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peasant girl be against this monster?
    Anger at his own foolishness broke his paralysis. He threw his bucket at Hobilar’s head.
    The knight blocked it with an easy motion of his shield, but Christopher was already running. Hobilar and his sword were between Christopher and the chapel, so he fled into the forest, cutting at sharp angles around the trees and ducking under low branches. Hobilar followed madly, lagging behind only due to the weight of his armor.
    When Hobilar slipped to one knee, Christopher took his best option. He reversed and ran straight for the chapel door. Helga, white-faced and sobbing, held it open for him. He flew past her, struggling to stop before he face-planted into the fireplace, turning just in time to see her throw the door closed and drop the bar.
    With no time to spare: Hobilar slammed into the door with all his armored weight, shaking the entire wall. The wooden bar was not meant to withstand such abuse; the wall bracket splintered. Christopher threw himself against the door to hold it closed before Hobilar recovered.
    Now they struggled with the door between them, Hobilar’s fury matched by Christopher’s terror.
    â€œGet Svengusta!” Christopher shouted at the girl. She fled out through the hallway to the main room.
    Hobilar, enraged, continued to push, shouting insults. Christopher had the advantage. He could brace a leg against the bed frame. Eventually Hobilar stepped back from the doorway. The silence was more terrifying because Christopher could do nothing against it. Had Hobilar remembered the front door? If so, Christopher’s best option was to wait here, then flee out the back when Hobilar came in the front.
    Fighting was out of the question. Hobilar’s helmet guarded his one weak spot. Christopher was no Musashi.
    The door rattled, and splinters flew into Christopher’s face. Hobilar had come back with the ax from the woodpile. Christopher held as long as he could, but the door rapidly disintegrated under the assault. He had no choice; he staggered back, suddenly aware of his short breath and flagging legs, retreating to the main hall.
    He heard Hobilar finish with the door and step through it without haste. Christopher found his bokken, gripped it in sweating palms. The priest’s words had been so reasonable that Christopher had forgotten what kind of world he was in. Now he was caught unready, too tired to run, too weak to fight.
    Hobilar came into the room. Indoors, his armored figure was unreal, the quality of a nightmare. His cruel, panting chuckles broke the spell, and all Christopher had left was the fear.
    Christopher raised his stick to the guard position. Hobilar’s sword lashed out, and the wood cracked and splintered. Stumbling backwards, Christopher fell, staring upwards in hypnotic helplessness.
    Behind him the cold wind blew in through open doors, and Svengusta sailed past, waving his arms and shouting. Hobilar tried to brush the old man off. Svengusta gestured commandingly at the frieze hanging over the fireplace. Hobilar snarled, but it seemed he feared the wooden god. Reluctantly the knight retreated past Christopher, through the double doors, and down the stairs. There he stopped, sheathed his sword, and unlimbered his shield, digging its pointed bottom into the ground. Resting his hands on the shield, leaning against it, he smiled at Christopher.
    No translation spell was necessary to understand his message: I can wait.

    Once again Christopher sat in the little kitchen, drinking hot tea. Svengusta was no longer happy, alternating between scowling at the blankets hung over his ruined door and frowning at Christopher’s silence. The old man had tried to draw him out with conversation. Christopher could not see the point of it. He did not speak the language; he did not understand the rules. He did not belong here, and Hobilar would soon resolve that problem. Christopher was only waiting for him to overcome his superstitious