The Complete Compleat Enchanter

by L. Sprague deCamp

“It is often seen,” said the latter, raising his voice a trifle, but addressing the red-bearded man as though continuing a conversation begun before, “that liars tell few lies when those are present who can see the truth.”

  “Or it may be that I have that to tell which I do not wish to have repeated to our enemies by the Evil Companion,” said Heimdall, looking straight at Uncle Fox.

  “There are even those,” continued the latter evenly, still paying Heimdall no attention, “who, having no character of their own, wish to destroy all character by assassinating the reputations of others.”

  “Liar and thief!” cried Heimdall angrily, bringing his fist down on the table and almost snarling. Shea saw that his front teeth were, surprisingly, of gold.

  “Here,” rumbled the large redhead, judicially. “Let there be an allaying of the anger of the Æsir in the presence of mortals.”

  “Let there also,” snapped the small man, “be an allaying of insults in the mouth of—”

  “All insults are untrue,” said Heimdall. “I state facts.”

  “Facts! Few are the facts that come from that long wagging chin. Facts like the tale of having nine mothers, or the boast of that horn and the great noise it will make—Beware lest mice nest in it and it fails to give a squeak.”

  “You will hear my trumpet at the Time, Father of Lies. And you will not like the sound.”

  “Some would say that called for the sword.”

  “Try it. Here is the blade that will carve your stinking carcass.”

  “Why, you—” Foxy-face and Heimdall were on their feet and bellowing at each other. Their voices had a volume that made Shea wince. The other three bearded men rose and began shouting also. Above their heads the two black birds who had been the Wanderer’s companions flew round and round with excited cries.

  Just as it looked as though the two original disputants were certain to fling themselves at each other’s throat, the bigger redhead grabbed the smaller one by the shoulders and forced him down. “Sit down!” he thundered. The Wanderer, his sonorous voice full of outraged dignity, shouted: “This is disgraceful! We shall have no respect left. I command you to be quiet, both of you!”

  “But—” yelled Heimdall.

  The Wanderer silenced him with a gesture. “Nothing you can say will be heard. If either of you speaks to the other before bedtime, he shall have nothing less than my gravest displeasure.”

  Heimdall subsided and went over to a far corner to sit and glare at Foxy-face, who returned the glare. Thjalfi whispered to the awed Shea: “It’s like this every time three or four of Them get together. They’re supposed to set us a good example, but the first thing ye know they’re at it like a gang of drunken berserks.”

  “I’d still like to know who They are,” said Shea.

  “Do you mean ye really don’t know?” Thjalfi stared at him with eyes full of honest rustic perplexity. “Don’t that beat all, now? I wouldn’t have believed it if ye hadn’t asked for those turnips. Well, the one that was scrapping with Heimdall is Loki. The big red-bearded one next to him is Thor. The old man, the Wanderer is Odinn, and the fat one is Frey. Have ye got them straight now?”

  Shea looked hard at Thjalfi, but there was nothing in the latter’s face but the most transparent seriousness. Either he had stepped through the formula into some downright dream, or he was being kidded, or the five were local Scandinavian chieftains who for some reason had named themselves after the gods of the Old Norse pantheon. The remaining possibility—that these were actually gods—was too wildly improbable for consideration. Yet, those birds—the glance he had received from Odinn—and he knew that Odinn was always represented as one-eyed—

  The big redhead called Thor got up and went over to the pair whom Thjalfi had identified as Odinn and Frey. For a few minutes they muttered, heads together. At the conclusion of the conference Odinn got up, clapped his floppy hat on his head, whirled his blue cloak around him, took a last gulp of mead and strode out the door.

  As the door banged behind him, Loki and Heimdall half-rose to their feet. Immediately Thor and Frey jumped up, with the former rumbling: “No more! Save your blows, sons of Asgard, for the Time. Or if you must deal buffets, exchange them with me.” He lifted a fist the size of a small ham, and both subsided. “It is time for bed, in any case. Come along, Loki. You, too, Thjalfi.”

  Thjalfi rose reluctantly. “I’ll speak a word for ye to Uncle Fox in the morning,” he murmured in farewell. “Working for these Æsir is no fun. They’re an ornery lot, but I suppose we’re better off with ’em than without ’em, what with the Time coming. Ye know what Ulf, the poet says:

  “ ‘Bare is the breast Without banner before it

  When heroes bear weapons To the wrack of the world.’

  “Good night.”

  ###

  Shea was not at all sure he wanted to work for Loki as a warlock, whatever that was. There was something sly about the man, uncomfortable. The graceful and forthright Heimdall had impressed him more in spite of the latter’s lack of a sense of humor, he mused.

  A small noise at the door was Sverre, putting his head in for a look around and then vanishing again. Of the buxom young women nothing had been seen since they took up the wooden platters. Though the house was obviously going to bed, Shea found himself not in the least sleepy. It could hardly be much after nine o’clock. But in a world without artificial light other than that of torches, people would rise and set with the sun. Shea wondered whether he, too, would come around to that dismal habit. Probably, unless he succeeded in getting back to his own world. That was a rather upsetting thought. But, hell, he had taken the risk with his eyes open, and even if this was not the world he had expected to land in, it was still one in which his twentieth-century appliances should give him certain advantages. It would be time enough to worry when—

  “Hai, turnip man,” said Heimdall suddenly from his corner. “Fill a couple of mugs and bring them hither, will you?”

  Shea felt his temper rise at this dictatorial manner. But whatever or whoever Heimdall was, he looked fully capable of enforcing authority. And though the words were peremptory, the tone of voice was evidently meant for kindness. He obeyed.

  “Sit down,” said Heimdall. “You have been called Harold. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I was told you are Heimdall.”

  “Nothing less than the truth. I am also known as the Watcher, the Son of Nine Mothers, the Child of Fury, and the Golden. I prefer the titles.”

  “Well, look here, Heimdall, what’s all this—”

  “Children of men use the titles or call me sir,” said Heimdall severely and rather pompously.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Heimdall looked down his long nose and condescended a smile that showed the gold teeth. “To me this familiarity is not unpleasant, for I have also been called the Friend of Men. But the Lord of Asgard disapproves.”

  “You mean Odinn?”

  “None other.”

  “The old guy—pardon me, I mean the elderly one-eyed gentleman?”

  “You are a well of knowledge.”

  “I ran into him out on the moor yesterday and followed him here.”

  “That is not hidden. I saw you.”

  “You did? Where were you?”

  “Many miles eastaway. I also heard your remarks to him. Lucky you were not to have been struck dead.”

  Shea almost said, “Aw, don’t try to kid me.” Just in time he remembered the piercing, icy glance Odinn had given him and held his tongue. It wouldn’t do to take chances till he knew more about what chances he was taking, what system of natural laws governed this world into which he had fallen. Heimdall was watching him with a slightly amused smile.

  “I also heard you tell Thjalfi that you are no warlock, but you know not what it means. You must be from far. However”—he smiled again at Shea’s expression of consternation—“few are sorry for that. I’ll keep your secret. A joke on the Master of Deception—ho, ho, ho!”

>   He drank. “And now, child of an ignorant mother,” he went on, “it is yet to be seen that you have knowledge of strange things. I propose that we amuse ourselves with the game of questions. Each shall ask of the other seven questions, and he who answers best shall be adjudged the winner. Ask, mortal!”

  Seven questions. Shea considered a moment how he could make them yield him the most information. “Where has Odinn gone?” he asked finally.

  “One,” said Heimdall. “He has gone to the gates of Hell to summon from her grave a woman centuries dead.”

  “Did you say Hell, honest?” asked Shea.

  “It is not to be doubted.”

  “Well, well, you don’t say so.” Shea was covering his own incredulity and confusion. This man—god—individual was more difficult than any psychopathic he had ever questioned. He gathered his mental forces for the next try.

  “What is Odinn doing that for?”

  “Two,” replied Heimdall. “The Time is coming. Balder dies, and the Æsir need advice. The Wanderer believes that the spaewife buried at the gates of Hell can tell us what we need to know.”

  The vaguely ominous statements about the Time were beginning to get on Shea’s nerves. He asked, “What is meant by the statement, ‘the Time is coming’?”

  “Three. Ragnarök, as all men know. All men but you alone, dewy-eyed innocent.”

  “What’s Ragnarök?”

  “Four. The end of the world, babe in a man’s body.”

  Shea’s temper stirred. He didn’t like this elaborate ridicule, and he didn’t think it fair of Heimdall to count his last question, which had been merely a request to explain an unfamiliar word in the previous answer. But he had met irritatingly irrelevant replies at the Garaden Institute and managed to keep himself under control.

  “When will all this happen?”

  “Five. Not men, or gods, or Vanes, or even the dwarfs know, but it will be soon. Already the Fimbulwinter, the winter in summer that precedes Ragnarök, is upon us.”

  “They all say there’s going to be a battle. Who will win?” Shea was proud of himself for that question. It covered both the participants and the result.

  “Six. Gods and men were glad to have the answer to that, youngling, since we shall stand together against the giant folk. But for the present there is this to be said: our chances are far from good. There are four weapons of great power among us: Odinn’s spear, Gungnir; the Hammer of Thor that is called Mjöllnir; Frey’s sword, the magic blade Hundingsbana; and my own good sword which bears the name of Head.” He slapped the hilt of the sword that hung by his side. “But some of the giants, we do not know how or who, have stolen both the great Hammer and Frey’s sword. Unless they are recovered it may be that gods and men will drink of death together.”

  Shea realized with panic that the world whose destruction Heimdall was so calmly discussing was the one in which he, Harold Shea, was physically living. He was at the mercy of a system of events he could not escape.

  “What can I do to keep from getting caught in the gears?” he demanded, and then, seeing Heimdall look puzzled, “I mean, if the world’s going to bust up, how can I keep out of the smash?”

  Heimdall’s eyebrows went up. “Ragnarök is upon us, that not gods know how to void—and you, son of man, think of safety! The answer is nothing. And now this is your seventh question and it is my turn to ask of you.”

  “But—”

  “Child of Earth, you weary me.” He stared straight into Shea’s eyes, and once more there was that sensation of an icicle piercing his brain. But Heimdall’s voice was smooth. “From which of the nine worlds do you come, strangest of strangers, with garments like to none I have seen?”

  Shea thought. The question was a little like, “Have you quit beating your wife?” He asked cautiously: “Which nine worlds?”

  Heimdall laughed lightly. “Ho—I thought I was to be the questioner here. But there is the abode of the gods that is Asgard, and that is one world; and the homes of the giants, that are Jötunheim, Muspellheim, Niflheim, and Hell, or five worlds in all. There is Alfheim where live the dwarfs; and Svartalfheim and Vanaheim which we do not know well, though it is said the Vanes shall stand with us at the Time. Lastly there is Midgard, which is overrun with such worms as you.”

  Shea yawned. The mead and warmth were beginning to pull up on him. “To tell the truth, I don’t come from any of them, but from outside your system of worlds entirely.”

  “A strange answer is that, yet not so strange, but it could be true,” said Heimdall, thoughtfully. “For I can see the nine worlds from where I sit and nowhere such a person as yourself. Say nothing of this to the other Æsir, and above all to the Wanderer. He would take it ill to hear there was a world in which he held no power. Now I will ask my second question. What men or gods rule this world of yours?”

  Shea found himself yawning again. He was too tired for explanations and flipped off his answer. “Well, some say one class and some say another, but the real rulers are called traffic cops. They pinch you—”

  “Are they then some form of crab-fish?”

  “No. They pinch you for moving too fast, whereas a crab pinches you for moving too slowly.”

  “Still they are sea gods, I perceive, like my brother Æsir. What is their power?”

  Shea fought a losing battle against another yawn. “I’m sorry, I seem to be sleepy,” he said. “Aren’t you going to bed soon, Golden?”

  “Me? Ho, ho! Seldom has such ignorance been seen at the Crossroads of the World. I am the Watcher of the Gods, and never sleep. Sleepless One is, indeed, another of my titles. But it is to be seen that it is otherwise with you, youngling, and since I have won the game of questions you may go to bed.”

  An angry retort rose to Shea’s lips at this calm assumption of victory, but he remembered that icy glare in time. Heimdall, however, seemed able to read his mind. “What! You would argue with me? Off to bed—and remember our little plot against the Bringer of Discord. Henceforth you are Turnip Harold, the bold and crafty warlock.”

  Shea risked just one more question. “What is a warlock, please, sir?”

  “Ho, ho! Child from another world, your ignorance is higher than a mountain and deeper than a well. A warlock is a wizard, an enchanter, a weaver of spells, a raiser of spirits. Good-night, Turnip Harold.”

  The bedroom proved to have a sliding door. Shea found it no bigger than a Pullman section and utterly without ventilation. The bed was straw-stuffed and jabbed him. He could not find comfort. After an hour or so of tossing, he had the experience, not uncommon on the heels of a day of excitements, of finding himself more wide awake than in the beginning.

  For a time his thoughts floated aimlessly; then he told himself that, since this was an experiment, he might as well spend the sleepless hours trying to assemble results. What were they?

  Well, firstly, that there had been an error either in the equations or his use of them, and he had been pitched into a world of Scandinavian mythology—or else Scandinavian history. He was almost prepared to accept the former view.

  These people talked with great conviction about their Ragnarök. He was enough of a psychologist to recognize their sincerity. And that icy stare he had felt from Odinn and then Heimdall was something, so far as he knew, outside ordinary human experience. It might be a form of hypnosis, but he doubted whether the technique, or even the idea of hypnotism, would be known to ancient Viking chiefs. No, there was something definitely more than human about them.

  Yet they had human enough attributes as well. It ought not to be beyond the powers of an experimental psychologist to guide his conduct by analyzing them a little and making use of the results. Odinn? Well, he was off to the gates of Hell, whither Shea had no desire to follow him. Not much to be made of him, anyway, save a sense of authority.

  What about Loki? A devastatingly sharp tongue that indicated a keen mind at work. Also a certain amount of malice. Uncle Fox, Thjalfi had called him, and said he was fond of j
okes. Shea told himself he would not be surprised to find the jokes were often of a painful order. Working for him might be difficult, but Shea smiled to himself as he thought how he could surprise the god with so simple an object as a match.

  Frey he had hardly noticed, Thor apparently was no more than a big, good-natured bruiser, and Thjalfi, the kind of rustic one would find in any country town, quoting Eddic lays instead of the Bible.

  Heimdall, however, was a more complex character, certainly lacking in Loki’s sense of humor, but also in the malice that was the basis of that humor. And he quite evidently felt he had a position of dignity to maintain with relation to the common herd—as witness his insistence on titles. But equally evidently he was prepared to accept the responsibilities of that position, throw himself heart and soul and with quite a good mind into the right side of the scales—as Loki was not. Perhaps that was why he hated Loki. And Heimdall, underneath the shell of dignity, had a streak of genuine kindness. One felt one could count on him—and deciding he liked Heimdall the best of the lot, Shea turned over and went to sleep.

  Four

  Shea woke with a set of fur-bearing teeth and a headache that resembled the establishment of a drop-forging plant inside his brain—whether from the mead or the effect of those two piercing glances he had received from Heimdall and Odinn he could not tell. It was severe enough to stir him to a morning-after resolution to avoid all three in the future.

  When the panel of his bedroom slid back he could hear voices from the hall. Thor, Loki, and Thjalfi were at breakfast as he came in, tearing away with knives and fingers at the steaks the size of unabridged dictionaries. The foxy-faced Loki greeted him cheerfully: “Hail, hero of the turnip fields! Will your lordship do us the honor of breakfasting with us?”

  He shoved a wooden platter with a hunk of meat on it toward Shea and passed along one of a collection of filled mugs. Shea’s mouth was dry, but he almost gagged when a pull at the mug showed it contained beer and sour beer at that.

  Loki laughed. “Ridiculous it is,” he said, “to see the children of men, who have no fixed customs, grow uneasy when customs about them change. Harold of the Turnips, I am told you are a notable warlock.”