Castle Kidnapped (3 page)

Sheila smiled. “And you stumbled into Castle Perilous, just like the rest of us."

“Precisely. All our stories are essentially the same. Haven't heard an interesting variation in years."

The dance number ended, and the crowd applauded. The musicians stood and bowed, then reseated themselves and began another tune.

Sheila said, “Uh-oh, I don't know if I can dance to this one."

Dalton counted the beats on his fingers. “I do believe that's nine-eight time. Or is it nine-
four
?” He grinned. “Maybe we'd better sit this one out?"

“Maybe we'd better."

“Some refreshment?"

“Yeah, sounds good."

They left the dance floor and joined a group of guests near the buffet table. Sheila surveyed the amazing assortment of food. The cooks had really outdone themselves.

“Having a good time, Sheila?” a man named Thaxton asked.

“Great,” Sheila said, spooning goose liver onto a club cracker, “but I'm still a little worried about Gene."

“Best not to fret overmuch. I imagine he'll be along anytime now."

“I know, I know. But he should have called. He really should have."

“In any event,” Dalton said, “Gene can take care of himself."

“Greatest swordsman in half a dozen worlds,” Thaxton said. “And a damn fine tennis player, too.” He smiled bleakly. “Can bloody well beat me, that I can tell you."

“You and your tennis,” Dalton scoffed.

“You and your golf,” Thaxton retorted.

“Golf's a civilized game."

“And tennis isn't, I suppose? I'd like to know by what criteria—"

“Golf is
slow
. That is my sole criterion."

“Bosh.” Thaxton noticed Sheila's abstracted stare. “Something wrong, my dear?"

“Hm? No, not really. Well—it's just that on the day Gene was supposed to report in, the portal disappeared for about ten minutes."

“Really? Is that significant?"

“Hard to say. As everyone around here knows, portals are touchy things. They come and they go, even when they're supposedly under magical control, like the Earth one. But it kind of worries me."

“But you say it re-established itself quickly?"

“Yeah, maybe it wasn't gone even ten minutes, but..."

Two more Guests joined them, a small man with a pencil-thin moustache—Monsieur DuQuesne—and Deena Williams, a young black woman.

“You all eatin' again?” Deena chided.

“Doesn't matter,” Thaxton said. “I haven't gained a pound since I fell in, and that'll be three years ago come Michaelmas.” He added with a grin, “One of the many benefits of this place."

DuQuesne said, “I've often wondered whether the food is real at all. After all, it's all done up with magic, every bit of it."

“It has to be real,” Sheila said. “Or we'd all starve, wouldn't we?"

“It may be ordinary food transformed,” Dalton said.

“Sounds logical."

Deena searched about. “Where's Snowclaw?"

Thaxton looked pained. “Good Lord, don't tell me they invited
him
."

“They sure did."

“For heaven's sake, why?"

“'Cause he's a good friend of Sheila's, I guess."

Thaxton's expression changed quickly. “Terribly sorry, Sheila. I quite forgot."

“Oh, that's okay. Snowy can be a little difficult at times."

“I rather like having him around,” Dalton said. “He's a good man ... uh, person to have on your side in a scuffle."

Thaxton looked into his drink. “Yes, well, you're absolutely right."

“Speak of the devil,” DuQuesne said.

On the dance floor, the crowd was parting. Through the breach stalked a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall, white-furred creature. The head looked small on the huge body, but was actually massive, combining feline and ursine features in a horrific, ferocious meld. Great curving fangs gleamed within its snout. Its general form was humanlike. The hands were near approximations, save for their wickedly sharp, bone-white claws. Its fierce eyes were yellow. With a huge battle-ax slung across its right shoulder, the beast approached the group of humans standing near the buffet table.

“Hi, everybody,” Snowclaw said. “Sorry I'm late."

“That's okay,” Sheila said. “Want something to eat?"

“Does a
kwallkark
defecate in the ocean? What d'you say, Thaxton, old buddy?"

“I'm sure I don't know,” Thaxton murmured, backstepping.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Snowclaw said, surveying the spread of comestibles. A scowl creased his face. “Same old stuff. Well, heck.” He reached out and snared a roast sage hen, brought it to his nose and sniffed. He snorted, then ripped a huge bite out of the thing. Bones crunched as he chewed. “Not bad, actually.” He tossed it back onto the table. “Not great, though.” He reached for the floral centerpiece.

“Snowy, not that!” Sheila admonished.

“Sorry, Sheila. Thought it was food."

“There really ought to be something here you could eat. They should have—"

Servants approached, bearing a large copper tub filled with congealed greenish mush. After clearing a space, they set it on the table before Snowclaw.

“Now you're talking,” Snowclaw said, scooping up a handful of the stuff. He ate with much gusto and more noise.

Dalton noticed that Snowclaw was drawing stares from the dance floor. “Was Snowclaw the only nonhuman Guest invited?"

“Looks like,” Sheila said. “They all know him, even if they're afraid of him."

“Well, I think the fact that they did invite him says a lot about how much they respect you."

Sheila made a deprecatory gesture. “Really."

“Really. You're one of the most powerful magicians ever to make an appearance in the castle, so they say. Second only to Incarnadine himself."

“Oh, come
on
,” Sheila said, blushing slightly.

“You helped save the castle during that last little contretemps we had here, and they know it."

“Well, it's a gift."

A page stepped up. “Pardon, Lady Sheila, but the guards at Halfway House report that someone wants to speak to you on the ... speaking device."

Hope sprang to Sheila's face. “The telephone? Is it Gene?"

“Sorry, milady. They did not say."

The earth portal was on this same floor of the castle keep and about a five-minute walk from the Queen's Ballroom. Sheila knew the way, but the page insisted on escorting her even though this was one of the most stable areas of the castle. Sheila acquiesced, holding up the hem of her long gown and tripping along as best she could.

The portal stood at the arched mouth of what had been a small alcove. Now the arch was a doorway leading into the living room of a large country estate—and another world: Earth. The room was luxuriously furnished and had a stone fireplace. A huge window-wall looked out onto expansive grounds and a distant prospect of forested mountains.

The Guardsmen, dressed in local mufti, came to attention when Sheila entered the room. She went directly to a side table and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Hello?"

“Sheila? It's Linda."

“Hi! Have you heard from Gene?"

“You mean he hasn't shown up yet?"

“No. Where are you?"

“Still in California. Listen, I've been calling Gene's parents' house and I don't get any answer. So I figured he either went somewhere with them or went back to the castle."

“Well, he didn't make it here, and he didn't call."

“Uh-oh. I'm worried."

“So am I, a little. But he's got to show up. I hate to think of it, but unless something happened to his plane—"

“There's been no news about any plane crashes,” Linda said, “so forget that. I checked with the airline and they say he boarded the plane in Los Angeles."

“Well, then I guess he's okay. He probably did go somewhere with his folks."

“Yeah."

“Yeah."

There was a pause. Then Sheila said, “You know what? I don't believe it."

“Neither do I."

“And another thing,” Sheila said. “Two, actually. The portal fluttered two days ago. Disappeared for a few minutes."

“It's done that before."

“Never for more than a few seconds. According to the sentries, this was like for at least ten minutes. The second thing is that the servants are reporting a new Guest wandering around. A kid, they say, and he looks like he's from Earth."

“Hm. If so, it means the portal did some flying around before it stabilized. You better find this kid and make sure."

“Linda, do you think—?"

“What?"

“Oh, I don't know. We really don't know how stable, tied-down portals are supposed to act. If only Lord Incarnadine would come back!"

“He will eventually. Till then, we have to cope. It's our responsibility. That's why he gave us all fancy titles. But what were you thinking?"

“That someone might have tampered with the portal."

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. Then Linda said, “That's something to think about, all right."

 

 

 

Elsewhere

 

He had spent what seemed like an eternity in total darkness, and he was going slowly insane. All he could do was pace his featureless cell—twelve paces long, eight wide—going around and around again, occasionally brushing the bare walls with his fingers as he walked. He had long ago given up trying to find seams or cracks in the wall. As far as he could determine there were none. He had found no hint of a possible opening of any kind, no hint of the possibility of escape.

Worse still, he had not been fed or given a drink of water, and there were no toilet facilities. He had chosen a corner to do his business in, but his mouth felt like the inside of a clothes hamper, and hunger was eating a hole in him.

The worst part was not knowing anything. Not knowing who his captors were, or why they were holding him, or what their intentions were. He wondered what was going on back in the castle. He suspected another invasion attempt, but there was no telling. Someone might just have it in for him. You could never tell about the castle. They didn't call it Castle Perilous for nothing.

But could he really have personal enemies? After some rumination, he dismissed the notion. No, his abduction must be part of a grand scheme of some sort. He only wondered why he hadn't been killed outright. Obviously he was a hostage. But to what purpose?

Then again, maybe the plan was to let him die slowly. No food, no water, no sanitation. Hell of a way to go, starvation.

He sniffed. The place was beginning to get ripe, but before long, he suspected, he wouldn't have much waste to void. Thirst would kill him long before hunger did.

How long had he been here? He really had no notion. Twenty-four hours at least. Maybe forty-eight. It seemed like a week. He hadn't slept a wink, and fatigue was weighing him down.

He stopped pacing and sat, leaning his back against the wall, then began giving more thought to where he could be. Well, he had come through a portal from Earth, which meant he was back in Castle Perilous somewhere. Or so he thought. He had never heard of a portal opening up between the universes of the castle. But it was a possibility, so he could be anywhere.

It made him feel better to think that he was inside Perilous, albeit at the mercy of his abductors. It meant that he had his magic powers. Correction: power, for he had only one. He was the best swordsman in the place. He wished for some way to test the hypothesis, but he needed a sword. There was no other way. He had tried shadow fencing with an imaginary sword, but it had told him little.

Of course, he
felt
right, sensed that his swordsmanship was back, but there was no way of being really sure. Anyway, the point was moot as long as he was unarmed.

His thoughts drifted to food. There was a great Syrian-Lebanese restaurant in Pittsburgh that he used to frequent. They served great shish kebab, fragrant hunks of flame-broiled marinated lamb, which went even better with a dish of rice and pignolias on the side. Of course, to start out you'd have maybe a tabuli salad—parsley and cucumber tossed in lemon dressing—along with fresh warm bread dipped in a mixture of mashed chickpeas, sesame oil, and garlic. Then some grape leaves stuffed with rice, ground lamb, and spices—or perhaps a dab of kibbe, raw ground lamb with onion. You didn't have to go with the meat on a skewer, either. There were plenty of other entrees, like stuffed eggplant or...

He had to stop that. He couldn't think of food or he surely would go mad.

Chinese was good, too. He could almost smell a dish of cashew chicken. But then again there was nothing wrong with a good old-fashioned slab of American prime rib, well-done at the edges and pink in the middle, lying alongside a volcanic cone of mashed potatoes, its caldera full to the brim with gravy made from pan drippings —

Stop! Are you crazy already? Stop. Just quit it.

He got up and began to pace again. If only the phantom smells would go away. He was sure, now, that he could smell bread baking.

He halted. Maybe he did smell bread baking. Or manufactured odors designed to tantalize him. Part of the torture. It could be this was just the beginning of his torment.

Somebody had it in for him! It had to be. But who?

He had no shred of an idea. Unless the Hosts of Hell were back in the castle. Those bastards were capable of anything. Sadism was child's play to the Hosts. In that case, it was hot pincers and thumbscrews for him, or worse, if such could be imagined. And it probably could.

He was worried now. And of course, fear and worry were high on the agenda, too. Anything to make him sweat, wear him down. Did they want him to talk? About what? He knew almost nothing of strategic value—that he could think of. He was just a soldier, nothing more. He was no sorcerer, like...

Like Linda and Sheila. Especially Sheila. Were they trying to get to the girls through him? Trying to coerce cooperation out of them by threatening him? The reverse?