L. Camp: The Exotic Enchanter

“When is he leaving?”

“He hasn’t said.”

* * *

The next day Shea was returning from arms practice when he met Igor. The prince wore old riding clothes and invited the psychologist to take a turn on the ramparts with him.

Igor’s fortress — Shea couldn’t quite use the Rus word kremlin with a straight face — was a good deal less imposing than its later Muscovite counterpart. It covered a considerable area on a rise of ground near the western edge of Seversk, but most of it was built of wood, including the walls.

A stout railed platform ran around the ramparts. The upper part had archery slits, and there was a deep ditch clear around the castle. The ditch served (from its smell) as the fortress’ garbage dump, and also (Shea suspected) as a firebreak. Seversk was nine-tenths wood, and from where he stood beside the prince Shea could see three burned-out blocks without looking hard.

Inside the main parts were two outer courtyards and an inner one. The larger of the outer ones held the storehouses, kitchens, and servants’ quarters. It was also the place where taxes collected in kind were deposited, in sacks, barrels, chests, carts, or whatever else they came in.

The other courtyard had an outer gate guarded by two stone towers and an inner gate that led to the inner courtyard. Here were stables, smithies (one recently rebuilt, judging from the mixture of smoke-blackened and new wood Shea saw), and more storehouses. Shea didn’t know precisely where the kitchen was; from the temperature of the food it had to be some ways from the dining hall.

Inside were the quarters for the prince’s household troops, the family quarters, the basilka the treasury. and (noises in the night hinted) the dungeon. The place would not last long against medieval or even Roman siege engines, but this did not seem to be an era, or an area, where sieges were feared. The fortress walls kept thieves out of Igor’s treasury and fires out of his bedchamber, and that was enough.

The sun was crawling down toward the horizon: Shea had been here long enough for the days to shorten. He thought of everything the term “Russian winter” conjured up and hoped that he, Reed, and Florimel could be back in Ohio before the days grew much shorter.

“It seems we have less to fear than Mikhail Sergeivich thought, from my cousin Sviatoslav Borisovich, the prince said “The first three carts of his taxes are in the lesser courtyard, together with a pack train. They are being unloaded now.”

A party of men with Igor’s colors on their shields came tramping up to the main gate. Shea counted twenty-five or thirty, all on foot but armed with everything but lances. Igor saw them too.

“Ah, those must be the men I bade Oleg Nikolaevich send out returning. There was a small tax matter that is no concern of yours that I wished to see settled peacefully before we left. We shall have to —”

He broke off, as one of the approaching men nocked an arrow. “The fool —” Igor began.

The “fool’s” arrow picked off a guard on top of the tower. Several more arrows soared up, then whistled down on the heads of the remaining guards and the men on the ramparts to either side of the towers. On the ground, the men not wielding bows drew their swords, except for a few who pulled axes from under their cloaks.

“By the Holy Mother —!” Igor exclaimed. He didn’t get to finish this remark either. A din broke out in the other courtyard, among the storehouses. Shea heard shouts, screams, and the clash of weapons.

So did Igor. He spoke no more, but dashed back along the ramparts, heading for the family quarters. His expression reminded Shea somewhat of Chalmers, but this was a warrior prince of the Rus, not an American academic. Igor was in a berserker’s fury, and Shea sincerely hoped that nothing would happen in the next hour to turn that fury against him.

First, though, he had to stay alive for the next hour.

Moving as fast as Igor, Shea dashed for the nearest stairway. He was too late. The inner gate to the courtyard flew open, knocking several defenders sprawling. What seemed like an army of men in Igor’s colors swarmed in.

Shea whirled and headed for the other stairway on his side of the courtyard. Whoever the new arrivals were, they weren’t friendly. Had Oleg Nikolaevich turned traitor?

As Shea took the stairs two at a time, an arrow whistled across the courtyard from the far wall. It stuck in his mail and only pricked his skin. He came down even faster after that, knowing that jumping down like Errol Flynn made a great movie shot but would probably sprain his ankle.

Several more arrows passed close enough to Shea for him to hear the whistle. Then the archer gave up, as if he couldn’t tell friend from foe.

Shea sympathized. He had the same problem. Everyone was in Igor’s colors, although one side was closer to the inner gate and one closer to the outer. Shea decided to assume the inner group was Igor’s men, the good guys. He also saw that they were outnumbered at least two to one.

He hurried toward them, joining their ranks just as the other group charged. None of the defenders turned to fight him, and he suspected why. With only a mail shirt, and no surcoat, he had no place to show colors, and his basket-hilted saber was now fairly well known.

What bothered him about the next couple of minutes was that none of the attackers seemed to bother with him either. Did they expect to find somebody dressed like him on their side, and if so, how?

Shea decided to settle that point right now.

“Forward, for Igor of Seversk?” he shouted. Several men around him took up the cry. Several others decided that he’d proclaimed himself an enemy, and charged.

The two groups collided. Shea found himself ducking under the swing of an axe. The axeman thought he was inside Shea’s sword’s reach and drew a dagger. Shea thrust clumsily but effectively upward, catching the axe-man under the chin. The wound made quite a mess and put the man out of the fight even if it might take a while to kill him.

Shea slashed and thrust his way back and forth across the courtyard, as vigorously as he dared. The two lines were breaking up and it was almost impossible to tell friend from foe even down on the ground. Everybody was now shouting “Igor of Seversk!” or some other battle cry; Shea began to think he might have made the confusion worse rather than better.

He got through several encounters with no damage to himself and some to his opponents, although he didn’t think he’d actually put anybody down for good except the first man. The saber wasn’t the world’s best armor-chopper, but it gave him a useful advantage against anyone who didn’t think of swords having points.

Working on that bogatyr reputation was all very well, but something smelled wrong. Something smelled magical.

Had someone put the see-the-expected spell on the gate and courtyard? And if they had could Shea break it in about two seconds, which was the longest interval he’d had between opponents? Otherwise he’d be the latest sorcerer to be run through for poor spelling.

Here came another man. Shea thought be saw Mikhail Sergeivich under the helm, but he’d already fought a couple of men who had the appearance of ones he’d sparred with in the practice yard.

“Wizard! This is your doing!” Mikhail’s voice, too — but the swordcut he launched at Shea wasn’t aimed at a friend.

Shea parried, the swords slammed together hilt to hilt, then the psychologist disengaged and opened the distance. He had reach and a point, and a fat lot of good either would do if they killed one of Igor’s captains!

Sparks flew twice more, before realization flickered on Mikhail’s face. He sprang back; Shea let him go; they both lowered their points and stood, staring and breathing hard.