Mandricardo, p.1
Mandricardo, page 1
MANDRICARDO
New Adventures in Terra Magica
Lin Carter
www.sfgateway.com
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Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Author’s Note
BOOK ONE
The Troll’s Ring
1. Any Port in a Storm
2. Consequences of Wish-Making
3. Callipygia Presses On
4. Unexpected Hazards of Tourism
5. The Abduction of Doucelette
BOOK TWO
Salamandre and Undina
6. A Very Damp Knight
7. All About Gorgonzola
8. The Water-Maid
9. A Royal Welcome in Bongozinga
10. A Royal Welcome in Zingobonga
BOOK THREE
Gorgonzola the Enchanter
11. Scorpions in Aspic
12. They Combine Forces
13. Outwitting the Monsters
14. Gorgonzola Reconnoiters
15. Gorgonzola in Disguise
BOOK FOUR
Akhdar the Green
16. To the Mountains of the Moon
17. The Three Temptations
18. Snatched!
19. Out of the Roc’s Nest
20. The Famous Fountain
BOOK FIVE
Ithuriel
21. Disenchanting Mandricardo
22. A Luncheon in Cockaigne
23. Ithuriel Interrupts
24. Across the Thermodon
Website
Also by Lin Carter
Dedication
The Notes to Mandricardo
About the Author
Copyright
Author’s Note
Terra Magica is an alternate world, as close to our own as are two pages in a book; so close that our most sensitive artists, dreamers, and poets glimpse something of its woods and fields, its tall cities and splendid heroes; thus, the history of Terra Magica becomes the substance of our epics and sagas, our myths and legends, fantasies and fairy tales.
This is the third novel I have written about Terra Magica. The first two, both published by DAW Books, were Kesrick (1982) and Dragonrouge (1984); they were both drawn from a distinguished volume of history (history in Terra Magica, anyway) called The True and Veritable History of the Knight of Dragonrouge.
The present volume, Mandricardo, is drawn from the sequel to the True and Veritable History, called the Chronicle Narrative of the Deeds of Mandricardo, a history no less distinguished than its predecessor.
Each volume of this sequence can be read separately and independently of each other. In fact, that’s part of the fun!
—Lin Carter
Montclair, New Jersey
BOOK ONE
The
Troll’s
Ring
1
Any Port in a Storm
It had started to snow quite soon after sunrise and by now the snow had clogged the trail, almost hiding it, and the going had become difficult. The man and the woman were well-mounted, but their horses (as well as the plump, frisky little mule who trotted obediently behind them, loaded with their luggage) were finding their footing slippery and uncertain. The snow was coming down quite heavily now, in thick, wet, fat, white flakes that always seemed to fly directly into their eyes, blinding them, or into their noses, making them sneeze. And it was piling up in slushy drifts that would probably have reminded the travelers of scoops of vanilla ice cream, except that vanilla ice cream had not been invented yet here in Terra Magica, the world next door to our own.
The man was a Tartar, dark and swarthy, tall and long-legged, and a knight, as you could have guessed from his flashing armor. He had a hooked nose, long drooping black moustachios, large very dark liquid eyes, and he wore a spiked helmet. There were lion-skins draped about his brawny shoulders, the skins of lions he had hunted and slain himself, of course. His name was Sir Mandricardo, and he was the son of King Agricane of Tartary.
His steed was a magnificent coal-black charger named Bayardetto, which means “Little Bayard,” and a handsome animal he was, as brave as a mastiff and every bit as faithful. Mandricardo had become very attached to the noble warhorse, for they had shared many adventures together, and on only one of these had Bayardetto displayed anything less than staunch courageousness. (That one time was when a giant the size of a small mountain had bent over and plucked a couple of Mandricardo’s friends out of their saddles and swooped them up into the air … and Mandricardo thought it quite understandable for his horse to have acted just a little nervous on this occasion.)
By the side of the Tartar knight … well, no: behind him, actually, since the trail was so narrow they had to ride single file … pranced a fine red mare in whose saddle rode a young woman of abundant, more-than-ample charms. Her name was Princess Callipygia, and she was one of the seventeen daughters of the Queen of the Amazons and not only Mandricardo’s girl-friend, but also his fiancée. She didn’t wear much in the way of clothes: just some bits and pieces of armor, greaves and buskins, a gorget, gauntlets, girdle, a mail-skirt, and such like; also a cloak trimmed with fur. Amazons, as a rule, don’t wear many clothes. I’m not sure exactly why.
The two had been houseguests at Dragonrouge, an old and stately home which belonged to their dear friends Sir Kesrick and his newlywed bride, the Princess Arimaspia of Scythia. At the conclusion of their adventures together, Mandricardo and Callipygia had accompanied the Knight of Dragonrouge and his betrothed to the ancestral home of Kesrick’s fathers; they had stayed for the wedding, of course, and for about two weeks after the nuptials. Now it was time that they arranged their own wedding, they thought; and thus had ridden forth from the gates of Dragonrouge and, with the blithe nonchalance of a hero and heroine in a chivalric romance (which, of course, they actually were—and if you doubt it, just keep reading), were perfectly prepared to ride horseback the entire width of the world from the Frankish kingdom in the West to the famous Kingdom of Tartary in the East, which is just before you get to Cathay and a little bit north of Prester John’s Empire.
These countries exist only in Terra Magica, you understand; you will not find them on your maps of Terra Cognita, the Lands We Know.
Your historian regrets having to admit that Mandricardo was being a pain in the neck. He was even getting on Callipygia’s nerves a little, despite the fact that she loved him dearly. Even being loved can’t keep you from getting on someone’s nerves, it seems, and Mandricardo had been grumbling and complaining for hours now, ever since it had started to snow. Apparently it seldom snowed in Tartary, for the tall young knight was not accustomed to putting up with the several discomforts associated with that climatic condition.
He complained that the snow was melting on his helmet and dripping off, running in an icy trickle right down the back of his neck, underneath his armor.
He complained that the flakes were blowing directly into his eyes and blinding him, so that he couldn’t see where he was going.
He complained that if this sort of thing kept on much longer, his armor would begin to get rusty and the leather of his finely-tooled saddle would get moldy, and he would probably catch a cold in the head.
They were plodding along a narrow trail that wound between high hills crowned with thick dark woods, and the land was rising and getting rocky. There were cliffs up ahead, as far as Callipygia could tell, peering in between the snowflakes. It occurred to the Amazon girl that perhaps they could find shelter and build a fire.
“Cave or something, what?” murmured Mandricardo, a bit indistinctly, because his teeth were chattering. The snow had soaked his long droopy moustachios and then they had frozen, making it chilly for his upper lip.
“We may as well take a look,” suggested Callipygia, guiding her red mare into the bushes beside the trail. She led the way through trees that loomed up, wet black shafts behind the veils of falling whiteness. With a disp irited shrug, Mandricardo guided his charger after her. Wet branches slapped him all over, sending a shower of half-melting snow down the back of his neck. A thicker branch caught his helmet a sound blow, tilting it rakishly over one eye.
“Oh, I say, dash it all!” he grumbled. But his companion was too far ahead to hear his words, luckily, for he was, as I have said, beginning to try her patience a little.
At length they emerged from the forest into a small clearing where the brisk wind was driving the snow wetly against gaunt cliffs. In those cliffs a black opening yawned. Callipygia prodded him in the ribs with a happy grin.
“There, by my halidom! What did I say? A cave—!” she cried. The Tartar knight eyed it dubiously, blinking the snowflakes out of his eyes.
“I say, Cally,” he complained, “dash it all, but the place looks like one of those Troll caves dear old Kesrick was savin’ we might find up hereabouts. …”
The Amazon squared her shoulders and snatched out her sword, blue eyes snapping zestfully.
“Troll or no Troll,” the girl said staunchly, “it’s any port in a storm. Come on!”
Troll or no Troll, it became obvious as they approached that somebody made the cave his home, for it had a door: a strong, thick slab of stained wood, bound with heavy bolts of brass, standing ajar. Firelight flickered within—a very inviting sight, if you happen to be standing knee-deep in wet mushy snow, which they were, having dismounted. Leading their horses by the bridle, with the little mule following behind, they ventured as far as the cave’s mouth, or door, as I should say. Peering within, they saw stalagmites hanging down from the smoke-blackened ceiling above (or do I mean stalactites?) and the walls of rough rock were hung with odds and ends of weaponry: axes, broadswords, spears and the like, all very, very old and every single one of them made of bronze.
“Why bronze, what?” muttered Mandricardo curiously.
“Shush! Because the one thing Trolls fear most is Cold Steel,” whispered Callipygia, brandishing her naked blade, which caught the firelight and flashed like a mirror in the sun.
A frightened squeal from directly behind them nearly stampeded their horses. The two whirled about, to see—
“Oh, I say,” faltered Mandricardo, “it really is a Troll’s cave. And here’s the bally old Troll!”
And so it was, for while neither of the two had ever laid eyes on a Troll before, suchlike creatures not being indigenous to Tartary or to Amazonia either, well, as the author of the Chronicle Narrative of the Deeds of Mandricardo of Tartary puts it in a clever phrase, “when once you see a Troll, there is no mistaking it for anything else.” And such was the case precisely, for there it was—hairy as a thicket and huge as a hill—weak little pink eyes blinking fearfully on either side of its enormous proboscis of a nose, crowned with cow-horns, cow-tail dragging in the snow behind.
The monstrous creature had evidently been roaming the woods gathering fallen branches for its fire, for it held an armload of wet bare boughs, which it let fall at one glimpse of the deadly sheen and shimmer of Cold Steel.
Then, with a guttural croak, the Troll turned and waddled away, splayed feet and bowed legs working, disappearing in the dark woods.
They looked at each other, a wordless glance. Then the Amazon girl put away her glittering sword.
“I told you Trolls did not like the look of Cold Steel,” said Callipygia, looking satisfied.
“Rah-ther!” said Mandricardo admiringly. “Chased the beggar off without a blow exchanged! Capital! Capital!”
They went in. The cavern was large and high-roofed; a huge fire burned briskly on the hearth, painting orange light and inky shadows over the rugged walls. Crude stools and a three-legged table were all of the furnishings; a heap of foul-smelling hides served the former occupant as a bed. The floor of the cave was littered with garbage, composed mostly of bones. The bones had been gnawed—you could see the tusk-marks!—then split lengthwise so as to suck out the marrow; Mandricardo and Callipygia fastidiously averted their eyes from the sight and pretended not to notice that some of the bones were of human origin.
Cupboards and rough shelves had been built along one wall. Callipygia eyed them speculatively, wondering if there was anything to eat therein, and if so, what Trolls happened to like to eat, when they were not eating Meat. She rummaged therein, finding rags and a few battered pots and pans (of brass or copper), a broken belt, some pieces of tough leather, and an ivory needle as big as a dirk.
Mandricardo closed the door against the wintry blasts and led Bayardetto over in front of the fire. Finding a heap of rags, he began to rub down his charger, not even bothering to take off his saddle first, because the poor horse was soaking wet with snow.
“Just look at this!” the Amazon girl exclaimed, holding up a heavy bronze armlet she had just found in the cupboard. It shone in the ruddy firelight and she marveled at the strange crooked characters carved about the circle of bronze; they were letters in no language known to Callipygia. Delighted with her discovery, she tried the ring on: it fitted snugly about her biceps; she twisted and turned it about, seeking the best angle to display it, and as she did so, Mandricardo was complaining in his whining way.
“Ah? Very nice, I’m sure … I say! Dash it all, poor Bayardetto; just look at the old fellow. Soaked to the skin, he is, and shivering in all this bally snow—s-s—!” And he threw back his head and sneezed tremendously. “Now, you see, these Frankish winters—now I’m catching a cold in the head, I could feel it coming on, don’t you know … oh, I do wish we were somewhere warm and dry—!”
Turning and twisting the bronze armlet on her upper arm, trying to see which way it looked best on her, Callipygia snapped at him. She was, by now, quite fed up with her lover’s unmanly complaining, so she retorted, “Well, I wish you were!”
Then her jaw dropped. Her eyes popped. She swayed like a sapling in a tornado, turning the color of milk.
For Mandricardo—and his noble charger—had just vanished.
For a moment, there, it looked very much as if Callipygia were about to faint dead away, like the heroine of some Victorian novel. However, the seventeen daughters of the Queen of the Amazons happen to be made of sterner stuff than are the heroines of Victorian novels, and the brawny girl soon recovered her composure.
She began to search the dark recesses of the Troll’s cave, discovering many Nasty Things in the farthest corners where it was good and dark, but not finding a trace of the Tartar knight or his great black charger. The two had snapped out of existence the very instant she had voiced her wish that Mandricardo could have his wish and be somewhere warm and dry.
She had also been twisting and turning that bronze ring on her arm. Odd coincidence, but surely it meant nothing.
It did not at that time occur to Callipygia that if the bronze ring was big enough to fit around her upper arm, it was probably the right size to fit on one of the Troll’s thick fingers.
Just like a Wishing ring. …
2
Consequences of Making a Wish
It proved quite an upsetting experience, as Mandricardo later remarked on more than one occasion: one moment he was soaked to the skin and shivering in the cold drafts of a Troll’s drafty cave … then, in an eye-blink, he was ankle-deep in parched desert sands (a nice reddish saffron color) and staggering under the stunning weight of a furnace-like sun, blazing at the zenith of a cloudless sky. It is no wonder that Mandricardo gave voice to a startled yelp—followed by a manly oath—and that his horse shied and whinnied.
The Tartar knight stared around him incredulously. Hummocks of dust-dry desert sand undulated away in every direction, baked in the oven of noon. Something very like a range of miniature mountains marched from east to west (or was it north to south?—it was hard to tell); these last were too regular to be the work of Nature and had to be man-made. Their sides were sheathed in glistening limestone; stiff, throned figures of solid gold, or what appeared to be solid gold, stood at the summit of each.
Mandricardo blinked at them. It took him only a dazed moment or two, or perhaps three, to recognize them, for they were every bit as famous in his world as they are in our own, except that in Terra Magica they happen to be in very much better repair.
