Igraine the Brave Page 10

  Igraine nodded.

  “Good. Then let us return to your brother on the wall and see if Rowan has come back yet, shall we?”

  “Er … noble Knight of … er, the Mount of Tears!” Sir Lamorak cleared his throat several times. “I thank you heartily for your unselfish offer. And I … er … hope we can do you a similar great service when we have our magic powers back, don’t you agree, my love?”

  The Fair Melisande bowed her bristly head. “There are no words for the gratitude we owe you, sir!” she said.

  “Don’t mention it!” replied the Sorrowful Knight, returning her bow.

  “Well, come along, then, books!” Sir Lamorak turned. “Time to pour the concoction into the magic vessel.”

  The books rolled up their sleeves, gathered around the tub, and raised it from the floor. Then, panting and gasping, they carried it into the next room.

  “It only works if the Books of Magic pour the concoction into the vessel with their own hands,” Sir Lamorak whispered to the Sorrowful Knight. “They usually spill quite a bit, and they hate physical work, too, but this particular spell demands it.”

  Side by side, the two pigs trotted after the groaning books. In the doorway, Melisande turned once more. “Oh, Igraine,” she said, “could you send Albert up to us as soon as he’s free? He has to make it snow in the next room so that the concoction will cool down more quickly.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Igraine, but she could think of only one thing. The Sorrowful Knight was determined to fight Rowan Heartless.

  21

  Albert made it snow in the magic workshop, of course. That wasn’t a particularly complicated spell. But as he returned to the walls, he was looking anxious.

  “What’s this they’re telling me?” he said to the Sorrowful Knight. “Are you really planning to challenge Osmund’s castellan to distract them? It’s not a bad idea, but if it’s to work, there’s something we must take care of before the fight.”

  “What kind of something would that be?” asked Bertram, putting a large pan of fried fish down on the battlements.

  “Are you sure these fish never walked on two legs?” asked Igraine.

  “Sure,” replied Bertram.

  Albert looked at the gigantic battering ram that had just been maneuvered into position on the bank of the moat.

  “One of us,” he said, taking a piece of fish, “must steal into the Spiky Knight’s tent.”

  Bertram almost swallowed a bone the wrong way. “This is no time for joking, Albert,” he said. “You’ve been eating too many of your horrible biscuits.”

  “I’m not joking.” Albert leaned over the wall, clapped his hands three times, and hummed a note that sounded horribly out of tune. All at once the iron head of the battering ram slumped forward and dropped into the moat. “Easy-peasy!” murmured Albert. He snapped his fingers to send back a quiverful of burning arrows that had lost their way, and he turned to the Sorrowful Knight. “Your fight with the Iron Hedgehog,” he said, “has to keep Osmund occupied for a full hour. That’s a long time. If he unhorses you during the first tilt, you’ll be risking your neck for nothing.”

  “What are you talking about?” cried Igraine indignantly. “The Knight of the Mount of Tears is a wonderful knight! He knows better than anyone how to—”

  The Sorrowful Knight raised his hand. “Let your brother finish, Igraine,” he said.

  “However wonderful a knight he may be,” Albert went on, “he doesn’t stand a chance. The Iron Hedgehog always wins. When he’s jousting with a lance he unhorses all his opponents at the first tilt. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  The Sorrowful Knight bowed his head. “Your brother is indeed right, noble Igraine,” he said quietly. “As you know, it’s happened to me three times already.”

  “I thought as much.” Albert nodded in a satisfied way. “Did you never wonder why?”

  The knight looked inquiringly at him. “What do you mean?”

  “The Iron Hedgehog uses magic, of course!” cried Albert. “It’s as clear as day!”

  “What are you saying?” Incredulous, the Sorrowful Knight shook his head. “That can’t be true!”

  “I tell you, he wins by magic!” Albert repeated. “Ask Bertram.”

  “Albert’s right.” The Master of Horse threw a few fish bones over the castle walls. “Back at Darkrock, I overheard Osmund’s servants talking. One of them was saying that Osmund had cast a spell on Heartless’s jousting lance in gratitude for his faithful services. That’s why the Hedgehog always uses the same lance for his first tilt.”

  The Sorrowful Knight was looking as if someone had hit him hard on his helmet. “But that’s impossible!” he stammered. “To use magic is against the honor of a knight!”

  “The honor of a knight, my foot!” Albert laughed derisively. “The Hedgehog couldn’t care less about such things. He wants to be unbeatable, and with an enchanted lance he is. I bet you it glows green. That’s the way you can always recognize weapons with a victory spell on them. So the fact is, if your challenge is supposed to give us a breathing space, the spell on the lance must be broken. It’s not all that difficult, but one of us will have to creep into Osmund’s camp to do it. And unfortunately I can’t, because we never know when Osmund will mount his next magic attack, so—”

  “So I’ll go,” said Igraine.

  “That’s what I thought, little sister!” Albert gave her a broad smile. “But you must hurry. The sun is high in the sky, and I’m sure Heartless will soon be back. Come on. I’ll give you something I found in the armory.”

  Igraine stood up, but the Sorrowful Knight took her arm. “No. This is out of the question!” he said. “I will be the one to go, of course.”

  “No, let me do it,” said Bertram, putting the knight aside. “You fight the Iron Hedgehog; I’ll steal into his tent and make sure you have a fair chance.”

  “Oh, stop talking nonsense!” said Albert, impatiently interrupting. “Neither of you knows the first thing about magic! Igraine may not know much, either, but at least she’s grown up among magicians! She’s the one who must go. But Bertram can accompany her as a watchdog.”

  Bertram bowed to Igraine with a broad grin. “Your faithful watchdog at your service, noble lady!”

  “This is madness!” cried the Sorrowful Knight. “They’ll both be found and captured.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think so,” said Albert mysteriously.

  Igraine had been sure she knew every single item in the armory of Pimpernel Castle, every shield, every sword, even every cloak, however moth-eaten. But she had never before noticed the strange thing that Albert took out of a small chest. It looked like a veil, except that the fabric was covered with scales, transparent scales fitting closely together.

  “As you know, I never usually come here,” said Albert, carefully smoothing out the strange fabric. “But when Osmund turned up outside the castle with his army, I told myself it might be a good idea to find out what our ancestors stored here to defend themselves. And I discovered this.”

  “But what is it?” asked Bertram.

  “A dragon’s skin, of course,” replied Albert. “Our great-grandfather Pelleas was friends with several dragons. I assume one of them gave it to him as a present. The dragon who shed this skin can’t have been more than sixty or seventy years old, so it was still quite small.” Albert reached into the chest again and took out a second, distinctly larger skin. “This one ought to fit you, Bertram. The dragon who shed it was a good bit older — perhaps it was the same dragon some time later. I’m sure you know that dragons shed their skins every fourteen years, don’t you?”

  Igraine shook her head.

  Albert threw her the smaller skin. When she caught it, it felt like picking up spun air.

  “But what do we do with them?” asked Bertram, baffled.

  “They’ll make you invisible,” said Albert. “Try it. Drape them over your heads.”

  Igraine and Bertram did as he said — and disappe
ared. Disappeared without a trace.

  Pleased with himself, Albert folded his arms.

  “I thought those were just a couple of dirty old veils!” gasped the invisible Igraine.

  “Well, there you are!” Albert shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes big brothers know best, little sister. Now, get down that tunnel of our great-grandfather’s. And oh, yes — I almost forgot the most important thing.” He took a small gold container and a box out of his coat pocket. “Take this with you, Igraine. Dust the point of the enchanted lance with the powder from this container. Then set it alight with a taper from this box, and murmur the Red Chant — which I hope you still know by heart! That will break the strongest victory spell.”

  Igraine’s hand came out of nowhere, pinched his nose — and stowed the little container and the box away under the dragon skin.

  “Watch out for the wind, for branches, for anything that could pluck the dragon skin off your head, understand?” called Albert as the door of the armory was opened by what might have been a ghostly hand. “And remember, you must hurry! If the Hedgehog gets his hands on you, even I can’t help you.”

  “Don’t worry, big brother, we’ll do it!” Igraine’s voice came back. “And feed Sisyphus, will you? I shut him up in my room.”

  Then the armory door closed again.

  22

  Igraine liked being invisible. She enjoyed seeing the foolish expressions on the faces of Osmund’s men as she jostled them, and luckily there was such a crowd among the tents that they forgot about it the next minute. None of them suspected that the daughter of the magicians they were besieging was walking around their camp, unseen. No one stopped Igraine and Bertram. No one swept the dragon skins off their heads and made the invisible spies visible again. And finally they reached Rowan Heartless’s red tent. Only a little way off, four knights stood on guard outside Osmund’s tent, but the castellan’s tent was unguarded.

  Igraine glanced back at the castle. She could see no one but Albert standing on the battlements. The gargoyles on the walls were swallowing and chewing, making faces and spitting flames over the moat, while the lions struck out with their paws and roared, making the ground shake all the way to the Spiky Knight’s tent.

  “Are you there, Bertram?” whispered Igraine. The one drawback to invisibility was that while other people couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see each other, either.

  “Right in front of you,” Bertram’s voice whispered in her ear. “Let’s go in.”

  Igraine looked around her one last time, pulled aside the heavy fabric of the tent flap, and slipped underneath.

  It was dark and stuffy inside. Through the sides of the tent red light fell on a narrow bed, a table, and richly covered chairs embroidered with the Heartless Knight’s coat of arms. Four falcons were chained to a golden perch beside the stand that held his swords. They wore leather hoods covering their eyes, and moved their heads restlessly as Igraine came close to them.

  “Hunting falcons!” she whispered. “The Hedgehog takes his falcons with him even on a siege. But where’s his lance?” She looked around for it. The smallest of the birds croaked excitedly and stepped restlessly back and forth on its perch. “Shhh!” hissed Igraine. “It’s all right.”

  “There! Look behind the birds!” whispered Bertram.

  “Oh, no!” whispered Igraine. “He has five lances, Bertram — five!” The smallest falcon spread its wings and opened its hooked beak, but Igraine bravely pushed her way past it. Not even a hundred hairy spiders with their sticky webs could have kept her from the lances now (or so she hoped, anyway).

  “Oh, Bertram, how could we have been so stupid?” she whispered as they stood looking at the lances. “Of course he has several. Now what? Albert’s powder will never be enough for them all!”

  “It’s the middle one!” whispered Bertram. “Don’t you see its point glowing green? Just as Albert said.”

  He was right!

  Igraine carefully drew the lance out of its holder, carried it past the squawking, flapping falcon, and put it on the table. If you looked closely, you could see the faint green glow quite clearly.

  “What a cheat!” she whispered. “He really does use an enchanted lance.”

  She listened for sounds outside. The noises of the camp came through the sides of the tent, but there was nothing unusual to be heard. No footsteps approached, no horse snorted outside the tent entrance. Reassured, Igraine took the dragon skin off her head and opened the little container with Albert’s powder inside.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Bertram uneasily. “I can see you.”

  Igraine went up to the table and ran her finger over the length of the lance. It was a beautiful weapon, with costly decoration and a wooden shaft as hard as iron. “I can’t disenchant this thing if I can’t see my own fingers,” she hissed as she carefully trickled Albert’s powder out of the container and over the point of the lance. It clung to the metal like hoarfrost clinging to a damp leaf. Next Igraine took out Albert’s tapers and rubbed one between her fingers. It burst into flame with a sharp hiss. Igraine let the white flame lick up the powder and began to whisper the Red Chant — one of the ninety-nine magic spells that every magician’s child must learn (even if she wants to be a knight):

  Be you gone, you magic shimmer,

  May your light grow ever dimmer.

  Lance thrown by a wicked arm …

  She rubbed her forehead. How did it go next?

  “Igraine?” Bertram’s voice sounded very anxious.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll remember in a minute!” Igraine whispered. “Lance thrown by a wicked arm … oh, yes!” She raised her hands, and heard Bertram heave a sigh of relief:

  Doing honest knights such harm,

  Now forever be you free

  Of magic and of treachery.

  She had hardly spoken the last word when the white flame went out — and took the green glow with it.

  “Won’t he notice?” Bertram, too, had taken the dragon skin off his head, which made him invisible only from the shoulders down — quite a strange sight, but it was terribly stuffy under those skins.

  Igraine shrugged and took the lance back to its place. Once again the fourth falcon spread its wings, but the others perched there as if they were asleep.

  “I hope not,” said Igraine, carefully putting the weapon back in its holder. “But even if he does notice, a victory spell like that can’t be worked again in a hurry. At least this evening he can’t use a magic lance, that’s for sure.”

  She quickly drew the dragon skin over her head again and tiptoed to the entrance of the tent. Cautiously, she peered past the flap, looked left, then right — and saw Rowan Heartless riding straight toward her.

  He was kicking out of his way anyone who came too close to him. Then he reined in his horse outside Osmund’s tent and dismounted with a clink of armor. One of Osmund’s servants hurried up and took the reins of the sweating beast.

  “Bertram, quick, pull that dragon skin over your head!” hissed Igraine over her shoulder. “The Hedgehog’s back!” Then she peered out again. The Spiky Knight looked around, and disappeared into Osmund’s tent.

  “Do we have time to escape?” whispered Bertram.

  “Yes, he’s gone into Osmund’s tent,” Igraine whispered back. “Quick!” She felt Bertram hurry past her into the open air, and was just about to follow him when something occurred to her. In alarm, she looked around. Yes, there was Albert’s container still lying on the table, open and empty.

  She quickly ran back, hiding under the dragon skin. “The lid!” she murmured. “Where’s the lid?” She knelt down, looked under the table — and heard footsteps. Clinking footsteps coming closer. A horse neighed.

  “What the devil’s got into the horse?” she heard Rowan Heartless ask in his cold voice.

  “I don’t know, sir!” someone anxiously replied. “He’s shying as if he’d seen a ghost.”

  The horse neighed again.

  Bertram
, thought Igraine. The horse can sense Bertram. Let’s hope it doesn’t kick him in the head. She leaped to her feet and ran for the entrance to the tent. But before she could slip out, the Spiky Knight put back the tent flap. Igraine felt his breath on her face, but he looked straight through her. Soundlessly, feeling weak in the knees, she stepped aside, thankful to Albert and her parents for using their magic to make her a suit of armor that didn’t clink. Rowan Heartless strode past her and dropped into a chair, stretching his legs out stiffly. “Squire!” he bellowed.

  A weedy boy scurried into the tent, head hunched between his shoulders.

  “Take my greaves off and polish them!” growled Heartless. “And better than you did last time, or I’ll have you thrown into that enchanted moat, understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” breathed the boy, and set to work.

  Igraine began to creep toward the tent’s entrance yet again.

  “And where’s my dinner?” Heartless pounded the table with his fist. Igraine jumped, not daring to move. Three more squires hurried into the tent with dishes and plates, barring her way. She felt like cursing out loud. The horse outside had calmed down. Was Bertram back in the castle yet? Would he be able to open the stone lion’s mouth by himself? She had told him what to do and say, but the Master of Horse had never worked magic before. The servants brought the Spiky Knight something to drink. Soldiers complained that they were running out of arrows. A knight reported the loss of the great battering ram to one of Albert’s diabolical spells. And as Igraine stood there, waiting for an opportunity to slip out of the tent, she suddenly saw the lid of the powder container. It was lying right underneath the falcons’ perch, where anyone could see it clearly. Should she creep over and retrieve it? She was still invisible. But just as she was about to try, Rowan the Heartless called for his squire again.