“No. Castle’s a long way from here. We walk fast.”
“No, no! This place on the map means Castle Carena. Now we want to know where we are, on the map.”
Echegaray pushed back his leather cap that scratched his short black hair. Then his brows cleared. “Want us on map?”
“Yes. You’re getting the idea.”
The hunter took the map from Shea’s hand, turned it around a couple of times, laid it on the ground, smoothed it out, and stood up—
“Hey!” yelped Shea. He caught Echegaray’s shoulders and pushed him back just as the hunter’s boot was coming down on the parchment. “What’s the idea of stepping on my map?”
Echegaray sat down, a resigned expression on his face. “Said you wanted us on map. Magic carpet, no?”
“No. I didn’t mean you were to be on the map physically.” How the devil, wondered Shea, could you explain the principles of semantics to a one-groove mind like this?
“Whyn’t you say so? First you want us be on the map. Then you don’t. Can’t make up your mind. Never saw such people.”
Shea folded the map and put it back in his sash. “Let’s forget it. What makes you think you’re going to find Roger in this direction?”
“Best place.”
“One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Why is it the best place? What would he be doing in this direction rather than any other?”
“Crossroads. Knights always fight at crossroads.” The hunter broke off a twig and whittled it to a toothpick. He used it with relish, pausing now and again to belch.
“Ready?” he said presently. Shea and Polacek nodded. Echegaray adjusted his pack, picked up his crossbow, and swung ahead.
The stream hung with them past another waterfall, where an animal of some sort went crashing through the thicket and Echegaray with an instinctive motion whipped up his crossbow. Shea could not help thinking how Belphebe—if it were she—would be enjoying this country. Beyond, the path carried them across another high spur and through a screen of trees down to a three-pronged fork, the tracks in both directions broader and scarred by hoof marks. Echegaray strode to the junction and looked along first one leg of the fork and then the other, his forehead contorted by thought.
“What’s the matter?” said Shea. “I don’t see our friend Roger here. Is that it?”
The hunter gave him a look that showed disesteem for those who wasted words pointing out the obvious, and pointed in the direction that must be south by the sun’s position. “Crossroads; village. Four miles.” Then he pointed north. “Crossroads. Village. Twelve miles. Which?” He looked at Shea for orders.
“Say,” said Polacek. “Why don’t we split up and play the field? One of us would have more chance of talking that big lug into coming back than both together, and besides I know enough magic now to take care of myself—”
“No,” said Shea firmly. “You try just one more spell and I’ll have your neck and ears.” He turned to Echegaray. “Which way is Lord Roger most likely to go?”
The hunter shrugged. “Both. You tell.”
Shea thought: after all, why not let Polacek and Echegaray take one road while he took the other? Votsy couldn’t get into too much trouble with this simple-minded but knowledgeable retainer holding his hand, and as for himself, he would just as soon not have the Bouncing Czech around if he should chance to meet Belphebe. The way to the north wound among trees.
“Look here,” he said, “maybe that’s a good idea of yours after all, Votsy. Suppose you and Echegaray take that road to the south and let me strike off on the other one. That way we’ll be all right. Watch out for Belphebe, will you? She’s supposed to be wandering around somewhere and I shouldn’t want anyone taking potshots at her.”
“Me neither,” said Polacek. “Boy, could I use one of those cocktails she used to mix, right now! She’s better than you since you taught her.”
They shook hands, and Shea said: “Got any money? Good. Might be an idea to buy yourself some kind of weapon in the village if you can. Probably a mace; anybody can swing a club without practice. Start back in about four days whether you find him or not.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Polacek. “I figure I know how to get along with these yaps. Look how I contacted that purple guy with the booze in the castle when all you did was sit around on your duff.”
Shea turned up the road, looking back once to wave as the other two disappeared down a slope behind trees. He wondered how long Polacek’s short legs would stand the pace. It was in such a wood that he had first seen the girl, light-footed, with a feather in her hat, who announced her presence with an arrow that slew the Losel. Belphebe. His feet picked the way along without any conscious help from his mind, except that he was aware of going forward. And they’d been getting so beautifully adjusted, too. . . . No, not quite such a wood either. This one was more open; the trees were smaller and there was less brush. One could see—
One could see something moving among the trunks to the right, too large and too steady of progress to be an animal. Shea snapped to attention, whipped out the sword, and slipped into the cover of a tree. The something answered his movement with a call of “Olé!” and stepped into plain view. Echegaray.
“What in the blue-belted blazes have you done with Polacek?” demanded Shea, gripping his sword firmly as the hunter trotted up.
“Left him. Talks too much. Go with you.”
“Don’t you know he’s not fit to be allowed out without a keeper? Suppose you get right back there and keep an eye on him!”
For answer the hunter shrugged and gazed at the top of a tall tree with an elaborate lack of interest in anything else. Shea felt his temper rise, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it, short of turning back along the road to overtake Polacek or going for Echegaray with the sword. He stuck his nose in the air and started along the path the way he had been going. Echegaray followed.
The trees began to crowd in from both sides, and from the bottom of a draw the way commenced to climb steeply. Shea found himself puffing, although he noted that the hunter in less hampering clothes was coming along like a machine. At the crest, the spur they had been climbing broadened out into a little plateau with colonnades of trees. Shea leaned against a big trunk, breathing deeply; Echegaray posted himself against another, the toothpick twirling in a corner of his mouth.
Twunk! Twunk! The tree jarred under the blows. Shea jumped—or tried to and found he couldn’t. A long white-shafted arrow had pinned his sleeve to the tree, and another was affixed just beside his right leg. He caught a glimpse of Echegaray’s astonished brown face as the hunter flung himself flat, then began to snake forward to the shelter of a fallen trunk, the crossbow dragging. He whipped a curved iron rod out of his boot and slipped one end of it over a stud in the side of the bow. A bolt dropped in; Echegaray’s arm brought the piece of metal back and the bow was cocked.
There were no more arrows and the forest was silent. Echegaray’s right hand scrubbed loose a pebble, which he tossed with a little noise into a bush at the far end of the log, at the same time peering cautiously around the near end.
“Drop!” he told Shea in a stage whisper.
“Can’t,” said Shea. Thinking what a beautiful target he made for the unseen archer, he was trying to get the arrows out with his left hand. However, the position was awkward, and the deeply embedded shaft was made of some springy wood that would not break under his fingers’ best efforts. His clothes were of a heavy, tweedy wool that would neither tear nor slide up the arrow. He gave a heave, then began trying to work his arm loose from the garment itself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Echegaray watching the woods with bright-eyed attention, then bring the crossbow up slowly. . . .
Snap! The bolt flashed away among the trees with a beelike hum. Someone laughed and Echegaray snatched up his cocking-lever.
Before he could finish reloading a voice roared: “Yield thee, sirrah! Halloo, halloo, and a mort!” Out of nowhere an oversized man had appeared o
ver the hunter, waving a two-handed, cross-hilted sword. He was ruddy-faced, with features so strikingly regular that they might have been copied from those of an imaginary Apollo. Around his neck was a scarf with diagonal stripes of red, blue, and brown, the ends of which were tucked into a leather jacket. A light steel cap allowed curling blond hair to escape around its edges, and a huge curled horn was strapped to his back.
Echegaray rolled over twice, whipping out his knife and coming up to one knee, but the point of the big sword was right in his face and he thought better of it. He sullenly dropped his weapon and spread his hands.
Down among the trees whither the crossbow bolt had flown, a hat with a feather came into view. The hat was bobbing on the end of a stick held by a girl in a knee-length tunic, a girl with freckles and reddish-gold haircut in a long bob. She trotted toward them as though she were going to break into a dance step at any moment, and the other hand held a longbow with an arrow already nocked.
“Belphebe!” cried Harold Shea, his heart giving a great leap.
The girl, who had been looking at Echegaray, turned toward Shea with her eyebrows up. “What said you, Saracen? I hight Belphegor.”
Shea looked blank. “Don’t you remember? Harold Shea. Just an old husband of yours. The picnic.”
She laughed. “Nor husband nor loveling have I, and had I such, ’twould be no son of black Mahound.”
“You don’t know anyone named Belphebe?”
There was a flicker between her brows. Shea remembered with sinking heart what Chalmers had told him about his wife’s loss of memory. She turned to the big man: “Nay, my lord Astolph, methinks this rogue doth seek to cozen us.”
“Rather. The other chappie is Atlantès’ hunter again, right?”
“Aye. Small tiding shall we have from him, even though he be ware of all. Recall you not when erst we caught him? Your bolts, Master Echegaray!” She held out a hand, and the hunter, muttering something about “damned women . . . spinning wheels” thrust forward a fistful of bolts.
“So? Have we them all?” The girl pulled the bandolier toward her and snatched out another bolt. “A clever rogue, is it not?”
Echegaray shrugged. “Worth trying,” he said resignedly.
“Very well, my man, you may go,” said the man who had been addressed as Astolph. “And I’ll trouble you to keep on your own side of the line hereafter.” Echegaray picked up his crossbow and silently disappeared among the trees.
The big man turned to Shea: “Now let’s have a word with you, my fine Saracen fowl!” He stepped to the tree and wrenched out the arrows with a strength that made the task look easy. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Do you claim you know Belphegor?”
“Look here,” said Shea. “I’m neither a Saracen nor a fowl, and I either married this girl or someone enough like her to be her twin sister. But she doesn’t remember me.”
“Daresay. It’s a woman’s privilege to forget, you know. They all it changing their minds, haw haw. But that’s neither here nor there. We simply can’t have you boffers from Carena running around and treating people the way Atlantès did this young lady. So you’d better stand and deliver an account of yourself if you want to keep that jolly head of yours.”
Shea flared up. “Stand and deliver! Listen here, Dick Turpin, suppose you give me—”
“Dick Turpin? Wasn’t he the highwayman chap from old England? Haw, haw, well said, oh. But I say, how would you know about him?”
“How would you?”
“We’re asking the questions here, young fella. Belphegor, keep that arrow on him. Who—by Jove, don’t tell me you’re a wizard from my own universe, the one that’s built around the British Isles?”
“I don’t know how much of a wizard I’d rate, but I’m from there, all right. Only from the State of Ohio.”
“American, as I live! Extrawdin’ry people, Americans—give me a million dollars or I’ll cut your rug for a loop of houses, what? Isn’t Ohio where the cinema colony is? Hollywood! No, that’s in your province of Florida. Are you a gangster? I would say so, or you’d not be hand-in-glove with those paynims at Carena.”
“I’m not a gangster and I keep telling you I’m not a Saracen. In fact if you’ll step into the woods with me I’ll prove it. These are only the clothes they gave me to put on,” and Shea launched into a thumbnail sketch of his apportation.
“I say,” said Astolph, “this chap Chalmers, your colleague, must be quite an adept. Don’t know that I could do as well, though Malagigi could. Unfortunately, they’ve laid him by the heels. Do you know my old friend, Merlin?”
“You mean the famous one, the Welsh wizard? Is he still around?”
“Certainly. I meet him at the Sphinx Club in London. Do you know him?”
“I’m afraid I never met him personally.”
Astolph’s handsome face went a trifle grim. “That’s unfortunate. Really, you know, with a war toward, we can’t have strange wizards running around the borders of the Emperor Charles’ dominions. Someone must vouch for you.”
“There’s Doc Chalmers.”
“Another American. Doubtless another gangster.”
“Echegaray.”
“Atlantès’ man. Come, you don’t expect me to accept that, do you? Anything he said in your favor would be a guarantee of bad faith, assuming you could get him to say anything.”
“Well, there’s Lord Roger. He won’t say anything in my favor.”
“A fool.”
“I have a friend around here somewhere, who came with me—”
“Still another gangster! Really, old man, you’re only making things worse. I can’t let you go under the circumstances, and I can hardly use you as a prisoner for exchange, since there’s no war as yet. So there’s only one think to do . . .”
Shea, perspiring at this reasoning, cried: “Belphebe!”
There was a frown of puzzlement on the girl’s face, but she shook her head. “He has the proper figure of a man, but—my lord, I know him not.”
“I have the high justice,” said Astolph, as though that settled everything. “Kneel down.”
“Damned if I do,” said Shea, tugging at his sword and reckless of Belphebe’s nocked shaft.
“Righto,” said Astolph, making a restraining motion at the girl. “But half a tick. Are you baseborn? Most Americans are.”
“I’m not a duke or anything, but I’ve been made a knight, if that will do. By Sir Artegall of Faerie.”
“Splendid. Ordeal of battle, and sound law, too. Only right to let a chap go out on his feet. Too bad you can’t be shriven.”
Shea got the sword out and shucked off his Muslim coats. As soon as he come within reach, Astolph took a stance, swung the big blade up, and struck down overhand with a wood-chopper’s swing. Clang! Clang! Clang! Shea parried with the awkward blade, though the force of Astolph’s stroke almost drove it from his hand. He took a backhand cut with it, which Astolph parried easily, then came back forehand, but his opponent jumped away with a lightness surprising in so big a man. His return was so rapid that he forced Shea to give ground.
The duke was good but not too good. After the third exchange Shea felt he could parry anything the big blade sent at him. However, the next clash brought a trickle of worry. Astolph’s reach and length of blade were keeping him too far away for this clumsy weapon to be used as it was supposed to be used. If he could parry, he could not cut home, and in time the big man would wear him down.
Another whirl and he almost lost his sword. The handle was slippery in his grasp. He began to grow angry at the unfairness of this big lug, and with difficulty remembered that an angry fencer is a losing one.
Astolph drove him back again, almost into a tree, and lowered his blade for a second to get a better purchase. The sight of the exposed chest brought Shea’s fencing reflexes to the surface. His right arm shot out, with the whole weight of his body behind it in a long lunge. The rounded point of the sword hit jacket and chest with a thump. Astolph,
a little off balance and not expecting such a push, sat down.
“Yield thee yourself!” shouted Shea, standing over him and sighting on the Englishman’s neck.
The duke’s left arm came around like a jibing main boom and swept Shea’s ankles from under him. Down went Shea. He was struggling in a bone-crushing wrestler’s grip when he heard the girl cry: “Hold, enough! By the power of woods and water which is the domain, I bid you cease!”
Shea felt Astolph relax unwillingly and climbed to his own feet. A rill of blood trickled from the duke’s nose where Shea had butted him, while Shea’s turban was in his eyes, one of which was swelling, and the other end of the headdress was draped around him like one of Laocoön’s serpents.
“I say, my dear,” said Astolph, “you can’t do this, you know. Ordeal of battle goes to a finish, and anything left of the loser has to be burned. I shall complain to the Emperor.” He bent over, reaching for the big sword.
“Hark, sir! Would you try my bodkin?” She had drawn the tough shaft to the head and it pointed steadily at the big man’s midriff. “I care not for the Emperor Charles or the Lord of Circassia in this domain. But I say this is a true man that has fought well, and that spared you when he might have slain, and be he Saracen or no, there shall henceforth be peace between you.”
Astolph grinned and held out his hand to take Shea’s in a hearty grip. “Needs must take the fortune of war. Jolly good thing you didn’t make that hit with a pointed blade or I should have been properly skewered. I daresay you can show me a trick or two. Care to join forces?”
“I’m not sure,” said Shea. “What kind of campaign do you have on?” He thought: if I can only get her to Chalmers, he can bring back her memory. In the meantime not all of Atlantès’ ifrits will pry me away from her.
“This bloody—excuse me, old girl—this Castle of Carena. Atlantès has Lord Roger in there, and there’s a prophecy that our side can’t win the war unless we convert him.”
Shea snickered. “From what I’ve seen of that guy, I’d say you’d have a rough time converting him to anything he didn’t want to do. He hasn’t got enough mind to convert with.”
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 32
