It was worth a try, at least—especially in Gramarye, where evil magicians were a definite possibility. For that matter, Fess had identified Modwis as being, in real life, a leprechaun…
Rod looked around, frowning. Come to that, where was Modwis? He remembered the dwarf shrinking down to elf size…
His gaze focused on the flames.
Could it have been Modwis who threw the robe over him and lit the campfire?
Rod stumbled to his feet in turmoil, apprehension coiling through his belly at the thought that a friend might be within striking range. He stood a moment, taking stock of himself. He felt well, though, surprisingly well; the spell had really passed. He resolved not to hallucinate again— the aftereffects were murder.
"Murder"—he didn't like the sound of that. He shrugged off the thought and started walking. If Modwis were here, he didn't want to see him, though Rod couldn't have said exactly why. There was a lingering distrust of anybody who professed to be on his side right now—or was it a distrust of himself?
No matter. The result was the same—stay solitary. For a moment, he wavered, tempted to take the fur robe, then decided against it; it would have felt too much like theft. Whatever kind soul had loaned it to him didn't deserve to have it stolen. He strode off into the gloaming, feeling renewed and invigorated—and hungry enough to eat a bear. Which might not have been a bad idea, if he'd met one—then he could have made his own robe.
Chapter Fourteen
If anyone was following him, they were smart enough to stay hidden. He trekked through snow-bound country for three days, building campfires when his toes grew numb and building brush huts when the sun went down. Roast partridge wasn't bad as rations went, and neither was the odd rabbit. Rod drew the line at deer, though—he couldn't possibly have eaten one before it spoiled.
Then the game became scarce, the occasional homesteads began to look very run-down, and Rod began to suspect he was in country that the sorcerer had milked dry.
So, replete with chilblains and chapped lips, but strangely refreshed, Rod came to the eastern shore, and found himself looking up at the sorcerer's castle atop a sea cliff.
It wasn't hard to tell it was a sorcerer's castle—the clouds turned dark and thick as they came swirling behind its turrets, and emitted bolts of lightning that always struck the battlements but, strangely, never did any damage. Rod worked his way up the cliff face, climbing higher and higher into constant thunder. Not for the first time, he began to wish he had Fess along or, better yet, Modwis.
Then the first dragon attacked.
It wasn't much for size, only a couple of meters long, but it roared with great verve, and its two-foot tongue of flame was very impressive.
"Shoo!" Rod shouted, trying to bat it away with one hand while the other clung to a fingerhold. The dragon shied away, and Rod yelped, shaking his hand—that beast was hot't If it was an illusion, it was a very vivid one.
The dragon circled and came roaring back. Rod drew his sword, sighted along it at the dragon's mouth, and cried, "£>i brochette!"
Unfortunately, the beast didn't know French. It slammed into Rod full tilt, the sword ramming straight into its brain. It died on the instant, plummeting down the height—and dragging Rod's sword with it. He gritted his teeth and yanked back, knowing he'd be lost without the sword—but his poor numb fingers slipped from their hold, and sea reeled about him into the sky as he fell, howling in horror. It took the sight of the rocks shooting up at him to remind him he could levitate. He thought how repulsive the rocks looked and, sure enough, they repulsed him, slowing his fall, stopping him two feet from their hungry, jagged teeth, then raising him slowly back up. With a sigh of relief, he settled onto his former footholds, felt himself start to grow limp, and sternly reminded his body that it had a task to complete. It complied with protest, pulling itself back into semblance of firmness, and started climbing on up the cliff—at which point, his brain came into play and sneeringly reminded him that, if he could levitate to save himself, he could also levitate to get to the top more easily. Astounded, Rod stood still for a minute, then smiled, stepped off into space, thinking Up! and silently drifted toward the base of the keep.
Then the next dragon hit.
It came roaring down like a V-l rocket, flaming out of a darkening sky like a reminder of doom. Rod swooped aside, but the monster changed course and came flaming up his backside. Rod whooped, did a backflip, and landed just behind the lizard's batwings, shouting, "Hi-yo, Iguanodon!" The dragon took umbrage at the epithet and tried to twist back on itself enough to scorch Rod. Unfortunately, it succeeded; fortunately, he managed to lean aside just enough for the flame to miss him. Its heat fanned his arm—and he twitched a little farther away—a little bit too much. He tumbled sideways with a shout, knees still locked on the dragon's ribs, perforce twisting it with him. It bellowed butane, trying to twist itself back upright, and the upshot was a downshot, the two of them twirling and tumbling down through the air toward the jagged rocks below.
This won't do, Rod thought dizzily, and managed to catch the beast under the jaw. The flame cut off with a burp, and the beast fought wildly—but followed its head. Rod managed to get its nose pointed upward and rode, swooping and swirling, back toward the battlements, clinging for dear life, and trying to hold on to his dinner. Rugged cliff face gave way to granite blocks with a five-foot ledge between masonry and precipice; Rod felt a surge of panic as he had a sudden mental image of himself rising up above the battlements and turning into a pincushion as the sentries gleefully took the chance for a little target practice. Inspiration struck, and so did the dragon, as Rod turned its head toward the castle. It roared toward the granite full tilt and slammed headfirst into the wall. Rod jumped off and sagged against the wall as the dragon flipped backward, its eyes rolling and wings fluttering, to coast spiraling down. Rod didn't worry; it was only stunned, and would probably recover before it hit the rocks.
On the other hand, if it did, it might come back for him.
It behooved him to find some way to get into the castle before then. He shoved off and rose once more, then remembered his vision of skewering archers, and decided to settle down to exploring. He cast along the base of the wall, searching for some sort of opening—and, not surprisingly, came to the drawbridge.
However, he did feel surprised to find it down. Rod frowned up at the gate towers. "Got to be sentries," he muttered. "If they're going to be anywhere, they're going to be here."
But there was no sign of a single mortal sentry; the gate towers looked to be completely deserted, not to say ruined…
A single mortal sentry…
Rod shivered. This was Granclarte; what kinds of sentry might a sorcerer employ?
Well, there was only one way to find out—but with great caution. Rod stepped out onto the drawbridge, then carefully let his weight down onto the planks.
The wood crumbled away.
Rod drew back, heart thumping as he watched chunks of rotten wood splash into the greenish oily waters of the moat. Yes, definitely there was more to this drawbridge than met the eye—more threat, less substance. He thought of floating, felt his heels leave the ground, and stepped out onto the drawbridge again, pretending to walk, though he really drifted across. But he let his toes touch the wood for appearance's sake.
Something cold slapped around his ankle and yanked.
Rod toppled off the drawbridge, saw the waters coming up at him, then a long, rubbery arm reaching up from the scum to his ankle. He thought repulsive thoughts in a panic and began to float up, the tentacle drawing out straight. Apparently it didn't like the resistance; it yanked again; hard. Rod was caught off balance and slammed down into the water. He just managed to catch a deep breath before the waters closed over his head, and he reached for his sword.