The Exotic Enchanter

by L. Sprague De Camp

  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.

  A brief respite was achieved when Polacek cast a spell that actually worked. For several minutes, a large cloud of noxious yellow smoke poured out of a tree stump. As it drifted over the goblins, they reeled back in agony.

  “Phosgene,” said Polacek, smiling, “its an old trick of the Huns from the First World War.”

  Belphebe looked at him with a puzzled expression. Harold had told her of a world war but she had never heard of magic vapor weapons. But she was more concerned about the fact that there were only seven arrows left in her quiver. The sailors who stood by her side all seemed to have equally low supplies of missiles.

  There was a sudden shout, and all faces looked skyward. Coming over the crest of the hill was a monster of enormous proportions. Another of the witch’s servants, no doubt. They were surely doomed. Belphebe put her hand to her forehead and groaned.

  Polacek began dancing up and down and shook her. “It’s Harold,” he exclaimed. Belphebe looked up in amazement and awe.

  * * *

  Shea was horrified to see the still vast number of goblins that swarmed over the forests below. His heart sank when he saw the spirit cave overrun. Was he too late? He banked to the left and swooped over the last row of hills.

  There they were! He had arrived none too soon. The good guys certainly had their backs to the wall. Well, here was where Harold Shea and his flying fortress saved the day? He put the fire drake into a sharp wingover and thought about a stream of fire.

  As his mount swooped in heavily from above, a blast of orange flame shot out of its mouth, engulfing hundreds of unfortunate goblins. Shea hung on tight as he pulled up and circled for another pass. A few more strikes like that and the witch would be out of business . . . and goblins.

  He flew low over the army of sailors and could hear a cheer rising up from below. He spotted Belphebe and waved triumphantly. The drake flew out over the sea and then circled back for the next attack. This time, Shea intended to roast Sycorax herself and end the battle once and for all. This pass he caught sight of her red robe and aimed the drake straight at her, thinking flamethrower thoughts.

  Suddenly a bolt of electric blue light rose from where the witch stood and enveloped Shea and his mount. The firedrake shuddered. Its wings stopped beating and it veered off to the left. Shea found himself spiraling to the ground, aboard a dying bomber.

  With a dreadful crash, the drake plowed into a mass of trees, snapping them off like matchsticks. Shea was thrown brutally into the side of a sand dune. He lay there, momentarily stunned.

  Harold struggled to get his breath. He was still alive, he thought to himself. He rolled dizzily down to the base of the dune and sat, holding his spinning head in his hands, trying to orient himself. At last he saw Belphebe, jumping up and down and motioning to him. Shea struggled to his feet and staggered through a rain of goblin-thrown rocks to reach her side.

  Belphebe crushed Harold in her arms. “Oh, dearest, I thought you would be killed,” she said breathlessly. “Yet our plight has only grown worse since you arrived. Can you not think of some powerful spell to save us, Harold?”

  A goblin spear felled a sailor who stood mere paces away. Shea’s mind was a blur. There must be something he could do . . . the Dolon Doom spell?

  “Could you not summon beasts to our aid?” asked Belphebe, as she fired an arrow at the enemy. That piqued his spirit and Shea made up his mind.

  A hail of large stones whizzed overhead and Shea hit the dirt in the nick of time. A group of sailors nearly ran over him as they charged forward. Shea dashed over to a dead tree, hurriedly gathered some twigs, and then ran to the beach. Oblivious to the battle, he began shaping little forms out of the wet sand and placed two twigs in the nose of each figure. They didn’t look much like rhinoceroses, but there was no time to lose.

  There was a tremendous crash of thunder and Shea looked up to see the left flank of the sailor army enveloped in flames. He glanced around anxiously till he saw Belphebe and her entourage of archers, still holding their ground. Shea stood back and began making passes over his tiny models, and began to chant rapidly:

  “Oh, creatures who feed on dank jungle’s weed,

  Rise up form the sand and heed my demand. . . .”

  Shea ducked as a long black spear whizzed past his ears. He resumed:

  “With tempers most foul, and anger in bowel,

  Arise from the jungle bristling with horn,

  I conjure you now, arise and be born!”

  The little images began to blur and a fine, spray of sand was thrown up into the air around him. Shea cursed to himself; he had forgotten to invoke a deity . . . yet something was happening. He looked over to Belphebe, who had stopped to watch him. Her jaw dropped open. Just then, something large, brown, cold, and slimy, slapped him in the face and threw him to the sand.

  Shea struggled to his knees, and was shocked to see himself surrounded by a herd of enormous twenty-foot lizards, each one with two silly-looking horns sucking out its nose. They began to waddle awkwardly off into the midst of the battle, looking something like iguanas made up to resemble dinosaurs in a low-budget Hollywood movie. Oh well, thought Shea, not exactly rhinos, but they certainly looked fearsome.

  He ran back to Belphebe’s side.

  “Marry, Harold, but those are the strangest creatures you have yet summoned!” she said calmly, as she let loose her last arrow at a retreating goblin. Already the witch’s forces were dropping their arms and fleeing in the face of huge horned lizards.

  A great cheer rose up from the remnants of the army of sailors as the beasts began choking down incredible numbers of goblins. The tide of battle had indeed turned. Soon a group of goblins came forward waving a shabby white rag on the end of a stick and surrendered to Snag. Sycorax herself disappeared over the hillside under a puff of green smoke. Shea wanted to pursue her, but now there was the problem of how to stop the reptilian eating machines he had set into motion, for the beasts showed no sign of recognizing any sort of armistice or surrender from the goblins. Polacek was at his side.

  “Quick, Votsy, find a counterspell in that book. We’ve got to stop these dinosaurs.”

  “No problem, chief!” The Czech thumbed quickly to a page and began waving his left hand in a broad series of sweeps while muttering something under his breath. To Harold’s amazement, moments later the herd of giant lizards vaporized into clouds of harmless smoke.

  Shea slapped his companion on the back. “Hey, well done! Doc Chalmers will be proud of you if we ever figure out how to get back home.”

  Polacek puffed out his chest proudly then bowed ceremoniously. “Vaclav Polacek, Interplanar Mage, at your service.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent rounding up and securing the goblins who had surrendered, tending to the wounded, and burying the dead. Moonwort led Shea and Polacek to the tree to which Quamoclit was pinned. The weapon had missed vital parts, only catching her wing. After several tries, it was the Czech who freed her from the tree. She was most appreciative and planted a pow
erful kiss on her rescuers lips.

  “Phew! This is it, Harold, I’m staying here and marrying this babe.”

  “Forget it, Votsy you two aren’t even the same species.”

  “For this I’ll forgo offspring!” Quamoclit giggled and fluttered off into the woods.

  “Hey, wait, honey, I meant it! Really!”

  * * *

  By evening the sailor army and its prisoners marched back to the spirit cave and the leaders held council. The sailors and the goblins were all anxious to get off the island, and the spirits more than willing to be rid of the lot. Various plans to achieve this were brought to Shea’s attention.

  “Thy power of magicks is so great, surely the lot of us could simp’y be whisked away to our homes with hut a pass of thy hand.” A rich man from Verona was speaking.

  “Nix on that option,” said Shea flatly. “That’s way beyond our powers. And besides, this island is the home of the goblins.”

  “No more,” growled the one goblin leader who had been admitted to the conference. “We’re worse off with the damn’d witch than ever we were serving the drake. Those of us who remain alive are of one mind, and that is departure by any means.”

  “This island is still rich with fine tall forests,” suggested Snag, “and among us are many skilled craftsmen. Perchance we might build ships to carry us off.” There was a general murmur of approval at this plan.

  “But that could take years!” cried a voice in the back. A glimmer of an idea came to Shea and he snapped his fingers. “Maybe not. In my many and varied travels through different continuna I’ve had considerable experience conjuring up monsters and the like, as you all may well have noticed during the recent conflict.” The sailors mumbled approval and the goblin leader spat on the floor in disgust. “I think that with a bit of help from Master Snag here, I can provide you all with fine ships, ready for you tomorrow, and you may sail them wherever you want.” A cheer and applause came from those assembled. Harold pulled Snag aside before everyone retired and asked if he could carve a small model ship from a bit of wood. The sailor shrugged his shoulders, but agreed willingly. Next morning, Snag delivered the work and Shea carried his tiny hand-carved model down to the beach, with half the sailors in tow, He stopped at the water’s edge. The tide was obviously out, for the sand was littered with stranded jellyfish. Harold thanked his lucky stars; that was just what he needed if this scheme was to succeed. He placed the tiny carving that Snag had given him on the wet sand.

  Several years back, he had been in Portsmouth, England, and visited HMS Victory. Admiral Nelson’s flagship at Trafalgar, still preserved in pristine condition. A few copies of the Victory ought to be more than enough to ferry the shipwrecked sailors and the displaced goblins away from the island. He began to chant:

  “By Nelson, Hardy, Hornblower, and Bush,

  England expects every man to do his duty,

  An hundred Victories please come to me now

  To carry the lost ones home beyond the sea.”

  Shea winced at his terrible blank verse, if that was the word for it, but it was all that came instantly to mind, and hoped that blank verse worked as well as rhyme in this continuum. After all, Shakespeare had written a lot of it. He closed his eyes and began waving his hands in the manner which had once brought forth simulacra in the Kalevela.

  The earth began to shake, and a blue-gray mist enshrouded the coastline. The sailors fell silent for a moment, then broke out into noisy hurrahs. Shea stood up slowly. There in the water before him were a hundred three-deck ships off the line, identical copies of the HMS Victory. Why on earth had he asked for a hundred when ten would have been enough? The damn decimal point again! A fleet this size would have ruled the world had it ever really existed in Napoleon’s time, Here in the world of The Tempest it would be like a fleet of modem battleships suddenly thrust upon the Phoenicians.

  The sailors to a man, including Snag, splashed out into the water and swam for the nearest ship. In no time they had climbed aboard and were lowering boats over the sides. They pulled for shore, and the first one to arrive carried an enthusiastic Snag, who jumped over the gunwale and slapped Harold on the back.

  “No finer ships have ere been built by the craft of man! Thou hast given us the dreams upon which a sailor sleeps.” He was grinning from ear to ear.

  “I — I’m glad you like them,” said Shea, at a loss for words.

  “Incredible, Harold,” remarked Polacek who was eyeing the mighty fleet in amazement, “But don’t you think you overdid it?” A gleam suddenly came to the Czech’s eyes. “Ya know, with a fleet like that, we could conquer the world.”

  “Don’t even think about it! Lets hope nobody else thinks of that possibility.” There was a lot of firepower afloat out there in those hundred gun ships.

  “Seeing as how you conjured that navy up, d’ya think it’ll last . . . I mean long enough for them to get home?”

  “Well, if we can keep the witch away from here, they should be okay. We haven’t heard from her since she disappeared in that cloud of smoke, and that worries me.”

  But the witch did not return, that day or the next, and in that time captains were chosen and crews formed, and a steady stream of small boats ferried men and provisions out to the ships. The goblins were released and given fourteen ships of their own. They disappeared quickly over the horizon soon after they had set sail. Shea wondered how that was managed, since none of the goblins seemed to have had any nautical experience.

  The morning of the third day after the battle saw the final boatload of sailors making ready to leave. The spirits, Polacek Belphebe, and Shea were all there to bid Snag and his companions a final farewell.

  “My heart goes out to you, Master Shea, and to you, Pollychek, for all the good you have done these days.” There was a tear in the burly sailor’s eye. He held Belphebe in his arms and hugged her gently. “Without you, we all had perished, mistress.”

  “Fair winds, gentle Snag.” She kissed him on the cheek. Then the dark man could wait no longer. He tossed a canvas bag into the longboat and pushed it out into the low surf. The men put their backs to the oars, and the boat pulled quickly away. Shea stood with his arm around his wife and watched. The boat pulled a alongside a great ship, the sails filled with the wind, an the ship sped quickly away.

  When Snag’s vessel had disappeared below the horizon, Belphebe turned to her husband. “Methinks ’tis time we, too, gave thoughts to home and our daughter.”

  “You’re right as usual, darling. And I’m certain we have changed things enough here to satisfy my geas. Votsy, let me have a look at the book.” The Czech reached into his coat pocket but stopped with a start.

  His eyes widened and his jaw fell open and he raised his arm and pointed.

  Shea looked around. On the top of the hill stood Sycorax, smiling hideously, holding her crooked staff defiantly in the air.

  Harold pulled Belphebe to him. A sudden bolt of lightning from the witch blasted the beach before them, sending up a stinging cloud of sand.

  “Hold on to me, Belphebe . . . you too. Votsy.” Shea said desperately. “I’m going to try the spell Chalmers gave me to use on Dolon — brace yourselves.” He began to gesture wildly with his free hand as he mumbled the dangerous words of the incantation. It had worked before, destroying one of the most powerful magicians in the land of Faerie. It might work now, and destroy the witch . . . and possibly the three of them as well.

  Shea finished the last words of the incantation, and the world turned gray. More sand stung Harold’s face and the entire beach empted in a terrific explosion.

  The smoke cleared, revealing a scene of utter serenity. Gone was Sycorax, gone were the mounds where the bodies had been buried and the carcass of the fire drake.

  Three bodies were sprawled on the beach behind some clumps of grass. One of them moved.

  * * *

  Shea groaned and pushed himself up on his elbows for a look around. What had happened? He reached ov
er and touched Belphebe, who was just coming around, and saw Polacek, who was flat on his back mumbling something. Why weren’t they in Ohio?

  Out on the beach he saw a bearded man pulling a small boat ashore. With him was a young girl. The boat crunched into the sand and the man jumped out, lifting his small companion out in one big swoop. The man looked around at the pristine beach and said to the girl: “What quiet and unspoil’d place is this. . . .”

  Shea groaned. The man tossed his bundles on the beach and walked inland, holding the girl’s hand. Shea nudged Vaclav, who had crawled over to his side and was also watching.

  “There’s your Miranda, Votsy, a five-year-old! D’you still want to nab her?”

  Prospero stopped suddenly and bent down. He picked up a book and leafed through the pages with interest.

  “Our book,” whispered Vaclav.

  Prospero began bobbing back and forth as he read, motioning with his hands. He was reciting something which Shea could not quite understand. Suddenly the world around them turned gray and began to spin.

  Pmft!

  A whoosh of air made the curtains dance. Shea, Belphebe, and Polacek landed with a thump on the stage at the theater. The lights were dim and the seats were empty save for one man, who began to clap slowly. It was Reed Chalmers. He stopped the sarcastic applause and shook his head sadly.

  Shea pulled Belphebe into his arms and swallowed her up in a great big mushy kiss.

  “Hey, Doc,” said Polacek as he sat up, “I bet you didn’t know that one of those books in Prospero’s library came from the Garaden Institute, right here in Ohio!”