The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (49 page)

"Created the English Channel," Matt told her. "A real druid in Ireland gave me the spell."

"But all the people who live in that neck of land will be drowned!"

"Everyone left alive is in one of Niobhyte's bands, or fled," Matt said. "Refugee management is already a problem, right?"

"We have seen many fleeing north, yes," Papa said.

"And everyone else has been sacrificed, or killed simply for the thrill of it by Niobhyte's thugs, since he told them it's just fine for the strong to prey upon the weak. There won't be many drowned. I'll tell Brion to send his fishermen out to pick up anybody they do find floating." Papa looked over his shoulder. "Where do you think the synthodruids will end up?"

"Stranded on some plateau that's about to become an island." Matt looked back, too. "Judging from where I think we are and the direction they're going, I'd say they'll end up in a new Jersey." He turned back to follow Brion. "Hurry, folks. The land is breaking and crumbling, leaving sea cliffs behind, and they'll stop tidal waves, but the sea will come in—more slowly and more gently, maybe, but it's coming."

"Time and tide wait for no man," Papa agreed, and walked a little faster.

"You did not tell me you had such power as this," a shaky basso said on Mart's other side. Matt looked up to match stares with Buckeye. "You didn't ask. Besides, I'll admit I didn't know that spell when we met."

"It is not the spell—it is the ability to gather and contain so much of the magical force!"

"Well, sure, but who's counting?" Matt didn't tell him that was due to the quality of the old Celtic poetry.

"Who is counting?" Buckeye cried. "I am counting! Counting the days left to me, and mightily relieved that you have been so merciful! Nay, I'll play no more tricks upon you, or upon anyone of your blood!" He inclined bis head. "Have I your permission to leave your service?" Matt's heart soared, but caution lingered. "I might require one last service of you."
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"Done! Only call, and I shall be by your side!"

"Then you have my permission." Matt grinned, holding up a hand in farewell. "It's been a very interesting journey, Master Bauchan."

"I shall never forget you," Buckeye promised, "no matter how hard I try." Then he turned away, dodged in among the peasants, and disappeared in the crowd.

Mama sighed. "If only you could solve all your problems so easily."

"Yes." Matt turned back to follow Brion and Rosamund, his face grim. "We do have one little problem left, named John—and something tells me he'll be just as hard a nut to crack as Niobhyte was." Matt's apprehension increased as they climbed the raw stair-steps in the land that led up to the new island of Bretanglia. He felt rather guilty at the thought that even these steps would probably be part of the ocean bed in very short order.

No one came out to harry them, no army came to confront them, though they took several days marching inland, with the sea never more than a mile behind them at nightfall, nor a few hundred yards at sunrise. There was plenty of time to arrange an ambush or even a pitched battle, but no enemy army showed itself.

"I can't understand this," Matt said. "John has the professional army, the trained and seasoned veterans!

All you have are raw recruits fresh from the plow!"

"John is a coward," Brion said, as though he had to force out the insult to his brother. "He will not fight me unless he has to, no matter how strong his odds. Even then he will take refuge in a castle, and hope that 1 will waste my strength battering at his walls."

Matt looked back to exchange glances with his parents. They nodded. He turned back to Brion. "We can do something about stone walls. But which castle will he take?"

"The nearest," Brion said. "You may be sure he was close when we met Niobhyte—near enough to look, but far enough away not to suffer."

He was right. As they neared Hastings, they found an old Roman tower, and around it were an army's tents. The army itself stood in a long line three deep between the tower and Brion's force. Brion drew rein. "I am loathe to kill mine own people, Lord Wizard, even if they do serve a usurper—especially since I doubt not that the commoners have been forced to it. Can you not crack him out of his shell of a tower?"

Matt was about to answer when a storm of raucous cries broke, and ravens swarmed upward from the tower. Cries behind Brion's army answered, and the sky darkened with clouds of more ravens winging in to join the flock from the tower. The cawing and croaking passed overhead, and the peasants pressed hands over their ears, eyes wide with superstitious fear.

The incoming ravens joined the central flock, then all wheeled and dove upon Brion's army. A shout of terror went up from the ranks.

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Brion fought to control his and Rosamund's horses, calling, "Wizard, can you not bring them down?"

"Me? Why should I work?" Matt answered, and recited,

"Rider on the wind, come nigh!

Stegoman, now hear my cry!

Clear away this fowl bunch!

Come and have a birdie lunch!"

The answering roar seemed to shake the sky, and Stegoman came soaring from the nearby hills. He had followed faithfully, as he had told Matt he would. A twelve-foot tongue of flame preceded him, and the birds were singed and roasted before they passed down his gullet. He passed through the flock and, licking his chops, turned to pass again.

But the ravens had had enough. Squawking in fright, they wheeled and fled. Stegoman came roaring after in glee, each roar a four-yard flame.

They passed out of sight over the inland hills, and Matt turned back to the tower. "Now to some serious work."

"That is my part first," Brion said, his face hard. "I am loathe to spend men's lives, especially good men who have had little experience of war, but it must be done."

"It is what we have come for, my liege," called the young Marquis of Simmery Mead. He turned and called to the peasants behind him. "How say you, men of hard hands? Do we fight or retreat?"

"Fight!" the army yelled with one voice, and lifted their weapons.

"So be it." Brion turned to Rosamund with a courtly bow. "My dearest one, I have no armor to fit you. I beg the favor of your retiring to yonder hilltop, to await the outcome of the battle."

"I suppose I must." Teary-eyed, Rosamund pushed her horse forward and kissed Brion lingeringly, then pulled back and lowered his visor. He saluted, but she didn't stay to see, only turned her horse and rode away.

Brion turned forward and couched his lance—then stared, for a dozen knights were riding forward, and the one at their fore held a white flag.

"Majesty, will you parley?" asked Sir Orizhan.

"I will." Brion's tone was iron, hiding relief. "Give me white cloth." Mama took off her kerchief—not as white as it had been at the beginning of their journey, probably, but white enough— and tied it to the tip of Brion's lance. The king rode forth, with Matt, his companions, and half the knights of the company behind him.

The other half stayed with the army, to ride to the rescue if they had to—and every archer waited with
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his bow strung and an arrow nocked.

But as Brion rode up to the white flag, its bearer bowed in the saddle and cried, "Hail, Noble Sir!" It was a nice piece of fence-sitting; the phrase applied to a prince, but could apply to a king, too. Brion raised his visor and frowned, not entirely pleased. "I greet you, Duke of Easbrenn." No one asked how he knew; Brion could see the duke's shield, and every knight had all the family coats of arms memorized.

"Why have you called for parley?"

"Because, Noble Sir, we who serve King John have served under constraint—all except a few who are now under guard within their own army."

"Only a few?" Brion asked, his tone skeptical. "What constrained you, then?"

"The sorcery of the chief druid Niobhyte and his coterie," the duke replied. "We would gladly leave King John's service and declare him to be a false king, if we could be sure of amnesty and pardon." Matt caught his breath; it took a lot of courage to defy a man's ruler, false or not. It took even more to be the ringleader.

"Niobhyte may be able to work his magic from some distance," Brion warned. "I doubt that he is drowned; rather, I think him to be alive on a new-made island."

"We trust in the power of your wizards to protect us, Noble Sir," the duke answered, and bowed to Matt. "We have heard that the Lord Wizard of Merovence travels with you."

"Indeed, and I see that you have recognized him." Brion didn't bother mentioning the rest of the Mantrell family. "Very well, my lord, you have my royal word that all within this army shall have pardon and amnesty, save those we can identify as loyal to John for their own gain."

"Then we declare him false!" The duke turned, and in a voice that carried to most of his own army, called out, "Hail Brion, True King of Merovence!"

"Hail King Brion!" the army shouted, and knelt in a vast wave rolling through the ranks. Brion sat a bit taller and couldn't keep the smile from his face. "I declare you good and loyal men—but I shall not ask that you turn against the lord for whom you fought but now. Only stand aside, that my men and I may ride through."

"We shall, Your Majesty." The duke bowed and turned, galloping back to his army, shouting orders. A wide avenue opened between Brion and the tower.

"My lord the marquis," said Brion, "let our own men form a wall on each side, to keep that channel open—and let the rest of our army surround each half of these our new allies, in case their ardent loyalty should be threatened."

"Your Majesty, I shall." The marquis inclined his head and turned away to give the orders.

"Come, my lords," Brion said. "I would as lief have you at my back when I meet my brother, for I trust him not and never have, and if even half of that which the false chief druid told us of his learning magic is true, I have no wish to face him without the benefit of wizardry."
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Matt waved good-bye to his mother and father. They nodded, understanding, and stood their grounds—it was for them to guard the army in his absence.

Matt turned to follow Brion into the old Reman tower, with Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock following them.

They could hear him a hundred feet from the doorway, though they couldn't make out the words, only the screams of rage. When they rode through the door, they found John standing on a dais before a gilded, ornately carved chair in the tower's Great Hall. Oaken rafters made the ceiling dark, and tattered banners hung on the walls, trophies of ancient battles won. But the rest of the floor was empty, and John trembled as he met his brother's gaze, then glanced away.

"Brother," said Brion, "you have taken what was rightfully mine."

"What choice did I have?" John screamed. "You were dead so far as I knew, and so was Father!"

"The king was dead by your hand, and I by your orders," Brion said grimly, "and so was Gaheris."

"You always had everything!" John screeched. "Mama loved you! Papa taught you to fight! People fawned on you, loved your singing! The women all swooned, and the men acclaimed you a perfect knight! It was my turn, mine!"

"Not by treachery," Brion said, his voice iron again. "Take off that crown."

"I think not," said a deeper voice, and Niobhyte stepped forth from the shadows behind the great chair. Matt stared. "How did you get off that island?"

"Did you think I could not burn out a log to make a boat, nor direct it by magic?" Niobhyte returned.

"Indeed, my followers are even now honing their skills by practicing the magical felling of trees and crafting of ships. They will land in a week's time. Did you think this battle won?"

"Slay them for me, Niobhyte!" John commanded.

"Willingly, Majesty!" Niobhyte's staff snapped down to point at Brion as he shouted a Sumerian verse. Matt called out an all-purpose counter,

"Defend us from ill spells, and ground

All energies that do abound

With malice, hate, or evil will,

Dis-spell aggression, and do ban

Fire and foe asbestos you can!"

He was amazed when Niobhyte's fireball exploded against an invisible shield five feet from Brion, then ran down into the stone floor. The war-horse screamed, trying to rear, but Brion calmed it and said, with
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a hard smile, "Our men of magic seem to be evenly matched, brother. Shall I call up my horses and my men?"

"Those who acclaimed you shall die most wretchedly!" John howled. His eyes were manic; Matt would almost have thought Niobhyte had purged his own near-madness by transmitting it to John. He thought he'd better try to distract the false king. "Niobhyte told us you were giving him orders. I had trouble believing it."

"Why, were you deceived by my pretended idiocy?" Instantly, John was preening. "I assure you that I am well-versed in it—I learned early that playing the fool lulled my enemies and gave me the advantage."

"It almost worked," Matt told him. "I never would have believed you were the one who engineered Gaheris' assassination if Niobhyte hadn't told me when he was sure he had me cornered." Niobhyte looked daggers at him, but the revelation didn't seem to bother John in the slightest. He only grinned, delighted to be able to display his cleverness at last. "Even more—I spoke a few idiot's phrases, whining to Mother and complaining to Father as to who should marry Rosamund. Thus 1 set them to screaming at one another, igniting the quarrel that led to actual warfare."

"Then you sent Niobhyte to kill Brion," Matt prodded.

"No, that was a spell of my own." John grinned, delighted with his own cleverness. "I gave the suit of blue armor the semblance of life, then gave it the command to stab Brion when all others' backs were turned and he was defenseless." His smile curdled. "It worked well enough, but it was an idiot of a puppet who did only as it was told, exactly as it was told, and did not make sure that Brion was dead." Matt shuddered at the thought of a magical robot. He hoped John wasn't writing his own grimoire.