Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
CHAPTER 1
Matthew Mantrell leaned forward across the little table in the campus coffee shop and tapped the sheet of rune-covered parchment before him. He tried to put some of the urgency he felt into his voice.
"I tell you, Paul, this is important!"
Paul just sighed and shook his head, reaching for the last of his coffee. He didn't even glance at the parchment.
Somehow, Matt never had been able to make others take him seriously. He was tall enough, he thought, over medium height, and fencing practice had kept him lean and wiry. But his eyes were an honest, warm brown-like his hair. His nose was out of Sherlock Holmes-but from Watson, not Holmes. He looked, unfortunately, good-natured, friendly, and kind.
Across the table, Paul put his cup down and cleared his throat. "As I remember it," he said, "you're supposed to be working on your doctorate. How long since you did any research on your dissertation?"
"Three months," Matt admitted.
Paul shook his head. "Then you'd better get on the stick, man. You don't have that much more time."
It was true. He had a month of the spring semester left, plus the summer. After that, it was out into the wilderness of two-year college teaching, with little or no research time, probably never to emerge into the light of a Ph.D. and eventual professorship. He shuddered at the thought, but screwed up the remnants of determination and declared, "But this is important! I feel it in my bones!"
"So what are you going to tell your committee? That you dropped everything because-so you say-this piece of manuscript fell out of an old copy of the Njaal saga while you were poking around in the library stacks?"
"It did!"
"So how come nobody else ever found it? They've been sifting that library for fifty years. How do we know it isn't a hoax?"
"It's in runes..."
"Which you-and who knows how many others-can write." Paul shook his head slowly. "One scrap of parchment, with runes spelling out words in a language that sounds like a mess of German, French, maybe Old Norse, and probably some Elvish and Barsoomian worked in."
"Yeah, but I feel it's a real tongue." Matt managed a tight smile. "The words just don't make sense-yet."
"So you've been trying to translate it from root words for three months, without a bit of luck." Paul sighed. "Give it up, man. June's next month. Your fellowship will be up, and none of your dissertation done. There you'll be, without a degree, and not much chance of getting one, either."
He looked at the clock and got to his feet, clapping Matt on the shoulder. "Gotta run. Good luck, man-and pull your head back to reality huh? Or as close as we can ever get."
Matt watched him shoulder his way out of the coffee shop. Paul was right, from the hard-headed, practical point of view. But Matt knew he was, too. He just couldn't substantiate it. He sighed and pulled out his silver ballpoint pen to have another try at playing acrostics with the speech sounds in his manuscript.
He looked down at the parchment, and everything else dropped from his mind. He felt, illogically, that if he just stared at the black brush strokes, just repeated those alien phonemes again and again, they'd start making sense. Ridiculous, of course! He had to reason it out, starting with the root words and locating their place in the family of human languages.
He caught himself repeating the syllables again and stared at the blank notebook page beside him. Start with root words. Lalinga -- the first word of all. Well, lingua was Latin for tongue or language, and la was the feminine article in the Romance languages. But the next words didn't seem to fit the pattern. Lalinga wogreus marwold reigor ...
He leaned back, taking a very deep breath. He'd slipped into it again, chanting the meaningless symbols ...
No, not meaningless! They would make sense! He was sure of it. If he could just find the key ...
Dangerous, some remote, monitoring part of his mind gibed. Very dangerous; that way lie dragons. And insanity ...
Matt buried his face in his hands, thumbs massaging his temple. Maybe Paul was right; he had been working this over too long. Maybe he should just drop it ...
But not without one more try. He sat up straight again and took a firmer grip on the pen. Now, one more time.
Lalinga wogreus marwold reigor
Athelstrigen marx alupta
Harleng krimorg barlow steigor ...
Pull back, the remote part of his mind warned. You're in too deep; you'll never get out...
But Matt couldn't let go-underneath it all, somehow, the weird words were beginning to make sense. He head filled with roaring-and beneath it, like a, harmonic, the noise seemed to modulate into words:
You, betrayed by time and space,
Born without your proper grace ...
The whole room seemed to be darkening, with only the scrap of parchment lighted; and even there, the runes were writhing, blurring, starting to run together...
To a world befouled and base.
Feel your proper form and case,
Recognize your homeland's face.
The page darkened, left him enveloped in a formless, lightless limbo. He lurched to his feet, then sagged against the wall, squeezing the hard, cool cylinder of the silver pen like a talisman; but the words thundered on in his head:
Cross the void of time and space!
Seek and find your proper place!
Worlds whirled, suns swerved across limbo, wheeling him about like a dervish. Nausea struck as the floor swung out from under his feet. His knees tried to give; Matt clutched at a beam in the wall, holding himself up, trying to force his eyes open.
It passed; the spinning suns slowed, his feet touched hardness, then pressed up. Bit by bit, the churning universe ground down toward a halt...
Matt leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths, letting the dizziness pass and the nausea ebb. Paul was right; he had been working too hard ...
A hand clasped his shoulder. "Here, countryman! Stand away!"
Matt looked up, irritated-at a florid, beefy face with a full beard, a puffy beret, and a fur-trimmed woolen robe over a linen tunic.
The hand shook his shoulder, almost knocking him down. "D'ye hear me? Stand away from my shop!"
Matt stared, unbelieving. The meaning was clear and familiar, but the words weren't English.
They were the language of the manuscript fragment...
He looked around, dazed. How had he. gotten outside? Especially this outside-a narrow street, half-timbered houses with second stories sticking out over the cobblestones ...
Where was he?
"Alms, goodman! Alms for the poor!"
Matt looked down into a grimy, grease-stained wooden bowl about a foot below his nose. There was a hand holding it-a filthy, scabby, dirtcrusted hand. The arm attached to it went with the hand perfectly, scab for scab and crud for crud. He followed it down to a motley collection of rags and a hideous, emaciated, grizzled old face, with a filthy woolen strip tied across the eyes.
The beggar gave the bowl an angry, impatient shake. "Alms, countryman! Give me alms! For charity's sweet sake, goodman -- alms!"
The man went with the scene. The gutter was filled with garbage and sewage, a magnet for mangy dogs and scrofulous pigs.
While Matt watched, a rat shot out of a pile of garbage, and a mutt leaped on, it with a happy yelp. Matt shuddered and looked away; a sudden wave of dizziness swept him, and he clutched at the wall again, leaning against it.
"He's ill!" The beggar sounded as if he were on the verge of panic; definitely overreacting, Matt thought dizzily.
"And he leans against my shop!" The beefy type didn't sound too solid, either. "Stand away, I say!"
Matt remembered something about medieval plagues and people accused of carrying them. He staggered upright, fishing in a pocket. "No, no, I'm all right." He pulled out a quarter and dropped it into the bowl. "Just a little dizziness; it was a hard trip, you understand.. ."
Why had he thought of medieval plagues?
The beggar's other hand closed on the quarter, scooping it out of the bowl with a satisfied hiss; but the tradesman spat an oath and snatched it out of the beggar's hand. He held it about two inches from his eyes, staring at it, his eyes bulging. Then he looked up at Matt, his eyes wide with a sort of horror, and maybe loathing. Matt suddenly realized he wasn't exactly dressed for the occasion. The others he saw all seemed to be wearing the same sort of basic outfit, with variations-a short tunic over hose, with some sort of cloak over it. It was the variations that gave Matt heartburn; they ran the gamut from about the seventh century to the fourteenth.
Most of them went barefoot. Some had cross-gartered sandals. Some wore shoes, but they were pointy at the toes. And the hats ran from a simple hood to the beefy individual's puffy beret.
"What manner of man is this?" a new voice growled. It belonged to a muscle-bound type in cross-gartered hose and a leather apron, with an interesting assortment of soot smudges and singed hairs in place of a shirt, and an even more interesting hammer-a squarish block of iron with an oaken handle. Now that Matt noticed it, there were two more members to the group, one with a quarterstaff and the other with an adz. And they all looked hostile.
"He's an outlander, isn't he?" Quarterstaff grunted.
"Mayhap," Puffyhat answered, "but he appeared in front of my shop when I had scarce glanced down at my counting-board. And look at his coin-have you ever seen such?"
The quarter passed from hand to hand, to the accompaniment of rumbles of amazement and suspicion.
"'Tis too polished," the blacksmith opined. "'Tis as if a king's statue could be shrunken down to the size of a coin."
"And such exactness, such precision!" Matt recognized a professional tone in Puffyhat's voice; he must be a silversmith. "'Tis in all ways wondrous. He who cast it must have been a wizard!"
"Wizard!" The knot of men fell totally silent, staring at Matt.
The ridiculousness of it hit Matt suddenly. He felt the tender glow of his own twisted humor and straightened slowly, fighting temptation. As usual, he lost.
He flung his arms straight up and started chanting in his most orotund tones, "Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers set forth upon this continent a new nation..."
They backed off like kids in a dentist's office, arms up to protect their faces. Matt shut up, hands on his hips, grinning around at them, waiting to see what happened-which was nothing, of course.
Slowly, the townsmen lowered their arms and looked up, unbelieving. Then their faces reddened with anger, and their arms came down the rest of the way with fists on the ends. They moved in.
Matt stepped back and back again, till the stucco wall pricked his back. The mob started shouting, "Vile, impotent wizard!"... "We'll teach you to curse your betters!" ... "Foul sorcerer!"
Sorcerer? Somehow, that had an ugly sound.
But "wizard" was another matter-and so was being used for a punching bag. Matt stabbed his forefingers at them, one after the other, right, left, right, chanting:
"To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
There was a loud pop! Matt found himself facing an empty street, with a handful of gawkers on the far side.
He blinked and shook his head. It couldn't be. But where had Puffyhat and his friends gone? Matt looked around for a porch.
There wasn't any in the vicinity, but there was a low wall about fifty feet down to the right across the alley, with four huddled, moaning shapes on top of it.
One of them looked up-the blacksmith. He stared at Matt. Matt stared back.
Then anger wrenched the smith's face, and he jumped off the wall with a howl, running straight for Matt, his hammer swinging up.
Puffyhat and the boys jumped down to follow him, bellowing gleefully.
So did everyone else on the street-letting the smith lead, of course.
There was no time to think. Matt stepped back, curling his left arm as if he were holding a book and thrusting up an imaginary torch with his right.
"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free!"
They kept coming-a howling mob, charging the stranger who chanted in an arcane language.
"The wretched refuse of your teeming shore!
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me!"
They were twenty feet away and still coming, but he had to catch a breath, because he was suddenly working uphill, pouring sweat, feeling as if he were, trying to twist some huge, invisible field of forces that had suddenly enveloped him. He blurted out the last line:
"I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Thunder split the alley, and men screamed. Matt squeezed his eyes shut.
When he opened them, the street was filled with bodies-the living kind, crawling with lice and festooned with rags. Every beggar in town must have been there all of a sudden-though Matt did wonder why there were so many Orientals in a medieval European burg. And weren't those Hindus, down on the right there?
The beggars straightened up slowly, mouths gaping open, staring around, gawking at each other. Then the screaming started again. But it was all under a tidal wave of excited babbling.
Matt came to his senses with a start. When you fill an inside straight, cash in. He leaped into the crowd, forcing his way through with elbows and boots. Hands groped at his belt every inch of the way, trying to find his purse. He thanked Heaven they didn't know about pockets and clapped a hand on his wallet as he twisted through the last rank into the clear. Then he took one deep breath and started off walking, fast.
There was a sudden, ominous silence behind him.
Matt kept on walking.
Then someone yelled, "There goes the sorcerer! Don't let him get away!"
The mob gave one huge, delighted howl, with the thunder of hundreds of running feet underneath it.
Matt wasn't about to try the wizard act again until he'd learned who wrote the script. He ran. The beggars gave a lusty bellow and charged, delighted to be on the chasing end for a change. Matt reminded himself he'd been a track star in high school and leaned into it. But high school had been a long time ago.
Matt didn't try to figure out where the beggars had come from; he was too busy panting. He dimly realized that he'd called for them-but just now they were calling for him, and he wasn't exactly eager to oblige them.
Fortunately, the beggars weren't in any great shape, either. Matt had specified something of the sort. He had about a two block lead when he turned the corner-and ran smack into the gendarmes, mounted on war horses and wearing ring-on-leather iron mail.
The grizzled man in front leaned down to snag an arm as Matt went by. He had a very snug grip; it swung Matt around to land smack against the flank of the horse. "Here now," the man growled, "where d'ye think you're running?"
"That way!" Matt pointed the way he'd been going. "I'm trying to leave my past behind me!"
The front wave of beggars came pouring around the corner, howling. They saw the soldiers and stopped on a shilling. Then they went sprawling as the second wave hit. Those saw the soldiers and stopped dead in their turn. Just then the third wave hit, with the fourth coming up.
The sergeant, or whatever he was, just
sat back in his saddle, watching and waiting, with the hint of a smile under his scowl. He kept a viselike hold on Matt's arm.
When the whole mob had gotten the message and more or less stopped, the sergeant cut across the muttering with a bull roar.
"Now, then! What happened here?" And to Matt he added, "Quite a past you have, fellow."
The mob got quiet then. A throat toward the back cleared itself, and Puffyhat came elbowing his way importantly toward the front. "This man is a sorcerer!"
"Is he, now?" the sergeant purred. "Well, that would explain his outlandish costume. What sorceries did he work?"
Puffyhat launched into a tale that would have done credit to Walpole, in which Matt figured largely and luridly. It seemed Matt had brought down a thunderstorm just outside Puffyhat's shop, changed base metal into silver, made the earth slip beneath the feet of four good citizens and true, tarnished the honor of the nation by conjuring up a horde of unskilled workers-who would doubtless compete with the locals for jobs-and changed an honest and worthy baker into a toad.
"That," Matt howled, "is slander! I never changed anyone into a toad!"
"But you did the rest?" He was a quick one, that sergeant.
What could Matt say? "Uh ... Well..."
"So I thought." The sergeant nodded, satisfied. "Well, then,. Master Sorcerer
"Wizard." Matt figured he'd better set the record as straight as possible. "Not sorcerer. No traffic with the devil. None. Wizard."
The sergeant shrugged. "Wizard, then. Will ye now whisk yourself away from us in the blink of an eye? Or come with us to the guardhouse, that our captain may judge ye?"
"Uh..." Matt glanced at the crowd. Ever since Puffyhat's crack about imported labor, they'd been looking uglier and uglier; there was a vicious muttering passing among the townsmen which seemed to imply that Matt would look great with an apple in his mouth.
Matt made one of those impulse decisions. "Uh, I think I'll come along with you, Sergeant."
He had a little time to think it over on the way to the guardhouse, and it all came down to one simple question: What had happened?
Where was he? When was he? How did he get here? Where did all those beggars come from?
And what were soldiers doing patrolling a town? Why were they taking him to a captain, rather than a magistrate?
Her Majesty's Wizard Page 1
