Her Majesty's Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "But how knew you..." The abbot's face froze; he shook his head sharply. "Do not say; I do not wish to know."

  The dust began to thin.

  "Ready your archers, Lord Abbot!" Matt called. "The enemy's realized he has to dump the dust! I can stop the wind in a minute or two!"

  The abbot bawled orders as the dust dissipated; the last few tag ends disappeared. Matt heaved a sigh of relief, and called,

  "The dust is fled, our soldiers chilled; The howling wind our ears has filled. Let us have a bit of peace; Let the western wind now cease!"

  The wind slackened and died-and fog rolled in, worse than London with a three-day calm. Thick, opaque fog settled over the battlements in a few seconds, hiding Sir Guy five feet away. Matt froze, alarm thrilling through him as he saw it hit. A freezing thought nudged his brain. Just before the fog wrapped around him, he took the deepest breath he could and hid his face in the crook of his arm. Around him, he heard men shout, then the clank and thud as bodies hit the stonework. Men choked and hacked as if they were trying to cough up their entrails. This fog wasn't just water vapor; it was a gas attack.

  Matt spent all his breath in four lines:

  "Western wind, return to save us! Restore the breath you but now gave us! Blast this fog from off our wall! Rid us of this reeking pall!"

  Then he clamped his jaws shut, trying not to breathe, as the Western wind howled in, hurling the fog out toward the enemy, and revealing the malvoisin, only a few yards from the wall. A knight stood in the doorway at the top. His knees buckled as a tag end of fog coiled into his helmet, then he fell forward, hurtling down. The enemy line filled with a single, roaring cough as the gas attack hit. But even as it struck, the fog thinned, faded, disappeared-and the malvoisin rolled forward the last few feet, almost touching the wall itself.

  The boarding ramp fell down, and arrows began to plummet from the top. Swords rang, footmen fell, and the parapet ran red.

  The defenders were forced onto the defensive, being driven back toward the stairway, though every inch was bought with blood.

  Now, what would stop these enemy soldiers? Most of them were here only because they'd been forced to it. What could buy them off?

  Gold, of course. Matt shaped his spell on that idea.

  "For our foemen, I am told, All that glitters now is gold. Oft a man his life hath sold One doubloon but to enfold. Monkish knights, of virtue bold, Swords and armor still may hold!"

  The attackers shouted in horror as every, bit of steel and iron about them turned to gold-pure gold. The Moncairean knights and soldiers shouted triumph as their steel cleaved through golden armor like hot knives through margarine. The attackers howled and turned, trying to jam back into the malvoisin en masse. But the ramp was narrow, and there were six feet of open space between malvoisin and wall, enough for ten or twenty men to plummet screaming to their deaths before the last footman could scramble back over the ramp. Footmen braced their pikes and heaved, pushing the malvoisin away from the wall; and knights stalked the battlements again, intoning conditional absolution and plunging their swords into the wounded.

  The sounds of a howling, cursing brawl came from the malvoisin, like a congregation of fishwives. The whole structure trembled.

  "What broil is that?" the abbot growled.

  "The enemy." Sir Guy grinned. "They squabble over treasure. Yet 'ware; look down." He pointed. Matt, and the abbot craned their necks, looking down over the wall, to see fresh troops running into the bottom door of the malvoisin.

  "Max!" Matt bellowed, and the Demon hung before him in the air. "Aye, Wizard?"

  "Upgrade the entropy on that firetrap." Matt pointed at the malvoisin.

  "Aye," the Demon chortled, and winked out.

  "What was that spell?" the abbot demanded.

  "Watch." Matt's eyes glittered.

  The malvoisin gave a long, preliminary groan; then, with a roar, the whole structure fell apart, beams crumbling into dust as they fell.

  "Dry rot," Matt informed the abbot. "Accelerated."

  A ten-foot heap of wood dust lay before the gate, filled with struggling, shouting troops.

  "Scald!" the abbot called out, granite-faced. "Wash this dust away!"

  Two knights upended a hundred-gallon kettle. Boiling water gouted down into the dust-heap. The enemy soldiers screamed, leaping out of sudden mud, landing running. But some of them only made about ten feet before they fell; and some never even got out of the dust pile.

  "Archers!" the abbot bellowed, and arrows leaped down from the battlements to turn the fallen into pincushions, while the abbot recited the conditional absolution.

  "A horrible end," he growled then, "but we could not have them there, upon our gate. Yet most shall live."

  The last few golden-armored men staggered back into the enemy lines. They'd barely gotten there when knots of howling struggle erupted all along the line as footmen and knights alike fought over golden armor, swords, and pike heads.

  "'Twill be some time ere they restore order." The abbot leaned back, lifting his helmet to wipe his brow. "We have some breathing space, I think. Brother Thomas! What's the hour?"

  "The eighth of the night, milord," a brown-robe shouted back.

  "An hour left till dawn." The abbot secured his helmet again. "Prepare yourselves, good knights! They'll not give us overlong to rest!"

  But it was long-ten minutes went by, then fifteen.

  Matt bit his lip. The enemy only had forty-five minutes left. What were they cooking up that took so long and could be worth the time when there was so little of it left?

  His answer appeared, only a hundred feet away from the wall, diminished by distance-but her body glowed in the dark, and every detail was crystal-clear, the more so because she was nude.

  All the defenders stared, transfixed.

  Matt couldn't see her face too well, but her body was the most voluptuous he'd ever seen, fairly reeking of desire and secret, almost unbearable, pleasures. She stood turned three-quarters toward the monastery, long black hair flowing down over shoulder and breast, looking up at the wall sidelong.

  Then most of the knights tore their eyes away, squeezing them shut, bowing their heads over clasped hands, and mouthing prayers as if they were racing to see who could finish the Rosary first.

  "Lord above!" A black-bearded knight near Matt shuddered. "'Tis Anastaze -- she whom I wronged, who slew herself, ere I came here repentant! Dear Lord, what have I done, to put her in the mouth of Hell?"

  "'Tis not your lass!" the abbot boomed, clasping the man's shoulder. "'Tis a succubus from Hell! Or a foul glamour, made to look like one you knew! Up, away! Get you to the chapel! Pray! You cannot stand 'gainst this enemy!"

  The knight rose and turned, stumbling past the abbot to the stairway.

  "Mother of God!" a young knight at Matt's right breathed. "Lord above, save me!" His eyes fairly bulged.

  "Why, then!" Sir Guy clapped him on the shoulder. "You came a virgin to this place? Nay, be proud! It lends you greater power, in such a war as this! Come, lad, shield your eyes and pray!

  There's nothing nearer Heaven than a true, good woman; but there's nothing farther than yon succubus!"

  Succubi, he should have said-for there were many of them now, sauntering past the wall in a languorous parade.

  The young knight hid his eyes and began to pray.

  "Hold firm!" The abbot clasped his shoulder. "Each temptation refused gives greater strength to withstand the next!"

  Matt looked up; all along the battlements, odd knights were stumbling toward the stairways-more casualties than any other single attack had taken. But most of them watched without flinching, with chilled eyes. Each man's lips moved in silent syllables of prayer; they stood with arrows nocked, or swords half-drawn, charged with tension, waiting for an enemy to strike at.

  But the auxiliaries were another matter.

  "By Heaven!" a baron's knight gasped, "see you not yon damsel? Nay, I've never seen a wench so fair! Come, we
must have at them!"

  "Hold!" The nearest Moncairean clasped the knight's forearm in a grip of iron. "They are but fell illusions!"

  "Then let me die in dreams," a footman cried. ,"Nay, brothers! See you not those lips, those hips, that tumbling hair? What beauty's there!

  "I must have one!" another gasped, and started toward the outer wall at a stumbling ran. The Moncaireans turned to catch him. Hoarse shouts sounded all along the wall as a hundred others followed his lead. Shouting erupted, and the ringing of steel on steel.

  "Nay, nay!" cried one lay knight, twisting and writhing in the monk-knights' grasp. "I must to them, must touch them! Nay, my manhood will mock me till my death, if I go not to them!"

  "And your death will mock you to your manhood," the Moncairean growled. "You forget a hundred feet of empty space beyond that wall."

  "Then let me die in ecstasy!"

  "And fry in Hell," the other Moncairean grunted. "Yon's a succubus."

  "Men!"

  The single word cut through the clamor, flat and harsh, charged with woman's most stinging contempt. The fighters looked up, startled.

  Sayeesa and Alisande stood at the base of the tower, bright in the moonlight. They sauntered toward the soldiers, looking at the knights and footmen with sneering contempt.

  "How is it every man's a dog, when moonlight and a figure fair play upon his mind?" Sayeesa demanded.

  "'Tis true," Alisande agreed. "Their tongues grow thick; they sweat and drool like feeble dolts."

  "Aye. They withstand fire and steel, arrows, and the hail of bolts-but show them once a woman's form, and they'll crawl upon their bellies to be near her."

  Were they out of their minds? They were fairly daring the soldiers to try rape!

  Then Matt looked at the faces about him and saw them darkening with sullen anger-but looking at Sayeesa and Alisande, not the succubi. He looked at the women again. They were both beautiful in the torchlight; but the beauty was in their faces, for their bodies were draped and hidden. Somehow, neither looked the least bit sexually attractive at the moment. Even Sayeesa seemed to carry a frigid shield before her. Anger and scorn brightened her face, but the anger was cold, and all that radiated from her was chill. They were rousing anger, but also stilling lust. Matt found himself remembering that this was Sayeesa's area of power; but he hadn't known she could quench lust as well as she could raise it.

  "Let them say what they will," one man-at-arms growled. "If I must choose 'twixt their like, and the ones without the walls, I'll go to those outside-or call them in!"

  He scrambled to his feet and ran for the stairs. A dozen men shouted approval and ran after him. The rest snapped out of their dazes and made flying grabs at the renegades, who twisted aside and ran down the stairs, heading for the gate.

  "Stop them!" the abbot bellowed. "Slay them as they fly, if you must! They must not near that gate!"

  The porters sprang to readiness, whipping out their swords, and nearby brown-robes caught up staves.

  "Max!" Matt bellowed. "Stop 'em!"

  The Demon appeared between the two bodies, then exploded into a sheet of flame, filling the stairway just in front of the charging renegades.

  The leader shrank back against the men behind him. They clambered back up the stairway as a party of Moncaireans clattered down to meet them, grappling their former fellows. There was a brief, chaotic clamor, shouting and the clash of steel; then it was stilled, as the Moncaireans dragged unconscious renegades off to a lockable room.

  "The spell's not broken yet!"

  Matt looked up, startled by the fury in Sayeesa's voice.

  "See you not what happens there?" she demanded, pointing.

  Matt looked out over the wall and saw some of the things the succubi were doing. He also heard the harsh, wet hiss of in-drawn breath all along the wall.

  "These men are goodly and strong," Sayeesa snapped, "yet they are only men, and many will not withstand that sight! Hide them, Wizard, ere your army's broken!"

  "Uh-yeah." Matt pulled his eyeballs back into his head with an almost-audible snap and nodded, catching his breath. "You're right. Yeah. Sure.

  "Dust, that came at evil's call, Return now here to hide our wall, Churning high and thick and deep, Hovering near to hide our keep."

  It boiled in, filling the air just beyond the battlements, thick enough to hide the succubi from sight. The defenders shook themselves, seeming to come out of a trance.

  "Nay! What hell-brought spell was that which almost sucked us to our doom?" one gasped.

  "Cover your mouths," Matt called. "The wind might blow our way!" To Sayeesa, he asked, "How long till the sorcerers get the idea, do you think?"

  "Not long," she replied. "They'll forego them spell, when they see there is no profit to it."

  Double sticks thudded against the outer wall, and mail-clad men scrambled up over the battlements.

  "Invaders!" Matt bellowed, and the cry ran along the wall as knights lugged out swords and footmen hefted their pikes, turning on the attackers with a roar of delight; they were charged with tension and needed an outlet. The parapet turned into churning chaos, filled with the clangor of swords and the bawling of soldiers. But attackers kept pouring in, and the garrison was weakened.

  "We must die in this last hour!" The princess loomed up next to Matt, her sword a flickering death about her. "Can you not expel this army of sorcery?"

  "I was thinking along that line." Matt wielded his sword, blocking blows, feeling the charge of spiritual power that had been building in him as more and more knights went to the chapel.

  "Let the dust die down and cease;

  Let us have a morning's peace!

  Where the dust no longer flies,

  Let a light to Heaven rise!

  May St. Elmo lend his presence

  With his spectral phosphorescence!"

  As the dust dwindled and disappeared, the battlements began to glow with pale fire, brightening till it nearly hurt the eyes. All the soldiers froze in superstitious terror, with oaths and cries of fear.

  "It's cold fire," Matt cried. "It will not hurt the godly!"

  The Moncaireans came out of their trance with a shout. Discipline took over as the abbot bawled, "Attack!" The, soldier-monks went to it with a roar. The attackers backed away in fear, until they realized their choice was between St. Elmo's fire and certain death from steel. Then they clambered back into the battle, but it was too late. The Moncaireans had gained momentum, and the enemy soldiers fought in fear. Bodies flew from the wall; men screamed and clutched the steel that bit them. From there on, it was a cross between a slaughter and a clean-up session.

  Matt decided not to give the sorcerers a fighting chance. He took a breath, searching his memory and adapting:

  "Let our foes turn about and all look to the east, Ere the dawn shall emerge from the dark; For 'tis there will be found a most curious beast, Best known as the fabulous Snark. But, oh, beamish foeman, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!"

  Nothing seemed to happen, and Matt felt a stab of dismay.

  Then he realized that this spell might take a few minutes to work.

  Soldiers were pouring down the scaling ladders! The battlements were almost clear, except for the dead and wounded. The Moncaireans began to push the scaling ladders over with bellows of joy, and the attackers were running back to their own battle line, while their captains bawled threats, trying to rally another charge. Troops being shoved forward met fleeing troops returning; they clashed and churned into swirls of shouting confusion.

  Then a high, piercing shriek wafted dimly over the noise of battle-men in absolute terror. Matt's eyes snapped to the far side of the enemy army. Something had taken a nice, semicircular bite out of the back of the enemy line-no corpses were left, just empty grass where a hundred men had stood.

  The Snark, it seemed, was a Boojum!

  Howling shrieks of fear and co
nfusion filled the field, and the whole attacking army turned into one vast-muddle, while the silent semicircle expanded and kept expanding.

  Then the growth stopped. Somehow, the enemy sorcerers had managed to stop the Boojum without knowing exactly what they were fighting.

  Matt tried another spell:

  "Let us have a western wind. Blowing toward the ones who've sinned. Let it carry o'er the field, Till our enemy does yield, A scent that they all will be rapt in. Pure skunk oil-butyl mercaptan!"

  The wind sprang up, but even so, the stench rising to the battlements from the enemy army was disconcerting. Below, the whole field was a vast sea of coughing and choking.

  "They are beaten, Wizard!" a spark hummed at Matt's shoulder.

  "For a moment. And it's almost daylight. But I'd like to stack the deck a little ... Know what metal fatigue is?"

  "Metal crystalizing, hardening until it falls apart at the slightest blow."

  "Right. Suppose you give every bit of enemy metal a case of such fatigue?" Matt suggested.

  "'Tis done!" The Demon winked out.

  That would destroy their weapons. Sorcerers could whip up new ones quickly. But there were other things they might not be able to counteract so easily, knowing nothing of microbiology. Matt considered that, then decided to add a bit of comfort for his side:

  "They'll breakfast when the sun has risen: At eventime they'll eat again. Salted through the meat and grain Pray let there be some botulism."

  Then he added a second spell:

  "The wind has blown, the army's stilled; Now their taste for battle's killed. So let the wind die down to calm; Let us know the morning's balm."

  The wind slackened and died; the odor of skunk reeked, but was only an inconvenience on the battlements. The enemy army still churned; it would be some time before they managed to restore order.

  The sun's edge swelled above the horizon.

  A shout of triumph rose from the monastery walls. Knights embraced; footmen danced jigs. The abbot stood, seeming to rise a little as relief filled him-relief and, Matt saw, something more, almost awe. And as the din of celebration slackened, he began to chant:

  "Praise God above; whose mighty mace Banished night by His stern Grace! God of Battles, praise we sing, Who has wrought this wondrous thing, Out of night, and reeking breath, Saving us from steel-clad Death!"