The Exotic Enchanter (25 page)

V

Shea landed with a crash in the thorny scrub. It was thicker than it looked from above and he plowed through several layers of thornbush. At last his feet hit the ground, and after a struggle he extricated himself from the tangled mass of vegetation. Once free, he took off running again, down the valley. Perspiration stung the numerous tiny cuts made on his hands and cheeks by the thorns.

Harold splashed into a brackish creek and turned upstream, hoping to cover his footprints. He soon slowed to a walk and then to a stagger, as the last glimmer of daylight and his energy simultaneously gave out. Fortunately, he could no longer hear any pursuers; and with the last bit of strength left in his ravaged body, Shea struggled up the bank and into a grassy clearing, where he curled up into a ball in some tall weeds and promptly fell asleep.

The first rays of a sunny morning climbed over a hill and shone cheerfully down on Shea. He opened his eyes with a start, then shivered and remembered where he was. He had been dreaming of an automobile chase. Belphebe was driving their Chevrolet and he was in the backseat while she took corners on two wheels. He'd have to talk to her about that. . . . Belphebe! He had forgotten completely about her. Was she still alive? Desperately, Shea sat up, rubbing his hands together to generate some heat. His muscles ached, and the myriad of cuts and scratches added to his general discomfort. His empty stomach complained, and he crawled slowly down to the creek for a drink. There were brown things floating in the water. He had no idea what they were, and was too thirsty to care; the water tasted good.

Shea stretched his sore limbs and washed his wounds as best he could. As he placed his jacket on the ground it suddenly occurred to him that the magic book was gone from his breast pocket, probably back in the hands of Sycorax. He could only pray that Belphebe had somehow escaped; his multiple knocks to the head wouldn't permit any more complicated thoughts. Soon he set out upstream again. Now that the sun was out, he could tell that he had been traveling north the night before. He stayed in the valley by the creek for over an hour, occasionally climbing a hill to survey his position. There were no goblins to be seen, but neither could he spot the green trees of the land of the spirits.

It was nearly noon when Shea climbed a particularly high brush-covered hill. What he saw made him drop swiftly to the ground. Not fifty yards away were what appeared to be old Roman ruins, consisting of columns, a couple of crumbling buildings, and a large flat tiled floor upon which some goblins were playing what looked like a game of shuffleboard.

Shea watched with detached interest for a while. Then the smell of cooked food attacked his nose, and he began working his way closer by ducking from one bush to the next Soon he could make out the goblins' conversation—all about their game and the bets they had made on the outcome. He slipped behind a crumbling building. Inside, their meal was cooking in a pot over a small fire—the smell was entrancing, and drove all other thoughts from his mind.

Shea was on the verge of sneaking in when a fight broke out on the shuffleboard court. One of the goblins had been caught cheating, and the others jumped on the villain. The hapless goblin was tied upside down to a column, where it retched and moaned while the game continued. Shea actually began to feel sorry for the creature. A wild idea came to mind.

He mulled it over for a moment and shrugged, thinking: What have I got to lose?

Harold stood up, looked longingly at the stew pot, arranged his ragged suit as best he could, and walked boldly out onto the forum. The two goblins spotted him immediately and one dropped his stick in amazement.

"Good morning, boys," Shea began. "I've been watching your game. You're both pretty talented players. I myself was once the All-Ohio shuffleboard champion." He bent over and picked up the dropped stick. "You see, in Ohio, this game is also known as the national pastime." Shea leaned forward and shoved a rock skillfully across the court. "My name ranks right up there with the all-time greats such as Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth, and Joe DiMaggio . . ."

"Loo Gerik?" asked the smaller goblin, its eyes open wide.

The other came to its senses. "Ho, you be the mage sought by the witch. 'Tis a trick!" It nudged its smaller companion.

"Forget the witch. I'll make you a wager," Shea went on, "I'll take on the better of you. If I win, you cut down your noisy companion over there." He pointed at the goblin hanging from the column. "You give me a meal, and I'm gone."

"And if I, Pholantus, win?" the larger goblin asked, defiantly.

"I'm your prisoner."

Pholantus smiled knowingly, baring a misshapen set of brown teeth. The game began. It soon became clear that Shea was up against a master. Each time they shot, Harold's stones were consistently knocked off the mark by those of the goblin. Something was rotten in Denmark. Either this goblin was the best shot in the world, or he was using magic to cheat. Shea wondered just how he could put some subtle magic to use to assist his own cause.

At length, recalling the way Heimdall cheated in the cockroach races back in Surt's stronghold, Harold was fairly certain he could apply the same method to shuffleboard. When the others were admiring a particularly vicious shot of Pholantus', he mumbled discreetly and made passes with his left hand. The goblin's rocks began to consistently slide past the mark, while Shea's stones stopped with mysterious regularity on the highest score. When his total score became larger than that of his opponent, the goblin threw his stick to the deck in anger.

"Damnation! You cozen me and would dance out of your true debt." Pholantus snarled, "Gretio, this sheep-biter needeth thrashing!" He motioned for his smaller companion to attack. But instead, Gretio stood pat. "Nay, I am afeard of this mage!"

The larger goblin growled and strode forward, taking a swing at Shea, who ducked and then put up his dukes. So it was to be a boxing match! Well, boxing was a lot like fencing, just a matter of balance, position, and timing.

Using fancy footwork, he danced around his slow-witted opponent. Shea slipped several punches, adding to the goblin's fury. The other goblin, Gretio, seemed quite content to stay in the background and only once made an effort to trip Harold. Shea laughed, letting his guard down. At that moment, the big one landed a fist square on Shea's jaw, and he staggered backward from the force of the blow.

Now he was angry. Shea recalled the last night he had spent at the fights, and imagined himself the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis. Now he took the fight to the enemy. Harold landed a stiff shot to the goblin's gut and then connected with a left jab followed by a right cross. The goblin wobbled and then crashed to the mat. Shea turned to face Gretio.

"C'mon, bub, you're next!" the champ said defiantly, dancing neatly around in a circle. Rather than fight, however, the little goblin shrieked and ran off into the underbrush. "Hey! What's the matter, you coward?" Shea taunted, shaking a fist at the fleeing foe. He danced around a bit more, shadow boxing, and then came back to reality.

The upside-down goblin hanging from the column was yelling: "Help! Let me down!" Shea walked over to the unfortunate creature.

"If I cut you down, will you promise to help me?"

"Yes, yes! Anything!" So Shea, his head throbbing again, now that the thrill of battle had worn off, loosed the goblin's bindings.

"Many thanks," said the goblin as it fell to the ground, "I'm called Malovio. That was a most impressive display of fisticuffs." It extended a scaly green hand in friendship.

"Harold Shea here," he said as he shook the goblin's hand.

Malovio glanced nervously around and then bent over the unconscious Pholantus. "Methinks we'd best be off before Gretio returns with the sergeant!"

"But I'm hungry," complained Shea, "and they've got a pot of soup on. . . ."

"I, Malovio, can always find sustenance. That cheat Pholantus will wake soon and want revenge. Let us away!" The goblin scooted off into the bushes, and Shea followed.

Malovio led the way through the prickly undergrowth with such speed that Shea was amazed. The little goblin trudged on tirelessly, as though they were being chased by an army. But then, maybe they were being chased by an army. They stopped to drink from a stream.

"Hey, Mal," Shea said, "when are you going to find us that meal?" His empty stomach was tying itself in knots.

"Soon, Harold, I know a secret place." On they went, through endless fields of scrub till they came to a grove of dead trees. There was an eerie look about it. The leafless trees stood like obelisks in a graveyard. Malovio plopped down on a fallen log.

"You, sir, make fire. I shall bring game," said the goblin. "Know ye that I'm a great hunter."

"So what is there to hunt on this island?" asked Shea. "I haven't seen a single animal all day."

Malovio bent down and picked up a pointed stick. "One must know the land to find the game!" he answered casually, and then began walking off. "Make the fire great!" said the goblin as it disappeared behind a bush.

Shea gathered wood for a fire, but with his lighter gone he was afraid he would end up rubbing two sticks together to get it started. At the edge of the grove he stumbled across an old fire pit and carefully laid the wood in the middle. He was also pleased to discover several pieces of flint which somebody, or something, had left behind.

It took him a good bit of smashing stones together to find the right combination, and even longer to persuade a little mound of dry moss to start smoking, but at last he had a fine crackling fire going. Moments later, Maiovio came walking proudly back into camp; Harold shuddered when he saw what the goblin had hanging from the stick over his shoulder. A brace of fat rats!

Neither had a knife, so the catch was roasted the way it came, fur and all. Shea was a bit squeamish at first, but the gnawing in his stomach soon took control of his senses.

While supper sizzled, Maiovio dug under a pile of branches and produced a small, well-used copper kettle.

"Stew?" asked the goblin.

"Y'know," said Shea, "I'd rather have beer!"

Maiovio gave him a puzzled look. "Beer?"

"You'd be surprised what I can do. Fill that thing with water and I'll put my magical powers to work on it. We'll have us some fine brew to go with our supper."

Malovio's eyes lit up. "Most assuredly!"

Shea gathered some grasses that resembled barley and scratched out the formula for alcohol on the end of a stick. He could have made finer stuff with sugar cubes, but one had to make do. He surveyed the sorry pile of ingredients and sighed.

Maiovio returned with the kettle full of water, and Shea dumped in the grasses and began to stir it with the stick, chanting:

"Beer, Beer, beautiful beer,

Fill this pot up with it,

Clear up to here!"

A corny verse, but it was the best he could come up with after being knocked out so many times. A brown froth began forming in the pot. Shea stuck his finger in the mix. Not bad, he thought to himself. He put the kettle to his lips and took a healthy swig. Then the goblin grabbed it greedily and took a long series of draughts, spilling the dark liquid down from his green lips onto his ragged coat.

"Fair magic," said Malovio, smiling, "thy liquor is unearthly."

Shea thought it had a muddy aftertaste and was very "earthly" indeed, but it did pack a punch. Soon he and the goblin were best of friends, laughing and telling each other inane jokes. The roasted rats tasted as good as gourmet chicken. When the meal was done, the goblin went for more water and insisted Shea brew up a second batch. As night settled in around them, the goblin grew maudlin and Harold began gently to question him for information.

"Before that witch Sycorax, our life on this isle were full-easy. In Firemount we lived, and served the great drake, which was little enough trouble. Yet now we are but stevedores and whipping boys."

"So, you goblins aren't too fond of the witch either," suggested Shea.

"Verily! In defiance now I lead the renegade life, and 'tis not an easy trip," complained Malovio.

"What is this great drake?" asked Shea, sensing a potential ally against the witch.

"At the root of the Firemount now sleeps a mighty drake, once a hot and noisome thing. Yet if we served, it did treat us fairly. Then Sycorax came to our land, accurst the drake, and full seven years hath it slept," Malovio sighed heavily. "And now slaves we are to the witch. The life of a goblin is not easy."

Harold was about to ask more of the drake and if the goblin knew the whereabouts of Belphebe, when Malovio took a long drink from the kettle, grinned, and passed out. Shea poked a stick around in the coals, finished the kettle of earthy beer, and watched the fire die out. He thought wistfully of his wife and determined to set out after her at first light. Then he, too, fell asleep.

It was nearly noon the next day when Harold regained consciousness. His head throbbed. Too much beer, no doubt! Malovio was nowhere to be found. Shea struggled upright and kicked around the smoldering embers on wobbly feet, trying to think what to do next.

It was way past time to continue his search for Belphebe and the spirits. With a sense of urgency, he left the grove and headed for the nearest hill. Some movement caught his attention and he quickly hid behind a tree trunk. It was fortunate he had not slept or delayed any longer, for a party of twenty or more goblins came stomping up and began milling around the the site. Shea carefully edged away from the camp, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the goblins.

He climbed the next hill, but saw nothing but more bramble bushes and dead trees. The dead zone created by the witch had a queer, depressing effect on Shea. As he wound his way up, down, and around the hilly terrain, not a single living tree could be seen. The only plants were the various brown and olive-drab thorn bushes, and even they seemed only half alive. The overcast sky only added to the general gloom. When he had flown over all this on his broom it has seemed such a short distance.