The horseman swerved, riding a great circle through the horde, and wherever his lance touched, bones shot into the air to fall as they had been before. Matt saw them. Then out he came at a wobbling gallop, turned his nag for another charge… and the half of the horde that was left turned and fled, bones clanking and clacking in their hurry. One skeleton, though, somehow flew with no skin… its structure showed it to be a pterodactyl. It banked, turning back, and struck at the knight with a cawing shriek that extended into the sound of nails on glass as it flew apart, its bones raining down… but the knight swayed in the saddle.
Quicker hooves sounded, and a short, chubby man on a donkey galloped past Matt’s viewpoint to pull up beside the swaybacked nag. The knight leaned and fell, his brazen wide-brimmed helmet flying away, but the chubby man caught him and somehow bore up under the weight of his armor. With the helmet gone, Matt could see that the knight’s hair was snowy white. He muttered his thanks to his squire and clambered back into the saddle. The squire turned the donkey and trotted after the helmet, and the knight turned to Matt. “You need not thank me, senor… it is I who must thank you, for an opportunity to strike a blow for Right and Goodness.”
Now Matt could see his face clearly. He was old and wrinkled, his beard sparse and patchy, his armor dented and rusty… but his eyes were young, and alight with zeal. “No, it is I who must thank you, milord.” He tried to bow. “You have saved me when fear and self-doubt had paralyzed me.”
“Never doubt yourself,” the old knight said sternly, jamming his lance into its stirrup. “It you fight for Right and Good, your arm will always be strong, your sword keen! You may be struck down, but you shall rise again! You may lose the battles, but you shall win the war!”
And in Ibile rather than Spain, Matt reflected, the old cavalier was probably right. But how had a fictitious character from his own universe come to be in this one? He was in Matt’s dream, of course. No doubt Matt had brought him along, unknowing, waiting to be needed… as he surely had been now. The idea seemed somehow wrong, but it would do for the time being.
“Never fear,” the old knight counseled, “or rather, pay no attention to your fears. No man can help being afraid now and again, but he can take that fear as a blow struck against him, and parry it, block it, let it serve only to inspire him to strike back with greater strength, to bend his mind more sharply to outwitting the enemy…
“Yes, my lord.” Matt felt humbled and exalted at the same time. “You must never cease to strive,” the old knight told him. “The good fight is worth fighting for itself, even if one loses.” A sudden grin broke the old leathery countenance into wrinkles of delight. “Besides, one always might win.”
“As I am sure you will.” Inspiration struck. “Could I ask you to help me, my lord? The paynim strike against the heart of Ibile, even to the mountains, even to the rivers of the north! The rightful king gathers his people there to make one last stand. With your arm to aid us, we might yet prevail!”
“A quest!” the old knight cried joyfully, and turned to his squire, who came riding up with the brass helmet. “Old friend, once again we ride on a quest!”
The squire grinned from ear to ear. “More misadventures!” He handed the helmet up to his knight. The old knight clapped it on his head and turned back to Matt. “Be assured that we shall aid, senor… if we can only think how!”
“I am sure that you shall, my lord,” Matt said, grinning. “You never fail to be inspired with new blows to strike against the enemies of Right!”
“I shall ride through men’s dreams, I shall inspire women to esteem themselves!” The broken lance suddenly dipped, and Matt tried to flinch away, but its tip touched him somehow. Fear and melancholy vanished as the old knight intoned, “You, too, must believe in your own worth! The world falters, the world totters, and it is you who must brace it up! No, do not flinch away in false modesty, for I know you are equal to this task!” Then the old knight’s eyes seemed to expand, everything outside them became indistinct, and the rusty voice echoed in Matt’s head. “Awake now, freed from self-doubt and feelings of doom impending! Shoulder the world, and be glad of your purpose!” The slight pressure vanished, and Matt knew the lance had lifted, but the light old eyes still commanded every iota of his attention as the old knight intoned, “Awaken! Awaken in every fiber of your being, awaken in hope and in zeal!”
Then the light eyes expanded still further till they were all that Matt could see, they turned blue, the pale blue of earliest dawn, a paleness that became tinged with rose at one side, tinged then swept with rays of gold, and Matt blinked, realizing that he was staring at the morning sky through the window of the mill, and that somehow the night had ended. He levered himself up on one elbow and saw the campfire, bright and smokeless, with Papa watching a steaming bucket and toasting wheat cakes in the cracked skillet. He looked up, anxious, concerned “Good morning, my son.”
Matt blinked, then smiled “Good morning, my father.”
The concern lightened a little, and Papa asked, “Have you found a cure for your melancholy?”
Matt looked about him, and was amazed that the inside of the mill looked so bright, so golden. He was filled with elation, with a bubbling enthusiasm. He remembered the Mahdi, the towering djinn, the acres and acres of Moorish troops… but somehow he was sure that all these things would pass, that he and his family, and all the good folk of Ibile and Merovence, would still be standing and triumphant when they did. He turned back to Papa, grinning “No. The cure found me.”
Unfortunately, the world wasn’t the only thing that was still with them… so was Callio. Papa generously slid pancakes onto the thief’s plate… he had saved one of his own, as well as a cup and spoon, out of his loot, the three were only wooden, so their owners hadn’t bothered taking them along. But when they had finished breakfast, washed their tableware, drowned the fire, and started hauling the hams out of the water trough and into the sunlight, Callio bent to help with a will. “Why do we set them outside? Ought we not to put them in my cart, so we can take them with us?”
“We’re not going far,” Matt told him, and they went back for a second load. When they finished hauling, Callio was still tagging merrily along.
“I think we have gained a mascot,” Papa muttered, not entirely happily.
“Don’t worry,” Matt muttered back out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s bound to take off when he sees Stegoman again “
“I think the dragon has seen us.” Papa nodded at the sky. There, gilded by the morning rays, soared a creature that might have been an eagle, if it hadn’t been so long-necked. Callio came up with them, following their gazes, interested. “Is it a swan?”
“A little larger than that,” Matt explained “He just looks smaller because he’s so far away.”
Callio’s eyes widened, and dread began to show. He backed away as the flyer banked, sliding lower and lower in a spiral, swelling into the form of a dragon, and Stegoman landed in a shower of dust. “Good morning, High Rider,” Matt said with a grin… a grin because he’d noticed that Callio was no longer beside him. “How was the hunting?”