Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array - The Incomplete Enchanter

With a yell of delight the defenders threw themselves on Cambell to make him prisoner. The challengers, more numerous, ringed the fallen knight round and began to get him back. Those still mounted tilted against each other around the edges of the mкlée.

A trumpet blew sharply over the uproar. Shea saw a new contestant entering the arena on the side of the challengers. He was a big, burly man who had fantastically decked every joint of his armour with brassoak leaves and had a curled metal oak leaf for a crest. Without any other notice, he dropped a big lance into position and charged at Satyrane, who had just received a fresh weapon on his side of the lists. Whang! Satyrane’s spear shivered, but the stranger’s held. The chief defender was carried six feet beyond his horse’s tail. He landed completely out. The stranger withdrew and then charged again. Down went another defender.

Britomart turned to Shea. «This is surely a man of much worship,» she said, «and now I may enter. Do you watch me, good squire, and if I am unhorsed, you are to draw me from the press.»

She was gone. The wounded Cambell, forgotten amid the tumult around this new champion, had been dragged to the security of the tents at the challengers’ end of the lists. The press was now around Satyrane, who was trying groggily to get up.

A trumpet sounded behind Shea. He turned to see Britomart ready. Oakleaves heard it, too, He wheeled to meet her. His lance shattered, but Britomart’s held. Though he slipped part of its force by twisting so it skidded over his shoulder, his horse staggered. Oakleaves swayed in the saddle. Unable to regain his co-ordination, he came down with a clatter.

The warrior girl turned at the end of the lists and came back, lifting a hand to acknowledge the hurricane of cheers. Another of the challengers had taken the place of the oakleaf knight. Britomart Laid her lance in rest to meet him.

Then a knight — Shea recognized Blandamour by the three crossed arrows on his shield and surcoat — detached himself from the mob around Satyrane. In two bounds his horse carried him to Britomart’s side, partly behind her. Too late she heard the warning shout from the stands as he swung his sword in a quick arc. The blow caught her at the base of the helmet, Down she went. Blandamour leaped down after her, sword in hand. Somebody shrieked: «Foully done!» Shea found himself running toward the spot, dragging at the big sword.

Blandamour had swung up his sword for another blow at Britomart. He turned at Shea’s approach and swung at his new adversary. Shea parried awkwardly with the big, clumsy blade, noticing out the corner of his eye that Britomart had reached a knee and was yanking a mace from her belt.

Blandamour started another swing. Can’t do much with this crowbar, thought Shea. He was trying to get it round, when he got a violent blow on the side of the head He reeled, eyes watering with pain. More to gain balance than to hit anything, he swung his sword round like a hammer thrower about to let go.

It caught Blandamour on the shoulder.

Shea felt the armour give before the impact. The man toppled with a red spurt of blood. The world was filled with a terrific blast of trumpets. Men-at-arms with halberds were separating the contestants. Britomart snapped up her visor and pointed to the man in armour at her feet, jerking like a headless chicken.

«A favour for a favour,» she remarked. «This faitour knave struck you from behind and was about to repeat the blow when my mace caught him.» She noticed that the grovelling man’s surcoat bore the green bars of Sir Paridell. «Yet still I owe you thanks, good squire. Without your aid I might have been sped by that foul cowardly blow that Blandamour struck.»

«Don’t mention it,» said Shea. «Are we taking time out for lunch?»

«Nay, the tournament is ended.»

Shea looked up and was dumfounded to see how much of the day had gone. The herald who had opened the proceedings had ridden across to the booth where the judge of the tournament sat. Now he blew a couple of toots, and cried in his high voice:

«It is judged that the most honour of this tournament has been gained by that noble and puissant lady, the Princess Britomart.» There was a shout of approval. «But it is also judged that the knight of the oak leaves has shown himself a very worthy lord and he also shall receive a chaplet of laurel.»

But when Britomart stepped up to the judge’s stand the knight of the oak leaves was nowhere to be found.

* * *

The stands emptied slowly, like those at a football game. Some spectators hooted after Blandamour and Paridell as they were helped out. Shea caught a glimpse of Chalmers, hurrying after the veiled girl who had been his neighbour in the stands.

She moved slowly, with long, graceful strides, and he caught up to her at the entrance to the castle. Someone, hurrying past, bumped them into each other. A pair of intense eyes regarded Chalmers over the low face veil.

«It is the good palmer. Hail, reverend sir,» she said in a toneless voice.

«Ahem,» said Chalmers, struggling to find something to say. «Isn’t it. uh. unusual for a woman to. uh. win a tournament?»

«Ywis, that it is.» The voice was toneless still. Chalmers feared he had managed things badly. But she walked by his side down the great hall till a blast of warmth came from a fireplace where a serving man had just started a blaze.

«The heat!» she gasped. «Bear it I cannot! Get me to air, holy sir!»

She reeled against the psychologist’s arm. He supported her to a casemented window, where she leaned back among the cushions, drawing in deep breaths. The features outlined against the thin veil were regular and fine; the eyes almost closed.

Twice Chalmers opened his mouth to speak to this singularly-abstracted girl. Twice he closed it again. He could think of nothing to say but: «Nice weather, isn’t it?» or «What’s your name?» Both remarks struck him as not only inadequate, hut absurd. He looked at his knobby knuckles with the feeling of being attached to a set of hands and feet seven times too big for him. He felt an utter fool in his drab gown and phony air of piety.

Dr. Reed Chalmers, though he did not recognize the sensations, was falling in love.

The girl’s eyelids fluttered. She turned her head and gave him along, slow look. He squirmed again. Then his professional sense awoke under that intent gaze. Something was the matter with her.

Certainly she was not feebleminded. She must be acting under some sort of compulsion — posthypnotic suggestion, perhaps — Magic!

He leaned forward, and was nearly knocked from his seat by a violent clap on the back.

«Good fortune, palmer!» cried a raucous voice. The dark Blandamour stepped past him, one arm bound tightly to his side. «Gramercy for your care of my little rosebud!» With the undamaged arm, he swung the girl expertly from her place in the casement and kissed her with a vigour that left, a damp spot on her veil.

Chalmers shuddered internally. The girl submitted with the same air of preoccupation. She sank back into the casement. Chalmers meditated on a suitably horrible end for this jolly roughneck. Something humorous and lingering, with either boiling oil or melted lead.

«Hi, Doc, how are we doing?» It was Shea. «Hi, Sir Blandamour. No hard feelings, I hope?»

The knight’s black eyebrows came down like awnings. «Against you, you kern?» he roared. «Nay, I’ll give you a meeting beyond the castle gate and spank you with the flat o’ my blade.»

Shea looked down his long nose and pointed towards Bbndamour’s bandaged shoulder. «Be careful that iron arm of yours doesn’t get rusty before you go that far,» he remarked. He turned to Chalmers. «Come on, Doc, we got some reserved seats for the beauty parade. They’re starting now.»