“If it keeps that up,” Sir Brock cried, “the ram will break loose from the—”
They could hear the double snapping all the way up to the top of the battlements. The ram shot back into the center of its own army, trailing broken tethers. The jolt of breaking was enough to bring the framework crashing down on the wagon-bed.
“As you guessed,” Sir Brock said, “the wagon-bed is strong enough to hold the ram—or its roof, at least.”
Daunted by the magical collapse of their secret weapon, the soldiers began to retreat, but the knights roared at them, flailing with the fiats of their swords, and the soldiers turned to go back toward the castle, very reluctantly.
“Archers, draw them a line!” Sir Brock called. “Loose!”
Crossbow bolts and clothyard arrows rained down a yard in front of the duke’s soldiers. A few missed, striking feet or legs. Their owners howled with pain and fell. Their luckier comrades retreated, and most of the knights let them go—but the duke himself rode out, roaring with anger and swinging a mace at his luckless infantry.
“Perkin! Your arbalest!” Sir Brock called.
Perkin looked up in surprise, then ran to hand his crossbow to his commander. Sir Brock took the cocked and loaded instrument, sighted, and pulled the trigger.
Samarkand was a collection of white blocks and towering minarets, adorned with mosaics, and geometrical patterns in colored brick, which made it appear bedecked with jewels. Matt caught his breath as he looked down on the fabled city, telling himself he must be imagining the aroma of exotic spices-after all, he was five hundred feet above the rooftops. He was tempted to land, since the only life he saw outside the city was a caravan winding toward the gates—but as they flew over the city itself, he saw squads of bald-headed horsemen on small shaggy ponies riding down the streets.
“This space is taken,” he called up to the roc. “Let’s try Baghdad.”
“In the morning,” the great bird rumbled. “For now I grow hungry and weary.”
“Uh, yes,” Matt said. “Definitely time to camp for the night.”
The roc flew on a mile or two, then spiraled down to a hilltop. Hovering, he dropped the rug, saying, “I shall come for you in the morning. Sleep well.”
“Not with the thought of that coming back for me at daylight.” Balkis stared at the winged form dwindling above them.
Suddenly, the roc folded its wings and plummeted toward the ground. They saw it skim the surface, then beat its way back into the air with something in its claws.
“What has it taken?” Balkis asked, wide-eyed.
“I don’t think I want to know.” Matt turned away, shuddering. “But now I see why the bird left us on our own for the night. I don’t think we’d approve of its table manners. Come on, let’s scrounge up some kindling and build a fire.”
Dawn woke them. They ate a hurried breakfast, then rolled up in the rug, to be ready when the roc came back. They waited an hour, and Matt’s patience was beginning to fray when the huge bird appeared. Of course, Matt realized—it had needed to wait for the world to begin heating up, so it would have thermals to ride. It stooped, seized the rug in its claws, and beat its way back into the sky while they were still yelping with shock. By the time the roc reached cruising altitude, though, Matt had recovered enough composure to ask, “Do you have a name?”
“Why do you wish to know?” the roc answered, with instant suspicion.
“Just so I don’t have to keep calling you ‘Bird,’ ” Matt said quickly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to use your name to work magic against you. Tell you what, instead of your real name, how about a nickname?”
“What is a ‘nickname’?” The suspicion had faded into doubt.
“Something to call you by, that’s not your real name. For instance, I met a manticore who dogged my tracks for a while, so I nicknamed him ‘Manny.’ “
Balkis’ head snapped around to stare at him.
“There was a bauchan who tried to adopt me for a while,” Matt went on. “His eyes looked like those of a stag, so I called him ‘Buckeye.’ How about I nickname you ‘Rocky’?”
The bird was silent for several wing-beats, then allowed, “That will do. How am I to call you?”
“Just ‘Matthew’ will do.” He didn’t mention the cat, hoping the roc had overlooked her.
“Are you not afeard I will work magic against you?”
“Not really. After all, I haven’t told you my last name, have I?” Matt hadn’t really thought of magical creatures being able to work spells, but if Balkis could do it, why not a roc?
Sir Brock’s bolt sped almost too fast for the eye to follow—straight into the shoulder of the duke, who cried out, dropping his mace and clapping a hand over his wound. His horse turned and led the retreat.
Sir Brock handed the crossbow back to its owner, nodding his head in satisfaction.
“It had to be a knight who loosed that bolt, did it not?” Ramon asked, his voice low.
“It did,” Sir Brock confirmed. “If Perkin had shot, we would have hanged him for it—that is the law. But a knight wounding a knight will receive only praise.”
Ramon forced a smile, very glad that his son had brought him to this world as a nobleman.
The tall, graceful minarets thrust upward from the horizon, and Matt’s eyes shone. “Baghdad! The fabled city of Haroun Al-Raschid, of Omar Khayyam and the Arabian Nights! I can hardly wait!” He tilted his head back and called up, “I think I’m going to want to land here, if you don’t mind!”
“Should you not wait to see the city from a closer distance?” Rocky asked.
“Closer?” Matt looked down and forward—and saw mosques, palaces, the awnings of the bazaar, only half a mile away. “Hey, this bird moves really fast!” He frowned. “But how come there are so many horsemen in the streets? And why are they riding in squadrons …” His voice trailed off.
Balkis dug her claws into the fabric of the rug, daring to look down. “Those horsemen bear lances and wear pointed helmets, wizard.”
Matt stared down at voluminous trousers, long moustaches, and scimitars. They weren’t Tartars, probably Turks or Polovtsi—but that was fierce enough.
Matt’s heart sank. “They’ve taken the city after all! Poor Baghdad!” He looked up at the mass of huge feathers above. “Uh, pilot? I’d like to request a change of destination …”
They were delayed a short while while the bird refueled—with so many horses in their corral, the barbarians wouldn’t miss a couple—but were flying over Tadmur by sundown anyway.
“No army around the city, too many soldiers in the street.” Matt’s stomach sank.
“The gur-khan has conquered far indeed,” Balkis hissed.
“Yes.” For the first time, Matt began to really worry. “Let’s hope they haven’t taken Jerusalem. Rocky, can you fly a bit farther west?”
“In the morning,” the bird said firmly, but kept going until it found another high hill on which to park them. Rocky definitely preferred the heights, and Matt wondered if the roc would be able to take off from level ground. He’d never seen the bird begin a flight, after all—Rocky always picked them up by pouncing.
The journey-rations the villagers gave them had begun to run low, so Balkis supplemented their diet with a little hunting of her own. When she came back to curl up on his stomach, she kneaded it first, as cats do to a prospective resting place, then looked up at Matt with a frown. “You are far more tense than usual, and I have been careful to keep my claws in. What troubles you?”
“The fate of Jerusalem,” Matt told her frankly. “It’s the Holy City of three religions, and if the horde has conquered it, they’ll have weakened the forces of Good very badly.”