The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

  “No purpose it shall be,” said Chalmers. He got together a few props—the parrot’s remains, some ferns, a pair of scissors from his kit, one of Belphebe’s arrows. He stoked the fire, put grass on it to make it smoke, and began to walk back and forth pigeon-toed, holding his arms out and chanting:

  “Oh bird that speaks

  With the words of men

  Mocking their wisdom

  Of tongue and pen—”

  Crash! A monster burst out of the forest and was upon them before they could get to their feet. With a frightful roar it knocked Chalmers down with one scaly forepaw. Shea got to his knees and pulled his épée halfway out of the scabbard before a paw knocked him down too. . . .

  The pressure on Shea’s back let up. He rolled over and sat up. Chalmers and Belphebe were doing the same. They were close to the monster’s chest. Around them the thing’s forelegs ran like a wall. It was sitting down with its prey between its paws like a cat. Shea stared up into a pair of huge slit-pupiled eyes. The creature arched its neck like a swan to get a better look at them.

  “The Blatant Beast!” cried Belphebe. “Now surely are we lost!”

  “What mean you?” roared the monster. “You called me, did you not? Then wherefore such surprise when I do you miserable mortals the boon of answering?”

  Chalmers gibbered: “Really—I had no idea—I thought I asked for a bird—”

  “Well?” bellowed the monster.

  “B-but you’re a reptile—”

  “What is a bird but a reptile with feathers? Nay, you scaleless tadpole, reach not for your sorry sword!” it shouted at Shea. “Else I’ll mortify you thus!” The monster spat, whock, ptoo! Then green saliva sprayed over a weed, which turned black and shriveled rapidly. “Now then, an you ransom yourselves not, I’ll do you die ere you can say ‘William of Occam’!”

  “What sort of ransom, fair monster?” asked Belphebe, her face white.

  “Why, words! The one valuable thing your vile kind produces.”

  Belphebe turned to her companions. “Know, good sirs, that this monster, proud of his gift of speech, does collect all manner of literary expression, both prose and verse. I fear me unless we can satisfy his craving, he will truly slay us.”

  Shea said hesitantly: “I know a couple of jokes about Hitler—”

  “Nay!” snarled the monster. “All jests are stale. I would an epic poem.”

  “An—epic poem?” quavered Chalmers.

  “Aye,” roared the Blatant Beast. “Ye know, like:

  “Herkeneth to me, gode men

  Wives, maydnes, and alle men,

  Of a tale ich you will telle,

  Hwo-so it wile here, and there-to dwelle.

  The tale of Havelok is i-maked;

  Hwil he was litel, he yede fill naked.”

  Shea asked Chalmers: “Can you do it, Doc? How about Beowulf?”

  “Dear me,” replied Chalmers. “I’m sure I couldn’t repeat it from memory. . . .”

  The monster sneered: “And ’twould do you no good; I know that one:

  “Hwast! we Gar-Thena in gear-dagum

  theod cyninga thrym gefrunon,

  hu tha æthelingas ellen fremedon.

  “ ’Twill have to be something else. Come now; an epic, or shrive yourselves!”

  Shea said: “Give him some of your Gilbert and Sullivan, Doc.”

  “I—uh—I hardly think he—”

  “Give it to him!”

  Chalmers cleared his throat, and reedily quavered:

  “Oh! My name is John Wellington Wells,

  I’m a dealer in magic and spells,

  In blessings and curses

  And ever-filled purses,

  And ever-filled purses,

  And ever-filled—

  “I can’t! I can’t remember a thing! Can’t you recite something, Harold?”

  “I don’t know anything either.”

  “You must! How about Barbara Frietchie?”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “Or Chesterton’s Lepanto?”

  “I don’t—hey, I do know one long poem. But—”

  “Then say it!” cried Chalmers.

  Shea looked at Belphebe. “Well, it’s hardly suitable for mixed company. Monster, if you’ll let the young lady go—”

  “Nay!” roared the Blatant Beast. “To your verses, tadpole!”

  Shea turned a stricken face to Chalmers. “It’s The Ballad of Eskimo Nell. What’ll I do?”

  “Recite it, by all means.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Chalmers was right, of course. But Shea had begun to feel an affinity for the red-haired huntress. He drew a deep breath and began:

  “When Deadeye Dick and Mexican Pete

  Set forth in search of fun,

  ’Twas Deadeye Dick who . . .”

  He wished he knew a bowdlerized version; he didn’t dare try to change the wording extempore.

  “They hit the strand of the Rio Grande

  At the top of a burning moon,

  And to slake their thirst and do their worst

  They sought Black Mike’s saloon.”

  On he went, getting redder and redder.

  “Soon Deadeye Dick was breathing quick

  With lecherous snorts and grunts . . .”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Belphebe’s face. It registered puzzlement.

  “Then entered into that hall of sin,

  Into that Harlot’s Hell,

  A lusty maid who was never afraid:

  Her name was Eskimo Nell . . .”

  Shea went faster and faster to get to the end of the awful epos. He finished with a sigh of relief, and looked up to see how the Blatant Beast was taking it.

  The monster got slowly to its feet. Without a word to its late captives, it lumbered off into the woods, shaking its reptilian head.

  Shea next looked at Belphebe. She said: “A life for a life. Truly we should be friends henceforth, and fain would I be such, did I but understand your craft of magic. That magic is white that draws such a monster nigh, you’ll hardly assert. That poem—half the words I understood not, though meseems ’twas about a battle betwixt a warrior maid and a recreant knight.”

  “You might put it that way,” said Shea.

  “Riddle me those words, Squire Harold. For ensample—”

  Shea interrupted hastily: “Some other time, Miss Belphebe, if you don’t mind. Right now we want to get our bearings. Is this what they call ‘the wood where the Losels breed’?”

  “Aye. Some say the enchanters created that gruesome race of monsters to be their cattle.”

  Shea asked innocently: “Why, is the place infested with enchanters too?”

  “Marry, a mort of ’em. Take care lest you fall into their snares.”

  Chalmers broke in: “Ahem . . . could you tell us where there are any—uh—magicians to be found?”

  Shea scowled at his partner. Belphebe’s face changed. “Now wherefore would you know such things?”

  “We’re trying to rescue somebody we think they have, and we thought if we could—uh—gain the confidence of one—”

  “Meseems that is a strange and not well-thought-on plan,” said the girl coolly. “Yet, since you wish, straight on, and I warrant me you’ll find enough of the naughty rogues.” She waved her hand. “And now, good gentles, if you will even pardon me, I must trim the ears from the Losel I slew—”

  “You must what?” demanded Shea.

  “Trim the ears from the Losel. For trophies. Already I have pairs an hundred and twenty and two. Good morrow, gentles.”

  ###

  “That,” said Shea when they were on their way, “is my idea of a real girl. And you had to put her off us by that crack about magicians!”

  “Very fine girl, provided she doesn’t put an arrow through you and cut off your ears for trophies. I confess my taste runs to a somewhat more sedentary type of female. I doubt whether I can stand much more excitement of this sort.”

  Shea said:
“I know how you feel. Traveling through Faerie is just one damned encounter after another.” His two narrow escapes in one day had left Shea feeling like a damp washcloth.

  Chalmers mused: “It is logical that it should be so. The Faerie Queene indicates that this is a world wherein an endless and largely planless concatenation of encounters are a part of the normal pattern of events—Merciful Heavens, another one! What’s that?”

  “That” was a big black leopard which leaped out suddenly into their path. It snarled with the sound of tearing sheet iron. The mounts bucked and started to whirl against the bits.

  “Stop, Doc!” yelled Shea, manhandling Adolphus around and reaching behind him for the broadsword. “If you run, it’ll jump you sure!”

  He tumbled off, snubbed his reins around a convenient stump, and faced the leopard with the broadsword in one hand and the épée in the other. This was getting to be a worse bore than the Garaden Institute. If I stand my ground, he thought, it probably won’t attack, but if it does—There was a book he had read once—what was its name?—about a Lithuanian who hunted jaguars with a spear. If it springs, impale it with the épée; if it stands off and claws, chop with the broadsword—

  The leopard snarled again. It seemed uncertain. Then, to Shea’s astonishment, it swelled and changed into a huge lion. He felt a prick of fear. A man might handle a 150-pound leopard, but a 600-pound lion—not even a mortal stab would keep it from ripping him up, once it got to close quarters. He was in for it—

  “Harold!” Chalmers’ voice was not too near. “It’s all right.”

  “The hell it’s all right!” thought Shea, holding his ground for want of anything better to do.

  The lion did not spring. Instead it grimaced. The fanged mouth became a beak, wings sprouted from its shoulders, and it was a griffin. That, Shea realized, was not kosher; griffins did not—

  Chalmers called, closer. “It’s the man we’re looking for.”

  Shea relaxed. “Take off the false whiskers, Mr. Magician; we know you,” he said. The griffin began to dwindle and dissolve. Shea turned to Chalmers, who was struggling with a patently balky Gustavus. “Didn’t you say something about ‘when away his regiment ran, his place was in the fore, oh—’ ”

  “I couldn’t control this confounded beast. And it’s at the fore, oh, not in. How do you do, sir?” This was to the ex-griffin, which had become a stout, dark, bald man, who stood glowering at them, fists on hips.

  “I do right well,” said the man. “What do you two here? Eh? Seek trouble? You’ve come to the right market.”

  Shea grinned. “In a way, I suppose we are, if you call yourself trouble.”

  “Ho, you seek my professional service! I warn you I handle no minor matters, like turning cows sour or the manufacture of love philters. That’s witch-wife work. I’m a master magician.”

  “Then we’re delighted—”

  “Ahem,” said Chalmers. “Excuse me, Harold. I should like to explain to the gentleman that our interest is professional, looking to an exchange of information that might be mutually profitable.”

  “Ho!” cried the enchanter. “You two claim to be magicians? How do I know you speak sooth? Tell me that, eh?”

  “Well . . . uh—”

  “Work a spell for him, Doc,” said Shea.

  “Oh, dear me. I don’t suppose he’d be satisfied with more mice—or cats. All I can think of now is one I prepared for conjuring up a dragon.”

  “What the hell, that’s fine! Go ahead with your dragon!”

  The magician’s ears caught the last word. “Dragon? D’you think you can really produce a dragon? Let’s see you do it!”

  “But won’t it be . . . uh . . . dangerous?” This was Chalmers.

  “Have no fear. I’ll get a counterspell ready. Dolon protects you. The Dolon.” He strutted.

  “Show him, Doc.”

  Chalmers, with a look of baffled and apprehensive resignation, began to make a list of the properties needed. A small red salamander was discovered under a stone. Most of the other things they had already, but a snapdragon plant was called for, and there was none in sight. “Conjure one up,” said Shea, coolly. The harassed psychologist looked annoyed. But, with the aid of a roadside weed, he produced a snapdragon plant the size of a tree. The Dolon snorted.

  Chalmers laid out his properties, lit a fire with flint and steel, and began an incantation:

  “By Fafnir and Hydra,

  Apophis and Yang:

  With the length of Nidhögger,

  Tiámat’s sharp fang,

  The shape of the lizard,

  The strength of the bear,

  Thou, scaled like the serpent,

  Emerge from your lair!

  Steed of Triptolemus,

  Beowulf s bane,

  Symbol of Uther,

  And bringer of rain—”

  Shea prudently hitched the animals’ reins around a tree. If the dragon turned out to be winged and hungry—He wished that his damned reckless impulsiveness had not made him force Chalmers’ hand. If the Dolon’s counterspell didn’t work—

  The oyster-colored smoke of the fire thickened and darkened. Chalmers bit off his chant in mid-stanza and scrambled back. A reptilian head a yard long was poking toward them out of the smoke.

  The head had a scaly neck behind it. Then came a foreleg and another. The dragon seemed to be crawling from nothingness through an orifice somewhere in the smoke, ballooning out as it came. There it was, complete to stinger-tipped tail, gazing at them with yellow cat’s eyes.

  Shea breathed, not daring to attract its attention by a movement: “If it starts for us, Doc, you get on Gustavus and I’ll let go the reins.”

  Dolon’s face was twisting as though he had swallowed too big a mouthful. The dragon lurched a few steps, not toward them but off at right angles, opened its terrible mouth, gave a whistling beeep and began to crop the grass contentedly.

  “God bless my soul!” said Chalmers.

  “He’d better,” replied Shea. “Look!”

  A second draconian head was pushed through the smoke. This one was squirted out in a few seconds. It looked at the three men, then wandered over to a clump of bright-colored flowers, sniffed, and began to eat them. Now a third and a fourth head were already in sight. As fast as the dragons were extruded, more followed them. The field down to the very confines of the trees was crowded with them, new arrivals butting the others to make room or scratching their sides on trees. Shea was counting: “Thirty-three, thirty-four—We better untie the animals and move or we’ll get stepped on. Thirty-six, thirty-seven—”

  “Dear me,” remarked Chalmers, fingering his chin, as they backed among the trees. “I rather feared this. The same thing happened with the mice.”

  “Fifty-two, fifty-three—” Shea continued. “My God, the country will be overrun with them!”

  Dragons had overflowed the field and were lurching through the trees with their ungainly gait, munching everything green in sight, and mooing at each other with the same plaintive beeping sound. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Oh, boy!”

  The fire suddenly died, and the cascade of vegetarian dragons ceased. “My God!” said Shea in an awe-struck voice. “One hundred reptilian Ferdinands!”

  Dolon’s voice was that of a man shaken to the core. “Forsooth, you do things not by halves. Though I mind me I once succeeded with a bushel measure full of pearls.” Dolon snapped his fingers. “By Ahriman’s toenails, are you not those who even now bested the Blatant Beast?”

  “That’s us,” said Shea. “How did you hear about it?”

  “The Beast passed me a few hours ago, and warned me of a prow company. He said he demanded trifle of poesy, as is his custom, and you gave him a lay full of such—ah—spice that even he durst not repeat it for shame. The like had never before happened to him, and he seemed much downcast thereby. But was there not another of you? The Beast mentioned three.”

  Chalmers cleared his throat, but Shea quick
ly answered: “No; he’s got us mixed up with another bunch.”

  “ ’Tis a thing conceivable; the Beast is in sooth of the lower orders, and cannot count beyond two.” Dolon shook a finger and said with a slight leer: “Now about these dragons: tell me, fellow magicians, was’t not by error you got eaters of grass? Eh? No secrets in the trade!”

  “Ahem. No use taking unnecessary risks,” said Chalmers, still looking a trifle wall-eyed.

  “Doubtless,” remarked Dolon with a glance that Shea just barely saw, “you can exorcise them as rapidly.”

  “We could,” said Shea, before his companion had a chance to answer. “For the dragon-disappearing spell, though, we need an aneroid combompeter, and we lost ours. Do you have one with you?”

  “An . . . ah, certes, an ameroid comphometer. Nay, I fear me not so. Last spring came a black frost that killed all the plants on which ameroid combompeters grow.” He spread his hands regretfully. “However, meseems these dragons will in the long run be a benefit, making rare good sport and food for our friends and servants, the Losels. And now, Sir Magicians whom I have not seen, explain your purpose in Loselwood.”

  Chalmers spoke. “Uh . . . we’re looking for a lady named Florimel, and were advised we might find her here. Do you know the young person?”

  Dolon chuckled. “The real Florimel or the false?”

  “The real or—The one who was at Satyrane’s tournament recently.”

  “That would be the false one, made by the Witch of Riphœa. A fair piece of work—though I will say I care not much for these witches. Duessa is the only one who has any standing in the Chapter—And that brings me to remark, magical sirs, are you members of one of the outland Chapters? My memory is practically infallible, and I do not recall having seen you at our meetings.”