"A point," Matt admitted. "I'll think of something. The early rounds will be magic against magic, after all, and that might be my opening salvo." But he doubted it—he shied at the notion of trusting men's lives to one of his spells. "Well, then, since you don't mind, let's see if I can get the idea across to our ectoplasmic messenger." He turned to the ghost.
"Can he understand you?" Fadecourt asked.
"Who cares? Whether he's reading thoughts or hearing us, he's getting the message." But Matt wished he hadn't mentioned mind reading—now he was wondering just which thoughts of his the ghost was tuning in to. He watched the misty face closely, but its look of intent attention didn't waver. Either it had very good self-control, which didn't seem to go with its genial disposition, or it couldn't hear thoughts—at least, not private ones. "Friend," Matt went on, "we need to get all our people back together. Think you can find them?"
The ghost broke into a smile, nodding vigorously.
"Great! Can you tell them where we are?"
The smile faltered; the ghost frowned. Then it shrugged and made shooing motions with its hands.
Matt nodded, satisfied. "You'll lead them or shoo them, but you'll get them here. Great. Especially since that means they'll be coming by night, when it's easier to get past Gor—the king's sentries."
The ghost frowned and shook its head.
"Oh. Not the supernatural ones?"
The ghost nodded.
"Well, Friar Tuck can shepherd Robin and his band past them—but it would be better if you could get them aboard boats, far enough away so the king isn't too much aware of it, and get them to row over here. Too tall an order?"
The ghost frowned in thought, then shook its head.
"Not too tall an order? You can get them to boat over here?" The ghost nodded.
"Great! Bring them in...uh...Milord?" Matt turned to de la Luce.
" 'Tis well planned," the old don assented. "The most secret point of embarkation is through a small ravine that runs far behind the king's castle, well out of sight of the sentries. Board them at the pier, where the fisher folk will turn their backs at the loan of their boats." His eyes twinkled. "Wherefore should they not? For it seems to me that you may find a score of boats there that belong to no one. Then have them row with feathered oars, and bring your friends in the sea gate, certes, where the tide comes in to turn my wheels. If 'twill do for my sea-maid, 'twill do for your friends."
"Well, they have to come in above the water—but there should be room, at low tide." Matt was beginning to get an eerie feeling about the way the old don talked so confidently of unlikely events—but he definitely wasn't about to ask where that score of boats was supposed to come from. He just hoped the ghost wouldn't count on their really being there. "Okay, ghost?"
The ghost nodded, grinned, and winked out. Matt exhaled sharply and turned to his friends. "End transmission. Now, Milord de la Luce—if we may impose on you a little further?"
"It is no imposition, but my pleasure." De la Luce frowned. "How may I aid?"
"We're going to need whate'er kind of supernatural aid we can get. Could you call up a few of your well-wist friends?"
"To ask them to aid?" The old don stared, then slowly smiled. "Aye, they might indeed ward you as they have me—if you can win them. Nay, surely I will call up such of them as may come." He raised his voice. "By mist and flight and gist and light! Come, friends of mine, and hear!"
Mist seemed to fill the center of the great hall, swirling and coalescing even as it appeared—and three well-wists stood before Matt, humming angrily.
"Yes, I know I offended you." Matt swallowed to fill the sudden emptiness in his belly. "But look at it from my side—we thought you were attacking us!"
The smallest well-wist quivered, and a deep rasping tone scored the air.
"Yes, I know, I know! We had no business being there. You had every right to think we were intruders—especially since we were intruders. We had just escaped from the dungeon of the Duke of Bruitfort, and we were looking for a safe place to hide. We thought this castle was deserted, because it was so close to the king's and didn't show any signs of having an army living in it."
Another tone rattled at him; the well-wist glared.
"You are an army, I know. But you don't leave any of the obvious signs of habitation—troops drilling in the bailey, horses stabled against the curtain wall, haystacks on one side and manure pile on the other. We didn't think we were invading." Matt took a deep breath. "So. I'm sorry. We didn't mean to hurt you."
The well-wists glowered at him, but their chord sounded more like a grumble than an explosion. Then the smallest stepped forward, still scowling, and opened its mouth. A rising tone skewed upward.
"Yes, well, I am going to ask a favor of you," Matt admitted.
"How can you tell what they say?" Fadecourt asked, in the hushed tones of wonder.
"Just good guessing." But privately, Matt wasn't so sure. He reminded himself that he was intrepid and wise, and pressed on. "It isn't anything out of the ordinary, actually—not for you, I mean. After all, you're guarding the castle anyway, aren't you?"
Cautious bleeps answered him.
"Right. Well, I'm just asking you to guard it a little farther away. I mean, if the king is locked up inside his castle, he can't get over here to attack your friend the don, can he?"
The well-wists stared, astounded, and their tones soared in delight.
This was much better. Matt hadn't really thought they'd become enthusiastic about the idea.
Then the smallest frowned and blatted a denial.
"Sure, I know he's powerful," Matt argued. "But I'm not talking about a frontal assault, alone—I'm just asking you to pitch in when the rest of our forces attack. If you can just flit around and confuse things, even, you'll be giving us a tremendous boost."
The well-wists exchanged glances, conducting a quick, private conversation that sounded like a symphony played at tripled speed. Then the smallest turned to the don, sounding an interrogatory tone.
"Yes, I wish this, too, my friends," the old don said. "But mind you, there is danger. The sorcerer-king has fell and puissant sorceries, and might hurt you sorely. Nay, he might slay you, dispersing your substance to the winds."
The well-wists looked at one another, buzzing in dark tones.
The old don nodded. "Aye, even so. He did despoil the land, filling the people with evil by his mere example and his cruelty, and they have tortured the animals and torn at the soil. The malice of the folk has filled the land, poisoning the source from which you sprang. Yet therein lies no reason to go blindly to the slaughter."
The smallest well-wist faced him squarely, emitting a series of angry chords with his companions.
"Why, as you will," de la Luce answered. "The death is not certain, no, and you may well prevail against his sorceries, with the aid of these good folk and their allies—how many did you number, Lord Wizard?"
"Maybe two hundred," Matt answered, "but two of those are wizards, and two more are a dragon and a dracogriff. Also, one of us has the strength of ten or so, and another is the Black Knight."
The smallest blatted back at him.
"Small enough, to challenge a king? Yes, I know—but we're going to try anyway." For himself, he didn't have much choice—and for Yverne and Fadecourt, it was better than going it alone. Sir Guy, of course, was Sir Guy, and ready for any challenge, no matter how overwhelming.
The smallest well-wist flapped its wings smartly and sang a high, clear tone.
"You are allies, then," Don de la Luce said, with a smile of satisfaction. "Gather your forces, Wizard. The well-wists will number amongst them."
The first allies to arrive were Robin Hood's band. Matt and his friends were waiting in the sea cave, shivering in the chill of the salt air and watching the water level drop with each outward rush of water. Then the chamber darkened, and they looked up to see a boat, crammed with men, filling the cave's mouth—and a wisp of a ghost drifting before them.