Matt leaped down next to Alisande and fell to one knee, catching her up in his left arm, crushing her against his armor, his shield covering her back. She went rigid, staring up. He flipped up his visor. She recognized him and threw her arms around his neck in a hug that slammed the jaw of his helmet down onto her shoulder. "My wizard! You've come! I thought you had left me to perish!"
"No way, Lady." He braced himself and straightened, pulling her up, with him. "Come on, now. Get your leg under you. Back on your feet!"
"I cannot. The leg is broken," she gasped, her eyes closing as the pain of the leg shot through her. "Do not leave me, Matthew!"
"Not until you're healed and back on your feet again. I'll make it fast-very fast!"
"Nay, do not leave me! Never leave me!" She hung on his neck, weighing him down. "Swear you'll not leave me-ever!"
"You're the princess-the heart and head of this battle." Matt pulled back against her weight, studying the leg. "I've got to try healing you-right now!"
"Swear!" she cried.
"Quickly, Wizard!" Stegoman rumbled. "They mass upon us, now-a hundred knights to encircle us. By their numbers, they'll wear me down." He loosed another blast, sending the knights back again-but not far enough.
By now, Matt hoped, the two counteracting spells should have mostly dispersed-enough for at least magic on a personal level. He risked a glance again at the threatening knights, then decided to make his verse short and direct:
"By the love that is intended, Let this damsel's leg be mended."
Alisande gasped, her eyes startled. She leaned her weight on the leg tentatively, then stepped away, to stand straight and proud again. But her face was frozen, and she avoided looking at Matt.
"Aye, Lady! 'Tis even so!"
Matt turned to see Sayeesa toss her sword aside. There was a bitterness on her face that chilled him to the bone. She nodded grimly. "Aye, that did I seek, not knowing it-the fullness of love, not that of the body alone or the mere glamour of the forbidden. Thus I sought; thus was it denied." Her eyes sought Matt's for a moment; then she lifted her chin, her face resolute. "Yet even without it, I'll lend meaning to this life of mine. Spirit!"
"Aye, mistress!" A dot of light danced beside her.
"Come, then! Enter, and draw within me the power that is yours to sway!"
Her full lips parted, and the Demon darted into her mouth. She closed her lips and stood a moment, seeming to swell with power. Then she ripped off her postulant's habit and chain-mail shirt and cast them aside, revealing a sheer, short shift. Her body seemed to glow.
The knights froze, staring at her. So did Matt. She'd planned for this, somehow sensing it in her future!
Father Brunel shuddered, turning his eyes away. Sayeesa spared him a contemptuous glance, then moved toward the armored knights, her allure building with every step. Slowly, lazily, hips shifting in a magnetic rhythm, she strolled toward the wall of living steel, her eyes an open invitation to an army. She seemed to burn with desire. Matt felt an urge build in him and forced his eyes away.
A groan started somewhere in the ranks of the knights. One ripped off his helmet and tore at the fastenings of his armor, to be followed by another and another, until the air was filled with armor parts. They started toward her.
But her gaze strayed past them, seeking out a face toward the back of the press, pale and bearded, with a tall cap rising above the helmets. Malingo's eyes were riveted to her body; staring and sweating, he swallowed convulsively.
"Come!" she cried.
The sorcerer hung back a moment, torn between dread and desire. But he had kept himself from women too long to withstand Sayeesa, even in the midst of battle. He moaned and whipped out his sword, cutting at his own knights, slamming at them, roaring, "Fools! Churls! Garbage under my feet! Away! Let me to the woman!"
Startled, they pulled back, and Malingo surged toward Sayeesa.
She turned to Brunel. "Come, dog! We're alike enough for me to know. Your life, like mine, is fit only for atonement!"
The priest lifted his head, and Matt stared at him, shocked. The head that Brunei raised was only half human; ripples seemed to move through it as he fought the moonlight and the urge of his body. Then he saw Malingo hewing a way toward Sayeesa and understanding flooded his changing face.
With a howl, he flung off his cassock. His body shrank, and he fell to all fours, sprouting fur. Nose and mouth ran together, swelling out to a muzzle; his ears slid upward, growing points. A bush of a tail sprouted from his spine as his body contracted, writhing. Then it stilled, and a wolf leaped forward, snarling.
The enemy knights in the front rank gathered themselves suddenly, realizing it was a race between Malingo and them. They jumped toward Sayeesa, unarmored, hands reaching ...
The werewolf smashed into them, snarling in fury, leaping, whirling, and slashing at throats, crazed and berserk. Hardened knights screamed and drew back, arms over their faces. The wolf churned through their ranks, a tornado with teeth, clearing a lane to Malingo.
Sayeesa ran down that channel to the sorcerer, arms wide. She passed the wolf. It leaped to keep up with her.
Malingo reached for her hungrily. She slammed into him, and his arms closed around her, hands tearing at her shift. Her lips locked on his for a very deep, long kiss. Then she thrust him away, stepping back with a wild, mocking laugh.
Malingo stared, dumfounded. Then he went for her again.
The wolf howled and leaped for his throat.
Malingo drew out a curved knife that seemed to writhe in his hand, its blade glinting silver. But his movements were curiously slowed.
The wolf shocked into his chest, bowling him over, snarling and reaching for his throat. With obvious effort, Malingo drove the flickering knife into its chest. It leaped back with a groan, falling huddled to the ground, blood welling from its side, struggling to rise.
Malingo snarled and fumbled in his sleeve, pulling out a flaming sphere. He heaved it toward Sayeesa, crying, "Die, traitoress! What enchantment have you flung on me?"
Sayeesa stood, laughing in mockery. The fireball struck and exploded. Flames leaped high about her writhing figure as she fell.
Malingo labored to heave himself to his feet, then tottered and collapsed again. The werewolf began crawling toward him, moaning deep in its throat with each labored effort.
Malingo hefted the knife as though it weighed a ton. "My deathcurse upon him who stole my power! Yet I still have the power of hate, and I heap it upon him! May his flesh rot with pox, and his soul burn in Hell!"
Then the wolf struggled forward the last few inches and fell upon his chest. Malingo cried out, holding the knife so that the wolf landed upon its point. But the great jaws closed on his throat, tearing and -ripping. The sorcerer's cry turned to a gurgle as his blood fountained out. Then the gurgle ceased, and the blood slackened to a trickle.
The wolf lay on his chest, slowly changing back into the figure of Father Brunel.
The field was quiet. Knights and footmen stared, horrified,
The Demon had done it, Matt realized. When Sayeesa had passed it into the sorcerer with her kiss, it had drained Malingo's power-drained every bit of his energy. And the wolf had killed him. .
Then far away, but swelling close in an instant, came a wild, exultant screaming. The sky was suddenly filled with leather wings, glinting red scales, and wild, manic laughter. A horde of demons plunged down toward the sorcerer's body, screaming: "He is ours!" ... "He is carrion now for Hell!" ... "Claim his soul!" ... "Carry it to white fire, never dying..."
They churned down to engulf the body. But one scream of total despair rang louder than any of theirs, a human cry-the soul, realizing its doom.
The first demon touched the corpse, ripping it open.
Earth and sky boomed with titanic thunder. A vast, foul cloud boiled out of the body, stinking of sulfur and evil, to tower over the field, overshadowing all.
Matt felt his soul shrink gibbering into the middle of h
is being, trying to pull him in after it. Every human being on the field shrank down cowering, seeking to hide where there was no cover.
A voice boomed out of the cloud. "Bow, vermin, to a high lord of Hell!"
Above the armies, a huge devil began to form from the cloud. And its voice thundered about them.
"'Twas I made blood-contract with this puling sorcerer. My power was his in return for his soul and his willing acceptance that I dwell within him. Now I am loosed! Now I am master! Fall down and worship me, vermin, or die!"
A compelling impulse surged up in Matt, beyond his conscious control. He lifted his head and shouted,.
"Aid us now, preserving Power, Lest we die within the hour! Ancient patron, Kaprin's guard, Save us now, our only ward!"
"Who speaks?" the demon shrieked. "Cease those words!" A huge, shadowed tentacle extruded from the roiling cloud, arrowing down toward Matt.
A voice crashed through the valley. "Be still in your evil!"
Ail eyes snapped to the top of the northern cliff. There, glowing brightly, stood a stocky figure in a gilded chasuble, with an archbishop's cope and miter. He stood in a circle of light, but Matt made out the face.
"The priest who confessed me and Sayeesa!"
"Nay," Alisande gasped. "'Tis Saint Moncaire!"
"Who seeks to sully God's mead?" the saint thundered. "Go down whence you came! Vile demons, I have come to counter your power! Now I command you, by Him Whom I serve, to be gone!"
The cloud shuddered and quaked, then erupted in screaming imprecations in languages older than humanity's knowledge. The valley floor began to tremble.
Saint Moncaire held up his hand and began to chant in sonorous Latin. Flames pricked up all about the valley, rising, expanding, and dancing. Men shrank back, moaning in fear. The shrieking, ancient tongues rose to a piercing screech; but the Latin thundered over them, building and rising. The saint grasped his staff in both hands, lifting it above his head. Then he thundered, "In Nomine Domine!" and the staff snapped down to point at the demon. A ray of dazzling light lanced out into the depths of the Hell-cloud. It exploded with a roar that shook the valley.
Then, slowly, the light faded, and Matt's eyes adjusted until he could make out the field of huddled, trembling men. He looked out to see the tangled armies as they had been when the sorcerer died.
But in their midst was only a great, blackened ring with the crumpled, charred bodies of a man and a woman at its center.
With a despairing cry, Astaulf flung down his steel helmet and threw his sword into the charred ring. "Save my soul! Do what you will with my body, but grant me first a priest to shrive me!" He huddled on his knees, hands clasped, head bowed. "Never did I truly believe in Heaven or Hell until this moment! Now I know, and know the full foulness of my deeds! Draw and quarter me if you will; only allow me the Sacraments ere you deliver me up to the death I have earned!"
He buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
It was too abrupt, Matt thought-until he remembered that the influence of Evil was gone from the field and the presence of Good still lingered.
"Kill me, but save my soul from Hell!" a baron cried, casting down his sword and falling to his knees.
"Let me die in the Church!" another begged,
Matt stood watching as enemy after enemy surrendered, until the whole army of foemen was kneeling, heads bowed.
"Will you accept their surrenders, Lady?" Sir Guy asked gravely from beside Alisande.
She glanced at the Black Knight, then looked at the enemy, nodding. Her back straightened and her chin lifted. "Your surrenders are accepted," she called. "Dwarves, gather their swords!"
A single, joyful shout of triumph rose from the allied army. Then the dwarves scuttled over the field, gathering weapons.
"You must pronounce sentence upon them now, Highness." The abbess stepped up to Alisande, her gaze severe. "You have won the day. Prounounce their fates."
"Nay," Alisande answered, with equal firmness. "I have not the right. I am not yet crowned queen, and none here has the authority to serve me so."
"But one has," Colmain rumbled. He strode across the field toward Sir Guy.
"To be sure. One has." The knight skipped aside from the giant's path and lifted his head. A single name seemed to ring from his lips across the valley. "Moncaire!"
"Aye, Sir Guy de Toutarien." The voice spoke from above, and Matt turned to see the saint again standing atop the cliff, lambent in his halo. "'Tis meet that the princess should be crowned queen. Let the princess ascend to me. And do you, Sir Guy, attend and aid."
Alisande took the arm that Sir Guy offered, and together they began moving across the field. As Matt stared, he saw that a trail, steep but climbable, ascended to the top of the cliff. Had it been there before? He could not remember. But with the help of the knight, the princess began climbing, until she stood before the saint.
Moncaire's voice was deep and resonant, though he seemed to speak quietly. "You will serve as witness, Sir Guy. And who has the crown?"
For once, the knight's face registered total surprise. He stared about helplessly. Then his eyes turned to the Lord Wizard.
Matt saw that the saint was also looking at him, and he nodded-, hastily shaping words into a spell:
"For the ceremony here,
Let the royal crown appear
From wherever it now lies. Make it just the proper size; Have it polished squeaky clean, Suitable to grace a queen."
Sir Guy grabbed at the object that appeared in the air. The crown shone brilliantly clean in the light of Moncaire's halo.
Saint Moncaire faced the forces on the field, and his voice lifted to reach the farthest man. "This night it is granted to me to give you a queen." Then he spoke to Alisande. "Kneel, daughter."
Poised now and certain, she knelt before the saint, while Sir Guy held up the crown for all to see. The soldiers were silent, eyes locked on the golden bauble. Then the knight gave the crown to Moncaire, who blessed it and turned to the princess.
"Do you, Alisande, swear to guard this land, to rule it for the welfare of all people within it? And do you swear to rule for Good and God, abhoring Evil all your days?"
"I so swear," she answered. "And may God strike me dead if I forget my vow!"
The saint set the crown gently on her head and stepped back. "Then rise and rule, Queen Alisande of Merovence!"
The soldiers shouted their acclamation as she rose, and the saint retreated farther.
A moment later, when Matt turned to look for him, there was no sign of the saint.
CHAPTER 19
The last few hours of night had been ones of fevered activity. The surviving Moncaireans had busied themselves in shriving the repentant enemy. Men had begun building a crude platform on the field and setting up the captured tent of Astaulf for the new queen. She had retired into it with Sir Guy and a few others, promising to give judgment in the morning.
Matt had not been among her councilors. She seemed to avoid him. But he had found work enough to fill his time, returning the Greeks to whatever time and place had been their origin and fulfilling his promise to the ogres.
Now the false dawn lighted an orderly field. The severely wounded, bandaged as well as they might be by the nuns, lay in rows at the side. Some still moaned, but most lay quiet in enchanted sleep that Matt had administered.
Beyond them, in every direction, were mounds of freshly turned earth, some marked with rough, improvised crosses, some not marked at all.
Those with lesser wounds or none knelt in ordered lanes, filling the center of the valley, their heads bowed over clasped hands. The defeated were in the middle, under the watchful eyes of soldiers. That was a mere precaution; their elbows were immobilized by loops of rope that passed behind their backs, and their wrists were bound before them. Their feet were hobbled.
Astaulf and his barons knelt in chains; they seemed to listen most devoutly of all to the abbot of the Moncaireans, who stood on the crude p
latform before a rough field altar, his stole about his neck. As he finished the cleansing and veiling of the chalice, the monks and nuns chanted the Requiem. The high funeral mass, begun by moonlight, was ending by early dawn.
Matt knelt behind the barons, ready with his sword and spells for the slightest misstep and glad he wasn't needed.
During Communion, the priests had distributed the Eucharist impartially to victor and vanquished alike. At peace with God, Astaulf and his barons knelt, seeming not to care what happened to their bodies. The depth of faith that could grant such tranquility had hit Matt more and more heavily as the Mass progressed, until he knelt now in awe of the meaning of the ancient ritual. He was realizing anew the significance and depth of the symbols, realizing that in this world, each symbolic movement and Scriptural reference was not an empty repetition of a memorized formula, but part of the most powerful spell of all, affecting lives past and present, and changing the world about them at the same time that it held all constant.
The abbot turned to the armies, spreading his hands. "Ite, Missa est." Go, you are sent forth; go, the Mass is ended.
With the rest of the impromptu congregation, Matt replied,
"Deo gratias."
The abbot bowed his head, folding his hands, and turned to take up the veiled chalice and the altar stone. He went down the steps slowly while the choir sang a dirge. Two soldiers mounted the platform and folded the camp altar, then took it down and away.
Suddenly the choir voices broke into the triumphant notes of the Gloria. As the hymn reached its peak, Alisande mounted the stairs, regal in a purple robe contrived from Astaulf's apparel,, her golden hair graced with the crown. She stepped to the center of the platform. The choir soared into a fervent Alleluia. Their voices rang through the valley, then stilled.
The men below seemed frozen, motionless and silent.
From below came the prompting voice of Sir Guy. "Judgment!" he cried. "Let there be judgment upon the foul traitors-Astaulf and his barons!"
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