He extended both arms, closed his eyes, and cried in a high voice: “Beshem hormots vahariman tesovev he-esh, asher anena esh, et metzudat habsitel!”
There was a whoosh and a buzz, like an electric fan in the adjoining room. Atlantès’ permanent smile came back; so did his bow. “Behold, fellow practitioners of the noblest of the arts, if you will look beyond the walls of this castle, you will see it circled by an outer barbican of flame, sufficient to roast a sheep in less than a minute. For the hardiest of men to try to pass it the punishment would be no less than death. Yet if the Lady Florimel attempt it, who is a woman and yet no woman, she would leave no more memory than steam from the coffee cup. My gracious mercy extends so far that the fire shall instantly be removed when by your arts you bring Lord Roger back; and I will add to that bags of jewels so great that three men can hardly carry them. The peace of the one true God be with you in your meditations.”
He bowed again and turned his back. The lords looked sullenly at the three (except Audibrad, whose sympathies, judging from the fact that he was trying not to smirk, were evidently in the other direction) and Chalmers began to dither. “I—uh—am unsure whether I am sufficiently advanced in the science of apportation, which I had presumed something of a specialty—”
“S-st!” said Shea. “If magic doesn’t work, I’ll take a running jump through and go hunt Roger myself. I don’t mind having my eyebrows singed a little.”
Atlantès, who seemed to have sharper ears than a cat, turned back. “Learn, rash youth,” he said, “that the very marrow of your bones would be incinerated; and yet, of a truth, you say a thing I had not thought on; for it will be far easier to remove the Pearl of the Orient from thence to hither if he be found by human eyes than only by arts magical; and it will greatly pleasure my brother’s son to cut your throat from ear to ear beyond these walls. Go, then; I undertake to pass you unharmed through the flame.”
“I’d like to go, too,” said Polacek. His expression showed that he did not look forward to pleasant time at the castle after his venture into wolfishness.
“Go, then, and Allah give you neither peace nor a long life unless you bring my nephew home again.” He turned away again, this time for keeps.
Shea found Chalmers looking at him keenly. The doctor said: “I wonder, Harold, if helping me and Florimel was your most important motive in offering to find Roger?”
Shea grinned. “It’s the only one you know about officially, Doc.”
Seven
The whole castle turned out the see Shea and Polacek off on their Roger-hunt the following morning. During the evening, Chalmers had tried to establish the thought-contact with the peerless chevalier as a preliminary to getting back by magical means, but he had been forced to give up with the remark that Roger had about as few thoughts as the human brain could hold. In any case there seemed to be interference, either from Atlantès himself or from the curtain of flame he had thrown around the castle, so the job clearly devolved upon Chalmers’ two juniors.
He did not believe that the threat of Atlantès’ plan to exchange the shapes of Florimel and the prophesied woman knight represented an immediate danger. Perhaps later; “But let us take first things first, Harold,” he said cheerfully. “I think I can profitably employ my time in study and in attempting to establish communication with this Christian sorcerer Malagigi. It was—uh—remiss of me not to have thought of him before coming to Carena. I presume it would be superfluous to express a wish for your good fortune?”
Beyond the gate and a drawbridge over a dry ditch, the flames rose in a wavering wall, obscuring the nearby peaks. Shea could feel their heat on his face as he stood at the break of the drawbridge while Atlantès dipped a finger in a small bottle of oil and drew an isosceles triangle on his forehead and then a right triangle over the first, muttering a small spell as he did so. He repeated the process with Polacek and with the chief huntsman of the castle, a broad-shouldered, swarthy man named Echegaray. Atlantès was all smiles as though they had had no hard words the previous evening, although Shea overheard the other lords making up a small pool as to who would find Roger and when.
Echegaray strode beside them towards the flame, a crossbow over his shoulder. When he came to the magic barrier, however, he stopped and looked inquiringly at Shea. The flames streaked soundlessly far over their heads; the light was so intense that it hurt their eyes and looked altogether real and terrifying, though the grass from the flames sprang seemed unharmed. Shea felt like stopping too, but with Echegaray watching, and the eyes of the whole castle boring into his back—he threw out his chest and marched straight through. Two steps did it, and the fire only tingled.
For a moment his companions did not appear. Then there was a half-choked yell and Echegaray came through, dragging Polacek behind him. The hunter looked at Shea, spat, and jerked a thumb at Polacek, who was swelling with indignation that had not yet quite reached the stage of words. “Tried to change his mind,” said the hunter, “This way.”
The road was no more than a track down the mountain whose peak the castle occupied, a track so steep moreover that one had to walk with care, watching the skirts of one’s jelab. They were already below timberline, and had to duck under the branches of all trees along their way. A cool mountain breeze hissed through the pines and ruffled the brushes on Shea’s and Polacek’s turbans.
Shea unhooked the sword he had taken from Atlantès’ cabinet, drew it out, and looked it over before fastening it to his outside sash. Like the one he had used in the courtyard, this sword had a rounded point and a thick, heavy blade—useless for thrusting and awkward on the parry, altogether better suited to a slashing fanatic on horseback than to a methodical épée fencer.
“Think we’re gonna run into anything?” asked Polacek with wide eyes. “I ought to have something like that if we are.” He turned to Echgaray and pointed to the huge broad knife in the latter’s belt. “Hey, how about lending me that thing for a while? If we have any trouble it would be better to have all of us armed.”
“No. Mine,” said the hunter shortly, and took up the way again. Three hours brought them to the foot of the main peak. There the path began climbing and dipping across a series of spurs reaching down from another crest that thrust in from their right. The forest grew thicker here. Echegaray led them into the throat of a valley where a stream dropped past in a series of waterfalls and the ten a.m. sun failed to reach the bottom. The gorge widened to a valley which held a patch of swamp, where they had to squish almost ankle-deep along the edge of a pond. Shea jumped and Polacek stopped at a glimpse of white skin and gauzy wings as the waterfays, or whatever they were, ducked out of sight. Echegaray pushed ahead without looking back and they had to follow.
Beyond, the valley narrowed again. The mountain wall closed in so sharply on their side of the stream that they had to cross on a bridge which was formed of a single log. Echegaray simply walked across as if the log had been level land. Shea followed with difficulty, waving his arms for balance, and just barely making it with a leap at the end. Polacek stuck his thumbs into his sash and tried to imitate the hunter’s jaunty step, but tailed to watch his footing and fell in.
“Time to eat,” said the hunter as Polacek climbed out of the shallow water, rubbing his shin and cursing with a verve to curl the leaves.
Echegaray abruptly perched himself on the edge of the bridge-log, unslung his pack, and brought out a piece of bread and a slab of dried meat, each of which he expertly divided into three portions with a slash of his knife, then waved a hand at the stream. “Water,” he said.
As they munched and flexed tired muscles, Polacek said: “Say, Harold, how do you know where we’re going and whether we’ll find Roger there—not that I want to?”
“I don’t,” said Shea. He turned to the hunter. “How are you sure we’ll find Roger in this direction?”
“Best place,” said Echegaray with mouth full.
“Yes, but where are we?” He produced a piece of parchment o
n with Atlantès had drawn a sketch-map when the journey was decided upon. “We’ve twisted around so many times in this valley that I’m not quite sure which direction the castle lies in.”
“Magic?” asked Echegaray, pointing to the map.
“No. Just a map.”
“What?”
“A map. You know, a picture of the country with the roads and castles and things.”
“Magic,” said Echegaray flatly.
“Okay, it’s magic if you like it that way. Now, if you’ll show us just where we are the on map—”
“We aren’t,” said Echegaray.
“What do you mean, we aren’t? We can’t have walked far enough to get off the map.”
“Never on map. We’re on log.” He patted it to make sure.
Shea sighed. “All I want is for you to show me the spot on the map corresponding to the place where we are now.”
Echegaray shook his head. “Don’t understand magic.”
“Oh, to hell with magic. Look at this thing. Here’s Castle Carena.”
“No. Castle’s a long way from here. We walk fast.”
“No, no! This place on the map means Castle Carena. Now we want to know where we are, on the map.”
Echegaray pushed back his leather cap that scratched his short black hair. Then his brows cleared. “Want us on map?”
“Yes. You’re getting the idea.”
The hunter took the map from Shea’s hand, turned it around a couple of times, laid it on the ground, smoothed it out, and stood up—
“Hey!” yelped Shea. He caught Echegaray’s shoulders and pushed him back just as the hunter’s boot was coming down on the parchment. “What’s the idea of stepping on my map?”
Echegaray sat down, a resigned expression on his face. “Said you wanted us on map. Magic carpet, no?”
“No. I didn’t mean you were to be on the map physically.” How the devil, wondered Shea, could you explain the principles of semantics to a one-groove mind like this?
“Whyn’t you say so? First you want us be on the map. Then you don’t. Can’t make up your mind. Never saw such people.”
Shea folded the map and put it back in his sash. “Let’s forget it. What makes you think you’re going to find Roger in this direction?”
“Best place.”
“One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Why is it the best place? What would he be doing in this direction rather than any other?”
“Crossroads. Knights always fight at crossroads.” The hunter broke off a twig and whittled it to a toothpick. He used it with relish, pausing now and again to belch.
“Ready?” he said presently. Shea and Polacek nodded. Echegaray adjusted his pack, picked up his crossbow, and swung ahead.
The stream hung with them past another waterfall, where an animal of some sort went crashing through the thicket and Echegaray with an instinctive motion whipped up his crossbow. Shea could not help thinking how Belphebe—if it were she—would be enjoying this country. Beyond, the path carried them across another high spur and through a screen of trees down to a three-pronged fork, the tracks in both directions broader and scarred by hoof marks. Echegaray strode to the junction and looked along first one leg of the fork and then the other, his forehead contorted by thought.
“What’s the matter?” said Shea. “I don’t see our friend Roger here. Is that it?”
The hunter gave him a look that showed disesteem for those who wasted words pointing out the obvious, and pointed in the direction that must be south by the sun’s position. “Crossroads; village. Four miles.” Then he pointed north. “Crossroads. Village. Twelve miles. Which?” He looked at Shea for orders.
“Say,” said Polacek. “Why don’t we split up and play the field? One of us would have more chance of talking that big lug into coming back than both together, and besides I know enough magic now to take care of myself—”
“No,” said Shea firmly. “You try just one more spell and I’ll have your neck and ears.” He turned to Echegaray. “Which way is Lord Roger most likely to go?”
The hunter shrugged. “Both. You tell.”
Shea thought: after all, why not let Polacek and Echegaray take one road while he took the other? Votsy couldn’t get into too much trouble with this simple-minded but knowledgeable retainer holding his hand, and as for himself, he would just as soon not have the Bouncing Czech around if he should chance to meet Belphebe. The way to the north wound among trees.
“Look here,” he said, “maybe that’s a good idea of yours after all, Votsy. Suppose you and Echegaray take that road to the south and let me strike off on the other one. That way we’ll be all right. Watch out for Belphebe, will you? She’s supposed to be wandering around somewhere and I shouldn’t want anyone taking pot-shots at her.”
“Me neither,” said Polacek. “Boy, could I use one of those cocktails she used to mix, right now! She’s better than you since you taught her.”
They shook hands, and Shea said: “Got any money? Good. Might be an idea to buy yourself some kind of weapon in the village if you can. Probably a mace; anybody can swing a club without practice. Start back in about four days whether you find him or not.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Polacek. “I figure I know how to get along with these yaps. Look how I contacted that purple guy with the booze in the castle when all you did was sit around on your duff.”
Shea turned up the road, looking back once to wave as the other two disappeared down a slope behind trees. He wondered how long Polacek’s short legs would stand the pace. It was in such a wood that he had first seen the girl, light-footed, with a feather in her hat, who announced her presence with an arrow that slew the Losel. Belphebe. His feet picked the way along without any conscious help from his mind, except that he was aware of going forward. And they’d been getting so beautifully adjusted, too…. No, not quite such a wood either. This one was more open; the trees were smaller and there was less brush. One could see—
One could see something moving among the trunks to the right, too large and too steady of progress to be an animal. Shea snapped to attention, whipped out the sword, and slipped into the cover of a tree. The something answered his movement with a call of “Olé!” and stepped into plain view. Echegaray.
“What in the blue-belted blazes have you done with Polacek?” demanded Shea, gripping his sword firmly as the hunter trotted up.
“Left him. Talks too much. Go with you.”
“Don’t you know he’s not fit to be allowed out without a keeper? Suppose you get right back there and keep an eye on him!”
For answer the hunter shrugged and gazed at the top of a tall tree with an elaborate lack of interest in anything else. Shea felt his temper rise, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it, short of turning back along the road to overtake Polacek or going for Echegaray with the sword. He stuck his nose in the air and started along the path the way he had been going. Echegaray followed.
The trees began to crowd in from both sides, and from the bottom of a draw the way commenced to climb steeply. Shea found himself puffing, although he noted that the hunter in less hampering clothes was coming along like a machine. At the crest, the spur they had been climbing broadened out into a little plateau with colonnades of trees. Shea leaned against a big trunk, breathing deeply; Echegaray posted himself against another, the toothpick twirling in a corner of his mouth.
Twunk! Twunk! The tree jarred under the blows. Shea jumped—or tried to and found he couldn’t. A long white-shafted arrow had pinned his sleeve to the tree, and another was affixed just beside his right leg. He caught a glimpse of Echegaray’s astonished brown face as the hunter flung himself flat, then began to snake forward to the shelter of a fallen trunk, the crossbow dragging. He whipped a curved iron rod out of his boot and slipped one end of it over a stud in the side of the bow. A bolt dropped in; Echegaray’s arm brought the piece of metal back and the bow was cocked.
There were no more arrows and the fores
t was silent. Echegaray’s right hand scrubbed loose a pebble, which he tossed with a little noise into a bush at the far end of the log, at the same time peering cautiously around the near end.
“Drop!” he told Shea in a stage-whisper.
“Can’t,” said Shea. Thinking what a beautiful target he made for the unseen archer, he was trying to get the arrows out with his left hand. However, the position was awkward, and the deeply embedded shaft was made of some springy wood that would not break under his fingers’ best efforts. His clothes were of a heavy, tweedy wool that would neither tear nor slide up the arrow. He gave a heave, then began trying to work his arm loose from the garment itself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Echegaray watching the woods with bright-eyed attention, then bring the crossbow up slowly….
Snap! The bolt flashed away among the trees with a beelike hum. Someone laughed and Echegaray snatched up his cocking-lever.
Before he could finish reloading a voice roared: “Yield thee, sirrah! Halloo, halloo, and a mort!” Out of nowhere an oversized man had appeared over the hunter, waving a two-handed, cross-hilted sword. He was ruddy-faced, with features so strikingly regular that they might have been copied from those of an imaginary Apollo. Around his neck was a scarf with diagonal stripes of red, blue, and brown, the ends of which were tucked into a leather jacket. A light steel cap allowed curling blond hair to escape around its edges, and a huge curled horn was straped to his back.
Echegaray rolled over twice, whipping out his knife and coming up to one knee, but the point of the big sword was right in his face and he thought better of it. He sullenly dropped his weapon and spread his hands.
Down among the trees whither the crossbow bolt had flown, a hat with a feather came into view. The hat was bobbing on the end of a stick held by a girl in a knee-length tunic, a girl with freckles and reddish-gold hair cut in a long bob. She trotted toward them as though she were going to break into a dance step at any moment, and the other hand held a longbow with an arrow already nocked.
The Compleat Enchanter: The Magical Misadventures of Harold Shea Page 33