Her Majesty's Wizard

CHAPTER 6

"Ho!" cried a distant voice.

Matt whirled about, startled.

And there he was - a real, authentic, plate-armor knight, way out there in the meadow, trotting toward them. The armor was black, and the horse was humongous. The knight held an oversized toothpick slanting up at an angle, waving the pennant at its tip.

Matt squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, no. Tell me I didn't see it."

"Wherefore, Lord Wizard?" The princess knit her brows, puzzled. "Dost fear him?"

"Well, now that you mention it, yes - though that wasn't exactly what I had in mind. You'll pardon the cynicism, Princess, but as we stand now, I think we're better off assuming any stranger's an enemy, until he proves otherwise."

"But you need not fear a knight!" she protested. "They are all bound by honor, sir - even those who oppose us!"

"Even Malingo's knights?"

The princess reddened and lifted her chin a few notches. "They are foul, treacherous brutes who may lay no claim at all to the title of knight."

"Oh, definitely not. The fact that they ride Percherons, wear armor, and carry great big, sharp swords has nothing to do with it."

"Exactly." She beamed. "You learn our ways quickly, Lord Wizard."

It took Matt a minute to realize she was quite serious.

He turned back to the approaching rider, who was about fifty yards off now. "Yes, but how can we be sure this guy isn't one of Malingo's?"

"Why, because he wears black armor."

Matt dipped his head and came up looking at her. "Whoa, now! Isn't that supposed to mean he's an evil one, or something like that?"

"Why, no." Alisande seemed genuinely astonished. "In Heaven's name, Lord Matthew, what could let you think that? His armor means simply that he is a free lance, a knight unsworn to any lord - that is all."

Matt held her eyes for a long moment; then he spoke slowly. "Yes, of course - no economic security. He doesn't have the money or facilities to keep his armor polished. That it?"

"Precisely; and therefore doth he paint it black."

"Very practical." Matt turned back to the approaching rider. "But what's to keep one of Malingo's boys from painting his armor black?"

"Why, twould be dishonest, sir!",

Matt bit back the natural response.

The Black Knight pulled up his horse a little away from them and swung his lance upright in salute. "Hail, most fair lady! Hail, sir! Hail, you of the most free!"

"Well met, Sir Knight," Stegoman answered. Matt nodded acknowledgment; but Alisande said, "Well met indeed, Sir Knight! Your name and your arms?"

The knight laughed, amused, and hauled an empty, black-painted shield around to face them. "These are my arms, lady; any others I own, I may not reveal till an oath be fulfilled. As for my name, I am Sir Guy Losobal, for all men to know!"

Why not? Matt reflected sourly. "Losobal" was close enough to the French "Le Sable" for Matt to be pretty sure it was this universe's equivalent. In other words, Sir Guy the Black Knight. Very informative.

But he couldn't be outdone for courtesy, could he? "Well met, Sir Guy. I am Matthew Mantrell, liegeman to this lady."

"Ah, a liegeman!" From the tone, Sir Guy was licking his chops. "Come, then! Will you not break a lance with me?"

Matt goggled.

Recovering, he managed a feeble grin. "Gee, thanks for the invitation, Sir Guy, but I don't think I'm hard enough. It would just go right through me."

Sir Guy chuckled. "Most amusing, sir! But come - will you not ride against me, with a lance in your hand?"

"I'd love to oblige you," Matt hedged, "but I - don't have a lance. Not to mention little things such as armor or a horse."

"Why, how is this?" Sir Guy's lance drooped. "A knight without armor or arms?"

"You labor under a misapprehension," Alisande informed him. "Lord Matthew is my liegeman, but is not a knight."

Sir Guy sat very still for a moment.

Inwardly, Matt groaned. Didn't this princess know never to give free information to the opposition? If he was a lord, and her liegeman, what was she?

Sir Guy turned toward Matt and asked in a rather cool tone, "How can you be lordly, without being knighted?" Then, before Matt could answer, he nodded. "Of course! You are a wizard!"

"Quick thinking," Matt approved. In fact, maybe too quick. "You'll understand, then, that I'm not exactly outfitted for a tournament."

"Nay, certes! One could not expect a wizard to fight with sword or lance!" Sir Guy's voice became velvet itself. "It would seem, then, that we must find weapons we both may use, with good conscience."

Matt shrugged. "Got any handy?"

"These." Sir Guy yanked off his gauntlets and held up his fists. "The peasant's weapons, that all men do own to."

Matt's smile vanished. Sure, he'd done the usual fist fighting when he was a boy and had even had a YMCA boxing class when he was a teenager - but that had been more than ten years ago. Still, a knight might be very well-trained with sword, spear, lance, mace, and battle-axe-but wrestling was for peasants, and Matt couldn't remember offhand any reference to boxing in medieval literature.

He nodded slowly. "Sounds good, Sir Guy. I'll try you a couple of rounds."

He walked past the Princess's shocked stare, shrugging off his sport coat. Sir Guy grinned, swung down from his horse, and got busy unbuckling his armor.

"Art thou mad?" Stegoman demanded, lumbering up near him. "This knight is trained in all forms of martial exercise!"

"All forms?" Matt raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I didn't think there was much training in fist fighting here."

"Indeed, 'tis mere brawling and could not be glorified with study of system and method; yet he is a warrior. And thou?"

"I," Matt said grimly, "have had some training in the use of my fists, including the system and method you sneer at - which should give me an edge, even in so lowly a sport."

"Sport? Nay, good Lord Matthew! Be assured, this knight will not fight in jest!"

"A point to consider," Matt said, nodding. "Even if this is more of a social bout than anything else, he'll still fight for keeps. Thanks for the reminder."

"Are you in readiness?" Sir Guy asked, stepping out into the meadow and holding up his fists. He'd stripped down to a loose linen shirt and trousers. Matt eyed the padding he'd tossed on top of his armor and decided the man might be ethical.

"Ready whenever you are, Sir Guy." He stepped forward, holding up - his own fists.

He was right about having an edge. Sir Guy had the right crouch, but his fists were only chest-high, and at the same distance from his body. Which one did he think he was going to block with?

Good question - but Matt remembered Sir Guy holding his lance in his right hand. No, he wasn't a southpaw.

Matt started circling, warily. Sir Guy held his ground, rotating to follow him. Matt realized the knight was studying him closely, taking his measure, and returned the compliment. Sir Guy was on the short side, by Matt's standards - five eight or so. Of course, that was above average height here. But he was heavily muscled, with shoulders that would have done credit to an ox, and with an oiled smoothness to his movements that spoke of speed and precision. He had shiny black hair, cut straight across the forehead in front, ear-length at the temples, and halfway down his neck behind the ears. Very military-no hair to get in his eyes, but enough at the back to help protect his neck, in case chain mail and quilted padding didn't quite make it. He had a sleek black moustache that trailed down past the corners of his mouth, a square chin, large eyes set wide apart, and a nose that had been broken at least once. All in all, though, he looked friendly, cheerful - and wide open.

Suddenly Sir Guy moved, like a turnstile at rush hour - fast and abrupt, the right-hand side of his body slashing forward in a round-house lunge. Matt jumped, but a little too late-rock-hard knuckles jarred his cheekbone, and he staggered back through an instant of black shot with bright points of light. He kept on going back, though, shaking his head - Sir Guy wasn't the kind to allow recovery time.

His vision cleared, and he saw Sir Guy leaping forward, fist swinging down in an overhand chop. Matt shot up his left. Pain exploded in his forearm, and a small rock bit his skull, bringing black back as the grass slipped from under his feet and, a second later, struck his shoulders. I've fallen, he realized, surprised, and rolled, fast. But no feet kicked at him, and his vision cleared as he flipped up to his knees. Sir Guy stood waiting, smiling, amused.

Now, that was a predicament - being halfway up and having a set of muscles on two feet waiting for him to get up the rest of the way. Matt was sorely tempted to hold it right there.

Then he caught sight of Alisande, out of the corner of his eye.

She stood, straining forward, huge-eyed and pale, staring at Matt with pain etched in her face. Somehow, he just couldn't quit outright, with her watching like that.

He levered himself to his feet. Sir Guy was on him, right swinging around and up in a haymaker uppercut. Matt finally placed his style - broadsword.

He'd also placed Sir Guy's strength - phenomenal. No use trying to block that swing; Sir Guy would just drive on through, knocking Matt's arm back against him again. He leaned back, letting the haymaker slice past him, fanning his face, while he remembered a cutting man's weak spot - the lunge. Sir Guy was used to chopping, not stabbing.

So, while Sir Guy's fist was following through on its swing, Matt jabbed - hard.

Sir Guy saw it coming and flipped up his arm, throwing Matt's punch higher than he'd aimed; he caught the knight on the cheekbone-and nearly howled. The man was hard! But Sir Guy's head rocked, and he looked surprised.

Then the fist that had just finished the uppercut chopped down, backhanded.

Matt leaped back, not quite in time; knuckles sizzled across his chest. But he knocked the hand further aside and stepped in, throwing a right straight from the shoulder.

And Sir Guy's left snapped up, knocking Matt's arm toward the sky.

It threw Matt off balance; he lurched forward and slammed into Sir Guy's shoulder. The knight gave under him, then steadied. Matt snatched a quick glance at his face; Sir Guy smiled, eyebrows raised. "We become too familiar, Lord Wizard."

"No, I'm just getting to know you." Matt shoved against the knight's bulk and leaped backward, fists up. He should have realized Sir Guy would block well with his left - he was used to a shield.

The knight followed after him, slashing back and forth with his right. Matt backpedaled, waiting, and timed it; then he dropped low in a crouch and jabbed at Sir Guy's belly. Sure enough, the left dropped down to block - and Matt swung up for the chin, from the hips.

His fist smashed against Sir Guy's jaw, and the knight's head snapped back. Matt recovered, snapping his body back into a tight fetal crouch - but Sir Guy kept on leaning back until he toppled over.

Matt froze in the crouch, staring at the slack, unconscious body in disbelief.

Then, slowly, he straightened up, lowering his fists - carefully; he still expected Sir Guy to roll to his feet and start swinging. But the Black Knight was out cold, and Matt finally let himself begin to believe it.

There was a rustle of cloth, and he heard Alisande's voice, as dumfounded as he was: "You have beaten him, Wizard!"

Matt stared at the supine body. "Thank Heaven for small favors!"

"Nay, thank thy skill," rumbled Stegoman, beside him. "Thou hast beaten a full-belted knight, Matthew Mantrell, by force of thine arms and skill of thy body!"

Matt turned slowly, frowning. "Well, , thanks - but I have a nasty suspicion I didn't."

"How so?" A trickle of smoke oozed from Stegoman's Jaws.

"I think I won by a decision."

"Thou hast laid him low! What decision's in that?"

"His," Matt said sourly.

Alisande was kneeling over Sir Guy, patting his cheek, chafing his wrists, and murmuring soothing chants. The Black Knight blinked; then his eyes locked onto the princess, appalled. "'Zwounds! I have, then, been beaten?"

"Afraid so." Matt stepped up. "Just luck, though, Sir Knight. You definitely knew what you were doing; I didn't."

"Nay! That was no blow of fortune you felled me with; 'twas planned, and quite well!" Sir Guy rolled up to one knee. "I must kneel to you now, Lord Wizard; and, since you were the victor, yet spared me, I must in all honor swear fealty to you, to serve at your right hand, to make my body your shield and your enemies mine, till I've defeated the worst of them! And so do I swear, Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard!"

"Uh-well, I guess that's the best offer I've had since I came here," Matt said lamely. He sidled over to Alisande. "Can I turn him down?"

"You can, though 'twould be grievous insult," she murmured back.

"Went a little bit overboard, didn't he?"

"Somewhat," Alisande admitted. "An expression of honor and profound respect would have sufficed, by all rules of chivalry. Still, 'tis not unheard of."

That, Matt reflected, was the grinding part. If it was allowable under the unwritten rules of chivalry, it was almost obligatory for him to accept.

Sir Guy waited, watching him with. a merry eye. He knows exactly what he's done, Matt realized, with slow, burning, resentment.

"You should accept him," the princess said, with sudden, total certainty.

That rocked Matt - not so much that she advocated accepting Sir Guy, but the sureness with which she said it. Did she see something in the Black Knight that he didn't see?

Sure - muscles. And, now that he thought about it, Sir Guy wasn't bad-looking -- handsome, in fact.

"Are you sure?" he whispered. "Remember, if I say yes, he's an official part of our party, indefinitely!"

"I am mindful of it." The princess was giving the knight a long, speculative look. "And I mind me we're few and need every sword we can trust."

"Trust? We scarcely know his name! In fact, we don't - not all of it, anyway!"

"Naetheless, we can trust him. I'm sure of it."

She was, too-very sure. You could hear it in her voice. For a moment, jealousy flared; Matt couldn't help it. But he forced it to the back of his mind and turned back to Sir Guy. "I accept your proffer of loyalty, Sir Knight, and thank you from the depth of my heart."

Alisande was watching him, expectantly.

Matt sighed. He'd read enough about chivalry to know what she expected of him. "And I, in my turn, swear loyalty to thee, till this conflict be finished, or one of us dies."

Sir Guy's moustache hooked up around a grin. "Done!" And he leaped to his feet, clasping Matt's hand. "I am your sword and your shield till we die, or the worst of your enemies does! Where do we wander, Lord Wizard?"

Matt wished he could escape the feeling that he'd been conned. "Wherever her Highness says." Then he remembered his manners. "Uh, your Highness Princess Alisande - may I present Sir Guy Losobal."

Sir Guy's eyebrows shot up. "The Princess Alisande!"

"You know of me, then." Alisande extended her hand, and Sir Guy dropped to one knee to kiss it. The princess nodded, pleased with Sir Guy's courtliness, while Matt fumed. "And knowing who I am, Sir Guy, have you second thoughts as to joining our party?"

"But wherefore?" Sir Guy asked in surprise. "What I have sworn, I have sworn - and if I have enlisted in a noble cause, so much the better."

He said it so easily that Matt found himself sure Sir Guy hadn't bumped into them by accident-but the princess looked very pleased indeed. "Well, then, sirs!" she said, looking from Sir Guy to Matt and back. "What is your counsel? Whither should we march?"

"Away from your enemies," Sir Guy said, totally serious. "We are too few to encounter them successfully."

"Uh, toward your friends," Matt amplified. "I'm afraid we do need numbers."

"The greatest of my friends is the giant Colmain," the princess said judiciously. "He helped Deloman, the founder of my family, to win to his throne three centuries ago."

"Aye, he slew the foul giants that plundered our land," Stegoman added, "and locked the accursed titan Ballspear in combat, till the blessed wizard Moncaire could change him to stone."

"Accursed?" Matt propped up an eyebrow. "Ballspear? What was so bad about him?"

"What was not?" Stegoman snapped, spitting sparks. "He led the foul horde in their looting, caught fledglings in flight from the air for his food, and crushed mothers and hatchlings beneath his vast feet! A thousand foul tales we tell of him still." Flame licked and curled around his mouth as he finished.

Matt noted the emotion. "Yes, I see why the dragon folk would curse him. And if Colmain could beat him, or even hold him in a stalemate, I see why we should go looking for him."

"Yet Colmain himself is now stone," Sir Guy pointed out. "'Twas the last, vindictive stroke of Dimethtus the sorcerer, when Deloman came against him, with Colmain and Conor the wizard, besting his troops and his powers of Evil."

"This I know as well as my name," Alisande answered, unruffled. "Yet also I know that a wizard accompanies me." She turned to Matt. "How say you, Lord Wizard? Can you turn a stone giant to flesh, even as you did with Master Stegoman?"

Matt remembered he was supposed to be a great wizard now. He spread his hands, shrugging. "What can I say, Highness? I'll give it my best shot."

"No more can I ask." She seemed far too satisfied.

"You might ask for an army," Sir Guy reminded her, "and you will find one in the West. Thence am I lately come - and they are strong, Highness, in all things but hope. Landless barons I saw, leading troops of knights whose suzerains had died, hiding in forest and glen, and riding out to harass the enemy. Yet most gather at monasteries, at houses of God, where the powers of Evil are weakened and confounded. Here gather peasants whose homes have been destroyed, masterless knights, landless barons, and all the good clergy who escaped Astaulf's sword. Strong in arms and in fighters they are, and armored with courage!"

"Yet you say they lack hope?" the princess demanded, frowning.

"Aye, Highness. Beneath their courage and faith, their foundations are crumbling-for who, they ask, can rise up to lead them? King Kaprin is dead, his daughter imprisoned. Who, then, shall win the throne from Astaulf? And how can they triumph, with no one to win? So they fight, determined that Evil shall fall along with them - but believing nothing shall rise."

"I must to them!" Alisande cried, her face flaming. "They must see me and know that their princess is free!"

"But they're in the West," Matt reminded her. "Where's Colmain?"

"Why, in the West also," Alisande cried. "He stands in the far western mountains, guarding our land in a long, silent vigil."

"Oh."

"Aye." Sir Guy nodded in sympathy. "There is no real choice. Bordestang lies in the East, with her enemies; Colmain stands in the West, with her friends. Where else could she go?"

"Unfortunately, I can't help thinking Malingo will figure that out, too," Matt pointed out. "You don't really think he's just going to let us ride peaceably along toward a welcoming army, do you?"

Sir Guy shrugged. "That lies at hazard, Lord Wizard. There is no war without risk; it must be borne."

"Maybe a slightly more devious route..."

"Nay." Alisande's voice rang like a bell. "If we deal in the devious, Lord Matthew, we lose - for Malingo is leagued with the powers of Evil, of prevarication and deviousness. If we wish to triumph against him, we must be open, honest, direct. We must travel west; I know this to be our best course!"

"With all due respect, your Highness, that might be good morality, but it's lousy strategy."

"What!" Sir Guy cried, scandalized. "You doubt the word of blood royal."

Matt smiled thinly. "Titles don't mean quite so much where I come from, Sir Guy."

"Yet thou art not in thine homeland," Stegoman rumbled at his shoulder, "and art now bound by the rules of this world, not thine own."

Matt's smile soured as he turned to the dragon. "Here or at home, Stegoman, a title by itself means nothing."

"Yet blood royal does," Sir Guy declared. "A king or queen cannot be mistaken!"

"Oh, come off it!" Matt cried, exasperated. "There isn't a human being alive who never makes a mistake!"

"There do, an they be kings and queens," said Stegoman, "in matters politic, whether they be of the public weal, affairs of state, or the conduct of war."

"In these matters, royalty's infallibly right." Sir Guy spoke more gently, patiently. "There are those among men who are gifted, Lord Wizard - you above all should know that for truth. And there are many sorts of Gifts, as there are types of people. He who is right in all matters public is made king, for the welfare of all - and those who inherit his blood inherit also his Gifts."

It did kind of make sense, in its own weird way. Matt couldn't deny, now, that magic worked here - he'd done it too often. And if he could have the Gift of magic, why couldn't Alisande have infallibility by Divine Right?

No reason, really. None he could think of.

He looked up at Alisande, a little sheepishly. "Uh-your Highness thinks we oughta go west?"

"I do," she said, very seriously. "'Tis our best chance."

Matt stood looking at her. Then he nodded. "Right."

He turned to Stegoman. "Care to come along? Seems like a shame to bust up the old gang now."

"Shame, indeed." Stegoman nodded. "'Twould shame me greatly, to abandon a princess in quest of her rightful crown."

"It's not exactly going to be guaranteed safe," Matt warned.

"Yet it will, at least, be of interest. Life can grow dull, Wizard."

I'd just love to be bored, Matt thought. Still, he could see Stegoman's point. With none of his own kind around, and not much chance of ever being with them again, there wasn't much to do but watch the antics of these quaint two-legged creatures. "Good to have you, Stegoman."

The dragon fixed him with a glittering eye. "How goodly?"

Matt halted, feeling a bargaining session coming on. "Uh, what did you have in mind?"

Stegoman glanced at Sir Guy and the princess. "Come aside with me; this is talk for dragon and wizard, and need not concern other folk."

"Uh-excuse me, your Highness. Sir Guy." Matt touched his forelock apologetically and followed Stegoman.

The dragon only moved about fifty feet off before he growled, out of the corner of his mouth, "There is ... a certain matter in which... Well, if a wizard cannot manage it, none can ... 'Tis one which doth touch me tenderly, a matter which ... well, no doctor of physic could mend it, so..."

Matt suddenly recognized that Stegoman was trying to talk about something extremely embarrassing to him; the dragon couldn't quite bring himself to put it into words.

"A-a matter of appendages," Matt supplied. "Of certain members which are as vital to your people as hands are to mine?"

"One could say that, yes." The dragon growled it, but Matt caught a definite undertone of relief at not having to say it. "Canst thou mend where doctors of physic must fail?"

"I don't know ... I certainly don't know any spell that would do what you want. Not offhand. But give me some time, and I might be able to work something out."

"Well enough." Stegoman shook his shoulders, as if he could already feel his wings healing. "I can ask no more, Wizard. Be assured I shall serve thee with each last ounce of strength and of skill I possess."

"Uh, wait! I can't promise anything, you know."

"What dost thou take me for?" The dragon glared down at him. "This is no bargain, mortal, but a bond of honor between us. I shall do as well as I may for thee and thine and will trust to thine honor to do thy best for me."

"I stand corrected." Somehow, Matt felt very much ashamed. "And I thank you deeply, Stegoman."

"Let us hope it is I who shall thank thee." The dragon turned back, lifting his head. "Shall we rejoin them?"

Matt slogged back to Sir Guy and the princess, watching the dragon out of the corner of his eye and feeling very glum. He'd just promised to do something that he hadn't the faintest idea how to manage; and on top of that, he knew there was no damn use trying to heal Stegoman's wings until he could cure his drunkenness. If he didn't, Stegoman would go home, get gloriously high off his own fumes, and take to the air as a menace to flying society. The other dragons would then just clip his wings again and send him back into exile. No, Matt definitely had to cure the drunkenness first.

But how? Matt didn't know anything about reptilian biochemistry, aside from their being cold-blooded - and he wasn't even sure about that, when it came to a fire-breathing dragon.

Whoa! Biochemistry might have nothing to do with it! Matt remembered Stegoman's diatribe against hatchling hunters, when Matt had first transported him to the dungeon. Why would that have occurred to the dragon, instead of sorcery, which was much more apparent? Evidence of a childhood trauma? Matt knew a little basic psychology and he had a good feel for people. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense - Steogman's drunkenness was psychosomatic!

But why would a trauma involving dragon hunters result in a propensity for getting stoned?

Wait a minute - Stegoman came from a military culture. He couldn't admit fear of anything, even to himself. The way that he'd charged at Molestam the witch bore that out - an overcompensation, rash boldness masking fear. Could his real problem be fear of flying?

But he couldn't admit that, even to himself - so instead, he got drunk when he breathed fire. Obviously, therefore; he couldn't be allowed to fly, which would take him out of the air, through no fault of his own.

But if Stegoman was getting what he really subconsciously wanted, he'd be murder to cure! And Matt knew he bore about as much resemblance to a psychiatrist as a photon does to the sun.

But he'd promised he'd try.

He hadn't set any definite time on his attempt, though. And they had time, all the way to the mountains. Maybe he'd think of something en route...

"Are you ready?" Alisande asked as they came up. Sir Guy was buckled into his armor again, his hand on the saddle.

"Ready as we'll ever be, I guess..."

"Come, sir! Be merry!" Sir Guy vaulted into his saddle. "We embark on a glorious quest! Pluck up your spirit; have joy in your heart!" He reached down to grip the princess's forearm. "Mount, and away!"

The princess leaped up, sitting sideways behind him with an arm round his waist. Sir Guy kicked his horse into a long, easy canter, and they set out toward the lowering sun.

"Come, Wizard; mount." Stegoman lowered his head to Matt's knee.

Matt eyed the great neck, a foot and a half thick, and the foot-high barbed fins along its top. "Uh - you sure?"

"Have no fear - thou'lt not fall, nor I falter. I can bear the load easily, if you bestride my shoulders."

"Well - if you say so." Matt swung astride the neck gingerly, right behind the head; then the ground swung away beneath his feet, and he clung for dear life. Stegoman turned his' head back to his shoulder, and Matt changed seats, stepping delicately from one huge thorn-fin to another, settling himself between two wicked points. "Just don't pull any sudden stops, huh?"

"Fear not." The dragon started off in a waddle that seemed quite slow, but ate up the ground; then he gathered himself and sprang forward. Matt clung to a fin in sheer panic, bobbing back and forth, bracing his arms and trying frantically to avoid the great wicked point behind him.

Then he realized he was wasting effort; the great fin curved nicely, like the back of a bucket seat. Matt settled back as carefully as he could in the lurching ride, till his spine rested against the great horny curve, with the barb thrust out over his head. After a few minutes, he could even let himself relax a little. Not too bad, once you got used to it. "Stegoman?"

"What thorn pricketh thee now?"

Matt frowned, leaning out to the side to sight the dragon's head. "What makes you so surly, all of a sudden?"

"My tooth pains me again. What dost thou wish?"

"Mm." Matt leaned back, frowning. "We oughta take care of that for you at the next stop - pull it, you know."

"Pull?" There was an undertone of horror to the dragon's voice.

"Yeah - you know, take it out. Magic dentistry would be a little bit complicated."

"But - to part with a bit of my body, of my very being! 'Tis blasphemous, Wizard!"

"Blasphemous?" Then Matt remembered - some cultures that believed in magic were very careful about portions of the anatomy that had to be discarded, such as hair and nail clippings. If a witch got a hold of them, she could work evil magic on you. "Oh, don't worry - I'll do it up nicely, in a little leather bag to tie around your neck. You can still keep it with you."

"Even so, I like not the sound of it. I must consider this at some length."

Matt sighed. "All right, but don't let it go too long; it could poison your whole jaw." He exaggerated, but it was the easiest way to say it.

Stegoman shuddered. "Let us not talk of it further. What didst thou wish to speak of? Not of my pain, most surely - but of throe."

"'Pain?' Oh, yeah." Matt frowned, remembering his gripe. "Did you ever get the feeling you'd been set up for something?:'

"Set up?"

"Yeah. You know - conned, railroaded. Somebody maneuvering you into position where you had to do what he wanted. Here I am, riding off to the West to help a girl get her throne back, when all I really wanted to do was to find a way home!"

"Am I mistaken," the dragon growled, "or didst thou not begin this whole coil thyself, when thou didst aid her to escape Astaulf's dungeon?"

"Oh, come on! I was maneuvered into that, wasn't I? I mean, as soon as I found out Malingo hadn't brought me here, it was only natural that I'd go looking for the opposing side, to get them to help me out! And I'm probably on the right track, after all. Whatever wizard brought me here probably is backing Alisande, but he won't let me go till she's back on her throne! Do I really have any choice but to help her?"

"Thou hast many," Stegoman snapped, "as thou knowest. Malingo hath already shown thee one, and thou hast refused it. Nay, even without allying with him, thou hast shown enough wizard-power to win thyself fortune and dominion over thy fellows. Indeed, thou mayest be a king, if thou wishest! Hast thou not thought of that?"

"Well, it had crossed my mind - but I'm the creative type. Administrative work is dead boring."

"Is it so? Then why dost thou not spend thy time seeking ways to send thyself home?"

Matt sat immobile, letting the initial terror of the thought wash over him, sink in, and ebb. "That would take a long time..."

"And this will not?"

"It could," Matt said slowly, "yes. But I can live with it, this way."

"Aye, because 'tis adventure to thee. Thou art bedazzled by dreams of great glory; thou dost feel thyself to be truly living -- mayhap for the first time in thy life. Nay, seek not to gainsay me. Thou hast chosen this road for thyself; thou dost now what thou hast ever dreamed of. Admit this, at least to thyself, or be still!"

Matt was still.

These people didn't seem to believe in rest stops-at least, not when there were only four hours of daylight left. Matt climbed down off Stegoman as the sun was setting, feeling as if he would never be able to sit again. He could definitely see why saddles had been invented.

Sir Guy made it worse. He bustled about, setting up camp with a brisk good cheer that Matt found disgusting. Alisande wasn't sitting back on her title and relaxing, either-she was collecting brushwood for a fire.

Sore as he was, Matt felt shamed at not pitching in. He limped up to her and asked, "Can I help?"

She thrust the stack of brushwood at him, beaming. "Indeed, that you may. Lay and kindle the fire, if you would, and I'll see to your couches."

Then she whirled away toward a fir tree, whipping a knife out of her sash-a loan from Sir Guy, at a guess.

Matt tried to remember his Boy Scout lore and looked for a flat rock. Not finding one, he settled for a patch of bare ground and started breaking up the smallest twigs for tinder.

He just about had a good little teepee laid when Sir Guy came swinging up, two large hares spitted on his sword. "Ah, most excellent! We'll have fire, and right quickly a dinner!"

Matt pulled out his matchbook and tried to remember the "spell" he'd used, to get one to light.

Sir Guy's mailed hand came down over the matchbook. "Ah, thou dost not mean to use magic to kindle our fire?"

"Sure, why not?" Matt looked up, frowning. Then he remembered. "Oh ... you mean that business about not using magic for everyday chores."

"Such as lighting a fire." Sir Guy nodded brightly, taking his hand away. "Even I do know that much, Lord Matthew. Power must be respected, or its use will surely corrupt the user." The Black Knight knelt down and pulled a small iron box from his belt. He opened it, taking out a wad of tow and a small rock. "Those with the Gift rarely begin by dedicating themselves to evil, Lord Wizard. Indeed, they firmly resolve to use their power only for the bettering of their fellows." He struck the stone against the steel box. Sparks flew, one landed in the tow, and Sir Guy breathed it carefully into a coal and tilted it into Matt's tinder teepee. "But they chance on a grimoire, soon or late, and work a few of its smallest spells. They use these spells more and more often; and, as time passes, they can scarce manage a small task without them."

"Dependent," Matt muttered, watching small tongues of flame curl around the sticks. "Hooked on magic."

"Even so. They become drunk with power, and the more power they gain, the more they desire. Then have they but two choices -- to devote all their lives to God and the Good, which may prove a lengthy duty, or simply to sign a blood oath with the Devil. The choice must be made -- for how much power can a wizard gain without either Good or Evil to aid him?'

"Mach would depend on how good a magician he is," Matt answered. "If he could figure out the rules of magic, he might not need aid."

"Rules?" Sir Guy stared. "But magic has none!"

Matt rolled his eyes up. "Another informed layman! Have you tested the matter?"

Sir Guy seemed to consider. Then he shrugged. "As you will, Lord Wizard. Yet I bid you remember this: for a man with the Power, all temptations lead only to the same end - the Devil."

He held Matt's gaze for a moment. Then he swung to his feet, turned away, and strode toward Alisande.

Matt turned back to the fire. His eyes widened; the two rabbit carcasses lay skinned and gutted, waiting. Apparently Sir Guy had been working unobtrusively at dressing them while he'd been talking. He was the efficient type, Matt reflected as he selected a long stick to spit the carcasses-maybe a little too efficient. And what had he really been trying to say?

Matt selected two forked twigs and pushed them into the ground, then laid the spit across them. Sir Guy hadn't exactly expressed doubts that Matt had the moral strength of a wet noodle. But that had been the gist of the conversation, hadn't it?