L. Camp - The Exotic Enchanter

He fully expected to be roasted by a blast of flame, but the enormous drake rose slowly to its feet amidst a small rocksilde, stretched itself interminably, and walked calmly over to its new master.

Shea thanked his stars and hurriedly climbed onto the creature’s neck, which was no easy task. He settled comfortably between two large plates on its back, and waited. Nothing happened. Obviously more magic was in order. He recited a further rhyme:

“Onward, noble steed, to battle we fly,

For fame and glory, our victory is nigh. . . .”

Before Harold could finish, the drake lurched forward, rose from the cave floor, and sped toward the entrance. Just how the thing flew with its monstrous wings in this confined space was a mystery but somehow it was doing so with alarming speed Shea hung on for dear life.

Moments later, they flashed out through the opening into the light of day. Shea was temporarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the light. The great wings of the fire drake now began beating with a low, rhythmic murmur and they rose swiftly above Firemount. Shea was not sure how he controlled the monster, but it was doing exactly what he wanted. Could it be telepathic?

He tested his theory by directing the dragon to make a maneuver it would never do in the natural course of simple flying. Instantly Shea regretted the thought for the drake swirled effortlessly up and over in a tight loop. and for a precarious moment, its rider hung on by his fingernails. Satisfied that he was more or less in control, Harold righted the beast and pointed his juggernaut in the direction of the conflict. VII

Belphebe cursed as a rock smashed into her shin. Since Harold had departed on his mysterious mission, she, Polacek, and Snag had been in control of the army of spirits, sailors, and fairies, and things were not going any too well. Polacek kept leafing through the magic book and attempting to cast spells which invariably failed, or worse, backfired, wreaking havoc among their own number.

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.