Matt was still.
These people didn't seem to believe in rest stops-at least, not when there were only four hours of daylight left. Matt climbed down off Stegoman as the sun was setting, feeling as if he would never be able to sit again. He could definitely see why saddles had been invented.
Sir Guy made it worse. He bustled about, setting up camp with a brisk good cheer that Matt found disgusting. Alisande wasn't sitting back on her title and relaxing, either-she was collecting brushwood for a fire.
Sore as he was, Matt felt shamed at not pitching in. He limped up to her and asked, "Can I help?"
She thrust the stack of brushwood at him, beaming. "Indeed, that you may. Lay and kindle the fire, if you would, and I'll see to your couches."
Then she whirled away toward a fir tree, whipping a knife out of her sash-a loan from Sir Guy, at a guess.
Matt tried to remember his Boy Scout lore and looked for a flat rock. Not finding one, he settled for a patch of bare ground and started breaking up the smallest twigs for tinder.
He just about had a good little teepee laid when Sir Guy came swinging up, two large hares spitted on his sword. "Ah, most excellent! We'll have fire, and right quickly a dinner!"
Matt pulled out his matchbook and tried to remember the "spell" he'd used, to get one to light.
Sir Guy's mailed hand came down over the matchbook. "Ah, thou dost not mean to use magic to kindle our fire?"
"Sure, why not?" Matt looked up, frowning. Then he remembered. "Oh ... you mean that business about not using magic for everyday chores."
"Such as lighting a fire." Sir Guy nodded brightly, taking his hand away. "Even I do know that much, Lord Matthew. Power must be respected, or its use will surely corrupt the user." The Black Knight knelt down and pulled a small iron box from his belt. He opened it, taking out a wad of tow and a small rock. "Those with the Gift rarely begin by dedicating themselves to evil, Lord Wizard. Indeed, they firmly resolve to use their power only for the bettering of their fellows." He struck the stone against the steel box. Sparks flew, one landed in the tow, and Sir Guy breathed it carefully into a coal and tilted it into Matt's tinder teepee. "But they chance on a grimoire, soon or late, and work a few of its smallest spells. They use these spells more and more often; and, as time passes, they can scarce manage a small task without them."
"Dependent," Matt muttered, watching small tongues of flame curl around the sticks. "Hooked on magic."
"Even so. They become drunk with power, and the more power they gain, the more they desire. Then have they but two choices -- to devote all their lives to God and the Good, which may prove a lengthy duty, or simply to sign a blood oath with the Devil. The choice must be made -- for how much power can a wizard gain without either Good or Evil to aid him?'
"Mach would depend on how good a magician he is," Matt answered. "If he could figure out the rules of magic, he might not need aid."
"Rules?" Sir Guy stared. "But magic has none!"
Matt rolled his eyes up. "Another informed layman! Have you tested the matter?"
Sir Guy seemed to consider. Then he shrugged. "As you will, Lord Wizard. Yet I bid you remember this: for a man with the Power, all temptations lead only to the same end - the Devil."
He held Matt's gaze for a moment. Then he swung to his feet, turned away, and strode toward Alisande.
Matt turned back to the fire. His eyes widened; the two rabbit carcasses lay skinned and gutted, waiting. Apparently Sir Guy had been working unobtrusively at dressing them while he'd been talking. He was the efficient type, Matt reflected as he selected a long stick to spit the carcasses-maybe a little too efficient. And what had he really been trying to say?
Matt selected two forked twigs and pushed them into the ground, then laid the spit across them. Sir Guy hadn't exactly expressed doubts that Matt had the moral strength of a wet noodle. But that had been the gist of the conversation, hadn't it?
CHAPTER 7
The campsite lay quiet, silvered by a gibbous moon, warmed by the glowing coals of the fire. Stegoman lay curled up under the trees, neck curled around his body, his tail overlapping his head. Sir Guy, Matt, and the princess lay under their cloaks around the fire, sound asleep.
Matt snapped awake, suddenly and totally. He stared through a gap in the trees at the plain that swept to the horizon. What had awakened him?
Then it came again - along, drawn-out, despairing wail. A woman in trouble! Matt rolled to his feet and leaped around the fire to shake the Black Knight's shoulder. "Sir Guy, wake up! There's a damsel in distress!"
Sir Guy snored, then rolled over on the pine boughs. Matt shook him again, but the Black Knight didn't even snore back this time.
"Wake up!" Matt bellowed. "Fire! Earthquake! Ragnorak!"
There was no response.
"So much for chivalry!" Matt growled. He yanked a dagger from Sir Guy's possessions, wishing the knight weren't sleeping on his sword, and ran through the gap in the trees.
As he leaped out onto the plain, the scream came again -- raw, ragged, and much nearer. Matt swung toward the sound - and saw a girl running at an angle toward him, panting in terror.
Long, black hair streamed back from a finely chiseled ivory face. Full breasts stretched the fabric of her bodice taut, and her skirts whipped tightly about long, slender legs and the curve of her hips. Even in panic, there was something about her that promised impossible pleasure for the man lucky enough to possess her.
Matt kicked into a run.
She fled toward the horizon, angled his way, without even a backward glance, running for her life.
Hobbling and leaping over the plain on thick, stunted legs, giggling and drooling, came something eight feet tall and four wide. Four steel-cable tentacle arms flailed the air. Huge platters of eyes reflected the moonlight, and a foot-wide mouth revealed a set of shark-like teeth.
Troll, Matt's mind screamed at him. His body went into overdrive as he ran toward the girl. But he knew he wasn't fast enough.
The troll leaped, landing five feet behind her. She was hampered by her clothes - kirtle, bliaut, and cloak of rich fabric. A tentacle slashed out, snatching at the girl's cloak. She stumbled, her body slamming against the fabric, and it tore in a huge, jagged rent. She screamed, but staggered back into a run, the troll snickering behind her.
It slashed out again, catching her skirt. The kirtle tore. Two tentacles shot out, one catching the hem of her skirt, the other hooking into her collar. The girl spun about as the bliaut tore open in a long, jagged rent along its whole length. A third tentacle hooked the back of the neckline, and the bliaut snapped her arms up as it came away from her. For a moment, she stood poised, arms high in the moonlight, in only her shift.
Then a clawed tentacle slashed down at her, and she threw herself down backward to avoid it. The troll howled laughter and pounced, but she was too quick for him; she rolled to the side just in time and kept rolling.
She was free for a moment and was up and running. The troll howled and pounced. She threw herself to the side-straight against a thorn bush. She leaped away, but the shift caught in the thorns, ripping away in a jagged line just below her hips.
The troll caught her with a howl of glee, pinning her arms to her sides with tentacle loops, lifting her toward the gaping shark's mouth.
Then Matt reached the troll and leaped, striking home.
The dagger struck a tentacle and the troll howled, dropping the girl - and Matt suddenly realized what a fool he was to attack with only a dagger. He leaped away, chanting frantically,