A new one again, an element not in Grandfather's saga. Rod frowned.
"Where is High Dudgeon?" Modwis asked.
Nice to know it was new to him, too.
"Hid within the clouds at the top of Mount Sullen," Beaubras answered. " 'Tis a keep nigh eighty feet tall— yet for the first sixty of those feet, it hath not one single opening. Nay, not so much as an arrow-slit."
"Quite secure," Rod said. "Yet not the most sensible arrangement for defense, to say nothing of aesthetics. Any particular reason for the lack of windows?"
"So that all within may look down on those beneath them—as they believe everyone to be, who doth not view the world from High Dudgeon."
Rod said slowly, "I take it they like to have everyone beneath them."
"Aye. None come there who do not—sad to say." The knight hung his head. "My lady is the fairest in the land, but many among us hath a weakness—and this is hers."
"But you don't seem to think going there was entirely her doing."
Beaubras rode in thought for a while, then nodded. "There may be truth in that—for, though she may have come willingly, the glamour may also have been wrapped about her aforetime."
"Therefore she may have wished to come, because she had been enchanted." Rod nodded; it was ever the way of young girls and high living. Still, he took Sir Beaubras's point—the lady had to find the glamour tempting, for the glamour to ensnare her. "The chatelaine, Lady Aggravate— she is something of a magician."
"She is a sorceress entire, sir, who doth gain her strength by sapping the vitality of the young folk she doth call to her. The mark of her corruption may be seen in her abhorrence of the cleansing touch of water."
"No water?" Rod stared. "What do her people drink?"
"Only wine, and brandy wine, which doth render them the more susceptible to her whims."
"Good grief!" Rod turned away, shaken. "How can they stand to be near each other?"
"Oh, she doth ever fill her halls with sweet aromas, by the burning of fragrant gums and resins, so that those who dwell within her courts cannot sense the corruption about them."
"You mean the people who dwell in High Dudgeon are always incensed?" Rod gave his head a shake. "No, what's the matter with me? Of course they are." He shuddered. "A grim and awful keep indeed, Sir Beaubras! You must not go alone against such a horrible castle!"
"I cannot ask thee to accompany me into so fell a place, Lord Gallowglass.''
"You didn't—I volunteered. Unless you think I'll be in the way, of course."
The knight turned, a smile making his countenance radiant. "Of a certainty, thou shalt not! Thou art a wizard, art thou not? And assuredly, thou shalt be of most timely aid against this sorceress Aggravate!"
Rod hoped he was right.
The sun was just past noon, and Rod was on the watch for an inn, when Modwis brought them up with a raised hand. They reined in, and the knight frowned. "What stirs, friend?"
"I mislike the sense of this place." Modwis scowled at the roadway ahead of them. The farmlands narrowed, then gave way to tall, dark oaks and elms that overhung the road. "There have been bandits here in times gone by."
"Like enough; 'tis well suited to an ambush." Beaubras lifted his head, baring his teeth in a grin. "So much the worse for them, then. How good of thee, Modwis, to find that with which to cheer me! Lord Gallowglass, an there do be bandits, I doubt me not they warrant punishment. What sayest thou?"
"Mostly surely," Rod said bravely, but his spine crawled with apprehension as they rode under the boughs. He wished he could be as delighted at the prospect of…
A roar like a score of locomotives let loose at once, and a handful of bandits leaped out from the trees. They were scruffy but stocky, their clothes as ragged and dirty as their weapons were bright. Two of them had halberds; two had swords; one had only a club. But the club was huge and had a spike, and the spike was swooping toward Rod's temple. He ducked, shouting a totally unnecessary warning to his companions. Fess dodged, and between the two of them, he only got hit with the side of the club as it shot past. But the blow hit a lot harder than a five-and-a-half-foot malnourished thug should have been able to manage; Rod flew from the saddle and landed, hard, on his back. It knocked the wind out of him and paralyzed his diaphragm; he struggled to pull in a breath at the same time as he struggled to get up. Fess screamed a threat and warning, and leaped to stand over him, shielding Rod with his own steel body from the ministrations of the club-wielder and a sword-swinger who swerved over to join in. Fess tried to lash out with a front hoof and a back hoof simultaneously, and promptly had a seizure, legs locking stiff over his master, head dropping to swing between his fetlocks.
But he had given Rod enough time to thrash his way up on one elbow and get a look at the bandits, through the tears in his eyes. They looked wobbly and out of focus— but they also looked to be moving inside vague, hulking, translucent outlines that were half again as tall as they were, and much more misshapen. Then he blinked away the tears, and saw only bandits again—but the clue was enough. "Trolls!" he shouted to his companions. "They're really trolls in disguise!"
It was enough for Beaubras. He changed his style of attack on the instant, aiming a ringing blow two feet above the head of the nearest bandit.
The blow rang indeed, and struck sparks, too. The bandit gave a scream and fell back a pace, shocked.
As well he might be. Beaubras's magic blade, Coupetou, had carved a gash out of the troll's granite hide. For all that Rod could see, the sword hadn't come anywhere near the bandit—but a gash had opened in the air above him, welling bright green ichor, and Beaubras was slashing at it again.
Not that Rod had time to look. He had spared a quick glance before he turned to block the next blow, dodging aside from it as he thought Long! at his dagger. It sprouted amazingly, shooting out like a switchblade.
Behind him, Coupetou rang like an alarm bell, and Modwis underscored its melody with a percussion of dull thuds as he laid about him with an iron club.
Rod thought Hard! and his sword's edge glittered like a diamond.
In fact, it was diamond, as the next bandit found out when Rod sidestepped and chopped right through his club. The "man" stared at the sheared stub in surprise, and Rod scored a line across the air directly above his head.
The bandit screamed and fell back, but his mate with the sword stepped in—and toppled as Modwis straightened up, holding the bandit's ankle. Rod didn't pause to debate points of chivalry—he chopped while he could. The blade clanged and rebounded, vibrating so hard it stung his hands. Bright green lined the air above it and the bandit screamed like a factory whistle, rolling to his feet and pelting back toward the forest. His mate with the stub of club joined him, and Rod started to run after them, then thought of confronting them on their home territory, and slowed to a halt. He turned back, and saw right away that Beaubras and Modwis had done considerably better than he had. Two bandits lay writhing on the ground; another gave one last shudder, and lay still. All three were growing hazy around the edges, but the dead bandit was the first whose form blurred completely, then re-formed into an eight-foot monster, wide in the shoulders and chest, absurdly short in the legs, that looked somehow like a turnip—with arms five feet long, muscled like steel cables, and hands that had claws, not fingernails.
Rod stared, appalled. He had had the temerity to fight a thing like that!
He looked up quickly—and, sure enough, the other two bandits had turned into the same type of monster. They thrashed about on the ground, moaning and howling.