The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (39 page)

"Maybe you didn't. After all, he might have been paying you a compliment." Sergeant Brock showed his teeth in something resembling a grin. "There is that virtue in merely turning his own words back on him."

"Okay, he's only a day's sail from Bretanglia, but how often do you think he meets people who speak
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our language?" Matt asked.

"Not often," Sir Orizhan admitted, "since he is only a fisherman—but there is a fair amount of trade between the lands. Surely we can find a merchant who can speak with us!"

"Good idea." Matt scanned the village. "Come to think of it, even the local priest should at least be able to speak church Latin… There! I suppose you could call that a steeple." He pointed to a larger-than-average one-story building with a sort of pointed bump at one end.

"A church indeed," Sir Orizhan agreed. "Do you truly speak the language of ancient Reme?" Matt kept forgetting that it had been Remus who had won the fight for the first Latin wall in this universe, not Romulus.

'Let's say it's not too different from something I learned in school." He turned back to give the old men a cheery wave. "'Thanks, guys. I think we can make it from here." The gaffers stared, taken aback, and watched with apprehension as the companions started for the church.

The chapel was the only stone structure in town, as was so often the case, and the rectory-cottage beside it was only wattle and daub with a thatched roof. But the yard before it was neat and clean, with flowers around the border and a whitewashed fence, and the priest was sitting on a bench beside the door, reading his breviary.

Matt felt a little strange walking right up to him, so he knocked at the gate. The priest looked up with a pleasant smile that vanished when he saw strangers, and ones in foreign clothing at that.

"Good morning, Father," Matt said agreeably.

The priest frowned, cocking his head on one side, and asked a question in Gaelic. Matt sighed and tried again. "Ave, pater!"

"Ah!" The priest's expression cleared. "Ave, filius meant." It was a strange experience, hearing Latin with an Irish accent—but Matt had only had a year in high school and fifteen years of Mass prayers in childhood.

"Quern quaeiritus?" the priest asked. It meant, Who are you looking for?

"We wish to go to the bishop's town," Matt explained. "Can you tell us the way?"

"Do you come from Bretanglia?" the priest asked.

"We just have," Matt told him, "but our journey began in Merovence." After all, that was true for Rosamund, too—it was just that, in her case, the first leg of the trip had been done a long time before.

"What do you seek in the bishop's town?"

Matt began to feel that the priest meant to protect the bishop from these vile Bretanglians. "We seek a
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merchant, any merchant, who can tell us how to find a certain monastery where a—" Matt groped for a word that could describe the (hopefully) sleeping Brion. "—a certain relic lies."

"Ah! A pilgrimage!" The priest nodded, not only satisfied but delighted. He pointed along the main street of the town.

"Go three miles to the crossroads, and the signpost will point the way to Innisfree. It is the road to the right, and five miles later, the left branch of a fork."

"Thank you, Father." Matt tipped his hat and started to turn away. But the priest held up a cautioning hand. "Be careful on the road, my son. A pouka haunts that way, and not by night alone."

"A pouka?" Mart's blood chilled, especially since the word wasn't Latin. "I thank you even more deeply, Father. May I donate to your church?"

The priest's face broke into a smile. "That would be pleasant." But he was staring at the small gold coin in stunned disbelief as the companions walked away.

"What advice was it that made you so generous?" Sir Orizhan asked.

"He told me there's a pouka haunting the road," Matt explained.

"A pouka!" Rosamund and Sergeant Brock stopped dead, staring.

"I take it you have them in Bretanglia, too," Matt said.

"We have pooks, and the most mischievous of them is an elf by that name," Brock said. Matt supposed the distinction between "pook" and "Puck" was pretty minor—only a matter of a vowel shift. Nonetheless, the thought made him glad he was in Ireland; he'd had experience with Puck. "Here, a pouka means a shapeshifter. It usually appears as a horse, but it can be just about anything, including a human being."

"How do we guard against it, then?" Rosamund asked.

"Well, if you see a horse by the roadside who looks as though he's just begging to be ridden—don't mount."

They had been strolling along the main street, and Matt stopped in surprise in front of a larger-than-average hut that had piles of folded nets, jars of beeswax, cylinders of cork, and coils of rope stacked outside it. A man stood in the midst of them all, pumping away at a push drill on a sort of lozenge of stone, boring a hole through its center.

"If I didn't know better," Matt said, "I'd think this was a chandler's store."

"It is more common to find the shop that sells supplies for boats down by the dock," Sergeant Brock said. "Nonetheless, in so small a town, this building's not so far from the sea, and more likely to stand longer by being away from the waves."

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"Good point," Matt agreed, "but I'm surprised to see any kind of a shop in a town so small."

"Perhaps there is more trade here than there seems," Sir Orizhan offered.

"You mean he ships fish in to Innisfree? Not a bad idea. Wish we had time to wait and hitch a ride on the inbound wagon. But since we don't…" Matt stepped up to the shopkeeper and said, "Do you sell rope?"

The man looked at him as though he had come from the other side of the moon, and asked an incomprehensible question in incredulous tones.

"Let me translate," Matt sighed, and took out a silver penny. While the shopkeeper was still staring at it, Matt said to Brock, "Pick up a few coils of rope, will you? The thinnest he has… yes, that will do. Another coil… yes, that should be enough … a ball of twine … and four of those stone weights … yes, that's good Now hold them up for him to see."

Sergeant Brock held up the goods. "What would you want these for, Lo—Master Matthew?"

"Just in case we find a stray horse by the road," Matt explained, and turned to the shopkeeper. "Well?" The shopkeeper looked up and got a crafty look in his eye. He held up two fingers. Matt sighed and took out another penny. He held it up in front of the shopkeeper's face. The man frowned slightly; the penny was copper. He shook his head.

Matt turned away, slipping the pennies back into his purse and telling Brock, "Put the stuff back where you found it."

Brock laid one coil of rope down, and the shopkeeper called something in Gaelic.

"Hold on," Matt said, and turned back. The shopkeeper had a resigned look on his face and an open hand sticking out.

"Pick it up again," Matt said, and took out the two pennies. He insisted on carrying a coil of rope and two weights himself, so of course Sir Orizhan had to, too, though he did look disapproving.

"Are you sure you have not cheated that good man?" Rosamund demanded.

"Cheated him?" Matt turned back to see the shopkeeper caressing the pennies with a grin so wide he was fairly cackling. He looked up at the companions, shaking his head with a look that said, They're crazy, but that's not my problem. In fact, it's my good luck.

"No, I don't think we cheated him." Matt turned to the road again. "That's more silver than he's seen in a year or more. He thinks he made out like a bandit, and he's right, too."

"He is indeed," Brock said. "If you'd had more time to bargain, you probably could have beaten him down to six coppers—and if you could not, I surely could." He looked very unhappy at the lost chance to haggle.

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Matt waited until they were half a mile outside the town, and presumably secure from prying eyes, before he called a halt, took out his knife, and began to go to work on the rope. Half an hour later he had a lariat and three bolas.

"Hold one end and whirl the other one around your head," he told his companions. "The trick is the same as in any argument—knowing when to let go." He demonstrated, and the bola wound itself around a tree trunk. Then he set them to practicing, one at a time so they could duck when the others got it wrong, while he practiced with the lariat. It had been a long time since his childhood days pretending he was a television cowboy, but the old skills came back fairly quickly, and he was surprised to see what an improvement adult coordination made. On the other hand, his motor skills had definitely been boosted by being knighted—that was the way the ceremony worked in this universe, and he'd had nothing but the best.

When he was satisfied that all three of his companions could wrap their bolas around the base of a tree twenty feet away, seven throws out of ten, he led them on down the road.

"And what shall we do if we meet this pouka of yours, Lord Wizard?" Sir Orizhan asked.

"It's not mine," Matt answered, "though we might be able to change that."

"Have you not had enough spirits haunting you for the time being?" Sergeant Brock asked.

"Yes, I have—so if you do see a stray horse, just try to make friends with it, okay?"

"Better us than you, eh?" Sir Orizhan grinned. "Nevertheless, if you say it, Lord Wizard, we will try it. My lady should not have to walk, after all."

"You are gallant, Sir Orizhan." Rosamund smiled with affection. "But where would I find a sidesaddle in this wilderness?"

"Why, I should ride behind you, and hold you on."

"If they do," Matt told Sergeant Brock, "you be ready with that bola."

"Never fear, Lord Wizard," the sergeant assured him. "But how shall we know if it is a pouka or a real horse?"

"If we can tame it, it's real," Matt told him. "If it tries to tame us, it's a pouka." They found the signpost, followed the arrow that said "Innisfree" to the right-hand road, and found the horse about a mile farther. She looked very ordinary—medium height, tawny coat, and big brown eyes that watched them with mild curiosity as she chewed a mouthful of grass.

"Just keep walking," Matt told them.

"She might be only some farmer's mare turned out to pasture for the day," Rosamund protested. "It is the growing season, is it not?"

"Yes," Sergeant Brock told her. "The plowing's done and the reaping not yet come. There's little work for the farm horse now."

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"Especially since most peasants plow with oxen," Matt said. The horse came ambling over to see what was going on.

"Battle stations," Matt muttered.

Rosamund glanced back over her shoulder at the large brown eyes, then looked again with a tender smile. "How sweet!" She turned around and began to stroke the horse's velvety nose.

"You really should ride, my lady." Sir Orizhan went over to stroke the horse, too, along the neck and down to the shoulders, then along the back.

Matt throttled impatience and left them to it while he fingered the coil of rope behind his back. It took a while, with Sir Orizhan leaning on the horse's back, putting more and more of his weight on her, then swinging one leg up to half lie, then swinging it farther so that he sat up astride. The horse looked back at him as though to say, What are you doing there? But Sir Orizhan leaned down to catch Rosamund's forearm. "My lady, will you ride?"

"Willingly, Sir Knight!" Rosamund swung up before him, both legs on the horse's left—and the mare took off like a skyrocket.

"Now!" Matt shouted. He twirled the lariat, letting the noose spin wide. Sergeant Brock shouted as he loosed his bola.

The bola almost missed. It swung past the horse's rear legs completely, but one weight caught on a front leg. The other whipped about, wrapping itself three times around the horse's knees, and the mare fell, rolling onto her side with a whinny that was more like a scream. Sir Orizhan shouted in alarm, catching Rosamund to him as he shot off the horse to the left. Rosamund landed on her feet just as the lasso spun through the air and settled over the horse's head.

The mare screamed—it was far past a whinny—and reached for the rope with her teeth. Matt raced toward her hindquarters, a long arc from twenty feet away, and managed to keep the rope out of reach of the mare's head. She lurched to her feet—and promptly fell again, still tangled in the bola. Sergeant Brock drew his long knife and paced toward her, his face grim.

"No, Sergeant!" Rosamund cried. "She is a sweet horse, and has done nothing to deserve death!"

"If she is only a horse," the sergeant snapped.

"If she is not, you cannot hurt a spirit!" Sir Orizhan cried as he picked himself up.

"Cold Iron can," the sergeant returned.

The horse went crazy. She screamed, she thrashed—and turned into a bear, a she-bear with Matt's lasso still around her neck, roaring as she threw herself to her hind feet and began to walk toward him, bola-bound paws rising to club him.

Matt ran to the side, straining to keep the rope taut. He didn't doubt for a second that the pouka would maul him to death if she could. He ran around a little tree to the bear's rear and pulled hard The bear
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tumbled off her feet but changed even as she fell. By the time she hit the ground she was a doe who struggled to rise but fell with her feet still tangled, then a wild ox who set her forefeet and lowered, then tossed her head, catching the rope with a horn. Matt obliged and flipped his wrist, sending a loop to wrap around the horn, then pulling hard. The ox bellowed in anger as her head tilted to the side, straight out. She tried to toss her head again, to pull the rope out of Mart's grasp, but Sergeant Brock threw himself onto the strand, too, and the ox turned into an otter who sprang through the loop of the bola. Matt shouted and pulled hard, just in time to tighten the lasso around the otter's body—and she turned into an eagle who leaped into the sky, beating her wings. But the lasso tightened even more around her body, pulling her back to earth.