Astolph waved a hand. “That’s all right. He saw Bradamant, the lady warrior, you know, at the Fountain of Love, and fell in love with her when he drank from it, so he can’t do anything but what she wishes, at least until the spell is taken off. Atlantès was going to fly him to the Fountain of Forgetfulness, but I’ve bagged the mount.”
A wave of relief swept over Shea. “You mean Bradamant is the lady warrior who is supposed to steal Roger from the Saracens? I was afraid—” and he gave a quick résumé of Chalmers’ position with Florimel at Castle Carena, and why he had come hunting the big beef.
When he had finished, Belphebe said: “My lord duke, said I not it was a proper man? Sir, I thank you for your gentleness toward me; you may make me your devoirs.”
She whipped a knife like a steel sliver from her own belt and, taking down her cap, daintily split the feather in it along the middle, and handed Shea one half. “My favor.”
Feeling awkward and a trifle confused, he tried to fix it in his breast. Silly, starting one of those formalized medieval courtships with its gambits and counters at this stage in their relationship . . .
Said Astolph: “So Roger’s on the scram, as you fellas say? Very interesting; should have told me sooner. Stupid-ass, Roger, though an awfully good fighter.” He paused. “Do you know, this won’t quite do, my friend. You and I are rivals in a sense. We both want Shaykh Roger, and for that matter so does the Lady Bradamant, though I really can’t understand why. But I’ll make you an armistice, matter to be decided by dicing, or whatever you say, but no magic. Are you genuinely a wizard, by the way?”
Shea looked down. “Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
“Come, young fella; no false modesty. Just cast me a little spell and demonstrate, so that we can have confidence in each other. Nothing like confidence, you know.”
“Or leather either,” said Shea. “It lasts.” Belphegor-Belphebe was looking at him expectantly, and for his life he could not recall the passes of the somatic element that seemed so important in the magic of this space-time continuum. Wait a minute, though—there was the little spell Chalmers had used the other day to demonstrate that very point. The passes were simple and made a plant grow before the eyes; in Doc’s case, a snapdragon. Grass would do to start with; it ought to make some kind of important-looking plant. Shea plucked a handful, laid it on the ground and knelt over it, closing his eyes in the effort of memory as he whispered:
“Though sore be my sowing,
And more than you know,
And the end of my growing
Is only to grow;
Yet I cease not of growing for lightnings above
me or death-worms below.”
When he looked around again there was no sign of a plant. Nor any of the grass. He wondered what he had done wrong this time.
Astolph was looking straight at him. “By Jove! That’s a neat bit, Sir Harold. Quite as good as Malagigi could have done. Apologies, old man.”
“What is?” asked Shea. His voice sounded strangely muffled as though he were speaking through a blanket. Which, as he learned by putting his hand to his face, was just what he was doing. His beard, sprouting at about an inch a second, had already spread down his chest and across his shoulders, the ends twisting and curling like the tips of thin and inquisitive worms. The beard passed his belt-line and engulfed his arms.
Frantically he tried to think of a counterspell, and felt as though he were in Hell when the only thing he could remember was Chalmers’ all-too-effective spell for raising dragons. Live dragons growing out of one’s face, ugh! Or would it be snakes? The beard had passed his knees, his ankles, its questing points had reached the ground. Belphegor stared at him open-mouthed.
“Oh, bravo!” said Astolph.
The stuff was piling up on the ground in a little haycock. If it would only lay off a minute; give him a respite to think! He wondered desperately how long it would keep going if he failed to find the counterspell. There was the mill that had ground the ocean full of salt. That might be legend, but in a universe where magic worked there was apparently nothing to stop such a process until coils of hair filled the forest and rose like a tide round the magic flames that now encircled the Castle of Carena. He stepped back, almost tripping over a root. If that pulsating hair got him down—But wait, maybe he could get Astolph to stop it. If the Duke claimed Merlin as an acquaintance, he ought to know something of magic.
“Had enough?” he called over the growing mattress of wool to Astolph, whose head was now just visible.
“Thanks, yes.”
“All right, fair’s fair. Let’s see you take the spell off.”
“Righto.” Astolph shifted his big sword to his left hand and swung it through the air, making a few expert passes with his right and mumbling a spell. The young mountain of first-rate upholstering material vanished, and Astolph tenderly felt his smooth cheeks. “You must meet Merlin someday,” said the Duke. “Nobody likes a good joke like old Merlin. But I say, shall we get on with the business? Do you know, I believe the whole problem would become rather simple if we could get your friend out of Carena.”
“I’m not sure he wants to get out,” said Shea. “There’s the question of Florimel.”
“No trouble at all, old man. With a pair like you and your principal, we ought to be able to rescue Malagigi from Albracca, and it would be jolly odd if he couldn’t do something for the lady. But I really don’t see—” he went off into frowning concentration.
“What?” asked Shea.
“That wall of flame. Deuced awkward. That is, I know well enough how to deal with it, only we can’t apply the solution.”
“Sir Harold has been made immune to it,” said Belphegor.
“Ah, but the problem is not smuggling him in, but getting this Lady—ah—Florimel out. It’s this way, you see—” the big man turned to Shea with a wide gesture. “The Lady Bradamant owns a magical ring, very superior production, which protects one from any sort of enchantments, and also makes one invisible if taken into the mouth. It would be just the thing for your Florimel. Bradamant intended to use it to break into Carena for Roger, but she loaned it to Roland for no reason, and the silly beggar accidentally drank at the Fountain of Forgetfulness and lost his wits. Completely blotto. Can’t remember where he put the ring or that there is a ring; can’t even remember his name.”
“I think I see,” said Shea. “If we can get Roland to remember where the ring is, then one of us can extract Florimel from Carena and start all over again. But who’s Roland? Is he important?”
“Really, old man! One of the twelve. The paladins. The companions of Emperor Charles. Best man of the lot in a fight.” m
“Oh,” said Shea. The thought had occurred to him that this was not a problem of magic at all. Roland sounded like a fairly simple case of amnesia, and there was no reason why the techniques of the Garaden Institute should not work quite as well among these mountains as in Ohio. “I think I know a spell that will restore Roland’s wits,” he said. And if Roland’s, he thought, why not Belphebe’s? He must watch for a chance to try.
“Really? That would be wonderful. What do you say we go about it? Buttercup must be about somewhere.” He put his forefingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly.
Something moved in the forest and a hippogriff trotted into view, wings folded neatly back against its flanks. The wings were mainly white with pulsations of rainbow hues flickering through them. The animal pricked up its ears as it came and poked at Astolph with its beak. He scratched among the roots of its feathers. “It answers me better than it ever did Atlantès,” he said. “Those confounded Saracens don’t know how to treat animals.”
“What does it eat?” asked Shea practically. “I don’t see how that eagle’s head goes with a horse’s digestive apparatus.”
“Blooms from some of those African plants, I believe. Buttercup’s not a heavy eater. Very well, everybody, all aboard! Bit crowded, what? What’s that remark you Americans make
when punching cattle? Brutal business that, by the bye; I never could see why you don’t just herd the poor things instead of punching them. Oh, yes, yippee. Yippee!”
Eight
The hippogriff trotted swayingly up a rise. Shea imagined that it would not be very fast on the ground, thanks to the interference between the magnified claws on the forefeet and the hooves behind. As they reached the granite hogback of the crest, the claws clung securely enough to the rock, but the hooves skidded alarmingly. Shea clutched Belphebe-Belphegor around the midriff, and she clutched Astolph, who did not seem at all perturbed. The hippogriff spread its wings, blundered along the ridge, flapping furiously, slipped again, teetered over a fifty-foot drop, leaped into the air, swept down and then up in a smooth curve that just missed the treetops.
“Whew!” said Shea, the wind of the heights on his face and a jellylike feeling in his center. “Sir Astolph, I think your Buttercup should use a rocket-assisted take-off.”
“Wouldn’t do, old man,” said Astolph, over his shoulder. “Laws of nature diff . . . frame of reference . . .” His words whirred away down the wind of their passage as Shea reflected that according to the theory of dynamics, this beast wouldn’t even be able to get off the ground. The contact with Belphebe sent tingles up his arms; he wanted to get her away for a good long talk. She seemed unaware of the emotion she was provoking.
The hippogriff apparently disliked the weight of its triple load and at every landing it sighted below, tried to spiral in for a landing. Astolph had to bark to keep it on course. After the third of these aborted efforts, Shea saw a cleared area of some extent; the details grew slowly to those of a small village with thatched roofs, surrounded by a patchwork of planted fields, plowed with ground and weedy meadow. The hippogriff, its horse-end sweating, swooped eagerly down, skimmed the ground, pulled into a stall, and made a four-point landing that jarred Shea’s teeth.
He climbed down and reached up a hand to help Belphebe, but she vaulted down without seeing him and he felt foolish. With the half-unconscious effort one makes to cover embarrassments, he swung toward the cottages, and as he did so, a chorus of screams burst from them. Men and women boiled out one after another, running for their lives. They were either deeply or suspiciously sunburned, and most wore nothing but long, dirty, ragged shirts, and the speed of their passage took no notice of hippogriff or riders.
After the spreading rout came two men. The shorter of the pair, a good-looking, youngish fellow with strong hands, seemed to be trying to pacify the other. The second individual wore the medieval-type garments with hosen and turned-up shoes Shea had seen in Faerie, but with the laces of his jacket dangling. His face was unbarbered and his eyes roved. The fists waved in jerky motions; the voice growled.
“Upon my soul!” said Astolph. “Look here, you chaps, cheerio, and all that.”
The shorter man gave a glance, waved a momentary hand, clamped a wrist-lock on the other and led him over to the newcomers. Shea perceived that the wild man would be handsome in a Latin sort of way if cleaned up.
“Greetings, most noble Astolph,” said the short man, with as near an approach to a bow as he could manage with his grip on the other, “and to you, fair Belphegor, hail. The wrath is on our great companion once more; he had slain half the village, had I not let him. Yet in true gentilesse, the fault be not wholly his own.”
“Indeed? Tell us about it, old man,” said Astolph.
“Would you believe it, fair lady, and you, gentles? A hart of eight brought I home, as pricksome a bit of venison as ever a man saw before vespers. A meal for the Emperor’s own majesty, one might think; make it a pie, or what will you? Nay, these base varlets must even serve it up boiled, as though ’twere salt stockfish in Lent. I gagged, but our friend Roland put down the first two bits fairly enough. At the third, me seems he must have recovered a whit of the laws of cookery, for he gave a great howl like a lion and set upon the knaves, beating in their heads with his fists. But alas, to what purpose? Not even a crack will let savor into such skulls.”
He looked round the group and his eye came to rest on Shea. “A Paynim, ha! I thank you, Lord Astolph; a cut from his haunch will recompense me my venison.” He gave a barking laugh to demonstrate that this was meant for humor. Shea smiled dutifully.
“All—er—” said Astolph. “Lord Reinald of Montalban, may I present to you Sir Harold de Shea? A johnny from England—that is, from one of our subject allies.” He swung to Shea. “I’d be glad to present you to Count Roland d’Anglante, except that as you see, the poor lad wouldn’t recognize you.” The Count, who was apparently the wild man, was alternately sucking one finger and tapping the end of it in the palm of the hand on which Lord Reinald retained his grip. It seemed to provide him with deep satisfaction. “Sir Harold is also looking for Roger of Carena. Small world, isn’t it?”
“The chase is like to be longer than that for Angelica,” said Reinald, reaching his free hand inside his jacket and producing something which Shea did not quite make out to kiss before he went on. “We have it on the word of the kerns that Sir Roger passed through at spark of dawn, moving as though Saint Beelzebub were on his slot.”
“Really, old man!” cried Astolph. “I must be losing my grip; to hear that he slipped past my watch is more startling than your canonization of Beelzebub.”
Reinald shrugged and resisted a sudden jerk by his companion. “Let buy a candle for Lucifer, then. The thing’s established—would you doubt my word?”
“No, but—look, here, old man, it’s rather important for the Emperor. Whyn’t you stop him?”
“Can a man live forever like a priest? Roland slept; I tied him to a rafter and sought a damsel who had made certain signs by the fountain.”
“How perfectly rotten of you!” cried Astolph. “What the devil did you funk the job for?”
Reinald grimaced. “Angelica lost, and fair Belphegor drives me to a distance with arrows sharper than Saint Cupid’s own. What’s left of life?”
There seemed not much more to say. They walked back toward the village, Astolph fingering his chin. He looked up to remark: “Do you know, I believe Sir Roger will head west, then double back to join Agramant’s army. Sort of thing he would consider the height of cleverness.” He turned to Shea. “Your gangster friend with the odd name won’t find him. That direction would be the double bluff.”
He paused and, pulling the hippogriffs head down to his lips, said something in his ear that sounded like a series of low-toned whistles. The animal cocked an intelligent eye at him and stood still.
Among the huts a table stood under a tree, and on it lay two large wooden plates with boiled meat which gave off a powerful odor of garlic and was framed in congealing grease. There were no other plates in sight, nor anything to drink.
While the others waited politely Reinald went from door to door, shouting in each without result, then returned, shaking his head gloomily. “The rats have fled the larder,” he said. “Beyond the mind of reasonable man to riddle out. Sir Harold, how wags it in your country? Would not men without number be glad and overglad to have lords of Charles’ own court to hold them with harm?”
Shea raised his eyebrows. “It couldn’t be that they’re afraid of your friend’s tempers?”
“Think you so, indeed?” Reinald’s eye brightened and he nodded his head as though something new and important had come into his life. “They be base-born enough. Three or four has he slain, but no more; and even those without pretension to gentle blood. It might be, though; fear of death is ever dreadful to those who know it not for a mocker. A mystery.”
The five made room on a couple of rough-hewn benches and divided the meat with knives supplied by Reinald and Astolph, washing it down with water from the village well, drunk from the bucket. Shea hoped that the fauna of this continuum did not include typhoid germs, the back of his mind assuring him comfortingly that the deadliest disease present would probably be African fever induced by night air. All the same when he not
iced a crawfish clinging to the moss inside the bucket, he and the crawfish pointedly ignored each other.
Reinald gnashed his teeth across a bone and addressed Astolph: “Start we tonight or attend the Lady Bradamant, the mirror of true valor?”
Said Astolph: “I don’t really believe we gain anything by a night march, do you? After all, it will be hard going with Count Roland in such a state, and we won’t really lose anything, since I doubt if Roger is up to a night march. Up with the birds, then . . . but wait a tick. Our young friend here is a jolly and good qualified magician, and says he knows a spell to bring Roland’s wits back.”
Reinald crossed himself. “Holy Saint Virgil, protect us! Those wits lost to black Mahound!”
“Would simplify—”
Count Roland, who had been slobbering over his meat, suddenly turned round to look at Shea and said in a loud, clear voice: “You Saracen! I slay you!” and leaped from his place, trotting around the table with dirty hands outstretched.
“Get him—” yelled Astolph, as the others scrambled to their feet, but the latter was upon Shea before he could more than get on his feet. He did the only thing he could think of at the moment to save his neck without bringing the others down upon him; viz, ducked, knocked the clutching right hand up with his own left and dug his own right with all his strength into the Count’s belly. It was like punching a truck-tire, but Roland staggered two steps, almost upset the table, sat down with a fishlike expression, spreading across his face, and as he recovered his breath, began to cry.
Shea, shaking his hand to get the tingle out of his knuckles, almost laughed at the sight of Reinald’s open mouth. “By my halidome!” said the paladin. “A rude stroke was that.”
“Oh, yes,” said Astolph. “Quite good at the thrust, this young fella; nearly gutted me like a bird a bit back. If you ever fight him, Lord Reinald, guard against that straight lunge. Now look here, I think we can reach an agreement. Sir Harold, I take it, only wants Roger to exchange him for a brace of friends, now in durance in Castle Carena, where that blighter Atlantès is holding them in chancery. If he can restore Roland’s wits for us, I say that with three paladins, we ought to be able to set him on the right track.”
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 33
