? I cannot think there's a baron living that would not welcome him with joy into his private army."

Rock growled in a minor avalance, and Breaorgh came skidding and sliding down the slope. He hit the floor of the pass, pounded toward them, and skidded to a stop ten feet away.

Stegoman took a quick breath.

"Swallow it," Matt said quickly; and the dragon gulped, then belched, looking extremely discomfited.

"'Tis a miracle!" Breaorgh was wild-eyed, mouth hovering on the verge of a smile. "I am clean! My face is as it was before the change came on me! Ye are a wizard sure!"

"Well, now that you mention it," Matt said, "yes."

The ogre gave a cry of joy and dove at them, plunging his hands into the rock-pile. Matt shrank back inside his armor, then realized that Breaorgh wasn't reaching for him-he was heaving up boulders and pitching them away like softballs, plowing and digging his way into the talus slope like some monstrous puppy. Rock chips flew, and somewhere in the cloud of granite, Breaorgh cried, "I must see your foot!" He heaved away a last bushel of gravel and fell to his knees, seizing Matt's iron shoe. It was, amazingly, free.

So was the rest of him, for that matter. He glanced over at Sir Guy; the knight and his horse both stood clear of the rock-slide, too.

"I swear unending loyalty to ye!" Breaorgh bowed his forehead to the bedrock and jammed Matt's foot down on his neck. "This is the sign of it, your foot upon my head! I am your man, as long as I may live!"

"Uh, well..."

"Wizard!" Sir Guy said severely. Matt met his eyes and swallowed. Customs!

"I accept your service," he said to Breaorgh, "and gladly. I'll have great need of men; we're expecting a major battle any day now."

"Truly?" Breaorgh dropped Matt's foot and looked up, his face lit with glee. "May I, then, fight for ye?"

"Indeed you may!"

"You shall see the way of it," Sir Guy explained, "when you know to whom you have sworn fealty."

Breaorgh glanced at Matt's blank shield and frowned. "I see no arms."

"He has not yet been granted them; for he's the first in knighthood of his line. But as you've guessed, he's more than knight is, he is a wizard. This is Matthew, rightful Lord Wizard of Merovence."

Breaorgh froze, bug-eyed again.

Matt nodded sympathetically. "You see how it goes. I'm told that, once having accepted the title, I can be sure Malingo will try and do something about it."

"Be assured he will!" Breaorgh scrambled to his feet. "But ye have no hope of besting him! The royal line to-which ye've sworn lies in dungeon at far Bordestang!"

"No longer." Sir Guy moved in a little closer. "The wizard hath freed her."

Breaorgh squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a quick shake. "Do I hear aright?" He turned to Sir Guy. "And the princess wanders free?"

"Free and toward these mountains." Sir Guy nodded.

Breaorgh's throat worked; he licked his lips. "Then I have sworn to aid her?"

"Well, in effect, yes," Matt answered, "if you meant what you said about being my vassal."

"Aye!" the giant roared. "I rejoice far more now in my oath! For the queen I'll fight!" He whirled away, tossing his sword up, catching the hilt, and slamming it back into the scabbard. "Nay, Lord Wizard! Lead me on! Set tasks before me -- I'll do them all, and more! I'll hew and chop as none has, since Colmain was turned to stone!" He jarred to a halt, a sudden, thoughtful look coming into his eyes. "If I brought ye more ogres, say a round score, and they did aid ye in this fight-would ye, then, serve them as ye've served me?"

Matt took a deep breath, thinking fast. For all he knew, Breaorgh's colleagues might not even be of human blood. He had a vision of a twelve-armed, ten-foot tree trunk, with a mantishead... "If I can," he said slowly. "I can't promise anything more than that, Breaorgh. If I can figure out ways to change them back to normal, I will - but I can't be sure. I can only promise that I'll give it my best shot."

"More than that, no creature could ask of ye!" Breaorgh cried. "That the greatest wizard in the land will try his best - 'tis hope, at least! Nay, ye'll have a score of ogres battling for ye, Wizard!" He leaped away, sprinting across the pass, up the slope on the other side, and disappeared into a cleft between two cliffs.

Matt tried to mop his brow, but all he got was a clang that resounded through his head. "Ouch! I keep forgetting!"

"And have you, then, forgot me also?" A bright spark of light danced out of his armor to hover in front of his face. "I could have felled him and moved the rocks that bound you in an instant, Wizard!"

It was Matt's turn to be dumbfounded. In the heat of battle, he'd forgotten all about the Demon.