Incredibly, he still moved. More slowly—he was slowed down to normal speed for a man with quick reflexes—but he still thrashed, roaring, and probably would have toppled Fess in another second. But the spell delayed him just long enough for Beaubras to leap in, grabbing at the wild man's left arm. Rod jumped out of the saddle to grab his right. The wild man kicked, roaring, and Modwis went flying, but Rod caught the ankle on the rebound and yanked it up to the buttock. "Cradle hold!"
Beaubras got the idea, if not the term, and managed to catch the other leg and shove it up in similar fashion. The wild man thrashed and roared, but there really wasn't much he could look forward to from that position, except possibly a hot shower.
Beaubras looked up at Rod. "What can we do with him now, Lord Gallowglass?"
How did Rod become the expert, all of a sudden?
It was a good question. It was a very good question. If they let go, one very angry wild man would be on his feet in a second, pounding their heads in—but if they tried to hold on, sooner or later they'd tire, and he'd kick loose on his own.
"Only hold him a moment longer, good sirs!"
Excellent idea. Rod renewed his grip and wondered who had said that.
It was a new knight who had said that, a knight who had dropped in on a flying horse—well, no, not a horse, really; its wings and head were those of an eagle. He leaped to the ground and came running—never mind that he wore full plate armor; none of the chroniclers had ever minded— and knelt by the wild man's head while he pulled out a very large test tube. There was a label on it, but Rod couldn't make it out; he was a little busy at the moment. The new knight ignored the wild man's roaring and popped the wax cap off the vial right under the wild man's nose.
What was it, his grandmother's smelling salts?
Whatever it was, it worked like a charm, which it probably was. The wild man stilled instantly, utter astonishment on his face. Then he looked back up over his shoulder at Beaubras and Rod, took in the situation, nodded slowly—and, wonder of wonders, spoke. "I thank thee for thine aid, kind sirs—yet my wits are of a sudden restored to me. Thou mayest loose me now; be assured, I'll not attack thee."
Rod looked the question at Beaubras. The knight nodded and, very carefully, they loosed their holds—then jumped back.
The wild man rolled to his feet in a single, sinuous movement, looking down at his body with a mortified expression, "Alas! Am I become a savage beast, then?"
"Thou art returned to us now," the new knight said tactfully. "Yet are thy wits all of a whole again, lord Count?"
"Aye." The wild man looked up with a pensive frown. "And now that I mind me, that first sickness of the brain is vanished also—that spellbound desire for the maid Angelica." His voice took on a note of wonder. "She is naught to me now—only another woman that I have met, and not a pleasant one, though still must I acknowledge her beauty. Yet I could not care less for her, though 'twas the news of her marriage that did drive me mad. Is't not wondrous, my lord Duke?"
"It is, surely," the duke answered. "Thou dost remember, then?"
"Remember! Ah, would that I did not!" The count squeezed his eyes shut. "Every wild, senseless act of utter destruction that I have wrought—the flocks scattered, the cattle torn limb from limb, the trees uprooted, the fields laid waste! Ah, the poor folk who have suffered from my madness!" A tear glittered on his cheek.
" 'Tis done, my lord Count," the new knight said softly. " 'Tis done; thou hast regained thy wits, and are restored to thy lord and uncle, Charles."
"Aye, thanks to thee, brave Duke." The wild man raised his head with a frown. "But mine uncle? What of him?"
"He is in Paris, my lord, besieged by a Saracen host."
"Why, we must go to him, then!" the wild man cried. "Come, my lord! Away!" But he remembered to turn to Beaubras, Rod, and Modwis, inclining his head. "Knight and gentlemen, I thank thee. Most gracious aid hast thou given, and at no small peril to thyselves. This act of charity shall be numbered among thy glories; the minstrels shall sing of it."
Rod and his companions could only return the bow in mute acknowledgement.
Then the count turned and marched away, clothed in dignity and grime, grim resolution in every line of his filthy body.
The duke hurried after him, whipping the cloak off his own shoulders and throwing it over the count's.
The hippogriff took wing, circled once over the new clearing (the ogre and the wild man had knocked down a lot of trees in their fight), and flew off after his master.
"A most noble count," Beaubras murmured.
"As noble as yourself," Rod agreed, but inside, he was wondering just how a classic epic and a classic parody had both become mixed up in his grandfather's romance.
He shrugged and turned away—it had been a thrill, anyway, and he'd manage to sort it out someday.
The ogre groaned and stirred.
"Oh. Yes." Rod turned, frowning. "We still have this little problem to dispose of, don't we?"
"Aye." Beaubras drew his sword, just in case. "What shall we do with him, Lord Gallowglass?"
Rod shrugged. "Why take chances? We know he's got to be guilty of something." And he whipped out his blade, poised for the death blow.
Inside him, someone was screaming and protesting, but the world seemed to be reddening, Rod could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, and suddenly, he knew that if he let this creature live, it would hunt him down and kill him, it and all its ilk, tracking him down day by day until finally, exhausted, he could run no more…
But there was a hand staying his arm, a hand that didn't push or grab, just rested there, and a voice that filled his head, saying, "Nay, Lord Gallowglass. To slay in cold blood is a woeful transgression 'gainst chivalry!"
Rod wanted to put down the sword, but the image of the ogre stalking him still made his heart race, the dark, misshapen thing tracking him through a moonless night… "If we don't kill him in cold blood, he'll kill us in hot blood!"
The ogre suddenly stirred, muttering something that sounded like agreement. Rod lifted the sword a little higher, but another voice filled his head, Fess's, saying, "Remember, Rod, that what you see may not be what truly exists."
The sword wavered, and beneath its point, as though mist were clearing, the ogre's shape became translucent.
Rod seemed to see inside it, see three men heaped one atop another, jostling each other as they regained consciousness. Not filthy half-beasts, either, but clean-shaven men dressed in neat tunics and hose, made of good cloth— far better than real peasants wore, though they resembled peasant styles.
Rod's voice shook. "Ogre or assassins, they're still enemies who will kill me if I give them the chance!"
"Then we will not give him that chance," Beaubras said simply. "We will leave him bound hand and foot, and will be long gone ere he can work himself free." .
And it was an "it," not a "them"—it was only a single ogre again, thrusting himself up on one elbow.
The sword trembled as Rod lowered it with a single, short nod. "All right. All right, we'll show mercy. But let's be quick/about it, eh? Before it can fight again."
On the instant, Modwis cast rope about the ogre, and Beaubras bent to push, rolling the monster over and over until he was wrapped in rope from shoulder to hip. It roared and gnashed its teeth, but Beaubras and Modwis stayed clear of its kicking feet as they tied the knots, the knight supplying the strength, the dwarf shaping the rope into a devious puzzle that only a wizard could unravel. Then they cast loops about the feet, tightening them so as not to prevent circulation, and bound the ankles together on the other side of a thick old tree.
As for Rod, he was feeling too sick to even wonder where Modwis had found the rope. His stomach was churning, and his head was rent with a stabbing pain. He turned away, hands trembling too much to even sheathe his sword, and held on to a tree, hoping the world would stop whirling.