Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array: The Incomplete Enchanter

There was a whistling scream, then catastrophe. The wide wing whammed down on the aviators, almost knocking Shea from his seat. They were no longer flying, but tumbling over and over, downward. The top of a tree slashed at Shea’s face. Dazedly, he heard the wivern crash and tried to right the broom. It nosed up into a loop and hung. A cry from behind him, receding towards the earth, froze him. He saw Belphebe tumble into the grass, twenty feet down, and a wave of the monster men close over her.

* * *

Shea manhandled his broomstick around, fervently wishing he had a lighter one — a pursuit job. By the time he got it aimed at the place where he had last seen Belphebe, there was no sign of her or of Busyrane either. The wivern sprawled bloatedly in the grass with hundreds of the enchanter’s allies swarming round it.

Shea drew his épée and dived at the thick of them. They screeched at him, some of producing clumsy breast bows. He swooped towards a monster with a crocodile head as the strings began snapping. The arrows went far behind, but just as Shea stiffened his arm for the gliding thrust, Crocodile-head thinned to a puff of mist. The épée met no resistance. As Shea held his glide, parallel with the ground, he found the crowding monsters disappearing before him. He pulled up, looking back. They were materializing behind. More arrows buzzed past.

He circled, cutting another swath through them. No sign of Belphebe.

At the third charge an arrow caught in his cloak. The flint head of another drove through his boot and a quarter inch into his calf. The goblins were learning and-aircraft lire. But of Belphebe there was still no sign, and now the ghost men were streaming towards him out of the woods on all sides. In every direction they were hopping, yelling, drawing their crude bows.

He climbed out of bowshot and circled, locking. No luck. It would have to be some other way. He felt slightly sick.

He went up higher, till the vast green expanse of Loselwood spread out before him. The sun was well up. Under it he fancied he could see the region where he had tangled with the Da Derga. Beyond should be the edge of the forest, where he and Chalmers had met their first Losels.

An hour of cruising showed him a clearing with a little garden, a thatched cottage, and a circular palisade of pointed stakes around the whole. He helixed down slowly.

A man came out of the wood and entered the palisade through a gate. Shea caught a glimpse of red face and black beard as his own shadows whisking across the grass, brought the man’s eyes upward. The man dashed into the cottage as if all the fiends of Hell were after him. In a moment two armoured men came out. The shield of one bore the striking black and silver gyronny of Sir Cambell.

«By oak, ash and yew;

My broomstick true,

Like a dead leaf descending,

So softly fall you!»

That was not quite the right way to put it, as Shea immediately learned. The broom settled slowly, but remorselessly literal, carried the imitation of a dead leaf to the point of a dizzying whirl. Cottage, forest, and waiting knights came to him in a spinning blur.

Shea felt the ground under his feet. He staggered dizzily.

Artegall roared: «By’r Lady, ’tis the enchanter’s varlet!» His sword came out, Wheep!

Shea said: «You’re just the man I’m looking for —»

«That I warrant!» His laugh was a nasty bark. «But you’ll accomplish no more magician’s tricks on me. I have a protection, which is more than you have against this!» He shook the sword and swung it back.

«Wait a minute!» cried Shea. «I can explain, honest —»

«Explain to the devils of Hell, where you soon will be!»

* * *

At that moment Britomart and Cambina came out of the cabin. Shea wondered frantically whether to run towards them, try to start the broom, or — What was that? A set of little patterns was faintly visible on Artegall’s breastplate as he turned in the morning sun. They were the type of pattern that would be left by soldering on brass oak leaves and then prying them off.

«Hey!» he said. «You’re the guy who showed up in the oak leaves at Satyrane’s tournament and won the second prize but didn’t stop to collect it!»

«Huh? How knew you — What mean you, rogue?»

«Just what I say. You fought for the challengers, and Britomart knocked you off your pony, didn’t she?»

«’Tis to be said. ah —» Artegall turned his scowl on Britomart. She glared back.

«Come, good friends,» said Cambina, «no variance. I proclaim it was Sir Artegall, for I penetrated his disguise. Come, Artegall, confess; you cannot hide the sun at the bottom of a bucket.»

«I suppose I must,» growled the knight. «I did but wish to make proof whether I were as strong in the lists as I seemed, or whether certain of the knights would rather fall off their horses than oppose the queens justiciar.» He turned to Britomart. «You have a rude way towards an affianced husband, my lady!»

Shea caught Britomart’s eye and winked violently. She turned on Artegall a look that would have melted granite. «Ah, my dear lord, had I but known! Yet surely you shall feel no shame at that one overthrow, for ’twas the combination of that enchanted ebony spear I bear and your own horse’s stumbling, neither alone sufficient.» She reached for his mailed arm. «When we are wed I shall leave these broils and tournaments to you.»

Campbell and Cambina looked at Britomart, then at each other. The look implied they had never seen her act that way before. Shea repressed a grin. The brawny blonde learned fast.

Artegail smiled shamefacedly. «Why, dearest dame, that were a great sacrifice indeed. I knew not you cared so.» His voice hardened «But we have here a most villainous young rascal.»

«No rascal,» said Britomart, «but a true and loyal squire, whom I have sworn to my service and that of the queen.»

«Then what of his soaring through the sky like a bug or witch? Nay, he’s of the tribe of enchanters —»

«Not so,» interrupted Cambina. «His magic is white, even as my own; and my art tells me that this Harold de Shea will speak the truth if you’ll let him.»

Artegall scowled, but asked: «Then what’s the truth he would speak?»

Shea told his story quickly before a new argument could start. «That is good truth, I guarantee,» said Cambina, when he had finished, «and Belphebe is in deadly danger.»

«Then why stand we here at words?» snapped Artegall. «Ho, woodcutter! We start at once. Food and horses, as soon as they may be had, for all of us.»

Shea disapproved of this cavalier treatment, but didn’t feel called upon to comment. He said: «Going to collect an army?»

«Nay, not I. Time presses us too close. Here we must count on our own good arms and Cambina’s magic. Art afraid?»

«Try me.»

«There’s a stout younker.» The frown in Artegall’s brows cleared a bit. «I will be just and admit I held you wrong.»

* * *

The moon in this world, Shea observed, set only twelve or thirteen minutes later each night, instead of the fifty minutes later of his own earth. He and his four companions were crouched at the edge of the opening that hid Busyrane’s unseen castle. They did not attempt it till the moon had disappeared.

As they crossed the open space Shea whispered: «I’m afraid I can’t find the gate. Too dark to see my landmarks.»

«Small loss,» answered Cambina. Shea saw her dimly, doing things with her wand. Out of nothing grew a faint phosphorescence that resolved itself into a row of bars.

Cambina pointed the wand at it. The instrument elongated, flexing itself like some tame worm. The tip groped with the lock, inserting itself gently. There was a faint click.