The Oathbound Wizard

CHAPTER 4 No Refund, No Return

Matt stared at the unfamiliar landscape around him, stumbled, then caught his balance and managed to right himself. Still agog, he decided he could see why magicians said their spells aloud. It definitely gave better results!

Then it hit him—well or poorly, the spell had worked! Even without reciting it aloud—the gag was still in his mouth. It had worked!

Why?

No time to figure it out now; he filed it away for analysis when there would be a moment of leisure—i.e., one not filled with trying to stay alive—and got down to the serious business of getting that gag out of his mouth.

His hands were chained behind his back, and his mouth was filled with dry cloth. Free his hands, and he could untie the gag—or free his mouth, and he could make up a spell to get rid of the chains. Which to do first?

Make sure there were no enemies about to pounce on him—that did kind of take first priority. "Enemies" included mountain lions, wolves, and other mountain dwellers that might consider him to be just the right snack. He turned around slowly and saw that he was alone on a hillside. He relaxed a little—then realized that he hadn't had any trouble turning. His ankle had been manacled to the wall, but apparently the manacle hadn't come with him.

That made sense—the end of it being attached to the wall, it counted as part of the castle he had been trying to get away from. Therefore, it had stayed behind—but his wrist chains, being attached only to him, had come along.

Well, he was grateful for every little bit of progress. Free feet were better than nothing. Then a light bulb turned on inside his head, showing him a scene of himself as a child playing the old game of trying to step through the circle of his own arms, with his hands clasped together. As he remembered, he'd managed it—but he'd been considerably more agile at ten than he was at twenty-seven.

Or was he? His first few weeks in Merovence had put him back into very good shape, and he hadn't lost much of his muscle tone in the last three years—Alisande had kept him very busy going from place to place in the kingdom, trouble-shooting and wiping out leftover pockets of sorcery. Most of it, he had to admit, had been necessary, at least for the first two years. The third year, though, had been full of make-work errands. The memory galled him, especially since he was pretty sure what had instigated them—Alisande's need to be away from him.

The thought scored his heart, so he thrust it aside and got down to experimenting. Carefully, trying not to lose his balance, he bent his knees, getting his wrists as low as he could and stretching the chain as far as it would go. Then, slowly, he lifted his left foot and tried to push it over the links.

His toe caught.

For a second, he teetered, madly trying to keep his balance, then fell crashing to the ground. He lay still for a second, trying to contain the burst of anger—it wouldn't do any good to let it out at the moment, anyway.

Why not just make up a spell? If he could get out of a prison, he could get out of a chain.

Two reasons. The first was that the transportation spell had worked well enough, but not perfectly. In fact, Matt's spells frequently tended not to have quite the effects he had planned, anyway, and the imperfections that came from reciting the verse silently might have very painful results. The second was that magic had a way of attracting the attention of other magic-workers, and Matt would just as soon have his hands and mouth free before having to try to deal with any wizardly tracers Alisande might manage to have her second-class magicians try on him.

Or any hostile locals, for that matter...

On the other hand, now that he was on the ground, he had no balance to lose. The idea made sense—so much so that he thought he should have tried lying down in the first place. Well, now that he had, voluntarily or not, he could try stepping through the chain with a bit more leisure. He pulled his left foot up, jamming his knee against his chest, and very carefully moved his toes past the chain. Then he straightened the leg—with a feeling of victory. Now, if he could just do it with his right...He rolled over onto his left side and slowly, carefully, raised his knee and pulled his right foot through. Then he sat up, smiling around his gag as he looked down at his hands, there in front of him. He felt an immense sense of accomplishment.

He stretched the chain tight again and lifted it over and down behind his head. His fingers pulled at the knot in the cloth. It wasn't easy—the guard had tied it to stay, as tightly as he could. A fingernail snapped, but Matt had needed to trim it, anyway—and, finally, the gag was off! He pulled the wad of cloth out of his mouth, spitting out lint, then working his mouth to bring saliva, moistening his tongue and lips. Finally, he opened his mouth again, to sigh with relief—and to recite a quick verse that made his manacles spring open and fall to the ground. Then, at last, he could stand up again, and really look about him.

Matt took a breath of cool air as he gazed at the high slope before him. Then he stilled—that air had been cool, hadn't it? Funny—it was high summer, in Merovence.

Therefore, he wasn't in Merovence.

The thought sent prickles along his scalp. The first spell—the one that hadn't worked—had been the same one he'd used when he'd spelled Alisande out of prison, three years before, and he'd still expected to wind up next to a little brook, under a canopy of musk roses, eglantine, and woodbine. This place, though, looked to be at a much higher altitude, and the evergreens certainly didn't resemble the deciduous bower he'd had in mind.

Well, you couldn't expect a spell that had only been thought to be as effective as one that had been recited aloud, could you?

Or had somebody wanted him someplace else?

He went back to looking at the scenery, trying to ignore the hollowness in his stomach, and decided that the landscape was definitely uneven—not in quality, as pine forests and alpine meadows are always beautiful, but in terrain. He was hard put to find a horizontal line anywhere, and the ground rose up toward the edge of the sky like the back of a giant stegosaurus, shadowing half the little valley in which he stood.

Behind his back stood the sun.

He hauled his stomach back up from the gulf it was trying to sink into and reflected that it could be much later in the day—he could have traveled really far. But somehow, he doubted that he'd moved more than a few degrees in longitude—one time zone, at the most. He'd arrived at Alisande's castle right after dawn, and would have escaped no later than mid-morning. That meant the sun had still been in the east—so if it was on the far side of those peaks, he was on the western side of the mountains.

In Ibile. The kingdom of black magic.

He put the qualms behind him—he was the one who had said he was going to invade Ibile and capture its throne. In fact, he'd sworn it—and he couldn't blame the Powers That Be if they had taken him at his word. He should have been more careful with his language—in his anger, he'd fallen back into lifelong habits and used expressions that were a trifle more emphatic than they should have been. By the rules of this nutty universe, that meant he was bound to do what he'd said. Totally unfair, he decided, but not all that unjust. It was a great way to break a man of swearing, but it seemed a trifle extreme.

He put the issue aside and forced himself to smile, enjoying the simple pleasures of the moment, drinking in the wild beauty of the place, and he allowed himself to feel a bit of guilt over having left Alisande so suddenly. But only a little—he had to admit it had begun to pall on him, having a girlfriend who could handily order his head chopped off if she wanted to. The notion was decidedly intimidating, even though he knew Alisande would never do such a thing.

Unless it was in the best interests of her people, of course.

He grinned, his spirit feeling as though it had wings. These mountains were so free! He hadn't realized how confined he'd felt.

And soiled. Alisande might have been good and a force for right, but the forces of corruption were always at work, and the backbiting at court had been growing nastier lately. After only three years, too.

Well, he was out of it, now. He started walking up the valley.

The land rose up, and the woods opened out, until he could see that the path led up to a notch between peaks. At a guess, he was in the mountains that formed the border between Ibile and Merovence—the Pyrenees, in his own universe. Probably called that here, too. He stopped, looking about him, and saw a few fallen trees lying by the path. He went over to them and picked up a likely looking one, held it up, and thumped it on the ground. It bent too easily for inch-and-a-half thick wood, even though it looked sound. He frowned and cracked it over his knee. It crumbled, and he nodded in vindication—rotten inside. He tossed it away, picked up another, and thumped its butt hard on the ground as he looked up at its twisted top. It was hooked and gnarled, but it held. Matt smiled in satisfaction and turned back to the path, then attacked the slope with his new staff in hand.

The problem, he reflected as he panted to the top, was that he hadn't had time to magic a horse away with him. He could conjure one to him, of course, but that would be just as good as putting up a sign that read "wizard here," if any of the magical brethren were looking—which they were bound to be; Alisande would surely waste no time hunting up a minor magus for a bloodhound. And, of course, not to mention the sorcerers of Ibile...

He wished he hadn't; the thought gave him a chill.

Of course, he didn't have to stay here.

Certainly the Powers of Right wouldn't hold him to an oath he'd made in anger, on the spur of the moment! Especially now that he'd had a chance to realize what he'd really gotten himself into.

Would they?

Surely not! So he could go back to Merovence easily, just by reciting the right spell! He thought one up, started to speak it—then paused, with the words on the tip of his tongue, remembering about Alisande's journeyman wizards being able to detect his use of magic—and Ibile's sorcerers as well.

Well, it wouldn't matter if he was out of there. He took a deep breath and chanted,

He held himself braced, waiting for the momentary disorientation, for the sudden jolt of ground against his feet...

Nothing happened.

He swallowed against a sudden thickness in his throat and tried again. After all, maybe the Powers just didn't like his choice of destination.

He held himself braced and ready, knees flexed, breath held...

Nothing, again.

He let his breath out in a sigh, relaxing and reluctantly admitting to himself that he wasn't going to get out of this one that easily. He'd been dumb enough to swear to unseat Ibile's evil tyrant, and Heaven had taken him at his word. He couldn't really complain.

Actually, he didn't dare. What might happen, if he let loose a stream of profanity about the situation? He was going to have to be very careful what he said from now on.

Well, if Heaven wouldn't help him get back to Merovence, he'd have to do it on his own. He turned toward the sun, noticed a trail that seemed to go more or less in the right direction, and set out toward the east—and Merovence.

He'd been hiking for an hour, and he could have sworn the mountainside hadn't come any closer. Optical illusion, no doubt—the roadside brush had been passing at a steady rate, and when he looked back, he saw a long trail of footprints. Then he heard the shouting. And screaming. And the clash of arms.

He was sprinting before he knew it, lurching over the uneven ground, just barely avoiding the occasional pothole. The sound was coming from the other side of a hillock, off to the right of the path.

He darted up the side of the rise and saw the outcrop of scrub at the top. Discretion put the brakes on valor, and he dropped to his belly, wriggling up under the bushes, pushing them carefully aside till he could make out the scene below.

It was a little village of round huts walled with wattle and daub and roofed with flame. Every thatch burned, and the flames were starting down the walls. Two soldiers were still running from house to house with torches, laughing and touching the flame to anything that would start a blaze. Four other soldiers were catching women and girls as they ran out of the houses, herding them toward the village common, while a dozen more cut down the old men and big boys who were valiantly trying to hold off the soldiers with clubs—but sticks against swords stood no chance, and several grandfathers and a boy were down in pools of their own blood, while the others were on their knees, or staggering back, clutching wounds that spread red stains over their tunics. They had delayed the soldiers long enough, though—the men of the village were coming in from the fields at a run, their scythes waving.

The soldiers turned, their halberds flashing, and the men fell, bellowing in anguish, clutching at stumps of arms or welling gouges in their chests.

The four men on the round-up squad herded the women and girls into a circle.

Only four of the husbands still stood, so three soldiers turned away from the carnage to start sorting through the pile of pitiful possessions ransacked from the houses. The sergeant turned away, too, and started sorting through the women.

He pulled the younger women out, tossing them to his men. He seemed to have an unerring instinct for the unmarried. One young farmer saw, howled, "Dolores!" and turned, plunging toward her. A halberd flashed, and he rolled on the ground, his eyes glazing.

"Corin!" his sweetheart screamed, and ran toward him, but a soldier caught her and swung her about, catching the back of her head and planting his mouth over hers. She gave a muffled scream, writhing and striking at him. He lifted his head to laugh and ran a hand over her body.

The last farmer fell.

The soldiers had three of the women down, their skirts above their waists; they fumbled with the fastenings of their pants.

"You cannot!" a mother screamed, wrenching herself loose and dropping to her knees to try to shield her daughter. "She is too young!"

"Never too young!" The sergeant shoved her aside; she fell, sprawling. He guffawed, then bellowed, "We have been too long besieging your lord's castle, woman, and my men have grown bored. I mean to find them some diversion—and what could be better than raping virgins?"

"We are no virgins!" a terrified girl shrieked from the ground. "None of us in this village!"

"Why! Do ye hear that, Sergeant?" cried one of the men, with a gap-toothed grin. "Seems like we're invited."

"Aye. Never turn down hospitality, says I," the sergeant answered.

The girl screamed.

"She lied!" the mother cried, pale-faced. "All these lasses are virgins!"

"Why, the greater pleasure for us, then," the sergeant retorted. "No woman is ever too young for this sort of game."

The mother scrambled up, but the sergeant stopped her with a hand under her chin. "And perhaps not too old, neither. Nay, you've looks enough left." He shoved her back; she fell sprawling, and two of his men caught her ankles, tossing her skirt up. The sergeant fell to his knees, unbuckling his belt.

Matt had had enough. The spells he'd tried should have already attracted any pursuit that was coming—and if he brought down any more, he'd just have to deal with it when it came. He pulled a leather thong loose from his shirt and began to tie knots in it, chanting,

Below him, the soldiers stilled. Then one of them began to fumble frantically, but another quickly tied himself back up. One or two men howled, and the sergeant bellowed, "Witchcraft! Which of you old hags has done this?"

"Done what?" one of the oldest women asked, her face blank.

"You know well what!" the sergeant snarled, and whirled to backhand her across the face. "But it won't work, granny! If we can't hurt you one way, we'll hurt you another! Have at 'em, men!"

His soldiers turned to with a bellow of loosed frustration.

Matt realized, all over again, that rape really was a crime of violence more than of sex. Without even thinking, he chanted,

The soldiers froze. Then, one by one, they toppled over, eyes glazed.

The women stared, uncomprehending.

Matt didn't stay to watch the sequel. They'd figure it out, fast enough—and for himself, he didn't know whether the soldiers' rest was temporary or permanent. Not that it mattered—those women had a score to settle, and no one could blame them if they did it. Especially because, if they didn't, and the soldiers revived, they would take the revenge they had just now intended. No, Matt couldn't blame the ladies for self-defense—and he didn't think anyone else would, either.

He was about a hundred feet away on the other side of the hill, and going fast, when he heard the huge, massed scream of rage behind him. He went faster.

Half an hour later, he figured he was clear, no matter who came—even if it was a sorcerer homing in on the location of a spell. Matt didn't dare rest long, but he sat down by a stream to take a deep breath and let the shakes hit, then pass. After his insides had almost quit quivering, he began taking slow, deep breaths, striving for calmness, but shaken to realize just how evil the land had become.

He was filled with remorse—which, he told himself, wasn't merited. But he should have stopped the soldiers sooner—and found a way to do it without killing them. Oh, sure, he might have only stunned them as it was—or he might have killed them. And if he hadn't, he had no doubt the women of the village had finished what he'd begun. No, for either side, he'd botched it.

He wondered at his own hesitation, but was afraid he knew the reason. It was, quite simply, that he hadn't really taken sides till it was too late.

After what felt like half an hour but was more likely only ten minutes, Matt pulled himself to his feet again and set off down the road. The walking helped him regain his composure. He didn't dare stay too long in one place, especially not near a site where he had worked a spell. He trudged on down the trail.

Or up. Finally, the path began to rise. He labored upward, wiping the sweat from his brow and wondering how he could possibly have thought the day was cool—but that had been a while ago, now. He glanced at the sun, figuring it was a little after noon—but was surprised to see that it was halfway down the sky. Of course—an hour of hiking, a few minutes to interfere and take sides in a local quarrel, and another couple of hours on the road again—it did add up, didn't it?

He couldn't help but think he was a fool. On top of not doing a good job of interfering, he'd put his own neck in the noose. It hadn't been his fight, and it did increase his chances of trouble with the local authorities—those men had been uniformed, and well armed; they were no mere bandits.

Bandits! The thought left him uneasy; he scanned the steep sides of the trail and the hillside above. He found himself beginning to evaluate every upcoming landform as an ambush site—not a bad precaution.

So, with his hackles raised, Matt marched east, feeling as though every man's hand was turned against him.

Finally, his shadow was so long that its top was high above him, and the dried grass on the hillside before him was gilded by the setting sun. He plowed to a halt, dog-tired but satisfied—he'd made it almost to the top of the mountain pass. It was a good place to stop for the night—there was just enough daylight to hunt out a spring and a cave. He looked around, saw a glitter off to his left that might be water, took a step toward it—

And the world suddenly swam about him. Giddy and nauseous, he dropped to his knees, putting a hand down to stabilize himself, thinking, Heatstroke. Exhaustion. Then the world steadied; he straightened up with relief that the spell was over...

And saw the hillside. Miles away.

He looked around in a panic and saw the pine groves bordering the alpine meadow.

He was back where he'd started.

And it was dusk—down in the bottom of this little valley, night had fallen.

Somebody didn't want him going back to Merovence.

He had a notion Who, and for a moment was on the verge of saying some very nasty things about that Somebody. Then he remembered what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, choked back his anger, and heaved a sigh. Then he turned to begin looking for berries. Or maybe a rabbit.

He woke with the sun, glowering at the embers of the tiny fire. He'd had a lousy night, waking at every tiny sound, worried about enemy sorcerers—but apparently they didn't have a fix on him. Probably because he'd been bound away from this location when last he'd worked magic. Or because they didn't think he was anything to worry about.

You'll change their minds about that, something said inside him.

Matt almost laughed. Right now, he didn't feel as though he could be a threat to anyone. An uneasy night's sleep, the chill of the morning, and a handful of berries just didn't make for high morale. He rolled up to his knees, scooped some dirt onto his burned-out campfire just in case, then pushed himself to his feet and started out toward the rising sun again. This time, though, he angled away from the path, heading toward what looked to be the nearest hillside.

As he went, he wondered about that "siege" the soldiers had mentioned yesterday. It could mean that there were a lot more of their kind about. He'd have to be careful.

So he was—and the day passed without incident. Also without food. If there was small game on this mountainside, it was very good at hiding. Either that, or the siege had cleaned out everything edible. So what with one thing and another, he was in a very glum mood as he toiled up the hillside, glowering at the golden glow of sunset behind him, his tall, stretched-out shadow looming before him...

And the world went crazy again.

This time he didn't even manage to keep to his knees; he just fell, tucking in his chin and rolling. He lay on his back, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It did, and the evening sky became clear—-roseate at the edges, and with the first dim stars beginning to show. Pine boughs fringed the edge of his field of vision. He didn't need to get up and look around—he knew he'd see the alpine meadow again.

Hunger gnawed his belly, but he had managed to find some berries during the day, and even a hoard of nuts that last year's squirrels had disdained—so, what with one thing and another, he was even more exhausted than hungry. He just closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

He woke in the false dawn, cold and wet with dew. He sat up, stiff in every joint, and braced himself on an elbow as he regarded the beautiful mountain meadow with glum certainty. Yes, he was back where he had begun, and two days' hiking had been wasted.

Well, not entirely wasted—he had established that Somebody definitely did not want him going back to Merovence. That Somebody would probably be very happy to let him go farther west, though, into Ibile. He just hoped that Somebody didn't regard him as being completely replaceable.

He shoved himself to his feet with a sigh, stumbled to the stream for a drink, then set off into the forest to see if there were any more obliging squirrels who hadn't come back for last year's nuts. He was sure he'd be drawn to them, if they were there—he was beginning to feel like one of their kind.

He did find a handful of nuts, and a few more berries. Dizzy and weak with hunger, he struck off again—but parallel to the mountains, this time. He wasn't about to go any farther into Ibile than he had to—but maybe he could find a village with an inn somewhere in this valley, or at least a farmhouse willing to part with a bowl of porridge. It did cross his mind to go back to the little village and ask for a handout, but it occurred to him that the surviving women there might not have a very high opinion of strange men, just at the moment—so he stayed in the valley, and away from the trail. Hopefully, he'd find a new village—or maybe even a road.

Half an hour later, Providence finally smiled on him—he bumped into an apple tree. Literally. In fact, it took him a moment to realize what had hit him—he was that far gone. He looked up, saw the red fruit, and plucked one with a howl of joy. Eight bites and two apples later, it finally occurred to him to wonder what a lowland tree was doing in the evergreen zone. He decided to take it as a sign that Heaven wasn't completely abandoning him, and took another apple. Then he remembered what overeating could do after a long fast, and pulled off his cloak to wrap up a dozen apples. He set off southward again, resolutely resisting the temptation of the weight on his back.

He didn't have to resist very long—all of a sudden, the weight was gone.

He stopped, appalled, then swung the cape in front of him, opened it, and looked in—at its lining. That was all. It was completely empty—not a stem, not a pit. He sighed and threw the cloak over his shoulders again, remembering the Hebrews in the desert, and the manna—how they were to take only as much as they needed for a day. Apparently, he was only supposed to take enough for one meal. The Lord would provide, it seemed. He set off again, resigned to his fate.

But he did feel much better.