A howl of rage came from the ground, muted by miles of earth, screeching, fading-so faint that it might have been a tag end of dream. Fading. Gone.
He was home.
Matt breathed a long, trembling breath, and his whole body went limp as his soul surged up in an instant, huge blast of thanksgiving.
Then he stiffened, eyes opened wide. For a second, he could have sworn he'd felt an answer, like a benign, gentle hand cupping his soul for an instant, then gone.
He sat up, shaking his head, frowning. Illusion! It had to be.
No, it didn't. Not here.
But it could have been, all of it. It could all have been a nightmare. Did it matter?
He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his chin on his kneecaps. No, it didn't really matter; because, even if it had been a nightmare, it had shown him what he really believed, at the bottom of his soul. Call it conditioning or brainwashing, if you wanted; it still came down to the same thing-in the depths of his being, he believed in sin and Hell.
And if he believed in sin and Hell, then he believed in virtue and Heaven, too.
Here, anyway. He wasn't quite willing to accept the jurisdiction of medieval Christianity over his rational home universe-but here, the theories of the medieval theologians took on weight and substance and became facts. He was in Sir Guy's world now and he had to live by the rules of chivalry.
He felt a sudden ache for someone to talk to and looked about him. He rose carefully, picking his way quietly around the campfire and over to Stegoman. He sat down by the huge head, frowning, wondering; then he shrugged and reached out to tweak the giant nose.
The great head snapped up with a snort; claws scrabbled at the ground.
"No, no, it's only me," Matt murmured.
The head swung around toward him, eyes dulled with a film of sleep. They cleared, and the dragon scowled down at him. "There is a burden on thy soul."
Matt looked at the ground, tugging at his ear. "I'm sorry to wake you, but-"
"Nay." The low, quiet voice cut him off. "Thou hast need. Speak."
Matt looked up at the great head, trying to marshal his thoughts. "It's all real here, isn't it?"
Stegoman frowned. Then his face relaxed, and he nodded. "Aye, all-you, I, the knight, the witch, and the princess."
"And Hell," Matt said softly.
Again Stegoman nodded.
"Yes." Matt nodded, too. "I had a dream tonight. It makes me think I have a moral responsibility I wouldn't acknowledge before." He looked up. "Do you understand that?"
"Better than thou doss think." There was a slight smile on the yard of lips. "`Moral' is, a word that deals with more than vice and actions."
"Yeah. Sort of the condition of one's soul, I guess. If you don't accept your own morals, you're trying to split yourself in half, each half living by a different set of rules. So you're not whole, not integral. You've lost your integrity."
"Strange word for it," the dragon rumbled. "I would have said that a man who is not true to himself is not wholly himself. Right is good and Wrong is evil. He who seeks to straddle the two betrays Right and chooses Wrong."
"Umm. And here, it seems, Right and Wrong are real."
"Never doubt it," Stegoman assured him.
Matt thought that over for a minute. Then he sighed. "Another thing-in my dream, everybody wore clothes from this universe, not from my own world. My subconscious peopled my dream with medieval illusions. That seems to show that I want to be in this universe. I guess my secret self always wanted to be a wizard in a medieval world. And if this is the world I chose, then somehow it makes me responsible for what goes on in it."
"Thou hast said it," the dragon agreed. "Tell me, dost thou still think to return to thine other world?"
Matt's lips tightened. "The idea has never been far from. my mind."
"Let it be," Stegoman advised him. "Abandon all homeward thoughts, Matthew Mantrell."
"Yes," Matt agreed, so softly he could hardly hear himself. One last surge of homesickness ached within him. His apartment, his friends, the life he had led ... Then it faded to a dull ache. It would always be there; but most of the time, he'd be too busy to notice.
He shrugged it off and began describing his dream in rough outline to the dragon. "I never had a dream like that on my own, Stegoman. I could have sworn it was real. And I couldn't wake myself up-it never even occurred to me to try." He shook his head thoughtfully. "I think I had a little help on that dream."
"That most powerful wizard thou didst mention aforetime?"
"Yes. I think he sent me that dream to convince me that Evil really existed here."
"How couldst thou doubt it?" the dragon growled.
"Not hard. Not hard at all-at least, in my world."
"Then it may be that thou hast committed grievous sins. Thou must be freed of them, or thou dost imperil us all. Thou hast accepted the title of Lord Wizard from the princess. Be worthy of it!"
Matt sighed, coming to his feet. He leaned back, stretching. "I guess that means I'll have to get to confession-as soon as we come across a church."
"A priest will do," the dragon rumbled. "And do not wait for one to find thee. Seek thou him-and quickly!"
Matt nodded. "Thanks for listening. I think you've done me a lot of good."
"Thee, perhaps. Not thy soul." The hint of a smile touched the corners of Stegoman's lips. "I have done naught but listen, as any friend should do." He laid his head on his forelegs. "And now, good night."
"Good night, my friend," Matt answered softly. He stood a moment longer, watching as the dragon closed his eyes. Then he turned and made his way back to his pallet.
He lay down, tucking his robe about him for as much warmth as possible. Have to do something about that in the morning. Maybe a long, blue robe, embroidered with schematics ... No, it would hamper his legs, and his life was likely to be pretty active for a while. He really needed clothing more suited to this world, though. Maybe just a doublet and hose, nothing elaborate, crimson and gold would do...
Vanity, said the monitor at the back of his mind, and Matt winced. Vanity was a viee, and he had to abstain from as many vices as possible, unpleasant as that might be.
And, of course, get to confession. Tomorrow. Or possibly next week ...
But Stegoman wasn't quite so sympathetic when Matt tried to explain the delay the next day.
"Thou dost fear the priest," the dragon growled. "Is there so much vice left in thee still?"
"Now, hold on! Why should I be afraid of just listing my sins to a guy I can't even see? It's just not fair to them!" Matt waved a hand toward Alisande, fifty feet ahead, and Sir Guy, much closer. Sayeesa rode between them, bound to Sir Guy's saddle, hands tied to the pommel. But the saddle was on a small, shaggy mare, like the one the princess rode; Sir Guy rode his charger bareback.
Strange about those mares. Matt-had been willing to magic up transportation, but Sir Guy had grinned and walked out into the open plain, whistling a weird sort of melody that seemed to slide around definite pitches, never quite hitting the orthodox ones. The two little mares had come trotting up out of a screen of bushes, their eyes rolling fearfully, but coming nonetheless, to tuck their noses under Sir Guy's palms and nuzzle at his armor. They'd seemed a bit skittish about having the girls on their backs; but Sir Guy had stroked their necks, murmuring to them the while, and they'd calmed. Matt had begun to suspect the Black Knight of some magical Gift of his own, till he'd remembered that Sir Guy was a knight, a chevalier in French; literally, a horseman. Even the word chivalry came from the French cheval, which meant "horse." Apparently there was a bond between horses and horsemen in this world; and the knights, being the best of the horsemen, had the most power over the horses. Which didn't explain why Matt was still riding a dragon-but he wasn't about to argue.
Unfortunately, Stegoman was.
"Look," Matt tried to sound reasonable. "To find a church, we'd have to leave the line of march. We could l
ose a whole day, maybe more. I can't expect the others to go out of their way that much, just because I want to natter with a priest."
"Scouring thy soul is something more than a nattering," the dragon growled, "and thy companions know its importance."
"Oh, come on! It can't be that important!"
"Canst thou?" the dragon snapped.
Matt frowned down at him. "What's eating you, anyway?"
"My tooth," Stegoman snapped. "And do not speak to me of tearing it out from my body. It may rot in my jaw; I'll not be parted from it."
"Okay, okay! It's your agony." Matt sighed, leaning back. "After all, who am I to talk? I feel the same way about confession."
He clamped his mouth shut, shocked at what it had said; but Stegoman turned his head back, fixing Matt with a beady eye for a moment. Then he turned away again, gazing forward. "Thou hast spoken the truth to thyself. Wilt thou not now speak to the princess?
"About what?" Matt said, tight-lipped. "Calling off her war for a day, so I can find a box with a priest in it? Come on! I can't be that important!"
"The hypothetical wizard who sent thee thy nightmare thought thee so. Or the minions of Hell did, when they came to take thee."
Matt shook his head obstinately. "No. I can't buy that. It had to be a nightmare; a trip to Hell is a little too exorbitant. Why should I be important enough to rate such attention?"
"Thou art so important. What hast thou already done, without true dedication to the Good? Thou hast rescued the princess from prison and assembled protectors to aid her; thou hast buried a foul witch in the earth; and thou hast broken the spells of a lust-witch. Four times hast thou weakened Evil; three times hast thou strengthened Good. Both were balanced at loggerheads ere thy coming, a balance which thou hast already disrupted. In this coil come upon us, thou must needs be central."
A chill wind fanned Matt's back. "I definitely don't like the sound of that."
"Wherefore? Hath it too much of truth in it? Accept it, Wizard; for thou hast not overlong to accustom thyself. This coil's been eight hundred years in the making; it will not await thy convenience."
"Eight hundred years! What are you talking about? Malingo and Astaulf came into power less than a year ago!"
"That," the dragon said acidly, "is but the latest chapter in a rather long book. I have told thee how, eight hundred years agone, great Reme fell, and how chaos followed."
"And how Saint Moncaire eventually got sick of the mess and talked King Hardishane into taking over the continent, yes."
"Aye, because Hardishane had conquered the northern Isle of Doctors and Saints and was king by birth of a nation of Sea-Robbers; and was also, haply, heir to the greater part of Merovence, through his mother."
"Oh." Matt pursed his lips. "No, you left out those little details."
"Did I so? Well, 'tis no marvel; any hatchling would know it ... For the taking of Merovence and her neighbors, Hardishane assembled a company of knights of greater glory than the world ever had seen, the Knights of the Mountain. They and the giant Colmain were his spearhead and Moncaire his fortress. Hardishane ruled from the far North, the Isles and the Sea-Robbers' lands, to the Central Sea's shore; and west to the coast of Ibile, east to the farther border of Allustria."
Matt sighed and rolled his eyes up. "So what does that have to do with the current world crisis?"
"That is my tale."
Matt looked up, startled, to see Sir Guy riding at his elbow. The Black Knight had dropped back to join the conversation.
"You're the resident expert on Hardishane's reign, huh?"
"And its sequel." Sir Guy nodded. "This tale concerns men more than dragons, Lord Wizard."
"Sequel?" Matt frowned. "All right-I'll bite. What was the end of Hardishane's story?"
"Why, he died." Sir Guy had his usual slight smile, but his eyes glittered. "He died, and Saint Moncaire entombed him in a cavern, hidden from all mortal knowledge; and as his knights, one by one, followed him into death, Saint Moncaire brought them there, also. The Saint himself died last, and none knows where his body went; for they laid it out in the church, to keep vigil over; but the knights who did guard it fell all at once into slumber. When they waked in the morning, the Saint's body was gone. Then the word ran 'mongst all the people, that Moncaire had gone to join Hardishane and his knights in their cave in the mountain."
"Let me guess." Matt held up a palm. "They're not really dead, nor really alive either, just sort of sleeping in a living death: Right?"
Sir Guy nodded. "Thou hast heard the tale?"
"Well, the plot, anyway. And when Merovence is really in trouble, up against an enemy it can't possibly beat, Hardishane and his knights will waken to save it. Right?"
"In a manner," Sir Guy said slowly. "Yet 'tis not Merovence alone; 'tis all of the Northern Lands; and the Emperor will not waken again till they must all succumb to Evil, or be joined again into Empire."
"Oh." Matt's eyebrows lifted. "That drastic, huh? It'll be either chaos or total system, anarchy or Empire? No middle ground?"
"None. We live now in the middle ground, Lord Wizard. Ibile, in the West, and Allustria, in the East, have fallen to sin and the rule of Evil; but Merovence stands in the gap not yet fallen; and I think it shall not fall in our time."
"Who're you? Chamberlain?"
Sir Guy looked up, startled, almost shocked, and Matt wondered what nerve he'd hit. But Sir Guy recovered, shaking his head. "I am what you see, am I not? A companion to your self and the princess, to restore her to the throne. And I think we shall win. The Emperor may sleep a while yet."
Matt let his eyes stray to Alisande, frowning, lips pursed. "What happened after Hardishane died?"
"Oh, his heirs governed wisely and well; and none sought to rebel against them, for the deathless giant, Colmain, stood there to aid Hardishane's line; nor was there ever a doubt as to who was the true Emperor, for Colmain knew it of a certainty and would kneel only to the eldest of Hardishane's line."
Better than a polygraph. "With a setup like that, how could the Empire fall?"
"For want of an heir. The blood grows weak in the deepness of time and, after five hundred years, the last of Hardishane's line fell to death-though there were rumors.. ."
"Of a child who grew up in a provincial knight's household?"
"Aye, an obscure and unknown knight; none could say who. The child was of the female line, descended from Hardishane's daughter, not from his son; but withal, of Hardishane's blood. And there were rumors, too, of a child reared by peasants. He was of the blood royal, and the male line, too, though of a cadet branch. Yet he was never found, and Colmain would obey no man, but roamed through the land, constantly seeking a man or woman of Hardishane's blood."
Matt had a vision of at least forty feet of blood and bone, ploughing through fields and villages like an unprogrammed robot. "Would I be right in guessing that the country wasn't exactly in fine shape?"
"You would. 'Twas anarchy, in sum-every man's hand was turned against his neighbor. The barons ran riot through the land, each seeking to enlarge his own estates. Ibile and Allustria fell to rules of men that had no scruples and precious little good within them."
"And a fair amount of evil?"
"Aye, though- neither was wholly a tool of Hell. But he who sought to conquer Merovence was such a tool. He was a sorcerer, one Dimethtus, who rose in the West. He bound up a corps of lesser sorcerers and one small army; and with these and much fell magic, he defeated baron after baron; and county by county, the land fell to his rule. Then at last Colmain discovered a king.'."
"How much time are we talking about?"
"Some fifteen years. The hidden child had grown to a youth on the verge of manhood, and his name was Kaprin. He was of the line of Hardishane's daughter. Colmain came upon him at a castle in the eastern mountains and knew him straight away. He knelt to the boy, and Kaprin knew all at once who he truly was and what was demanded of him. He commanded the giant to destroy the evil sorcerer. The
n Colmain rose up and summoned the creatures who live by stone. Gnomes and dwarves obeyed his summons-yes, even trolls; and with this army and King Kaprin; he marched out against Dimethtus. Men of good heart rallied to King Kaprin's standard, and his army grew with every mile it marched. Then to him came another youth, a scholar from the Northern Isles, a doctor of the Arts, one Conor."
"A saint?" Matt inquired.
"Aye, as the fullness of time showed; but then they knew him only for a most powerful wizard."
"Yes," Matt said slowly, "there would have to be a wizard in there, if they were going up against a sorcerer."
Sir Guy nodded. "Heaven preserves the balance, Lord Wizard-always and ever."
A cold breath fanned Matt's spine and neck. "I do hope you're not trying to tell me I'm supposed to be playing Conor to Malingo's Dimethtus."
The amusement deepened briefly in Sir Guy's eyes; but he ignored the interruption. "The greater part of eastern Merovence quickly swore allegiance to King Kaprin; and he, with Conor's backing and Colmain's arm, marched west, to meet Dimethtus. They met with a clash of arms and howls of war; but Conor countered all Dimethtus's spells; and Kaprin, with the giant Colmain, sent the sorcerer's armies into flight. Thus did Dimethtus begin to believe the old maxim, which says that none can stand against a rightful king."
"He began to believe?"
"Oh, aye. None who hold strong opinions can be quickly swayed. He rallied up his forces and turned to battle Kaprin once again, and again, he lost and fled and rallied; he turned to battle and once more lost and fled and rallied. Thus it went, with Kaprin and his armies marching west, fighting for each mile of ground. At last the sorcerer was caught deep in the western mountains. There Dimethtus turned at bay, to wage a last death-or-victory battle 'gainst King Kaprin."
Sir Guy sighed, flinging his head back. "Great was that battle. Countless deeds of valor did King Kaprin and his knights enact. But in the hour of victory, Dimethtus's spell struck home past Conor's ward and changed the giant Colmain into stone. Yet in the doing, Dimethtus neglected to guard 'gainst Conor, and the wizard froze him in a timeless moment, while Kaprin led his armies raging through Dimethtus's host. At sunset, Kaprin held the field, with all his foemen slain or captured. Only then did Conor loose Dimethtus, and the sorcerer looked upon the field, knew his fate, and pleaded for salvation. Upon the word, demons thronged to claim his soul by his blood-contract. But Saint Conor held them all at bay, while a country priest hearkened to the long and foul tally of a sorcerer's sins. When he pronounced the words of absolution, the demons howled in despair and rage, retreating. Then Kaprin and his men could hang Dimethtus."
Her Majesty's Wizard Page 13
