"True." Modwis turned the key in the great lock, hung it around his neck, and took up a walking staff from its place by the jamb. "Yet surely thou'It not deny me thy companionship upon the road?"
"Well—no, of course not. Glad of it, really. But where are you going?"'
"Down the road some miles. Whither goest thou?"
"Uh—well… down the road a way, actually."
"Well met!" Modwis beamed and clapped him on the arm. "By some fair chance, we journey toward the same destination! Then thou wilt not be amazed an I keep pace with thee for the full length of the journey."
And they set off into the forest, with Rod having that old, nagging feeling that, somehow, he'd been conned. Again.
After an hour, Rod reined in and dismounted. "Okay, your turn to ride now."
Modwis looked up, amused. "Dost think me so weak as to need another's limbs?"
"Well… No, not when you put it that way. But it is more restful. And faster."
"It shall take more than a day's walk to tire me. And as to speed, set thy pace, and I'll match it."
Rod wasn't about to test it—but he was in no hurry, anyway, so he kept Fess to a walk. Modwis would not relent, so, after a while, Rod quit trying. But when they stopped to rest at a village, Rod bought a donkey, leaving a peasant blessing heaven for the good fortune of a real gold crown, and offered it to Modwis. The dwarf still would not ride, but only led the donkey, until Rod let his embarrassment begin to show. Then, finally, Modwis relented and climbed onto the donkey. So, both mounted, they rode on toward romance and adventure.
By late afternoon, they were out of the forest and in open country again, coming down from the Crag Mountains into the northern plateau.
Plateau? Runnymede was on a plateau, not the northern baronies! Rod realized, with a sudden sense of vertigo, that he really was in Granclarte, not just a thinly disguised Gramarye.
At least, he seemed to be…
Well, you couldn't tell it by the look of the rider who was coming up the road toward them. He was clad in black armor, and rode a horse that would have done credit to a beer wagon. It was hard to tell who wore the better armor, horse or rider…
The knight reined in alongside and lifted his visor. "Hail! Art thou knight or yeoman?"
"Neither, really," Rod said with a smile. "No one ever got around to knighting me, but I was raised to the peer-age. Born to it, too, but I was a second son of a second son."
"Then assuredly, thou art a knight born!"
"Seemed that way to me, too, but nobody ever made it official." Then Rod saw the device on the knight's shield, and froze.
It was a silver arm with a closed fist, slanting across a black field—and Rod knew that plain, severe sight as well as he knew the form of Fess. "My pardon, Sir Knight. You are a man of virtue rare!"
"Thou dost me too much honor, good sir. Yet thou hast the advantage of me, an thou knowest me by repute. Say who thou art."
Rod swallowed. "I am Rod Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock of the Kingdom of Gramarye."
"A warlock!" The sword's point was at Rod's throat. He didn't remember the knight drawing it, but it was there. "Is thy magic white or black?"
"Neither, really—it just is." Rod ignored the sword (while sweat trickled off his brow) and looked steadily into the sky-blue eyes beneath the noble brow. "Is your sword crafted by white magic or black?"
The point didn't waver, and the face behind it turned more flinten than ever. "Smiths do own magic, aye—they chant strength as they forge the blade, and carve runes down its length. Yet whether the magic is white or black depends upon the smith."
Rod nodded. "So it is with me. I am no saint, and I cannot work miracles—but neither am I devoted to Satan; I abhor him, and all his works."
Still the sword did not waver. "Magic must be from either God or Satan. Which is thine?"
"It's certainly not from Satan—and I do live in hope of Heaven."
The knight held his gaze a moment more, then sheathed the great sword. "Thou art a white warlock."
"If you say so." Rod felt a surge of hubris coming, and somehow knew better than to squelch it. "But if you want to make sure, why don't you test my mettle? I'll withhold my magic, if you withhold your sword."
The knight still gazed at him, then smiled just a little. " 'Tis apt. With what weapon shall we contend?"
Rod jerked his head toward the willows bordering the stream by the road. "I suspect two enterprising gentlemen could find a couple of six-foot staves in there."
Now the knight grinned. "Even as thou sayest. Sin that I lack a squire, wilt thine choose my weapon for me?"
"Well, he's not really my squire…"
"Nay, be assured that I am!" Modwis was off his donkey in an instant, his eyes huge. "A moment only, good knights!" And he vanished into the copse with remarkable speed.
The knight frowned. "An he is not thy squire, who is he?"
"Only a friend," Rod said, "and a new one at that. But he strikes me as reliable."
The knight nodded. "The dwarves are known for their hearts of oak. Their loyalty is rarely given, yet when 'tis, 'twill stand like a mountain."
Modwis was back, holding up two green poles, sliced through at each end, twigs trimmed to smoothness. "Thou dost me honor, sirs and knights."
"As thou dost for us," the knight said, in the best tradition of chivalry. He dismounted. Rod couldn't help staring—any man who could get on or off a horse with a full load of plate armor and no derrick was fantastically strong.
But of course, this was fantasy…
"I would prefer not to take advantage," he said, nonetheless. "Your armor must weigh you down, sir."
The knight tossed his helm with impatience. "What matters such weight to a true knight? Yet to yield mine advantage, I must bare my pate for thee." He set hands to his helm, unfastened and removed it. Golden locks flowed down to his shoulders; a flat, sloping forehead ran up against a brace of bony brow-ridges, somewhat camouflaged by bushy blond eyebrows. They overhung two large deeply-set blue eyes, thresholded by high, prominent cheekbones, divided by a blade of a nose. Beneath the nose was a wide, thin-lipped mouth above a strong, squarish jawbone and a jutting chin. Rod felt his heart skip a beat—the knight was just as he'd always imagined him.
Of course, said his monitor-mind.
The knight took up his staff, twirled it around his head to warm up, then brought it down. "At thy convenience, milord."
Rod grinned, feeling the joy of battle start—and against such an opponent! He knew he'd be lucky to manage a draw, but that didn't matter—the thrill was equivalent to singing at Covent Garden with Domingo.
Modwis stood by, fairly bursting with excitement.
They circled each other, both grinning, eyes alight, quarterstaves held slanting, on guard. Then the knight cried, "Avaunt!" and his pole tip shot through the air so fast Rod could scarcely see it. But he managed to get his own stick up just high enough, somehow, and the crack of their meeting echoed off the rock face a hundred yards behind them.
It also left Rod's hands stinging so badly he could have sworn his bones were vibrating.
No time to think about it—the bottom of the knight's staff was sweeping toward Rod's kneecap. He barely managed to block, and the blow knocked his own staff into his kneecap. He stepped back, alarmed to feel his knee buckle, and blocked the knight's next blow from a great defensive position on one knee. At last he realized that he had to go on the offensive, and the low position was handy for a knock at the shins. It landed, but it was more like a clang, with a rebound Rod didn't believe. He used it, though, to aim the top of his staff at the knight's head. The knight's staff swept up to block, of course, and Rod seized the chance to shove himself back upright. He found his balance just in time, for the knight's staff was shooting right at his sinuses. He blocked and, getting the rhythm of it (finally!), swung the lower end of the staff at a joint in the knight's armor. The tip hit chain mail between the plates, but it jolted the man momentarily, long enough for Rod to slam a knock at his helmetless head.