He actually connected! Nasty hollow sound, too. Not that it did much harm. Oh, the knight fell back a step, but he simply gave his head a shake and waded back in.
But it had been time enough for Rod to get his own speciality back in play. He whirled his staff around in a circle, so fast it was a blur, describing a plane that was angled at forty-five degrees—it was supposed to be upright, but a quarterstaff was really too long for single-stick play.
The knight frowned; this was apparently new to him. But he slammed a blow bravely at Rod's head.
Crack! The knight's stick snapped itself out of his hands. "Parbleu!" He wrung his hands—they were stinging, too; pretty good, since he was wearing gauntlets. He leaped back, catching up his staff, and his lips firmed with impatience.
Rod stopped his whirligig, limped to the nearest tree, propped his back against it, and set himself, staff up between both hands. It was coming now.
It did. He was the center of a tornado of blows, cracking about him like lightning bursts. He plied his own stick frantically, blocking blow for blow and countering when he could, down low, up high, up high again, down low, up high…
But the knight's staff tip came in down low again, somehow, and caught Rod right in the midriff. The breath whooshed out of his lungs; he gasped, gulping for air, not gaining any, fighting against the pain that racked him as the day darkened about him, and fell.
Then it was light again, and he could actually breathe, and Modwis was running a cool, damp rag over his face. He pulled in a long breath, deciding it was the sweetest draft he'd had in a long time, and struggled to sit up. The dwarf's arm was around his shoulders in a second, helping, and he saw the golden-haired knight leaning on his staff, smiling enigmatically. "My thanks for a worthy bout, milord. Thy skill is great."
"Not quite as great as yours." Rod grinned, and shoved himself painfully up, saying. "Not that I expected it to be."
"Still, you comported yourself most excellently." The knight clasped his forearm and hauled him to his feet. "I would be glad of your company in my travels, milord."
Rod stared, unable to believe his ears. He travel with this hero? This man who always rode alone? "I—I'd be honored." He was suddenly aware of Modwis's arm under his own hand. "But I couldn't leave my squire."
"So faithful and stalwart a companion must needs be of inestimable value. Wilt thou both aid me awhile?"
"Why… of course," Rod said, overcome. "Whatever we can do."
"Aye," Modwis rumbled.
"Thou mayest be of great aid indeed, the more so an thou knowest the land hereabouts." The knight turned to survey the valley below with a frown.
"I have dwelt here all my life," Modwis answered.
"There's not a stump nor a stone for ten miles that I know not."
"I have need of such knowledge," the knight conceded. "I oppose a fell sorcerer, dost thou see, and he hath cast a glamour over my sight, which doth so change the appearance of all the country hereabouts that I can no longer find my way."
"A foul spell in truth," the dwarf muttered.
"Even so. Three times now have I fallen into a bog, and once fallen from a height, when I could have sworn naught lay before me but open land. I could not even be sure that thou wast truly nigh, when I saw thee."
"Vile," Rod agreed. "I'm under something of the same enchantment, myself."
Modwis stared at him in sudden surprise, which was reassuring, as did the knight. "Thou hast a glamour about thee?"
"I wouldn't have thought so," Rod muttered, "but I do seem to be seeing things that aren't there." For a moment, the spell thinned, and he saw only an open road before him, bound with fog under a leaden sky, with deep ruts in the snow heaped high upon it.
" 'Tis the sorcerer hath cast this dimness o'er thy sight," Modwis averred, "the foul sorcerer, who doth seek to blind thee to such things as are real!"
The sun shone again, on a dusty road amid summer greenery, and the knight was back. Rod relaxed and explained, "But the only illusions I see are of people and monsters." A lingering regard for truth made him add, "And seasons. I don't seem to be having trouble with geographical features."
The knight grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we are well met, thou and I! I shall see the folk aright, and thou shalt see the terrain! Come, let us march against this fell sorcerer, and root him from the land!"
The grin was infectious; Rod couldn't help but return it. "And just in case I'm fooled, Modwis will check us. And my horse, of course—he's very good at discerning reality." He ignored the buzz behind his ear. "What sorcerer is this?"
"Some country churl, and a weak-kneed 'prentice of a magic-worker, I doubt not," the knight answered with disdain. "None have e'er heard of him aforetime, nor shall after, I warrant."
"But his name?" Rod insisted.
"He doth call himself 'Saltique,' " the knight answered, "and I trust we shall salt him indeed."
It was a strange name, right enough, which was odd, because Rod knew all the Chronicles of Granclarte by heart.
"Your grandfather's ghost did say that you were to continue the saga, Rod," Fess murmured behind his ear.
"Salt him away for future use?" Rod pretended dismay. "Why not just put him out of business permanently?"
"I warrant we'll send him to his just reward," the knight answered. "Yet first, we must needs discover his lair."
"I have heard summat of him," Modwis grated. "We must track him to the Wastelands, milords."
"Why, we are nearly there!" the knight cried, and clapped Modwis on the shoulder. "How can we fail, with a true guide before us? To horse, milord! And away!"
They mounted and rode out, heading down into the valley—and Fess couldn't avoid the realization that his master was riding back into his childhood.
"Fess, just think of it!" Rod burbled. "I'm riding with him! I'm actually riding with him!"
"It is a rare honor indeed." Fess was growing increasingly concerned, even more so now that Rod had begun talking to himself. That was bad enough, but it was worse that he was making perfect sense.
Rod sobered, some of his exuberance absorbed into the robot's caution. "Where's the worm in the apple, huh? Y'know, he looks almost familiar… hauntingly familiar…"
"Should he not?"
"Well, yeah, he should look the way I've always pictured him." Rod frowned at the tall, broad figure riding straight in the saddle in front of him. "But then he should look familiar, period. Why this niggling reminder of someone I once knew?"
"It is entirely natural."
"Yeah, I guess my childish mind built him after some adult I'd met."
Fess kept silent.
"Just think—riding with him, on his quest!" Rod felt his spirits bubble up again. "I may never go back to the real world!"
"That," said Fess, "may be exactly what your enemies are hoping for."
"Oh, don't be a killjoy! Ho, for adventure! I ride in quest of the Rainbow Crystal, with the great knight Beaubras!"
Chapter Seven
They had traveled some time before Rod thought to ask, "Where do you wish to go, Sir Knight?"
"To the rescue of my fair lady Haughteur, Lord Gal-lowglass," the knight replied.
Great. But not quite as helpful as Rod needed. "Where is she imprisoned?"
The knight shook his head in sorrow. "Not bound in a prison, Lord Gallowglass, but in a glamour. She dwells within the keep of High Dudgeon, in the sway of Lady Aggravate."