Castle Perilous (20 page)

Gene looked at Jacoby.

“You don't think — ” Gene began, but just then a ringing came from the hall of the jewel, as from a strange and ominous bell, growing louder and louder. . . .

 

I'm thrice damned, Kwip thought as he climbed.

He'd have to make this quick. He neared the top, stopped and searched for a suitable spike, one small enough to hide in the backpack.

One of the smaller shafts caught his eye. He reached, and could just barely grasp its tip. No good. He stepped up higher and reached again. The jewel was cold to the touch.

Damn me, Kwip thought, I'd steal from the Dark One himself. But I must, I must have at least a part of it!

He got out the pickax, reached up and grasped the shaft. It felt like ice, but its warm amber light filled his eyes, and the shifting fire drew him into its warmth. He struck with the pick end of the tool. With a sharp, high-pitched pinging sound the end of the shaft broke off easily in his hand. He inspected the fragment briefly, noting that it still glowed. He looked about, listening. Droning like a crystal bell, the entire jewel began to resonate with the sound of the breaking.

He dropped the crystal into the backpack and hurried down. By the time he reached bottom, the ringing had grown into an ear-splitting alarm, its painfully high note reverberating in the stone bowl of the amphitheater, growing ever louder. As echoes multiplied, the noise swelled to an overwhelming crescendo, and soon the air was rent by an unbearably loud, horrendous keening that shook the ancient walls.

The floor quaked. Kwip stumbled and fell. He got to his knees and covered his ears. His scream of pain went unheard as the air shattered around him.

 

 

 

Library

 

osmirik laid the heavy folio aside and rubbed his eyes. He had read enough, and the truth lay on him like the rubble of a landslide. His worst fears had been justified. The ancient chroniclers were quite clear on the matter.

Despite the sick, hollow feeling in his stomach, he was scholar enough to still be in awe of the books and scrolls that lay piled before him. Priceless specimens such as these were not to be found even in Hunra, nor anywhere else, he suspected. He felt a distant pang of regret that they would most likely be blown to dust and scattered to the winds when the castle vanished. Or perhaps they, too, were mere conjurings.

It did not matter. All that mattered was thwarting Melydia. But how?

Mad Melydia. She would stop at nothing in her quest for vengeance. For years she nursed the wound that Incarnadine had inflicted; for years she plotted and schemed. She learned her Arts well, then cast about for suitable puppets to employ in her little dumb show. To the east lived a prince with a domineering empress mother. He needed lands to conquer, and a bride on whom his mother would look with favor. A spell, a puff of smoke from a brazier, and he did Melydia's bidding, while the empress looked on with an approving smile.

Osmirik laughed mirthlessly. What a tawdry little world it was, that armies were moved by the machinations of a scheming witch, that by her wiles castles fell, and worlds ended. . . .

He knew only he could stop her — physically, if that be the only way. He would sniff her out, her and her plots and philters, regain her confidence, make as if to assist her, and then —

What? He would know only if and when that time came.

Doubts gnawed. Was it inevitable? And what of the prophecies? He reached for another book and opened it, paged through it and found the passage. He read.

 

And there shall come a time when men shall quake and tremble, and great tribulation shall befall the world, as in the days of antiquity, so shall it be on that fearful day, and he shall be unleashed who is hight the Great Beast, the Evil One, the Destroyer, and he shall darken the sun and spread his great wings against the wind, and it shall be visited upon the sons of men as it was visited upon their fathers, that they will flee and hide their heads and curse the day their mothers bore them. . . .

 

Osmirik shook his head. And shall he, a mere scribe, stand alone against the ineluctable Word? His heart sank, and he knew he could not. But he must try. His eyes again fell to the page.

But it shall not be dark always, and the hearts of men are not tacking in hope . . .

Clumsy literalism, he noted. Better, The night will end, and hope shall live forever in the human breast, but no matter. He read on:

 

. . . and there shall be one in those days, a true son of his father, Ervoldt, by whose might the beast may again be chained, but his troubles shall be great, and his heart will be heavy; neither will his house stand against the storm. His name shall be as blood.

 

Ervoldt, the ancient Haplodite chieftain of legend, who tamed the demons of the earth and made them do his bidding. Osmirik reached for another volume, paged through till he came to the passage he had marked earlier:

 

. . . and Ervoldt did all these things, and in the manner in which I have told them. And also did he magick the greatest of the beasts, Ramthonodox, and it was in this wise: he did [text missing] his freehold and his fortress, arid [its] windows were numbered one hundred and forty-four thousand, and of [its] rooms there were no end.

 

He unspooled The Book of Demons again, and found a variant of the same passage, with the text restored:

 

. . . and he did so in this wise: he did bespell the great beast, which was a demon, and tamed its wiles, and chained this beast to a great Stone, and wrought he a change such that it no longer took the aspect of a beast, but became a great house, which Ervoldt did make his freehold and his fortress . . .

 

A third variant in yet another decaying book read much the same way. He dug the volume out and opened it — then closed the cover slowly. No, he would not go over it again. There was no mistake. He leaned back in the creaking wooden chair again.

. . . And his name shall be as blood.

Better, His name shall be as the color of blood is called.

His name shall be Incarnadine.

Suddenly, the floor began to vibrate. A faint high-pitched note sounded, accompanied by a deep rumbling. The nearby bookshelves rocked, and one small volume dislodged itself and fell.

Slowly the sounds dissipated. Finally, it was quiet.

Osmirik wondered. Melydia already at work? Incarnadine, perhaps. Or something else entirely. Likely the castle itself undergoing one of its sundry transformations.

He rose and moved to the stairwell, descended, then crossed through the open stacks. Stepping through the anteroom, he opened the door, peered up and down the corridor, went out and closed the door behind him. He had to get his bearings. He now sought the Spell Stone, as did Melydia, but she had her ways and he had his. He sniffed the air. Books, still books — but many other things besides. What would the Stone “smell” like?

A primordial smell, the dust of ages, the sulfurous smell of the fires that gave birth to the Cosmos itself . . .

He had it. There were two overriding “odors” to this place, and they seemed to emanate from the same location. He strode off toward it.

 

 

 

The Hall Of The Brain

 

“kwip, wake up. Are you okay?”

Kwip's eyes fluttered, then opened. He saw Linda's face.

“I'm not in Hell, then?”

“Hell, no,” he heard Gene say.

He sat up and looked about. Jacoby was eyeing him suspiciously.

“What happened?” Kwip asked.

“We were going to ask you that,” Gene said.

Snowclaw dug a finger in his left ear. “My darn ears are still ringing.”

“I think I'm going to be deaf for the rest of my life,” Linda said.

“Huh?” Gene said.

“I said, I think I'm going to be . . . Oh, be quiet.”

Kwip got unsteadily to his feet. “I'm mystified,” he said. “I'd fetched my rucksack and was walking out again when I heard a hellish din.”

“It came from this chamber,” Gene said. “It was unbearable where we were. I can't imagine what it was like here.”

“Aye. Fell into a swoon, I did. Thought I was dying.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Aside from feeling a mite shaken, I think not.”

Gene pointed to the jewel. “Maybe it's none of my business, but did you screw around with that thing?”

“I'm not sure I take your meaning.”

“What was the idea with the pickax?”

“I thought it would be useful in climbing the rock. You seemed to have a bit of trouble up toward the top. But then I lost heart and put the thing in my rucksack to keep against an hour of need.”

Gene shrugged. “Okay. As I said, it's probably none of my business.”

“No offense taken,” Kwip said with a forced smile.

“Yeah. Well, if you're okay, the first thing we have to do is — ”

“Gene, look.”

“Huh?” Gene saw Linda pointing toward the door and spun around. About a half-dozen helmeted soldiers were already through the entrance, swords drawn. They weren't castle Guardsmen.

Kwip drew his shortsword and backed off. Gene unsheathed his broadsword and did the same, while Snowclaw advanced casually toward the edge of the circular stone floor.

“There's only a couple of 'em,” Snowclaw said, beckoning. “C'mon, guys.”

Gene and Kwip exchanged glances, then stopped their retreat. Linda and Jacoby ran to get behind them.

The soldiers had seen Snowclaw immediately, but were only now appreciating how big he was.

“Whattayasay, soldier boys?” Snowclaw called. “How's the chow in the army these days?”

That slowed them up. One of them, presumably the leader, spoke.

“You! Whoever or whatever you are, put down your weapon!”

“Can't hear you,” Snowclaw said. “Come closer.”

The soldier advanced. “I said — ”

Snowclaw took a wicked practice cut. The broadax whistled through the still air. “What, this thing? I use it to cut my nails. Need yours trimmed?”

Four of them reached bottom and fanned out. The leader and another soldier approached slowly.

“All of you! Put down your weapons. Now!”

“By what authority do you order us about?” Jacoby protested.

“By the grace of His Royal Highness Vorn, Prince and Heir Apparent to the Siege of Hunra, Son of the Goddess-Empress, and Conqueror of the Western Dominions. You are his prisoners.”

“Don't be silly,” Snowclaw said. “You can't take us prisoner.”

The leader stopped. “Eh? Why not?”

“ 'Cause you gonna die, hairless. Arrrrrrrrrauuuuuuughhhh!”

Snowclaw's charge was lightning fast. The soldiers who'd flanked him barely had time to react. The leader had none. Snowclaw decapitated him neatly, then turned on the noncom, who managed to escape the same fate by stumbling and falling at just the right time. The ax blade missed his skull by a hair's breadth. He scrambled away from Snowclaw's follow-up, and by that time two of his comrades had arrived to back him up.

For Gene the suddenness of Snowclaw's attack was a shock, but when one of the two remaining soldiers came at him, he responded as best he could, though he could do little but clumsily parry his opponent's expert attacks. It was all he could do to keep running backwards in a big circle.

“Linda, help!”

“What'll I do?”

“I don't know! Something!”

“But . . . but — Oh, wait. How about — ”

Gene backed into something hard and hit his head. He winced, looking around. He was inside a huge transparent bubble shaped like a bell jar. He reached out and touched the inner surface. It felt very hard.

The soldier was momentarily nonplussed, but recovered and took a swing at the miraculous shield. The sword blade glanced off sharply and the weapon went flying out of his hand. He hurried to retrieve it.

Gene saw that three other soldiers had come running through the doorway and were making their way down the stone terraces.

“Linda, get me out of here!”

Linda said something, but he couldn't hear. He shouted and pounded against the inside of the jar. She got the idea, twitched her nose, and the bubble vanished just in time for Gene to fend off his opponent's renewed attack.

“A crossbow!” Gene yelled.

“What?” By this time Jacoby had dragged Linda all the way back to the black rock.

“I need a weapon! Gimmie a crossbow! Materialize it — ” Gene ducked a vicious sideswipe. “Materialize it in my hands!”

“What's a crossbow?”

“It looks like a bow and arrow but — ” He ducked and backed. “Jacoby! Tell her what a crossbow is!”

Instantaneously a crossbow lay cradled in his arms. “Yeah!” he shouted, backing off. The soldier saw what Gene had and broke off his attack.

Gene examined the weapon he held. Although he saw that the bow was cocked and ready, he hadn't the slightest idea of how a crossbow worked. His opponent realized this, and charged. Still backing away and wishing he'd asked for something different, Gene pointed the thing at him and frantically groped for a trigger or releasing mechanism. His hand found a curved wooden tab on the weapon's underside. He pressed it. There was a twanging sound as the bowstring snapped. Gene looked up. A metal rod was growing out of the soldier's throat. The man dropped his sword, choked and spat blood, then fell.

Gene looked at the crossbow. Wicked, he thought, then wondered how the thing was cocked. He noticed a wide metal loop at the front, and it occurred to him that perhaps you were supposed to put your foot in that and somehow —

He heard Linda scream and looked. One soldier held a knife to her throat, while a comrade had Jacoby pinned to the floor.

A voice behind him: “Drop your weapon or your friends will die!”

Gene let the crossbow clatter to the floor. He turned to look at the soldier who'd said it, discovering that the man hadn't been speaking to him, but to Snowclaw.