Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array: The Green Magician

He made a quick upward sweep that brought the buckler aloft, then drove the blade into the man’s thigh, just above the knee and below the edge of the kilt. He felt the blade cleave meat; the man’s leg buckled, spilling him to the ground in a clang of metal with a great groaning shout.

Behind them in the rath there were answering cries and the torchlight points turned. «Come on!» cried Belphebe, and began to run. She still clutched the big spear, but was so light on her feet that it did not appear to matter. Shea, trying to keep up with his wife, heard more shouts behind him. «The hill,» he gasped, and as he ran, was suddenly glad that the Irish of this period were not much with bows.

There were only occasional trees, but the moonlight was tricky and dubious. A glance backward showed the torchbearers had reached the gate and were beginning to spread. There ought to be just barely time if he could remember the spell correctly. Whatever dangers the country of the Sidhe held, they were less than those to be encountered by staying.

He was getting short of breath, though Belphebe beside him was running as lightly as ever. The hill loomed over them, dark now by reason of the movement of the moon. «This way,» gasped Shea, and led up the uneven slope. There was the black rock, still shining queerly mirrorlike. Shea lifted his arms over his head and began to chant, panting for breath:

«The chiefs of the voyage — over the sea — By which — the sons of Mil came.»

Behind one of the pursuers set up a view-halloo. Out of the corner of his eye, Shea saw Belphebe whirl and balance the spear as though for throwing; he didn’t have time to stop and tell her that such a weapon couldn’t be used that way.

«Who but I, Harold mac Shea?» he finished, resoundingly.

«Come on.»

He dragged Belphebe toward the dimly seen black opening and then through it. As he entered the darkness he felt a tingling all over, as of a mild electric shock.

Then, abruptly, sunlight replaced moonlight. He and Belphebe were standing on the downward slope of another hill, like the one they had just entered. He had time to take in the fact that the landscape was similar to the one they had quitted, before something crashed down on the back of his head and knocked him unconscious.

Briun Mac Smetra, King of the Sidhe of Connacht, leaned forward in his carven chair and looked at the prisoners. Harold Shea looked back at him as calmly as he could, although his hands were bound behind his back and his head was splitting. Briun was a tall, slender person with pale blond hair and blue eyes that seemed too big for his face. The rest of them were a delicate-looking people, clad with Hellenic simplicity in wrap-around tunics. Their furnishings seemed a point more primitive than those in theIreland from which they had come — the building they were in had a central hearth with a smoke-hole instead of the fireplaces and chimneys he had seen there.

«It will do you no good at all to be going on like this,» said the King. «So now it is nothing at all you must lose but your heads, for the black-hearted Connachta that you are.»

«But we’re not Connachta!» Said Shea. «As I told you.»

A husky man with black hair said, «They look like Gaels, they speak like Gaels, and they are dressed like Gaels.»

«And who should know better than Nera the champion, who was a Gael himself before he became one of us?» said the King.

«Now look here, King.» said Shea. «We can prove we’re not Gaels by teaching you things no Gael ever knew.»

«Can you now?» said Briun. «And what sort of things would those be?»

Shea said, «I think I can show your druids some new things about magic.»

Beside him Belphebe’s clear voice seconded him. «I can show you how to make a bow that will shoot — two hundred yards.»

Briun said, «Now it is to be seen that you are full of foolish lies. It is well known that we already have the best druids in the world, and no bow will shoot that far. This now is just an excuse to have us feed you for a time until it is proved you are lying, which is something we can see without any proof being needed. You are to lose your heads.»

He made a gesture of dismissal and started to rise.

The black-thatched Nera said, «Let me.»

«Wait a minute!» cried Shea, desperately. «This guy is a champion, isn’t he? All right, how about it if I challenge him?»

The King sat down again and considered. «Since you are to lose your head anyway,» he said, «we may as well have some enjoyment out of it. But you are without armor.»

«Never use the stuff,» said Shea. «Besides, if neither one of us has any, things will move faster.»

He heard Belphebe gasp beside him, but did not turn his head.

«Ha, ha,» said Nera. «Let him loose and I will be making him into pieces of fringe for your robe.»

Somebody released Shea and he stretched his arms and flexed his muscles to restore circulation. He was pushed rather roughly toward the door, where the Tuatha De Danaanwere forming a ring, and a sword was thrust into his hand. It was one of the usual Irish blades, almost pointless and suitable mainly for cutting.

«Hey!» he said. «I want my own sword, the one I had with me.»

Briun stared at him a moment out of pale, suspicious eyes. «Bring the sword,» he said, and then called: «Miach!»

The broadsword that Shea had ground down to as fine a point as possible was produced. A tall old man with white hair and beard that made himlook like a nineteenth-century poet stepped forward.

«You are to be telling me if there is a geas on this blade,» said the King.

The druid took the blade and, holding it flat on both palms, ran his nose along it, sniffing. He looked up. «I do not find any smell of geas or magic about it,» he said, then lifted his nose like a hound toward Shea. «But about this one there is certainly something that touches my profession.»

«It will not save him,» said Nera. «Come and be killed, Gael.» He swung up his sword.

Shea just barely parried the downstroke. The man was strong as a horse, and had a good deal of skill in the use of his clumsy weapon. For several panting minutes the weapons clanged; Shea had to step back, and back again, and there were appreciative murmurs from the audience.

Finally, Nera, showing a certain shortness of breath and visibly growing restive, shouted, «You juggling Greek!» took a step backward and wound up for a two-handed overhead cut, intended to beat down his opponent’s blade by sheer power. Instantly Shea executed the maneuver known as an advance-thrust — dangerous against a fencer, but hardly a barbarian like this. He hopped forward, right foot first, and shot his arm out straight. The point went right into Nera’s chest.

Shea’s intention was to jerk the blade loose with a twist to one side to avoid the downcoming slash. But the point stuck between his enemy’s ribs, and, in the instant it failed to yield, Nera’s blade, weakened and wavering, came down on Shea’s left shoulder. He felt the sting of steel and in the same moment the sword came loose as Nera folded up wordlessly.

«You’re hurt!» cried Belphebe. «Let me loose!»

«Just a flesh wound,» said Shea. «Do I win, King Briun?»

«Loose the woman,» said the fairy King, and tugged at his beard. «Indeed, and you do. A great liar you may be, but you are also a hero and champion, and it is our rule that you take his place. You willbe wanting his head for the pillars of the house you will have.»

«Listen, King;» said Shea. «I don’t want to be a champion, and I’m not a liar. I can prove it. And I’ve got obligations. I really come from a land as far from the land of the Gaels as it is from Tirna n-Og and, if I don’t get back there soon, I’m going to be in trouble.»