He circled, cutting another swath through them. No sign of Belphebe.
At the third charge an arrow caught in his cloak. The flint head of another drove through his boot and a quarter inch into his calf. The goblins were learning anti-aircraft fire. But of Belphebe there was still no sign, and now the ghost men were streaming toward him out of the woods on all sides. In every direction they were hopping, yelling, drawing their crude bows.
He climbed out of bowshot and circled, looking. No luck. It would have to be some other way. He felt slightly sick.
He went up higher, till the vast green expanse of Loselwood spread out before him. The sun was well up. Under it he fancied he could see the region where he had tangled with the Da Derga. Beyond should be the edge of the forest, where he and Chalmers had met their first Losels.
Ten
An hour of cruising showed him a clearing with a little garden, a thatched cottage, and a circular palisade of pointed stakes around the whole. He helixed down slowly.
A man came out of the wood and entered the palisade through a gate. Shea caught a glimpse of red face and black beard as his own shadow, whisking across the grass, brought the man’s eyes upward. The man dashed into the cottage as if all the fiends of Hell were after him. In a moment two armored men came out. The shield of one bore the striking black and silver gyronny of Sir Cambell.
“By oak, ash and yew;
My broomstick true,
Like a dead leaf descending,
So softly fall you!”
That was not quite the right way to put it, as Shea immediately learned. The broom settled slowly, but, remorselessly literal, carried the imitation of a dead leaf to the point of a dizzying whirl. Cottage, forest, and waiting knights came to him in a spinning blur.
Shea felt ground under his feet. He staggered dizzily.
Artegall roared: “By’r Lady, ’tis the enchanter’s varlet!” His sword came out, Wheep!
Shea said: “You’re just the man I’m looking for—”
“That I warrant!” His laugh was a nasty bark. “But you’ll accomplish no more magician’s tricks on me. I have a protection, which is more than you have against this!” He shook the sword and swung it back.
“Wait a minute!” cried Shea. “I can explain, honest—”
“Explain to the devils of Hell, where you soon will be!”
At that moment Britomart and Cambina came out of the cabin. Shea wondered frantically whether to run toward them, try to start the broom, or—What was that? A set of little patterns was faintly visible on Artegall’s breastplate as he turned in the morning sun. They were the type of pattern that would be left by soldering on brass oak leaves and then prying them off.
“Hey!” he said. “You’re the guy who showed up in the oakleaves at Satyrane’s tournament and won the second prize but didn’t stop to collect it!”
“Huh? How knew you—What mean you, rogue?”
“Just what I say. You fought for the challengers, and Britomart knocked you off your pony, didn’t she?”
“ ’Tis to be said . . . ah—” Artegall turned his scowl on Britomart. She glared back.
“Come good friends,” said Cambina, “no variance. I proclaim it was Sir Artegall, for I penetrated his disguise. Come, Artegall, confess; you cannot hide the sun at the bottom of a bucket.”
“I suppose I must,” growled the knight. “I did but wish to make proof whether I were as strong in the lists as I seemed, or whether certain of the knights would rather fall off their horses than oppose the queen’s justiciar.” He turned to Britomart. “You have a rude way toward an affianced husband, my lady!”
Shea caught Britomart’s eye and winked violently. She turned on Artegall a look that would have melted granite. “Ah, my dear lord, had I but known! Yet surely you shall feel no shame at that one overthrow, for ’twas the combination of that enchanted ebony spear I bear and your own horse’s stumbling, neither alone sufficient.” She reached for his mailed arm. “When we are wed I shall leave these broils and tournaments to you.”
Cambell and Cambina looked at Britomart, then at each other. The look implied they had never seen her act that way before. Shea repressed a grin. The brawny blonde learned fast.
Artegall smiled shamefacedly. “Why, dearest dame, that were a great sacrifice indeed. I knew not you cared so.” His voice hardened. “But we have here a most villainous young rascal.”
“No rascal,” said Britomart, “but a true and loyal squire, whom I have sworn to my service and that of the queen.”
“Then what of his soaring through the sky like a bug or witch? Nay, he’s of the tribe of enchanters—”
“Not so,” interrupted Cambina. “His magic is white, even as my own; and my art tells me that this Harold de Shea will speak the truth if you’ll let him.”
Artegall scowled, but asked: “Then what’s the truth he would speak?”
Shea told his story quickly before a new argument could start. “That is good truth, I guarantee,” said Cambina, when he had finished, “and Belphebe is in deadly danger.”
“Then why stand we here at words?” snapped Artegall. “Ho, woodcutter! We start at once. Food and horses, as soon as they may be had, for all of us.”
Shea disapproved of this cavalier treatment, but didn’t feel called upon to comment. He said: “Going to collect an army?”
“Nay, not I. Time presses us too close. Here we must count on our own good arms and Cambina’s magic. Art afraid?”
“Try me.”
“There’s a stout younker.” The frown in Artegall’s brows cleared a bit. “I will be just and admit I held you wrong.”
###
The moon in this world, Shea observed, set only twelve or thirteen minutes later each night, instead of the fifty minutes later of his own earth. He and his four companions were crouched at the edge of the opening that held Busyrane’s unseen castle. They did not attempt it till the moon had disappeared.
As they crossed the open space Shea whispered: “I’m afraid I can’t find the gate. Too dark to see my landmarks.”
“Small loss,” answered Cambina. Shea saw her dimly, doing things with her wand. Out of nothing grew a faint phosphorescence that resolved itself into a row of bars.
Cambina pointed the wand at it. The instrument elongated, flexing itself like some tame worm. The tip groped with the lock, inserting itself gently. There was a faint click.
The wand withdrew, then poked its end through the bars. Under the night song of the insects there came a faint grate as the bolt slid back. The gate was open.
As they tiptoed through, the infinitesimal jingle of the knight’s armor sounded to Shea’s ears like an earthquake in a kitchenware factory. Cambina pointed. Over their heads on the wall appeared a sentry, visible only as a cloak and hood, glowing with a phosphorescence almost too faint to be visible. The hood swung its black cavity toward them. Cambina pointed her wand, and the sentry froze in that position.
Light and music streamed from the windows of the great hall. Shea, leading because of his knowledge of the place and the fact that his tread was most nearly soundless, was heading for the door, when he tripped over a huge, hairy leg.
With simultaneous grunts a pair of Losels who had been stretched out on the steps rolled to their feet. While the one nearest was fumbling in the dark for his club, Shea drove the épée through the creature’s throat. Behind him he heard the other’s club swish up—
But the club failed to come down. He looked around and saw the Losel, club aloft, frozen to a statue like the sentry. The other Losel was expiring with quiet bubbling noises.
Cambina did things with her wand, and the door of the building swung open. There was light and noise within, but no one to see them. Across the corridor in which they stood was the entrance to the great hall, the door slightly ajar. Within, the revelers were too occupied with their grand ball to be watching the door.
Shea beckoned the four heads close to his and breathed: “This corridor r
uns around to the serving entrance.”
“Are there other doors beside those two?” asked Artegall, and when Shea shook his head went on: “Then do you, Squire, with Cambell and Cambina, take that entrance. Here Britomart and I will take our stand; for this is the place where they will naturally come and we are, I think, the best men-at-arms.”
Heads nodded. Shea and the other two stole down the corridor. Just before they reached the service entrance, an imp crossed the corridor from the kitchen with a tray in his hands.
He saw them. Cambell bounded forward and cut the imp in two. The bottom half of the imp ran back into the kitchen. There was an instant uproar.
The three ran a few steps to the service entrance and flung open the door.
Shea got one brief static picture of a roomful of magicians and red-lipped women looking at him. Some had their mouths open. Busyrane sat at one end of the horseshoe feeing him, and he thought he recognized Chalmers. Before he could be certain, the photograph came to frenzied life.
He turned to face the noise behind. Out of the kitchen boiled a mass of imps and hobgoblins, bearing spits, knives, rolling pins. Shea neatly spitted the first on his épée, dodging the counter. The imp leaped backward off the blade and came on again. Behind him Shea heard the roar of the Chapter, Cambell’s deep war cry, and the whack of swords against his shield.
“I can . . . handle these,” panted Cambina. Her wand darted to and fro, freezing imp after imp. The rest started to run.
Shea turned back toward the hall, just in time to thrust through the throat a magician trying to roll under Cambell’s legs with a knife, while others engaged the knight’s attention.
The noise was ear-splitting. Cambell filled the door, and at the far end Britomart was doing equally well. Artegall had leaped into the hall and was swinging his great sword with both hands. His temper might be bad, but he was certainly a good man to have around in a rough-house.
The lights dimmed to negligible red sparks. Cambina cried a spell and waved her wand; the magicians glowed with blue phosphorescence in the dark. The scene became that of a photographic negative—a wild one, with some of the enchanters turning themselves into winged things to flee, others hurling themselves upon the fighters, striking sparks.
A whole press at once bore down on Cambell. Shea saw a glowing head fly from its shoulders, and himself thrust past the knight’s shield arm against something that gave before his blade. Then he was out in the room. A green mist whirled about him, plucking. A pink flash and it was gone.
Right in front of him a magician became a monstrous crab. Shea dodged it, clashed weapons with a still-human enchanter, thrust him through, and then went down as the falling man grabbed him by both ankles. He was stepped on four times before he kicked himself free. Colors, sparks, flashes of light danced about the room.
Just ahead a whole crowd was boiling around Artegall. Shea took one step and found himself confronting Busyrane in person. Busyrane’s eyes were twice their normal size with slit pupils, like a cat’s. For all his venerable appearance the enchanter was swinging a huge sword as though it were a foot-rule.
Shea gave back, almost slipping on a spot of blood. Busyrane came leaping nimbly after, slashing. The big sword, half-seen, whirled in a continuous snaky blur. Shea parried, backed, parried, and parried. The wall was against him.
There was no time even for ripostes against this demonic attack. Shea took the last refuge of an outmatched fencer; leaped into a corps-a-corps and grabbed Busyrane around the waist with his free arm.
The magician seemed made of rubber and piano wire. One hand clawed at Shea’s face. Shea ducked and buried his face in Busyrane’s cloak, trying to trip him. The magician fumbled for a dagger. Shea reflected that the weapon was probably poisoned.
But just at this moment Busyrane was jerked backward, dragging Shea to his knees after him. Shea threw himself back and up. Then he saw what was the matter with Busyrane. Around the archimage’s neck was clasped a pair of large, knobby hands. Just that and nothing more. Around the room, above, flitted a dozen more pairs of those disembodied hands, swooping at the throats of the enchanters.
Shea lunged. But Busyrane was made of stern stuff. He got the hands loose, his own sword up, and came back with a low cut. Shea lunged again. The magician, groggy from that strangling grip, had strength enough left to beat off Shea’s remises and one-twos. Shea tried a coupé and one-two and felt his point go home. He held his lunge, stabbing and stabbing.
Down went Busyrane. Shea looked around. The windows of the hall were jammed with the bats and owls and things into which the magicians had changed themselves. They were beaten. The knobby hands clustered around them, tearing off wings and wringing necks with fine impartiality.
The lights flared up again. It was all over. Dead and dying monsters about the great hall changed back into men. Cambell, Artegall, and Britomart picked themselves up from the floor, slowly and with effort. Cambina drooped against the service door, almost fainting.
Artegall’s deep voice boomed: “Ha! Lives one yet?” Shea turned to see him kick over a table and swing back the big blood-dripping sword. He gave a leap and clutched the arm in time.
“Thank you, Harold,” said Chalmers from the floor where the table had been. Florimel was beside him. He was squeezing the neck of a bottle in both hands. The large joints of those hands were familiar. Shea realized that the disembodied pairs that had wrought such havoc among the enchanters were out-size copies of his partner’s.
“Nice work, Doc,” remarked Shea. To Artegall he said: “Don’t. He’s on our team.”
Chalmers gave a hand to Florimel. “You observe,” he remarked, “the improvement in my technique, although, goodness gracious! I didn’t expect the hands to be quite as efficacious as that!” He looked round the room, where nearly half the corpses showed marks of strangulation.
Cambell carried his wife to a seat and supported her. He said: “ ’Twill pass. She is much foredone with the labor of defeating those enchanters’ spells, and ’tis well she did so or we were all dead men.”
Artegall growled: “Master Harold has slain this Busyrane, a good end for as bad a man as drew breath; and Master Reed has slain more than any two of you with his own magic.”
“Said I not they were true and gallant gentlemen?” said Britomart.
“True, my sweet.” He wiped the sword on the skirt of an enchanter’s robe. “Kneel, sirs!”
Shea and Chalmers went to their knees, but Cambell plucked at their sleeves. “Nay, on one knee only.”
Artegall tapped each on the shoulder. “I dub you knights. Be brave, honest, and true in the name of our gracious majesty. Rise, Sir Harold; rise, Sir Reed.”
Shea’s irrepressible grin broke out as he stood up. “How does it feel to be named official racket buster, Doc?”
“Quite . . . uh . . . normal, I assure you. The really important fact about this evening’s work is that I’ve discovered the secret of quantitative control. Frege’s definition of number solves the problem with relation to the calculus of classes.”
“ ‘The number of things in a given class is the class of all classes that is similar to the given class’?”
“Precisely. By treating numbers as classes—that is, the number two as the class of all pairs, the number three as the class of all triples, we can—”
“Say!” cried Shea. “Where’s Belphebe?”
“I don’t recall having seen the young woman. As I was saying, once the problem of introducing a quantitative element—”
“But I’ve got to find Belphebe! Busyrane caught her this morning. He must have brought her here.”
Nobody else had seen her. Florimel offered: “There be gruesome great dungeons below. Mayhap—”
“How do you get to them?”
Chalmers said: “Before you go searching, Harold, I have a spell against magicians that you really must learn.”
“To hell with that! She may be down there now!”
“I know.
But Duessa and Dolon certainly escaped this . . . uh . . . holocaust, and there may be others.”
“Be warned,” rumbled Artegall. “The rash falcon strikes no game, Sir Harold. We shall need all and more than all the protection we can get to prowl those passages.”
Cambell spoke up: “Cambina, I greatly fear, can do no more for the present, gentle sirs.”
“Okay, okay,” groaned Shea. “Why didn’t you use this spell before, Doc?”
“Why,” said Chalmers, innocently, “it would have blown me back into my own universe! And I have too much to live for here.” He exchanged beams with Florimel. “You see, Harold, the casting of a spell produces on both the caster and the . . . uh . . . castee an effect analogous to that of an electrostatic charge. Ordinarily this has no particular effect and the charge dissipates in time. But when a person or thing has passed from one space-time vector to another, he or it has broken a path in extradimensional space time, creating a permanent . . . uh . . . line of weakness. Thereafter the path is easier for him—or it—to follow. If I accumulated too much magicostatic charge at one time, it would, since this charge is unbalanced by the fact that I am at one end of this space-time path . . . uh . . . it would be reaction propel—”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Let’s have the spell now and the lecture later.”
“Very well.” Chalmers showed Shea the spell, relatively simple in wording but calling for complex movements of the left hand. “Remember, you’ve been doing spells, so you probably have a considerable charge at present.”
###
They left Florimel and Cambina with Cambell and divided into two parties. Artegall went with Shea.
Smooth stone changed to rough ashlar as they went down. Their torches smoked, throwing long shadows.
The passage turned and twisted until Shea had no idea where he was. Now and then they stopped to listen—to their own breathing. Once they thought they heard something, and cautiously crept to peer around a corner.
The sound was made by water dripping down a wall. They went on. Shea could not help glancing over his shoulder now and then. Artegall, his iron shoes echoing, paused to say: “I like this not. For half an hour we have followed this passage into nothing.”
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 25
