“To the air!” screeched Dolon, the last word going beyond human pitch as he changed to hawk and flapped slanting upward. There was the flat snap of the bow, the whistle of the arrow and there was a puff of feathers. Down hurtled the hawk, changing to Dolon with an arrow through his arm as he fell. He landed, plop, in a soft spot. Shea observed that these people really knew something about swearing in the minute or two before Artegall’s lance jabbed him.
“Dismount, runagates!” roared the knight. It seemed the best thing to do. The man was as big as Cambell, cased in steel, yet moved quickly. Besides, Belphebe had another arrow already nocked.
Artegall pushed up his visor to show a stem, swarthy face with a broken nose. He produced a couple of looped chains, which he slipped over the victims’ heads, tightened, and locked. “You’re in arrest,” quoth he.
“What for?” asked Shea.
“For judgment by the high justice of the court of her majesty, Queen Gloriana.”
Chalmers groaned. “The high justice,” he explained in a low voice, “means the death penalty if we’re found guilty.”
“Then I’ll take low,” said Shea.
“You had better not ask it. He probably has the privilege of low justice himself, which means he can sentence you to about five years in prison right here. He probably would.”
Belphebe had come down from her rock. “Dolon, by the splendour of Heaven!” she cried. “I bear witness, Sir Artegall, that when I met this pair in Loselwood but yesterday, they were asking after magicians. Guard the young one well; he bears a blade of much power, which I doubt not has some enchantment on it.”
“Say you so!” observed Artegall, with an unpleasant expression. “By my halidome, we are well met, then. A pretty gift for the queen’s justice! Let’s see that little sword.” He yanked Shea’s baldric up over his head, nearly taking off an ear.
He climbed back on his horse, holding the end of the chains. The prisoners had no choice but to trot along behind him.
Chalmers managed to whisper: “Don’t try to tell them we’re on the right side. Britomart will clear us if necessary. We must . . . uh . . . retain Dolon’s confidence.”
They plodded on. The more Chalmers thought about it the less he liked the idea of being dragged off to the Faerie court for judgment. If they were released with Britomart’s help, any enchanters they met afterward might reasonably ask them how they came to escape when Dolon was condemned. Of the master magician’s condemnation there could be little doubt. Artegall looked at him with pure detestation. Belphebe, trotting along beside them, was amusing herself by catching the enchanter’s eye, putting one hand around her neck, and making strangling sounds. The great Dolon did not seem to be enjoying it.
Shea? Shea was admiring Belphebe’s springy stride. Anything Chalmers did would have to be on his own. Fortunately, Chalmers had succeeded in purloining and sneaking a look into one of Dolon’s textbooks that morning. There was a simple weakness spell in it; not much of a spell, lasting only a few hours and easily guarded against if one knew it were coming. But it required no apparatus beyond twelve blades of grass, a small piece of paper, and some water.
Chalmers stooped and pulled up the grass blades as he stumbled along, holding them in his mouth as though he merely warned something to chew on. He slipped a hand inside his robe, ostensibly to scratch, really to tear a page corner from Dolon’s book. This also went into his mouth; saliva ought to be a fairish substitute for water. He mumbled the incantation. If it worked, Artegall and Belphebe ought to be weakened enough to let the prisoners escape.
Shea decided that he liked the little spray of freckles across Belphebe’s nose, but that it was difficult to admire a girl who had a bead drawn on one’s right kidney with a longbow. He would like to see more of Belphebe. She had about everything, including an adventurous spirit not unlike his own — Why the devil was he so tired? He could barely drag one foot after the other. He should be hardened to strenuous living by now. Belphebe was drooping, too; the spring had left her walk. Even the horse’s head hung.
Artegall swayed in his saddle. He made one monstrous effort to balance himself, overcompensated, and slowly fell into the road with the dignity of a toppling factory chimney. The crash halted the procession. The horse sat down jerkily and sprawled beside its rider, its tongue lolling out. Chalmers and Dolon followed suit, their chains jangling.
Artegall heaved himself up on one elbow. “Sorcery!” he drawled languidly. “The rascals have tricked us! Skewer them, Belphebe!”
The girl fumbled with her bow. Chalmers rolled over and reached hands and knees. “Come on, Harold! Rouse Dolon!” he said. He smothered a yawn and started to crawl. “Dear me, I wish I could learn to keep these spells within bounds.”
Shea tried to leap over Dolon; lost his balance and fell across the magician. Dolon grunted as Shea’s knees dug into him, but he, also, made his hands and knees. The three prisoners set off down the road in that fashion.
Shea looked back. Belphebe was still on her feet, trying to draw the bow, but lacking strength to pull it more than a few inches. She aimed up and let fly at random. The recoil knocked her over backward. The arrow soared in a whispering parabola and thwunked into the seat of Dolon’s pants with just enough force to stick. The magician yelped and increased his speed to almost a mile an hour.
“Hurry,” said Shea. “They’re coming after us.” Belphebe was crawling along at a fair rate, regardless of the abrasion of her bare knees. Behind her, Artegall brought up the rear of the bizarre parade like some monstrous tailless lizard. In his armour he could barely move.
“Belphebe’s gaining,” remarked Shea, after a minute.
“That sorrows me not,” said Dolon, with a nasty expression. He fished a knife from his boot.
“Hey,” said Shea, “not that!”
“And wherefore not?”
While Shea was trying to think of a reasonable answer, a man in a kilt appeared at the side of the road. For a moment he stared in astonishment at the singular procession, then put a willow whistle in his mouth and blew.
“The Da Derga!” gasped Dolon. “Ah, woe are we, to be caught thus!”
A swarm of the wild men came trotting through the trunks. All wore tartan kilts. With them were a number of lean, rough-coated dogs. The five crawlers were efficiently bowled over and frisked for weapons. Shea found himself looking into the ugly, bearded face of a gigantic redhead, who moved a nasty broadsword back and forth an inch from the prisoner’s throat as though he were sawing. The redhead seemed to think it very funny.
“Sure and is it not a strange thing to find them so?” remarked a benign-looking greybeard. “The folk would be taking poison to make them so weak.”
“Do we be takin’ them back entire,” asked another, “or just their heads to put in the hall, now?”
“Shame on you, Shawn! ’Tis a month now since the gods have had a proper sacrifice. ’Tis a lack of proper reverence you show, I’m thinking.”
Shea could have thought of one or two terms more appropriate than lack of reverence. But he was not consulted. He was tied up and suspended from a pole. For the next hour or so, as the carriers of the pole jounced along, the pain in his wrists and ankles was too exquisite for him to think coherently.
They followed deer trails, ultimately emerging into a clearing with tents around it. The Da Derga were evidently on a raiding expedition; there were no women or children to be seen. The captives were dumped in a row near a rough-hewn wooden altar with ominously dark stains down its sides.
Shea whispered: “Can’t you work a spell, Dolon?”
“Aye, as soon as I recover from this curst weakness. Malediction on the bungling knave who clipped us in it!”
“I’m afraid I was . . . uh . . . responsible,” said Chalmers humbly.
“May Beelzebub fly away with you then! After this, stick to your dragon-juggling tricks, and leave true magic to the great Dolon. Was it not the grass-and-paper spell?”
“Yes
.”
“I trow I recognized the symptoms. Haro! ’Twill not wear off for hours, and by that time we shall be dead as Judas Iscariot. Ah, ’tis foul that the greatest master of magic the world has seen should come to an end thus, like a netted herring! The tragedy of it makes me weep.”
He lapsed into gloomy silence. Shea thought desperately — what could they do? If neither the wily Dolon nor the powerful Artegall could help, the case appeared hopeless. Another last-minute rescue from outside would be too much of a coincidence to hope for.
Three men in long white robes, absurdly garlanded with leaves, came out of a tent. One of them thoughtfully whetted a long knife. The sound it made on the stone was hard to bear.
The one with the knife came over and looked down at the captives. The amiable-looking chieftain remarked: “Sure, ’tis a likely lot they are, isn’t it?”
“They’ll do,” replied the Druid. “For a chance-met lot, they’ll do. The two younger are the handsomest. We take them first. But if it’s so weak they are, how shall we ever get them to walk to the altar?”
“A couple of the lads will support them, Oh, Murrahu! Would you be getting your pipes?”
The Da Derga had formed a circle around the clearing. One of the Druids stood with his arms out and face to the sky, chanting, while another gestured symbolically over the altar. A third marched round the clearing, followed by the bagpiper. The piper cut loose with a sound like a thousand angry beehives. It seemed to Shea that a procession of ghostly figures was following the two marchers, floating in some medium of faint iridescence that made their forms and even their existence uncertain. The Da Derga bowed low as priest and piper passed, and stayed bent over till that trail of misty things had gone by.
It was extremely interesting. Shea wished he were in a position to appreciate it without being dominated by the thought that these were probably his last sense impressions. He wondered if the gods of the Da Derga had something in common with the ancient Celtic deities — By the great horn spoon, he had an idea!
A barbarian was cutting his bonds. Two others heaved him and Belphebe to their feet and supported them by the arms. Their expressions were of rapt ecstasy. Shea muttered out of the .sideofhis mouth: “Hey, Belphebe, if I get you out of this, will you call a truce till we can explain?”
The girl nodded. The Druid with the knife took his place at the altar. Another came over to the captives, faced about, and started to lead them. Summoning all his strength, Shea barked: “Hey, Mr. Priest!”
The Druid turned. He had a kindly expression. “Now, laddie,” he said, “its no good shouting! Sure, ’tis an honour to be the first to go to the gods.”
“I know it. But you don’t think the gods will be satisfied with a bunch of weak fish like us, do you?”
“True enough for you. But the gods do he giving credit when a man offers the best he has, and faith, you are that.”
“You could make us better, though. We’re under a spell. You’re a pretty good magician; why not take this weakness off us?”
The Druid’s expression showed cunning. “I’m thinking you’re saying that for your own benefit and not for ours, but ’tis rare good sense you speak, my boy.” He looked at Shea, then at Belphebe and waved his hands towards them, mumbling. Shea felt the force flow back into his body. The old priest addressed the two with him; “Hold them tight, now, lads. It wouldn’t do at all, at all, if they used their strength to get away.”
* * *
The rough hands of the Da Derga clamped down on Shea’s arms till he winced. He saw that Belphebe wasn’t enjoying their grip either. He held himself relaxed, as though putty in their hands.
The procession approached the altar. The piper was red-faced, but seemed to be maintaining himself by that unique power all pipers have of keeping going long after ordinary people would collapse for lack of breath. Shea’s feet dragged. The Druid with the knife awaited him with the supremely peaceful expression of a man who is rendering his own happiness sure by a great and noble act. The altar was only four paces away. He glanced towards Belphebe. Three. She was looking anxiously at him as though awaiting a signal. Two. He felt what he was waiting for — the relaxation of the tired, sweaty hands of the huskies. One. It was now or never.
Shea snapped his left heel up and back. It hit a hairy kneecap, and the barbarian went down with a yell of pain. He let go. Shea spun around on the other heel, driving his left knee into the other guard and at the same time punching him in the Adam’s apple. The second guard, not expecting this demoniac burst of energy, let go and dropped, strangling in the agony of the throat punch.
What followed took seconds. The other two guards got their signals crossed, and instead of one of them holding Belphebe, both let her go to run at Shea. The woods girl pounced on the Druid with the knife and sank her teeth into his hand.
The guards were good rough-and-tumble fighters, but under the handicap of having to take their captives unharmed. Shea was under no such inhibition. He jabbed one in the eyes with his fingers and kicked the other in the belly. Somebody screeched. Belphebe ran past with a bloody knife in her hand, yanking Shea after her.
The other Da Derga were too dumbfounded by the sacrilege to interfere. Shea and Belphebe raced through a hole in their circle just as the barbarians began reaching for their broadswords.
Then they were among trees, running madly. Belphebe glided ahead of Shea without even breathing hard. He guessed she could leave him behind if she wished. She seemed to know the woods by instinct. She swerved right, squeezed between a pair of trunks, down to a brook, splashed along its bed for fifty yards, then off into the woods again.
“Up!” cried Belphebe suddenly, and climbed a trunk with the agility of a small boy, lending a hand to help Shea. They crouched together in a crotch and listened.
Scattered sounds of pursuit came, now here, now there. The Da Derga had spread and were beating the woods. Shea and Belphebe held themselves still, almost breathless. There was a rustle of snapped twigs and a pair of the barbarians walked past a few yards from their tree, leading one of the huge dogs. “Sure, ’tis a terrible thing,” said one of them. “Three men cut up, and one of them a holy man.”
“A wicked, cruel thing. And poor Fion, with his lovely neck all broke in. It’s inhuman monsters they are, those two.”
The sounds died. They waited, and Shea explained his and Chalmers’ plan to her in a whisper.
Belphebe gave Shea a level glance. Apparently satisfied with his sincerity, she asked: “Why said you not so sooner, good squire?”
“I couldn’t in front of Dolon without giving the whole show away. If you don’t believe me, Britomart will give us good characters. Honest.”
“You mean you plan still to go on with this witless scheme?”
“Of course, if we can rescue our people.”
“You think Artegall would let Dolon go?”
Shea hesitated. “I don’t know Artegall. But you’re right; he’s the kind that, once he gets an idea, he won’t change it for hell or high water.”
Belphebe gave a gurgling little laugh. “You should be a court jester, Squire Harold. But your wit is well taken; that describes Artegall exactly.”
“Well, we’ll have to see to it that Artegall can’t interfere till we’ve left.”
“Nay. In honour I cannot take the side of that foul enchanter —”
“Look, Belphebe. Use your head. The knights of Faerie have been trying for years to catch up with these enchanters, haven’t they?”
“That is good sooth.”
“And they haven’t made out very well, have they?”
“Gentle Squire, you argue like a doctor. But I fear me you are right.”
“All right. This riding around in an iron shirt and knocking off an occasional enchanter isn’t going to get you anywhere, either. Now, my boss and I have a plan for getting into their organization and rounding up the whole batch at once. Why not let us try?”
“But how shall I —”
Faintly, the drone of bagpipes wafted to them.
Belphebe cried: “The ceremony has begun again. Haste, or our friends are sped!” She began to climb down, but as they went Shea asked: “What can we do?”
“I’m not without some knowledge of things in the woods and their secret ways.” She dropped to the ground and started to whistle a strange little tune. When the whistle reached an ear-piercing pitch a unicorn came trotting forward. It nuzzled up to her, pawing the ground, and she vaulted onto its back.
“How about me?” asked Shea.
Belphebe frowned. “Right glad would I be to have you ride with me, but I misdoubt this steed will bear the weight. And they are ever jealous beasts, not liking to go two and two. You could hold the tail.”
That seemed unsatisfactory. But Shea thought, after all, I know some magic and ought to be able to conjure one up, and a conjured unicorn probably won’t object to this one. “If you’ll show me that brook, I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
He composed his incantation on the way to the stream. At its bank, he made a model, as well as he could, of the animal’s head in wet sand, and stuck a stick in it for a horn. Then he recited:
Oh, steed that feeds on the lightning
And drinks of the whirlwind’s surge,
In the name of the horse of Heimdall,
I conjure you now, emerge!
“Strong and docile and valiant,
Decked with the single horn,
In the name of the horse of Mohammed,
I conjure you now to be born!”
The brook exploded outward with a whoosh of spray. Shea jumped up and rubbed the water from his eyes — then rubbed them again to make sure. Once more, the travellers’ magic had been almost successful.
Standing in the creek was a fine big bull Indian rhinoceros.
Chapter Seven
SHEA HAD A moment of panic. Then he remembered that the bad reputation of the rhinoceros tribe is based on the cantankerousness of the two-horned black rhino of Africa. Anyway, he couldn’t fool around conjuring up more animals. As he had asked for a docile one, this was presumably it. He landed astride the rhino’s back.
The Incompleat Enchanter Page 21
