He was very glad.
A huge cabbage appeared in front of the spark. It, too, was sliced neatly through.
"What was that?" Sir Guy asked, wide-eyed.
"An enemy sorcerer trying to put some kind of demon in Max's way," Matt answered. "True to Puck's word, he said 'cabbage' when he meant 'devil.' Artificial encoding error."
A huge asparagus towered up in Max's path. It fell a moment later, like a felled redwood.
"If naught else," Friar Tuck said, "we'll eat vegetable broth enough when this is done."
Two giant knights suddenly appeared, twenty feet tall, barring the path. A second later, they crashed together and were buried under an avalanche of tumbling men.
"There is a strong sorcerer near," Friar Tuck noted. "He did not completely miss his mark."
"Then we'd better give him a little more to worry about." Matt weighed the wand in his hand, shrugged, and whipped it overhand to point eastward.
He flourished the wand overhand and snapped it down toward the north.
Then he swung the wand to each of the other two points of the compass as he recited:
Then, finally, he swung the wand around in a great circle, chanting,
"Bless them, Tuck!" he shouted.
A look of delight broke over the friar's face. "Why, certes! What could weaken a foe of evil, so much as a blessing?" He turned to face the camp, sketching the Sign of the Cross in the air, and began to chant in Latin, his face softening, turning wistful, almost fond. Matt realized that, no matter how much evil the enemy had done, there was still room in this huge friar's heart to forgive, to understand, for they were God's handiwork, and he believed to the core of his soul that they were redeemable.
Sir Guy frowned. "What use were these invocations?"
But Friar Tuck caught his shoulder, eyes alight, grinning. "Hark! Do you not hear?"
Sir Guy bent his head, listening carefully.
Faintly at first, then louder and louder, a whistling came toward them, building into a how!. Sleeves and robes began to stir, then to whip in the wind.
"Grab something solid!" Matt yelled, and the word was relayed all along the battlements. Knights and men-at-arms grabbed at crenels, arrow loops, doorways—and just in time, before the storm hit.
It was a hurricane. It was a whirlwind. It was a tornado, and the castle was in the center. The wind screamed around the walls, tearing at the stone and howling in frustration. It careened off looking for less-guarded targets—and found the enemy's camp. There, it roared in glee, plucking up tents and horses and men and juggling them with a fine disregard for class or dignity.
But only outside.
Along the ramparts, the wind whipped and tugged at clothes and men—but only in passing, only as an afterthought—and within the courtyard, there wasn't even a breeze, though men and women crouched in hiding, fearful of the tempest.
Matt let it run, fifteen minutes, an hour, while he and Friar Tuck took turns, one watching for attempts at retaliation while the other tried to explain things to Sir Guy. But there was no reaction—neither from the sorcerers, who were too busy trying to cope with both the black hole and the wind, nor from Sir Guy, who could only understand the effects of the magic and was beginning to be bored with the causes.
Then, finally, as the sky lightened with false dawn, Matt called out,
As suddenly as they had come, the four winds sped away. The moaning faded off into the distance, like an express train leaving. Trees on the horizon, just barely visible in the predawn light, whipped about crazily for a minute or two, then were still.
They listened. The only sound from outside the walls was a low and constant moaning. They stepped up to the crenels and the arrow slits to look out—and saw a scene of utter devastation, broken tents and overturned carts, dead and wounded in winnows showing Max's trail—and the remnants of the Army of Evil, just pulling themselves together as they set out toward the east in a ragged double column.
The shouts of victory began along Matt's wall and spread all around the battlements, then down into the courtyard. Men and women laughed and shouted for joy, hugging one another and dancing—and, palely seen in the dawn light, a ghost appeared atop the gate house, now brighter, now dimmer. From what they could tell when he was visible, he was dancing a jig.
"Wizard," said the Demon, suddenly appearing before him, "shall we attempt some other device to confound the enemy?"
"Uh, no," Matt said. "I think that'll be enough for the moment."
CHAPTER 20
Guerrillas in the Mist
Sir Guy kept sentries posted, and a complement of men-at-arms within the castle, in case the rout had really been a ruse. But he threw open the castle gates and lowered the drawbridge, and the peasants streamed out to bring in all the provisions the king's army had left behind—salted meat, hardtack, grain, and even some fresh meat and fruits that the officers and sorcerers had kept for themselves. Squadrons of soldiers fanned out to both sides of the looting party, keeping pace with them to guard against any sudden reappearance by the besiegers—but the foraging went smoothly.
Not that Matt was up to participating. His head hurt, his chest hurt, and his arm hurt. More accurately, it felt as if slow fire streaked his scalp and his arm, while he was having a double heart attack. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Unfortunately, this made it very hard to chant a healing spell.
Friar Tuck saw and, in spite of his own wounds, tottered over to lay a reassuring hand on Matt's shoulder—gently, of course. "Be of good heart, Lord Wizard," he gasped. "I'll have us hale and sound directly." He sat down beside Matt, muttering in Latin.