The Incompleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague De Camp

  “There is also cleverness, Wielder of Mjollnir,” said Loki. “Even your hammer blows would be worthless if you did not know where to strike; and it may be that this outlander can show us some new thing. Now I propose a contest, we two and the warlock. The first of us to make the fire light shall have a blow at either of the others.”

  “Hey!” said Shea. “If Thor takes a swat at me, you’ll have to get a new warlock.”

  “That will not be difficult.” Loki grinned and rubbed his hands together. Though Shea decided the sly god would find something funny about his mother’s funeral, for once he was not caught. He grinned back, and thought he detected a flicker of approval in Uncle Fox’s eyes.

  Shea and Thjalfi tramped through the slush to the clump of spruces. As he pulled our his supposedly rust-proof knife, Shea was dismayed to observe that the blade had developed a number of dull-red freckles. He worked manfully hacking down a number of trees and branches. They were piled on a spot from which the snow had disappeared, although the ground was still sopping.

  “Who’s going to try first?” asked Shea.

  “Don’t be more foolish than ye have to,” murmured Thjalfi. “Redbeard, of course.”

  Thor walked up to the pile of brush and extended his hands. There was a blue glow of corona discharge around them, and a piercing crack as bright electric sparks leaped from his fingertips to the wood. The brush stirred a little and a few puffs of water vapour rose from it. Thor frowned in concentration. Again the sparks crackled, but no fire resulted.

  “Too damp is the wood,” growled Thor. “Now you shall make the attempt, Sly One.”

  Loki extended his hands and muttered something too low for Shea to hear. A rosy-violet glow shone from his hands and danced among the brush. In the twilight the strange illumination lit up Loki’s sandy red goatee, high cheekbones, and slanting brows with startling effect. His lips moved almost silently. The spruce steamed gently, but did not tight.

  Loki stepped back. The magenta glow died out. “A night’s work,” said he. “Let us see what our warlock can do.”

  * * *

  Shea had been assembling a few small twigs, rubbing them to dryness on his clothes and arranging them like an Indian tepee. They were still dampish, but he supposed spruce would contain enough resin to light.

  “Now,” he said with a trace of swagger. “Let everybody watch. This is strong magic.”

  He felt around in the little container that held his matches until he found some of the nonsafety kitchen type. His three companions held their breaths as he took out a match and struck it against the box.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again. Still no result. He threw the match away and essayed another, again without success. He tried another, and another, and another. He tried two at once. He put away the kitchen matches and got out a box of safety matches. The result was no better. There was no visible reason. The matches simply would not light.

  He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but something has gone wrong. If you’ll just wait a minute, I’ll look it up in my book of magic formulas.”

  There was just enough light left to read by. Shea got out his Boy Scout Manual. Surely it would tell him what to do — if not with failing matches, at least it would instruct him in the art of rubbing sticks.

  He opened it at random and peered, blinked his eyes, shook his head, and peered again. The light was good enough. But the black marks on the page, which presumably were printed sentences, were utterly meaningless. A few letters looked vaguely familiar, but he could make nothing of the words. He leafed rapidly through the book; it was the same senseless jumble of hen tracks everywhere. Even the few diagrams meant nothing without the text.

  Harold Shea stood with his mouth open and not the faintest idea of what to do next. “Well,” rumbled Thor, “where is our warlock fire?”

  In the background Loki tittered. “He perhaps prefers to eat his turnips uncooked.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry, sir,” babbled Shea. “I’m afraid it won’t work.”

  Thor lifted his massive fist. “It is time,” he said, “to put an end to this lying and feeble child of man who raises our hopes and then condemns us to a dinner of cold salmon.”

  “No, Slayer of Giants,” said Loki. “Hold your hand. He furnishes us something to laugh at, which is always good in this melancholy country. I may be able to use him where we are going.”

  Thor slowly lowered his arm. “Yours be the responsibility. I am not unfriendly to the children of men; but for liars I have no sympathy. What I say I can do, and that will I do.”

  Thjalfi spoke. “If ye please, sir, there’s a dark something up yonder.” He pointed toward the head of the valley. “Maybe we can find shelter.”

  Thor growled an assent; they got back into the chariot and drove up towards the dark mass. Shea was silent, with the blackest of thoughts. He would leave his position as researcher at the Garaden Institute to go after adventure with a capital A, would he? And as an escape from a position where he felt himself inferior and inclosed. Well, he told himself bitterly, he had landed in another still more inclosed and inferior. Yet why was it his preparations had so utterly failed? There was no reason for the matches’ not lighting or the book’s turning into gibberish — or for that matter the failure of the flashlight on the night before.

  Thjalfi was whispering to him. “By the beard of Odinn, I’m ashamed of you, friend Harald. Why did ye promise a fire if you couldn’t make it?”

  “I thought I could, honest,” said Shea morosely.

  “Well, maybe so. Ye certainly rubbed the Thunderer the wrong way. Ye’d best be grateful to Uncle Fox. He saved your life for you. He ain’t as bad as some people think, I always say. Usually helps you out in a real pinch.”

  The dark something grew into the form of an oddly shaped house. The top was rounded, the near end completely open. When they went in Shea found to his surprise that the floor was of some linoleumlike material, as were the curving walls and low-arched roof. There seemed only a single, broad low room, without furniture or lights. At the far end they could dimly make out fire hallways, circular in cross section, leading they knew not where. Nobody cared to explore.

  Thjaifi and Shea dragged down the heavy chest and fished out blankets. For supper the four glumly chewed pieces of smoked salmon. Thor’s eyebrows worked in a manner that showed he was trying to control justifiable anger.

  Finally Loki said: “It is in my mind that our fireless warlock has not heard the story of your fishing, son of Jörd.”

  “Oh,” said Thor, “that story is not unknown. But it is good that men should hear it and learn from it. Let me think—”

  “Odinn preserve us!” murmured Thjalfi in Shea’s ear, “I’ve only heard this a million times.”

  Thor rumbled: “I was guesting with the giant Hymir. We rowed far out in the blue sea. I baited my hook with a whole ox-head, for the fish I fish are worthy a man’s strength. At the first strike I knew I had the greatest fish of all: to wit, the Midgard Serpent, for his strength was so great. Three whales could not have pulled so hard. For nine hours I played the serpent, thrashing to and fro, before I pulled him in. When his head came over the gunwale, he sprayed venom in futile wrath; it ate holes in my clothes. His eyes were as great as shields, and his teeth that long.” Thor held up his hands in the gloom to show the length of the teeth. “I pulled and the serpent pulled again. I was braced with my belt of strength; my feet nearly went through the bottom of the boat.

  “I had all but landed the monster, when — I speak no untruth — that fool Hymir got scared and cut the line. The biggest thing any fisherman ever caught, and it escaped!” He finished on a mournful note; “I gave Hymir a thumping he will not soon forget. But it did not give me the trophy I wanted to hang on the walls of Thrudvang!”

  Thjalfi leaned toward Shea, singing in his ear:

  “A man shall not boast

  Of the fish that fled

  Or the bear he failed to flay;<
br />
  Bigger they be

  Than those borne back

  To hang their heads in the hall.

  At least that’s what Atli’s Drapar says.”

  Loki chuckled; he had caught the words. “True, youngling. Had any but our friend and great protector told such a tale, I would doubt it.”

  “Doubt me?” rumbled Thor. “How would you like one of my buffets?” He drew hack his arm. Loki ducked. Thor uttered a huge good-natured laugh. “Two things gods and mortals alike doubt — tales of fishing and the virtue of women.”

  He lay back among the blankets, took two deep breaths and seemed to be snoring instantly. Loki and Thjalfi also lapsed into silence.

  Shea, unable to sleep, let his mind go over the day’s doings. He had shown up pretty badly. It annoyed him, for he was beginning to like these people, even the unapproachable and tempestuous Thor. The big fellow was all right: someone you could depend on right up to the hilt, especially in any crisis that required straight-forward courage. He would see right and wrong divided by a line of absolute sharpness, chalk on one side, coal dust on the other. He became annoyed when others proved to lack his own simple strength.

  * * *

  About Loki, Shea was not quite so sure. Uncle Fox had saved his life all right, but Shea suspected that there had been a touch of self-interest about the act. Loki expected to make some use of him, and not entirely as a butt of jokes, either. That keen mind had doubtless noted the unfamiliar gear Shea had brought from the twentieth century and was speculating on its use.

  But why had those gadgets failed to work? Why had he been unable to read simple English print?

  Was it English? Shea tried to visualize his name in written form. It was easy enough, and showed him that the transference had not made him illiterate. But wait a minute, what was he visualizing? He concentrated on the row of letters in his mind’s eye. What he saw was:

  These letters spelled Harold Bryan Shea to him. At the same time he realized they weren’t the letters of the Latin alphabet. He tried some more visualizations. “Man” came out as: Something was wrong. “Man,” he vaguely remembered, ought not to have four letters.

  Then, gradually, he realized what had happened. Chalmers had been right and more than right. His mind had been filled with the fundamental assumptions of this new world. When he transferred from his safe, Midwestern institute to this howling wilderness, he bad automatically changed languages. If it were otherwise, if the shift were partial, he would be a dement — insane. But the shift was complete. He was speaking and understanding old Norse, touching old Norse gods and eating old Norse food. No wonder he had had no difficulty making himself understood.

  But as an inevitable corollary, his knowledge of English had vanished When he thought of the written form of “man” he could form no concept but that of the four runic characters:

  He couldn’t even imagine what the word would look like with the runes put into other characters. And he had failed to read his Boy Scout Handbook.

  Naturally his gadgets had failed to work. He was in a world not governed by the laws of twentieth-century physics or chemistry. It had a mental pattern which left no room for matches or flashlights, or non-rusting steel. These things were simply inconceivable to anyone around him. Therefore they did not exist save as curiously shaped objects of no value.

  Well, anyway, he thought to himself drowsily, at least I won’t have to worry about the figure I cut in front of these guys again. I’ve fallen so low that nothing I could do would make me a bigger fool. Oh, what the hell —

  Chapter Five

  SHEA AWOKE BEFORE dawn, shivering. The temperature was still above freezing, but a wind had come up, and the grey landscape was curtained with driving rain. He yawned and sat up with his blanket round him like an Indian. The others were still asleep and he stared out for a moment, trying to recover the thread of last night’s thoughts.

  This world he was in — perhaps permanently — was governed by laws of its own. What were those laws? There was one piece of equipment of which the transference had not robbed him; his modem mind, habituated to studying and analysing the general rules guiding individual events. He ought to be able to reason out the rules governing this existence and to use them — something which the rustic Thjalfi would never think of doing. So far the only rules he had noticed were that the gods had unusual powers. But there must be general laws underlying even these —

  Thor’s snores died away into a gasping rattle. The red-bearded god rubbed his eyes, sat up, and spat.

  “Up, all Æsir’s men!” he said. “Ah, Harald of the Turnips, you are already awake. Cold salmon will be our breakfast again since your fire magic failed.” Then, as he saw Shea stiffen: “Nay, take it not unkindly. We Æsir are not unkind to mortals, and I’ve seen more unpromising objects than you turn out all right. Make a man of you yet, youngling. Just watch me and imitate what I do.” He yawned and the yawn spread into a bristling grin.

  The others bestirred themselves. Thjalfi got out some smoked salmon. However good the stuff was, Shea found the third successive meal of it a little too much.

  They were just beginning to gnaw when there was a heavy tramp outside. Through the rain loomed a grey shape whose outline made Shea’s scalp tingle. It was mannish, but at least ten feet tall, with massive columnar legs. It was a giant.

  The giant stooped and looked into the travellers’ refuge.

  Shea, his heart beating madly, backed up against the curving wall, his hand feeling for his hunting knife. The face that looked in was huge, with bloodshot grey eyes and a scraggly iron-grey beard, and its expression was not encouraging.

  “Ungh,” snarled the giant, showing yellow snags of teeth. His voice was a couple of octaves beneath the lowest human bass. “’Scuse me, gents, but I been looking for my glove. How ’bout having a little breakfast together, huh?”

  Shea, Thjalfi and Loki all looked at Thor. The Red God stood with feet wide apart, surveying the giant for some minutes. Then he said, “Good is guesting on a journey. We offer some smoked salmon. But what have you?”

  “The name’s Skrymir, buddy. I got some bread and dried dragon meat. Say, ain’t you Thor Odinnsson, the hammer thrower?”

  “That is not incorrect.”

  “Boy, oh, boy, ain’t that something?” The giant made a horrible face that was probably intended for a friendly grin. He reached around for a bag that hung at his back and sitting down in front of the shelter, opened it. Shea got a better view of him, though not one that inspired a more favourable impression. The monster’s long grey hair was done up in a topknot with bone skewers stuck through it. He was dressed entirely in furs, of which the cloak must have come from the grandfather of all the bears, though it was none too large for him.

  Skrymir rook from his bag a slab of Norse bread the size of a mattress, and several hunks of leathery grey meat. These he slapped down in front of the travellers. “All right, youse guys help yourselves,” he rumbled. “Let’s see some of that salmon, huh?”

  Thjalfi mutely handed over a piece of the salmon on which the giant set noisily to work. He drooled, now and then wiping his face with the back of his huge paw, and getting himself well smeared with salmon grease.

  Shea found he had to break up his portion of the bread with his knife-handle before he could manage it, so hard was the material. The dragon meat was a little easier, but still required some hard chewing, and his jaw muscles were sore from the bearing they had taken in the last twenty-four hours. The dragon meat had a pungent, garlicky flavour that he didn’t care for.

  As Shea gnawed he saw a louse the size of a cockroach crawl out from the upper edge of one of Skrymir’s black fur leggings, amble around a bit in the jungle of hair below the giant’s knee, and stroll back into its sanctuary. Shea almost gagged. His appetite tapered off, though presently it returned. After what he had been through lately, it would take more than a single louse to spoil his interest in food for any length of time. What the hell?


  Loki, grinning slyly, asked: “Are there turnips in your bag, Hairy One?”

  Skrymir frowned. “Turnips? Naw. Whatcha want with ’em?”

  “Our warlock” — Loki jerked his thumb at Shea — “eats them.”

  “What-a-at? No kiddin’!” roared the giant. “I heard of guys that eat bugs and drink cow’s milk, but I ain’t never heard of nobody what eats turnips.”

  Shea said: “That’s how I get some of my magic powers,” with a somewhat sickly smile, and felt he had come out of it fairly well.

  Skrymir belched. It was not an ordinary run-of-the-mine belch, but something akin to a natural cataclysm. Shea tried to hold his breath until the air cleared. The giant settled himself and inquired: “Say, how come youse is travelling in Jöunheim?”

  “The Wing Thor travels where he will,” observed Loki loftily, but with a side glance.

  “Aw right, aw right, butcha don’t have to get snotty about it. I just was thinking there’s some relations of Hrungnir and Geirröd that was laying for Thor. They’d just love to have a chance to get even witcha for bumping off those giants.”

  Thor rumbled: “Few will be more pleased than I to meet —”

  But Loki interrupted: “Thank you for the warning, friend Skrymir. Good is the guesting when men are friendly. We will do as much for you one of these days. Will you have more salmon?”

  “Naw, I had all I want.”

  Loki continued silkily, “Would it be impertinence to ask whither your giantship is bound?”

  “Aw, I’m going up to Utgard. Utgardaloki’s throwing a big feed for all the gaints.”

  “Great and glorious will be that feasting.”

  “You’re damn right it’ll be great. All the hill giants and frost giants and fire giants together at once say, that’s something!”

  “It would give us pleasure to see it. If we went as guests of so formidable a giant as yourself, none of Hrungnir’s or Geirröd’s friends would dare make trouble, would they?”