The Oathbound Wizard

"Saddle?" The beast frowned. "You mean one of those things that horses wear?"

"Kinda like that, yeah."

"Yeah, I'd mind," the griff growled, "but I guess I can stand it. I want some kind of fastening I can undo myself, though, in case you decide to go take a hike."

"That shouldn't be too hard to arrange." Matt felt a surge of relief.

"I don't think they come in my size, though."

That gave Matt pause. He eyed the dracogriff's back, frowning. "Well—it'll need a bit of tailoring..."

"Where're you gonna find a tailor for saddle leather?"

"Right here." Matt grinned. "Verses to any size or length, that's me. If I can cut the words right, the saddle should come out just as we want it."

The dracogriff eyed him narrowly. "Ever conjure up a saddle before?"

"No," Matt confessed, "but it shouldn't be too tough."

"Sure," the dracogriff muttered.

"Oh, come on! Have a little faith. Now, let me see..." Matt looked up at the sky, frowning in concentration. "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse" wouldn't do—he was after the accessories, not the appliance itself. Besides, he didn't want to spend it before he'd ever earned it. "Horse and hattock! Ho, and away!" was a little better—but who wanted to ride sitting on a hattock? Come to think of it, what was a hattock?

Finally, he settled for:

"Oh, Stewball had a saddle,
And I wish it were mine,
Scaled up for a draco
In a size ninety-nine.
With buckles of silver,
And chasings of gold,
And the worth of this saddle
Has never been told!"

The air glimmered before them, building into a hazy something that clarified and solidified—into a huge coil of leather that broadened out into a contoured top at least four feet across.

They just stood there staring at it for a while. Then Matt turned away. "Confound and blast it! When will I remember to check the fine print!"

"Well, it's pretty...

"It ought to be, with all that precious metal—but it's, shall we say, a little too generous? I mean, I know I've gained weight these last three years, but not that much."

"What happened?"

"I called for a saddle for a dracogriff—so I got one big enough for you to ride in."

The dracogriff stared. Then its mouth lolled open again.

"Please!" Matt squeezed his eyes shut. "Not the laughter. Please, no. I can change it easily enough."

"Oh, yeah?" The draco chuckled. "This, I want to see!"

"All right," Matt said. "Here we go." He glared at the saddle, thinking furiously, then chanted

"From a size for a griff to a size for a man,
Great saddle, shrink down fill my hands' double span
Will encompass your breadth,
while your cinch holds its length.
Great saddle, dwindle,
but retain your full strength."

"Doesn't seem to be working too well," the dracogriff remarked with some relish.

"Well, what can you expect from homemade verse?" Matt snapped. "I mean, it's not as though I had a master's poem to butch—uh, adapt, this time. None of the great ones ever went into rhapsodic detail about his saddle."

The saddle's form began to blur.

"On the other hand," Matt said quickly, "it could just be a delayed reaction."

The saddle turned into a tan cloud, but the great pile of leather under it held its form and clarity. Then the saddle coalesced again, looking just as it had before, only of no more than standard size.

"Hey, that's pretty good!" the dracogriff said, startled.

But Matt stared at the diminished saddle, appalled.

Then he turned away. "Confound it! Remind me to do my research next time."

The dracogriff frowned. "I don't see anything wrong with it."

"It's an English saddle," Matt explained. "I ride Western—or try to."

"What's the difference?"

"The Western saddle is a lot more comfortable—especially if you're going a long distance. Besides, it has a handle to hold on to."

"Picky, picky!" The dracogriff snorted. "Awright—I suppose we gotta wait while you change this one around, right?"

"Oh, I can live with it," Matt grumped.

"Spare me!" The dracogriff rolled its eyes up. "All I need is a martyr for a rider! Go ahead, go ahead! It's not as though we're in a race or anything."

Somehow, those words sent an eerie prickle up Matt's spine—but he turned back to the saddle, determined to ignore the premonition. "All right, let's see, now...

"Back in the saddle aligned!
With that good old Western design—
A cantle so restful, a pommel so high,
To grab and hang on to, if we're in the sky!
Translate from English to wild Western style,
So I'll ride in comfort, for many a mile!"

The saddle's form fuzzed again, becoming almost as nebulous as smoke for a minute, then coalesced and firmed once more, into a saddle that would have done credit to the best Hollywood horse opera.

"Are we done yet?" the dracogriff said hopefully.

"Yeah." Matt grinned down at his new word work. "How do you like it?"

"It's beautiful! It's lovely! It's you! Can we go now?"

"Oh, all right, all right." Matt hefted the saddle and turned to his mount. "Care to try on your new wardrobe?"

"Not really," the griff grumped, "but I made you an offer, and I'm stuck with it."

Matt paused, the saddle in his arms. "No, you're not. I don't want to impose..."

"Awright, so you're welcome, you're wanted!" the griff bawled. "Can't a guy gripe a little now and then?"

"Oh! Oh, sure!" Matt reached up to settle the saddle between the beast's shoulder blades. "Just didn't realize that was your normal operating mode. Sorry." And he ducked down to buckle the cinch.

There wasn't a whole lot to spare.

A few minutes later, Matt was back in the saddle again, and the dracogriff was prowling on down the slope. For a while, Matt just enjoyed the scenery, letting his spirits lift with the cool mountain air, feeling cleansed and almost whole again.

He stiffened, alarmed by the thought. "Almost whole"? When had he started feeling shredded? And why?

He nibbled at the thought for a few minutes, then put it aside for his subconscious to work on while he went back to enjoying the view. It was very relaxing, having a companion who didn't insist on talking a lot. Grumpy as he might be, the dracogriff promised to be a good traveling companion.

On the other hand, how much of a conversationalist would he be if Matt were feeling talkative? Just to try it out, he said, "I don't see how flying could possibly be more enjoyable than this."

"You're in the mountains," the dracogriff growled. "Wait till you see what it's like on the plains."

"Oh, I've ridden there before, too, and I'll have to agree—down there, a hike isn't anywhere nearly as much fun as up here. There, I'd rather fly."

"I'd never rather fly," the dracogriff snapped. "Let's just get that straight up front, okay? I don't fly if I can help it."

Matt frowned down at him. "It's just as safe as walking."

"Oh, yeah, that's easy for you to say! You didn't try to fly into the dragons' territory!"

Matt scowled. "What were you doing there?"