The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

  Once the Master’s blade came down on Lemminkainen’s shoulder, but at a slight angle, so that the scale-mail slipped the blow aside. Then Lemminkainen got in a cut at the Master’s neck that the latter did not quite parry in time. Blood trickled from a small cut.

  “Ho, ho!” cried Lemminkainen. “Hearken, Master of Pohjola, true it is, your neck so wretched is as red as dawn of morning!”

  The Master, stepping back half a pace, rolled his eyes downward for a fraction of a second as though to assess the damages. Instantly Lemminkainen, advancing so fast that Shea could not quite see how he did it, struck again. The blade went right through the Master’s neck. The head, turning over in the air, fell in a graceful parabola, and the body, half-twisting as the legs buckled under it, fell spouting upon the cowhide. There was a gasping groan from the crowd. Louhi shrieked.

  Lemminkainen, grinning until it seemed as though his mouth must meet behind, like Humpty Dumpty’s, cried: “So much for the heroes of Pohjola!”

  He stepped forward, wiped his blade with care on the trousers of the corpse, and sheathed it. Then he picked up the head and strutted to the empty stake.

  “Now, wicked wretches, fetch me beer!” he bellowed.

  Shea turned to say something to the nearest Belphebe. It was not until that moment that he remembered Bayard had said: “I’m concentrating.” He turned around and looked. Sure enough, there was Bayard, his back to the arresting spectacle of Lemminkainen’s victory march, crouched on the ground over a little pile of grasses. He seemed to be muttering to himself; a tiny curl of smoke came from the pile.

  “Walter, no!” shouted Shea, and dived for him.

  Too late.

  There was a little flash of fire, a sound of displaced air, and in an instant all the duplicate Sheas, Belphebes, and Brodskys had vanished. As Shea and Bayard rolled over together, they heard Lemminkainen’s shout. “Fool! Bungler! Traitor! Your spell has canceled mine. The agreement is ended!”

  Shea pulled himself to his knees in time to see the hero walking, not running, towards the sled with his sword out. Nobody seemed anxious to be the first to stop him.

  Down towards the edge of what had been the Pohjolan cheering section around the combatants, there was a half-muffled cry, and out of a struggling group projected a leg, dainty even in the shapeless garment.

  “Belphebe!” shouted Shea, getting to his feet and tugging at his sword with the same motion. Before he could get the épée out of its scabbard, he too went down under a swarm of bodies. He had just time to notice that they didn’t bathe often enough and that Brodsky had laid out one of the assailants with a neat crack of his blackjack, and then he was hopelessly pinioned, being marched along beside Bayard.

  “Put them in the stronghouse!” said the Mistress of Pohjola. Her face did not look as though she intended it to be a place of entertainment.

  As the captives were frog-marched along, Shea saw the Elk of Hiisi retreating into the distance, with the sled bouncing along behind him.

  Eight

  The four were tumbled unceremoniously over each other on to a stone floor. Shea heard a massive door slam, and the clash as several large bolts were driven home behind them. He got up and pulled Belphebe to her feet.

  “Are you hurt, kid?” he asked.

  “Nay, not I.” She rubbed one wrist where someone’s grip had come down hard. “But there are places I would rather be.”

  “It’s a real jook-joint, all right,” said Brodsky. “You got me on how we’re going to push a can from this one.”

  He was looking around the place in the dim illumination furnished by the single, eight-inch window, which was heavily barred. The stronghouse itself was composed of massive tree trunks, and its roof seemed abnormally thick.

  “Alackaday,” said Belphebe. “What happened to those shapings of ourselves that so confounded these gentry but lately?”

  “Walter took care of that,” said Shea. “I admit I’m just as glad to have only one wife, but he was a little precipitate. What in hell were you up to, Walter?”

  Bayard said: “I was merely trying in a small way to carry out the plan I mentioned of divining the future. It worked, too.”

  “What do you mean, it worked?” said Shea.

  “I was trying to find out who would win the duel. There were little fiery letters on the ground that said ‘Lem’ as clearly as could be.”

  “A big help,” said Shea, “especially as he took off the other guy’s head about that time, anyway.”

  Bayard said: “The principle is established. And how was I to know it would counteract Lemminkainen’s spell? Nobody warned me of any such outcome. What is the logical nexus between the two, by the way?”

  Shea shrugged. “I haven’t the least idea. Maybe we can work it out sometime when we have the leisure. But in the meanwhile, we need to figure out some plan for getting out of here. These people don’t fool around at any time, and that old witch has just lost her husband.”

  He went to the little window and looked out. Or tried to, for he found his vision blocked by a familiar-looking bewhiskered countenance; Vuohinen, who spat through the bars at him.

  Shea dodged, wiped his shoulder with the cuff of the other hand, and turned to Brodsky. “Pete, he’s your serf. Maybe you can order him . . .”

  “Ha!” roared Vuohinen. “This one to order me? I am free of all serfdom now, and have been charged to see that you outlandish tricksters do not escape before the Mistress of Pohjola undertakes your punishment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All details I do not know, but be assured it will be a memorable occasion. She is like to have you flayed and rolled in salt, to be followed by slow burning.”

  Shea fell back and looked around. Whoever had planned this box had built for keeps. The massive simplicity of the structure would defy any amount of tinkering. For instance, there was no opening whatever on the inside of the door through which one could get at the outside.

  “I know your names!” shouted Vuohinen from the window. “Your wizardries will have no power on me.”

  He was probably right, at that. But an idea occurred to Shea. He returned to the window. “Look here,” he said. “I’m a champion and I challenge you.”

  Vuohinen shook his head. “I am no longer a champion myself since losing the wrestle to this Piit, and cannot take your challenge until he has been beheaded.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Bayard, “if . . .”

  “Ya!” said Vuohinen. “I see your plot. Be known that I shall take care that your head comes off first, and his the last of all.” He turned his back and walked away from the window.

  Shea turned to Brodsky. “Pete, you should know a lot about busting out of places like this. What do the chances look like to you?”

  Brodsky, who had been moving slowly around the cell, poking and testing, shook his head. “This is a real tough can. It would be a soup job, and even then there’d be the strong-arm squad out there to play.”

  Bayard said: “Couldn’t we lure Vuohinen up to the bars and then grab him and choke him?”

  “No good,” said Brodsky. “What do you get except a good feeling in your biscuit? He ain’t got no keys.”

  Belphebe said, “Yet while you are an approved sorcerer, Harold, it seems to me that we are not utterly without resource.” She took her turn at stepping to the window. “Ohe, Vuohinen,” she called.

  “What now, female toad?”

  “I understand how you are angry with us. We were lacking in sympathy, in not thinking of the damage to your hand. But we will make amends. If you will tell us somewhat of yourself, my lord, who knows no little magic, will make it good for you.”

  Shea squeezed her hand. “Nice try, kid,” he said under his breath. But Vuohinen saw the point, too.

  “And put myself in his power? Ya, the hand will heal itself quickly enough when I see your heads on stakes.”

  Shea took over with, “You’re a pretty tough guy, aren’t you?”


  “That I am.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shea. “Some of them are good where I come from, but for plain toughness, I’m afraid we’re not in your class. Must be the diet or something. How did you get that way, anyway?”

  “Ya,” said Vuohinen, “you seek by flattery to disarm me, so that you may persuade me to let you go. I am not so simple.”

  Bayard said, “He seems to be up on psychology, too, doesn’t he?”

  Shea sighed. “Psychology worked in the world of Norse myth when I got thrown in the jug.”

  “The trouble seems to be,” said Bayard, “that this animal is a Finn. In our own world the Finns are about the stubbornest race on earth, like the Dutch and maybe the Basques. There’s something in the culture pattern. I don’t think you’re going to get anywhere with him . . . I wonder how much time we have left?”

  Belphebe said, “Harold, my love, I think the answer stares us in the face, but we have so looked at small details as to miss the great. Why cannot we leave this whole world of Kalevala by the same door we entered in: item, your symbolic magic?”

  Shea slapped his thigh. “Just the thing! Wait a minute, though . . . Any kind of magic in this continuum takes a lot of music, and I guess my voice just isn’t equal to it. That’s why I’ve had trouble so far.”

  “Alas, I fear I can do but little more for you,” said Belphebe. “Not that I croak like you, my love, but my voice is so slender. I could attune a harp if we had such a thing. Timias, my fiancé in Faerie, taught me the art.”

  Bayard shook his head. Brodsky said: “Not that I want to noise off, but if my schnozz was on the up-and-up . . .”

  Shea said, “Wait a minute here. I think I see a way. Have you ever had that polyp taken out, Pete?”

  “Naw.”

  “Why not?”

  “I been busy . . . And besides, I don’t want no croaker putting me through the mill.” His voice was defensive, but Shea rushed on: “Well, why don’t we begin by curing your polyp by magic? That ought not to take much of a spell, and if your voice were working right, we could tackle something harder.”

  “Say, maybe you got a right steer there. But how are you going to wrap it up without music?”

  “I think that Belphebe’s voice with the help of a harp ought to be enough for the smaller spell. Then she could accompany you, and I’ll work out the big one. Wait, I’ll try.”

  He stepped to the window again. “Oh, Vuohinen!”

  “Well, what now?”

  “Do you know what a kantele is?”

  “What child does not?”

  “Good. Could you get us one to lighten our last hours?”

  “Why should I lighten your last hours, filth?” He turned away again.

  Shea sighed again. “No cooperation—that’s the trouble with this damned continuum,” he said.

  Bayard asked, “What’s a ‘kantele’?”

  “The primitive harp. Vainamoinen invented it at some point in the runes, by making it out of a fish’s jawbone, but I wasn’t sure he’d done it yet, so I asked this guy if he knew what it was.”

  “If we had a fish’s jawbone . . .”

  “We could make one ourselves. Yes, I know. But our chances of getting a fish’s jawbone out of that big lump of insensitivity are about as good as those of biting our way through those logs.”

  “I can fix that,” said Brodsky, suddenly.

  “Oh, yeah?” said Shea, and “Can you, indeed?” said Bayard, both together.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Brodsky firmly, and strode to the window again. “Hey, lug!” he called. “So you’re going to clip our pumpkins tomorrow. Okay. But where’s the kiss-off banquet?”

  “What use is food to you, who will so soon be beyond the need of it?”

  “That’s right, play it dumb, lug. Listen we’re from Ohio, see? In our country, when a ghee doesn’t get what he wants for his last meal, his ghost comes back on the roach that turned him down, and pretty soon the muzzler is playing with the squirrels.”

  “It is a lie,” said Vuohinen, but he turned his head from side to side to look at the others, and Shea felt his heart leap. He nodded solemnly in support of the detective. “That’s right,” said Bayard.

  “Boy!” said Brodsky gleefully. “Am I going to get a bang out of watching you cut off your own toes!”

  “Maybe we could make him take off his nose and ears, too, while we’re about it,” said Shea.

  “That’s the dope,” Brodsky continued. “None of them fried pigs’ ears either. It’s gotta be fish, or else.”

  The head disappeared. Shea turned to Brodsky. “You’re a better psychologist than I am. How did you know that would fetch him?”

  “Ah, I never saw the gorilla yet that didn’t fall for the yudd racket,” said Brodsky, modestly. “They’re so afraid of going wack, they’d rather turn themselves in.”

  He seemed to have struck oil. Outside there was the sound of feet and a murmur of voices. Then there was a wait, the bolts were drawn back, and the door opened to show Vuohinen, surrounded by a phalanx of the black-bearded Pohjolan warriors. He bore a big wooden platter.

  “I told the Mistress of your outlandish custom,” he said, “and though she says her magic is strong enough for any protection, she will grant you so much.”

  He slammed down the platter and stamped out. Shea bent to examine the platter. There was no doubt that it was fish, and more than a little on the high side, some large member of the salmon tribe. He said, “Well, here’s our harp. Walter, help me get the jawbones out of this critter’s head.”

  “What with? They took all our knives and things.”

  “With your fingernails. We can’t be squeamish. Ssh, let me think. I’ll have to work out the verse for Belphebe.”

  ###

  “Now,” said Shea, “can you break off a few hairs, sweetheart?”

  Belphebe complied. Shea undertook to tie the strands of hair, one at a time, to the jawbone, so that they spanned its gap like the strings of a harp. In the dim light, it took some doing.

  She touched the strings and bent her head close. “It’s awfully small and weak,” she said, “I don’t know.”

  “I thought of that,” said Shea. “Listen carefully, kid, and memorize after me, because you’ll have to do it all yourself. Keep your voice way down, as though you were crooning, to match the harp. I’ll make the passes, just to be on the safe side, though they may not be necessary.”

  Belphebe seated herself on the floor, with the harp on her uplifted knees, cocked her ear down towards it, and began:

  “Oh, you harp of fish’s jawbone,

  Hail, you kantele of magic . . .”

  while Shea ran rapidly through some of the passes he had used in Faerie. She was from there, and it would probably help. Belphebe ended:

  “. . . be you forthwith ten times greater.”

  And fell over on her back as a five-foot harp of fish’s jawbone pushed her off balance. Shea helped her up, and she began testing the strings. “It needs tuning.”

  “All right, you tune it, while I work out a verse for that polyp. Pete, what’s the name of your wife, and what church do you go to?”

  In a few moments they were ready. Pete placed himself before the couple, Belphebe twanged the strings of her harp, and in her light, clear soprano sang the spell for the removal of the polyp.

  Brodsky cried, “Ouch! Damn near took my sconce off.” He felt his nose and a smile spread across his face in the semi-darkness. (Outside the summer day was just ending.) “Say, Shea . . .”

  Whatever he was going to say was never said. The window turned dark, and all four looked up to see Vuohinen’s face peering in, bearded and furious.

  “Where did you get that?” he shouted. “Magic! Magic! I know your names! I will . . .” The face abruptly disappeared.

  “Sing!” cried Shea to Brodsky. “Sing anything you can think of! Quick! I’ll take care of the sorites. Belphebe, you accompany him, and Walter hold one of his hands. Now if the class A
. . .”

  Pete Brodsky tilted his head back, and in a tenor that would have done credit to John McCormack, burst into:

  “My wi-ild I-rish rose,

  The swe-etest flower that grows . . .”

  Outside, beneath the piercing tenor and the twanging of the harp, there was a sound of distant shouting and running feet.

  “You many look everywhere . . .”

  The walls of the cabin seemed to turn round and round as though they were on a pivot and only the four in the center fixed in position. And as Pete’s voice rose higher and higher, the solid walls turned gray and dissolved, and with them the whole world of the Kalevala.

  THE GREEN MAGICIAN

  One

  In that suspended moment when the gray mists began to whirl around them, Harold Shea realized that, although the pattern was perfectly clear, the details often didn’t work out right.

  It was all very well to realize that, as Doc Chalmers once said: “The world we live in is composed of impressions received through the senses, and if the senses can be attuned to receive a different series of impressions, we should infallibly find ourselves living in another of the infinite number of possible worlds.” It was a scientific and personal triumph to have proved that, by the use of the sorites of symbolic logic, the gap to one of those possible worlds could be bridged.

  The trouble was what happened after you got there. It amounted to living by one’s wits; for once the jump across space-time had been made, and you were in the new environment, the conditions of the surroundings had to be accepted completely. It was no good trying to fire a revolver or scratch a match or light a flashlight in the world of Norse myth; these things did not form part of the surrounding mental pattern, and remained obstinately inert masses of useless material. On the other hand, magic. . . .