Screams echoed all about him. He whirled to see a huge blade sweeping the battlements behind him—and its point was chopping straight at him! He yelped, leaped back, stumbled—and fell just far enough so that the blade swept over him.
Then it shivered, and all the battlements quivered with the shock of a sound wave so low that no one could hear it, from a gargantuan collision between the crescent and its invisible opposite. A vibration sprang up all along its length, shivering it into a million fragments that faded and disappeared before they even landed on the stone.
Men were groaning, limbs cut off; other men were helping them, slipping in the sheen of blood that slicked the stone in the scimitar's wake. Matt saw a few dead and cursed himself for his lack of vigilance—then realized that he was seeing it all through a red film. He pulled out a kerchief and wiped his forehead, and the sheen disappeared. He became aware of a dull ache, knew that it would hurt horribly tomorrow—but just kept wiping it for now, as he paced the battlements, trying to see what else to do.
A huge monster was roaring and thrashing about on the ground below, a giant stake driven through it, holding it to the ground.
Matt turned away before his stomach flipped. He didn't know how Tuck had managed that one, and he didn't want to.
Then he realized he was hearing the flapping of leathery wings.
Not unusual, considering the enemy—but outside the rules, if it was a genuine devil.
No, it wasn't. It was a horde of huge bats, stooping to claw at the soldiers' chests, needle teeth reaching for their necks. Below there was shouting, and ladders thudded against stone—but the defenders were screaming, flailing at the flying rats, trying to drive them off. They clung, though, and their teeth probed.
One slammed into Matt's chest. Fire erupted across his pectorals as claws dug in, and a foul snout reached for his jugular.
Matt jammed an arm in the way and felt the teeth sink in, but his throat was safe. He tried to ignore the pain, the shifting claws as the monster tried to work its way around his arm, and shouted,
Skewers suddenly filled the air, stabbing through the bats' chests and into their hearts. Jaws gaped wide in screams the men couldn't hear, and the flying vermin fell backward, losing their holds and crumpling in death. Matt kicked his attacker out of the way, mopping at two more wounds, but scanning the sky frantically. Will Scarlet and his two score were shooting down along the ladders, knocking over invading soldiers almost as fast as they could clamber onto the rungs, and the pikemen were dealing with the few who came near the tops. Tuck was chanting again, but Matt didn't even want to know what it was about.
Sir Guy reeled up beside him, leaning back against the wall and panting, "We must find some way to take the offensive."
"Name it!" Puck appeared on his shoulder. "Only bid me offend them, and I shall have them thinking their tales of woe and tails indeed!"
"A most excellent notion." Sir Guy grinned. "And whiles you are about it, see that those tails are pulled, and pinched, and stepped on at every turn."
"Turn?" Puck cried "Why, let us have them turn and twine about their owners' legs!"
"Well thought! See to it!"
The elf disappeared, but the spark flared in his place. "Have you no new task for me?" the humming voice demanded.
Matt was fed up with the enemy—he was running very low on the milk of human compassion and he'd only been fighting for half a night! "Freeze their armor."
The Demon hummed in astonishment. "Freeze...? But they will scream with the chill and tear off their plate! What gain then?"
"Plenty, if you freeze it so fast it shrinks!"
"That will choke off their circulation! Their limbs will swell! Their breastplates will crush their ribs! Their helmets—"
"Have you seen what they've been trying to do here? Just make it fast, and it'll be relatively merciful."
"They shall scarce know what hit them," the spark promised, and disappeared.
Sir Guy nodded. "It is merited."
A sudden shocked howling broke out below, and all around the castle. Puck appeared again. " 'Tis done; like Rover, they chase their latter ends."
"In more ways than one," Matt muttered.
"What say?"
"What matter?" Sir Guy countered. "Can you befuddle their sorcerers, Robin?"
A slow grin spread across the elf's face. "Make them think one another are Matthew and the friar? Or that their commander's tent is the castle? Aye."
"Those," Sir Guy agreed, "but I had more in mind having their thoughts so mixed that, when they wish to summon a demon, they speak of a cabbage!"
"I know just the place," Puck crowed, "within their brains! Nay, they'll speak of chard when they wish a flame!" He was gone.
"You sure that won't get us in worse trouble than we're in?" Matt said nervously.
Carrots began to rain on the battlements.
"What sorcery is this?" Tuck called, amazed.
"Evil gone wrong," Sir Guy called back. "I fear the Puck cannot so far transform it as to make evil impulses yield good—yet he has tried valiantly."
"Masterstoke," Matt muttered. "Should have thought of it."
Geysers erupted all along the castle wall, heaving huge foaming lances of water against the stone. Where it struck, the char left by past fireballs disappeared.
"What now?" Tuck cried.
"Soap and water, I think," Matt called back. "I'll bet the enemy was trying for acid."
A sound of crunches, with screams quickly cut off, approached from the north, coming nearer and nearer. It peaked right opposite them, then stopped.
The dancing spark appeared again. "All who wore armor are dead—or have disrobed and now are clad only in gambesons. What next would you, Wizard?"
"A quantum black hole!" Matt looked up slowly, a grin spreading over his face.
"Are you daft?" the spark keened. "That was a notion guessed at, but proven false! There are none such!"
"You mean you can't make one?"
The spark was still for a second; then Max said, " 'Twill not be easy, for 'tis truly matter organized quite highly—yet 'tis the product of entropy, and yields chaos within its event horizon. Aye, I can craft it."
"Then do—and drag it around the battlefield."
" 'Twill throw them into turmoil!" Max sang. "Ah, I have missed you, Wizard!" And he blinked out.
"What wizardry is this?" Tuck called out.
"Only a little misplaced cosmology," Matt called back. He stepped over to the crenels to watch the show.
For a minute or two, nothing happened. Then a woeful shout went up as a spark of light danced through the army, pulling soldiers together into its wake to slam into the ones coming from the other side. They stumbled, they fell, they were dragged over the ground, but nothing could stop them. The soldiers nearest the wake were stretched and crushed unmercifully, as though by unseen hands. They grabbed at tent pegs and hitching posts, but the pegs and posts were wrenched out of the ground and came tumbling along with them—as did the tripods from the camp fires, and the kettles, and any loose armor or weapons, all jumbled together with a huge clash and clatter—but above it all rose the shouting and moaning of dread, that went on and on as other voices took it up. The line of devastation, a hundred feet wide, began to curve as it reached the outer edge of the besiegers' army, turning back to cut another swath. A sorcerer rose up to bar its way, wand swirling, and Matt hauled out his own wand, beginning to chant—but before he could finish, the sorcerer's head snapped back, as though he'd been flung away. At the same moment, his feet surged forward. Then, suddenly, his body split straight down the middle from top to toe. Matt had a momentary sight of it; then tumbling men and material blocked the sight from him.