"Away from your enemies," Sir Guy said, totally serious. "We are too few to encounter them successfully."
"Uh, toward your friends," Matt amplified. "I'm afraid we do need numbers.'-"
"The greatest of my friends is the giant Colmain," the princess said judiciously. "He helped Deloman, the founder of my family, to win to his throne three centuries ago."
"Aye, he slew the foul giants that plundered our land," Stegoman added, "and locked the accursed titan Ballspear in combat, till the blessed wizard Moncaire could change him to stone."
"Accursed?" Matt propped up an eyebrow. "Ballspear? What was so bad about him?"
"What was not?" Stegoman snapped, spitting sparks. "He led the foul horde in their looting, caught fledglings in flight from the air for his food, and crushed mothers and hatchlings beneath his vast feet! A thousand foul tales we tell of him still." Flame licked and curled around his mouth as he finished.
Matt noted the emotion. "Yes, I see why the dragon folk would curse him. And if Colmain could beat him, or even hold him in a stalemate, I see why we should go looking for him."
"Yet Colmain himself is now stone," Sir Guy pointed out. "'Twas the last, vindictive stroke of Dimethtus the sorcerer, when Deloman came against him, with Colmain and Conor the wizard, besting his troops and his powers of Evil."
"This I know as well as my name," Alisande answered, unruffled. "Yet also I know that a wizard accompanies me." She turned to Matt. "How say you, Lord Wizard? Can you turn a stone giant to flesh, even as you did with Master Stegoman?"
Matt remembered he was supposed to be a great wizard now. He spread his hands, shrugging. "What can I say, Highness? I'll give it my best shot."
"No more can I ask." She seemed far too satisfied.
"You might ask for an army," Sir Guy reminded her, "and you will find one in the West. Thence am I lately come-and they are strong, Highness, in all things but hope. Landless barons I saw, leading troops of knights whose suzerains had died, hiding in forest and glen, and riding out to harass the enemy. Yet most gather at monasteries, at houses of God, where the powers of Evil are weakened and confounded. Here gather peasants whose homes have been destroyed, masterless knights, landless barons, and all the good clergy who escaped Astaulf's sword. Strong in arms and in fighters they are, and armored with courage!"
"Yet you say they lack hope?" the princess demanded, frowning.
"Aye, Highness. Beneath their courage and faith, their foundations are crumbling-for who, they ask, can rise up to lead them? King Kaprin is dead, his daughter imprisoned. Who, then, shall win the throne from Astaulf? And how can they triumph, with no one to win? So they fight, determined that Evil shall fall along with them-but believing nothing shall rise."
"I must to them!" Alisande cried, her face flaming. "They must see me and know that their princess is free!"
"But they're in the West," Matt reminded her. "Where's Colmain?"
"Why, in the West also," Alisande cried. "He stands in the far western mountains, guarding our land in a long, silent vigil."
"Oh."
"Aye." Sir Guy nodded in sympathy. "There is no real choice. Bordestang lies in the East, with her enemies; Colmain stands in the West, with her friends. Where else could she go?"
"Unfortunately, I can't help thinking Malingo will figure that out, too," Matt pointed out. "You don't really think he's just going to let us ride peaceably along toward a welcoming army, do you?"
Sir Guy shrugged. "That lies at hazard, Lord Wizard. There is no war without risk; it must be borne."
"Maybe a slightly more devious route..."
"Nay." Alisande's voice rang like a bell. "If we deal in the devious, Lord Matthew, we lose-for Malingo is leagued with the powers of Evil, of prevarication and deviousness. If we wish to triumph against him, we must be open, honest, direct. We must travel west; I know this to be our best course!"
"With all due respect, your Highness, that might be good morality, but it's lousy strategy."
"What!" Sir Guy cried, scandalized. "You doubt the word of blood royal
Matt smiled thinly. "Titles don't mean quite so much where I come from, Sir Guy."
"Yet thou art not in thine homeland," Stegoman rumbled at his shoulder, "and art now bound by the rules of this world, not thine own."
Matt's smile soured as he turned to the dragon. "Here or at home, Stegoman, a title by itself means nothing."
"Yet blood royal does," Sir Guy declared. "A king or queen cannot be mistaken!"
"Oh, come off it!" Matt cried, exasperated. "There isn't a human being alive who never makes a mistake!"
"There do, an they be kings and queens," said Stegoman, "in matters politic, whether they be of the public weal, affairs of state, or the conduct of war."
"In these matters, royalty's infallibly right." Sir Guy spoke more gently, patiently. "There are those among men who are gifted,
Lord Wizard-you above all should know that for truth. And there are many sorts of Gifts, as there are types of people. He who is right in all matters public is made king, for the welfare of all-and those who inherit his blood inherit also his Gifts."
It did kind of make sense, in its own weird way. Matt couldn't deny, now, that magic worked here-he'd done it too often. And if he could have the Gift of magic, why couldn't Alisande have infallibility by Divine Right?
No reason, really. None he could think of.
He looked up at Alisande, a little sheepishly. "Uh-your Highness thinks we oughta go west?"
"I do," she said, very seriously. "'Tis our best chance."
Matt stood looking at her. Then he nodded. "Right."
He turned to Stegoman. "Care to come along? Seems like a shame to bust up the old gang now."
"Shame, indeed." Stegoman nodded. "'Twould shame me greatly, to abandon a princess in quest of her rightful crown."
"It's not exactly going to be guaranteed safe," Matt warned.
"Yet it will, at least, be of interest. Life can grow dull, Wizard."
I'd just love to be bored, Matt thought. Still, he could see Stegoman's point. With none of his own kind around, and not much chance of ever being with them again, there wasn't much to do but watch the antics of these quaint two-legged creatures. "Good to have you, Stegoman."
The dragon fixed him with a glittering eye. "How goodly?"
Matt halted, feeling a bargaining session coming on. "Uh, what did you have in mind?"
Stegoman glanced at Sir Guy and the princess. "Come aside with me; this is talk for dragon and wizard, and need not concern other folk."
"Uh-excuse me, your Highness. Sir Guy." Matt touched his forelock apologetically and followed Stegoman.
The dragon only moved about fifty feet off before he growled, out of the corner of his mouth, "There is ... a certain matter in which... Well, if a wizard cannot manage it, none can ... 'Tis one which doth touch me tenderly, a matter which ... well, no doctor of physic could mend it, so..."
Matt suddenly recognized that Stegoman was trying to talk about something extremely embarrassing to him; the dragon couldn't quite bring himself to put it into words.
"A-a matter of appendages," Matt supplied. "Of certain members which are as vital to your people as hands are to mine?"
"One could say that, yes." The dragon growled it, but Matt caught a definite undertone of relief at not having to say it. "Canst thou mend where doctors of physic must fail?"
"I don't know ... I certainly don't know any spell that would do what you want. Not offhand. But give me some time, and I might be able to work something out."
"Well enough." Stegoman shook his shoulders, as if he could already feel his wings healing. "I can ask no more, Wizard. Be assured I shall serve thee with each last ounce of strength and of skill I possess."
"Uh, wait! I can't promise anything, you know."
"What dost thou take me for?" The dragon glared down at him. "This is no bargain, mortal, but a bond of honor between us. I shall do as well as I may for thee and thine and
will trust to thine honor to do thy best for me."
"I stand corrected." Somehow, Matt felt very much ashamed. "And I thank you deeply, Stegoman."
"Let us hope it is I who shall thank thee." The dragon turned back, lifting his head. "Shall we rejoin-them?"
Matt slogged back to Sir Guy and the princess, watching the dragon out of the corner of his eye and feeling very glum. He'd just promised to do something that he hadn't the faintest idea how to manage; and on top of that, he knew there was no damn use trying to heal Stegoman's wings until he could cure his drunkenness. If he didn't, Stegoman would go home, get gloriously high off his own fumes, and take to the air as a menace to flying society. The other dragons would then just clip his wings again and send him back into exile. No, Matt definitely had to cure the drunkenness first.
But how? Matt didn't know anything about reptilian biochemistry, aside from their being cold-blooded-and he wasn't even sure about that, when it came to a fire-breathing dragon.
Whoa! Biochemistry might have nothing to do with it! Matt remembered Stegoman's diatribe against hatchling hunters, when Matt had first transported him to the dungeon. Why would that have occurred to the dragon, instead of sorcery, which was much more apparent? Evidence of a childhood trauma? Matt knew a little basic psychology and he had a good feel for people. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense-Steogman's drunkenness was psychosomatic!
But why would a trauma involving dragon hunters result in a propensity for getting stoned?
Wait a minute-Stegoman came from a military culture. He couldn't admit fear of anything, even to himself. The way that he'd charged at Molestam the witch bore that out-an overcompensation, rash boldness masking fear. Could his real problem be fear of flying?
But he couldn't admit that, even to himself-so instead, he got drunk when he breathed fire. Obviously, therefore; he couldn't be allowed to fly, which would take him out of the air, through no fault of his own.
But if Stegoman was getting what he really subconsciously wanted, he'd be murder to cure! And Matt knew he bore about as much resemblance to a psychiatrist as a photon does to the sun.
But he'd promised he'd try.
He hadn't set any definite time on his attempt, though. And they had time, all the way to the mountains. Maybe he'd think of something en route...
"Are you ready?" Alisande asked as they came up. Sir Guy was buckled into his armor again, his hand on the saddle.
"Ready as we'll ever be, I guess..."
"Come, sir! Be merry!" Sir Guy vaulted into his saddle. "We embark on a glorious quest! Pluck up your spirit; have joy in your heart!" He reached down to grip the princess's forearm. "Mount, and away!"
The princess leaped up, sitting sideways behind him with an arm round his waist. Sir Guy kicked his horse into a long, easy canter, and they set out toward the lowering sun.
"Come, Wizard; mount." Stegoman lowered his head to Matt's knee.
Matt eyed the great neck, a foot and a half thick, and the foot-high barbed fins along its top. "Uh-you sure?"
"Have no fear-thou'lt not fall, nor I falter. I can bear the load easily, if you bestride my shoulders."
"Well-if you say so." Matt swung astride the neck gingerly, right behind the head; then the ground swung away beneath his feet, and he clung for dear life. Stegoman turned his' head back to his shoulder, and Matt changed seats, stepping delicately from one huge thorn-fin to another, settling himself between two wicked points. "Just don't pull any sudden stops, huh?"
"Fear not." The dragon started off in a waddle that seemed quite slow, but ate up the ground; then he gathered himself and sprang forward. Matt clung to a fin in sheer panic, bobbing back and forth, bracing his arms and trying frantically to avoid the great wicked point behind him.
Then he realized he was wasting effort; the great fin curved nicely, like the back of a bucket seat. Matt settled back as carefully as he could in the lurching ride, till his spine rested against the great horny curve, with the barb thrust out over his head. After a few minutes, he could even let himself relax a little. Not too bad, once you got used to it. "Stegoman?"
"What thorn pricketh thee now?"
Matt frowned, leaning out to the side to sight the dragon's head. "What makes you so surly, all of a sudden?"
"My tooth pains me again. What dost thou wish?"
"Mm." Matt leaned back, frowning. "We oughta take care of that for you at the next stop-pull it, you know."
"Pull?" There was an undertone of horror to the dragon's voice.
"Yeah-you know, take it out. Magic dentistry would be a little bit complicated."
"But-to part with a bit of my body, of my very being! 'Tis blasphemous, Wizard!"
"Blasphemous?" Then Matt remembered-some cultures that believed in magic were very careful about portions of the anatomy that had to be discarded, such as hair and nail clippings. If a witch got a hold of them, she could work evil magic on you. "Oh, don't worry-I'll do it up nicely, in a little leather bag to tie around your neck. You can still keep it with you."
"Even so, I like not the sound of it. I must consider this at some length."
Matt sighed. "All right, but don't let it go too long; it could poison your whole jaw." He exaggerated, but it was the easiest way to say it.
Stegoman shuddered. "Let us not talk of it further. What didst thou wish to speak of? Not of my pain, most surely-but of throe."
"'Pain?' Oh, yeah." Matt frowned, remembering his gripe. "Did you ever get the feeling you'd been set up for something?:'
"Set up?"
"Yeah. You know-conned, railroaded. Somebody maneuvering you into position where you had to do what he wanted. Here I am, riding off to the West to help a girl get her throne back, when all I really wanted to do was to find a way home!"
"Am I mistaken," the dragon growled, "or didst thou not begin this whole coil thyself, when thou didst aid her to escape Astaulf's dungeon?"
"Oh, come on! I was maneuvered into that, wasn't I? I mean, as soon as I found out Malingo hadn't brought me here, it was only natural that I'd go looking for the opposing side, to get them to help me out! And I'm probably on the right track, after all. Whatever wizard brought me here probably is backing Alisande, but he won't let me go till she's back on her throne! Do I really have any choice but to help her?"
"Thou hast many," Stegoman snapped, "as thou knowest. Malingo hath already shown thee one, and thou hast refused it. Nay, even without allying with him, thou hast shown enough wizard-power to win thyself fortune and dominion over thy fellows. Indeed, thou mayest be a king, if thou wishest! Hast thou not thought of that?"
"Well, it had crossed my mind-but I'm the creative type. Administrative work is dead boring."
"Is it so? Then why dost thou not spend thy time seeking ways to send thyself home?"
Matt sat immobile, letting the initial terror of the thought wash over him, sink in, and ebb. "That would take a long time..."
"And this will not?"
"It could," Matt said slowly, "yes. But I can live with it, this way."
"Aye, because 'tis adventure to thee. Thou art bedazzled by dreams of great glory; thou dost feel thyself to be truly living -- mayhap for the first time in thy life. Nay, seek not to gainsay me. Thou hast chosen this road for thyself; thou dost now what thou hast ever dreamed of. Admit this, at least to thyself, or be still!"
Matt was still.
These people didn't seem to believe in rest stops-at least, not when there were only four hours of daylight left. Matt climbed down off Stegoman as the sun was setting, feeling as if he would never be able to sit again. He could definitely see why saddles had been invented.
Sir Guy made it worse. He bustled about, setting up camp with a brisk good cheer that Matt found disgusting. Alisande wasn't sitting back on her title and relaxing, either-she was collecting brushwood for a fire.
Sore as he was, Matt felt shamed at not pitching in. He limped up to her and asked, "Can I help?"
She thrust the sta
ck of brushwood at him, beaming. "Indeed, that you may. Lay and kindle the fire, if you would, and I'll see to your couches."
Then she whirled away toward a fir tree, whipping a knife out of her sash-a loan from Sir Guy, at a guess.
Matt tried to remember his Boy Scout lore and looked for a flat rock. Not finding one, he settled for a patch of bare ground and started breaking up the smallest twigs for tinder.
He just about had a good little teepee laid when Sir Guy came swinging up, two large hares spitted on his sword. "Ah, most excellent! We'll have fire, and right quickly a dinner!"
Matt pulled out his matchbook and tried to remember the "spell" he'd used, to get one to light.
Sir Guy's mailed hand came down over the matchbook. "Ah, thou dost not mean to use magic to kindle our fire?"
"`Sure, why not?" Matt looked up, frowning. Then he remembered. "Oh ... you mean that business about not using magic for everyday chores."
"Such as lighting a fire." Sir Guy nodded brightly, taking his hand away. "Even I do know that much, Lord Matthew. Power must be respected, or its use will surely corrupt the user." The Black Knight knelt down and pulled a small iron box from his belt. He opened it, taking out a wad of tow and a small rock. "Those with the Gift rarely begin by dedicating themselves to evil, Lord Wizard. Indeed, they firmly resolve to use their power only for the bettering of their fellows." He struck the stone against the steel box. Sparks flew, one landed in the tow, and Sir Guy breathed it carefully into a coal and tilted it into Matt's tinder teepee. "But they chance on a grimoire, soon or late, and work a few of its smallest spells. They use these spells more and more often; and, as time passes, they can scarce manage a small task without them."
"Dependent," Matt muttered, watching small tongues of flame curl around the sticks. "Hooked on magic."
"Even so. They become drunk with power, and the more power they gain, the more they desire. Then have they but two choices -- to devote all their lives to God and the Good, which may prove a lengthy duty, or simply to sign a blood oath with the Devil. The choice must be made -- for how much power can a wizard gain without either Good or Evil to aid him?'
Her Majesty's Wizard Page 9
