“And will not do more, until they have fought Queen Alisande… after which, they may not be able to fight you,” Papa said.
“I cannot let Queen Alisande fight my war for me!”
“Nor do you,” Papa said evenly. “She fights to save her own country as much as yours, for the Mahdi is driving to conquer Bordestang and Merovence first. Then, when they are secure, he will turn back to finish the conquest of Ibile.”
King Rinaldo frowned, puzzled. “A strange strategy.”
“Only if you are fooled into believing that the Mahdi is the true enemy,” Papa said.
“Who else could be?” King Rinaldo asked, frowning. “You mean this Nirobus fellow?”
“The same, Majesty. If he is truly a servant of Evil, trying to reconquer Ibile and Merovence for his master the Devil, he might well deem Merovence to be the worst danger.”
“Yes, because I would not have regained my throne and expelled the evil sorcerer from my kingdom without the help of the queen and your son!” King Rinaldo cried. “Galling though it is to admit, they are a far greater danger to the Conquest of Evil than I am! I think you have hit upon it, Master Mantrell… or your son has! Explain to me the working of this campaign!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Papa explained about Groldor and the drug that was sweeping the cities of his home world, explained how that drug allowed Nirobus to steal energy for his magical conquests from young people.
“Merovence must be the greater danger because it has been ruled by good and godly kings during all the centuries that the lands around it were ruled by servants of evil,” Papa guessed, “with only a year’s lapse before Queen Alisande won back her throne.”
“You are too modest, Master Mantrell,” Rinaldo said, with a sardonic smile. “I doubt not it is the presence of your son beside a legitimate monarch devoted to Goodness and Righteousness that makes Merovence a greater threat than Ibile. We must prevent the fall of Queen Alisande at all costs! I shall ride to attack the Mahdi from the rear!”
“By your leave, Your Majesty, I doubt the wisdom of that course,” Papa said quickly. “My son made it quite clear that Queen Alisande has turned back to defend Bordestang. If you wish to ride to her aid… “
“I must ride to Bordestang. Yes, I see that.” King Rinaldo frowned. “Surely the Mahdi will already be marching to attack her there! But he will leave a force to harry these northern lands, so that I will not suspect he has taken the greater part of his army out of my kingdom.”
“Then leave a small part of your own force,” Papa counseled, “a garrison large enough to ride quickly here and there about the Northlands, to keep the illusion that the whole countryside is up in arms.”
“An excellent device!” Rinaldo thumped the arm of his throne in delight. “While they scour the border, I shall take the bulk of my army to raise the siege of Bordestang!” Then he frowned. “It shall be perilous, though. I ride against a force buoyed by sorcerers, but I have no wizard to counter them!”
“You do now,” Papa said.
Tafas was unhappy. Tafas was angry and scornful. “What, more of this nonsense?” he asked Sharif Haifaz. “Why should the men fret because of a dream?”
“No reason at all, if it only comes once, and to one man, my lord,” Sharif answered, “but when it comes night after night to a hundred men at a time, and has always the same persons in that dream, men begin to whisper of witchcraft.”
“Only for a dream?” Tafas scoffed. “Dreams can hurt no one! What cowards are they to be so frightened?”
“It is not that the knight in the dream is so frightful, my lord,” Haifaz said carefully, “but that he is so ludicrous, so poorly armed, yet so fearless. He is ferocious in his enthusiasm, and strikes doubt in the hearts of our countrymen.”
“Tell them to dream of our own valiant warriors, then,” Tafas scolded. “Tell them to think of Tariq and Abu Bekr as they lie down! And give each man a little hashish before he goes to sleep. Now good night, Sharif!” He turned away, leaving the silken portal of his pavilion to stir in the wind.
“Good night, my lord,” Sharif Haifaz said unhappily, and turned away to find a little hashish for himself.
“Aroint thee, dog of Morocco!”
Tafas leaped to his feet and saw the crazy, white-bearded old knight with the shaving basin on his head galloping straight toward him on a spavined, knock-kneed excuse for a horse. Off to the side sat a plump little man on a donkey, smiling placidly.
Tafas stared at the point of the lance in fascination. It had been broken and lashed back together, but was still sharp. He leaped aside, and the old idiot went charging by, then reined in and turned back. Tafas reached for his scimitar… but found only a pouch. Looking down, he saw with a shock that he wore only his shepherd’s robe!
Impossible! A quick glance up and about showed a dry and barren plain with gyres of dust and clumps of weary grass. Where were the mountains? Where his army?
The old man rode down on him again, eyes glaring, mouth tight with anger. In spite of himself, Tafas felt fear, for how could the old fool be so brave unless he were mad?
“Go home, spawn of the desert!” the old knight cried. “Go home, or my lance shall send you to your Paradise!”
Tafas spun aside again. None of this was possible… and hard on the heels of that thought struck the realization that he must be in a dream.
Suddenly, the fear was gone. He could deal with a dream on its own terms. As the old knight thundered past, Tafas fumbled in his pouch and pulled out a shepherd’s sling. Placing the rock in the cup, he whirled it about his head and, as the old knight turned his horse for another charge, the Moor let fly. The stone struck the knight square on his brazen helmet. He reeled in his saddle, then pulled himself back upright, crying, “The Golden Helmet of Mambrino makes me invulnerable! Do your worst, shepherd boy … I am invincible, for each time I fall, I shall rise again!”
Fear struck deep once more, and Tafas could not have said why. The old knight kicked his horse into motion, and it galloped straight toward Tafas the Shepherd.
Enough of this! Tafas stepped to the side, and the lance swung wide to follow him. At the last instant, the shepherd boy leaped back in close to the horse and, leaping high, seized the lance at its midpoint. As the horse thundered by, Tafas threw all his weight against the wood. The lance twisted out of the knight’s hands; the butt sprang high, to catch him under the chin. The old man reeled, slipped, and fell.
His horse turned back with a neigh of despair. Tafas stalked over to the decrepit knight, lance lifted to strike… but the fellow’s eyes were already sliding shut, even as he muttered, “What matter wounds… to the body of a knight… ” Then his eyes closed, his head fell to the side, and his whole body went slack.
But the fear remained, burgeoning deep within Tafas, for he seemed to hear the echo of the old man’s words: For each time he falls, he shall rise again. In panic, the Moor looked up at the knight’s squire, but the plump little man seemed not at all distressed by his master’s fall; he only met Tafas’ eyes and nodded slowly, still smiling, still complacent.
Tafas roared, leveled the lance, and charged the little man, but the ground slipped from beneath his feet, the sky went dark, and he found himself falling, falling into endless depths, until his cushions pressed up against his back and he woke, sweating with fear.
The big black car stopped in front of a warehouse. The parking lot was dark. In the distance, one feeble streetlight tried to pierce the gloom, all the worse because a fog was rolling in from the river. The guard opened the door, stepped through, and jerked his head “Out.”