The Complete Compleat Enchanter (52 page)

“Don’t worry, kid,” said Shea. “Vainamoinen’s the best egg in the whole space-time continuum.”

He began to change to his woods clothes.

“Oh, Harold,” said Belphebe. “We brought with us no scrip or other carrier wherein to transport our possessions, and I am loath to leave this good dress. It was the first you bought me, when we were in New York.”

“Fold it up, and I’ll make a bag out of my shirt. Hello, company’s coming!”

They hurriedly completed their change and were lacing their boots, when the man who had appeared from the direction of the houses reached the gate in the fence and came towards them.

He was a short man, of about Harold Shea’s own age (in other words, on the naive side of thirty), with a snub nose, wide Mongoloid cheek bones, and a short, straggly black beard. His thumbs were thrust into a broad, embroidered leather belt that gathered in a linen blouse-shirt which fell over a pair of baggy, woolen pants, which in turn were tucked into boots with hair on the outside. A cap of some high-grade fur sat precariously on one side of his head. He swaggered notably.

Shea buckled on the scabbarded épée and said: “Good day, sir!” confident that his transition to this continuum had automatically changed his language to the local one.

The man cocked his head on one side and combed his beard with his fingers, surveying them from head to foot. Finally he spoke:

“Oh, ye funny-looking strangers,

It is plain for all to witness,

Ye are from a foreign country!

Tell me of yourselves, O strangers;

Whence ye come from, what your station,

Who your forebears, what the purpose

Brings you to the land of heroes?”

Oh, no you don’t, thought Shea. I’ve read the
Kalevala,
and I know that when you get the ancestry of a man you can clap all sorts of spells on him. Aloud he said courteously. “I’m Harold Shea, and this is my wife, Belphebe. We come from Ohio.”

“Harolsjei? Pelviipi? Ouhaio?” said the man.

“Truth to tell, I do not know them.

From a distant land ye must be,

Farther than the realm of Hiisi,

Than the dreaded deeps of Mana.

Though ye come a long way hither,

Never shall ye lack for welcome,

So that beautiful Pelviipi

Ever smooths the path before you

By her smile so warmly radiant,

Warmly radiant as the sunbeam.”

“Thanks,” said Shea drily. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon you spoke prose. My wife was bitten by a poet once, and it gave her an allergy that makes her uncomfortable when she hears more of it.”

The man glanced at Shea suspiciously and at Belphebe appreciatively. “Hear me now, O Harolainen . . .” he began, but Belphebe, playing up nobly, made a face and a slight retching sound, so he checked, and lowering his voice, said, “Is it not that in far Ouhaio you control your women?”

“No, they control us,” said Shea rapidly.

Belphebe frowned; the stranger smiled ingratiatingly. “In our noble land of heroes early do we learn the manner of teaching women their places. Now will I make you the fairest of offers—we shall for one wife exchange the other, and fair Pelviipi shall be returned to you, made most obedient, and with a knowledge of poetry gained from the greatest singer in all Kalevala, all the land of heroes.”

“Huh?” said Shea. “No, I don’t think I’d care to go into a deal like that . . .” and as he caught the stocky man’s frown “. . . at least until I know more about your country. Is Vainamoinen up there at the houses?”

The stranger had been leading them towards the gap in the fence. He said sullenly: “Not there now nor ever will be.”

“Oh,” said Shea, thinking that he must somehow have made a positional error. “Then whom does this establishment belong to?”

The man stopped, drew himself up, and with as much hauteur as a shorter man can give himself before a taller, said:

“Stranger, it is clear as water

You are new to Kalevala.

No one from the land of heroes

Could mistake great Kaulkomieli,

Oft as Saarelainen mentioned.

Surely have the fame and glory

Of the lively Lemminkainen

Wafted to your distant country!”

“Oh-oh,” said Shea. “Pleased to meet you, Lemminkainen. Ye-es, your fame has come to Ohio.”

He shot a nervous glance at Belphebe. Not having read the
Kalevala,
she was in no position to appreciate exactly how serious the positional error was. Instead of reliable old Vainamoinen, they had made contact with the most unreliable character in the whole continuum: Lemminkainen, the reckless wizard and arrant lecher.

But trying to pull out now would only make things worse. Shea went on, “You have no idea what a pleasure it is to meet a real hero.”

“You have met the greatest,” said Lemminkainen, modestly. “Doubtless you have come to seek aid against a fire bird or sea dragon that is laying waste your country.”

“Not exactly,” said Shea, as they reached the gate. “You see, it’s like this: we have a couple of friends who got stranded in another world, and the magic of our own world isn’t strong enough to bring them back. So we thought we’d come to a country where they had real magicians and find somebody with skill enough to manage the job.”

Lemminkainen’s broad face assumed an expression of immense craftiness. “What price shall be offered for this service thaumaturgic?”

Damn it, thought Shea, can’t the man speak plain language? Aloud he said: “What might you want, for instance?”

The stocky man shrugged. “I, the mighty Lemminkainen, have few needs of anybody. Flocks and herds in plenty have I, fields of rye and barley, girls to kiss and serfs to serve me.”

Shea exchanged a glance with Belphebe. As he stood there, debating whether to mention his own technique in magic, Lemminkainen went on, “Perhaps, if the beautiful Pelviipi . . .”

“Not on your life!” said Shea quickly.

Lemminkainen shrugged again and grinned. “As you wish, O Harolainen. I have no desire to haggle—and in any case, I have my own wrongs to right. Curses on the Mistress of Pohjola, who refused to let me wed her daughter, and not only that, did not even invite me to her wedding with Ilmarinen the smith. I will slay these wretched people of the land of fog and darkness!”

He suddenly snatched off his cap, flung it on the ground and danced up and down in a paroxysm of rage. Shea tried to recall his
Kalevala.
There was something about a journey of revenge like that in it, and it had not turned out too well for Lemminkainen, as he recalled.

“Wait a minute,” he said, “maybe we can make a deal at that. This Pohjola is a pretty tough nut. If you take the two of us along, we might be of a good deal of help in cracking it.”

Lemminkainen stopped his capering. “Shall a hero of my stature fear the land of frost and midnight?” he asked. “Tall you are, but lack the mighty thews of Kalevala’s heroes. You might help if the battle were with children.”

“Now look here,” said Shea, “I may not be built like a truck horse, but I can do one or two things. With this.” He whipped out the épée.

At Shea’s draw, Lemminkainen’s hand flashed to the hilt of his own broadsword, but he refrained from producing it when it was evident that Shea had no immediate intention of attacking him. He looked at the épée.

“Certainly that is the oddest sword blade ever seen in Kalevala,” he said. “Do you use it as a toothpick or with thread to patch your breeches?”

Shea grinned in his turn. “Feel that point.”

“It is sharp, but my wife Kylliki does my darning.”

“Still, it wouldn’t do you any good if it poked into you, would it? All right, then. Want to see how I use it?”

Lemminkainen’s short, broad blade came out.

“No, Harold,” said Belphebe, putting down her own bundle and beginning to string her bow.

“It’s all right, kid. I’ve dealt with these cutmen before. Remember the hillside near Castle Carena? Besides, this is just practice.”

“Do you wish to try at flatsides?”

“Exactly. Ready?”

Clang-dzing-zip!
went the blades. Lemminkainen, pressing forward, was as good a swordsman with the edge as Shea had ever encountered. He swung forehand, backhand and overhand with bewildering speed, not seeming even to breathe hard. His theory seemed to be to get in close and hit as hard and as often as possible, and to hell with the consequences.

Shea, backing slowly, parried the vicious swings slantwise, wondering what would happen if one of them caught his thin blade at a square enough angle to snap it off. A crack like that could maim or kill a man, even though only the flat of the blade was used. Once Shea tried a riposte; Lemminkainen leaped backward with catlike agility.

Round and round went Shea, giving ground steadily, trying to save his own breath. Once his foot was not quite firm; a swing almost got him and he had to stagger back three steps, with Belphebe’s “Oh!” in his ears. But at last the whirlwind attack slackened. The épée slid out and scratched along Lemminkainen’s forearm.

“You can tickle with that piece of straw,” admitted the hero. He swung again, not so accurately this time. Shea turned the blade aside and the épée darted forward to scratch Lemminkainen’s shoulder.

“See,” said Shea. Lemminkainen growled, but a quick attack brought the point squarely against his midriff before he could even begin an attempt at a parry.

“Now what would happen if I pushed?” said Shea.

“Boastful stranger, that was but a chance occurrence.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, let’s try it again, then.”

Dzing-zip-tick-clang
went the blades. This time Lemminkainen, though not in the least winded, was frowning and overanxious. There were only a couple of exchanges before he was off balance and once more Shea put his point against the broad chest before him. He said: “That, my friend, was no accident. Not twice in a row.”

Lemminkainen sheathed his blade and waved a contemptuous hand. “Against an unarmored foe your tricks might gain you a few minutes more of life. But the men of black Pohjola go to war in mail. Do you think that little skewer will do them damage?”

“I don’t know what kind of armor they have, but it had better be tight at the joints if they’re going to keep this point out.”

“I will take you to Pohjola—but enough has not been shown me that I should put the service of my magic to your need. You may be my servant.”

Shea shot a glance at Belphebe, who spoke up. “Sir Lemminkainen, the men of your land are marvelous boasters, it appears, though falling somewhat short of the fulfillment of their claims. Yet if losing a contest makes one a servant, you shall be mine, for it would greatly astony me could you or any of yours surpass me in archery.”

Shea suppressed a grin. Belphebe might not have any formal training in psychology, but she knew how to deal with braggarts. The trick was to outbrag them on some point where you knew you could deliver the goods.

Lemminkainen squinted at Belphebe and said: “Harolsjei, I withdraw my offer. In this wife of yours I see she is a vixen who needs nothing but chastisement. Wait for my returning.”

They were close to the buildings now. Shea noticed for the first time a row of ill-clad serfs who had been watching the contest with their mouths gaping open. “My bow!” shouted Lemminkainen as they fell back before him.

Presently he was back with a crossbow under his arm and a fistful of bolts stuck in his belt. Shea noticed that the instrument had a bow of steel, with a strip of copper for backing and silver inlay. Quite a handsome piece of artillery, in fact.

“Harold,” said Belphebe, softly, “not so certain am I that I can in truth best this knave. A strong crossbow of steel in practiced hands can prove most deadly sure.”

“Do your best, kid; you’ll slaughter him,” said Shea, feeling a good deal less confident than he sounded.

Lemminkainen said: “Will you have a fixed mark, red-haired baggage, or shall I set a serf to run that we may have the better sport?”

“A fixed mark will do,” said Belphebe. She looked as though the only moving target she wanted was Lemminkainen.

The hero waved a hand. “See that knot in yonder fencepost, distant from us forty paces?”

“I see it. ’Twill do as well as another.”

Lemminkainen grinned, cocked his bow and let drive. The steel-tipped bolt struck the fencepost with a loud crack, three or four inches below the knot.

Belphebe nocked an arrow, drew the string back to her ear, sighted a second and let go. The shaft grazed the edge of the fencepost and whistled off into the long grass.

Lemminkainen’s grin widened. “Another, would you?” This time he did even better; his bolt struck the post squarely, about an inch above the knothole. But Belphebe’s shot stood quivering about the same distance below.

Lemminkainen shot another bolt, then shouted: “I will not be outdone on this turn.” He seemed to be right; his quarrel was squarely in the knot.

A little frown appeared between Belphebe’s eyes. She drew, held her draw for a couple of seconds, then lowered the bow and brought it up again to the release point in a single motion. The arrow struck the knot, right beside the bolt.

Shea said, “Seems to me you’re both about as good as you can get . . . Hey, why not try that?”

He pointed to where a big crow had flung itself on flapping wings out across the meadow, emitting a harsh
haw!

Lemminkainen whipped up his crossbow and shot. The bolt whizzed upward, seeming to go right through the bird. A couple of black feathers drifted down, but after staggering in its flight, the crow kept on.

As the crow steadied, one of Belphebe’s arrows sang upward and struck it with a meaty thump. It started to tumble; three more arrows streaked towards it in rapid succession. One missed, but two hit, so that the bird plummeted to earth with three arrows criss-crossing in its carcass.

Lemminkainen stared open-mouthed. There were murmurs from the serfs around the buildings. Belphebe said calmly: “Now, sirrah, I should like my arrows back.”

Lemminkainen swung an arm to indicate that the serfs should take up the task. Then he brightened, and tapped his own chest. “I, the lively Lemminkainen, am still the greater hero,” he said, “because I have excelled in two contests and each of you only in one. But it is not to be denied that you are very good persons of your hands, and in exchange of your help I will chant for you the magic runes you wish.”