Then the ogre struck like an avalanche.
Rod went down under the first onslaught; he had a brief vision of huge legs churning past, of Fess's steel body flying through the air. Then he managed to fold his arms over his head, roll, and come up, his sword somehow still in his hand, bellowing with anger.
Not that he could hear himself. The ogre was bellowing loudly enough for all of them, and Beaubras, who had somehow managed to stay mounted through the first charge, sailed into him with sword and shield. Modwis was picking himself up, casting about for his iron club, and Fess was scrambling to his feet on the far side of the ogre.
Relief shot through Rod, with anger in its wake. He charged the huge humanoid, howling like a banshee. The ogre immediately assigned two of his arms to take care of Rod with shield and sword, slashing and feinting—and Rod was startled to find himself giving ground, slowly but surely. So, even more surprisingly, was Beaubras, and Modwis had found his club but was having trouble avoiding the cuts of another sword on the ogre's far side. Rod couldn't understand how the monster could coordinate three fights at the same time—but, then, he was too busy blocking and parrying to give it much thought.
"I cannot prevail!" Beaubras shouted. "He is enchanted!"
Well, that was as good an excuse as any.
'Tis more work of the foul sorcerer Brume!" Modwis howled.
Within Granclarte, he had a point—nothing short of a duke could fight Beaubras to a standoff.
Which meant it was magic.
But what kind of magic?
Fess slammed into the ogre's back, screaming; nice that one member of the party didn't need to worry about chivalry. But two of the ogre's arms immediately grabbed the horse and shoved him aside, almost as though they had a sub-brain all their own.
This was magic, and of no mean order! But how could it really work?
A huge foot sent Modwis flying, and a blade scored Rod's forearm. The hot, bright pain brought a surge of rage that somehow made Rod instantly clearheaded, and he realized that in the real world, the ogre must be made of witch-moss.
Change! he thought at it grimly, and pictured a huge ball of bread dough rolling down the road.
The ogre obstinately remained an ogre. Rod was floored— nothing in Granclarte had refused to change when he wished it to. He'd done some numbers on Gramarye witch-moss constructs, too.
He was so astounded that he was late blocking as the huge broadsword slashed straight at his face. Panic clawed as he yanked his sword up, knowing it was too late, knowing he was going to feel agony as the steel cut his head in two…
Then the sword jolted aside, and the huge mass of muscle toppled, leaving Rod seeing clear sky, with a roaring in his ears.
He looked down. The roaring was coming from the ogre, but that was his left ear; the right ear was picking up even more noise, coming from a normal-sized man who was holding one of the ogre's feet, face contorted with rage.
Fairly normal-sized, anyway—he was only six feet tall, maybe a few inches more. But he had the most fantastic build Rod had ever seen, outside of a health-spa catalogue. His shoulders were at least thirty inches across with slabs of muscle a foot thick, and his arms bulged like a normal man's thighs. His legs were virtual tree trunks, and he was naked except for a filthy rag of a loincloth. Not that it was easy to see—his whole body was encrusted with dirt. His hair was either brown or coated with grime, and it was so stringy that Rod favored the latter hypothesis. His beard was matted and mangy, hanging down onto the huge slabs of muscle that passed for his chest. His face was all staring eyes and snarling mouth, and Rod could have sworn he had fangs.
Even Beaubras had sense enough to step back and let this stranger do his work.
The ogre was on his feet again, thundering like a volcano erupting. Four boughs of arms grabbed for the wild man, but he leaped inside the squeeze and slammed a fist into the ogre's belly—way in. The ogre hooted in pain and doubled over, and the wild man slammed an uppercut into his jaw. The ogre snapped upright—but even as he did, one huge foot lashed out, catching the wild man in the midriff. He went flying and slammed into a thicket. The ogre jumped on that thicket with both feet—but the wild man squirmed out behind his heels, flipped over on his back, and kicked the ogre's legs out from under him.
The ogre fell—backward.
The wild man moved fast, incredibly fast. The ogre landed on hard ground, and the wild man jumped on him with both feet. The ogre's breath whooshed out, but he caught the wild man's ankles and threw him away into the forest.
"We must aid!" Somehow, Beaubras had come up with a new lance.
"No, wait!" Rod set a hand on his arm. "The wild man's not out yet!"
No, not a bit. He came charging back out of the brush, bellowing like a bull, and hit the ogre like a fullback, shoulder into the monster's hips. The two of them went sailing ten feet before the ogre smashed into a tree. The tree went over, and so did the ogre.
"Whence came this champion?" Beaubras gasped. "Olympus?"
"No," Rod answered. "Ariosto."
The fighters were all thrashing legs and grabbing hands, but somehow, the ogre was on his belly, and the wild man was slamming the monster's head against a rock, again and again, actually shouting something that sounded like numbers.
The rock was splitting.
The wild man had mercy on the granite and tossed the ogre down with something that certainly had the right intonation for an oath of disgust. The six arms twitched feebly, and the wild man kicked the huge ribs with contempt. He spat, and turned away.
And saw Rod, Beaubras, and Modwis.
For a long moment, they stood there, staring at each other, while prickles of apprehension flitted their way up Rod's spine.
Then the wild man bellowed and charged.
"Split up!" Rod yelled, and Fess leaped to the side. Modwis took him at his word and jumped away into the thicket—but Beaubras leveled his lance and charged straight ahead.
Rod moaned, then stared. If he hadn't seen it, he wouldn't have believed it—but the wild man caught the knight's lance, turning as he did, and heaving—and Sir Beaubras went sailing through the air to slam down into the thicket.
Rod couldn't let him be killed! He shouted and rode straight for the wild man.
On the other side, Modwis came at full donkey-gallop.
The wild man turned to grapple Rod, ignoring Modwis— and found himself facing flashing steel hooves as Fess reared, whinnying. But he dodged adroitly, caught Fess's fetlocks, and was turning to heave when Modwis crashed into him headfirst.
His head had a steel cap on it.
The wild man said "Hunh!" very clearly, in that tone that indicates a tightening of the stomach muscles, and was immobile for just a moment.
Rod seized the moment—also the wild man's hair.
He almost dropped it in disgust, and he could have sworn he felt something crawling over his fingers—but he called, "Reverse!" and Fess kicked free of the wild man's hold, slamming his forehooves down and pushing back hard. The wild man bellowed in anger, but he was off balance for another second, as Modwis dismounted and yanked up his ankles. The wild man fell with a roar. Rod dropped his hair (thankfully) and shouted, "Roll him, Fess!"
As the wild man tried to get an arm under himself, the great black horse pushed with a hoof, rolling him over, and shoved hard between the shoulder blades. The wild man went down hard.
Rod knew that sheer strength couldn't hold this superman, not even the strength of Fess's relay reflexes and servo-powered "muscles." But they were in the domain of fantasy, and it was Rod's universe now, after all—hadn't he inherited it? So he thought of a force field, and saw the air thicken around the wild man.