* * *
Shea was in a daze while Belphebe bathed her adventure-scarred husband in a pool inside the cave; the spirits had given him a wine that tingled through his body and restored his strength. Soon the world and its worries faded from view and he slept like a log.
At breakfast, Harold learned that Snag and Votsy were missing, and so was the magic book. He had hardly digested this information when Quamoclit came buzzing in excitedly. The witch and an army of goblins had marched into the spirit lands and had set a great fire which was rolling rapidly toward the spirit cave.
“Damn” Shea said angrily, “Sycorax must be upset over my escape.”
“We must do something, Harold” said Belphebe. “Even without the book, you are still a master of magic.”
“Against that witch, I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Shea, “but we’d better have a look. Too much of this Island has been laid waste already.” Outside they mounted the two-seater broom, and accompanied by the spirits flew off to see what they could do.
Cruising low over the treetops they soon spotted the fires and landed in the field where Harold, Belphebe, and Polacek had first appeared on the island. It was safe, but the surrounding forests were all ablaze, and in the distance them were hundreds of goblins running to and fro with torches spreading the conflagration.
They made a neat landing in the clearing and Shea dismounted, puffing his hand to his head in an effort to remember the spell he had used in the Kalavela to bring rain. Even though in that case it had backfired an brought clouds of soot, he had to try; the forest fire was raging out of control. He made several passes and began to chant a few lines of rather poorly constructed poetry about April showers. He had sung the spell in Finland, but spoken verse seemed to work better in the world of Shakespeare.
Soon, large black clouds boiled overhead. Belphebe shuddered and put her arm around Shea. The air became still and damp and the goblins stopped their work. The crackling forest fire was all that could be heard. Even the witch Sycorax looked warily into the sky. A blinding flash of lightning struck, followed immediately by a deafening clap of thunder.
A fine mist filled the air. That soon turned to rain, which quickly became an unbelievable downpour. It was almost as though they were standing under Niagara Fails. Shea grabbed Belphebe with both arms. He could hardly even see her, The ground on which they were standing became a river and rushing water swirled around their legs. The spirits arrived and grabbed at Shea and Belphebe, pulling them along to higher ground just as a wall of water, laden with logs and broken trees, washed across the clearing.
* * *
Later, after the rain had stopped and the flash flood subsided, a sodden Shea surveyed the desolation below. The forest fire was out all right, and the goblins had been washed away. But so had half the countryside, and the grassy field had turned into a litter-strewn muddy swamp. Bitter-Root and Quamoclit were wringing out what remained of Belphebe’s clothes.
“I think I got the decimal point wrong on that one.” Shea said humbly.
“Is the fire not drowned, and are not our enemies gone with the flood?” said Quamoclit, turning to him with respect in her eyes.
“Yes, Harold,” chimed Belphebe, “the day is ours!”
Shea kept thinking of another line from Shakespeare: “The quality of mercy is not strain’d. . . .” Today it did more than droppeth gently from heaven upon the place beneath . . . and he felt, at the moment, extremely beneath.
Shea waded back into the mud and, with help from his companions managed to pull his flying broom out of the muck. Most of the feathers were missing, and it was all he could do to get it to limp along a few feet above the ground as they flew slowly back up the stream toward the spirit cave. The flood had certainly done an efficient job of clearing the valley. No help from the witch was even needed.
Belphebe nudged Shea and pointed ahead. Harold could just make out two figures mired in a sea of mud below. He nudged his flying mount closer. The figures turned into Votsy and Snag. The two men in the muck yelled and waved as the broom carrying Harold and Belphebe approached.
“Holy Saint Wenceslaus! You wouldn’t believe the storm we just had!” the Czech said excitedly as Shea cautiously landed the broom on the mud and his feet sank into the muck. Polacek was trying to free a log apparatus that looked rather like an oxcart, and was filled with round stones.
Belphebe laughed. “We would believe, Vaclav. Harold summoned the storm to quench a great fire in yon forest.”
“Bejesus. Harold, doncha think ya overdid it?” complained Polacek, “It nearly washed us away?”
“So I got the decimal point wrong, as usual. But it had to be done. . . . Where on earth have you been?” demanded Shea. “You were supposed to wait for us outside the witch’s cave?”
The Czech suddenly turned away, shamefaced. “Hey, we waited. Then a bunch of goblins came along and we had to make a strategic retreat before Snag could crack a few heads.” The sailor looked up and smiled. “When we came back, all hell had broken loose and the witch’s guards were everywhere. So we lay low till dark and then sneaked back to where the broom was hidden.”
“Twas there Pollychek found the book,” added Snag.
“You’ve got it?” Shea asked excitedly. Nonchalantly the Czech pulled the volume out from under his coat.
“Safe and sound. Your broom was gone, so I figured you and the missus had to be all right Then I had this idea,” Polacek slapped the log device full of rocks proudly. “We’ve got a whole army here!”
Belphebe’s eyes lit up. “You brought back the sailors from the beach!”
“You got it, toots. And this truck used to fly, albeit slowly, till rainmaker Harold washed us out with that biblical flood.”
Shea shook his still aching head in disbelief.
* * *
They spent the rest of the day, digging the “truck” out of the mire and finally managed to get the load of sailors, in the form of rocks, safely inside the spirit cave. There followed a heated debate between Polacek and Shea as to who would turn the stones back into men, and how.
The spirits, on the sidelines, sadly complained that the power of Sycorax was beyond them; their magic could not help.
At last a course of action was decided upon, much to Polacek’s dismay. Shea placed a stone on the center of a table. In very subdued and sonorous tones, he tried the sound magic he once used to raise simulacra. When he had finished there were two rocks on the table, but no sailors. He shook his head in dismay.
Shea let Polacek try next, with one of the spells Chalmers had intended to use to restore Florimel’s human form. There was a puff of smoke and his rock turned into a foot-long bullfrog.
Polacek burst out laughing. “A fitting end for a man of the sea!” Snag suddenly appeared and grabbed him by the throat,
“Hey! Hey! Just kidding, just kidding, Snag. It was a joke. Somebody put that frog in a box till I can fix him.”
Several hours later, the company went to sleep for the night with a cave still full of rocks.
* * *
After a fine conjured spirit breakfast, Shea felt refreshed and restored. He would have to find out just what they did to whip up such refreshing food! His mind turned back to the problem of the stones. Absently he watched Polacek fanning a rasher of bacon that was too hot to eat. Suddenly, Shea stood up with a start:
“Votsy! We were both right! We need to combine the verbal elements of the sound magic with the somatic elements of the spell you used . . . and watch the decimal point.”
Shea quickly placed another stone on the table and began making wild passes with his hands. The Czech finally figured out what he was trying to do and soon they were both making passes and chanting. Their voices reached a crescendo, then,
WHUMP!
A very startled naked man appeared on the tabletop. Belphehe and the spirits cheered. Snag grabbed the Czech and the two danced around the cave. Soon an assembly line was set up. One by one, Shea and Polacek con
verted the stones back to men, the spirits clothed them, and Snag and Belphebe armed and organized them. By evening the cave was packed with hundreds of ex-rock sailors.
Harold leaned hack in his chair and asked, “How many stones did you gather, Votsy?” The spirits arrived with more wine.
“I dunno, maybe a couple thousand.”
* * *
By the end of the third day, the last stone had been turned. They even restored the bullfrog, who proved to be a businessman from Venice. He was very grateful, just the same. And after that the stone that Harold duplicated produced a pair of twins who had never seen each other before. The crowd had overflowed the spirit cave and a tent city sprang up on the hillside.
In the days that followed, Belphebe sorted out the men most adept at archery, and organized a contingent of missile troops. The rest of the men were armed with assorted spears, swords, clubs, and even rocks. Most of the ships passengers requested assignment to the ambulance corps.
All seemed well with the world until Ariel returned to the cave for the first time since he had escaped from the service of the witch. He had been keeping an eye on Sycorax waiting for the right moment to return, he explained. And the news he bore was grave indeed. The witch and her goblins were on the march again, and now there were more goblins than he had ever seen before.
By the time the ragtag sailor army was ready to march, the goblins had already crossed the mudflats and were coming up the valley heading straight for the spirit cave. Fortunately, the spirits had gathered more eagle feathers and, on a restored two-seater, Shea and Belphebe flew a reconnaissance mission. They, too, were shocked at the number of goblins to be seen in the valley below.
“There must be ten thousand of them down there,” Shea complained as they circled back to their own lines.
“Our cause is just, Harold,” Belphebe said reassuringly.
The army was deployed in a wide arc across the valley in front of the cave, Belphebe’s archers and the best spearmen massed behind the line as a reserve.
As the goblin forces approached, a silence fell over all. Suddenly a bolt of lightning from Sycorax crashed into a tree near Shea and the goblins rushed forward. Just as their ranks reached the spirit army, Belphebe’s archers fired a volley into the air. The goblin center disintegrated. On the two flanks, however, the armies came together and were soon locked in fearsome melee.
Shea took Belphebe up on the broom, and he cruised up and down the enemy line while she picked off goblin leaders with well-aimed shots. Sycorax was no dummy however, and soon caught on. Each time they whizzed out from behind the trees she popped lightning bolts at them. A near miss singed the feathers on their tail, rendering the broom sluggish and unresponsive. Shea beat a hasty retreat to the safety of terra firma.
Meanwhile the battle raged and the press of the goblin army was overwhelming. The spirit forces were falling back. At this rate, it was apparent that the witch would soon drive them all into the sea. Shea pulled Belphebe aside and told her to continue the fight; he had a plan and would return. He held her in his arms for a brief parting kiss and then flew off, alone, on his broom.
Shea stayed low, zooming over the treetops till he was out of sight of the goblin army, then turned south for the only smoking volcano on the island. That had to be the Firemount mentioned by Malovio. He was not sure how he would do it, but he intended to enlist the aid of the fire drake. As he cruised in for a landing outside of the volcano, the place seemed mysteriously empty. Small wonder! Every able-bodied goblin had gone to war. A moan caught his ears as he searched the base of the mountain for an enhance.
There on a rope, hanging upside down from a dead tree was none other than Malovio. “You seem to spend a lot of time hanging by your feet. How do you manage to do this?” Shea remarked as he cut the hapless goblin down.
Malovio rubbed his ankles. “ ’Tisn’t easy, I assure you. Many thanks, Harold. It might well be because I refused to serve.”
Shea asked about the way to the fire drake.
“’Tis on the other side of the mountain,” said the goblin, already backing away toward the cover of the undergrowth.
Shea grabbed Malovio by his ragged collar and pulled the monster onto the broom. The goblin eyed it with terror and struggled to escape. “I must away . . .” But Harold dragged him astride the stick. In a flash he chanted the words and they were airborne. The goblin wailed as they flew rapidly around the base of the mountain. Suddenly Malovio recovered and pointed to the ground. Shea noted a large cave and eased the broom through the dark entrance. They landed and dismounted in silence.
“Thou wouldst strain our friendship!” complained the goblin. “Release me forthwith!”
“I’m sorry, old boy, but this is a life or death emergency; I have to find the fire drake,” Shea said as he nudged Malovio with his elbow. The goblin led on, into the cavern. “Say, I thought you said you used to work for this drake?” Malovio grunted noncommittally. “If that’s so,” Harold continued, “how come you’re so afraid to go near him?”
The goblin turned and grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps I portray’d him a bit too fondly. Twas the drake’s custom to consume a goodly number of our kind upon awakening.”
They came upon a deserted guard station, replete with a supply of dusty weapons and torches. Both took a torch and lit it on a burning lamp. Shea pushed his unwilling companion forward. The cavern was wide and tall, large enough, Shea imagined, to let the drake pass. They came to a place where the tunnel split off in two directions. Malovio became even more nervous, if that was possible, and hopped back and forth from one foot to another. He was obviously going no farther.
“The path to the left!” the goblin cried, as he flung his torch against the wall and ran full speed back the way he had come. Shea started after the rascal, but the peril that Belphebe faced flashed before his eyes and he turned back. There was no time to spare.
Shaking his head over Malovio, Harold hurried along the corridor to the left. The path wound steeply downward. The echoes of his footsteps made him keenly aware of the great size of the tunnel, Some minutes and many tiresome footsteps later, the cave opened into a vast chamber. The torch was too weak to light the far side. Shea cautiously tiptoed as best he could across the room, through a crunchy layer of ashes and cinders.
He blinked. A great black mass loomed in front of him. What he first took to be a rock wall was actually the enormous bulk of the sleeping fire drake. Time for action.
Quietly, Shea backed away, then knelt down and constructed a rough model of the drake out of cinders. In a quiet whisper, he began to chant:
“Great beast of fire, whose council you keep,
Friend of lord Surt, from under whose eyes,
I bid thee awaken, from Sycorax’s sleep,
Unto my command, now serve me. . . . Arise!”
Shea fell silent. For a moment, nothing happened, then the great mound that was the fire drake rose and fell in a rumbling deep sigh. Years of accumulated rocks and dust tumbled off the top of the beast. Two glowing orange eyes popped open and stared into Shea’s soul.
He fully expected to be roasted by a blast of flame, but the enormous drake rose slowly to its feet amidst a small rocksilde, stretched itself interminably, and walked calmly over to its new master.
Shea thanked his stars and hurriedly climbed onto the creature’s neck, which was no easy task. He settled comfortably between two large plates on its back, and waited. Nothing happened. Obviously more magic was in order. He recited a further rhyme:
“Onward, noble steed, to battle we fly,
For fame and glory, our victory is nigh. . . .”
Before Harold could finish, the drake lurched forward, rose from the cave floor, and sped toward the entrance. Just how the thing flew with its monstrous wings in this confined space was a mystery but somehow it was doing so with alarming speed Shea hung on for dear life.
Moments later, they flashed out through the opening into the light of day. Shea was temp
orarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the light. The great wings of the fire drake now began beating with a low, rhythmic murmur and they rose swiftly above Firemount. Shea was not sure how he controlled the monster, but it was doing exactly what he wanted. Could it be telepathic?
He tested his theory by directing the dragon to make a maneuver it would never do in the natural course of simple flying. Instantly Shea regretted the thought for the drake swirled effortlessly up and over in a tight loop. and for a precarious moment, its rider hung on by his fingernails. Satisfied that he was more or less in control, Harold righted the beast and pointed his juggernaut in the direction of the conflict.VII
Belphebe cursed as a rock smashed into her shin. Since Harold had departed on his mysterious mission, she, Polacek, and Snag had been in control of the army of spirits, sailors, and fairies, and things were not going any too well. Polacek kept leafing through the magic book and attempting to cast spells which invariably failed, or worse, backfired, wreaking havoc among their own number.
Snag proved to be a natural leader, dividing the forces into platoons of fighting sailors who went into battle with no fear of death. Each time the forces of the witch made a move to outflank, Snag responded by sending in a counterattack which drove her minions back.
Sycorax was persistent, and she coerced her army of goblins forward. Although Belphebe and her archers and Snag and his swordsmen and spearmen took a fearful toll of the enemy, the witch seemed to have an endless supply of dark green, willing-to-die creatures. Snag was forced to give ground once again.
The spirit cave was overwhelmed, and they retreated over the ridge to the next hill . . . and then to the next, and then the next. A bolt from the witch struck Quamoclit, and she was pinned to the heart of a pine tree. Belphebe winced as she heard the spirit scream. The sailors retreated at a command from Snag and all, including Belphebe, ran at full speed over the last hill between them and the sea. The huntress searched the sky in vain for a sign of her husband.
The Exotic Enchanter Page 26