Read Online The Exotic Enchanter by L. Sprague de Camp, Lyon Sprague de Camp, Christopher Stasheff - Free Book Online Page B
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gesturing with the other, Shea chanted:
"All liquor in the cask and tun
And every barrel on this ground,
You mighty waters old and young
In which our senses oft are drowned;
From strength to strength let every drop
Proceed, nor let that power fail,
Let kvass be strong, the limbs to stop,
Nor be there weak nor watery ale.
Let mead o'ercome the will to move,
And wine be poured that blood not flow,
And every drop a Samson prove
And twenty men or more o'erthrow."
They've been warned , he thought, as he curled up under the nearest wagon and tried to get a nap in before the action started. He wasn't sure just what the strength—he wouldn't have touched a drop of liquor in the camp.
As dawn lightened the eastern sky, the camp began to stir. The night guards came in, the day guards went out, the merchants lit fires and prepared meals. The wiser ones, Shea noticed, had all the old men and young boys out of sight and were offering food to the soldiers. The soldiers ate, and repeated their warnings about drinking only water today.
Mikhail added, "Put the best drink out first, to put them in a mood to pay."
Shea didn't really care if the Polovtsi were in a mood to pay. All he needed was Polovtsi in a mood to drink.
The first Polovtsi rode in shortly after sunrise, and they kept coming steadily after that. By midmorning the camp was surrounded by the steppe horsemen, and the stench was something one could almost reach out and pluck from the air in handfuls.
The riders needed no encouragement to drink, and some of them even had the courtesy to pay—at first. After the fourth or fifth cup, they seemed to forget that there was such a thing as money. Shea could see the merchants gritting their teeth as they watched their stocks disappear, without any reasonable amount of silver appearing in return.
There was also a little trading in dry goods. The psychologist saw an occasional Polovets festooned with wooden trinkets or woolen cloth. But balancing debits and credits (Shea was the son of a bookkeeper), he doubted that the merchants' guilds would show a profit today.
Shea was starting to wonder if his strengthening spell had worked at all, and if instead he should have tried turning the mead to whiskey. The amount the steppemen could get through, on empty stomachs too, gave him the feeling of lice in his pants (at least he hoped it was only the feeling).
But by noon, Polovtsi were falling down and crawling around like cockroaches. They couldn't walk, but they could still drink. If they couldn't get to the barrels, they could send friends who were still stumbling instead of crawling.
Shea watched one Polovets give friends his short sword, his metal cap (it looked like something captured from a long-dead Rus), his shirt (complete with lice), and his trousers, all to trade for more wine. They came back with the wine, all except one man.
The last friend came back empty-handed, just as the now practically-naked warrior was finishing off the wine. He glared at his friend.
"No friend of mine you are. Buy wine—with my trousersh—then drink it yourshelf."
"Ho, I did—"
"You did."
"Did not."
"Did!"
"Did not!"
"I'll take—your trousersh—"
"No, you won't!"
The warrior on the ground suddenly developed the ability of a leopard. He gripped his friend by the ankles, tumbled him off his feet, and began pulling at his trousers. The other struggled, kicking at the first man's face.
A foot connected with the first man's jaw. His head snapped back and to the side. He rolled over on his side, then onto his back. A moment later he began to snore.
His friend lurched to his feet and staggered off. He staggered straight into the wheel of a cart, then reeled back, rubbing his nose.
"No brawl, my chief," he said. "Nothing—like that. Just a bet between friendsh. Jusht a . . ." His voice trailed off. Having lost his vision, the Polovets now lost his balance. He gripped the iron rim of the cartwheel, but that only slowed
"All liquor in the cask and tun
And every barrel on this ground,
You mighty waters old and young
In which our senses oft are drowned;
From strength to strength let every drop
Proceed, nor let that power fail,
Let kvass be strong, the limbs to stop,
Nor be there weak nor watery ale.
Let mead o'ercome the will to move,
And wine be poured that blood not flow,
And every drop a Samson prove
And twenty men or more o'erthrow."
They've been warned , he thought, as he curled up under the nearest wagon and tried to get a nap in before the action started. He wasn't sure just what the strength—he wouldn't have touched a drop of liquor in the camp.
As dawn lightened the eastern sky, the camp began to stir. The night guards came in, the day guards went out, the merchants lit fires and prepared meals. The wiser ones, Shea noticed, had all the old men and young boys out of sight and were offering food to the soldiers. The soldiers ate, and repeated their warnings about drinking only water today.
Mikhail added, "Put the best drink out first, to put them in a mood to pay."
Shea didn't really care if the Polovtsi were in a mood to pay. All he needed was Polovtsi in a mood to drink.
The first Polovtsi rode in shortly after sunrise, and they kept coming steadily after that. By midmorning the camp was surrounded by the steppe horsemen, and the stench was something one could almost reach out and pluck from the air in handfuls.
The riders needed no encouragement to drink, and some of them even had the courtesy to pay—at first. After the fourth or fifth cup, they seemed to forget that there was such a thing as money. Shea could see the merchants gritting their teeth as they watched their stocks disappear, without any reasonable amount of silver appearing in return.
There was also a little trading in dry goods. The psychologist saw an occasional Polovets festooned with wooden trinkets or woolen cloth. But balancing debits and credits (Shea was the son of a bookkeeper), he doubted that the merchants' guilds would show a profit today.
Shea was starting to wonder if his strengthening spell had worked at all, and if instead he should have tried turning the mead to whiskey. The amount the steppemen could get through, on empty stomachs too, gave him the feeling of lice in his pants (at least he hoped it was only the feeling).
But by noon, Polovtsi were falling down and crawling around like cockroaches. They couldn't walk, but they could still drink. If they couldn't get to the barrels, they could send friends who were still stumbling instead of crawling.
Shea watched one Polovets give friends his short sword, his metal cap (it looked like something captured from a long-dead Rus), his shirt (complete with lice), and his trousers, all to trade for more wine. They came back with the wine, all except one man.
The last friend came back empty-handed, just as the now practically-naked warrior was finishing off the wine. He glared at his friend.
"No friend of mine you are. Buy wine—with my trousersh—then drink it yourshelf."
"Ho, I did—"
"You did."
"Did not."
"Did!"
"Did not!"
"I'll take—your trousersh—"
"No, you won't!"
The warrior on the ground suddenly developed the ability of a leopard. He gripped his friend by the ankles, tumbled him off his feet, and began pulling at his trousers. The other struggled, kicking at the first man's face.
A foot connected with the first man's jaw. His head snapped back and to the side. He rolled over on his side, then onto his back. A moment later he began to snore.
His friend lurched to his feet and staggered off. He staggered straight into the wheel of a cart, then reeled back, rubbing his nose.
"No brawl, my chief," he said. "Nothing—like that. Just a bet between friendsh. Jusht a . . ." His voice trailed off. Having lost his vision, the Polovets now lost his balance. He gripped the iron rim of the cartwheel, but that only slowed
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