“He must have gone over the pass and picked up a party looking for us—or else that damned smith put him on our track,” said Shea.
The heads jerked forward in more rapid movement. “They have spied us!” cried Belphegor. “Up yon hill shoulder! They cannot reach us mounted there, and mayhap we shall gain the shelter of the trees.”
The horsemen were coming on fast, about twenty of them. High-pitched yells announced that they had seen their quarry.
Shea and his companions reached the round of the shoulder and pelted through a clump of scrubby oaks. Beyond, a slope of crumbled shale towered over them. They sank in the loose stuff halfway to their knees, every effort to go higher loosening a minor landslide that carried them staggering back. It was like a treadmill.
Below, a couple of horsemen were picking their way through the rocks at the base of the shoulder; others were spreading left and right. An arrow zipped into the shale above Shea’s head. He wished he knew some kind of magic that would work quickly.
“No use,” he said bitterly. “We’ll have to stand and try to fight it out.” He gripped the girl’s hand and ran the few steps back down toward the trees.
The Saracens were skirmishing around the base of the shoulder, stopping now and then to yell. A few of them had double-curved bows and were letting off arrows.
Belphegor crouched behind a rock and let off one of her own shafts at a dodging shape. The shot missed, splintering on a stone behind. The next hit a horse, which reared and threw its rider. Belphegor dodged as half a dozen arrows clattered around her in return.
Medoro was on a fine white horse, well out of range. His voice floated up thinly. “Cease from shooting lest you do her a harm! She shall be taken alive, but I will give five thousand dirhams for the head of the man!”
A man threw up one arm and rolled out of his saddle, an arrow right through his body and tipped with a spurt of blood. The rest drew back, dismounted, and leaving one or two to hold horses, ran at the base of the shoulder with swords and spears.
Out from behind a rock slipped a big gray hairy shape which lit on the back of a Saracen with a long bound. Good old Vaclav! The man went down, screaming, in a voice that was suddenly choked, and Belphegor’s bowstring snapped like a harp.
Thump! Down went one of the attackers, clutching his stomach and chewing at the grass. An arrow glanced up and away from the helmet of another. Thump! The leader of the rush was down, with an arrow right through the eye.
“Allahu Akhbar!” screamed Medoro from below. “Ten thousand dirhams!”
A Saracen stopped with an arrow through his forearm. The others set up a discordant yell and came rushing and stumbling up from all sides, clambering over those who had taken the girl’s arrows. The wolf got the hindmost by the leg, wolf and man rolling down the hill, the latter squealing with terror as his weapon foiled to bite. Belphegor nailed the man with the helmet neatly through the throat.
“My last shaft, Harold,” she cried.
Smart girl, he thought, to plant it where it did the most good, and drove his arm forward in a long lunge. The scimitarlike blade was unhandy, but it went right through the open mouth of the man before him. Shea parried a cut with his dagger and swung, but the man had a helmet, which took the blow with a clang, and Shea’s blade snapped off at the hilt. However, the blow had force enough to knock the man over backward, and he carried the legs from under a couple of others.
Someone hurled a barb-headed javelin just as Shea recovered from the stroke. The weapon missed and hung quivering in a tree. Shea and Belphegor grabbed for it together. He reached it first, jerked it loose, snapped it over his knee, and gripped the pointed end like a rapier. “Get into a tree,” he called to the girl. The Saracens were closing in fast; Shea had just time to turn around, feint at the nearest, dodge his swinging cut, and lunge. The point got him right below the chin.
The next man gave ground, so that Shea’s lunge fell short. He leaped back, barely parrying a cut from the side with his inadequate blade. They were ringing him, he couldn’t face three ways at once, and was too busy parrying even for a quick thrust. A blow on the side of the head made his senses spin; only his helmet kept the edge out.
Then a sound drowned the shouts of the Saracens; a blast on a horn, deep, full and resonant. It sounded like the horn of Heimdall that had made the glaciers shake; but this one had a wild discordant edge that made Shea’s skin crawl and his teeth ache. A dreadful feeling of fear and horror seized him; he wanted to burst into tears, to get down on his knees. The horn sounded again, and all at once the Saracens were bounding down the shoulder, their shouts changed to cries of panic. Shea almost ran after them.
A shadow floated across the shoulder and he looked up to see Duke Astolph soaring past through the air on his hippogriff. He was outlined against the sky as he raised the horn to his lips once more and blew the Saracens along the valley.
But not all of them. Shea looked down in time to see a short, bearded character—who must have been deaf, for he showed no sign of being affected by the horn—on one knee, not twenty yards away, drawing a curved bow. As the man released, Shea ducked almost instinctively and the arrow went over his head. A cry made him turn round. Belphegor had reached for a dropped scimitar, and now she was sinking to her knees, the arrow sticking in her side.
Shea hurled himself at the Muslim archer, who dropped his bow and whipped out a short yataghan. For three seconds their weapons flickered like sunbeams. Shea parried and drove the javelin point into the fellow’s forearm, where it stuck between the bones. The man dropped his weapon and pulled back, tearing the javelin from Shea’s grasp.
Shea snatched up the yataghan. His antagonist fell on his knees and lifted the one good arm. “In the name of Allah! Would you strike a man unarmed?”
“Damn right I would,” snarled Shea and did so. The head came off, bounced, bounced again and rolled down the hill. Shea went back to where Belphegor lay among the rocks, her face pale and her eyes half-closed. He took her in his arms.
“Harold,” she said.
“Yes, dearest.”
“All is crystal clear. I am Belphebe of the woods, daughter of Chrysogone, and you are my dearest dear.” Shock was often a good cure in amnesia cases. But what the hell good did it do either of them now? He gulped.
“I would have borne your sons,” she said faintly. “ ’Twas a brave match and a joyous.”
“It’s not as bad as that.”
“Aye, I fear me. I go to Ceres and Sylvanus. Kiss me before I go.” He kissed her. The lips smiled wanly and he placed his hand over her heart. It was beating, but slowly and weakly.
She sighed a little. “A brave match . . .”
“What ho!” said a familiar deep voice. Astolph stood over them, horn in one hand, the hippogriff’s bridle in the other. “Oh, I say, is the young lady hurt? That’s a bit of too bad. Let me have a look at her.”
He glanced at the projecting arrow. “Let’s see the pulse. Ha, still going, but not for long. Internal bleeding, that’s the devil. Quick, young fellow get me some twigs and grass and start a fire. I believe I can handle this, but we’ll have to work fast.”
Shea scrambled around, cursing the slow inefficiency of flint and steel, but getting the fire going. Astolph had drawn an enormous pentacle around them with a stick and had whipped together a tiny simulacrum of an arrow out of a twig, with a bunch of grass representing the feathers. He tossed this in the fire, muttering a spell. The smoke billowed around chokingly, much more than so small a fire had any right to make. Belphebe was invisible.
Shea jumped violently as he observed, beyond the border of the pentacle, a pair of eyes hanging unsupported in the air on a level with his own. Just eyes, with black pupils. Then there were more pairs, sometimes at angles or moving a bit, as though their invisible owners were walking about.
“Stay where you are,” said Astolph between spells. His arms were outspread and Shea could see him waving them through the smoke as he chanted in sev
eral languages at once.
Something deep inside Shea’s head kept saying: Come on out; come out, come out; it’s wonderful; we’ll make you a great man; come out; just step this way; this will be the greatest thing you’ve ever known; come with us . . . and something stirred his muscles in a movement toward the eyes. He had taken a full staggering step toward the eyes before he got a grip on himself, and sweat stood on his forehead with the effort of trying to keep from another step.
Suddenly the fire went out, the smoke died as though it had been sucked into the ground and the eyes disappeared. Astolph stood by the ashes, big beads of perspiration on his handsome face. The lines around his mouth were drawn. “Bit of warm work that,” he said. “Lucky you didn’t put your head outside the pentacle.”
Belphebe sat up and smiled. The arrow was gone and there was no trace of where it had pierced the tunic save a big bloodstain down the side.
“I’d jolly well like to fix that for you,” said Astolph, “but I’m not exactly a magic laundry man, you know.”
“My lord, you have done enough and more than enough,” said the girl, getting a little unsteadily to her feet. “I—”
“By the bye,” interrupted Astolph, “you could do with a bit of leeching yourself, Sir Harold.”
Shea realized that he had been wounded. There was blood on his face from the blow the helmet had stopped, a cut on one arm and another on the thigh. All responded readily enough to Astolph’s magic, by no means so drastic this time. As the Duke finished his passes, Belphebe reached for Shea’s hand:
“So now we are whole and united. Will you forgive the seeming churlishness of one who knew not her own mind?”
“Listen, kid, do I have to answer that?” said Shea, and took her in his arms. Astolph looked down the slope.
Seventeen
After a few minutes, Astolph said: “If you two don’t mind, you know, I’d like a word of explanation. I thought it a bit odd when you toddled off together, but—”
Belphebe swung around, with her gay laugh. “Duke Astolph, wit you well that this is my very true and beloved husband; yet save for the wound of which you leeched me in such marvelous wise, I had not known it, for I was magicked here in a strange manner by Sir Reed.”
“Really? Glad to hear it. Wonderful thing, marriage—increases the population. You might have done worse; he’s been a stout fellow.” He began counting, “—six, seven, eight. You’ll want your arrows back, won’t you, old girl? Those Saracens have certainly had it. Shouldn’t care to take that many on at once myself. Must be something to that swordplay of yours.”
“Oh, we had them at a disadvantage,” said Shea. “And while you’re about accepting our thanks for saving our lives, will you tell us how you happened along so opportunely?”
“Simple matter, really,” said Astolph. “I was out scouting. Agramant’s on the move, and I daresay we shall have a battle. Too bad we haven’t Roger on our side; bad man in a brawl, only Roland can stand up to him. I hear he reached the Mussulman camp.”
Shea grinned. “He got out of it, too. I ought to know. I brought him. The last I saw of him, he and Bradamant were on their way to get my friend Sir Reed out of hock.”
Astolph’s eyebrows wiggled. “Indeed! Jolly good of you, and tit for tat, what? I daresay the Emperor will give you a title. Hello, what’s this?”
This was Vaclav Polacek, in the form of a werewolf, who had disentangled himself from one of the bodies on the slope and was coming slowly up the hill. “A werewolf, as I live! Extr’ordin’ry! Doesn’t belong in this time-stream at all.”
Shea explained, and with a few expert passes, Astolph changed the wolf back into Vaclav Polacek. The Rubber Czech felt his throat. “That last guy nearly strangled me,” he complained, “but I got him. And I’m still sore all over from the pounding those peasants gave me with their clubs. Boy, when they let me have it I sure was glad I was the kind of wolf it takes silver to kill.”
“But how’d you get into that shape?” asked Astolph. “I know enough magic to be sure lycanthropy isn’t exactly a habit with you.”
Polacek smiled with embarrassment. “I—uh—I got fed up with walking and I tried to turn myself into an eagle so I could look for Roger better, but I came out a werewolf instead. I guess I made a mistake.”
“Rather,” said Astolph. “Now look here, young man. I shouldn’t try that again, if I were you. It’s quite on the cards that you’d make the transformation permanent, and you’d find it deuced embarrassing.”
Polacek said: “It nearly was this time. I kept getting the most awful craving for human flesh. Belphebe was in a tree and I couldn’t reach her, but you’ll never know how close you came to being eaten last night.”
Shea gulped. Astolph laughed and said: “I really must buzz off, you chaps. Now that we’re well rid of that scouting party, the Emperor will very likely want to use this valley for his main advance. Cheerio! Come, Buttercup.” He was off.
“If we’re going to run into anymore armies, I want some equipment,” said Shea. “Come on, Votsy, let’s see what we can pick up.”
They made their way slowly down the slope, trying various weapons while Belphebe retrieved her arrows and tried, but rejected, some of those the Moors had used in their short bows. At the foot of the slope, the girl put her hand to her mouth.
“My love and lord,” she said. “I am much fordone with weariness, and I doubt not it is the same with you. Shall we not rest a space?”
“Yes, let’s, but not here, where there are so many stiffs lying around,” said Shea.
They moved along the valley, slowly picking their way across stones, till they reached a spot where a grassy slope slanted down past trees from the left, and stretched out. Polacek said: “The only thing I could want now would be a three-decker sandwich on rye and a cup of coffee. How about it, Harold, could you conjure one up?”
“Might, but it probably wouldn’t have any nourishment in it,” said Shea with a yawn. “I don’t know all about this magic business yet. I wish I knew what made that spell about the Jann go wrong. . . .” His voice trailed off. Belphebe’s head was nestled in the hollow of his arm.
He thought he had only closed his eyes a minute, but when he opened them Polacek was snoring and the sun was already dropping toward the mountain rim.
“Hey,” he said, “wake up, everybody. Company’s coming.”
It was indeed the sound of hoofbeats that had roused him. Up the valley four riders were visible. As they drew nearer, he recognized Bradamant, Roger, Chalmers, and Florimel, the last riding sidesaddle. They pulled up before the three at the roadside; there was a general shaking of hands and making of salutations.
Shea said: “I wasn’t sure you could make it without help. How did you manage it?”
Said Bradamant: “Sir knight, if knight you be, know that the power of this ring against all enchantments whatsoever is very great. Therefore holding the ring in my mouth and Lord Roger by the hand, it was a light matter to cross so feeble a wizardry as the wall of flame, and thus to draw your companions forth with me. Do I stand acquit of my oath to you?”
“Yep,” said Shea. “We’re square.”
“Then I’m for the north and the Emperor’s army with this, my prisoner and new aid.”
She motioned at Roger, who tittered again, and wriggled in his saddle so much that he almost fell off.
“Okay,” said Shea. “Thanks and so long.” He reached up to shake her hand but before the contact was made, there was a flash of light that seemed to split the evening sky and a violent explosion which sent a tall tree by the roadside spraying round the travelers in a fine rain of burned chips. They turned with a simultaneous gasp to see Atlantès of Carena standing on the stump, outlined in shimmering light and with a wand in his hand.
“Link hands everybody!” said Chalmers, quickly. “He can’t hurt us under the protection of Bradamant’s ring.”
“Vile traitors!” squealed the little magician. “Know that you had al
ready been a thousand times worse than dead but that there stood among you the peerless paladin, the pearl of the age, my nephew. But now that I am near enough to direct my vengeance, you shall no longer escape.” He pointed the wand at Chalmers and began muttering a spell. Blue lights flashed around the tip, but nothing happened.
“Better try the other barrel,” said Shea. “That one missed fire.”
Atlantès stamped and grimaced. “Allah upon me that I should forget the ring of enchantment!” He clapped a hand to his head. “Yet it is said: no victory without some pain of defeat.” He began to trace patterns in the air. “Stir you from this spot and you shall receive the reward of your betrayals.”
“Hold my hand carefully, Harold,” said Chalmers, squatting and reaching with his other hand to trace a circle on the ground round the party. He added other geometrical elements to make a full-grown pentacle, reciting his own spells as he did so.
“There,” he said, letting go Shea’s hand. “We’re safe from him for the time being, though we seem to be besieged. Dear me!”
Atlantès had pointed his wand again, the group felt something rush past them in the air, and a rock on the other side of the road split in a blaze of light. Belphebe placed an arrow on her string.
“I do not believe that will be of any service, young lady,” said Chalmers. “I am afraid, Harold, that this gentleman is a much better magician than I, and the most that can be accomplished at present is to accord a certain amount of protection—”
“Maybe I could do something,” said Polacek.
“No!” said Chalmers and Shea together. Then the former went on. “However, Harold, you do possess a rather extraordinary skill with the poetic elements in magic. If we were to work together, we might be able to accomplish something.”
“I dunno, Doc,” said Shea. “We can try, but my spells haven’t been going too well in this cosmos.” He described what had happened with the growing of the hair on Astolph’s face and the Jann disguises. Beyond the pentacle the sun was behind the peaks. In the long shadows Atlantès was incanting busily and under his wand a swarm of misshapen hobgoblins began to appear among the rocks. Apparently he meant to make a real siege of it.
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 42
