The Oathbound Wizard

CHAPTER 17 The Guiding Ghost

Caught up in the epic, Matt scarcely noticed that the sun was dropping toward the west. He wrapped up the tale, though not in its original verse, and his companions exclaimed with delight. Even Narlh gave an approving grunt. Then Fadecourt said, "Mayhap, now you've told the tale, we should seek a site for—"

Yverne gave a little cry of alarm, quickly strangled. Fadecourt whirled, and Matt looked up, straight ahead.

The ghost was there again, quite clear in the evening dusk. His plump, antique tunic and robe even had a tinge of color—purple and gold—and his round face no longer looked quite so threatening, with the bald head and wide eyes, even if those eyes were empty hollows. But there was a feeling of asking about him, almost of imploring.

"Avaunt!" Yverne called, her voice shaking.

"Don't worry, milady." Matt's eyes narrowed. "We'll get him out of here soon enough.

The ghost actually made a noise—a whisper of a moan, as its form dimmed and disappeared.

"Praise Heaven!" Yverne slumped. "And you, Lord Wizard."

"You were right the first time. Come on, let's go." Matt started forward again. "But why do you suppose he bothered showing up, when he knows I can banish him?"

A yap sounded.

Narlh shied "What the blazes...?"

A spectral dog had appeared by the side of the road, one whose face looked uncommonly familiar. It struck a point, tail making a straight line through its backbone and nose toward the south.

" 'Tis back, Wizard!" Fadecourt danced aside.

Puck appeared on Matt's shoulder, the gleam of battle in his eye. "Shall I, Lord Matthew?"

"No!" Matt yelped. "I owe you too much already! I'll handle this myself, thank you!

The ghost dog gave a faint yelp and disappeared.

"Okay." Matt relaxed. "Now, why do you suppose...?"

A will-o'-the-wisp formed ten feet in front of them.

It danced ahead, swerving off toward the south. An enchanting melody came from it, blending pipes, harps, and viols. Yverne's eyes glazed; she slid down off Narlh's back and began to move toward the light.

"No way!" The dracogriff swung his head around in a half circle, pushing her back. Yverne came to her senses with a start. "Oh! 'Tis quite compelling."

"Shall I now, Wizard?" Puck asked.

"Not until I run out of spells." Matt peered closely at the ball of light. It could have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he could see the ghost's features inside the glow...

The will-o'-the-wisp faded.

"It will be back anon," Puck informed Matt.

"Anon or a monk, I'll banish it again!" Matt turned back toward his friends. "If I should, that is."

Fadecourt stared at him, scandalized. "Wherefore might you

But Yverne was nodding. "I ken your thought, Lord Matthew. What harm has this ghost done us, after all?"

"None, really." Matt nodded. "Except for scaring you, of course—and he might not have meant to do that."

"Aye," she said. "I was overwrought, or I might not have fled. Yet even so, he did bring me to you, where I found sanctuary and protection from mine enemies."

"Could be he had good intentions. And he did warn us off from that forest—which, if the trouble we had outside it is any indication, would have been an adventure we might not have survived."

Fadecourt nodded, a reflective look on his face. "And he did afright our enemies, when we were beset..."

"You guys trying to say the spook might be on our side?" Narlh growled.

"Seems possible."

Yverne gasped, looking over Matt's head

"Don't tell me—I can guess." Matt turned slowly, to see the ghost drifting before him, looking distinctly hopeful. "Listening, were you?"

The ghost nodded brightly.

"You can hear, but you can't talk?"

The ghost shook his head, then nodded it again.

"Look," Matt said, "if you can moan, you can talk. Try again."

The ghost opened its mouth, slowly forming a word—but all Matt could hear was a vagrant sigh, like a breeze blowing past. He shook his head sadly. "No go. But I might be able to read your lips, if..."

He let it go. The ghost was clearly talking, but his mouth was only opening and closing, forming an O each time—one of the constraints of ghosts in this universe, apparently.

Matt sighed and shook his head. "Let's try sign language again."

"While you do," Fadecourt interrupted, "pardon us if we set up camp."

"Huh? Oh, sure, go right ahead." Matt sat down on a nearby stump, not really registering what Fadecourt had said. He had a new puzzle to work on, and everything else became unimportant. "Okay. Now—hold up one finger for every word you're trying to get across."

The ghost held up ten fingers, then closed his fists, opened them to all ten again—then again, and again, and again..."Let's try for something a little shorter," Matt said.

An hour later, Fadecourt finally dragged him away to dinner. Matt had established that the ghost didn't know what "syllable" meant, nor "preposition" nor "article," and that the notion of an infinitive was enough to make him split. He had been able to get across the idea of "little words," but the ghost seemed to have radically different ideas as to what "little" meant. Matt tossed in his metaphorical towel, gave the ghost an apologetic smile as he took the bowl Yverne handed him, and turned his attention to dinner, deciding that maybe there was some point in learning grammar, after all.

But the ghost was persistent; it hung around all through Matt's watch, pantomiming and trying to make Matt understand—with absolutely no success, try as Matt might. He stuck around while Matt was asleep, too, apparently, because he was still there when they woke up.

"Your companion awaits," Fadecourt told him as he cracked partridge eggs onto a hot, flat stone. "Are not ghosts banished by daylight?"

Matt looked up; the ghost was only an outline, barely visible at all. "I guess the sun just outshines them."

"If they wish to stay at all." Puck pointed. "Seest you not that he is in pain?"

Matt looked as sharply as he could, then shook his head. "No. I can't see it that well. How come you can?"

Puck shrugged. "An affinity of spirits. Believe me, he doth suffer—not greatly, though constantly."

"What's he wanna stick around that badly for?" Narlh wondered.

"He wants to tell us something, that's for sure." Matt shook his head, seized with a sudden pang of sympathy. "I'm sorry, ghost. What we have here is a real failure to communicate."

The outline of the ghost's shoulders slumped, and slowly, what little they could see of it faded away.

"Poor guy." Matt sighed.

"Yet 'tis better than his suffering to no purpose," Yverne said.

"I suppose so." Matt sighed "Well, time to stir up the coals. Any journey bread left?"

"We never had any," Narlh snorted.

"Remind me to find some wild wheat to grind" Matt sat down by the fire. "Well, I've had plain eggs before, but I've never been gladder of them."

Fadecourt handed him a bowl. "Dine well."

"Hope so." Matt took out his dagger and tried to spoon scrambled egg into his mouth, being very careful of the point.

"You do realize," Puck said, "that you do owe me for another favor."

Matt swallowed hard, then swung to face the manikin in the sun shaft. "What favor?"

"Telling you that the ghost was in pain."

Matt's lips formed a "no" as he gave the elf a dirty look. "I didn't ask for that."

"Asking matters not," Puck said with airy nonchalance. "The favor is all."

"Uh-uh." Matt shook his head. "Not kosher. I won't buy it"

"Bought or not, 'tis registered." Puck gave him a sly grin.. "After all, who is't who does register what is owed me? Only me!"

Matt turned purple. "So who do you think you are? The arbiter of..."

He noticed that Puck had suddenly stiffened, looking past his shoulder. It could be a trick—he looked up at Yverne and Fadecourt. They, too, were staring past him.

"Wizard," Narlh rumbled.

Matt spun—and saw the ghost, as solid as he'd been the night before, smiling and beckoning. Beside him danced a spark, so bright that it hurt the eyes.

Then the spark disappeared, and the ghost instantly faded to ordinary translucence—but that foggy view was a huge improvement over his being a mere shell of his former self.

"What witchery is this?" Fadecourt asked—and Puck, for once, could only say, " 'Tis a spirit of another sort!"

And Matt knew which sort—and which spirit. "That was Max!"

Narlh frowned at him. "Who's Max?"

"Maxwell's Demon! The one I told you about, the Spirit of Entropy! He controls the organization of matter and energy!"

"What spell is this?" Puck said with disapproval.

"It's not a spell, it's science! Uh, wait a minute..." Matt thrust the issue behind him with an act of will. "Max channeled more energy into the ghost, then took off about his business!"

"Hold on!" Narlh frowned. "If he's such a buddy of yours, why'd he take off so fast?"

"Because he couldn't stay! I'm not his controller now, anymore—Sir Guy is!"

"But then," Yverne said, eyes round, "if the demon appeared..."

"Can Sir Guy be far behind?" Matt finished. "And if the ghost went to get Max, then he must know where Sir Guy is!" He spun to the ghost. "And that's what you've been trying to tell us!"

The ghost nodded eagerly, face glowing. "Yet this ghost has been so earnest to tell us that," Fadecourt said, "even to the point of suffering pain. Is there not, then, some urgency in his message?"

"Good point! Ghost! Is Sir Guy in trouble?"

The ghost nodded eagerly, positively beaming.

"Then lead on!" Matt kicked dirt over the coals, then turned to follow the ghost. "To Sir Guy!"

The ghost took off, drifting away in front of them, looking back to make sure they were following.

Matt's conscience nudged him. "Uh, look, folks—this knight is a friend of mine, but he's no business of yours. And if he's in trouble he can't handle, it's probably pretty bad. I really can't ask you to put your heads in the communal noose with me—"

"You insult me!" Fadecourt cried, offended. "Could I turn away from an ally in danger, even though I've never met him?"

"And the danger would be mine, without the company of you gentlemen," Yverne said.

"I'll take my chances," Narlh growled, "since you improve them."

That left only one—and he was leaning against a pebble, grinning from ear to ear. "Wizard—do you ask a favor?"

"All right, all right! I'm asking a favor! I'll pay you back when I get the chance!"

"Then ho! For a knight of trouble!" Puck disappeared, but Matt's wallet bulged ominously, and Puck's muffled voice cried, "En avant!"

" 'Tis sad to speak poorly of one so eager to aid," Fadecourt said, "but yon ghost is not the easiest of guides to follow."

"He's got to be around here somewhere." Matt frowned, scanning the way ahead from left to right. "Narlh—I don't suppose...that grandfather of a nose you have there..."

"Oh, I'm great at tracking, all right. But it has to leave a smell, Wizard."

"And ghosts don't usually have much in the way of body odor." Matt sighed. "I know he's around here someplace."

"How could he be so bright at breakfast and have faded so dimly by midmorning?" Yverne asked

"It was Max," Matt explained "He shifted extra energy into the ghost—you noticed how the sunlight seemed a little dimmer? But when Max left, that extra charge wore off pretty quickly—and Max wasn't there to recharge him."

"Recharge! Charge! Energy!" Narlh muttered. "Will you quit using wizard talk and just tell us what happened?"

Matt sighed, searching for the simple explanation. "The ghost got tired. That's all it boils down to."

Fadecourt nodded. "He has been growing dimmer and dimmer this hour past, till he was but a shimmer before us."

"And it's not too easy, following an outline." Matt turned to his friendly nemesis. "Puck, I don't suppose you could..."

"Most surely! Since you ask." Puck pointed south by south-east. "Yon."

Matt looked, but saw nothing. "If you say so. But how are the rest of us supposed to see something to follow?"

"Dost you ask?"

Matt sighed. "Yes, I'm asking! Would you kindly do me the favor, Puck, of finding a way for the ghost to lead us?"

"Why, surely, Wizard! 'Tis simplicity itself!" Puck called out, "Ghost! Do not seek to show us your whole body! Put all your strength into one part only, and show us that!"

A very long few seconds ticked by. Matt was just about to charge Puck with failure, when the ghost's head glowed into sight. Matt stared, swallowing his words.

" 'Tis not so bright," Fadecourt rumbled, "but we can follow. Come, milady, milord."

"Yes." Matt nodded. "Follow the guiding light."

But that wasn't so easy. The charge Max had lent ran down even further.

By noon, there wasn't even enough left to keep a full head going. They found this out the hard way, when the ghost vanished.

Matt called a halt. "Ghost! We've lost you! We'd better stay where we are until you can come back for us."

They waited. Nothing happened.

"Do you wish me to say where he is?" Puck asked.

"Not if it counts as a favor," Matt grunted. "How many do I owe you so far?"

"Three favors," Puck noted.

"And working on number four?" Matt shook his head. "I'm not that desperate yet."

"How if we do not find him?" Fadecourt asked.

Matt shrugged. "We keep on going the way we're heading, I guess. So far, we seem to have been going south, and just a little east. If we keep that up..."

A hand appeared before them, palely glowing, but beckoning

"He heard us!" Matt grinned. "Thanks, kindly ghost! Let's follow, folks."

They trudged off again. The hand disappeared, and for a minute a toothy grin flashed at them.

"Why does that seem familiar, somehow?" Matt wondered. "Glad he's feeling good about it, anyway."

Over hill, over dale they went—following whatever sort of road or trackway would take them south by southeast. The ghost managed to stretch out his ectoplasm by switching from one part of his body to another; at one point, they were following a pair of shoes, striding forward at a goodly clip. Then they came out into a patch of bright sunlight, and the shoes faded.

"Where'd he go?" Matt came to a halt, looking about him.

"Yon!" Fadecourt pointed.

Matt looked, and saw a trail of footprints appearing in the dust of the road. They took up the chase again.

By the time sunset was approaching, they were all weary and dragging, especially Narlh—but they kept on doggedly following what little of the ghost there was. At the moment, they were down to a beckoning finger that appeared every hundred yards or so.

"The positive side," Matt wheezed, "is that as twilight comes on, he gets brighter."

"The bad side," Narlh puffed, "is that there isn't very much of him to brighten."

"This whole journey must have been painful for him," Fadecourt noted.

Matt nodded. "The advantage of showing less and less of his body. Must be a brave ghost."

"A quality one does not oft associate with specters," Fadecourt noted.

Puck appeared on Matt's shoulder, giving Fadecourt a keen look, but apparently deciding there was no insult intended.

Matt finally dragged to a halt. "I'm sorry, ghost," he called out, "but I..."

A finger flashed into sight, waving upright; a pair of pursed lips appeared behind it.

Matt lowered his voice to a whisper. "I just can't go any farther. Besides, darkness is coming on, and we need to pitch camp."

The shushing lips turned back into a hand, beckoning frantically, the rest of the arm coming into view behind it. The ghost's whole body appeared in outline again, urgency in every curve.

"There is need to persevere," Fadecourt sighed. "Come, Lord Matthew. He would not urge us on if our goal were not close."

Matt had to admit the cyclops was right—and, truth to tell, they'd only come about twelve miles; they'd lost a lot of time trying to follow an almost-invisible guide. "All right." He sighed. "Lead on."

The shushing had made them all cautious, though; they stayed quiet, except for whispered, necessary comments. They went as silently as possible down a long hill, then through a narrow gorge, the walls of which towered high on either side. Matt was very nervous through the whole length of it, constantly trying to watch for signs of ambush—but apparently Gordogrosso wasn't expecting them here. Or maybe he had other, more urgent matters he had to louse up.

Finally, the gorge debouched into a shallow valley. Coming to the edge of the pass, they found themselves looking down on a verdant bowl, rose-colored by the sunset. In its center was a large, rambling castle, filling a wedge of land where two streams met to form a third, much larger, river. The castle's towers were tall, but two were broken at the tops; its once-proud walls were darkened with fires where siege engines had burned, and its battlements were missing whole sections of crenels, where catapult stones had smashed into the fortification.

Around it, just a little farther than a bow shot, were thousands of tents. Cooking fires now gleamed in the dusk, and the clatter and growl of a waking army was borne on the breeze. " 'Tis a siege," Fadecourt murmured.

Narlh groaned. "Not another one!"

"This time," Matt hissed, "we're here in time to do something."

"Against that?" the dracogriff protested in an appalled whisper. "You see how many of 'em there are?"

"And of the king's own army." Fadecourt pointed. "I know those pennons; they are knights of his household. And the soldiers' livery is royal—mixed with those of his chiefest vassals."

"I came here to fight the king," Matt reminded them. "Of course, I can't ask you to—"

"Stuff it, will you?" Narlh growled. "We're getting tired of that song. We're with you, y' know that."

" 'Tis only a question of tactics," Fadecourt confirmed, "and it may be that confronting eight thousand knights and soldiers directly is not the wisest of courses. You will come to the king more quickly by going around his army."

"But we can't leave allies unaided," Matt argued, "and there have to be a lot of soldiers inside, too."

"All that means is that they'll go through their supplies faster!" Narlh snapped.

Fadecourt shook his head. "They have river water to drink, and so vasty a keep could hold provisions for a siege of a year and more."

" 'Could' has a kind of chancy sound to it..."

"Oh, I doubt not they were well enough supplied at the beginning of the siege." Fadecourt frowned down at the churned mud before the walls. "Yet from the condition of that camp, I would conjecture that beginning was many months agone."

"It does explain why the king hasn't been working a little harder at hunting us down, though." Matt scowled at the army. "How much of his force is tied up here, Fadecourt?"

"Most of it, at a guess. He would have a thousand or so to guard Orlequedrille, and another thousand to maintain his will over his barons, as we saw at the duke's castle. But nine-tenths of his army is here."

Matt nodded. "Must be a mighty important enemy in there, to rate so much force." He turned to the glowing ghost mouth. "The Black Knight is in there, isn't he? Sir Guy de Toutarien?"

The rest of the head became visible and nodded.

"You trying to tell us this friend of yours is bigger magic than we know?" Narlh growled.

"Only in war," Puck put in. "Yet in battle, he does indeed have some sort of magic—and it is mighty, very mighty."

The monster glared down at him. "What makes you the expert?"

"Why," the elf said, "this Black Knight is almost as much a part of the land as I."

"We cannot let so great a force for good be slain out of hand," Fadecourt rumbled. "But what can we do, wizard?"

"Not much, out here. Inside, who knows? Maybe a lot, maybe nothing...No, strike that. From what I'm seeing here, Sir Guy hasn't learned how to persuade Max to do his utmost—he didn't really have the basic concepts, you see, thought entropy was a magic word..."

"It is not?"

"Whatever. But if I get in there, at the very least I can show him how to manage Max—or do it myself. The problem is to get inside, where we can join forces." Matt turned to Puck. "All right, I'm asking for another favor. I need something to distract the soldiers, really distract them, while we sneak through their ranks and up to the castle. Think you can do it?"

"I?" Puck looked up, startled. "Unaided? Wizard, you know not what you ask!"

"Sure, I do. I'm asking for, oh, an itching powder. Guaranteed, surefire, likely to drive a man mad if he doesn't scratch—but totally harmless. Think you can make it?"

"I?" Puck's grin was as much disbelief as anything else. "I, make folk to itch? Can an elephant mash grapes? But what use would it be, Wizard?"

"Use?" Matt stared. "It'd get them so busy scratching, they couldn't stop us sneaking past them!"

"For a hundred men, certes. For a thousand, mayhap. For ten thousand? Surely not!" The elf looked at Matt with exasperation. "Canst not see, Wizard?"

"Nay," Fadecourt rumbled. " 'Tis not his function, but mine. He is a mighty wizard, but in the ways of war, he has no more vision than a babe—or than I have in things magical." He stepped up between them. "Among so many knights, Wizard, there will surely be at least a score who will suffer anything for duty."

"Hey, these are evil knights we're talking about—"

"They will sacrifice all, for advantage—and the chevalier who captures you, let alone the lady here, will gain great preference in the king's eyes. Nay, as we wend our way through that host, there will be one at least, and more likely a dozen, who will ignore that itch, though it drive them to the brink of insanity. For they will see that it must needs be a wizard's diversion—and will suffer gladly, to apprehend such strangers as they see going past to the castle." He turned to Puck for confirmation.

The elf nodded. "What you have need of, Wizard, is not a distraction alone, but the army to follow it to advantage—and to clear you a road to that drawbridge."

Matt threw up his hands. "Great. All I have to do is conjure up ten thousand good soldiers and knights, and I can get us in." He frowned at a sudden thought. "I might be able to manage a thousand and one—but no, they'd be Arabian, and they might not be feeling too kindly toward Europeans just now." He shook his head. "Same kind of problem with any other knights I might conjure up—how long would it take to explain to them what was going on and persuade them to join us? Because, see, I can't make soldiers out of nothing—that's creating, and only God can do that. All I can do is move people from the place where they are to here—and you'll understand that they'd be a little confused when they arrived."

"You do not need so many," Fadecourt protested. "We seek to pass through the army, not crush it. A hundred would suffice—if they were excellent warriors, and fired with a zeal for the good."

"And the just, and the beautiful?" Matt eyed him with skepticism. "And just where am I supposed to find so many excellent and selfless fighters, pray tell?"

He looked from one puzzled, abstracted face to another, feeling a streak of vindication—till he got to Puck, and saw the canary-feather grin on the elf's face. He sighed, feeling vindication slide away. "All right, Puck, I'll owe you—what is it, favor number five? Who's the superwarrior?"

"Who else but my namesake?" Puck spread his hands. "I am Robin Goodfellow, and he is..."

"Oh, no." Matt squeezed his eyes shut. "He didn't happen in this universe, too, did he?"

"Aye," Puck said, "and in every earth in which good folk are oppressed by wicked rulers."

Yverne looked from one to the other, at a loss, but Fadecourt was a little better versed in military lore. "Do you speak of Robin Hood?"

"You have said it!" Puck crowed, pointing at the cyclops. "The very one! Nay, Wizard, how can you deny the truth of it, when even your ally speaks it?"

Matt threw up his hands. "All right, so Robin Hood would be ideal! I can't deny it, if even half of the stunts he pulled against the Sheriff of Nottingham were true. But wouldn't it be a little inconvenient if I tried to bring him here? I mean, Robin Hood's back at the time of Richard Coeur de Lion—or long before, since Scott admitted error."

Puck shrugged. "You may as well say, "long after' if you speak of the man who gave the slip so often to the foresters of Edward III."

"That's still 'the old days,' where we are today. Wouldn't he be a little dead by now?"

"Oh, nay!" Puck laughed. "Brave Robin die? It cannot be. Whene'er the people of England groan under the hand of a tyrant, Robin's spirit will inspire those who fight in opposition. Mind you, he was "Brave Robin' when the Saxons strove against the Danes, and Robert Fitz-Ooth, and Willikin o' the Weald, and many names before even that."

Matt frowned. "You trying to tell me that Robin was always supernatural?"

"Nay, he began as a living man—but when his body should have aged, we elvin folk laid an enchantment on him, and a geas—that he defend the poor for all of England's days. He and his band will never die, though they move from one plane of existence to another."

Matt frowned. If "plane of existence" meant "alternate universe," it made sense—but how could Robin and his merry men move from one world to another?

How had he moved from one to another? He scolded himself; by this time, he should have recognized a quibble when he came to one.

"After all," Puck said, "I allied with bold Robin only...umm, was it a century ago, or two? A band of evil men sought to imprison England under rails of steel, for snorting monsters to scurry o'er. I could not act 'gainst Cold Iron myself, so I found need to call on Robin. He and his men made short work of those iron dragons, I promise you."

Inside, Matt shuddered. The Industrial Revolution, brought to a halt by an outlaw band from the greenwood, with Puck's magic behind them? He found the notion very easy to believe. After all, as a scholar, he knew that the legend that had grown up around Jesse James owed far more to the Robin Hood ballads than it did to fact. "That's all very well, but how do we get him here?"

Puck shrugged. "Who but now spoke of moving folk from one place to another?"

Matt pressed his lips thin, biting down on words of exasperation. "Look. If I could send people between universes, I would have sent myself back where I came from, a long time

Puck glanced at him keenly. "Would you indeed?"

There it was, that nasty knack other people had for making Matt confront himself. "All right, already! So as long as Alisande is here, I won't go back to my home "plane of existence'!" With emphasis on the "plain," he had to admit—in his home universe, he'd been just one more scholar in a market overstocked with Ph.D.s. Here, he belonged. Maybe even if Alisande hadn't been here...

"What's he talking about?" Narlh demanded. "Can you make people go back and forth between worlds, or something?"

"That's what it boils down to." Matt heaved a sigh. "But if I have to admit that, I have to admit that I really wanted to come to this universe, Puck. And the corollary is that you can't move anyone out of his own universe against his will. What're the chances that Robin would be willing to come?"

"Do you jest?" Puck demanded. "When there is, here, a ruler who not only is wicked in word and deed, but has fully dedicated himself to evil? A ruler who does encourage his soldiers and vassals to rapine, plunder, and murder of the common folk? A ruler who grinds all into squalor and hunger? Tell that to Robin, and see if you can prevent his coming!"

"I think the forces separating the universes would do that. Okay, so he'll want to come if I tell him what's going on. How do we get word to him?"

"Sing of him," Puck suggested. "That will show me the way to him, where he bides at a moment corresponding to this, and I shall go to him and tell to him the plight that we are in. Then do you summon him, and be ready."

"All right, let's see how much of the Robin Hood ballads I can remember..."

The companions grew silent while Matt pondered. Then he began to intone a low chant:

"I have it!" Puck cried, and disappeared.

So much for step one. Matt took a deep breath, trying to ignore his trepidation, and waved his companions back as he recited,

The air along the trail thickened with more than dusk. Matt began to notice an earthy aroma, compounded of fallen leaves and late-flowering plants, of small animals and musky deer...

"He has come," Puck's voice said in his ear.

And he had. The thickening air coalesced, and a whole troop of bowmen filled the trackway. Feathered arrows lanced up from quivers, feathers adorned hats, hoods shielded faces. A few rows back, one lithe young man clothed in glaring red leaned upon a quarterstaff; farther on, a slender, handsome blond man had a bow on his back, but carried a lute before him. Near the front was a short, round man in a monk's robe. He might have had a tonsure, but Matt couldn't tell, because he was wearing a leather cap reinforced by steel cross-straps—and that staff he was carrying could have been a pilgrim's staff, but Matt suspected he knew how to use it as something else.

And in the front stood a woman as tall as Matt was, whose demure tan gown and brown bodice and kirtle couldn't hide the bulging muscles underneath.

Matt felt an eldritch prickling creep over his shoulders and up the back of his head. Could that be Maid Marian?

It had to be, because the man next to her exuded a magnetism, a charisma, that instantly drew Matt's attention and made him want to ask for orders on the spot. Somehow, he had instant, total faith in this man and knew that, with him leading, they couldn't possibly lose.

By twentieth-century standards, Robin Hood was a short, round-faced man with a mustache, maybe five-feet-four-inches tall—but he was broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and muscular, and the eyes in that round face were glowing with the joy of life and anticipation of battle. And his mild smile expanded into a reckless grin.

Behind him, the "giant" towering over the rest of the band wasn't much over six feet—Little John? Matt felt the prickle renew itself—but he still stood a head taller than the rest, most of whom were only five and a half feet high.

"Good e'en," said the man with the mustache. "Are you the wizard Matthew?"

"Uh—yes, I am." Could he actually be talking with Robin Hood? "These are my companions—Fadecourt, and the Lady Yverne—and don't let the big one fool you, he may look ferocious, but he's on our side, his name's Narlh..." Matt realized he was running off at the mouth and stopped.

Robin bowed in response to Fadecourt's bow and Yverne's curtsy. Matt, meanwhile, was noticing that Marian had a face of stunning beauty, no matter what her physique...He wrenched himself back to the matter at hand. "And I think you know Puck..."

"Aye, but not by that name." Robin Hood winked at Robin Goodfellow. "He is a staunch ally, and a merry one."

"I'd have to agree, even if he does insist on having his favors paid back."

"Paid back?" Robin frowned, and might have said more if he hadn't noticed Puck's shushing motions. Instead, he said, "He tells me that you are sworn to overthrow a brutal monarch who does grind his people into the dirt."

Matt might have known Puck would state it in a very colorful style. "Yes, though I should have realized what I was getting myself into. And at the moment, most of the king's forces are besieging that castle down there. They have a good friend of mine, who's a very powerful fighter, penned up in there, and I think that we can break him out—but only if I'm on the inside with him."

Robin was nodding. "Much as Puck did say. And you do think that, with us to aid you, you can cut through that force?" He indicated the army in the valley below with a negligent toss of his head.

"Yes—if Puck does his part." Matt noticed that Maid Marian and Yverne were already chatting like old pals and wondered about it—but they did come from similar backgrounds..."Does that seem, uh, a little unrealistic to you? I mean, altogether, we can't number more than a hundred or so..."

"An hundred twenty-three, with you and your friends. It will suffice." Robin grinned.

"Suffice? Look, at a guess, there are ten thousand men down there...

"Only a thousand of whom will be anywhere near us—and the Goodfellow assures me that most of those will be mad with itching. Fear not, Lord Wizard—our bows are strung, and our quivers are full."

"Well, yes—but are you sure they won't be empty before you come to the drawbridge?"

Robin seemed to become more serious, but his eyes still gleamed with amusement. "Our quivers are ever full, no matter how many arrows we shoot." He clapped a hand on Matt's shoulder. "Be of good heart, Lord Wizard—we shall prevail." He looked straight into Matt's eyes, and somehow, Matt was totally certain they'd come through to the castle intact.

Then Robin turned away, and the conviction faded a bit. "Always full?" Matt muttered. "I thought magicians had a monopoly on magic in this universe!"

"Not on the magic that is inherent in the being," Puck countered. "Could yon dracogriff fly in your world? Could he even exist?"

"Well, no," Matt admitted, "not a hybrid between a bird and a reptile, no..."

"Yet in this world, 'tis possible—but even in being, it is magical. Thus you may be sure that Robin and his men have quivers ever full, no matter how many arrows they may loose. After all, have you ever heard of their running out?"

"Now that you mention it..."

"Or of their fletching more arrows?"

"Not really. But what if a bowstring snaps?"

Puck dismissed the notion with a wave. "An unlikely thing—yet were it to hap, there would ever be fresh strings in their pouches."

"Fantastic!"

"Is it not? But then, do they not draw their strength from the fantasies of the common folk?"

"I don't know," Matt muttered. "Do they?"

Robin came back up to Matt. "We are ready, Lord Wizard."

Matt's stomach sank. To ignore it, he said, "Uh...Puck assures me you really do never run out of arrows, or bowstrings..."

" 'Tis even so." The glint of amusement showed in Robin Hood's eye again.

"How do you manage that? I mean, is there a spell you say just before action, or...

Robin Hood cut him off with a shrug. "I ken not, Lord Wizard, though I doubt not your interest. Yet for me and mine—why ask? That is simply the way of it. Come now, to battle."

"Uh—right" Matt looked around. "I'm afraid I didn't come properly prepared for this expedition. Would you have an extra quarterstaff?"

"Do not heed him," Fadecourt said to Robin Hood, then turned to Matt. "And do not heed yourself. Do you think there will be no sorcerers there, who seek to undo Puck's spell? Do you think there will be no wicked magi, 'gainst whose spells we would be as children?"

"All right, all right." Matt sighed "I'll stick to my last." He whipped the wand out of his belt "En garde! Away, 'gainst the Army of Evil!"

Dusk was fading into night as Puck, standing on a boulder, made a few gestures reminiscent of small life-forms with many legs, scuttling and climbing about, as he chanted something in a language Matt couldn't understand; it seemed to be mostly squeaking and squealing. But it was very effective; Matt could almost see invisible creepies crawling about, just beyond Puck's fingertips. Maybe he had a closer association with them than Matt knew.

The army below suddenly fell deathly silent. Then it erupted into a cacophony of yells and howls.

"Now!" Robin Hood sprang forward down the path.

Matt ran to keep up with him. "Can you really see where you're going?"

"This star-filled sky is bright, compared with the gloom of Sherwood's night! Have a care, Lord Wizard—the path is not quite even."

Matt stumbled and regained his balance, but that put him far enough behind so that he was caught up among his companions, in the middle of Robin Hood's company. Little John, Maid Marian, and Will Scarlet went merrily leaping ahead, down the hillside and into the army. Quarterstaves whirled, clearing a path for them to an accompaniment of yells and curses. Matt saw a soldier freeze in midscratch, then grab at his sword—and suddenly, an arrow was standing in his chest, and he was reeling backward Then he was gone, and they were pounding past the place where he'd been, but Matt was trying to remind his stomach that its place was with him.

Then an enemy sorcerer rose up on horseback, waving his wand. Matt didn't wait to hear what the man was saying, or to see its results; he just called out,

Then he snapped his wand down, pointing straight at the sorcerer. The man reeled in his saddle and fell, out cold. The ranks closed and hid the fallen sorcerer—but ahead, two knights, groaning with the torture of the suppressed urge to scratch, stepped together to block the group's path, swords swinging high.

Maid Marian thrust her quarterstaff between one's ankles and twisted as she leaped aside. The man tumbled, flailing—and as he fell, she swung the staff, knocking his sword spinning away. Then her quarterstaff rose up and slammed down.

Matt winced.

The other knight was struggling with an arrow that had somehow appeared between his shoulder piece and his breastplate. Little John reached out with a quarterstaff and tipped him aside.

Then Matt saw Friar Tuck parry a sword cut from a madly scratching trooper, riposte—and freeze. The outlaw next to him ran an arrow into the trooper, while Tuck's lips moved. Matt couldn't hear what he was saying, but followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a sorcerer with a striped foolscap waving a wand in a spiral, roughly in Tuck's direction. Matt lifted his own wand, but before he could say anything, the sorcerer crumpled like tinfoil under a horse's hoof.

Tuck turned away, his lips thin, and slapped another trooper aside with the flat of his blade.

Then Narlh roared behind him, and Matt risked a quick glance. A knight ran hooting, clutching at the seat of his iron pants.

And Matt slammed into the back of the man in front of him.

It was Fadecourt, who reached up in time to keep Matt from tipping over. "Have a care! We've come to the moat!"

Matt looked up and saw a huge blackness rushing toward him with a roaring clatter of chain.

But they had to stand still while they waited for the drawbridge to descend, and a sorcerer's chant pierced the din. Suddenly, the knights and men-at-arms nearby were rushing them, a hundred pikes and a dozen human tanks with swords and shields, pikes stabbing, edges whirling to cut.

Robin Hood loosed six arrows, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and the six knights fell, with arrows sticking out of various joints. More arrows filled the air, and Puck was shrieking something arcane in Matt's ear. For his own part, he sang out,

The sorcerer fell, and the men-at-arms and knights let out a howl as the itching hit them redoubled. But their racket was drowned out by the huge thud of the drawbridge striking earth.

"Across!" Robin yelled, and the merry men ran for the great gateway, thundering across the bridge. Matt was shocked to see that several of them carried wounded comrades—he hadn't realized they'd suffered casualties of their own.

A hundred throats howled like baying dogs, and Matt risked a quick look back. In spite of the itch, armored men were pelting toward the lowered drawbridge—but a hail of crossbow bolts rained down on them. Matt turned away and ran.

They were in the gatehouse, but still running—and the portcullis was down across its end! Matt whirled—betrayed! But the drawbridge was already up and rising fast. Torches burned along the stone tunnel, and Matt could see Robin Hood, grinning in elation, as were most of his men—except Tuck, who was sighing and beating his breast.

Suddenly, Matt was very much aware of glittering eyes behind the arrow slits in the wall, and was even more aware that those slits could rain arrows to skewer them all. Worse, Robin and his men would fire back—and their arrows never missed, not even so small a target as the murder holes. Matt had no wish to see his allies slaughter one another.

"Who are you, and why are you come?" a voice behind a murder hole asked.

"Friends!" Robin Hood shouted to the tunnel in general, but Matt was elbowing his way toward the slit from which the question had come. He had recognized the voice. "I am Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence!" he cried. "I am come in aid of my comrades, Sir Guy de Toutarien, Max, and Stegoman!"

The portcullis rose up so fast Matt thought the law of gravity had been inverted—and the Black Knight stood there in a pool of torchlight, arms spread wide. "Sir Matthew, my friend and ally! Praise Heaven you are come!"

But Narlh shouldered past, every muscle stiff, eyes bulging, staring at the huge, scaly form beyond Sir Guy. Then he charged, bellowing, "You misbegotten son of a sea snake and a buzzard! You're dead, monster, you are bait!"