The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 14

With a horrendous cracking, the branch began to split from the trunk. It wasn’t just going to swat at Matt, it was going to fall on him! Quickly, he chanted,

The fall of the branch slowed, then stopped, one huge burl only inches from Matt’s head. Then, incredibly, it started to rise again, the base cleaving to the trunk, shaking, trembling, then stilling, and the branch stretched out whole again. Matt told himself he must have been imagining the huge sigh of relief that seemed to surround him.

The crowd burst into cries of awe!—and fear. Those closest to Banalix tried to crowd farther away.

The false druid pointed at a dead tree behind Matt and screamed a verse. A groan began, softer, then louder and louder, as the tree leaned to fall on Matt.

He hoped Cowper’s ghost wasn’t listening.

The trunk seemed to roll, changing the direction of its fall. Banalix stared in horror, then turned to run crosswise, out of the path of the tumbling skeletal branches—but the tree swung about, following him, tracking him, as it fell faster and faster, then slammed down on top of him. Banalix screamed in pure terror, then screamed again and again, for the tree had enough branches left so that it hadn’t crushed him, only formed a prison around him. He grabbed the dry old sticks and shook them, trying to break them, but they must not have been quite as dead as they seemed, for they held him penned in.

“Go now, quickly!” Matt boomed. “Go back to your cottages, back to your beds, and never follow such a deceiver again!”

The crowd broke and ran, howling with fright. Their voices faded away, and the clearing was still, except for the sobbing coming from the hollow tree.

Matt stood still, absorbing the whole of the night, letting the adrenaline ebb. When he trusted himself to be gentle, he whispered,

“Can you hear me, Banalix?” he said softly, but the spell seemed to have worked—he could scarcely hear himself, and the druid kept whimpering with no sign of having heard him. Matt jumped down from the stump and went slowly toward the dead tree, where he knelt down and gazed in at the prisoner.

The man stared at him for a frozen moment, then recoiled, hands up to defend, crying, “Who are you?”

“A wizard,” Matt told him, “one who’s on the side of the Church at the moment—and who knows what you’re trying to do.”

The man stared, then whispered, “For the Church? You are a godly wizard, and you defeated the powers of the Old Gods so easily?”

“Sure,” Matt said. “They don’t really exist, you know. The only power you had was some minor spells your boss taught you—and their impact comes from the music of the old language, not the strength of the old gods.”

Banalix began to tremble. “But he told me the Old Gods live!”

“He lied,” Matt said simply. “He’s out to gain power, and he saw that he could do it by reviving his own version of the old religion. He even put together a mixture of excuses for people to do all the things they enjoy, but that have bad effects later on—guaranteed to win him converts, and by the time they realize all their partying has brought trouble, your boss figured he’d have them so securely under his thumb that they couldn’t get away if they wanted to.”

He almost felt sorry for Banalix as he watched the expressions that chased each other across his face as his wonderful new world collapsed around him. Finally he groaned, “I am lost!”

“You can find a way to rebuild,” Matt told him. “For openers, tell me what I want to know, and I’ll release you.”

“Tell you… ?” A crafty look came into the druid’s eyes.

“Don’t think you have anything to trade,” Matt said quickly. “I have plenty of other ways of finding out, and I won’t at all mind leaving you here to starve.”

The last part was a complete lie, of course, but Banalix didn’t know that. He stared at Matt in horror for a minute, then quavered, “The Chief Druid! Surely you know that!”

“Yes, I guessed that much,” Matt agreed. “Tell me his name.”

“I dare not! He will discover it, he will smite me down!”

“You can’t really believe that.” Matt’s smile held a little contempt “You know that most of the ‘magic’ he taught you was only trickery, don’t you? And the few genuine spells are pretty feeble. I doubt very highly that he’ll know if you tell me his name.”

Banalix stared at him a moment, then whispered “Niobhyte” very softly.

The name meant nothing to Matt, but he couldn’t let Banalix know that. “Very good. Now, tell me—what’s your real name?”

The man flushed and looked away. “Jord,” he said.

“Jord.” It was a peasant’s name. “And what did you do for a living before Niobhyte conned you away?”

“I was a serf on the estates of Lord Manerring,” Jord said reluctantly.

Matt nodded. “Well, then, I would recommend you go back to your home village and stay there, at least until this is all over.”

“I dare not!” Jord seized two branches and shook them, trying to break out. “Niobhyte will slay me if he learns I have failed and gone meekly home!” He shuddered. “And I will roast forever in Hell, for I have blasphemed and lured people away from God!”

Matt stared at the man a moment, then asked, “You mean you didn’t believe a word of what you were telling those people?”

“I believed it,” Jord told him, “but now that I have seen the power of the Old Gods so easily defeated, I can believe no longer!”

“So you fall back on the religion in which you were raised.” Matt nodded. “Well, then, repent and confess your sins, and you should be safe from Niobhyte’s power.”

“But he is a sorcerer! A real sorcerer! Repentence will not save me!”

“It will save your soul, at least.” Matt was beginning to have misgivings about having busted up Banalix’s act—but could he really have let the man suck other people into the kind of tyranny he himself seemed to fear? “It might save your body, too, if you stay in the sanctuary of a church until this is all over.”

Jord stared at him for a moment, then said, “Might.”

“There are no guarantees in this life, I’m afraid,” Matt told him, “especially when the country is in such upheaval. But I know a church that should be safer man most for the duration, and maybe when it’s over, Niobhyte will have lost. If he has, he won’t be in a position to hurt anybody.”

Jord studied his face, realizing what he meant—what the options were for where Niobhyte would be. Finally he said, “I’ll thank you, then, and hope. Take me to this church, and a priest.”

“Okay, then.” Matt grabbed a stout branch and stood up, heaving with all his strength. The trunk rolled, and Jord scuttled free.

He stared up at Matt, face pale in the moonlight. “You are as strong as a knight!”

“That’s because I am a knight.” Matt slapped him on the shoulder, turning him toward the village.

“A knight and a wizard? I’ve never heard of such a thing! Except for …” Jord’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened and he realized to whom he was talking.

“Keep it to yourself,” Matt told him severely. “We’ve got half a mile to cover, and I’d rather not attract any more attention than necessary.”

A wind blew up out of nowhere, moaning in the treetops.

“Too late,” Jord groaned. “Some spirit has heard me, or heard the name of… the Chief Druid. He is gathering his companions to punish me.”

“You’re reading an awful lot into a breeze,” Matt snapped. “Come on, let’s get going. Maybe we can beat the storm.”

But it seemed to follow them, the wind moaning more and more loudly, though they didn’t feel it at all. Tree branches began to whip about them, slapping at them from ahead in front, swinging at them from behind.

“No wind makes them move that way,” Jord cried. “The spirits are coming for me!”

“Then let’s give them a run for their money! Come on!”

But the moon darkened, and Matt began to feel as though someone was watching him—someone, or something. He hurried Jord along the trail, glancing up to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sky between whipping boughs. It was clear as a bell, stars bright in their scatter—but where the moon should have been was only darkness. Matt didn’t know how Niobhyte had done it, but he was beginning to hope he wouldn’t meet the man—if he was a man. Even more if he wasn’t. They hurried down the trail. Matt caught sight of things moving at the edges of his vision—huge dark forms, shadows within shadows, not clear enough to recognize. He thought he could make out roughly human shapes—head, arms, and legs—but wasn’t sure; whenever he tried to look directly at one of them, he saw only darkness and brush. He muttered,

Then the laughter began.

Low and ominous, it sounded behind them, and Jord started to run. Matt caught him, snapping, “No! Show fear and you put yourself in its power! Walk fast, but walk!”

They strode on through the darkness, setting a record for cross-country hiking, with the laughter building to the sides, then in front of them, finally echoing all about. Other voices joined in, laughing maniacally, gloatingly, insanely, giggling, gibbering, and the almost-seen shapes pressed closer, but seemed unable to touch them. Jord began to whimper, and Matt felt like joining him.

Then, suddenly, they were out of the trees with cottages before them. “Hurry!” Matt snapped, and they rushed down an alley between houses with the laughter slapping off the walls and the unfelt wind howling overhead.

“Can not the people hear?” Jord cried.

“I doubt it,” Matt called back. “Besides, if you were safe inside a house and heard something like this, would you look out?”

“I am afraid to look out already,” Jord whimpered.

Then they were out of the cottages and crossing the village green. Jord looked up, saw the church, and dug his feet in. “You’re taking me to the priest I burned this afternoon!”

“He’s human,” Matt admitted, “but he’s a priest, and he believes in forgiveness. Besides, I healed his burns. Move! Or do you want to stay here and wait for whatever’s around us to close in?”

With a wail, Jord gave in and let Mart’s arm pull him over the green and toward the waiting chapel. Matt still wouldn’t break into a run, but he felt a presence following him, something bigger, something more powerful, something much worse than the half-seen night-walkers that shadowed them to either side. He muttered prayers under his breath, wondering if Banalix’s mockery of a ceremony, and his own interruption, had wakened some form of elemental with which Niobhyte had nothing to do. They strode toward the church.

Mama and Papa came to the next town about noon—and a town it was, no mere village; they could see down the main street to shop after shop with the emblems of trade hung over their doors—a half-dried bush for the tavern, three gilded balls for the goldsmith’s, a red-and-white-striped pole for the barber/surgeon, and so on. The church’s steeple towered twice as high as that of any village chapel they had seen, and there were four two-storied buildings with their lower halves built of stone. As they neared the first hut a voice behind them shouted, “Make way! Make way for the Baron Fontal!”

They scurried to the side of the road just in time, for the baron and his score of men-at-arms weren’t about to wait for anyone—they came galloping by, past Mama and Papa and into town.

Mama looked up indignantly as the last went by. “I know we are disguised as commoners, but the aristocracy could still have more respect for their people than that!”

“There is more to their hurry than arrogance.” Papa clasped her hand, frowning. “Let us go quickly into this town, Jimena. I fear mischief.”

Mama looked up at him in surprise. “I thought I was the intuitive in this pairing.”

“You are, you are,” Papa agreed, hurrying her down the road. “You have amazing intuition, my dear. I only have hunches. Come, let us hurry.”

At least that explained their intuitive son. Mama sighed and did her best to match Papa’s pace.

By the time they arrived at the town square, two of the men-at-arms were dragging a tradesman out of his shop while a crowd of his neighbors gathered—but at a wary distance. The poor man bawled for help, and as Mama and Papa came up, another merchant told a small boy, “Fetch the priest, and quickly!”

The boy took to his heels as though his own life depended on it.

The men-at-arms slammed the tradesman up against the wall of his shop and held him pinned there while three others gathered around, looking menacing. Here and there in the crowd, a man tightened his hold on a staff or a flail, but a glance at the glowering men-at-arms still on horseback was enough to make him loosen his hold again.

“Now, Master Gilder,” the baron said, “how is this? My steward tells me you refused his request for a loan of fifty pounds of gold, though it was given in my name!”

“Gold?” Papa turned to Mama with a frown. “He must be a goldsmith.”

Mama nodded. “Who else would have such a sum?”

“But—But Your Lordship, I have given you such loans three times before!” the goldsmith protested.

“Nonetheless, I require it again,” the baron said, his tone iron. “Do you dare tell me you fear I will not repay you?”

“I—I—” Gilder glanced at the halberd aimed at his middle and swallowed thickly. “What I fear, my lord, is the loss of my trade! I have only forty-three pounds of gold left, and if I give you that, I shall have nothing left with which to craft the ware I sell to make my living!”

“Then you shall have to do your smithing in silver,” the baron grated. “I require the rest of your gold!”

“One side! One side!”

Everyone looked up, to see the village priest come panting up. He was a middle-aged man, a little portly, and his tonsure may have owed more to baldness than to a razor, but he looked to be as stalwart as any of the men-at-arms. His robe was charcoal-gray, but aside from that, he looked very much like any friar.

“How now, my lord!” he cried. “Do you seek to rob this poor man again?”

“Do not seek to catechize me, peasant!” the baron snarled. “I know far more of the world than any shave-pate.”

The priest halted dead, staring, appalled by such disrespect. The crowd murmured, half in shock, half in anger. Then the priest’s face darkened. “A peasant I may be, my lord, but I have learned to read and write, and know the law of God! I must insist that you leave off this theft!”

“Theft?” The baron turned his horse to the priest, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Do you call me a common thief?”

“Not common at all,” the priest protested, “but still a thief, for you have had three loans from this goldsmith, and when have you ever repaid him an ounce?”

“He shall have his due in good time! I promise to repay, and therefore is it a loan, and no theft!”

“If it were not theft,” the priest returned, “you would not need to do it at the point of a halberd. It is a direct breaking of the Seventh Commandment, my lord, and therefore a mortal sin! Worse, you threaten the poor man with harm to his body, and that breaks the Fifth Commandment! For the welfare of your immortal soul, I bid you leave off!”

“I am no Christian anymore, priest, and therefore do not fear your Christian Hell,” the baron snarled.

The people burst into a babble of scandalized confusion. Mama and Papa stared at one another in shock, then turned back to the baron.

“No longer a Christian?” The priest seemed as shaken as any of them. “Surely you do not deny the existence of God!”

“Of the gods, say rather,” the baron snapped, “for I have returned to the faith of my ancestors. My holy men now are druids, who tended the souls of this island before your kind came, and who will tend them again. And the Old Gods do not pretend that there is anything wrong with the strength of a man’s arm or the edge of his sword! They bestow power and glory upon the warrior, and give him dominion over his fellows.”

The priest recovered enough to glare. “Do you say that might makes right? If so, you are very wrong, and your immortal soul—”

“My immortal soul shall rule yours in the Land of the Dead!” the baron shouted. “Men of mine, I weary of this priest. Shut his mouth for me, and be sure he shall not speak again till I am done!”

Papa started forward, but Mama caught his arm and shook her head, then nodded toward the goldsmith’s shop. Papa, understanding, nodded, and they faded back among the cottages, then moved behind them.

One of the men-at-arms advanced on the priest. The people, seeing his intention, closed ranks with a roar, barring the way between soldier and priest with their own staves and cudgels. The warrior hesitated, but only long enough for four of his fellows to join him. Then they plowed into the crowd, shouting battle-cries, and knocked peasants away to left and right. The priest stood his ground, glaring at them and holding up the crucifix on the end of his rosary—but a pike butt cracked his knuckles and made him drop it, and a second slammed against his skull, knocking him out.

“Now fetch out your gold!” the baron thundered at the goldsmith.

“Yes, my lord!” the man cried, almost tearfully. He glanced at his fallen priest with a piteous expression, then turned back into his shop. Two men-at-arms followed him closely.

In they came, and the goldsmith stopped short, staring. So, perforce, did the soldiers, seeing as he did the strongbox with the hasp and lock wrenched askew, turned on its side with its top thrown open, its emptiness for all to see.

Then the goldsmith ran to the chest with a piercing cry, dropping to his knees and running a hand around its inside. “It’s gone! My gold is gone! While your lord howled and berated a priest, a thief came in and stole my gold!”

Mama and Papa found a woodlot a quarter of a mile past the town and hid in a thicket. They were just in time; ten minutes later the lord and his men came thundering by. When they were gone, Mama said, “We can bring the gold back when it has been dark for an hour.”

“Yes, and check on the priest, too,” Papa said. “I saw through the window how the soldier swung that pike. I don’t think he gave the reverend a concussion, but you never can tell.”

Matt and Jord were halfway across the green when the presence struck in the form of a sudden baying and tattoo of soft feet. Half a dozen huge dark forms swept past them and slowed to a halt in front of them, gray fur luminous in the starlight against the darkness of the night, teeth flashing a startling white in long muzzles.

“Wolves!” Jord raised his druid’s staff, but the baying was behind them, in front of them, all around them.

“Back-to-back!” Matt snapped, drawing his sword. The wolves drew back at the sight of cold steel, giving Matt time to pivot and set his back against Jord’s. At this slight sign of retreat, the wolves snarled and leaped.

Matt slashed, and dark blood spurted. Behind him, he heard Jord howling with fear, but also heard the staff knocking against skulls. He hewed and slashed and chopped. Wolves fell back, wounded, and their fellows turned on them with a massed barking snarl, but more pressed in. He slashed and hewed, but his arm began to feel heavy, tiring. He howled as teeth closed on his lower leg. He slashed, and the teeth sprang away, but more teeth soared at his face, and he barely managed to swing his sword around in time. The wolf fell back, but another sprang and bit his left arm. He screamed and lashed a kick into its stomach.

The massed snarl sounded behind him; he knew Jord had lamed one of the wolves, and the others were turning on it. It might give the false druid a moment to snatch a breath, but it was just a question of time—there were so many of the blasted animals! How could the whole forest have held so huge a pack?

Then something dark shot through the wolves, blurring with speed, and some fell. Their mates turned on them, snarling and fighting over them, but the shadow whizzed among them again, and more fell dead. The rest, finally scenting whatever it was, turned tail and ran howling with fear.

Matt let the tip of his sword fall, panting, unable to believe his luck. “They’re running, Jord! We’re safe!”

His answer was a raging scream. Matt spun again, sword snapping up, and saw the former druid facing him, staff swinging high to strike, his face contorted with fury, almost demonic.

Demonic! In a flash Matt understood the tactic. If Jord slew him, that ended the threat to the Chief Druid. If he slew Jord, the Devil had one more unshriven soul in Hell. Niobhyte or Satan, the goals coincided—to keep Matt and Jord away from that church. Somehow he knew it wasn’t Jord himself who was in control of that body now.

He leaped back, sheathing his sword, and the staff whizzed by. Matt had to take it away, had to subdue Jord, but Jord was swinging the staff in a blurring circle now and howling.

Matt took a chance, lunging in a feint. The staff whizzed down, and Matt darted back, not quite quickly enough—the staff cracked against his shin, the same leg that was bleeding from wolfbite. The leg gave way, and Jord screamed with triumph, swinging the staff high for a killing blow. His arms, his whole body, jerked forward—and jolted still. Behind him towered another dark form, holding the end of the staff. Not seeing it, Jord strained against it, cursing. Matt snapped out of his daze and shouted,

Suddenly the evil presence was receding; Matt could feel it speeding away. Jord’s eyes rolled up; he went limp and fell, crumpled at the feet of the dark form, which instantly shot away, blurring with speed.

Matt stared after it, not understanding his sudden rescue. Apparently the dark form had nothing to do with the evil presence—of course not, if it had been trying to restrain Jord and had scattered the wolves.

But the presence was still there, distant, gathering strength again. Matt recited a quick healing verse:

He could feel strength returning to his leg. Stooping, he managed to wrestle Jord’s torso over his shoulder, then ducked his head under the man’s midriff, gathered a wrist and a leg together, and heaved himself up, Jord over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Turning, he saw a flame in the night, then realized it was on the steps of the church. He lurched toward it, carrying Jord and wondering who or what the dark blurring had been that had helped him.

As he went he heard noises gathering around him, the padding of huge feet stalking, approaching. He was about to run when barking and roaring broke out, the snapping and cracking of brush, the impact of a heavy body. He stumbled into a run, hearing huge claws tearing up the village green, coming closer and closer—but they ended in a scream of rage and the sound of blows, then the impact of something else huge.

Matt didn’t stop to look, just lurched toward the church, blessing his unseen protector.

Suddenly, the feeling of the unseen presence was gone; suddenly he knew he was completely safe, and knew he had crossed the line of the warding circle he had laid himself, hours earlier. He lumbered up the steps of the church, panting and staring in amazement. “Friar Gode! How did you know we needed you?”

“There was a deal of noise following you,” the friar answered. “I could not see who fought whom, but I prayed for those who love God to win.”

“You may have helped more than you knew.” Matt rolled Jord off his shoulders and laid him out on the stone step. “I’m about to put you to the test of your convictions, though, friar. Here’s a man who needs your mercy.”

Gode dropped to one knee, frowning down, then stared. “It is the false druid!”

“Yes, but he’s seen the error of his ways,” Matt said, “rather forcibly, too. He wants to repent—at least, he did before—” He swallowed, remembering the demonic face behind the swinging staff.”—before this happened.”

The friar’s face turned stern, but he said, “If he wishes to repent, he shall have his chance.” He patted Jord’s cheek gently. “Waken, brother! The night is long, but the day always comes! Waken, and tell me how your soul fares.”

Matt looked up in surprise, and saw that the sky was indeed lightening. He wondered just how long he and Jord had been fleeing through that nighttime forest Eyelids fluttered; Jord peered upward, frowning against the pain in his head. Then he saw who bent over him, and stared in fear and horror.