And the world went crazy again.
This time he didn't even manage to keep to his knees; he just fell, tucking in his chin and rolling. He lay on his back, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It did, and the evening sky became clear—-roseate at the edges, and with the first dim stars beginning to show. Pine boughs fringed the edge of his field of vision. He didn't need to get up and look around—he knew he'd see the alpine meadow again.
Hunger gnawed his belly, but he had managed to find some berries during the day, and even a hoard of nuts that last year's squirrels had disdained—so, what with one thing and another, he was even more exhausted than hungry. He just closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
He woke in the false dawn, cold and wet with dew. He sat up, stiff in every joint, and braced himself on an elbow as he regarded the beautiful mountain meadow with glum certainty. Yes, he was back where he had begun, and two days' hiking had been wasted.
Well, not entirely wasted—he had established that Somebody definitely did not want him going back to Merovence. That Somebody would probably be very happy to let him go farther west, though, into Ibile. He just hoped that Somebody didn't regard him as being completely replaceable.
He shoved himself to his feet with a sigh, stumbled to the stream for a drink, then set off into the forest to see if there were any more obliging squirrels who hadn't come back for last year's nuts. He was sure he'd be drawn to them, if they were there—he was beginning to feel like one of their kind.
He did find a handful of nuts, and a few more berries. Dizzy and weak with hunger, he struck off again—but parallel to the mountains, this time. He wasn't about to go any farther into Ibile than he had to—but maybe he could find a village with an inn somewhere in this valley, or at least a farmhouse willing to part with a bowl of porridge. It did cross his mind to go back to the little village and ask for a handout, but it occurred to him that the surviving women there might not have a very high opinion of strange men, just at the moment—so he stayed in the valley, and away from the trail. Hopefully, he'd find a new village—or maybe even a road.
Half an hour later, Providence finally smiled on him—he bumped into an apple tree. Literally. In fact, it took him a moment to realize what had hit him—he was that far gone. He looked up, saw the red fruit, and plucked one with a howl of joy. Eight bites and two apples later, it finally occurred to him to wonder what a lowland tree was doing in the evergreen zone. He decided to take it as a sign that Heaven wasn't completely abandoning him, and took another apple. Then he remembered what overeating could do after a long fast, and pulled off his cloak to wrap up a dozen apples. He set off southward again, resolutely resisting the temptation of the weight on his back.
He didn't have to resist very long—all of a sudden, the weight was gone.
He stopped, appalled, then swung the cape in front of him, opened it, and looked in—at its lining. That was all. It was completely empty—not a stem, not a pit. He sighed and threw the cloak over his shoulders again, remembering the Hebrews in the desert, and the manna—how they were to take only as much as they needed for a day. Apparently, he was only supposed to take enough for one meal. The Lord would provide, it seemed. He set off again, resigned to his fate.
But he did feel much better.
CHAPTER 5
A Rare and Surly Monster
The sun was almost directly overhead, and those apples had been a long time ago. Matt was beginning to feel weak again and was getting into a pretty nasty mood. Once again, he thought of cursing his misfortune, and the Powers that had enforced it on him—even if it had been his own dumb fault for making a vow he hadn't meant—but he caught himself with the words on the tip of his tongue. He didn't quite dare let them out.
And didn't need to, for that matter. He frowned, listening to a distant sound that suddenly became audible, then died away again. He could have sworn that had been the sound of someone using foul language...
No. Not "sworn." Not again. Ever. Not without thinking it over very carefully first.
But what was that sound? Of course, it could have been the wind; he could hear it moaning in the crevices of the pass ahead.
Then he frowned, tilting his head to one side and listening more closely. That was no wind, that was a creature—and it was moaning as much in anger as in pain. Matt stepped forward carefully, moving quietly, ready to jump off the path at a moment's notice.
The voice rose again, and Matt froze. He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was definitely angry and outraged. Then the voice slackened off into growling again, and Matt began stalking.
There was nothing in sight, but the trail angled sharply at a big rock a little way ahead, and the moaning was growing louder. Matt sidled up to the rock and, very quickly, ducked out for a peek.
The moan blasted into a roar, and Matt ducked back in a panic, sure he had been seen.
But the roar was followed by words. Matt frowned; he couldn't quite understand them, though they seemed to be in the hybrid language of Merovence that he understood as well as English. He concentrated, trying to allow for accent—and it clicked; he was just able to make out the words.
"That motherless monster of a sorcerer who set this hellish trap! I'll bite him into twenty pieces! I'll pluck him naked! I'll drop him from a mountaintop!"
Whoever it was, it certainly didn't sound like a courtier. Matt stepped out from hiding and stalked forward carefully—if it was a soul in distress, of course he wanted to help. Though come to think of it, that voice didn't exactly sound human.
The words did, though—it ranted on through a series of curses that would have done credit to the most creative sailor ever to work his way down to the brig. Matt stepped around another outcrop and saw—a very singular creature. In fact, he doubted there could be two of them, and if there were, the other one certainly didn't have a huge boulder holding it down by its wing.
The other wing was beating furiously as the beast tried to pull away. They were eagle's wings, though on the grand scale—a thirty-foot wingspan, at least. But it had the head, neck, and tail of a dragon, and its body was that of a huge lion.
Matt couldn't help himself. "What in the name of heaven are you?"
The beast turned his way with a surly growl. "A dracogriff, of course!" it answered. "What're you?"
"A wizard," Matt said automatically, then leaped for cover as the monster lunged at him with a huge roar.
"Thought you were gonna sneak up on me, huh?" it bawled from somewhere on the other side of the boulder Matt had ducked behind. "Thought you were gonna drug me and drain me, huh? Couldn't get any nestlings' blood, so you thought you'd settle for one as young as you could get, huh?"
"No!" Matt ducked up long enough to shout the syllable. He dropped down again and called out, "You've got the wrong wizard!"
"Wrong wizard? They're all wrong wizards! How could there ever be a right one?"
"Look," Matt said, trying for patience, "you've got the definitions reversed. Wizards are good guys—their power comes from research and right living. The sorcerers are the ones who get their power from evil."
"The Devil you say!"
"That's right. Only I don't—I swear by the saints. And I'm trying to break the habit."
"I'll bet. And you didn't make this rock fall on me while I was sleeping, to make sure I'd still be here when you caught up, huh?"
"That's right—I didn't."
"Sure you didn't! Just like you haven't been chasing me all across Merovence and through these mountains for the last four years!"
"No, now that you mention it. I spent the last three at the queen's castle."
"Oh, yeah? Then how'd you just happen to be coming this way right when I was anchored down, huh?"