The Iron Tempest (16 page)

Angelica clothed was an object of supernatural beauty, but Angelica naked was like an oxyacetylene flame, a magnesium flare, a carbon arc, a solar prominence whose actinic rays threatened to blind anyone foolish enough to gaze directly upon it—and, indeed, several citizens complained of impaired vision for some months afterward.

In unison the spectators uttered the same choral
ahhhh!
normally reserved for fireworks displays.

The truth was that Angelica had no great fear of meeting Proteus. Whether her adversary be man or god, she was simply too confident of her power over any male, human or otherwise, to feel anything more than very put out.

Unfortunately for both the islander’s hopes and Angelica’s expectations, Proteus had long since grown bored of his game. It had been years since he had last thought much about Ebuda and its maidens—almost all of whom had been fat, stupid farm girls. That the Ebudans had ever thought their pathetic offerings fair competition with the sea nymphs, mermaids and minor goddesses with whom he was normally surrounded amused him for a short while, but he had tempests and shipwrecks to deal with. The sacrifices kept his orc fed, however, and out of his hair, but even that minor convenience was soon forgotten.

The upshot was that there never had been any chance of Proteus’ grudge against Ebuda being appeased by Angelica and the enormous head that was now rising above the crashing surf was certainly not that of any god.

* * * * *

Leaving Angelica for the moment to her terrible surprise, we find Rashid hurrying back from Alcina’s island as quickly as Papillon can carry him. Melissa had secured his release by means of that same magic ring Bradamant had taken from Brunello.

When the beautiful sorceress had first appeared before the befuddled knight, as suddenly and as unexpectedly as a stage magician who had just risen through a trap door, he had thought that perhaps she was merely one more of Alcina’s lovely temptations—and a very nice one, too, if it came to that. But if Rashid was pleased by Melissa’s appearance, she was shocked by his. Instead of the armor or mail or simple broadcloth which he was accustomed to wearing, he was dressed in the most exquisite clothing: the soft, sensuous drapery of the pampered idler, silk and golden thread woven by Alcina’s own hands. A heavy gold chain hung lankly from his neck, its jeweled links draped over his broad chest. His arms—once the manliest of Melissa’s long experience—were decorated with bracelets; pearls hung from two golden earrings. Her nose wrinkled at the scent of his pomaded, curled hair. It was as though he’d been paying a mincing, servile courtship all his life to the women of Valencia instead of being one of the most powerful warriors in the Moorish nation. Everything about him was sickly. Only his name remained unaltered—all else was corrupted and decayed.

Melissa was disgusted.

“What’s become of you?” she demanded.

“Who are you to ask?” Rashid replied.

“A friend of Lady Bradamant.”

“Who?”

“Can this be the man whose destiny I’ve foreseen? For whom I’ve predicted every imaginable act of courage? Could I have wasted so many years? Look at yourself! Do you think Alexander ever sank so low? Do you think this is how Caesar or Scipio became great? Whoever would have thought you capable of this? You’re nothing but Alcina’s slave. And she makes you advertise this when you wear her chains and jewelry and fine clothes. You follow her like a puppy, led by the nose.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but I don’t know that I much like the sound of it. You’re awfully pretty, did you know that?”

“If reminding you of your past fame and noble deeds falls on deaf ears, then perhaps I’ll ask you if you have no scruples for your glorious descendants. How much longer will you deny that deserving womb the seed from which a mighty new race will spring? How can you dare prevent the noblest souls Heaven has ever invented from taking form on earth? How can you deny existence to your valiant sons and daughters, your grandchildren, your posterity—all of those who in epic battles and grim struggle will retore glory to Italia? You owe a duty to the harvest which your fertile tree will bear.”

“What in the world are you talking about? Say, would you like a little wine?”

“This witch whom you’ve made your queen, what has she got that a thousand whores do not? Why are you so enraptured of
her
? If you were not so ensorceled, you’d know full well what terrible fate lies in store for all those whom this woman has captured.”

“Would you like to come over here and sit beside me?”

“All right then, take this ring, return to your mistress and see what she really looks like.”

And with those last words, Melissa slipped Bradamant’s magic ring onto Rashid’s littlest finger—the only one it would fit. In that instant, the knight’s wits returned to him—as did all of the sorceress’ recent words. He hung his great head in shame and wept.

“Who are you?” he asked again and this time Melissa answered him fully. She told him who she was, why she was there and how she had come. She told him how much Bradamant longed for him, her agony only exacerbated by the greatness of her heart.

“Now that I’ve severed the chain that Alcina had wound so tightly around you, now that you’ve been restored to your senses, it’s time for you to learn the truth. It was that brave maiden who loves you so much, and who in every respect deserves your love, to whom—if you haven’t forgotten—you owe your present freedom, it was she who sent that ring to you. If she could have, she would have torn out her heart and sent it, too.”

So fervently and eloquently did Melissa put Bradamant’s case, so well did she praise her valor as a warrior (putting, perhaps, affection somewhat before truth, as a good advocate should do), that Rashid soon felt every remaining thought about Alcina turn to blackest hatred. As much as he once had loved her, he now loathed her—which is not surprising since it was, after all, only an artificial lust, created by the witch’s own magic.

Leaping to his feet with a snarl, Rashid rushed from his apartment and into that of the surprised Alcina.

“Rashid!” she cried. “Whatever are you looking so red about?”

Rashid, who had all manner of words and havoc planned, stood stock-still in the doorway, stunned into silence by the sight of Alcina. He was reminded how when a boy he had once left a stolen apple in a cupboard. He had gone away and forgotten about it. A week or two later he’d found it again and was astonished at how the bright red fruit had decayed. What had once tempted him now seemed unappetizing and repellent and he had been more than willing to do without it. Disgusted, he had taken the putrid, mold-encrusted thing and flung it as far away as he could.

This is how Rashid now saw the once fair Alcina. From head to foot, there was nothing left of her beauty but dregs. Nothing remained but an ancient, withered crone. Sparse white hair hung lankly from her balding, scabby scalp while drool ran from a toothless, pyrorrhetic mouth. She had shrunk from her commanding height to barely six palms. Older than Hecube or Sibyl, she had outlived every other woman on earth and it was only by means of her magic that she had lived that long and yet looked so young and beautiful.

And she needed no word from him to know what it was that kept him so silent. She knew that he was seeing her as she really was. Rather than the murder he had come to do, Rashid turned on his heel and left the room—which for Alcina was worse than murder.

He returned to Melissa who in the meantime had laid out his old clothes and armor. After he had changed into these, she led him to where his sword and magic shield had been stored and to where Papillon had been stabled. There was no opposition from Alcina.

“You’ll lead me back to Bradamant?” he asked, mounting the animal.

“No, I cannot,” Melissa replied.

“Why not? You’ve come this far.”

“There are some things I can do and some I can’t. I must return my own way and it’s a way you can’t share. Have no fear, you’ll find her.”

“If you say so.”

And this was how Rashid came to be flying toward Europe with the speed of a meteor, his only thought his imminent reunion with his precious Bradamant, as an arrow’s only thought is to reach the heart of its victim.

As he neared the coast of Caledonia, Rashid happened to glace down at the approaching cliffs and was astonished at what he saw below. It will surely come as no suprise that the source of his surprise was a naked woman chained to towering black rock. At first he thought it was some sort of monument, a statue of alabaster or the most closely-grained marble, created by some master artisan—perhaps a memorial to some poor drowned maiden. However, as he swooped low over the beach he was certain that he saw a tear course down one smooth, white cheek (his eyesight was of course extraordinary), amid pale roses and white lilies, bedewing the ostrich-egg breasts with salty splatters. The freshing sea breeze lifted her golden hair and as he fixed on her aquamarine eyes he was reminded of those dark ones that belonged to his beloved warrior-maiden. He felt his heart torn between love and pity and great tears welled up in his own eyes. He was lost to a magic that even Alcina could not have matched and for which even Melissa had no counter-spell. As Papillon hovered over Angelica’s head, he called down to her.

“Oh, lady! No chains should bind you other than those imposed by Love itself! Surely you don’t deserve this abuse! Who did this to you? Who dared mark such perfection with so much as a single bruise?”

Angelica, astonished as much by this startling apparition as by the gallant question she was just asked, was at a loss for words. Obviously, whoever this wonderfully handsome man was and wherever he had come from, he meant her no harm—although she had her doubts about his fearsome mount, which was glaring at her hungrily. From the tone of his words, she thought that a modest blush would be appropriate and she managed to flush rosily, but any attempt to cover herself was prevented by her shackles—not that such a modest gesture even for a moment occured to her. She was free to weep and this she did copiously. And she was free to writhe and twist and this she did sinuously and with a well-practiced mixture of innocence and voluptuous suggestiveness. She ventured to reply to the knight—in her saddest, smallest voice—but the words never came. They were interrupted by a sudden roaring, very different than that of surf that pounded against the black pillar. Instead, she screamed.

Something was slowly rising above the churning waves, like the black hull of some derelict ship blown there by the combined malevolence of Australis and Borealis. It was the orc, ravenously keen, come for its dinner. Not more than a hundred yards separated it from the princess. Angelica felt her knees collapse from her sudden terror and she hung limply from her shackled wrists. She heard an encouraging word shouted from the hovering knight, but did not feel particularly reassured.

Rashid, seeing the monster lifting its horrible head, didn’t waste the time it would have taken to seat the butt of his lance; instead, he swung Papillon into the creature’s path and clubbed it as though he were swinging a sword. He hardly knew where to strike: the monster seemed to be nothing more than a writhing, tangled mass in the midst of which was something all eyes and tusks and gaping throat that he took for a head. He thrust the point of his lance between two of the eyes, but it glanced off as though the monster were armor-plated, which for all practical purposes it was. Swinging Papillon around, he tried again and once again. Seeing the black, winged shadow, the orc turned its attention away from its intended victim, in order to rid itself of this unexpected annoyance. Twisting and turning, it tried to pursue the swooping hippogryph, and at every pass Rashid dealt it another blow.

Just as the canny eagle, high in the clouds, spying a snake slipping through the grass or dozing on a sunny rock, will not attack the fang-bearing end of the reptile, but will instead swoop down from the rear, avoiding the venom and snatching up the hissing serpent in its talons—so did Rashid attack the terrible orc. Not where its gaping, fanged mouth snapped and hissed, but instead searched for a place where the monster might be gored to death safely. Yet, the harder he tried to find a vulnerable point, the harder seemed the task. He thought of the fly that in the hot days of Summer—those months of dust and madness—undertakes a war against a sleepy mastiff. Stinging the dog’s mouth, nose and eyes, the insect makes endless sallies until, suddenly, the mastiff is avenged in one quick snap of its jaws.

The monster below was thrashing the waves into a thick froth. So high did it throw spray and foam that Rashid wondered if Papillon was flying or swimming. He feared that the drenching might waterlog the hippogryph’s wings and destroy their power to lift, which would be disastrous. Seeing that his weapons were scarcely even annoying the orc, and that Papillon was quickly tiring, Rashid considered a different tactic. He still possessed Atalante’s shield, attached to his saddle and hidden in its protective sheath.

Reigning in the exausted hippogryph, he wheeled around and flew back to where Angelica had been watching the incredible battle with wide eyes and gaping mouth. Leaning far out from the saddle, he slipped Bradamant’s ring over one of the princess’ fingers.

“Keep this on!” he shouted to her, over the combined roar of the surf and the enraged monster. “It’ll protect you, but try to keep your eyes shut anyway!”

“What?” she asked, hardly hearing a word he had said, but the knight had already straightened and was turning his fearsome winged creature back toward the orc. As soon as he did this, he removed the shield from where it hung, held it up so that it faced the monster, which watched the peculiar proceeding with reptilian curiousity, and whipped off its cover. Instantly, it was as though a second sun were blazing in the sky. The orc reacted as though it had been struck by a mountain. It fell onto the beach, half in and half out of the water—appropriately enough since it was a creature native of neither. Rashid landed by its side and tried again to find a vulnerable place to apply the
coup de grâce
, but once again failed.