The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (15 page)

"Not too much worry of that," the second carter said. "The news is all from the midlands now. The queen's army took the high ground at Lochlar and fought a pitched battle against the king's forces under Duke Golarrig. The duke retired in defeat, and the queen invested the town. She has her another stronghold now, and thousands of men to press into her army."

"War, yes." Sir Orizhan stared in shock. "But not between Bretanglia and Merovence!" Matt stared, too. "Civil war?"

Sergeant Brock managed to keep the groan so quiet that only his companions heard it. "Alas, my poor country! For how long now shall Pyktans spill Anglian blood again?" Mart's mind took refuge in the thought that he had guessed correctly about the origin of the country's name. Apparently the invading Angles hadn't won anywhere near the clear-cut victory in this universe that they had in his. They'd been forced to make friends with the country's current inhabitants.

"And what of Princess Rosamund, Much? What of the cause of this war?"

"There are some as say she's not the cause at all," Much said darkly. "Some say the cause is Prince Gaheris himself."

"But he is dead," Ian protested.

"Aye, but Rumor says he did not die quite as the proclamations say." Ian shrugged. "There's no surprise in that. All knew of the prince's roistering. Not a man in all of Bretanglia believes he died defending a maiden's honor."

"The queen did, says Rumor, and fights because the king insists on the truth—that a pimp stabbed him in the back while he was beating one of the man's whores."

Matt was amazed that the rumor was even that accurate.

"If that were said of Prince Brion, the queen might fight to defend his good name," said Ian, "but Gaheris? He was never her favorite."

"Aye." Much grinned. "I think you had the right of it at first. With Gaheris dead, they fell to fighting over Princess Rosamund—whether she would marry Brion, and live with the queen, or wed John, and live with the king."

"He would wish that, surely," Ian agreed. "But where is she hidden, while they fight?"
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"Rumor has it that the queen sent her to Castle Eastwind with a hundred men for guard, but while they were on the way, Earl Marshal attacked and stole the princess away for the king." Prurient interest gleamed in Ian's eye. He hunched closer. "And what has the king done with her?"

"Nothing yet," Much answered. "He was already in the field, so the marshal took her to a moated grange at Woodstock, and set a strong guard around her—for her safety, says Rumor. Then he rode away to raise the west country."

"Woodstock?" Ian frowned. "There's a royal castle there."

"There is, and the moated grange is hard by its walls."

"How convenient for the king," Ian said with sarcasm.

"Aye, if he comes back to it alive."

"Surely the queen cannot win! The king must have five times the men and horses that she can call up!"

"You never know, in war," Much said philosophically. "At least their marching to and fro should keep them far from the borders."

"The news is old," Ian cautioned. "The fighting may have moved southward. Surely the queen must capture Dunlimon if she has any hope of winning."

"Small enough hope, I would say," the second carter replied, "though Queen Petronille is not the kind to ever consider defeat. Aye, she must capture Dunlimon—or the king." Ian shook his head sadly. "She cannot do either, unless all the folk of Dunlimon are secretly for her, not with the king's armies so outnumbering hers."

"She can make a lot of Bretanglians suffer, though." His friend rose from the table, taking his mug. "I hear a minstrel tuning his lute. Let's approach and listen—I could do with a song."

"I, too." Ian rose and went with him.

"So my queen shall drive half the midlands before her against the king's men," Sergeant Brock moaned,

"and the land shall drink their blood!"

"Maybe the king's a better general than you think," Matt consoled. "Maybe he'll knock her out in one quick battle."

Sir Orizhan smiled mirthlessly. "Or perhaps she will find a wizard who can capture the king without a battle. Come, my friend, let us talk in realities."

"Actually, your idea isn't all that far-fetched." Matt's eyes lost focus as he considered how to craft a spell that would transport King Drustan to him.

Another peasant sat down where Ian had been, a mug in his hand.

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"Does the king have a wizard on his side?" Matt asked.

"Aye," said the newcomer, "but the elves and the pixies will fight for the queen." Matt looked up in surprise, and felt a shock run all through him. The hood and tunic were those of a very ordinary peasant, but the hand that held the mug was covered with silky, tawny hair, and the face was Buckeye's.

The bauchan grinned. "You did not think I would stay banished, did you?" Through stiff lips Matt demanded, "Where's the peasant who used to wear that outfit?"

"What outfit?" Sergeant Brock looked up, frowning.

"Don't fear for him," Buckeye said. "He sleeps in the stable, quite well, and will find his clothes by him when he wakes."

Matt turned to Sergeant Brock. "You see that peasant sitting across from us?"

"Peasant!" the bauchan said indignantly.

"The one whose hood hides his face?" the soldier asked. "He is nothing to worry you. You may speak freely, milord."

"Not too freely, 'milord,'" the bauchan mocked. "You would not want them to think you daft, now, would you? Or, by the rook! Haunted! Forfend!"

That made Matt mad. Blackmail attempts always had that effect His eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and he said to his companions, "By the way, have I told you I've picked up a mascot-spirit?"

"Spirit!" Sergeant Brock leaned away, eyes wide.

"Mascot?" Sir Orizhan frowned. "What is that?"

"A sort of a pet." Matt ignored the hoot from across the table. "It goes wherever I go. It's a bauchan."

"A bauchan!" Sergeant Brock turned pale.

"What is that?" Sir Orizhan asked, interested.

"It's a Bretanglian spirit," Sergeant Brock explained. "I knew they came down into the north of Merovence, but I never thought to have met one." His eyes widened. "That empty cottage! I should have known it would be haunted! 'Twas there you met him, was it not?"

"It was, yes," Matt admitted.

"The man is canny," Buckeye said with approval, letting the sergeant and the knight hear him.

"I am flattered." But the whites showed around Sergeant Brock's eyes as he glanced at their new neighbor.

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"What, that fellow a spirit?" Sir Orizhan frowned. "I see naught but a peasant!"

"Look at his hands," Sergeant Brock said.

"He wears gloves with the hair on the outside. What of it?"

"Gloves with nails?" the sergeant asked.

Sir Orizhan studied the bauchan's hands. Buckeye grinned and, very slowly, raised the tankard to his lips and tilted his head back to drink, letting the light from the tallow lamps show them his face. Sergeant Brock shuddered.

"He is quite ugly," Sir Orizhan said, "but surely no spirit" Matt's heart warmed to the man.

"Ugly!" Buckeye slammed his mug down on the. table. "Forsooth! I suppose you think you are comely, fellow?"

"I am a knight." Sir Orizhan frowned and rested his hand on his sword. "I'll not have a varlet call me

'fellow.' "

"I don't think you want to draw on him," Matt said nervously. "Unfortunately, that face is the most human thing about him."

"If a sharp edge will not harm him, cold steel will," Sir Orizhan countered. Buckeye frowned. "I like ye not, soft man of warm climates."

"It won't do any lasting good," Matt warned. "I tried to banish him right off the bat, but the spell seems to have worn off."

"He did not fry a bat," Buckeye corrected. "That might have lasted a wee bit longer."

"A bat for a bit?" Matt turned to him, interested. "I'll remember that." Buckeye's glance flashed with malice; then he was all mischievous grin again. "It will do ye no good."

"It will not that," Sergeant Brock agreed. "When a bauchan attaches himself to a man, he'll never forsake him—nay, neither him nor his family." He shook his head sadly. "I pity you, Lord Wizard. Not all your power will make this spirit flit."

"Oh, I'll find a way." Matt wished he felt as confident as he sounded. "But I can't ask you guys to suffer along with me while I'm trying. If you want to go off on your own, go ahead."

"Go off!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed, affronted. "When my queen has commanded me to accompany you? I am a better knight than that, Lord Wizard!"

"And I have my good name to restore." Sergeant Brock had recovered from his first fright. "I'll stand by you night and day, Lord Wizard, until we've hung the murderer by the heels and proved I fought my best to save my prince." His eyes narrowed and held steady on the bauchan's ugly face.
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"A murderer and a dead prince?" Buckeye asked, interested. "I may have come upon more fun than I expected! Whatsoever it may be like to follow you, wizard, I doubt it will be dull!"

"You don't know how I've wished for some boredom," Matt sighed.

"Still, I cannot let you suffer that, can I?" Buckeye reached out with a long arm that stretched even longer and caressed a waitress' bottom as she was passing Matt.

The girl shrieked even as she turned and whacked Matt soundly across the face.

"And you with a wedding ring!" the serving wench scolded. "My master has thrown men out for mauling girls who don't wish it!"

Matt glared at Buckeye, but the bauchan only grinned back. His lips moved, but the sound seemed to come from Matt in Matt's own voice. "Lasses who don't wish it, aye— but will he throw me out for stroking those who like it? Might you be one such?"

"I am none such!" the girl declared, and pivoted away crying. "Master! Here's an unabashed womanizer for certain!"

The innkeeper bulled his way to the table just as Matt's voice was saying, "None such is nonesuch, and a nonesuch is a thing of great rarity, and a virtuous woman is a rare thing indeed. Next she will be telling me she is a virgin!"

"I am a virgin!" the serving maid cried.

"I will not permit harassment, countryman," the innkeeper warned.

"Meant?" Matt's voice asked. "Well, if her—"

"I didn't say that," Matt interrupted.

"Indeed! Then how was it your voice I heard? I tell you, fellow, I'll not have my serving maids touched!"

"Saving them all for yourself, are you?" Matt's voice asked. The innkeeper reddened. "Enough!" He grabbed Matt by the tunic and yanked him to his feet. "I'll serve you no longer! Out of my inn, fellow, and a cold wet night to you!"

"You may not speak so to a lord!" Sir Orizhan snapped, rising and grasping his sword.

"A lord, is it?" The innkeeper turned on Sir Orizhan. "A lord, dressed in a peasant's smock? And I suppose you are his knight, and the other your squire?"

"Don't blow our cover!" Matt hissed.

Sir Orizhan ignored him. "You have guessed the truth of it, landlord. Now unhand His Lordship or—"
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"Take him, then!" The innkeeper threw Matt at Sir Orizhan. Sergeant Brock shouted in anger and swung his staff at the innkeeper, who leaped back, letting the staff swing by—to crack across the shoulders of another patron. The man leaped to his feet with a howl and waded in swinging.

The serving maid screamed and backed away, her tray up as a shield. Matt spun away from Sir Orizhan and blocked the man's haymaker. "Now, wait a minute. We didn't mean to—"

"A coward!" the man cried, and slammed a punch at Matt's midriff. The innkeeper yanked a short cudgel from his belt and swung at Sergeant Brock. Matt blocked again and counterpunched. The man's mates howled and leaped into the fight. Sergeant Brock blocked with one end of his staff and swung with the other. He caught the landlord on the hip. The steady customers shouted in anger and jumped on Brock.

The innkeeper stamped on Matt's toe and swung his cudgel. Matt shouted with pain even as he ducked. He heard the stick strike somebody, hoped it was the bauchan, and caught the innkeeper's wrist. He was about to twist when another fist caught him on the cheek. He staggered away, feeling somebody catch him. The spell he'd readied to use on Buckeye hovered on his lips, but he remembered that these were good, ordinary men fighting to defend their own, and choked it down. Whoever had caught him threw him back at the innkeeper just in time to meet the stick swinging down— but Matt doubled over and kept on going, butting the innkeeper in the stomach. The man's breath went out in a whoosh as he slammed back against the wall. The move lacked elegance and finesse, but it did give Matt a softer landing. He scrambled back up, cocked a fist—and felt a dozen hands grab him. Five minutes later he landed in a puddle outside the door with a score of bruises. He started to struggle to his feet, but his pack came sailing to strike him square in the kidneys, knocking him full-length in the puddle. Four more splashes told him Sir Orizhan, Sergeant Brock, and their packs had landed, too.

"And stay out!" the innkeeper bellowed, then slammed the door behind him. A hairy hand reached down for Matt. "Let me help you up." Matt looked into the ugly grinning face of the bauchan, and snatched his arm away. "No, thanks. I can do without your kind of help."

"That's unjust." The creature actually sounded wounded. "I can be a great help, when I've a mind."

"Yeah, but I don't trust your mind." Matt struggled to his feet and looked down at his sodden, muddy clothes. "This isn't what I'd call assistance."