Queen of Sorcery

  They arrived shortly thereafter at a Tolnedran hostel with thick, whitewashed walls and a red tile roof. Aunt Pol saw to it that Lelldorin was placed in a warm room, and she spent the night sitting by his bed caring for him. Garion padded worriedly down the dark hallway in his stocking feet a half-dozen times before morning to check on his friend, but there seemed to be no change.

  By daybreak the rain had let up. They started out in the grayish dawn with Mandorallen still riding some distance ahead until they reached at last the edge of the dark forest and saw before them the vast, open expanse of the Arendish central plain, dun-colored and sere in the last few weeks of winter. The knight stopped there and waited for them to join him, his face somber.

  "What's the trouble?" Silk asked him.

  Mandorallen pointed gravely at a column of black smoke rising from a few miles out on the plain.

  "What is it?" Silk inquired, his rat face puzzled.

  "Smoke in Arendia can mean but one thing," the knight replied, pulling on his plumed helmet. "Abide here, dear friends. I will investigate, but I fear the worst." He set his spurs to the flanks of his charger and leaped forward at a thunderous gallop.

  "Wait!" Barak roared after him, but Mandorallen rode on obliviously. "That idiot," the big Cherek fumed. "I'd better go with him in case there's trouble."

  "It isn't necessary," Lelldorin advised weakly from his litter. "Not even an army would dare to interfere with him."

  "I thought you didn't like him," Barak said, a little surprised.

  "I don't," Lelldorin admitted, "but he's the most feared man in Arendia. Even in Asturia we've heard of Sir Mandorallen. No sane man would stand in his way."

  They drew back into the shelter of the forest and waited for the knight to come back. When he returned, his face was angry. "It is as I feared," he announced. "A war doth rage in our path - a senseless war, since the two barons involved are kinsmen and the best of friends."

  "Can we go around it?" Silk asked.

  "Nay, Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen replied. "Their conflict is so widespread that we would be waylaid ere we had gone three leagues. I must, it would appear, buy us passage."

  "Do you think they'll take money to let us pass?" Durnik asked dubiously.

  "In Arendia there is another way to make such purchase, Goodman," Mandorallen responded. "May I prevail upon thee to obtain six or eight stout poles perhaps twenty feet in length and about as thick as my wrist at the butt?"

  "Of course." Durnik took up his axe.

  "What have you got in mind?" Barak rumbled.

  "I will challenge them," Mandorallen announced calmly, "one or all. No true knight could refuse me without being called craven. Wilt thou be my second and deliver my challenge, my Lord?"

  "What if you lose?" Silk suggested.

  "Lose?" Mandorallen seemed shocked. "I? Lose?"

  "Let it pass," Silk said.

  By the time Durnik had returned with the poles, Mandorallen had finished tightening various straps beneath his armor. Taking one of the poles, he vaulted into his saddle and started at a rolling trot toward the column of smoke, with Barak at his side.

  "Is this really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked.

  "We have to get through, Pol," Mister Wolf replied. "Don't worry. Mandorallen knows what he's doing."

  After a couple of miles they reached the top of a hill and looked down at the battle below. Two grim, black castles faced each other across a broad valley, and several villages dotted the plain on either side of the road. The nearest village was in flames, with a great pillar of greasy smoke rising from it to the lead-gray sky overhead, and serfs armed with scythes and pitchforks were attacking each other with a sort of mindless ferocity on the road itself. Some distance off, pikemen were gathering for a charge, and the air was thick with arrows. On two opposing hills parties of armored knights with bright-colored pennons on their lances watched the battle. Great siege engines lofted boulders into the air to crash down on the struggling men, killing, so far as Garion could tell, friend and foe indiscriminately. The valley was littered with the dead and the dying.

  "Stupid," Wolf muttered darkly.

  "No one I know of has ever accused Arends of brilliance," Silk observed.

  Mandorallen set his horn to his lips and blew a shattering blast. The battle paused as the soldiers and serfs all stopped to stare up at him. He sounded his horn again, and then again, each brassy note a challenge it itself. As the two opposing bodies of knights galloped through the kneehigh, winter-yellowed grass to investigate, Mandorallen turned to Barak. "If it please thee, my Lord," he requested politely, "deliver my challenge as soon as they approach us."

  Barak shrugged. "It's your skin," he noted. He eyed the advancing knights and then lifted his voice in a great roar. "Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor, desires entertainment," he declaimed. "It would amuse him if each of your parties would select a champion to joust with him. If, however, you are all such cowardly dogs that you have no stomach for such a contest, cease this brawling and stand aside so that your betters may pass."

  "Splendidly spoken, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said with admiration.

  "I've always had a way with words," Barak replied modestly. The two parties of knights warily rode closer.

  "For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen chided them. "Ye will gain no honor in this sorry war. Sir Derigen, what hath caused this contention?"

  "An insult, Sir Mandorallen," the noble replied. He was a large man, and his polished steel helmet had a golden circlet riveted above the visor. "An insult so vile that it may not go unpunished."

  "It was I who was insulted," a noble on the other side contended hotly.

  "What was the nature of this insult, Sir Oltorain?" Mandorallen inquired.

  Both men looked away uneasily, and neither spoke.

  "Ye have gone to war over an insult which cannot even be recalled?" Mandorallen said incredulously. "I had thought, my Lords, that ye were serious men, but I now perceive my error."

  "Don't the nobles of Arendia have anything better to do?" Barak asked in a voice heavy with contempt.

  "Of Sir Mandorallen the bastard we have all heard," a swarthy knight in black enamelled armor sneered, "but who is this red-bearded ape who so maligns his betters?"

  "You're going to take that?" Barak asked Mandorallen.

  "It's more or less true," Mandorallen admitted with a pained look, "since there was some temporary irregularity about my birth which still raises questions about my legitimacy. This knight is Sir Haldorin, my third cousin-twice removed. Since it's considered unseemly in Arendia to spill the blood of kinsmen, he thus cheaply gains reputation for boldness by casting the matter in my teeth."

  "Stupid custom," Barak grunted. "In Cherek kinsmen kill each other with more enthusiasm than they kill strangers."

  "Alas." Mandorallen sighed. "This is not Cherek."

  "Would you be offended if I dealt with this?" Barak asked politely.

  "Not at all."

  Barak moved closer to the swarthy knight. "I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim," he announced in a loud voice, "kinsman to King Anheg of Cherek, and I see that certain nobles in Arendia have even fewer manners than they have brains."

  "The Lords of Arendia are not impressed by the self bestowed titles of the pig-sty kingdoms of the north," Sir Haldorin retorted coldly.

  "I find your words offensive, friend," Barak said ominously.

  "And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing," Sir Haldorin replied.

  Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his huge arm in a wide circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy knight's helmet. Sir Haldorin's eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground.

  "Would anyone else like to comment about my beard?" Barak demanded.

  "Gently, my Lord," Mandorallen advised. He glanced down with a certain satisfaction at the unconscious form of his senseless kinsman twitching in the tall gras
s.

  "Will we docilely accept this attack on our brave companion?" one of the knights in Baron Derigen's party demanded in a harshly accented voice. "Kill them all!" He reached for his sword.

  "In the instant thy sword leaves its sheath thou art a dead man, Sir Knight," Mandorallen coolly advised him.

  The knight's hand froze on his sword hilt.

  "For shame, my Lords," Mandorallen continued accusingly. "Surely ye know that by courtesy and common usage my challenge, until it is answered, guarantees my safety and that of my companions. Choose your champions or withdraw. I tire of all this and presently will become irritable."

  The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and several men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.

  "That one who was going to draw his sword was a Murgo," Garion said quietly.

  "I noticed that," Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.

  "They're coming back," Durnik warned.

  "I will joust with thee, Sir Mandorallen," Baron Derigen announced as he approached. "I doubt not that thy reputation is well-deserved, but I also have taken the prize in no small number of tourneys. I would be honored to try a lance with thee."

  "And I too will try my skill against throe, Sir Knight," Baron Oltorain declared. "My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia."

  "Very well," Mandorallen replied. "Let us seek level ground and proceed. The day wears on, and my companions and I have business to the south."

  They all rode down the hill to the field below where the two groups of knights drew up on either side of a course which had been quickly trampled out in the high, yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end, turned and sat waiting, his blunted lance resting in his stirrup.

  "Thy courage becomes thee, my Lord," Mandorallen called, taking up one of the poles Durnik had cut. "I shall try not to injure thee too greatly. Art thou prepared to meet my charge?"

  "I am," the baron replied, lowering his visor.

  Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to his warhorse.

  "It's probably inappropriate under the circumstances," Silk murmured, "but I can't help wishing that our overbearing friend could suffer some humiliating defeat."

  Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. "Forget it!"

  "Is he that good?" Silk asked wistfully.

  "Watch," Wolf told him.

  The two knights met in the center of the course with a resounding crash, and their lances both shattered at the stunning impact, littering the trampled grass with splinters. They thundered past each other, turned and rode back, each to his original starting place. Derigen, Garion noticed, swayed somewhat in the saddle as he rode.

  The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. "I should have cut more poles," Durnik said thoughtfully.

  But Baron Derigen swayed even more as he rode back this time, and on the third charge his faltering lance glanced off Mandorallen's shield. Mandorallen's lance, however, struck true, and the baron was hurled from his saddle by the force of their meeting.

  Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. "Art thou able to continue, my Lord?" he asked politely.

  Derigen staggered to his feet. "I do not yield," he gasped, drawing his sword.

  "Splendid," Mandorallen replied. "I feared that I might have done thee harm." He slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly at Derigen's head. The blow glanced off the baron's hastily raised shield, and Mandorallen swung again without pause. Derigen managed one or two feeble swings before Mandorallen's broadsword caught him full on the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed facedown on the earth.

  "My Lord?" Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled over his fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron's helmet. "Art thou unwell, my Lord?" he asked. "Dost thou wish to continue?"

  Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body quivered spasmodically.

  "Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself," Mandorallen announced, "I declare him vanquished." He looked around, his broadsword still in his hand. "Would any here gainsay my words?"

  There was a vast silence.

  "Will some few then remove him from the field?" Mandorallen suggested. "His injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should make him whole again." He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had grown visibly pale. "Well, my Lord," he said cheerfully, "shall we proceed? My companions and I are impatient to continue our journey."

  Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as he fell.

  "Ill luck, my Lord," Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword. "Dost thou yield?"

  "I cannot stand," Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. "I have no choice but to yield."

  "And I and my companions may continue our journey?"

  "Ye may freely depart," the man on the ground replied painfully.

  "Not just yet," a harsh voice interrupted. The armored Murgo pushed his horse through the crowd of other mounted knights until he was directly in front of Mandorallen.

  "I thought he might decide to interfere," Aunt Pol said quietly. She dismounted and stepped out onto the hoof churned course. "Move out of the way, Mandorallen," she told the knight.

  "Nay, my Lady," Mandorallen protested.

  Wolf barked sharply. "Move, Mandorallen!"

  Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside.

  "Well, Grolim?" Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood.

  The mounted man's eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair, and then he raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under his breath.

  Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his mind.

  For an instant Aunt Pol's figure seemed surrounded by a kind of greenish light. She waved her hand indifferently, and the light disappeared. "You must be out of practice," she told him. "Would you like to try again?"

  The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim's helmet.

  "Durnikl" Aunt Pol shouted. "Get away!"

  But the smith, his face set grimly, swung again, and the Grolim slid senseless from his saddle with a crash.

  "You fool!" Aunt Pol raged. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "He was attacking you, Mistress Pol," Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.

  "Get down off that horse."

  He slid down.

  "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" she demanded. "He could have killed you."

  "I will protect you, Mistress Pol," Durnik replied stubbornly. "I'm not a warrior or a magician, but I won't let anybody try to hurt you."

  Her eyes widened in surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened. Garion, who had known her from childhood, recognized her rapid changes of emotion. Without warning she suddenly embraced the startled Durnik. "You great, clumsy, dear fool," she said. "Never do that again - never! You almost made my heart stop."

  Garion looked away with a strange lump in his throat and saw the brief, sly smile that flickered across Mister Wolf's face.

  A peculiar change had come over the knights lining the sides of the course. Several of them were looking around with the amazed expressions of men who had just been roused from some terrible dream. Others seemed suddenly lost in thought. Sir Oltorain struggled to rise.

  "Nay, my Lord," Mandorallen told him, pressing him gently back down. "Thou wilt do thyself injury."

  "What have we done?" the baron groaned, his face anguished.

  Mister Wolf dismounted and knelt beside the injured man.

  "It wasn't your fault," he informed the baron. "Your war was the Murgo's doing. He twisted your minds and set you on each other."

/>   "Sorcery?" Oltorain gasped, his face growing pale.

  Wolf nodded. "He's not really a Murgo, but a Grolim priest."

  "And the spell is now broken?"

  Wolf nodded again, glancing at the unconscious Grolim.

  "Chain the Murgo," the baron ordered the assembled knights. He looked back at Wolf. "We have ways of dealing with sorcerers," he said grimly. "We will use the occasion to celebrate the end of our unnatural war. This Grolim sorcerer hath cast his last enchantment."

  "Good," Wolf replied with a bleak smile.

  "Sir Mandorallen," Baron Oltorain said, wincing as he shifted his broken leg, "in what way may we repay thee and thy companions for bringing us to our senses?"

  "That peace hath been restored is reward enough," Mandorallen replied somewhat pompously, "for, as all the world knows, I am the most peace-loving man in the kingdom." He glanced once at Lelldorin lying nearby on the ground in his litter, and a thought seemed to occur to him. "I would, however, ask a boon of thee. We have in our company a brave Asturian youth of noble family who hath suffered grievous injury. We would leave him, if we might, in thy care."

  "His presence shall honor me, Sir Mandorallen," Oltorain assented immediately. "The women of my household will care for him most tenderly." He spoke briefly to one of his retainers, and the man mounted and rode quickly toward one of the nearby castles.

  "You're not going to leave me behind," Lelldorin protested weakly. "I'll be able to ride in a day or so." He began to cough rackingly.

  "I think not," Mandorallen disagreed with a cool expression. "The results of thy wounding have not yet run their natural course."

  "I won't stay with Mimbrates," Lelldorin insisted. "I'd rather take my chances on the road."

  "Young Lelldorin," Mandorallen replied bluntly, even harshly, "I know thy distaste for the men of Mimbre. Thy wound, however, will soon begin to abscess and then suppurate, and raging fever and delirium will aflict thee, making thy presence a burden upon us. We have not the time to care for thee, and thy sore need would delay us in our quest."

  Garion gasped at the brutal directness of the knight's words. He glared at Mandorallen with something very close to hatred.