The Oathbound Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  The duke looked up at him, eyes narrowed, and nodded to a torturer. A hand slapped a wad of cloth over Fadecourt's mouth and nose; another set the glowing iron to his upper arm. The cyclops' body bucked, but he stifled his scream.

  Yverne, still weeping and faced away from Fadecourt, had not even noticed.

  "Nay, certes you cannot take up the weight of such a task," the duke soothed. "Poor lass, I shall aid you! Only cede your lands to me, and I shall govern them for you, well and wisely!"

  "Never!" Yverne's voice was raw with tears.

  The duke's eyes sparked, but he said, " 'Never' is a great expanse of time, damsel. Your people suffer, even now, from the ravages of war. Can they wait your leisure to take up their governance?"

  "Be mindful," Sir Guy said in a low voice that nonetheless seemed to fill the chamber, "mindful that he may lie. Your father may still be alive, damsel, yet so badly hurted as not to be able to govern. It may be your regency you cede to him, not—"

  "Be still!" the duke snapped, and daggers stabbed Sir Guy's chest muscles. His jaw clenched against a howl of pain, and a beefy hand covered his lips.

  But his words had done their work. Hope glowed in Yverne's eyes, and she said, "Never, vile duke! Torture me as you will, I shall never yield my father's poor peasants and rich lands unto your cruelty! Far better that I should suffer for them!"

  "Then be assured that you will!" Bruitfort bellowed in sudden rage. "Your father truly is dead! He died at these hands, mine own, wielding the instruments of agony—but the fool refused to cede his lands! The same fate awaits you!"

  Pale and trembling with rage, Yverne snapped, "I can do no less than to follow the example of so worthy a sire!"

  "Then you shall have the opportunity!" the duke thundered. But he calmed just as quickly as he had flared, the anticipation of depraved pleasures filling his face with unholy glee. "The power you deny me, I shall rip from you! If I cannot have the fullness of power from your lands and people, I shall have it by debasing and corrupting you! Aye, ceding your people to me would have been the ultimate abasement—but I shall do nearly as well, by ripping your virginity from you and grinding you down by pain and degradation, till you beg me to have my will, if only I will lessen your agony!" Spittle drooled from the corner of his mouth again. "I shall break your soul and drink its strength with mine! Yet we shall begin this feast of torture with the hors d'oeuvre of the knight's pain; you shall join me in watching as I ply him with agony so exquisite that he, even he, shall regale me with his screams!"

  Sir Guy threw off the hand that gagged him with a mighty heave and cried, "Even if he should wring wailing from me, damsel, pay it no heed!" Then the torturer backhanded him across the mouth, and it was Yverne who cried out, "Foul villain! Do you think to ruin a man so goodly?"

  "Easily," the duke sneered. "Think you his God will save him? Nay, for He only works through human agents, and I can best any of those! If you wish to free him from the throes of excruciation, you may cry out, at any moment, that you cede your lands to me. Yet be assured that if you truly summon the fortitude to remain silent until the Black Knight is dead, you will take his place on the rack!"

  Matt couldn't take it any longer. He thought with all the energy he could,

  Both back and side, go bare, go bare,

  Let chains and ropes go slack,

  Until each hemp or metal strand

  Detach, upon the ground he back!

  Yverne's bonds broke, and she leaped off the pallet, filled with sudden vigor, even as Sir Guy and Fadecourt sprang up, leaping upon the torturers and wrenching instruments from them, then striking them down.

  The duke shouted something in a corrupted form of Latin that Matt couldn't quite make out; it had something to do with laying low his enemies and binding them fast. Fadecourt, Sir Guy, and Yverne fainted dead away, and as Matt felt the dark tide pressing in, he recited inside his head,

  Gaudeamus igitur, Iuvenesdum sumus!

  Gaudeamus igitur, Iuvenesdum sumus!

  Vivat amicus meam, Non habebit humus!

  For good measure, he repeated in English:

  Therefore let us all rejoice,

  While we're young and sprightly.

  Long live all these friends of mine,

  May earth not clutch them tightly!

  But the unspoken verse was much weaker than those spoken aloud. The dark tide did lessen, and Matt struggled against it long enough to hear the duke say, "Bind the knight again—and throw the cyclops and the trickster into our most foul dungeon cell, bound and gagged. We shall have our pleasure of them, when we are done with the maiden. Go, begone!"

  "The wizard wakes!" a voice cried behind Matt.

  Bruitfort spun, swinging a truncheon. It cracked down on Matt's skull, and the dark tide bore him away.

  CHAPTER 22

  About Fates

  Matt landed hard, but Fadecourt bounced—partly because his head landed on Matt's belly. Matt said, "Oof!" and Fadecourt bellowed, "You loathsome villains!" as he leaped to his feet. "Nay, unbind mine hands, and I shall—"

  The door slammed shut, laughter echoed away, and they were left in the dark.

  "Toadies!" Fadecourt raged. "Vile excuses for humanity! Nay, do not tell me, I know—they but did as they were bid, and would have been made to suffer an they had not."

  Matt gargled something through his gag.

  "Yet an 'twere no more than that, they would not have grinned like japing apes, nor have taken such pleasure in so cruelly hurling us within! So do not tell me of their goodness."

  Matt tried to make agreeing noises.

  "How is that?" Fadecourt's voice became louder; he must have turned toward Matt Without light, it was rather hard to see. "Ah. Thou canst tell me naught, canst thou? Nay, not with that gag...Faugh! Away, thou crawling ferleigh!" There was a small, meaty thud accompanied by an outraged squealing, then a splatting noise off in the dark.

  "Begone! You, and you and you!" Fadecourt stamped with vigor.

  Rats! Matt scrambled to his feet—as well as he could, with his hands tied behind him.

  " 'Ware the roof!" Fadecourt cried. " 'Tis scarce high enough for one of my stature, and for you—"

  Something cracked against the top of Matt's head, and he slumped back to the floor, senses reeling.

  "...it would be a danger," Fadecourt finished. "Ay de mi! My regrets, Lord Matthew! I should have thought..."

  Matt gargled something very nasty as he rolled up to a groggy sitting position.

  I deserve no such malediction!" Fadecourt protested. "I was but tardy in my warning, not omitting entirely."

  Matt mumbled as loudly as he could, beginning to feel a little frantic.

  "What...? Oh, the gag. Aye, I would loose it an I could, Lord Wizard—but they have bound my arms in some manner of leather casings, like to gloves without fingers. I cannot aid thee, unless I can..." His voice broke off into a straining groan that rose up the scale till it broke in a massive gasp. " 'Tis no use; they have manacled my wrists with a steel most excellent. Nay, I fear I cannot loosen your restraints, Lord Matthew."

  Matt made a noise that he hoped sounded philosophical and set himself to working out an escape spell. The duke struck him as the muscle-bound sort who had taken up magic as if he were learning to use a new weapon, rather than trying to discover how and why it worked—sort of a consumer's view of sorcery, without bothering to look in the owner's manual. He probably hadn't bothered putting a containment spell on his dungeon, either; he was the type to trust in metal and rope.

  Blest be the tie that binds

  This cloth that I taste of,

  And falls from off my jaw

  So that the wad inside may move.

  The knot started to loosen itself before he finished the second line. It must have been the word blest—nothing in Duke Bruitfort's castle wanted to receive a blessing. Matt worked his jaws, pushing with his tongue until the wad of cloth fell out. It had never felt so good to close his mouth. Still painfu
l, but a definite improvement.

  "I would I could help you," Fadecourt mourned.

  Matt worked up some saliva, moistened his lips, and croaked, "You don't need to."

  "What in Heaven's name...?" Fadecourt cried, and Matt felt magical forces enwrap him. "Shh! Don't talk about anything holy! We don't want to attract attention!"

  "You can talk! But how?"

  "Magic." Matt dismissed the issue with an airy toss of the head that went unseen—and shot another wave of pain through his skull. "But I think we need our hands free, too, and I'd rather not use another spell if I can avoid it. Max?"

  "Aye, Wizard?" The Demon was there before him, a spark amazingly bright in the total darkness. Matt's eyes had adjusted to the dimness; he could see Fadecourt clearly in Max's glow. "Well, you've taken care of one of our problems already. Think you could crystallize the metal in our manacles, too?"

  "Can a cat make kittens?" Max scoffed. "Only hold your places a moment." He shot over to Fadecourt and sank behind his back.

  "What does he?" the cyclops demanded.

  "Magic," Matt explained again. "Just hold still."

  The Demon rose back into sight. " 'Tis done."

  Matt nodded. "Give a good yank, Fadecourt."

  The cyclops grunted, his shoulders, chest, and upper arms all bulging. A metallic crack sounded, and he brought his freed wrists up in front of his single eye, staring in astonishment.

  "Don't know your own strength, do you? Okay, Max—try mine."

  "Even so." The Demon zipped around behind Matt. A moment later, he sang, "Pull!"

  Matt yanked as hard as he could, and the manacles clanked, but didn't loosen. "How about dissipating the molecular bonds?"

  "Well thought; this primitive iron is far from pure."

  Suddenly, Matt's hands were free. He lifted his arms, staring at the clean wrists. "I didn't say to dissipate them all the way."

  "You did not say to stop," Max pointed out.

  "Wise. Well!" Matt rubbed his freed hands. "Let me see what I can do about those mittens, Fadecourt." He untied the thongs around Fadecourt's wrists. The cyclops groaned, and Matt was appalled at the darkness of the skin he revealed on the hand that was not stone.

  "Now we can get down to some real mischief! Which reminds me—I wonder what happened to Puck?"

  "I should think he pursued the better course of valor and decamped when the knight was captured."

  "Makes sense—but that means he probably has a grudge against the duke and his men."

  "Have you any fault to find with that?"

  Matt shook his head. "Sounds fine. Which means we should be seeing him making trouble pretty soon now."

  "Aye, but we'll not be told of it."

  "Until it reaches disaster proportions, anyway." Matt rose to a crouch, prowling about the cell. "Wonder what happened to Stegoman? We sure could use his light right now...Hey!" He looked up, appalled at a thought. "You don't suppose they really managed to catch him, do you?"

  Fadecourt shook his head with conviction. "I had thought of it as soon as the duke said it, but knew it was not so. Even drunken, the dragon would be a formidable enemy—and it was by force of arms they captured us, not by sorcery."

  "Good thought." Matt nodded, relieved. "The sorcery was only to suck us into the trap—but this military duke preferred to do the actual take by force of arms. And Stegoman is at least as dangerous drunken as sober." He didn't mention the dragon's tendency to blast at random when he was intoxicated—when he was surrounded by enemies, it really didn't matter much.

  "What do you seek?"

  "This!" Matt lifted a stick of rotted wood. "Max, could you set this flaming? Then you won't have to hover just to give us light."

  " 'Tis no trouble to me—but if you wish it, why not?" The Demon floated over to the stick, touched its end, and it flared.

  "That's fine. Thanks." Matt lifted the stick, squinting against the sudden glare. "Who'd have thought to have found a piece of wood in a dump like this? I could have sworn they wouldn't even have had furniture. Just a shot in the dark, looking for it."

  " 'Tis not a stick," Fadecourt pointed out. "You hold the leg bone of a man."

  "lyuch!" Matt nearly dropped the limb. "How come it burns so well?"

  "Because it is so dry." Max's tone was tinged with contempt. "Still, I did have need of high temperature to kindle it."

  Matt debated with himself and decided he needed light more than the previous owner needed a decent burial. He said a quick mental apology to the departed spirit, then looked around at the floor, trying not to notice the rest of the skeleton. He was just in time to see rat tails scurrying away from the light. He shuddered and knelt down with a sigh of relief, letting muscles knotted from crouching relax. He winced at the stab of pain. The muscles would stop hurting soon enough—but how about his feet?

  "Call at need." Max winked out.

  "Need," Matt croaked, "but not of his type of services. Fadecourt, I think we might see about tending a few wounds, here."

  "Indeed," the cyclops agreed, "though your feet must hurt so badly, I marvel you can think at all."

  "A wizard's gotta do what a wizard's gotta do," Matt groaned, and chanted,

  "Within each wounded heel and sole

  Starts the healing of the whole.

  Knit up the epidermis neat,

  So I won't fall into defeat."

  The pain disappeared so suddenly that he groaned in relief.

  "Are you not well?" the cyclops asked anxiously.

  "Oh, yeah! Just fine. Give me ten minutes to work up my courage, and I'll even try standing on them."

  "I rejoice to hear it." But Fadecourt still looked concerned. "Yet what of Narlh?"

  Matt shook his head. "I don't think he ever came down—at least, not anywhere near us. Sure, the duke might have caught him—but so might any other sorcerer. I have a sneaking suspicion that he figured out he'd lost us and flew for the nearest clear air."

  "In any event, the monsters have escaped him," Fadecourt agreed. "Had they not, the duke would have shown us their heads, to afright us."

  Matt nodded. "It would be just like him. Even if we didn't scare, he'd have a blast watching our grief."

  Fadecourt's jaw hardened. "If they could escape, may not we? Wizard, I implore you, find us a passage! Exert your powers to the utmost! Expend your greatest efforts! The damsel lies in torment! We must to her!"

  "Well, it might be easier to bypass the walls than to tunnel through them." Matt frowned and tried the verse he had used to escape from the dungeon in which Alisande had been imprisoned.

  "I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

  Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows..."

  He had scarcely begun chanting before he began to feel inimical magical forces gathering about him.

  He strained, sweat starting from his brow—but the web of force held him tight. He relaxed, shaking his head. "He did put an enclosure spell on this dungeon."

  "Can you not break it?" Fadecourt asked anxiously.

  "Let me try a little better verse.

  "And thus when they appeared at last,

  And all my bonds were cast aside,

  I asked not why, and reck'd not where,

  So it was far outside!"

  Again, the magical field pressed around him, grating on his nerves, raising the hairs on the back of his neck—but there was a greater sense of tension, and he felt the strain physically. Byron's verse was working better than his adaptation of Shakespeare, but not better enough.

  "Can you not shift us?"

  Matt shook his head. "It's very heavily enchanted. This is no amateur job. Either the duke is a better sorcerer than he looks, or he's got a crackerjack working for him."

  "What is a `crackerjack'?"

  "I am—or at least, I'm a jack who's trying to crack us out of here." Matt frowned and tried again.

  "Alas, my foe, you do us wrong,

  To bind us up so close to death.

&
nbsp; Yet we will match you, song for song,

  Until we draw a free man's breath,

  For dying in a prison strong

  Is not the destiny that waits,

  For good men who still seek and strive.

  For them shall open many gates

  If they keep faith, and onward drive

  Till they behold their hard-won fates!"

  The magical web enwrapped him again, but not so tightly. His whole body was raked with tension, though, as his spell contended with the duke's.

  Then something seemed to lance through to Matt, and the tension was gone with an almost-audible snap. Matt went limp, staring about, startled.

  They were still in the cell. "Naught has occurred," Fadecourt said, severely disappointed. "The duke's spell must be too strong for you."

  "But I could have sworn I broke it!" Matt protested. "I felt some outside force reach through to me! We ganged up on him—or his spell, anyway! We broke it!"

  "We are still here," Fadecourt pointed out.

  "Yeah, we sure are." Matt frowned, then looked up, eyes widening. "I didn't say anything about moving us out of here! I only said we'd keep trying!"

  Someone cackled just outside the cell door.

  Matt stared at Fadecourt, the hairs rising on the back of his neck.

  Fadecourt stared back.

  "Either that's a hen with a very odd idea of the ideal roost," Matt said, "or we've got unexpected company."

  Fadecourt glanced sidelong at the door. "There is light through the wicket."

  Matt stared at the glow through the little, barred window, hearing the cackle again, then a gabble of low-voiced conversation. Almost against his will, he sidled across and looked out.

  A small fire lit a small area—it couldn't be called a chamber, there weren't any walls. In fact, Matt could have sworn the hall outside his cell had only been two feet wide. Now it was broad enough so that the walls were lost in shadow.

  Around the fire stood three old ladies—at least, Matt hoped they were ladies, because they seemed to be discussing his future—or was it his past?