"The dragons," said Peter, pointing. "Here they are." In V formation the monsters were landing on a far end of the battlefield, then coming at a scrabbling run.
"If they make it quicker than the nymphs—" breathed the general. Then he sighed relievedly. They had not. The carnage among the dragons was almost funny; at will the nymphs lifted them high in the air on jets of steam and squirted melted rock in their eyes. Squalling in terror the dragons flapped into the air and lumbered off Southward.
"That's ocean," grinned the general. "They'll never come back—trying to find new homes, I suspect."
In an incredibly short time the field was littered with the flopping chunks that had been hewed from the Krakens. Living still they were, but powerless. The general shook his hand warmly. "You're on your own now," he said. "Good luck, boy. For a civilian you're not a bad egg at all."
He walked away.
Glumly Peter surveyed the colossal fortress of Almarish. He walked aimlessly up to its gate, a huge thing of bronze and silver, and pulled at the silken cord hanging there. A gong sounded and the door swung open. Peter advanced hopelessly in a sort of audience chamber. "So!"
thundered a mighty voice.
"So what?" asked Peter despondently. He saw on a throne high above him an imposing figure. "You Almarish?" he asked listlessly.
"I am. And who are you?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm Peter Packer of Braintree, Mass. I don't even expect you to believe me. The throne lowered slowly and jerkily, as if on hydraulic pumps. The wizard descended and approached Peter. He was a man of about forty, with a full brown beard reaching almost to his belt.
"Why," asked the sorcerer, "have you come bearing arms?"
"It's the only way I could come," said Peter. "Let me first congratulate you on an efficient, well-oiled set of political machinery. Not even back in the United States have I seen graft carried to such a high degree.
Secondly, your choice of assistants is an eye-opener. Your Mr. Pike is the neatest henchman I've ever seen. Thirdly, produce the person of Miss Melicent or I'll have to use force."
"Is that so?" rumbled Almarish. "Young puppy! I'd like to see you try it.
Wrestle with me—two falls out of three. I dare you!"
Peter took off his coat of blue serge. "I never passed up a dare yet," he said. "How about a mat?"
"Think I'm a sissy?" the sorcerer jeered.
Peter was stripped for action. "Okay," he said. Slowly Almarish advanced on him, grappling for a hold. Peter let him take his forearm, then shifted his weight so as to hurl the magician over his shoulder. A moment later Peter was astonished to find himself on the floor underneath the wizard. "Haw!" grunted Almarish, rising. "You still game?" He braced himself. "Yep!" snapped Peter. He hurled himself in a flying tackle that began ten feet away from the wizard and ended in a bone-crushing grip about the knees. Peter swarmed up his trunk and cruelly twisted an arm across his chest. The magician yelped in sudden agony, and let himself fall against the floor. Peter rose, grinning. "One all," he said cheerfully.
Almarish grappled for the third fall; Peter cagily backed away. The wizard hurled himself in a bruising body-block against Peter, battering him off his feet and falling on the young man. Instinctively Peter bridged his body, arcing it off the floor. Almarish, grunting fiercely, gripped his arm and turned it slowly, as though he were winding a clock. Peter snapped over, rolling on the wizard's own body as a fulcrum. He had his toe in his hand, and closed his fist with every ounce of muscle he had. The sorcerer screamed and fell over on his face. Peter jammed his knee in the wizard's inside socket and bore down terribly.
He could feel the bones bend in his grip.
"Enough!" gasped the wizard. Peter let him loose.
"You made it," said Almarish. "Two out of three."
Peter studied his face curiously. Take off that beard and you had—
"You said it, Grandfather Packer," said Peter, grinning.
Almarish groaned. "It's a wise child that knows its own father—
grandfather, in this case," he said. "How could you tell?"
"Everything just clicked," said Peter simply. "You disappearing—that clock—somebody applying American methods in Ellil—and then I shaved you mentally and there you were. Simple?"
"Sure is. But how do you think I made out here, boy?"
"Shamefully. That kind of thing isn't tolerated any more. It's gangsterism—you'll have to cut it out, gramp."
"Gangsterism be damned!" snorted the wizard. "It's business. Business and common sense."
"Business maybe, certainly not common sense. My boys wiped out your guard and I might have wiped out you if I had magic stronger than yours."
Grandfather Packer chuckled in glee. "Magic? I'll begin at the beginning. When I got that dad-blamed clock back in '63 I dropped right into Ellil—onto the head of an assassin who was going for a real magician. Getting the set-up I pinned the killer with a half-nelson and the magician dispatched him. Then he got grateful, said he was retiring from public life and gave me a kind of token, good for any three wishes.
"So I took it, thanking him kindly, and wished for a palace and bunch of gutty retainers. It was in my mind to run Ellil like a business, and I did it the only way I knew how—force. And from that day to this I used only one wish and I haven't a dab of magic more than that!"
"I'll be damned!" whispered Peter.
"And you know what I'm going to do with those other two wishes? I'm going to take you and me right back into the good ole U.S.A.!"
"Will it only send two people?"
"So the magician said."
"Grandfather Packer," said Peter earnestly, "I am about to ask a very great sacrifice of you. It is also your duty to undo the damage which you have done."
"Oh," said Almarish glumly. "The girl? All right."
"You don't mind?" asked Peter incredulously.
"Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love," grunted the wizard sourly. "She's up there."
Peter entered timidly; the girl was alternately reading a copy of the Braintree Informer and staring passionately at a photograph of Peter.
"Darling," said Peter.
"Dearest!" said Melicent, catching on almost immediately.
A short while later Peter was asking her: "Do you mind, dearest if I ask one favor of you—a very great sacrifice?" He produced a small, sharp pen-knife.
And all the gossip for a month in Braintree was of Peter Packer's stunning young wife, though some people wondered how it was that she had only nine fingers.
Mr. Packer Goes to Hell
"Drat it!" cursed Almarish, enchanter supreme and master of all Ellil.
"Drat the sizzling dingus!" Lifting his stiffly embroidered robes of imperial purple, he was dashing to left and right about his bedroom, stooping low, snatching with his jeweled hands at an elusive something that skidded about the floor with little, chuckling snickers.
Outside, beyond the oaken door, there was a sinister thud of footsteps, firm and normal slaps of bare sole against pavement alternating with sinister tappings of bone. "Slap-click. Slap-click. Slap-click," was the beat. Almarish shot a glance over his shoulder at the door, his bearded face pale with strain.
"Young 'un," he snapped to an empty room, "this ain't the silly season.
Come out, or when I find you I'll jest take your pointed ears and twist them till they come off in my hands."
Again there was the chuckling snicker, this time from under the bed.
Almarish, his beard streaming, dove headlong, his hands snapping shut. The snicker turned into a pathetic wail.