The Crusading Wizard

CHAPTER 11

Balkis yowled, claws hooking—into the carpet, fortunately, not into Matt. “Wizard, save us!”

“Not in the best position to chant a spell,” Matt grunted with a talon pressing through the carpet around his waist.

“There must be something your magic can do!”

Matt racked his brains and came to the startling conclusion that a bird that size wouldn’t be out that late of its own accord—the land was cooling off, and the thermals were turning to glacials. What was there to glide on?

“Hey, up there!” Matt called. “What’s a nice bird like you doing out on a night like this?”

A huge croaking caw reverberated around them.

Matt frowned. “I couldn’t understand that. Could you try a falsetto?”

There was a moment’s pause; then the caw sounded again, but in a much higher pitch—the bottom few notes of the basso clef—slow and slurring, but understandable. “I have come to destroy the enemies of the wind!”

Balkis froze, eyes wide in the gloom. “It can talk!”

Matt nodded. “I thought it might.”

“How? Never have I heard a bird speak before—and believe me, there are some who would have begged for mercy!”

Matt shrugged. “No matter how wide the wingspan, a raptor that size couldn’t fly by itself—too much mass. That means all that’s keeping it in the sky is magic, and if it’s a magical creature, it might have other powers.”

“Such as speech!” The cat’s eyes were wide and fearful, remembering the score birdom had to settle with catdom.

“Speech indeed.” Matt nodded. “And if it can understand speech, it can be persuaded.” He called out to the bird, “We’re not enemies of the wind! We need it the same as you do! We were riding it, too!”

There was a minute’s pause, during which Matt held his breath. Then the deep, deep voice croaked, “The old man said you were enemies of all the elements!”

“Old man?” Matt asked. “Long blue robe? Soft tapering blue hat with a rounded top?”

“Aye.” Doubt shadowed the huge voice.

“We’re enemies of him, not of the elements.”

“He could not lie,” the roc said, sounding puzzled. “He said he was a priest.”

“And so he is,” Matt called back, “but the god he serves is Ahriman, the Prince of Deceivers. For Arjasp, lying is worship.”

The giant bird was silent for a while. Balkis glanced up anxiously at Matt. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, crossed his fingers, and reviewed a transportation spell.

Finally the roc spoke. “He said you worshiped the god who was the enemy of his.”

“I worship the One God who is Lord of All,” Matt called back. “But He is not the enemy of Ahriman. The enemy of Ahriman is Ahura Mazda.”

“Who is this Ahura Mazda?” The bird’s voice was a threatening rumble.

“He is the Lord of Light, and he battles Ahriman through all of time for control of the world and all its creatures. People can help Ahura Mazda by good thoughts, good words, and good deeds, but in the end Ahura Mazda is destined to win.”

“Why does not the God you worship destroy this Ahriman?”

“Because He loves not only Ahura Mazda, he loves Ahriman, too,” Matt called back.

“He could at least chain his enemy where Ahriman could do no harm. Why does He not?”

“Because He lets people choose,” Matt answered, “choose whether they want to be good or want to be evil. Otherwise we’d all be puppets, and there wouldn’t be much point to our lives.”

“Point? What point could there be?” the bird challenged. “Why should insignificant mites like you exist at all? Why does your God let you walk the earth to plague ones such as myself? What point is there in your presence?”

“Existence is what we make of it—Heaven, Nirvana, eternal peace and the overwhelming ecstasy of joy, the deep and everlasting friendship of kindred spirits—call it what you will, our souls can grow until they achieve it, as long as we have the choice.”

“But the blue priest said that Ahriman would triumph!”

“Only temporarily,” Matt assured the creature. “Even if he wins, Ahura Mazda will start taking everything back right away. That’s what Arjasp claims to be working for, at least.”

“That is not what he told me!”

“As I said, he lied.”

The bird was silent for minutes this time. Balkis began to relax, but her claws stayed out. Matt felt the same way—as though the Sword of Damocles was hanging over his head, suspended by a thread. Unfortunately, in this case, he was the one hanging, and could fall at any second. He suspected that the roc could drop him and hold onto the rug. He wondered if he could recite a verse before he hit the ground.

“What proof have you that the blue priest lied?” the roc finally demanded.

“That we were flying on the wind,” Matt answered instantly. “If we had been its enemies, would we have trusted it?”

“There is some truth in that,” the bird allowed. “But if you do not hate all the elements, tell me their names and their virtues!”

Matt was very glad the dastoor had coached him. “Earth, sky, wind, water, and fire! Earth endures, sky gives life, water cleanses, wind gives us breath, and fire purifies!”

“You know them well,” the roc admitted. “I believe you—the blue priest lied. You shall live.”

Matt sagged with relief, amazed that he had persuaded the creature so easily—any college freshman would have thought up more flaws in his argument than the roc had. He thoroughly believed everything he’d said, of course, and in this universe it was undeniably true, virtually natural law—but that didn’t mean he’d made it sound convincing. He was sure Arjasp could have come up with a hundred reasons to support his lies, and made them all sound much more credible—even in the few minutes Matt had seen him, he’d had an amazing amount of charisma; fanatics often did.

But Arjasp wasn’t here, and he was. Charismatic leaders had to be physically present to make their spellbinding effective. Distance always weakened them, giving common sense a chance to work. That was why dictators and religious demagogues needed mass meetings as well as mass media.

“I will aid your cause against this liar,” the bird said, with the weight of a considered decision. “Where shall I take you?”

“Bid him let us go, and we shall fly on your rug!” Balkis urged.

For the first time, Matt let himself look down. The mountaintops of the Hindu Kush had disappeared, and the tree-dotted plain below was zipping past at an amazing speed, making the lone river seem to undulate as they swooped along its bed. “This bird is much faster than the rug,” he told Balkis. “As long as it’s on our side, we might as well take advantage of it.”

He had never heard a cat moan before.

“Do you know where Samarkand is?” he called up to the roc.

“That collection of nests where the caravans stop?” The bird sounded disapproving. “I know it well—its roofs make the taking of camels quite difficult.”

Matt had a vision of the roc swooping out of the sky onto a luckless caravan and plucking a camel in each claw, then soaring off into the wilderness to eat them, loads and all. The silk probably didn’t taste too good, but the spices must have more than made up for it. “Yes, take us there,” he called. “Let’s see if the gur-khan has conquered it yet.”

“What is this gherkin?” the roc asked.

“Arjasp’s top general,” Matt told it. “He leads the hordes that conquer ordinary people for Arjasp to sacrifice to his god.”

“Arjasp told me the two-legs joined him because of the truth he spoke!”

“More likely because of the swords, spears, and arrows of his soldiers,” Matt said darkly. “That one we can prove beyond doubt. Fly over Samarkand, and if you see an army around its walls, or barbarians patrolling the city, you’ll know I’m right.”

“And if I see neither?”

“Then we land and warn them, and if you still doubt me, we can fly east to Baghdad and Damascus and Jerusalem, until you can finally see the horde darkening the plain. If you don’t believe me, go look for yourself.”

“I do believe you,” the bird rumbled, “or I would not take you to Samarkand.”

He banked, and Balkis’ claws dug into the carpet again. Matt smiled down at her, about to say something reassuring, then saw the look on the feline face and changed to sympathy. “What’s the matter?”

“That name, Samarkand!” Balkis hissed. “I have heard it before, I am sure of it.”

Matt gazed at her while implications riffled through his mind. When he had sorted them out a little, he said, “Maybe the caravan that brought you to Russia took a longer route than we thought.”

Or perhaps, he thought to himself, baby Balkis had heard people talking about more things than feeding times and colic.

Jimena and Ramon strolled along the castle walls, pausing to chat briefly with each sentry. When they completed their round, they stopped to gaze out over the city below, a patchwork of roofs of tile, slate, and thatch slanting down to the river that ran under the town wall, between half a mile of docks and water stairs, and out under the wall again. Beyond, fields of green and gold formed a crazy quilt to a line of distant hills-circling Bordestang’s valley.

“It is so lovely here,” Ramon said, “clean and unspoiled, and with so much room!”

“So much better than New Jersey,” Mama agreed. “We had good neighbors there, Ramon, but there are good people here, too.”

“And it is nice to be a lord and lady,” Ramon said, giving his wife a grin. “Yes, it is a good life to which our son has brought us.”

“It is indeed.” Mama rested her head against his shoulder, then stiffened. “What comes?”

Ramon frowned, following her gaze, and saw a smudge on the bright green of the distant hills. “What indeed?”

“Oh, for a telescope!” Jimena said, and caught his hand. “Quickly, husband! To our laboratory, and the bowl of ink! If we do not have the instruments of our home universe, we shall have to manage with the magic of this!”

The pool of ink stayed obstinately dark. Saul looked up and shook his head in frustration. “Nothing, Lady Mantrell. Absolutely nothing. If he’s anywhere near a pool or puddle, he’s blithely ignoring me and not looking down. And he’s certainly not pouring his own bowlful and trying to contact me.”

“So you cannot communicate with him, no.” Jimena bit her lip. “And my own scrying shows no trace of him. In what magical sinkhole is he, that our spells cannot find him?”

“Probably his own,” Saul opined. “He’s traveling in some pretty dangerous territory, out east where the horde is. He very easily may have cast a spell to shield him from magical spying.”

“Well, I cannot complain,” Jimena sighed. “When he was small, I always told him to be careful in his travels—to cross at the lights, and not speak to strangers.”

“I don’t think he has too much choice about the strangers now,” Saul said, “and I’ll bet he’d love to see a traffic light.”

Footsteps drummed in the hallway and a fist thudded on the door. “Lady Mantrell! Witch Doctor! Lord Mantrell calls! The dukes attack!”

Jimena was on her feet and halfway to the door, calling, “Ramon has the north wall. You take the east and half the south, and I’ll take the west and the other half!”

“Sure, if you get there first!” Saul was out the door right behind her, and matched her step for step up the stairs to the battlements.

There, they each found their soldiers busy pushing over scaling ladders and squaring off against the few enemies who had managed to get onto the battlements before the ladders fell. Saul carne out onto the eastern wall and saw a siege tower rolling toward him. “Captain of the guard!” he called.

The captain, a knight of advanced years who was beginning to move stiffly with age, turned at his call, frowning.

Saul hurried over to him. “Sir Chaliko! Good, it ‘s you! What’s the story on that malvoisin?”

“Story?” The old knight frowned. “We have a ready enough cure for it, Witch Doctor.”

“Fire arrows?” Saul asked.

The old knight nodded. “We only await its corning into range.” A sergeant called, “The crossbows can reach it now, Sir Knight!”

“Then loose!” Sir Chaliko called.

The sergeant relayed the order, and flaming bolts whizzed through the air to bite deeply into the sides of the boarding tower—and died in puffs of steam.

Sir Chaliko stared. “What witchcraft is this?”

“Water.” Saul squinted. “See how the sides sparkle? There’s a continuous waterfall on every side!”

“How can that engine carry so much water?” the old knight asked, completely at a loss.

Saul squinted again, trying to see the top of the machine—then froze, staring. “Whatever sort of idiot is that duke using for a magician? The fool has called up an undine just to damp down his siege engine!”

“Amazing!” Sir Chaliko smiled in sheer admiration. “How else could they guard it against fire?”

“I can think of half a dozen ways, and this sure wouldn’t be one of them! That amateur can’t possibly know what an undine can do if it gets out of control!”

“What?” Sir Chaliko demanded, beginning to catch some of Saul’s alarm.

“Drown half the city!” Saul told him. “And in a battle, there’s almost no chance that it won’t break out of the magician’s power!”

“I shall send a sally party out to chop through the tower!” Sir Chaliko turned away.

“No!” Saul reached out and caught his shoulder. “That’ll just put the elemental on the ground, where it can really start pouring out the gallons! Worse, its master is almost sure to lose control of it in the fall!”

“Then how shall we guard against the malvoisin?” the old knight asked.

“I’ll think of a way,” Saul said. “Just give me a minute.”

Sir Chaliko turned to gauge the distance between tower and wall—and its speed. “A minute, Witch Doctor. I do not think we shall have much more than that.”

The malvoisin rolled closer and closer to them.

“The top, at least!” Sir Chaliko snapped. “We can shoot at the monster itself! Ho, archers! Drop your shafts into the roof of that bad neighbor!”

A flight of fire-arrows arched high and landed on the roof of the tower. A score of puffs of steam rose with a muffled roar.

“We’re just making it angry,” Saul snapped. “Tell them to hold their fire, Sir Chaliko!”

“Then do something, Witch Doctor!”

Saul chanted,

Sir Chaliko stared. “Witch Doctor, you chant the oddest spells!”

“Arcane language,” Saul said offhandedly. “Seven to the seventh power means seven multiplied by itself seven times.”

“Seven times seven times seven times seven times seven times seven times seven times seven?” Sir Chaliko asked. “Yeah, and if that’s not enough, I ended up with a clause to repeat the whole process.” Saul watched the tower anxiously. “Let’s hope that’s—”

With a roar, flames leaped up atop the tower. Something else roared back, and the flames died-almost. Suddenly, they flared high again. Water rose in a wave against the flames, then cascaded down the sides of the tower. The flame lowered, then rose again. The undine bellowed, and the tower turned into a torrent.

“It is in pain!” Sir Chaliko cried. “Agony!”

“I don’t think so,” Saul said slowly. “I don’t think water can feel pain. But it sure is angry.”

The flames rose and fell, rose and fell, as the water tumbled forth in an unending cataract. The tower still rolled forward, then lurched and stopped, tilting at an angle.

“You have stopped it!” Sir Chaliko cried.

“Not me,” Saul said, “the undine. All that water has turned the ground into a bog.”

Sure enough, the tower’s wheels were buried in mud. The soldiers inside shouted in panic and jumped for their lives.

So did the undine.

Down it fell, a huge amorphous shining mass, a giant iridescent bubble still issuing torrents of water—but the flames fell with it. The firefall followed the elemental and, roaring, the undine began to roll toward the moat.

“Witch Doctor!” Sir Chaliko cried in a panic. “We cannot have that monster in our moat!”

“Why not?” Saul grinned. “I’d love to see an enemy try to fill in that ditch now!”

“But it will flood the castle!”

“How?” Saul asked practically. “Water seeks its own level, after all. It can’t climb higher than the moat’s banks-it’ll only overflow. Hey, we may be the only castle in Europe to be surrounded by a waterfall!”

“Will it not wash away the very hill?”

“If there’s any sign of that, we can find a spell to send the creature back where it came from,” Saul assured the knight. “Maybe I can make it evaporate.”

The undine tumbled into the moat and, finally, the fire died.

“Amazingly done!” Sir Chaliko said, awed. “But why did you not simply call up a salamander, a fire elemental?”

“How would I have banished it when it had taken care of the undine?” Saul replied.

“I had not thought of that,” Sir Chaliko said slowly.

On the south wall, Sir Gilbert faced the forces of the Duke of Orlentin, with only Padraig, an Irish apprentice wizard, to support his soldiers. Sir Gilbert watched as a huge boulder arced through the air to crash against the wall while the teenager made frantic gestures, chanting in Gaelic.

“It struck with somewhat less force,” Sir Gilbert admitted. “Can you not make that catapult to break, lad?”

The boy shook his head, wiping his brow, strain in every line of his face. “I do not know enough magic for that, Sir Gilbert—but if you could bid your archers loose a dozen fire-arrows, I could guide them all to the engine without fail.”

“We shall do what we can,” Sir Gilbert sighed, and called to the archers.

Twelve arrows sailed high in an arch. Padraig chanted feverishly in Gaelic and, slowly, the flight pulled together, forming one coherent ball of flame—but as it fell toward the catapult, the fire went out, and only a clutch of smoking shafts struck the engine.

“A plague on it!” Sir Gilbert cried. “What befell you, Padraig?”

“There is a sorcerer countering my spells!” Padraig wailed.

Sir Gilbert frowned. “Then you must outsmart him.”

“Outsmart him? How?” the teenager protested. “As soon as he knows what I intend, the duke’s sorcerer will …” His voice trailed off as his eyes widened.

He looked so comical that Sir Gilbert grinned even in the midst of danger. “What have you thought of, boy? A magical ambush?”

“Of a sort!” Padraig pushed up the sleeves of the robe that, like the office of battle-wizard, was too big for him. He raised his arms, chanting in Gaelic again.

On the field, the duke’s men turned the huge crank, and the tongue of the catapult pulled back and back—and broke with a crack like the boom of a cannon.

“Well done!” Gilbert cried. “How did you that, lad?”

“I turned its core to peat.” Padraig grinned. “Whatever the duke’s sorcerer may be, he’s never seen an Irish bog!”

On the north wall, Ramon confronted the troops of the Duke of Soutrenne, but the huge wagon that rolled toward him was roofed with armor plates that protected its passengers from arrows, stones, and anything else the defenders might throw at them—even, to some extent, boiling oil or steaming water.

“What menace rides within, that they shield it so well?” asked the captain of the north wall, face creased with worry.

“I do not know, Sir Brock,” Ramon said, “but whatever it is, I do not think we should let it come any closer.”

“Certainly we should not! It rolls without oxen to pull it, or to push it, either. How can my archers stop a thing like that?”

“They cannot.” Ramon grinned. “But what magic can propel, more magic can repulse. Let me attempt its halting, Sir Brock.”

The war-wagon rolled to a halt.

Sir Brock stared. “Can you stay them so easily as that, Lord Mantrell?”

“Easily indeed,” Ramon told him. “Our lord duke has invested his money in his army, not his wizard. He has a journeyman at best, perhaps only an apprentice.”

The war-wagon began to move again, though slowly.

“A journeyman,” Sir Brock deduced.

“It would seem so. I must give him a more lasting denial.” Papa raised his hands again, thinking of them as antennae cupped to beam magic toward the wagon, and recited,

He counted the seconds off softly by a major American river. With five seconds left he called,

“No longer it hauls!”

The pop of something wooden giving way reached them even on the battlements. The war-wagon still moved, but a crack as loud as a gunshot made it list to starboard. Then another report sounded, and another and another. As they watched, the wheels fell off, the axles broke, and the armor plates fell from the roof, exposing a skeleton of heavy beams. From the highest swung a huge iron-headed battering ram.

Sir Brock looked as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Surely they did not think to crack a six-foot-thick wall with that!”

“They did not.” Ramon scowled. “But our wall contains the postern gate, Sir Knight.”

“What did they think to do—bridge the moat?”

“I suspect they did,” Ramon answered. “When this battle is done, Sir Brock, send men out to bring that engine inside. I think you will find that the wagon-bed is really a very stout affair of planks and beams, and is only laid within the frame, not nailed or pegged. A dozen men will be able to shoot it out across the moat, and it will be strong enough to hold that ram as it rolls.”

Sir Brock squinted, trying to see the ram more clearly. “I don’t doubt it. Is there anything more we can do to confound their plans?”

“Perhaps.” Ramon grinned and recited,

The ram began to swing. Wider and wider it swung, until the soldiers near it shouted with alarm and began to crowd away.