In the blink of one of his yellow eyes, Beji's brutish blockade fell on him with a glee that Beji would have thought unique to the battlefield. Beji was frightened. More frightened than he had been in a very long time. Years of hard campaigning under his master, Lord Mandricardo, had largely inured him to the things most ordinary people would consider worth their adrenalin, but this was different.

He prayed with a renewed sincerity and attention to detail.

His opponent bore him over and sank his teeth into Beji's shoulder. A scald of pain raced up his neck and into his ear. Crazily, he found himself wondering if, after he returned to his own body and natural state of being, his wounds would be rat-sized or man-sized. He had endured a rat bite or two and, while not pleasant, they were certainly survivable; a nip from a rodent with a head the size of his own, on the other hand, was to be avoided if at all possible. The big squeal ripped a ragged chunk from Beji's throat and closed for what Beji assumed would be a, if not fatal, at least massively inconvenient, bite.

Beji cursed. He cursed the whole foolish enterprise. He cursed The Roland, whose fault it was that he was here in the first place, then (for causing him to infiltrate Charlemagne's keep in the body of a rat) doubly cursed and faulted him. He cursed the Enchanter who shifted him (Beji had hoped for something more glamorous - a hawk, for instance). He cursed his master, Lord Mandricardo, for sending him. He cursed the rat (and its mother). He cursed the stones for their casting; "Your right hand will carry answers." He cursed just for cursing.

He was about to invoke the counter-spell that would render him human again (a drastic measure certainly - one that would leave him in his native frame in the middle of the enemy's camp - but these were drastic times and at the moment he would prefer Charlemagne's Paladins) when the sudden entrance of the cook (our ratty combatants were tussling in the castle's kitchen) and his dog brought their melee to a halt. Beji, while scampering to safety, thrilled at the meaty crunch his oppressor made in the dog's big jowls.

The Holy Roman Emperor wheeled on him, every imperial atom challenging the insolence. A magnificent silence followed. Finally the bishop broke it:

"No one believes that Roland would leave his duties willfully, but if the woman enchanted him..."

"Turpin, you would find the Devil's work in my dog's fleas. Next you'll tell me the rats are spies and my counselors are not to be trusted!"

The door opened and a pleasant-looking old man in brilliant vermilion entered. Charlemagne plopped into a chair with a meaty thwack.

"Hello, Lord Gan."

"Greetings, Lord Charles. Any news of your nephew?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I have a complication for you. My son is missing."

"Medordo?"

"I went by his barracks this morning. He hasn't been seen in two days."

Charlemagne offered wine to the old man in vermilion. Another silence rose in the room. The lull was cracked by the entry of a huge paladin in dark blue livery.

"Lord Charles, this was found in the forest outside of Reims."

He held Roland's sword; Widowmaker, called Durendal, called nail. The blade seemed to buck and moan in his hand.

Beji scampered through the tall grass of the Frankish countryside, a full moon chasing him overhead. To his right the river Seine gurgled in the moonlight. Somewhere behind him a dog barked. The wind rolled through his fur, cooling the several wounds he had acquired during his espionage. He was happy. Happier than he had been in a long time. Not only was his mission a success, the news he carried was very, very good. He gave a casual thanks to Allah. The barking seemed closer now. What was that counter spell again?

Mandricardo was busy picking a bit of lamb stew from his teeth when Beji Al Hasrad burst into the tent. His clothes were shredded and he bled from a half-dozen wounds, large and small. There was a particularly cruel gash on his neck and it looked as if the seat of his pants had been chewed out. He smelled of wet dog.

"Beji?"

"Lord Mandricardo, the enchantress has succeeded! Durendal is in Paris and The Roland is dead."