The Compleat Enchanter: The Magical Misadventures of Harold Shea

by L Sprague De Camp; Fletcher Pratt

  “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 marvellous 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 sword-play 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 any more 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 side-saddle. 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 travellers 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 already 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.

  “Goodness gracious, I am somewhat at a loss,” said Chalmers. “You’re certain you made the passes correctly, Harold? Hmmm—what was your poetic element?”

  Shea described how he had used elements from Shakespeare and Swinburne.

  “Oh, I am relieved. The explanation is quite simple. Like all semi-Mohammedan universes, this one is extremely poetic, and since you employed highly inspired poetry, the effect was somewhat beyond your original calculations. This also suggests a means of relief from our present situation. Do you happen to recall any lines from the major poets having to do with motion or progress?”

  “How would Shelley do?” asked Shea.

  “Quite well, I believe. Are you ready? Very well, suit the rhythm of your recitation to my movements.” He began to make the passes with his hands as Shea recited:

  “My coursers are fed on the lightning,

  They drink at the whirlwind’s stream,

  And when the red morning is brightening

  They have strength for the swiftness I deem:

  Then ascend with me, children of ocean!”

  The result was somewhat unexpected. The four horses on which the party from Carena had come bounded straight into the air as though on springs and before anyone could stop them, leaped at Atlantès’ collection of monsters, who scattered in all directions, but not rapidly enough to keep themselves from squashing under the flying hooves like so many tomatoes. Roger whooped with laughter; Chalmers looked a trifle dismayed. “I confess—” he began, and then stopped, looking up.

  Against the fading evening sky Duke Astolph on his hippogriff was soaring in to a four-point landing.

  He addressed Shea: “Did you summon me, old man? I hope it’s important; that children of ocean spell is deuced wracking, but being English I couldn’t well resist. Oh, I see; a spot of trouble with our old friend Atlantès.”

  The proprietor of Carena sneered unpleasantly from outside the pentacle. “O noble and puissant lords, now there is no help for it but that you release to me my beloved nephew, the pearl of Islam. For know that I am of greater power than all magicians of the Franks, save Malagigi alone, and he lies still in durance.”

  Astolph cocked his head on one side. “Indeed,” he said. “Do you want to be released, Roger?”

  The pearl of Islam seemed to be having difficulty with his breathing. He looked at the ground, then at Bradamant, then quickly away. “By Allah, nay,” he finally managed to get out.

  Astolph turned to the enchanter. “Tell you what I’ll do, old thing; I’ll make you a sporting proposition. I believe Sir Harold’s friend here wants his lady to receive human form. I’ll take you on in a contest to see who can do it, winner take all, including Roger.”

  “By Allah, ‘tis some Frankish trick,” said Atlantès.

  “Suit yourself, old man. I can transport them all away from you on Buttercup, you know.” He scratched the hippogriff behind the ears.

  The magician lifted his hands to heaven. “I am afflicted by the sons of Satan,” he wailed. “Nevertheless I will even accept this offer.”

  Both he and Astolph began making rapid passes. The Duke suddenly vanished, and a mist condensed out of the air around the pentacles, growing and growing until the spectators could no longer see one another. The air was filled with rustlings.

  Then the mist thinned and vanished. Florimel had vanished from her own pentacle and stood in that of Atlantès. The latter said: “Behold—” and stopped as Astolph reappeared with a man as tall as himself; a man with a long white beard, neatly combed, and a mane of white hair. He was dressed with formidable correctness in cutaway, pinstriped trousers, and spats, with a top-hat at a rakish angle on his head and a pink carnation in his buttonhole.

  “Permit me,” said Astolph, “to present the Honorable Ambrose Sylvester Merlin, C.M.G., C.S.I., D.M.D., F.C.C., F.R.G.S., F.R.S., F.S.A., and two or three et ceteras.”

  Merlin said in a deep bell-like voice: “That girl’s a sham of some sort. Just a trick, and I’ll fetch the right one back.” He whipped a wand out of an interior pocket, traced his own pentacle and began incanting. Again the mists thickened, this time shot with little lights.

  Five minutes later they cleared and there were two Florimels, indentical in dress, pose and appearance.

  Merlin calmly slipped his wand in his pocket and stepped to the nearest girl. “This one’s the real one, mine. Are you not, my dear?” He lifted his plug hat courteously.

  “Aye, good sir.” She gave a little squeal of pleasure. “And I do feel that blood, not snow flows in my veins.”

  Merlin held out a finger. A yellow flame appeared at the tip, bright in the dusk. He held up Florimel’s arm and ran the flame quickly along it. “Observe. No more reaction than any normal person.” He blew the flame out. “Must be off, Astolph. That numismatic exhibition at the Phidias Club.”

  “Many thanks, old man,” said Astolph. Merlin vanished.

  “Spawn of the accursed!” shouted Atlantès. “Here stands the veritable Florimel.”

  Shea noted that Chalmers was making passes. The other Florimel, the one in Atlantès’ pentacle, blinked once or twice as though just awakened, and turned into the peasant girl Shea had seen weeping at the roadside near Pau. Polacek gave a gurk. “Hey, Cassie!” he called.

  The girl gave one glance, and leaped for him, crying: “Oh, my wolfie!”

  “I should say that settled the matter,” said Astolph. “Come along, Roger.”

  “Nay!” said Atlantès. “May my hair turn to scorpions if I permit this!”

  “Ah, but you can hardly prevent it, you know,” said the Duke imperturbably. “Your spells won’t hold these people any more. Laws of magic, you know; you made an agreement and spells to keep from fulfilling it will fail.”

  “By the seven imps of Satan, Sir Duke, there was no agreement that I should not have your head,” said Atlantès and raising his wand, began to incant again. So did Astolph.

  Shea touched Chalmers on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I think there’s going to be fireworks.”

  The three psychologists and their ladies turned their backs on the disputants and through the lulling dark started toward Pau. They had not gone fifty paces when there was a crack like a cannon shot and the landscape flashed with electric blue. One of the magicians had thrown a thunderbolt at the other.

  “Hurry!” said Chalmers. They ran. Crack followed crack, merging into a frightful thunder. The earth began to quiver beneath them. A boulder came loose from the hillside and lolloped down past.

  As they ran they glanced back over their shoulders. The side of the hill was hidden by a huge, boiling thundercloud, lit from beneath with flashes, and a forest fire was already spreading from its base. A piece of the mountainside came loose and slid. Through the repeated thunderclaps they heard the piercing sound of Astolph’s horn.

  “My word,” said Chalmers, slowing down. “I—ah—perceive … that some further steps in rejuvenation will be necessary before I can indulge in much more athletics. I should mention, Harold, the reason why Atlantès was so very anxious to detain us. Apparently he has not yet learned the secret of inteniniversal apportation, however adept he may be in other respects.”

  “I bet he never does learn it now,” said Shea, a little grimly, looking back to where the battle betwe
en the two magicians had now settled down to a mere tornado.

  “It would be just as well,” said Chalmers.

  “Say, you two,” remarked Polacek, “while you’re speaking about that, what about Walter?”

  “Holy smoke!” said Shea. “He’s been back there in Xanadu eating honey for a week and he doesn’t like it.”

  A grin spread slowly over the face of the Rubber Czech. “That isn’t all,” he remarked. “Remember how long we were in Xanadu? It was hours, though it couldn’t have taken Doc more than a few minutes to find out that he’d made a mistake.”

  “Goodness gracious!” said Chalmers. “Then Walter has been there a month or more. I must certainly address myself to the problem.”

  “What I want to know,” said Shea, “is how we’re going to get that cop back to Ohio. But I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”

  He squeezed Belphebe’s hand.

  The Authors

  L.Sprague de Camp

  L. Sprague de Camp, born in New York City and educated there, in the South, and in California, received his BS in Aeronautical Engineering from Cal Tech in 1930 and earned his MS from Stevens Institute three years later. He served as a Lieutenant Commander in the US Naval Reserve in WWII. For the last half-century, he has spent his life pounding a hot typewriter, first in Suburban Philadelphia and then in Texas.

  Now author of over 120 Science Fiction and Fantasy Books and several hundred short stories, he is also well-known for many non-fiction works in history, science, and biography.

  Among his numerous awards is The Gandalf, the Grand Master Award for Lifetime Achievement in Fantasy, presented in 1976. Two years later Sprague received from the Science Fiction Writers of America their Grand Master Nebula Award.

  L. Sprague de Camp is a master of that rare animal, humorous fantasy. As a young writer collaborating with the late Fletcher Pratt, he began the world-hopping adventures of Harold Shea. These magical adventures of The Complete Enchanter are still being written today by de Camp and Christopher Stasheff.