The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 23

“You’re not sure?” Matt stared.

“It was, shall we say, double-edged,” Mama told him. “You see, a few days after we last saw you, we camped for the night in a grove. Papa went to hunt while I gathered wood, but when we came back, we found a campfire already burning.”

“I’m beginning to have a bad feeling about this,” Matt said.

“So did we,” Papa assured him, “but we reasoned that an enemy wouldn’t have done us a favor. So we cooked our dinner, and as we began to eat, a stranger wearing a tunic and fur leggins came up and asked if he could join us.”

“We invited him to dine,” Mama said.

Matt groaned.

“So it was true, what he told us,” Papa said softly.

“If you’re talking about who I think you are,” Matt said, “yes.”

“He said he remembered us from our meeting with you at the monastery,” Mama told him, “and said he had followed our auras until he found us.”

“He knew we were of your family by that aura,” Papa said. “Do you have any idea what he meant?”

“Other than an inborn ability to sense DNA,” Matt said, “no. Did he tell you his name?”

“No,” said Mama. “He only said, ‘Call me what you will.’ “

Matt groaned again. “What did you call him?”

“They called me ‘Whatyouwill’!” said an indignant basso.

Matt jumped a mile without uncrossing his legs—at least, inside himself. When his insides came back down to fill his outsides again, he turned slowly to his left, toward the glowering face under the tunic hood. “Furry leggins, huh?”

“They guessed quickly enough,” Buckeye told him.

“So it was well that we did not give him a nickname?” Papa asked.

“Oh, you bet,” Matt said. “I did, and it turned out to act like a spell that bound him to me—until I went across saltwater to Erin.”

“Aye.” Buckeye grinned in the dark. “But now you are returned, and so am I.”

“Now I know why Erin is the land of luck,” Matt said.

Papa stared at him. “The potato famine? The British conquests?”

“I didn’t say what kind of luck.” Matt frowned at Buckeye. “I take it you had to save their lives in order to have somebody to torment.”

“Even better.” The bauchan grinned. “They led me to scenes I could confuse, places where I could cause havoc.”

“No wonder the sorcerers didn’t figure out who was lousing up their scripted rituals.” Matt couldn’t help smiling. “How about I thank you, Buckeye?”

“Do not!” the bauchan said quickly.

Matt suddenly felt much more confident. He remembered the old superstition, that if you thank a helpful elf, it will disappear and never come back. Of course, Buckeye wasn’t exactly helpful, at least not always, but it was worth trying—later. For the moment, though, he somehow had a feeling the sprite might come in handy. “You didn’t dare treat my mother rudely, did you?”

“He did,” Mama sniffed. “I believe he regretted it.”

“Your punishments always fitted the crime,” Matt said to her, grinning, and said to the bauchan, “What did she do—make you ashamed of yourself?”

“Nay.” Buckeye grimaced. “She made a horrible taste form in my mouth whenever I used words she misliked. Even now I dare not say them.”

Matt could imagine the flavor of Mama’s laundry soap. Only imagine—he’d never pushed it past her warnings. “Disagreeable, but harmless,” he assured the bauchan.

“It was not enough to chase me away!” Buckeye said staunchly.

“No,” said Mama, “but it did teach you a very healthy degree of respect.”

Matt reflected that soap, correctly applied, could be very healthy indeed, but that a medieval spirit might not see it that way. Feeling the need of a change of subject, he turned back to Papa. “So the synthodruids never even realized who was putting out the fires on their wicker forms?”

“One did,” Papa told him. “He pointed at us, screaming that we desecrated the very ground, and commanded his mob of worshipers to fall upon us.”

“I had a few spells to say about that,” Mama said primly.

“And I a few heads to knock.” The bauchan grinned. “I had them fighting each other in minutes, and struck down those whom their companions did not.”

“When all his men lay unconscious,” Papa said, “the druid came up to us, shaking with rage, and told us that their ceremonies were becoming so widespread that we couldn’t possibly stop them all, or even most of them. ‘Perhaps not,’ your mother said, ‘but we can stop all those we find.’ ” He fairly glowed with pride in his wife.

“The next sacrifice we found, I did better,” Mama said. “When Whatyouwill set the men to fighting one another, I marched up to the druid and matched him spell for spell. It did not take long; I overwhelmed him easily.” She smiled with contempt. “I bound him in his own chains, and when the peasants recovered from their fighting with one another, I commanded them to lock up the druids in a hut with strong walls. They did, and Papa surrounded the makeshift jail with a magical fence that their weak magic could not breach. Then we paced out of the town and called out to thank the bauchan.”

“We received no answer, though,” Papa added.

“I should think not!” Buckeye snapped. “I had fled far enough not to hear, I assure you.”

“Wait a minute.” Matt frowned. “I thanked you for helping out once—after that fracas at the monastery, remember? And other times, too.”

“Aye.” Buckeye gave him a toothy grin. “But I am bound to you by a name-spell. Thank me all you wish.”

Again Matt frowned, as that hope crumbled. “The druids didn’t stay in jail long, did they?”

“Of course not,” Papa sighed. “A week later, when we stopped at an inn for the night, the gossip at the tables was all about us. We heard a glorified account of our own victory, but it ended with the druids escaping from the jail.”

Matt frowned again. “But I thought you said Papa put up a magical fence that they couldn’t break through.”

“They couldn’t, no,” Papa said grimly.

“I went right out and scolded the bauchan roundly,” Mama said, “even though I could not see him. I knew he was lurking near in the night—but he only laughed at me!” Her face darkened even at the memory.

“I found it all a delightful joke,” Buckeye retorted. “Those false druids are still looking over their shoulders wondering whether I will help them or hurt them next.”

Matt knew how they felt.

But Buckeye lost his grin. “Then your mother was most ungracious.”

“I wished to remind him which way to choose, if he must decide between helping us and hurting us,” Mama said. “You know the verses in which Prospero threatens Caliban with pinches from unseen fingers?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, so does Whatyouwill—now.”

The bauchan looked highly offended. “I do not come and go at your bidding, Dame Mantrell.”

“Not yet,” Mama agreed.

Matt felt it was time for another change of topic. “So John’s rule isn’t exactly a roaring success for the common people.”

“Oh, for the strong ones who have so far survived the sacrifices and the looting, it is excellent,” Papa said. “Of course, those are the ones who have not yet realized that there will always be someone stronger than they, and that when all the sheep are dead, the wolves will turn upon one another.”

“For most of the common people, though, John’s reeves are as bad as the false druids,” Mama told him. “They draft young men into the armies, give their soldiers leave to loot and rape where they will, and take every bit of food the peasants can raise, leaving them only crumbs for the winter. Those who try to hide some produce away are flogged within inches of their lives.”

“There isn’t an ounce of gold or silver in the kingdom that John’s reeves have not gathered for him,” Papa said, his face somber. “Even the churches have been forced to give up most of their communion vessels.”

“Bad, very bad,” Matt said with a shudder. “Of course, he won’t let people leave the kingdom.”

“No, but he has not yet thought to bar them from traveling from one part of the land to another,” Mama said “The stream of refugees has become a flood, virtually emptying the southern part of the land already.”

“You mean the part that was underwater in our universe?” Matt felt a frisson of dread.

“That, and a bit more,” Mama said. “There is a Dover in this universe as well as in ours, but here it is an inland town, and the chalk still lies under the soil, not exposed to the sea spray.”

“And most of that land is empty?”

“There are still some thousands of people who trust in the false druids,” Papa said grimly. “They do not yet realize how close they have come to being next week’s sacrifice.”

They had barely started to march the next morning when a peasant pointed into the sky and shouted in alarm. Everyone looked up as the flying form circled low enough to be recognizable as a dragon.

With one massive shout of fear, the army exploded in all directions, every man running for cover—except, of course, for Brion, Rosamund, Brock, and Sir Orizhan.

Brion swung his shield up and took his lance from its socket, swinging it down to the level. “What monster has the cowardly sorcerer sent against us!”

“No monster, and not from Niobhyte.” Matt reached out to ward off the lance. “Please put up your weapon, Your Majesty. That’s an old friend of mine.”

Vast wings boomed as Stegoman struck the earth and ran to a stop. He looked about him, calling out, “Your companions are gracious, Matthew, to withdraw and leave me so much room to land!”

“Yes, they must have known you were my friend.” Matt hoped he didn’t sound too sarcastic. “Good to see you, Stegoman. What have you found in the north?”

“Scrawny cattle,” Stegoman said with distaste, “tough and stringy. Their deer are fat and toothsome, though.”

“Just don’t let them sell you any haggis.” Matt asked uneasily, “But how about political developments?”

“The false druids have barely begun to make headway,” the dragon answered. “They can convert only a few Scots.”

“Why?” Matt asked. “Can’t find the highlanders in the middle of all those mountains?”

“Nay, they have not yet come anywhere near to the mountains. But those kilted men keep asking them probing questions that they cannot answer. Therefore the only druids going into Scotland are recognized as foreigners, and the Scots are gathering to march against them.”

“There is one source of power that need not cause me anxiety,” Brion said with relief.

“Yes, John won’t have a horde of howling kilties to throw against you,” Matt said, finding the thought reassuring, too. “Your Majesty, this noble dragon is Stegoman, my friend since the first day I came to Merovence.”

“And till the last.” The dragon bowed his head, neck forming a graceful curve. “I am honored to meet Your Majesty.”

“I never knew a dragon could speak with such courtesy!” Rosamund said, staring in wonder.

“My dear, may I present you.” Brion caught her hand, then turned back to Stegoman. “Noble Stegoman, may I present my betrothed, the Princess Rosamund.”

A cheer went up from the whole hidden army. Rosamund blushed, lowering her gaze, and Stegoman bowed his head to her, too. “I am fortunate indeed to meet so beauteous a lady!”

Now Matt knew it was courtesy—Stegoman’s standard of beauty ran more to iridescent scales and lidless eyes, and what he meant by “sweet breath” was a color of flame only dragon eyes could perceive.

“Even more fortunate,” Stegoman went on, “to meet not only Bretanglia’s rightful king, but also its future queen!”

Rosamund gave a start, then peered more closely at the dragon. “Can you see the future, then?”

“No more than any mortal who is not a wizard,” Stegoman told her, “but no less, too, and seeing the zeal of the men who follow your betrothed, and their devotion to both him and yourself, I can see the future as clearly as though I read runes.”

Rosamund looked even more surprised, then turned thoughtful. “I had not thought any man but Sir Orizhan was devoted to me.”

“Had you not?” Brion turned to grin at her. “I assure you, love, this army follows as much in awe of your beauty as in loyalty to their rightful king.”

Rosamund turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment her own was blinding.

Matt felt a need for another of his quick changes of subject. “Can you march with us?” he asked Stegoman.

“I had liefer fly,” Stegoman said, “but since that would be as good as to announce to all the world where Brion’s army lies, I would prefer to scout ahead and behind and to the sides, then join you at nightfall.”

“A good thought,” Brion said, “though I am not foolish enough to think I can keep so many men secret. Indeed, I am certain that my brother knows to the yard where I am, and his pet sorcerer with him.”

For the first time, Matt found himself wondering who was the pet and who the master.

“Return, men of mine!” Brion called. “This is no enemy, but a mighty friend.”

Slowly and warily the army regrouped.

They marched through the land, southward and eastward, searching for an army to fight, for druids to match spells against, but finding them strangely elusive. They did, however, find crops standing ripe in the fields with no one to harvest them, and flocks of sheep, their wool heavy and ready for shearing, but with no shepherd to guard them. Cattle grazed among the crops with no idea that they should stay in their pastures, and ravens gobbled the grain with only scarecrows to defy them.

In fact, they marched through a lovely, green-and-amber late summer countryside, but one with scarcely a human in sight. Now and then they saw a silhouette atop a ridge and knew John’s spies were tracking them, but other than that the land might have been abandoned. Now and again they passed by a farmstead or village and found it burned to the ground, though there was seldom any sign of the people who had lived there. Matt didn’t doubt they had been taken to sacrifice—or had run off following some stray false druid with promises of an endless supply of food and drink for the worshipers of the old gods. The wreckage of farm and town was enough to show where those druids found their provisions.

Flocks of ravens whirled overhead, filling the air with raucous cries, then arrowing away even more directly southward.

“Follow the flock!” Brion pointed at the noisy receding mass. “They go to bear word of us to John! Where they go, he lies!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that he lies,” Matt agreed. “Probably never told the truth in his life.”

“Seven times, I think,” Brion corrected him, “though he meant the comments for insults to Gaheris and myself, and probably did not realize their honesty.”

Matt frowned up at him. “What truth could he tell you that would be an insult?”

“That I am pompous, self-righteous, and arrogant,” Brion said darkly. “I searched my soul when he told that to me and found all three charges true. I strive to master them, but fear I fail.”

“You are prevailing most excellently against them,” Rosamund said, and slipped her hand into his.

“But that is only because I have you by me,” Brion told her, his eyes glowing, “and know I can never be good enough for you.”

Rosamund started to answer, then hesitated.

“Don’t contradict him, Your Highness,” Matt advised. “That’s an excellent way for him to think—excellent for your purposes, anyway.”

Rosamund smiled and tossed her head, giving Brion a saucy smile. He grinned back and pressed her hand to his lips.

The army cheered.

Brion blushed, lowering Rosamund’s hand. “Can we never be alone?”

“Oh, we shall,” she promised him, nudging her horse nearer his, “but you must win your kingdom first.”

Matt decided that she’d probably make a pretty good queen.

Two nights later, as Matt sat at the campfire with his parents and their unwelcome guest, Buckeye suddenly snarled, “This takes too long! Why, we are scarcely a day’s ride from the border! Much more, and we shall have to swear allegiance to Queen Alisande! If nothing else can make these druids stand and fight, I shall!”

He stalked away into the night, and the Mantrells exchanged stares of surprise.

“What troubles him so suddenly?” Papa asked.

“It has been building for days,” Mama offered. “He has been growing more and more moody with every hour.”

“I think he’s been looking forward to a battle where he can really cause trouble,” Matt said, “and is feeling very frustrated to find things so peaceful.”

“What do you suppose he intends to do?” Mama asked.

They never found out, at least not the specifics, but the next day, as Brion rode out of a woodland and into a meadow, he saw a peasant come running across the open field with a pack of howling peasants fifty yards behind him, with three men in white leading the way, shaking gilded sickles.

Behind them came a virtual army of peasants.

Not just a virtual army—it was a real army, marching double-quick and without synchronization, but marching. Knights rode in the van, on the flanks, and at the rear, as though to cut down any stragglers, and a mock druid whose white robe was decorated with gold rode before them all.

Brion turned to Matt, astonished. “How have you brought them here?”

Matt could only spread his hands and shrug. “If I’d known they were coming, Your Majesty, I’d have given you warning.”

“Would that you had!” Brion spun to his men, shouting, “Take the high ground!” then kicked his horse to a canter and rode up the side of a nearby ridge. The knights-errant who had joined him echoed his shout, “To the high ground!” and rode after, some leading the peasant army, some following and urging them on.

At the top of the ridge, the peasant army turned, faces grim and determined. The knights rode up and down the line, transmitting Brion’s orders. “Spearmen in front! Aye, that means all fishermen with harpoons, and all peasants with pruning hooks! Archers to the sides—when the king commands, turn the enemy into hedgehogs! But wait for the king’s command, wait for it, wait for it! Those in back, wait, and if the man in front of you falls, then step over him and take his place! Don’t try to elbow him aside in your eagerness—there will be slaughter enough for all. Stand, don’t charge! Even if they flee, do not run after!”

Then the bauchan came barreling straight into the center of the army. Peasants took one look at him close up and squalled, pulling away.

“Close up!” the knights bellowed.

Buckeye kept on going, all the way to the back of the six ranks and on out, up to the hillock where Matt stood with Brion and his companions, watching the chasing mob slow as it realized what it had come against. The druids called orders, and the mob turned into the van of the army, men falling into line and waiting for the mass behind them to catch up.

“What in blazes did you do to get them to come after you?” Matt demanded.

“I tracked down their archdruid and waited for his ceremony,” Buckeye said between gasps; he was still panting. “That was not so much of a wait; he holds his revels every night, and slays at least one on his stone table. I transformed myself into the form of a demon and burst in as he was about to stab his naked victim. The depraved congregation screamed in terror and would have run, but Niobhyte knew me for what I was and denounced me instantly, with a spell that dispersed my illusion and showed me as I really am.”

“So you ran,” Matt interpreted “Aye, and he roared at them to follow until they caught me, for he knew that what I had done at his own ceremony I might well do at others, many others, and bring his whole charade down in fear and trembling, showing it for the falsehood it was. A dozen times they caught me, a dozen times I disappeared, a dozen times they came shouting after, and as one mob wearied and slowed, another came charging forth from the peasant horde that followed.” He grinned up at Brion. “A spirit of the land has brought them to you, O King, an army of peasants against an army of peasants. What will you do with them?”

“Let them wear themselves out in charges against me,” Brion said, his voice iron, “then loose my hounds upon them!”

Wings thundered above them. Everyone looked up, startled, and the dragon’s great form darkened the sun. “Beware,” Stegoman called down in a voice like thunder, “for half a mile behind those peasants marches a real army of veteran soldiers, and the man at their head wears a crown!”

“John,” Brion hissed. Then his face turned to misery and uncertainty. “How can I slay my own brother?”

“For the good of your people and their land!” snapped Buckeye. “Can mortal folk truly be so blind? He has slain your father and your brother, and would have slain yourself if he could have! What is the punishment for king-slaying, O Monarch?”

“Death.” Brion’s face was still a mask of grief. “But my own brother, the playmate of my youth!”

“If he cheated then as he cheats now, the memories should not be dear,” the bauchan told him, thin-lipped. “Are you a king or not? Oh, a pox upon it! Catch him first and try him later!”

Brion’s face firmed with resolution. “Aye. That I can do.”

“What you will do, do quickly,” Stegoman advised. Then, with an explosive clap of his wings, he was up and away again, riding the ridge’s thermals to gain altitude.

The attacking army saw and slowed, moaning with fear.

“Amateurs!” Sergeant Brock sneered.

The druids shouted at the peasants, upbraiding and insulting them to move forward, but Niobhyte strode ahead, hand upraised to stop them.

Matt braced himself.

“We can have these men slay one another till only a score is left,” Niobhyte called up to Brion, “but in the end it will come to a duel between the Lord Wizard and myself. Why not begin with that, and spare some lives?”

“Beware, Lord Matthew!” Brion said instantly. “This is a maneuver, nothing more. He hopes to best you, and knows if he does, my army is apt to flee!”

“What His Majesty says is true,” Sir Orizhan agreed, “but more to the point, if we stand and fight, we shall likely overcome his rabble, who have nothing but greed and cruelty to push them on.”

“Both true.” Matt’s stomach tied itself in a knot. “But what Niobhyte says is true, too. If I can beat him, his side will surrender without any bloodshed. I have to try.”

“Are you so sure you can win?” Brion challenged.

“No,” Matt said, “but I am sure you can hold your men in place even if I’m beaten—if you start exhorting them now.” Then he stepped forward, and was into the ranks of his own men before Brion could call out a command to stop—and once he would have had to make it loud enough for the men to hear, he couldn’t make it at all.

A pathway opened for Matt as men pulled back, doffing their caps in respect. He strode down from the front ranks to the level ground between the two armies to meet the leader of the false druids at last.

But as he drew closer he recognized the man. He stopped, staring in outrage. “You!”

“Of course, me,” sneered the Man Who Went Out the Window, “and if you’d had an ounce of brains, you would have realized it long ago.”

Matt could, at least, recognize a gambit for destroying his self-confidence. He replied in kind. “A man with any real power wouldn’t have had need for such subterfuge. He would have told me his name straightaway.”

Niobhyte flushed with annoyance, even though he, too, obviously recognized the gambit. “You meddling fool! If you had stayed in your own country, you would not now face your death!”

“Be careful what you say,” Matt told him. “If you really slew Drustan, you should remember that his son sits atop that hill listening.”

“Let him hear then!” Niobhyte shouted. “Drustan was a fool and an incompetent!”

“Meaning that he wouldn’t endorse your so-called religion, and even tried to execute you for it!” Matt matched him decibel for decibel. “Who do you think you are, to sit in judgment upon your own king?”

“I am Niobhyte, heir to the last High Druid!” the sorcerer thundered in anger. “Who are you to dispute my judgment, lowborn oaf?”

That stung. “I am Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence. So all along it was you who had slain Prince Gaheris!”

“It was not my plan, but it was of my arranging, though not of my hand.” Niobhyte smiled, enjoying himself. “All that I myself did was to steal the prince’s purse while he was distracted with his doxy, then set one of my most ardent acolytes the task of actually shoving his blade in the prince’s back. But I will admit that it was masterfully thought out. It was upon hearing him say it that I first understood King John’s true merit.”

His voice rang off the hillside, and Brion started with surprise, his face turning tragic.