“Which explains why they set up their tents instead of moving into the empty houses.” Saul nodded.
“Too bad… we had some nice booby traps planted. So what makes you think they’re going to attack tomorrow?”
“It is in the air. Can you not feel it?”
“I can,” Mama said. “Their fear has faded. They know now that we cannot meet them in the open field, but must wait upon their siege.”
“And their scouts can find nothing to fear, no traps or spirit-weirs,” Gilbert agreed “Spirit-weir?” Saul looked up, interested “What’s that?”
“A sort of trap for men’s enthusiasm.” Gilbert sounded surprised “There is also a trap that gathers in ghosts, to loose them upon an enemy. I am astonished you did not know of these, Master Saul.”
“Hey, I’m always willing to learn.” Saul turned to watch the last fingernail of sun slip below the horizon.
“You sure they’re going to attack tomorrow?”
Trumpets sounded in the distance. Deep-voiced drums rolled. The Moorish soldiers came riding to assemble in the plaza where the boulevard debouched onto the docks. “I was mistaken,” Gilbert said.
“They attack tonight! Beware sorcery, Master Saul. Why else would they charge at dusk?”
The first riders trotted into the boulevard as others were coming up from the plaza, while a steady stream of riders poured into it from the camp. The army rode up toward the town wall, four abreast.
As Doman rode down to the foothills, dirt and dust suddenly boiled in front of him Bubaru shied, whinnying fear, and Doman clutched at his empty scabbard, heart racing. Then the dust cleared, and a huge man floated there before him, bare-chested, bearded, and turbaned, with legs tapering into a wisp.
“Queen’s man, where do you go?”
“To… to join my queen,” Doman stammered.
“What message have you for her?”
Doman thought fast. “That I am well at last, and able to fight with her troops!”
The genie drifted closer, looming over him with menace, glowering, and Bubaru shied again. The genie put out a huge hand that grew and grew on an arm that stretched around the horse’s rump to hold the horse in place as he demanded, “Empty your pouch!”
Doman stretched his arms wide, heart thumping, overwhelmingly glad that Lady Mantrell had entrusted the word’s to Doman’s memory and not to paper. “I bear none!”
“Your saddlebags, then!”
Doman took out journeybread and cheese, then turned the pouches upside down to show there was nothing more “Even so, why should I take a chance?” The genie scowled like a thundercloud. “Each soldier less is one more who cannot slay a Moor!”
Doman raised a hand to ward off any blow that might come and cried out the verse Lady Mantrell had given him, though the words made no sense to him.
The chant had its effect, though… the genie halted and stared. “What good can the Queen’s Wizard do you? He is far from here!”
A gust of wind blew past Doman’s ear, and a huge but somehow feminine voice commanded, “Leave the boy, djinni!”
The genie stared up, awed. So did Doman, for he found himself gazing up and up past gauzy trousers that grew from a point to hint at perfectly tapering thighs swelling into the alluring curves of hips. He stared, astounded, past a magnificent bosom to a face that awed him with its beauty… and with its anger.
He wondered why he felt not the slightest ounce of desire.
“As you command, my princess!” The genie bowed and, bowing, disappeared. The huge djinna glared down at little Doman. “Who bade you summon me with that verse?”
“The… the Lady Mantrell!” Doman stammered “His wife?” The djinna stared… then frowned. “Perhaps she knows more than a Christian should.” The huge face turned brooding for a moment. “Or a Muslim, for that matter… especially a spouse.” Then her eyes snapped as they focused on Doman again. “Begone, wretch! Do not recite that verse again… and tell no one that you have seen me!”
Gilbert grinned. “Their mounts will do them no good, in a narrow street facing a city wall. What do they think to do… stand on their saddles and leap to the top of a thirty-foot wall?”
All along the city ramparts, archers nocked arrows to their bowstrings. Other soldiers readied small catapults, while still others stood by with forked sticks to push away scaling ladders. Spears lay ready to hand in case some Moors actually managed to reach the battlements.
“A snake of fire!” Gilbert pointed toward the river. Mama and Saul spun to look A trail of flame ran along the surface of the water, blossoming into a fence of fire. “It cannot be!” Gilbert cried. “Water cannot burn!”
A moan of fear went up from the soldiers on the battlements. Men crossed themselves. “Water can’t burn, but something floating on that water can!” Saul grabbed the knight’s shoulder, pointing “Can’t you see where it’s going?”
Gilbert gave a shout of delight, fear forgotten. “Toward the Moorish ships!”
The trail of fire expanded, mushrooming into a blazing lake that swallowed all the anchored ships. The few that were moored at the docks stood unscathed… until each exploded into flame. “The Moors are burning their only escape!” Gilbert cried. The sound reached them, and the town shook with the soft basso roar of the explosion. A cry of fear went up from the Moorish army, and the advance stalled as all men turned to watch the fire. “No, it was not their doing,” Mama said “They will blame us!”
“Hey, cool.” Saul grinned. “Let ‘em think we’re that much more powerful, and that much more ruthless.
The truth would just make them cocky.”
“There is truth in what you say,” Gilbert said, frowning, “but who did set that blaze?”
The Moors poured onto the docks. Buckets appeared, and they formed chains to try to drown the fire, each charred ship meant fewer reinforcements. A brisk breeze sprang up, fairly sopping with humidity.
Mama and Saul stared in surprise as storm clouds gathered over the burning ships. Then Mama cried,
“The Moorish sorcerers! They seek to drown the blaze with rain!”
“Son of a gun!” Saul exclaimed in admiration. “Would I ever love to have those boys handy in a Nebraska summer!”
Mama frowned, concentrating, making shooing motions while she chanted. The clouds stopped moving together, hanging motionless. They darkened, and the rain-breeze freshened, sharpened. The first drops began to fall.
Mama scolded them sternly in Spanish, waving her hands, palms up. The raindrops froze in midair.
More and more fell, but held firm at an invisible line. “Witch Doctor!” Gilbert caught Saul’s shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other. “Look! At the edge of the crowd, there in the plaza!”
Saul looked, and saw, here and there, a Moor clutching his chest and falling from his horse. Their friends didn’t seem to notice… everyone was too busy trying to save the ships. “Who’re the snipers on our side, Gilbert?”
“None of our folk are down there, unless it be some householders who seek to protect their dwellings!”
But the Battle of the Fireships claimed Saul’s attention. He saw Mama clenching her fists, arms curved as though she were holding up a barbell. Drops of perspiration began to appear on her forehead. Saul realized what she was doing “You can’t hold a ton of water all by yourself, Lady Mantrell. We’d better slope the line, make it a roof.” He propped his fingers together like a rooftop and tried to think of a verse. But Mama beat him to it. Her voice turned sonorous as she chanted in Spanish. Saul managed to pick out the words for “forbidding” and for “rain.” It gave him an idea.