"Attend me, God!" Chalmers bellowed. "And by the grace of the Lady Florimel and all the saints, let this chicken be as it was!"
Chicken? Shea thought. That's what he did to a chicken? I told him to watch his decimals.
By the lightning flashes, Shea could see the chicken, which remained the size of a bull elephant, chasing after Sancho Panza with dinner in his eye. Don Quixote, still in full armor, lunged in front of the hungry bird and said, "On my honor, bird, be what you were." The softly spoken words reverberated through the hills.
Shea heard another squawk, but this one was far less impressive. As he climbed back up the hill, cautiously feeling his way, the thunder and lightning subsided, and the wind died down, and the hills stood still again. Shea assumed the chicken-monster also returned to its original form, though there were no helpful thunderbolts to shed a bit of light on the matter.
The camp was in an uproar.
"What is the meaning of this?" Quixote demanded of Chalmers. "For what reason have I pledged my arm and my honor in the aid of an enchanter who seeks to destroy us as we sleep?"
Meanwhile, Sancho Panza milled his arms wildly, shrieking, "Did you see that? The giant chicken tried to eat me like a bug. Did you see it, Sir Knight?"
Chalmers bellowed, "I was demonstrating the true form of the chicken, or rather, the monster that you, in your delusion, insist on calling a chicken. I'm going to make you see this world the way it really is, and you the way you really are."
How out of character of Chalmers, Shea thought. Doc isn't taking the misfiring of his magic well at all. He noticed that Panza was tying the now-normal chicken's legs together with an almost insane vigor. He tried not to laugh. I ought to say something to defuse the situation, he thought; unfortunately, the voices of his three fellow travellers kept getting louder, and he did not feel up to shouting all of them down simultaneously.
From behind him, Shea heard a loud "pop." Without warning, the stench of sulfur and brimstone washed over him. He whirled, and by the sudden glare of a wall of hellish red flames, saw Malambroso appear. The sorcerer's billowing velvet robes were picked out with gold threads that glittered in the hell-fire. His hair whipped and tossed in a nonexistent wind.
"Doctor Chalmers!" Malambroso waved a hand in a delicate gesture and the wall of flames vanished. His robes quit billowing and his hair settled into place. The rotten egg stink, however, hung in the air. "My sincerest thanks for alerting me to your presence." The sorcerer bowed, and snapped his fingers, "Give me back my wife," Chalmers yelled.
Malambroso smiled.
"Not possible, dear sir. I've decided I want to keep her. Incidentally—" His smile grew broader. "I challenge you here and now to magical battle. I noted your little fiasco with the chicken—I don't imagine you will do very well against me. I, after all, have learned to use this world's magic."
That whiff of sulfur and brimstone gave Shea a clue about how Malambroso's half of the magical world worked. The religious alignments probably went both ways, he thought. The good could call upon God, the evil on Satan. Except that Chalmers was not having any luck with magic, and he was a good man. He wondered if, in Quixote's world, only the truly pious and the truly evil could be great enchanters. There was a flaw in that theory, too, though. Shea was no more pious than Chalmers, but he was having a great deal more success with his magic.
Was there no rhyme or reason to the magical system in Quixote's world? If that were the case, things looked bad—not just for the moment, but for even getting back home.
Chalmers puffed and glowered at the evil sorcerer. "I'll accept—" he started to answer, and was interrupted by the booming voice of Don Quixote, amplified by God.
Shea had forgotten about Quixote. So had Chalmers and Malambroso. Now, without warning, the knight, armed and armored and astride his giant war steed, interposed himself between Chalmers and Malambroso.
"Sir Chalmero does not accept your challenge!" Quixote boomed. "I am his champion—and I have sworn an oath against your body, vile fiend, malodorous wizard, by God and my Lady—and by God and the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and by all that is good and right, you shall issue your challenge to me."
This speech had an electric effect on Malambroso. He froze, and stared blankly at the knight, and his mouth began to move. His eyes widened, and it became apparent to Shea that he was fighting Quixote's spell—and losing. The sorcerer looked as if an invisible puppetmaster was pulling the words out of his mouth one at a time. "I ... ch-challenge ... you, s-s-sir ... knight, ch-ch-champion ... of ... my enemy, ... R-r-reed Chalmers, to s-s-single combat. Sweat beaded on the sorcerer's face, and ran down his forehead and along his narrow, hooked nose.
Chalmers yelped. "I don't need the help of a crazy old man to beat Malambroso! I can take care of that second-rate charlatan by myself."
Shea made shushing motions. He ran to Chalmers' side. "Shut up, Doc," he whispered. "Let the knight handle it. Malambroso was right—you don't know how to use this system.''
Sancho Panza, on Chalmers' other side, said, "Do not insult my master, Señor Chalmero. He's fighting for you."
Quixote, meanwhile, paid no mind to Chalmers. His attention remained fixed on Malambroso. In what Harold Shea had come to think of as the "bullhorn of God" voice, the knight said, "By God's will and my might, your magic cannot harm me, vulgar conjurer. Quixote and his armor began to glow with pure pale blue light. Shea found the effect impressive.
Malambroso hissed and backed up a step. "By the Devil in his Hell, and all his archangels, your sword will rust between your fingertips and your lance fall to ashes, sir knight."
The knight held up his unblemished, blue-glowing sword, and watched as little flickers of red light beat uselessly against it. He laughed hollowly and advanced against Malambroso. "You battle the greatest knight in the world, wizard. You did not think to defeat me in such manner, did you?
Malambroso cocked his arm back as if he were getting ready to throw a baseball, and there appeared between the magician's lingers a blazing ball of fire. The sorcerer threw the fireball—it shot straight at Quixote, hissing and squealing like arcane fireworks, trailing sparks behind it. The fireball picked up both speed and size as it went, so that as it neared the knight, it looked like a comet.
Quixote swung his sword in an easy arc and hit the thing—it vanished with a "pop" as if it had never existed. "Enough, knavish enchanter," the knight said. "You would hound me with your petty magics—so then will I harry you with the force of my arm."
Quixote's visor clanged down, and he spurred Rosinante forward "For Dulcinea!" he shouted, and swung his sword down at the sorcerer.
Malambroso ducked. Even so, Quixote's sword slashed through his robe, and Shea saw blood start from a deep wound in the magician's shoulder. The magician screamed in pain, and waved his good arm, shrieking unintelligible words. Red flames leapt up around him, and Rosinante started and backed, whinnying.
"Forward," Quixote cried, bringing the beast under control. Knight and horse shot through the flames. Malambroso cowered. The Knight of the Long Face swung again. The sorcerer sidestepped and cried out, bleeding from a new wound.
Chalmers snorted in exasperation. "Damn it all to hell, Harold," he growled, and his voice boomed around Shea's head, "Quixote can't be beating Malambroso. He's nothing hut a doddering old man on a nag too decrepit to use for dog food!"