The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

  “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 rusty 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 an’ is it not a strange thing to find them so?” remarked a benign-looking graybeard. “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 side of his 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, “it’s no good shouting! Sure, ’tis an honor 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 be 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 toward 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 toward 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 demonic 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 honor 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—”

  “Oh, tell Artegall we made a private truce to escape the Da Derga, and one of the conditions was that we get a head start before—” He stopped, listening.

  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 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 travelers’ magic had been almost successful.

  Standing in the creek was a fine big bull Indian rhinoceros.

  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 rhinoceros might be docile, but it was unaccustomed to riders. When it recovered from the shock of its arrival in an unfamiliar section of space time, it scrambled out of the creek and galloped off through the trees in the wrong direction. Shea dug his fingers into the folds of its armor and hung on, yelling at Belphebe: “Hey! See if . . . ugh . . . you can . . . ugh . . . herd this thing!”

  The rhino, seeing the unicorn on its right, charged, snorting and baring its incisor tusks. The unicorn whirled aside and poked the rhinoceros in the ribs as it lumbered past. The rhinoceros, now thoroughly upset, tried to flee. Belphebe skillfully herded it toward the camp of the Da Derga.

  The bagpipes were louder. The rhinoceros, now more afraid of the unicorn than of this noise, headed straight for the sound. Shea clung to its back, hoping it wouldn’t ram a tree. The trees sprang apart in front, and there was the camp of the Da Derga. A couple of guards held Chalmers across the altar. The Druids had found another knife.

  Shea yelled: “Yeeeeeow!”

  Heads turned toward him. The upraised knife hung suspended. Shea had a blurred picture of the camp streaming past, and everywhere the backs of the Da Derga departing in a swirl of tartan. They screamed most gratifyingly.

  Beyond the altar Shea tumbled off his mount and walked back. Belphebe had already cut the bonds from the others; but, stiff and weak as they were, they could not move.

  “I trust,” said Chalmers feebly, “that you are . . . uh . . . convinced of the inadvisability of visiting the world of Irish myth, Harold.”

  Shea grinned. “Well, yes, since you mention it.” He turned to Dolon. “I can take this weakness off you. But I’m sure a master like you would have a much better method than anything I could use. If you’ll give the spell to me, I’ll use it instead of my own.”

  “Marry, that will I. Few youngsters are so polite as to appreciate the powers of the masters these days. Bend down—”

  Artegall raised a feeble hand to Belphebe. “What ails you, girl? Fall on these caitiffs! Slay them!”

  “The squire and I have a truce.”

  “A truce!” he growled. “Make a truce with the devil, or the Da Derga, but not with these enemies of human kind. The queen’s majesty shall hear of this.”

  Shea was working the spell on Chalmers. As he got up he grunted: “Thank you, Harold. Really, do we have to go on—”

  “Shut up, Doc,” snapped Shea. He didn’t intend to have his delicate bit of finagling gummed up at this stage. Then he turned to Dolon and worked the spell again.

  The magician seemed annoyed that Chalmers should have preceded him, but it turned out to be a good idea. The moment Dolon was on his feet, he snatched up one of the discarded sacrificial knives and flung himself toward the helpless Artegall. Belphebe tripped him as he tried to go past. Before he could get up, Shea was on his back with one hand on his neck and the other on his wrist.

  “Drop that!” he yelled.

  The magician’s bulbous body heaved convulsively. Shea found himself gripping the neck of an enormous snake of the python type. With horror he felt the immense rubbery strength of the thing as it writhed a section from under him and tried to throw a coil around his body.

  But, as snakes have no hands, Dolon had perforce dropped the knife. Shea put the edge of it against the scaly th
roat. “Change back,” he gritted, “or I’ll saw your head right off!”

  Dolon changed back. “Are you clean daft?” he sputtered. “There’s a stinking fool ’prentice for you—ruining our chance to get rid of our greatest enemy.”

  “Not at all, master,” said Shea, relaxing his grip a trifle. “You forget there’s a truce on. Belphebe and I agreed not to have any scrapping until we’ve separated.”

  “You mean to keep your word with them? ’Tis against nature and therefore void.”

  Shea clamped down his grip again and turned to Artegall. “If I release you from the weakness spell, will you give me your word of honor to let us have a two-hour start?”

  “Fool! Doltard!” shouted Dolon. But Artegall settled the question. “Covenant with an enchanter? Not I! Slay me if you will; you shall not rid yourselves of all Gloriana’s knights so easily!”

  Shea sighed at the unreasonableness of men. “Doc, watch Dolon for a minute, will you?” He got up and said to Belphebe: “Take care of him after we go.” Then, more softly: “Say, how can I get in touch with you again?”

  She thought. “If you go not beyond the confines of this great wood and know but how to call my unicorn of the forest—not that ungainly great beast of yours—”

  “Can you whistle the tune for me—softly?” She did so, and he followed till he could do it. But she finished with a smile. “I misdoubt you could entice her close enough. These unicorns fear not maidens, but men they are greatly wary of.”

  Shea pondered, then drew Chalmers aside, leaving Belphebe to guard Artegall against Dolon. “Doc, can you conjure up sugar?”

  “Harold, you are a continual source of astonishment to me. I really feel quite worn out, though. I’m incapable of coherent effort—”

  Shea shook him by the shoulders. “Listen, Doc!” he said fiercely. “I’m pretty close to the edge of collapse myself, but if you ever want to see Florimel again, you can’t let me down! This is just a little applied psychology; to wit, setting up a homophiliac fixation in the libido of one female unicorn. Now, go to it!”