The Complete Compleat Enchanter (68 page)

The shoes of Iubdan kept pulling Shea’s feet up, but at last he bumped into the boulder he had stumbled over. His arms clawed its sides and his head came out of water with his legs scrambling after.

The sinech was still grounded, but not hopelessly so. It was making distinct progress towards Belphebe, who valiantly stood her ground, shooting arrow after arrow into the creature. The same glance told him that the spearmen of the Tuatha De Danaan had taken to their heels.

The monster, engrossed in Belphebe as its remaining opponent, threw back its head for a locomotive hiss. Shea, skating towards it, saw her bend suddenly and seize up one of the abandoned spears to distract it from him. Tugging out the sword of Nuada, he aimed for the sinech’s neck, just behind the head, where it lay half-in and half-out of water, the stiff mane standing up above Shea’s head. As he drove towards the creature, the near eye picked him up and the head started to swivel back.

In his rush, he drove the sword in up to the hilt, hoping for the big artery.

The sinech writhed, throwing Shea back and ejecting the sword. There was a gush of blood so dark it looked black, the animal threw back its head and emitted a kind of mournful whistling roar of agony. Shea skated forward on his magical shoes for another shot, almost stumbling over the neck, but reaching down to grasp a bunch of mane in his left hand, and climbing aboard, cutting and stabbing.

The sinech threw back its head violently, it seemed to a height of thirty feet. Shea’s grip on the mane was broken, and he was thrown through the air. All he could think of was that he must hang on to the sword. He had hardly formulated this thought before his behind struck the water with a terrific splash.

When he got his head out against the resistance of the shoes at the other end of his anatomy, the sinech was creaming the water with aimless writhings, its long head low on the bank, and its eyes already glassed. The sword of Nuada had lived up to its reputation for giving mortal wounds, all right. Shea had to develop a kind of side-winding dog paddle to carry him into shallow water past the throes of the subsiding monster.

Belphebe waded out to help Shea to his feet, regardless of the wet. She put both arms around him and gave him a quick, ardent kiss, which instantly doubled him over with cramps. Behind her the Sidhe were trickling out of the wood, headed by King Briun, looking dignified, and Miach, looking both amazed and pleased.

Shea said: “There’s your job. Do you think that lets me out from under that geas you say I’ve got?”

Miach shook his head. “I am thinking it will not. A rare fine change you have made in the land of the Sidhe, but it is to the land of men you belong, and there you must do what is to be done. So we will just be going along to see if you can avert the fate that hangs over this Cuchulainn.”

Ten

Shea and Belphebe were bouncing along in a chariot on the route from the section of Tir na n-Og corresponding to Connacht to the other-world equivalent of Muirthemne in Ulster. They had agreed with Miach, who was coming in another chariot, that this would be better than to re-enter as they had come and possibly have to fight their way through hostile Connacht, even though he was wearing the invincible sword of Nuada.

The country around seemed very similar to that from which they had come, though the buildings were generally poorer, and there were fewer of them. Indeed, none at all were in sight when they stopped at a furze-covered hill with a rocky outcrop near its base. Miach signaled his charioteer to draw up and said, “Here stands another of the portals. You are to draw off a little while I cast my spell, as this is not one of the holy days and a magic of great power is required.”

From the chariot, Shea could see him tossing his arms aloft and catch an occasional word of the chant, which was in the old language. A blackness, which seemed to suck up all the light of the day, appeared around the outcrop, considerably larger than the tunnel Shea himself had opened. The charioteers got down to lead the horses, and they found themselves on the reverse slope, with Cuchulainn’s stronghold of Muirthemne in the middle distance, smoke coming from its chimneys.

Shea said, “That’s queer. I thought Cuchulainn was at Emain Macha with the King, but it looks as though he came back.”

“By my thinking,” said Belphebe, “he is most strangely set on having his own will and no other, so that not even the prophecy of death can drive him back.”

“I wouldn’t . . .” began Shea, but was interrupted as a horseman suddenly burst from a clump of trees to the right, and went galloping across the rolling ground toward Cuchulainn’s stronghold.

Miach called from the other chariot, “That will be a warden, now. I am thinking the fine man there is expecting company and is more than a little ready to receive it.”

They went down a slope into a depression where the fold of the ground and a screen of young trees on the opposite side hid the view of Muirthemne. As they climbed the slope, the charioteers reined in. Glancing ahead, Shea saw that the saplings and bushes on the crest had all been pulled down and woven into a tangle. At the same time a line of men jumped out of cover, with spears and shields ready.

One of them advanced on the travelers. “Who might you be?” he demanded truculently, “and for why are you here?”

Miach said, “I am a druid of the Sidhe, and I am traveling with my friends to Muirthemne to remove a geas that lies on one of them.”

“You will not be doing that the day,” said the man. “It is an order that no druids are to come nearer to Muirthemne than this line until himself has settled his differences with the Connachta.”

“Woe’s me!” said Miach, then turned towards Shea. “You will be seeing how your geas still rules. I am prevented from helping you at the one place where my help would be of avail.”

“Be off with you, now!” the man said and waved his spear.

Behind her hand, Belphebe said to Shea: “Is this not very unlike them?”

Shea said, “By George, you’re right, kid! That isn’t Cuchulainn’s psychology at all.” He leaned towards the guard. “Hey, you, who gave the order and why? Cuchulainn?”

The man said, “I do not know by what right you are questioning me, but I will be telling you it was the Shamus.”

An inspiration struck Shea. “You mean Pete, the American?”

“Who else?”

“We’re the other Americans that were here before. Get him for us, will you? We can straighten this out. Tell him that Shea is here.”

The man looked at him suspiciously, then at Miach even more suspiciously. He pulled a little aside and consulted with one of his companions, who stuck his spear in the ground, laid the shield beside it, and trotted off towards Muirthemne.

Shea asked, “How comes Pete to be giving orders around here?”

“Because it’s the Shamus he is.”

Shea said, “I recognize the title all right, but what I can’t figure out is how Pete got away from Cruachain and got here to acquire it.”

He was saved from further speculation by the creaking of a rapidly driven chariot, which drew up on the other side of the hedge. From it descended a Pete Brodsky metamorphosed into something like the Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s court. His disreputable trousers projected from beneath a brilliantly red tunic embroidered in gold; he had a kind of leather fillet around his head and a considerable growth of beard; and at his belt swung not one, but two obviously homemade blackjacks.

“Jeepers!” he said, “am I glad to see you! It’s all right, gang—let these guys through. They’re part of my mob.”

Shea made room for him to climb in their chariot, and the spearmen fell back respectfully as Pete directed the driver through the winding gaps in the entanglement.

When they had cleared it Shea asked, “How did you get here, anyway?”

Pete said, “It was a pushover. They had me singing until I almost busted a gut. I tried to get this Ollgaeth to send me back to Ohio, but he mixed it and said I’d have to throw in with their mob when they came over here to rub out Cuchulainn. Well, hell, I know what’s going to happen to the guys in that racket. They’re going to end up with their heads looking for the rest of them, and anyway I figure that if you go anywhere after you do your fadeout, it will be here. So one day when this Ollgaeth has me in the King’s ice house showing me some of the flash, I figure it’s a good chance to take along some presents. I let him have one on the conk, snatched everything I could and make a getaway.”

“You mean you stole Ailill’s crown jewels?” asked Shea.

“Sure. I don’t owe him nothing, do I? Well, when I get here, they roll out the carpet and send for Cuchulainn. Well, I give him a line about how this Maev mob is coming to hit him on the head, like I told him before, but I add that they’re gonna put a geas on all his gang so they’ll go to sleep and can’t do any fighting. That was different, see? They all want to get into the act, but they can’t figure what to do about it. I been watching this Ollgaeth, see, and the line I got is that if he can’t get close enough, he can’t make this geas business stick.”

“That’s good magicology,” said Shea. “Couldn’t Cathbadh send you home?”

“Home? What do you mean, home? They told me to go to it, so I stashed the combination around the place like we done in the army. Then they made me head shamus of the force. Do you think I want to go back to Ohio and pound a beat?”

“Now, look here—” began Shea, but just then the gate of Muirthemne loomed over them, with Cuchulainn and Cathbadh beside it, accompanied by a tall, beautiful woman who must be Emer.

The hero said, “It is glad to see you that I am, darlings. Your man is less beautiful than ever, but you will be handselling him to me, for I think that with his help I may escape the doom that has been predicted.”

Shea climbed down and helped Belphebe out of the chariot. “Listen,” he said, “Pete’s already done all he can for you, and we don’t dare go back to our own country without him.”

Pete said: “Look, I’ll write you a letter or something to put you in the clear. Leave a guy run his own racket, will you? This is my spot.”

“Nothing doing,” said Shea. “Go ahead, Miach.”

The druid lifted his arms, mumbled one or two words, and lowered his arms again. “The geas is still upon you, Mac Shea,” he said. “I cannot.”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Shea, and pulled the sword from his belt. “Here, Cuchulainn, this is the sword of Nuada. I borrowed it from the Sidhe for you, and it will have to go back to them after you’re through with the Connachta, who ought to be here any minute. But it will protect you better than Pete could. Does that leave us square?”

“It does that,” said Cuchulainn, holding the great sword up admiringly. Light rippled and flowed along the blade.

“Now, Miach,” said Shea.

Miach lifted his arms. “Hey, I don’t want . . .” began Pete, as the chant rose.

Whoosh!

###

Shea, Belphebe, and Brodsky arrived with a rush of displaced air in the livingroom at Garaden, Ohio, and almost in a heap. Behind them, the door of Shea’s study stood open. As the trio landed, a couple of heavyset men with large feet turned startled faces, their hands full of Shea’s papers.

“It’s them!” said one.

The other said, “And by gawd—Pete Brodsky, the synthetic harp, in a monkey suit!” They both began to laugh.

“Hell with that, you punks,” said Pete. “I’ve had enough Ireland to last me. From now on it’s
na zdorowie Polska!
See?”

Shea paid little attention. He was too busy kissing Belphebe.