The wind sprang up, but even so, the stench rising to the battlements from the enemy army was disconcerting. Below, the whole field was a vast sea of coughing and choking.
"They are beaten, Wizard!" a spark hummed at Matt's shoulder.
"For a moment. And it's almost daylight. But I'd like to stack the deck a little ... Know what metal fatigue is?"
"Metal crystalizing, hardening until it falls apart at the slightest blow."
"Right. Suppose you give every bit of enemy metal a case of such fatigue?" Matt suggested.
"'Tis done!" The Demon winked out.
That would destroy their weapons. Sorcerers could whip up new ones quickly. But there were other things they might not be able to counteract so easily, knowing nothing of microbiology. Matt considered that, then decided to add a bit of comfort for his side:
Then he added a second spelclass="underline"
The wind slackened and died; the odor of skunk reeked, but was only an inconvenience on the battlements. The enemy army still churned; it would be some time before they managed to restore order.
The sun's edge swelled above the horizon.
A shout of triumph rose from the monastery walls. Knights embraced; footmen danced jigs. The abbot stood, seeming to rise a little as relief filled him-relief and, Matt saw, something more, almost awe. And as the din of celebration slackened, he began to chant:
One by one, the Moncaireans took up the chant, and the auxiliaries after them, till the whole length of the battlements thundered.
The hymn died, and the abbot removed his helmet, mopping his brow.
Matt turned to survey the enemy army, still disordered. "Congratulations, milord. We held out against the worst Malingo could throw at us."
"Worst?" The abbot looked up, startled. "You did not sense the slackening?"
"Slackening?" Matt's euphoria vanished. "No, I didn't"
"'Twas hard after midnight, Lord Wizard. The force of their attack failed to strengthen, as I'd thought it would, in the darkest hours of the night. There was not light enough to see, nor time enough to survey; but I'd wager forces trooped away into the hills!"
Matt stood very still, watching him.
"This attack, though worse than any we have had, was still far weaker than I'd feared," the abbot went on. "I had thought to face foul monsters, spells to chill our marrow, Hell-spawned nightmares. Nay, Lord Wizard - this was far less than Malingo's fullest force!"
Matt swallowed, heavily. "So. Just a good training session, huh?"
"Nay; far more;" the abbot admitted. "There was more magic in this battle than ever I have faced. I am glad that you were here, Lord Wizard."
Matt just stood for a moment; then he bowed. "Thank you, Lord Abbot. I am pleased that I was some worth to you."
But he began to wonder. If this army had been depleted since midnight, what had Malingo done with the spare troops? And why? And what was it going to be like when Matt had to fight the whole mess of them?
As he started to dive-bomb toward depression, a sentry cried out, "Hold! Who comes?"
Matt looked up, startled.
Beyond the far side of the army, around the base of the hill, a great dark-green shape waddled, with a dot of black on its shoulders.
"Stegoman!" Matt grabbed the abbot's shoulder. "That's a friend of mine-and the guy on his back is one of your own kind! A little remiss, maybe, but yours nonetheless! If they try to get in here, we've got to get them through!"
"Enough, enough, Lord Wizard!" The abbot twisted free and clamped his helmet back on. "We'll see them in!" the distance-dwarfed dragon paused; then it charged at the back of the swirling army, a great gout of fire clearing its way. Shrieks came dimly to Matt's ears, and a path opened before Stegoman. He bulldozed through, roaring; but a baron bawled orders, and a knot of soldiers began to form up against danger. Nearer the wall, a sorcerer rose up, arms weaving a spell.
"Max!" Matt snapped. "Drain that wizard!"
"Done!" the Demon sang, without even bothering to appear; and the sorcerer tumbled.
"Great!" Matt shouted. "Now clear a path for my friend!"
Soldiers and knights began to drop of sudden exhaustion, in a straight line that met the dragon's flaming breath.
Stegoman plowed on through, waving his head from side to side, cutting a great circle of flame, like a pie with a slice missing, about him. Pikes and swords rushed toward him, then rushed back as the heat wave hit.
"I believe he will come to us unharmed!" Alisande cried, gripping Matt's forearm.
"Well, there's a good chance, at least." Matt frowned, peering down. "What's happening there?"
A last rally of men had formed, splitting off from the army of sorcery to gather in a skirmish line between the dragon and the monastery gate, just out of bowshot.
Stegoman bulled his way through the last ranks and paused, glaring at the battle line.
A baron barked out a set of orders, and the archers bent their bows. But a spark of light danced among them, and the bows snapped, sending the archers staggering back. Soldiers propped pike butts against earth, pointing the spear blade tops at Stegoman's chest height; but Matt could see the bright metal browning with rust.
Stegoman bellowed and charged.
Pike points broke against his scaly hide; swords cracked and crumbled at the first stroke. The dragon blasted flame about him, and the soldiers ran screaming.
"He has triumphed!" the princess cried.
"Thanks, Max," Matt muttered.
"'Twas pleasure," the spark sang. "You have irony."
The dragon charged headlong at the gates, and the abbot cried, "Open! These are ours!"
The doors groaned wide, and the sorcerers' army howled, seeing their chance. A thousand footmen sprinted for the portal, pikes high, while sorcerers popped up behind them, hands weaving frantic spells.
"Stegoman! Torch 'em!" Matt yelled, and the dragon slewed to a stop in the gateway, skidding in a full turn. He roared, and a ten-foot bar of flame shot out toward the attackers.
"Give him a boost there, will you?" Matt said, aside, and Max sang, "Aye, Wizard!" and winked out.
Stegoman's flame shot out to thirty feet. The dragon's head whipped back in surprise, accidentally charring a careless sorcerer who'd thought he should lead, for a change. Then Stegoman recovered and depressed his aim, turning his head. Flame swept a clear arc around the gateway, and enemy footmen screamed; body armor conducted beautifully. They pulled back-or ran, more truthfully, the ones who were still ambulatory. Stegoman bit off his flame and shifted into reverse, backing up fast. Monks heaved, and the great doors boomed shut.