Shea turned back towards the hall, ust in time to thrust through the throat a magician trying to roll under Cambell's legs with a knife, while others engaged the knight's attention.
* * *
The noise was ear-splitting. Cambell filled the door, and at the far end Britomart was doing equally well. Artegall had leaped into the hall and was swinging his great sword with both hands. His temper might he bad, but he was certainly a good man to have around in a roughhouse.
The lights dimmed to negligibie red sparks. Cambina cried a spell and waved her wand; the magicians glowed with blue phosphorescence in the dark. The scene became that of a photographic negative — a wild one, with some of the enchanters turning themselves into winged things to flee, other hurling themselves upon the fighters, striking sparks.
A whole press at once bore down on Cambell. Shea saw a glowing head fly from its shoulders, and himself thrust past the knight's shield arm against something that gave before his blade. Then he was out in the room. A green mist whirled about him, plucking. A pink flash and it was gone.
Right in front of him a magician became a monstrous crab. Shea dodged it, clashed weapons with a still-human enchanter, thrust him through, and then went down as the falling man grabbed him by both ankles. He was stepped on four times before he kicked himself free. Colours, sparks, flashes of light danced about the room.
Just ahead a whole crowd were boiling around Artegall. Shea took one step and found himself confronting Busyrane in person. Busyrane's eyes were twice their normal size with slit pupils, like a cat's. For all his venerable appearance the enchanter was swinging a huge sword as though it were a foot-rule.
Shea gave back, almost slipping on a spot of blood. Busyrane came leaping nimbly after, slashing. The big sword, half seen, whirled in a continuous snaky blur. Shea parried, parried, backed, parried, and parried. The wall was against him.
There was no time even for ripostes against this demoniac attack. Shea took the last refuge of an outmatched fencer; leaped into a corps-à-corps and grabbed Busyrane around the waist with his free arm.
The magician seemed made of rubber and piano-wire. One hand clawed at Shea's face. Shea ducked and buried his face in Busyrane's cloak, trying to trip him. The magician fumbled for a dagger. Shea reflected that the weapon was probably poisoned.
But just at this moment Busyrane was jerked backward, dragging Shea to his knees after him. Shea threw himself back and up. Then he saw what was the matter with Busyrane. Around the archimage's neck was clasped a pair of large, knobby hands. Just that and nothing more. Around the room, above, flitted a dozen more pairs of those disembodied hands, swooping at the throats of the enchanters.
Shea lunged. But Busyrane was made of stern stuff. He got the hands loose, his own sword up, and came back with a low cut. Shea lunged again. The magician, groggy from that strangling grip, had strength enough left to beat off Shea's remises and one-twos. Shea tried a coupé and one-two and felt his point go home. He held his lunge, stabbing and stabbing.
Down went Busyrane. Shea looked around, The windows of the hall were jammed with the bats and owls and things into which the magicians had changed themselves. They were beaten. The knobby hands clustered around them, tearing off wings and wringing necks with fine impartiality. The lights flared up again. It was all over. Dead and dying monsters about the great hall changed back into men. Cambell, Artegall, and Britomart picked themselves up from the floor, slowly and with effort. Cambina drooped against the service door, almost fainting.
Artegall's deep voice boomed: "Ha! Lives one yet?" Shea turned to see him kick over a table and swing back the big blood-dripping sword. He gave a leap and clutched the arm in time.
"Thank you, Harold," said Chalmers from the floor where the table had been. Florimel was beside him. He was squeezing the neck of a bottle in both hands. The large joints of those hands were familiar. Shea realized that the disembodied pairs that had wrought such havoc among the enchanters were outsize copies of his partner's.
"Nice work, Doc," remarked Shea. To Artegall he said; "Don't. He's on our team."
Chalmers gave a hand to Florimel. "You observe," he remarked, "the improvement in my technique, although, goodness gracious! I didn't expect the hands to be quite as efficacious as that!" He looked round the room, where nearly half the corpses showed marks of strangulation.
* * *
Cambell carried his wife to a seat and supported her. He said: "'Twill pass. She is much fordone with the labour of defeating those enchanters' spells, and 'tis well she did so or we were all dead men."
Artegall growled: "Master Harold has slain this Busyrane, a good end for as bad a man as drew breath; and Master Reed has slain more than any two of us with his own magic."
"Said I not they were true and gallant gentlemen?" said Britomart.
"True, my sweet." He wiped the sword on the skin of an enchanter's robe. "Kneel, sirs!"
Shea and Chalmers went to their knees, but Cambell plucked at their sleeves. "Nay, on one knee only."
Artegall tapped each on the shoulder. "I dub you knights. Be brave, honest, and true in the name of our gracious majesty. Rise, Sir Harold; rise, Sir Reed."
Shea's irrepressible grin broke out as he stood up. "How does it feel to be named official racket buster, Doc?"
"Quite . . . uh . . . normal, I assure you. The really important fact about this evening's work is that I've discovered the secret of quantitative control. Frege's definition of number solves the problem with relation to the calculus of classes."
" 'The number of things in a given class is the class of all classes that is similar to the given class'?"
"Precisely. By treating numbers as classes — that is, the number two as the class of all pairs, the number three as the class of all triples, we can —"
"Say!" cried Shea. "Where's Belphebe?"
"I don't recall having seen the young woman. As I was saying, once the problem of introducing a quantitative element —"
"But I've got to find Belphebe! Busyrane caught her this morning. He must have brought her here."
Nobody else had seen her. Florimel offered: "There be gruesome great dungeons below. Mayhap —"
"How do you get to them?"
Chalmers said: "Before you go searching, Harold, I have a spell against magicians that you really must learn."
"To hell with that! She may be down there now!"
"I know. But Duessa and Dolon certainly escaped this . . . uh . . . holocaust, and there may be others."
"Be warned," rumbled Artegall. "The rash falcon strikes no game, Sir Harold. We shall need all and more than all the protection we can get to prowl those passages."
Cambell spoke up: "Cambina, I greatly fear, can do no more for the present, gentle sirs."
"Okay, okay," groaned Shea. "Why didn't you use this spell before, Doc?"
"Why," said Chalmers, innocently, "it would have blown me back into my own universe! And I have too much to live for here." He exchanged beams with Florimel. "You see, Harold, the casting of a spell produces on both the caster and the . . . uh . . . castee an effect analogous to that of an electrostatic charge. Ordinarily this has no particular effect and the charge dissipates in time. But when a person or thing has passed from one space-time vector to another, he or it has broken a path in extradimensional space-time, creating a permanent . . . uh . . . line of weakness. Thereafter the path is easier for him — or it — to follow. If I accumulated too much magicostatic charge at one time, it would, since this charge is unbalanced by the fact that I am at one end of this space-time path . . . uh . . . it would by reaction propel —"
"Oh, for God's sake! Let's have the spell now and the Lecture later."
"Very well." Chalmers showed Shea the spell, relatively simple in wording for calling for complex movements of the left hand. "Remember, you've been doing spells, so you probably have a considerable charge at present."
* * *
They left Florimel and Cambina with Cambell and di
vided into two parties. Artegall went with Shea.
Smooth stone changed to rough ashlar as they went down. Their torches smoked, throwing long shadows.
The passage turned and twisted until Shea had no idea where he was. Now and then they stopped to listen — to their own breathing. Once they thought they beard something, and cautiously crept to peer around a corner.
The sound was made by water dripping down a wall. They went on. Shea could not help glancing over his shoulder now and then. Artegall, his iron shoes echoing, paused to say: "I like this not. For half an hour we have followed this passage into nothing."
A side passage sprang away. Shea proposed: "Suppose you go a hundred steps ahead, and I'll go the same distance this way. Then we can both come back and report."
Artegall growled an assent and set off. Shea, gripping his épée, plunged into the side passage.
At a hundred paces the passage was the same, receding into blackness ahead of him.
He returned to the T. It seemed to him that he reached it in less than half the time it had taken him to leave it. There was no sign of Artegall, just black emptiness inclosed in rough stone.
"Artegall!" he called.
There was no answer.
He yelled: "Sir Artegall!" The tunnels hummed with the echo, then were silent.
Shea found himself sweating. He poked at the stone before him. It seemed solid enough. He was sure, now, that this T had appeared in the passage after he passed it, about halfway to where he had gone.
He set off to the right. If Artegall had gone this way, he should catch up with him. An impulse made him stop to look back. The leg of the T had already disappeared.
He ran back. There was nothing but solid stone on both sides.
His skin crawled as if a thousand spiders were scuttling over it. He ran till he began to puff. The passage bent slightly, one way, then another. There was no end to it.
When he rounded a corner and came on a human being, his nerves seemed to explode all at once.
The person shrieked. Shea recognized Belphebe. "Harold!" she cried.
"Darling!" Shea spread his arms — torch, épée, and all. She threw herself into them.
But almost immediately she pulled loose. "Marry, I'm but a weak woman and forgot my pledged word! Nay, dear Harold, dispute me not. What's done is done." She backed away determinedly.
Shea sagged. He felt very tired. "Well," he said with a forced smile, "the main thing's getting out of this damned maze. How did you get down here?"
"I sprained my ankle in my fall this morning. And Busyrane's minions —"
"Hah, hah, hah!" Dolon, large as life, stepped through the side of the wall. The two mice who would kill cats!"
Shea crouched for a flèche. But Dolon made a pass towards him. Something wrapped around his legs, like an invisible octopus. He slashed with his épée, but met no resistance.
"Nay, there shall be a new Chapter," continued Dolon, "with my own peerless presence as archimage. First, I shall prove my powers on your bodies — a work worthy of my genius, doubt it not!"
Shea strained at the invisible bonds. They crept up his body. A tentacle brushed his swordarm.
He snatched his arm out of the way, reversed his grip on the hilt and threw the weapon point-first at Dolon, his whole strength in the movement. But the épée slowed up in midair and dropped with a clang to the floor.
His hands were still free. If Belphebe was set on marrying this guy Timias, what did it matter if he got squirted back by the rocket effect of a magicostatic charge?
He dropped the torch and raced through the spell. Dolon, just opening his mouth for another pontifical pronouncement, abruptly looked horrified. He shrieked, a high womanish scream, and dissolved in a mass of tossing yellow flame. Shea caught Belphebe's wrist with his right hand to snatch her back from the blaze.
Pfmp!
Walter Bayard and Gertrude Mugler jumped a foot. One minute they had been alone in Harold Shea's room, the former reading Harold Shea's notes and the latter watching him do it.
Then, with a gust of air, Shea was before them in a battered Robin Hood outfit, and beside him was a red-haired girl with freckles, wearing an equally incongruous costume.
"Wh-where's Doc?" asked Bayard.
"Stayed behind. He liked it there."
"And who . . ."
Shea grinned. "My dream-girl. Belphebe, Dr. Bayard. And Miss Mugler. Oh, damn!" He had happened to glance at his hands, which showed a lot of little blisters. "I'm going to be sick for a few days, I guess."
Gertrude showed signs of finding her voice. She opened her mouth.
Shea forestalled her with; "No, Gert, I won't need a nurse. Just a quart of calamine lotion. You see, Belphebe and I are getting married the first chance we get."
Gertrude's face ran through a spectrum of expressions, ending with belligerent hostility. She said to Belphebe: "But — you —"
Belphebe said with a touch of blithe defiance: "He speak no more than truth. Find you aught amiss with that?" When Gertrude did not answer, she turned to Shea. "What said you about sickness, my love and leman?"
Shea drew a long breath of relief. "Nothing serious, darling. You see, it was poison ivy I tied the broom with."
Belphebe added: "Sweet Harold, now that I am utterly yours, will you do me no more than one service?"
"Anything," said Shea fondly.
"I lack still the explanation of those strange words in the poem wherewith you bested the Blatant Beast!"
THE CASTLE OF IRON
One
“Listen, chum,” said the one who breathed through his mouth, “You don’t hafta kid us. We’re the law, see? We’ll pertect you both all right, but we can’t do nothing unless we got facts to go on. You sure they haven’t sent you no ransom note?”
Harold Shea ran a hand desperately through his hair. “I assure you, officer, there isn’t the least possibility of a ransom note. Since it’s a matter of paraphysics, she isn’t even in this world.”
The red-faced one said: “Now we’re getting somewhere. Where’d you put her?”
“I didn’t put her anywhere. Didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You say she’s dead but you don’t know who done it, is that right?”
“No, I didn’t say anything about her being dead. Matter of fact, she’s probably much alive and having a fine time. She just isn’t in this space-time continuum.”
“That’s just dandy,” said the mouth-breather. “I think you better come down to the station-house with us. The lieutenant wants to see you.”
“Do you mean I’m under arrest?” asked Shea.
The one with the red face looked at his partner, who nodded. “Just holding you for investigation, that’s all.”
“You’re about as logical as the Da Derga! After all, it’s my wife that’s missing, and I feel worse about it than you could. Will you talk to a colleague of mine before you take me down there?”
The one who breathed through his mouth looked back at his companion. “I guess that’s right, at that. We might get something.”
Shea stood up and at once was patted from breast to hip with a flowing motion. “Nothing,” said the red-faced one disappointedly. “Who’s this friend of yours, and where do we find him?”
“I’ll get him,” said Shea.
“You’ll get a poke in the puss. You just sit quiet and Pete will get him for you.” The one with the red face motioned Shea back to his chair, and unlimbering an unpleasant-looking automatic pistol from his hip, sat down himself.
“Oh, all right. Ask for Dr. Walter Bayard in the next office.”
“Go ahead, Pete,” said the red-faced one.
The door closed. Shea viewed his visitor with wary distaste. A mild schizoid of the suspicious variety; an analysis might turn up something interesting. However, Shea had too many worries of his own to be much interested in uncovering a policeman’s suppressed desire to do ballet-dancing.
The policeman regarded Shea st
olidly for a while, then broke the silence. “Nice trophies you got there.” He nodded towards a pair of Belphebe’s arrows that hung on the wall. “Where’d you get ’em?”
“They’re my wife’s; she brought them from the land of Faerie. Matter of fact that’s where she probably is.”
“Okay; skip it.” The cop shrugged. “I’d think you brain experts would start on yourselves …” His mouth gave a quirk at the strange disinclination of the prisoner to discuss things on a rational basis.
There were steps in the hall; the door opened to admit the one who breathed through his mouth, followed by big, blond, slow Walter Bayard and (of all the people Shea did not want to see) the junior psychologist of the Garaden Institute, Vaclav Polacek, otherwise known as “Votsy” or “the Rubber Czech.”
“Walter!” cried Shea. “For God’s sake will you—”
“Shut up, Shea,” said the red-faced one. “We’ll do the talking.” He swung ponderously toward Bayard. “Do you know this man’s wife?”
The Compleat Enchanter: The Magical Misadventures of Harold Shea Page 27