L. Camp: The Exotic Enchanter

Shea regretted that Malambroso had not continued to Mycenae with Agamemnon. If he had, Clytemnestra might have disposed of him permanently. According to the Greek legends, she’d made a pretty thorough sweep of her late husbands cronies.

Malambroso smirked. “Then I bargained with Hermes the Lightfingered. Ten percent of everything I took in exchange for news of visitors from other continua. I bargained him down to five when I hinted that they might be the advance party for new gods.

“But you can’t depend on those Olympians. By the time I found out what you’d been up to you’d already left, although Hermes did drop me off in the same universe.

“I wound up on the edge of the steppe, and started looking for Florimel. I found her at Yuri Dimitrivch’s estate, but I couldn’t afford to have her recognize me. She was established enough to have me imprisoned. And I didn’t, ah, want to try amnesia spells before practicing with the magic of this world.”

“You don’t seem to have learned much,” Shea said, increasing his distance as the wizard took a step forward.

“Magic among the Rus is complicated, Malambroso replied. “Many of them are strongly pious, which can cause spells to have, um, unintended results. Things are easier among these Polovtsi. Their old customs and taboos are breaking down, thanks to the wealth gained from raiding settled areas and providing slaves for the trade. They want spells for spying and battle-luck, things like that.”

“Why didn’t you just grab Florimel and run?” Shea asked. “Or are you a slave, too?”

“No, no. I am the chieftain’s counselor, and expected to attend him at all times. After I was, er, captured, and happened to mention the, er, burned palisade, I am considered to bring good luck.”

“Were you there when she was captured?”

“Of course. I had some idea of running off with her during the raid, but I had not then worked out a spell for leaving this world. Nor have I been able to persuade the chief to give her to me. These people are quite mercenary; they insist on cash down.”

“Ah, has she been hurt in any way?”

“No, no. The chieftain, at least, understands the market value of undamaged merchandise. The captives are guarded by eunuchs. And — I have not been able to get her away. She and the other women get together and take turns calling on the saints to keep them safe.” Malambroso looked sour. “Besides, she has developed much skill in biting. kicking, and screaming.”

Shea wondered just how he had found that out.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because Florimel has a most unfortunate habit of loyalty. She won’t desert those she considers her comrades. And once she’s sold — do you know how hard it is to rescue a slave around here? Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and everybody so solicitous of everyone else’s property rights.”

“Yeah, these bastards sure are.”

“Well, they are among themselves, and — confound it!” (although that wasn’t exactly what Malambroso said).

The wizard slapped himself in a sensitive spot, and the tent effect disappeared. Shea could hear normal background noises again, and the bargaining had risen to bellowing. With a last glance at Malambroso, who definitely had ants, if not something bigger, in his pants, Shea rode back to the Rus.

Igor’s men had pulled their helms low over their eyes, so that might have been the only reason they seemed to look suspiciously at Shea.

Minus the infestation, Chalmers was as uneasy as his enemy. “This looks more like a challenge than a trade,” he whispered.

“Or a trap,” Shea noted. Everyone who had been riding with bows unstrung had now started stringing them. Those whose bows were already strung seemed to be displaying great interest in the number of arrows In their quivers.

“A lousy son of a mangy she-goat, am I?” the chieftain bellowed. “I’ll show you, you dung-weaned boar’s get of a Rus!”

Shea braced for an arrow in his mail or in him, but nothing happened — yet. Instead the chieftain shouted something loud but wordless. All the Polovtsi who hadn’t mounted now did so. The ones already mounted started shifting outward, to the flanks. The Polovtsi would be stretched thin, but they would be able to hit the Bus with archery from three sides, and disperse rapidly if the Rus charged in any of the three directions.

The psychologist looked behind him. The Rus also knew what they were doing. Several bowshots away, the scouts who’d led the way toward the camp and then stopped were spreading out. They would be able to cover the retreat.

Except that Igor didn’t look like a man planning to retreat. Lances were coming out of their slings and the fading daylight sparked ruddy fire from steel points. If the Rus could get to close quarters without losing too many men to archery, their armor and longer reach would give them an advantage. The Polovtsi were going to have to fight their way off this battlefield.

Shea scratched his sunburned nose. He was going to have to fight his way into the ranks of the Polovtsi, or lose his useful reputation as a bogatyr . He wished for a helmet with a nasal to keep his nose from leading the way.

Hell, he wished (as he had done at other times) that he’d given up syllogismobiling across the continua after he’d married Belphebe! He wanted to see her. He wanted to see their child, other children, their grandchildren.

Not to mention that an all-out fight now would probably end any chances of rescuing Florimel. He could see what that thought was doing to Chalmers; the older man’s face was even grimmer than before.

Shea looked at his colleague. “Doc, make your passes!”

Shea hastily began reciting:

“O would some power the giftie gie them

To see themselves as others see them!

From many a hurtful notion free them!

The truth make known;

The sight o’ vermin carried wi’ them

To them be shown!

A Polovets bowman, stretched to the limit, sighted along his arm. It might have just been Shea’s imagination, but he seemed to be aiming at Igor.

Then the man seemed to turn to stone, except for his eyes, which grew very wide. A moment later, he reanimated himself — and let out the scream of a banshee with a migraine headache.

The scream was only the first of many, not to mention shouts and curses. All the Polovtsi grew bug-eyed, and some of them leaped from their horses to roll frantically on the ground. One of them rolled into a campfire and out the other side, jumping up with his clothes on fire.

He threw himself down again, rolled until the flames were out, then ran off toward the river, tearing off his clothes as he ran.

He wasn’t the only one. Polovtsi swatted, punched and clawed at themselves, making their ragged clothes even more so. Some drew their knives and started slashing at their garments or even stabbing at themselves, although Shea noted that none of those seemed to hit a vital spot.

Hardly any of the Polovtsi paid any attention to their horses, and it would have been a waste of time to do so. Their riders apparently going mad had thoroughly spooked all the ponies, and they were running off as fast as the Polovtsi themselves. Some of the ponies threw their uncaring riders off; others didn’t bother with that courtesy and ran away with them.

Shea took a firm grip on his own mount’s reins, thrust his own feet even more firmly into the stirrups, and tried not to laugh.

In what must have been less than five minutes, the camp area was completely empty of live, or at least conscious, Polovtsi. A couple lay staring at the sky, after stabbing themselves or perhaps knocking themselves silly falling off their horses.