L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

And is sent to rule by Paradise!”

“Coleridge will forgive you,” Shea promised.

“Let us hope that it works.” Chalmers watched the fight with anxious eyes.

Randhir slashed a strike that would have opened Charya’s chest wide, if it had landed. But the chieftain leaped back, and the Rajah staggered as his own blow pulled him off balance. The captain gave a shout of of triumph and leaped in again, sword whirling straight toward the Rajah’s head — but Randhir managed to swing his blade up in the nick of time. Shea gasped, thinking Chalmers’ magic shield had failed — but Charya’s blade glanced aside inches from Randhir’s face. Shea relaxed with a sigh. “Your spell worked, Doc.”

“Yes, but I don’t think anyone else realizes that.” Chalmers glanced nervously about him. “At least, I hope they do not; a reputation as a sorcerer is the last thing I need right now.”

“Don’t worry,” Shea assured him, “To everyone else, I’m sure it looked as though Randhir parried the blow.”

“I trust so,” Chalmers agreed, “but I am certain that I saw Charyas sword glance off the rajah’s blade and on toward his head, where the spell turned it aside scant centimeters from his skin.”

“Don’t tell,” Shea advised.

Charya slashed another blow at Randhir, but this time the king really did catch it on his own blade. Charya shoved against it, jumping back, then advanced on the Rajah, whose sword whirled in a figure-eight that would have minced anything it met. Charya retreated and retreated, though, his own blade up and ready for the slightest opening in Randhir’s guard.

Now came the real beginning of the fight; it seemed the opening rain of blows had been only a prelude. Having tested each other, the two swordsmen settled down to serious fencing. They withheld their steel and bent almost double, knees flexed, skipping in circles around each other, each keeping his eye well fixed upon the other, with frowning brows and contemptuous Sneers. The battle stilled as soldiers and robbers alike stopped to watch their leaders battle.

“Ah! The king cuts a caper!” cried a soldier.

“But Charya answers with a measured leap!” cried a robber.

“Aye!” his mate cried in delight. “He springs forward like a frog!”

“And the king hops backward like a monkey!”

Then, incredibly, the king began striking his saber against his shield, a steady rhythmical beat — but Shea could see the blade never wavered much from readiness to strike. Charya, not to be outdone, began to beat on his shield, too — and Randhir stooped low with a loud cry, cutting at Charya’s legs. Charya sprang into the air, though, and the blade whistled harmlessly under him. Even as he came down, though, the robber chief whirled his sword three times around his head and brought it down like lightning in a slant, toward the king’s left shoulder — but the king snapped his shield up, and the sword clashed against it and bounced off. The rajah staggered back, thrown off balance by the strength of the blow. The captain followed closely, slashing and cutting, and for a moment, it was all the Rajah could do to block with his shield and parry with his sword. Then he rallied, suddenly leaping forward and striking, and Charya had to raise his shield in defense.

On and on they fought, till they were both rasping huge ragged gasps and the blows became rough and clumsy and slow. They were so well matched in courage, strength, and skill that neither could obtain the slightest advantage.

Of course, the Rajah did have Chalmers’ magical shield — but Shea could see that Reed was watching the match far too intently, with drops of sweat starting on his brow, his whole body tense. “Somebody trying to cancel your spell?” he asked softly.

Chalmers gave a terse nod. “Our captain has some sort of supernatural help siding with him.”

“Or against us,” Shea pointed out. “Malambroso’s probably in this universe too, after all, and if we can figure out that our lives depend on the Rajah’s right now, so can he.”

“A point well taken,” Chalmers grunted. “lend a hand, can you, Harold?”

“How?” Shea asked, at a loss.

“Something, anything, to throw that robber off balance!”

“Off balance?” Inspiration struck, and Shea dropped to one knee, patting the ground about him until one hand closed on a pebble in the darkness, an irregular lump about two inches across. Carefully, Shea stood up, lowering his foot onto the pebble and chanting,

“Beneath Charya’s foot

Let this stone at once be put.

Rolling as it is discerned —

Never leave a stone unturned!”

Shea felt a sudden absence beneath his sole, and stepped down to feel nothing but grass. It was hard to tell in the half-light, but he thought he saw something small appear under the robber captain’s instep — and sure enough, Charya stepped down and the stone revolved, sliding from under his foot. He cried out in rage, arms windmilling, and landed on his back so hard that it drove the breath out of him, leaving him helpless for a moment — and when he caught his breath, he found himself staring at the point of the Rajah’s blade, six inches in front of his face, right between his eyes. “I am lost!” he cried. “Save yourselves! Flee!”

With a wail, the thieves disappeared into the forest, The soldiers shouted and ran after them.

“Bide, Shea and Chalmers,” the Raja grated. “Do you, O dexterous and cunning swordsman, now loose grasp from your hilt, or my point will pierce your brain.”

“Strike, then!” Charya cried in defiance. “Better a clean death in battle than execution in shame!”

“While there’s life, there’s hope” Shea said. “Miracles have happened before.”

“Not for one so guilty as I!” But even as he said it, that very hope wavered in Charya’s eyes, and his hand loosened on the hilt. Shea knelt and tugged the sword away.

“You speak truly,” Randhir told Charya, “for I shall do all in my power to see you executed for your crimes.”

“Can you control the whims of the gods?” Chalmers challenged. “Can you read dharma so clearly as to be able to say there is no chance of this doughty knave living? For surely, he is most admirable in his skill and courage, no matter how despicable he may be in the ways in which he uses them.”

“There is truth in that,” the Rajah admitted. “However, though the race is not always to the swift, that is the way to place your wager. Bind this knave, then set him on his feet!”

So because of the shred of hope that Shea and Chalmers had raised within his heart, Charya of the robbers was taken alive for the Rajah’s justice, not slain on the ground where the turned stone had stretched him.

* * *

The next morning, Shea and Chalmers presented themselves in the Rajah’s private audience chamber. They found Randhir standing by the window, gazing moodily out over his kingdom.

“Your Majesty,” Shea prompted, “you sent for us?”

“Indeed,” Randhir turned to face them. “I wish to thank you.”

Alarm shrilled in every fiber, but Shea forced a bland and uncomprehending smile. “Thank us? For what?”

“It could have been chance or fate that placed that stone under Charya’s foot,” Randhir said quietly, “even though we had been back and forth over the same ground before — but I doubt it. But I know his sword glanced off some invisible shield when I thought it would surely cleave my head open.

Chalmers protested. “Surely Your Majesty is . . .”

“ ‘My Majesty’ knows what I saw, and knows magic when I see it!” Randhir snapped. “Since there was no magician there, I can only conclude that it was done by one of you foreigners — or both!”