The Haunted Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "You honor me as much as I you," Sir Orizhan said generously.

  "Honor!" the drunk across the table snarled. " 'S only a 'scuse for killin'a good onezh!" He lifted his tankard, glare defying them to disagree. "Long live Prince Brion!"

  The three companions exchanged glances. Then Matt said, "Long life, and we'll drink to it as soon as we get mugs."

  A serving wench overheard and swirled by their table. "Would you have ale, sirs?"

  "Yes, and meat and bread," Matt told her. "Dinner, in fact."

  "As soon as I may," she promised, and whirled away.

  "Busy place tonight," Matt commented.

  " 'S'a minshtrel," the drunk informed them. "Came in f'r shupper. Landlord fed 'im while he shent boyzh out t' tell ev'yone."

  "So the whole village crowded in to be ready to listen by the time the minstrel finishes." Matt nodded. "Smart businessman." Then he turned to Sir Orizhan. "Does it seem to you there are an awful lot of minstrels running around these days?"

  "Far more than I am accustomed to seeing," the knight agreed. "One might almost think them to be troubadours, and us to be in the south."

  A man dressed in bright clothes stood up and struck an off-key chord on his lute.

  "Or perhaps not," Sir Orizhan amended.

  The minstrel tuned a string, then struck the chord again. It was much better, and he nodded in satisfaction.

  "Tell us the news ere you sing, minstrel!" one man called, and a chorus of voices took up the cry. "Aye, the news! First, the news!"

  "Well, my songs are news enough in themselves," the minstrel said, laughing.

  "If they have tunes, that is news indeed," Sir Orizhan muttered.

  "Just my luck," Matt sighed, "traveling with a critic."

  "Still, I'll tell you the most recent in short sentences," the minstrel went on. "Which will you have first—the bad, or the good?"

  "The bad!" a dozen voices cried with relish.

  "The worst of it, then, is that King Drustan has fallen ill."

  A furious babble broke out as people asked each other if it could be true, and assured that it could be, wondered about the benefit-to-damage ratio of the results.

  When they had quieted, and begun to realize that the damages might well outweigh the benefits, the innkeeper called out, "Then what is the good news, minstrel?"

  "The good," the minstrel cried with false heartiness, "is that our loyal Prince John has assumed rule as regent! The king has spoken through his son, and appointed him to care for us all!"

  The announcement was greeted with stunned silence. The minstrel tried to grin around at them all, but his smile faltered. Then the murmuring began, dark, ugly, and apprehensive.

  "I've heard of it," a tinker told his neighbor, much too loudly. No doubt he'd been disgruntled at having to give up the attention of the crowd as news bearer.

  "What have you heard?" a woman at another table asked.

  "Why," the tinker said in a voice to fill the room, "that there is more to His Majesty's 'illness' than meets the eye."

  "How do you mean?" The minstrel's tone was threatening; he didn't like having his thunder stolen, either.

  The tinker's tone sank to a dramatic whisper—one that carried to most of the room. "There's some as say the queen poisoned him."

  "Ridiculoush!" the drunk exploded. "Queen couldn't've! She been in prizhon!"

  Matt started to edge farther away from the man. So did Sergeant Brock; they converged on Sir Orizhan, who sat across from the drunk.

  "Worsht of 'em all, that Zhon!" the drunk grumbled. He glared into his ale, but his voice grew louder and louder. "That Gaherish, he wazh a mean 'un, but wazhn't a puling little coward, at leasht! An' who wazh that blue knight that did in Prinsh Brion, eh? Just a shuit of armor with nothin' inshide? That'sh bad magic, I tell yuh, bad! Sumthin' really bad, when only the sniveling slug of a grubby little coward'zh left t' rule ush!"

  Out of the corner of his eye Matt caught movement. He turned just in time to see the raven fly away from the windowsill. Somehow, it gave him a very bad feeling. He stood up, tugging at Sir Orizhan's shoulder. "Come on. I don't think I want to stay and hear this."

  "Give up housen again?" Brock protested.

  Sir Orizhan started to object, too, until he saw the look on Matt's face. Then he nodded and stood up. "Yes, of course. There is bound to be another inn down the road."

  "Oh, I'm not good enough fer yuh, hey?" the drunk called after them. "Jus' cauzhe ol' Dolan'zh tellin'a truth, nobody wantsh 'im aroun'."

  "Might have more to do with how much ale you've drunk," Matt told him as he hurried his friends toward the door.

  The innkeeper rushed to intercept them. "No, goodmen, by your leave! Stay! I'll toss out that fool Dolan! I should have done it long ago!"

  But Dolan had no doubt been paying for his drinks. Still, three dinners would bring the innkeeper more than a dozen stoups of ale.

  Sergeant Brock sighed. "I would dearly love to stay in an inn for the night," he said.

  "All right, we'll stay." But Matt felt a twinge of sympathy. "You don't have to kick him out, mine host. Just tuck him into the inglenook, okay?"

  "And keep feeding him ale," Sergeant Brock added. "My... employer will pay for it." He nodded at Matt.

  "Well, if it's the price of a good night's sleep, okay," Matt said, and they went back to the table. The landlord preceded them and hustled Dolan off to the inglenook, protesting every inch of the way. As they sat down, Matt wondered if maybe he really would have been doing the man more of a favor to let the landlord kick him out.

  He thought so even more after dinner, when the soldiers burst in.

  They came following a hound that looked to be more wolf than dog, its cry more a howl than a bark. It padded straight toward the inglenook. The patrons exclaimed in horror and fright and leaped out of its way, overturning chairs and tables in their haste.

  Dolan looked up and saw the hound coming. "Nooooo!" he wailed, hands up to shield him. "Save me, goodfolk!"

  But the dog stopped inches from him, growling a threat. Dolan climbed up on his stool and pressed himself back into the inglenook, still wailing his denial and staring at the beast in terror.

  "Down with you, then!" A soldier struck Dolan's knees with a spear shaft, and the poor man fell with a scream.

  The soldier yanked him upright, and Dolan yammered, "But I've done nothing!"

  "You've spoken against the prince!" The sergeant's voice rang through the great common room. "Don't try to deny it! We know!"

  "Sit down, my masters," Sergeant Brock muttered, yanking at Matt's sleeve.

  Matt looked down in surprise; he hadn't even realized he'd stood up. Sir Orizhan stared, too, looking down at himself.

  "We can't let them haul him away just for being drunk," Matt muttered, but it was halfhearted.

  "You can't throw away a kingdom for a single drunken fool!" Brock hissed. "Sit down, my masters, for if you fight the king's men-at-arms, everyone will know you for what you are!"

  It was a point well taken—they couldn't compromise the whole mission, and risk the war they might prevent, to save one single man. Matt forced himself to sit, and Sir Orizhan, equally reluctantly, sat, too, and watched the soldiers drag Dolan out, wailing and weeping.

  "Be calm, Sir Knights," Brock muttered. "We do not know what punishment they will give him, after all."

  "True," Matt said stiffly. Since Dolan was just a drunken loudmouth, presumably the punishment wouldn't be terribly severe.

  "It is not as though he were really talking treason, after all," Sir Orizhan muttered, but he didn't look convinced.

  The door closed behind them all, dog, soldiers, and victim, and the patrons turned back to talking to one another, trying to strike up conversations again—but their efforts were subdued and listless. Finally the innkeeper called, "Your songs, minstrel! Are you not one who has the gift of raising folks' spirits?"

  "I shall try, mine host," the minstrel answered, and struck s
ome chords from his lute, then began to sing "Queen Petronille's Confession."

  "Amazing how that song is getting around," Matt said in an undertone.

  "Yes, but it is even more amazing how carefully that minstrel sings it," Sir Orizhan answered, "as though he were afraid each and every word might bring that hound of menace back again."

  It was true, and Matt saw that the minstrel, along with everyone else who had witnessed the scene, had realized its meaning—that there was to be no freedom of speech of any kind, not even the slightest hint, in Regent John's England.

  Just across the border from Merovence, Mama and Papa were hearing the same song in a very similar inn that same night.

  Papa frowned as he listened, and considered how to talk to Mama in public without worrying about eavesdroppers. He couldn't speak the English of his own world—being his native tongue and the first words that answered the impulse of speech, it emerged here as the language of Merovence. Then he realized that French wasn't a native language to either of them, and should emerge here as words no one else understood. "Ma cherie, comprends-tu cette langue?" My dear, do you understand this language?

  Mama looked up in surprise, then realized what he was doing and smiled with delight. She answered in the same language, "Yes, I understand. So we can speak French here, though we cannot speak English? How clever of you to think of it!"

  "Thank you, my dear. What do you think of this song we have just heard?"

  "That it is slander," Mama said instantly, "and the proof of that is that it makes John out to be the legitimate heir, even if Brion had still been alive."

  "I knew it was slander, but I didn't think of the purpose," Papa told her. "Do you think there can be any truth to it at all?"

  "That Drustan might have disguised himself to learn Petronille's secrets, I might believe," Mama told him, "but Earl Marshal is far too chivalrous to stoop to such a deed, even if his sovereign commanded him to do so."

  "He is indeed," Papa agreed, "and too chivalrous to commit adultery, even if he had been in love with Petronille—the kind of love the troubadours praised was love from afar."

  "Well, sometimes not," Mama demurred, "but when it was anything else, it involved years of courtship. No, I think we can safely rule out Brion's being anyone's son but Drustan's—especially since John needs to sway the people to his side, and it would be amazingly convenient for him if Brion, the people's darling, turned out to be a bastard, dead or not."

  Papa nodded. "A propaganda piece, then. And to think our politicians think they invented mudslinging!"

  Mama stood up, blazing with indignation. "We must tell everyone the truth!"

  "No, wait." Papa forestalled her with a hand on her arm, and jerked his head toward the rafters. Looking up, Mama saw two ravens squatting on the beams, glowering down at the people.

  "Hugi and Munin?" she guessed.

  "Like them, at least. They may not be spying for Odin, but I feel sure they are someone's eyes and ears. We know there is a sorcerer involved in this affair somewhere, my dear."

  "Yes, we must assume the worst." Mama sat down and looked out over the room with a stern gaze. "And we dare not put those birds to sleep, or we will reveal that there are master wizards here."

  "I had not thought of that, but you are certainly right," Papa said, frowning. "No, my dear, for the time being, I'm afraid we must watch and learn, and wait for the time to use our knowledge."

  "And hope those ravens do not speak French," Mama replied.

  The road opened out into a huddle of huts before the companions, and Brock reminded Matt, "You said we should stop at the next inn."

  "Yes, but there's a good two hours of daylight left!" Matt protested.

  "Who says that they will be good?" Sir Orizhan asked airily. "Besides, we might not find another village with an inn before midnight."

  Well, Matt doubted that—the villages tended to be about two hours apart, even by the back roads they were traveling—but he gave in with a sigh. "Okay. If there's an inn here, we'll stay the night."

  They sauntered down the single dusty street, with wary eyes watching them from every window and women's cries warbling from every door. Children heard and scurried for cover behind their mothers.

  Sergeant Brock grinned. "Cautious, but not frightened. The war has spared this place."

  The cottages opened out into the village green, with a two-story thatched inn at one side and the church at another. In the center of the green a man in white robes and sandals stood atop a small knoll, his head wreathed in mistletoe. He held high a staff carved into a snake as he cried, "Come at sundown, come! When your day's work is done! Come to the gods of your ancestors! Take up again the Old Worship! Come with Banalix the Druid, to honor Toutatis!"

  A score of villagers surrounded the man already, and housewives were drifting closer. The men coming in from the fields looked up with interest.

  "What have we here?" Sir Orizhan looked up, on his guard.

  "Someone trying to bring back that Good Old-Time Religion," Matt said slowly. "Talk about a revival meeting!"

  "He is a druid," Brock said with certainty.

  Something in the tone of his voice made Matt turn to study him. He was somber, but not angry or contemptuous—and Matt realized he had expected the sergeant to be so. Why? He looked at the so-called druid again, and caught the flash of something bright at his belt...

  A gilded sickle.

  Suddenly Matt remembered the sickle in Sergeant Brock's pack. If the soldier really had fought these latter-day druids, he should be angry at the mere sight of Banalix, the more so because the man was standing boldly forth in broad daylight and openly calling people to his religion in defiance of the Church.

  "The Old Gods knew the ways of war!" Banalix orated. "They shall protect you from the bloodthirsty hordes of Merovence!"

  Sir Orizhan stiffened. Matt took umbrage himself.

  "The Old Gods shall lend skill to your hands and show you once again the use of weapons, not merely the handles of a plow! Come to the Old Gods! Grow strong again!"

  "You lie, rogue!" thundered a voice from the church, and the village priest came striding forth, his face red with anger. "There is great strength in the Christian God, but His strength is tempered with mercy!"

  "Strength?" Banalix turned to meet the attack with a relish that spoke of success; he had meant to provoke this cry of defense. "When did the Christ ever wield a sword?"

  "He stood barehanded against blades, for He told us that any who live by the sword must die by the sword! Yet He had the courage to stand unarmed before soldiers!"

  "Surrendered himself meekly, you mean!" Banalix sneered. "When did He ever fight?"

  "When He threw the moneychangers out of the Temple! To cleanse the House of God! For a good and godly reason, Christ fought, as must we all!" He turned to the crowd, raising his arms. "Fight against the seduction of this man's lies! Fight in your hearts for the salvation of your souls!"

  "Fight?" Banalix jibed. "What weapon did your Christ ever use? Only a whip of knotted cords!"

  "That, and the force of His anger, against which no man can stand!" the priest declared. "Beware, impostor, for that anger shall be directed against you!"

  "I am not an impostor!" Banalix cried, reddening. "I am a true druid!"

  "There are no true druids anymore," the priest shot back. "They all died, because they had no worshipers to wait upon them and feed them!"

  "As your worshipers wait upon and feed you!" Banalix returned.

  "I feed my flock, not they me!"

  " 'Tis true!" an old woman cried from the back of the crowd. "Friar Gode sees that none of the poor starve!"

  "Say that your neighbors and the viscount feed you, for it is they who give me food to bring you." But the friar flashed the old woman a smile of gratitude. Then he turned back to Banalix. "This is the strength of the Christ—that people care for one another, help one another in their hour of need!"

  "Care for one another? Aye
, and slaughter one another in battles!"

  The friar smiled. "I thought you said that Christians did not know how to fight!"

  The so-called druid scowled. "How many of your sheep could fight off a wolf?"

  "All the men practice at the archery butts every Sunday, as you know!" Friar Gode turned to the crowd again, his arms upraised. "You have heard it! He will say any lie he finds to blind you, then counter it with another lie to confuse you! This is no priest of an ancient religion, but a rogue who seeks to enslave you by using only those parts of the heathen faith that entice you!"

  "So you admit the Old Gods are enticing!" Banalix snapped, eyes glittering.

  "Say rather that it is you who make the Old Gods seem enticing—all your doing, for the heathen gods never existed as anything more than stories to warn children!"

  The people moved back a little, muttering fearfully at such a denial.

  "But your enticement lasts only until you have them enslaved!" Gode turned to the crowd. "Then he will tell you that his gods demand blood! You have all heard the news, even if it is only whispered, never said openly—how his kind kidnap virgins to slay on their bloodstained altars!"

  "They are hard gods, but they bring power and prosperity!" the "druid" thundered.

  "They bring death and destruction to those who worship them," Friar Gode countered, "or their false priests do!"

  "Beware," Banalix cried, "for my sickle is not false, but sharp and hard!"

  "Whoever heard of gold that was hard, or could hold an edge?" the friar returned. "It may be gilded, but it is not gold—false, like its owner!"

  Matt glanced at Sergeant Brock. The man's face was impassive, hard as rock.

  "False? You dare call me false, when you worship a man whose disciples stole his body and claimed it had come back to life?" Banalix was getting carried away now. "Disciples who made up stories about his walking on water and feeding thousands with seven loaves and two fishes? Aye, you must know falsehoods well!"