Castle Spellbound (22 page)

The honor of opening the door devolved to Trent. It was secured from the inside, of course. Secured very early this evening. But Trent had it open in a trice with a simple door-opening charm. There was no lock; the massive oak door was barred with a heavy wooden beam which a bit of levitation took care of handily (after Trent had used his clairvoyant powers to see behind the door).

They slipped into the tower and closed and barred the door after them. It was pitch-dark inside, save for the light spilling through tiny embrasures on every floor. They climbed the narrow stairs single-file.

It happened on the fourth level. The stairway was blocked; with what, Trent could not see. It felt like a stack of crates or trunks. Puzzled, he reached behind him, took Ion's hand, waited for him to link with the others, and led into the adjacent chamber.

They were suddenly jumped, and a fight in total darkness ensued. Before he could begin to draw his sword, Trent had several sets of hands laid on him. He kicked out but didn't connect. In answer, a solid clout to the head knocked him down.

Light blossomed. A beam of light stabbed his eyes.

A
flashlight
beam?

He heard a familiar chuckle. Three Troadean soldiers had him pinned. The fight was already over, his commando teammates all subdued.

“Who the devil are you?” Trent said to the man holding the flashlight.

The man turned the beam upward to illuminate his own smiling face.

"Inky!"

Incarnadine's apartment in the palace was luxurious. “How long have you been mage to the court of Troas?” Trent asked as he stuffed himself with a very late supper. He had to admit the fare was better than the oats and timothy he'd enjoyed earlier. Actually, it was good to be human again.

“Oh, many years, local time,” Incarnadine said, sipping the same dark, sweet wine Trent was drinking. “In fact, I wormed my way into Mykosian culture chiefly for the purpose of saving Troas, my favorite city here."

“Tell me again why you used me as a cat's-paw. My head's a little thick tonight."

“I couldn't very well be in two places at once,” Incarnadine answered. “I needed someone convincingly good as a strategist, yet someone whose mind I knew well and could second-guess. I couldn't let you in on my plans because Anthaemion surely would have sensed your duplicity. He's as cagey as they come, and a bit of a telepath."

Trent nodded. “Okay, I buy that. I had enough trouble with him. Despite my best efforts, he seemed to sense that I disliked him and that I was half-hoping that the whole operation would fail. How did you know I'd try the Trojan horse bit?"

“I didn't, but I was prepared for one sort of commando operation or another, and knew you'd be trying to take the watchtower at the north gate. The horse-transformation thing was a brilliant stroke, Trent. Masterly bit of deception. I think they would have chopped up the wooden version for firewood, it's so scarce around here."

“Right. But it's strange how the horse motif persists."

“I've followed the Troy thread in over a dozen worlds so far. It's the central legend in dozens more. Something basic is at the core of it, but I don't know what, yet. One of the things I'm studying. But all the versions I've encountered are the same in essentials."

Trent looked out the window, west, toward the sea. The city was still dark, but daybreak was not far off.

“Anthaemion's out there, somewhere, waiting for my signal fire."

Incarnadine nodded. “And when rosy-figured dawn breaks without his having seen anything, he's off for home, never to return. And Troas is saved."

“And a legend is lost. You're right, this mythos is central to most Earthlike cultures. What cultural havoc are you wreaking here?"

Incarnadine chuckled and pushed a scroll across the table.

“Scan that."

Trent unscrolled what looked like the beginning of a long poem written on sheepskin.

“'Sing, Muse, of the wrath of Aeakides...'” Trent gave his brother a sardonic look. “What, you joined the Blind Poets’ Guild?"

Incarnadine laughed. “No, but this culture will have its heritage. As is true in most worlds, later generations will never be sure of the historicity of any of this. But they will have the poem. As for Troy—or Troas—the bay will silt up, the citadel will lose its strategic value, and it will eventually be abandoned."

Done eating, Trent sat back and drank off the rest of his wine.

“Nevertheless, my dear brother, I am mightily pissed off at you."

Incarnadine shrugged. “I can well understand."

“Why didn't you let me get word to Sheila, for gods’ sake? I can't believe your insensitivity. You know how she—"

“There is no need to."

“What? What the hell are you talking about?"

“The time difference between the castle and this world is variable. I couldn't tell exactly how long you'd be gone, castle time. I knew it would be short, but I didn't figure on how short. The slippage factor shot up to five digits and has remained so the whole time we were here."

“Five digits? You mean we've been here over two years, and only—"

Incarnadine nodded, grinning. “Only a few hours have passed back at the castle."

Trent was struck dumb.

Incarnadine chuckled again. “So when you get back it'll be late evening of the day you left. Remember that when you see Sheila."

Trent laughed in spite of himself. “You rotten, no good..."

“Sorry. But she'll never know, unless you choose to tell her."

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't ... Hold it, hold it. You're forgetting we have to get back to Mykos to go through the portal."

“It was originally here. I moved it back."

“Oh."

“So everything's fine."

“Whoa, just a another minute now. This doesn't let you off the hook, my friend. You
duped
me."

Incarnadine nodded. “That I did. Rather well, too."

“Artfully. I'm going to get back at you."

“I'm rather sure you will. Have some more wine.” Incarnadine reached for the pitcher.

“Thanks."

“By the way, something's been happening at the castle while we've been gone. I'm getting vague vibrations, but I'm sure it's some sort of strange magic."

Trent didn't answer immediately. Then he said, “It will be long in coming, and when it comes it will be sudden, unexpected, and frightful."

“All good revenge schemes should work that way,” Incarnadine said, pouring. “Say when."

Crypt

“Are you sleeping?"

“Hm? Just have my eyes closed."

“This floor should be hard and cold but it's not cold at all. It's not exactly soft, but it's not exactly uncomfortable either. What do you think?"

“Hm?"

“Do most men always sleep after?"

“Ah, the perennial question of male post-coital somnolence."

“Huh?"

“We should get up. By the way, notice anything?"

“Yes. Everything's quiet. No crowds, no nothing."

“Yeah. Did you notice when, in the middle of everything, it got awfully strange? I mean, intensely strange?"

“Yeah, I saw weird feet. Big pink bunny-rabbit feet."

“Yeah, and chartreuse elephant feet, and like that."

“Right."

“And then, very suddenly, everything got wispy and faded out."

“Right. I noticed. I was rather preoccupied at the time, of course."

“Of course. Me, too. Let's get out from under the table."

They crawled out and dressed hurriedly.

The huge underground crypt was empty except for a few curious pink clouds scudding near the ceiling. They seemed to emanate from the crypt next door, and toward this destination they began to walk.

“Are we near the source, do you think?” Linda asked.

“I'd venture to say that we are,” Gene said. “But the source seems to have dried up."

“Thank God. Is it over?"

“The weirdness? Don't know. Hope so."

They passed through a tall arch that followed a corbeled passageway which made several L's. After the last one, a short walk brought them out into another huge crypt, but this one was strange. It looked like the interior of an ancient ruin. Its marble walls were cracked and pitted; decorative friezes lay in shards along the floor. They passed dry fountains and stands of dead potted palms. Debris littered the floor.

The place was deserted except for three people up on a platform at the far end of the hall, toward which Gene and Linda moved.

Pink and purple clouds drifted amongst the tops of high columns. Here and there a Day-Glo butterfly flitted and fluttered.

“Hello?” Gene called as he began mounting the stairs to the platform.

“Hello,” came the reply.

Gene and Linda reached the top of the stairs and looked around curiously. The place was an ungodly mess.

“Hello, there. I'm Thorsby. This is Fetchen."

Gene asked, “Is he all right?"

“Uhhh,” Fetchen answered.

“He'll pull through,” Thorsby said. “Thought I'd lost him, but he's doing fine."

“Good,” Gene said. “Let me ask you a question."

“Fire away, sir."

“What the hell has been going on here?"

“Ah! Yes, of course, you would want to know that. Well, that's going to take some explaining. If you'd just give me a minute to collect my thoughts. Been in a bit of a dust-up, don't you know. Almost didn't pull through myself. We've had no end of trouble, no end of trouble."

“They had one hell of a good time,” said the large bald man who sat at the far end of the dais.

“Who's that?” Gene asked of Thorsby.

“Uh. Actually, I don't know. I say ... sir? Do you have a name?"

“Just call me Omar."

“Omar, I'd like you to meet”—Thorsby turned to Gene—“I do know your name, sir, but it escapes me at the moment."

“Gene Ferraro. You're one of the apprentice magicians, no?"

“Right you are, sir."

“So you two are the jokers who cast the wild spell?"

Omar laughed. “Oh, did they screw it up."

“Well, now, we certainly did achieve some spectacular effects."

Omar hooted.

“Yeah, I'll say you did,” Gene admitted. “Did you know you about had this castle in the worst uproar it's ever been in?"

“Did we know? Oh, no, sir, we did not. Did ... uh, did some of the manifestations escape?"

It was Gene and Linda's turn to laugh.

“Our apologies for any disturbance we've caused,” Thorsby said. “But I assure you that it was all quite inadvertent. The unfortunate result of a series of thaumaturgical accidents, which, as I'm sure you understand, are sometimes unavoidable when one engages in important scientific—"

"Ah-hah!"

Gene and Linda turned and saw no one, though the voice had come from behind. Linda gave a squeal when she bumped into a dark-bearded man in turban and slippers who was not quite three feet tall. He wore colorful silk robes and several emerald rings. Despite his size, he looked like trouble.

The dwarf turned his head to Omar. “Are these the two?"

“That's them, boss."

The dwarf swiveled his gimlet gaze to Thorsby and Fetchen. “You incompetent, lazy, stupid, miserable good-for-nothings have succeeded in queering my karma for the next six hundred cycles of existence."

“See here,” Thorsby said. “Who the devil are you?"

“You're talking to the Grand Wazir, boys,” Omar told them.

“Oh. Uhhhh..."

Fetchen picked that moment to sit up. He blinked his eyes and said, “I'm feeling much better.” His eyes focused on the Wazir. “Hello. What are you?"

The Wazir's dark bushy eyebrows lowered. “What am I? I'm the canker on your gum. I'm the boil on your bottom. I'm the worst nightmare you ever sweated through. That's what I am, you contemptible, scrofulous, illegitimate get of a diseased, flea-bitten camel."

Fetchen turned to his mate. “Who's this little wanker, then?"

“Yes,” Thorsby said indignantly. “Get along with you, tiny person, before you get hurt underfoot."

The Wazir howled and charged.

He was on them like a swarm of gnats. There seemed to be dozens of him, all kicking shins, biting fingers, goosing bottoms, and elbowing crotches. Thorsby and Fetchen ran from the chamber screaming, pursued by a miniature whirlwind of nastiness.

When they had gone, Gene and Linda burst into helpless laughter.

As they were recovering, Omar stood and stamped his cigar out. He yawned.

“Well, I'm off. Nice meeting you people."

“Same here, Omar,” Gene said. “Where exactly are you going?"

“Back into the woodwork. I'll be on unemployment for the next millennium, probably.” He sighed. “Ah, well. So long."

He walked down the steps and headed off into the gloom that lay between two columns.

They watched him fade into darkness.

Gene looked at Linda. “Feel kind of sorry for him."

“Me, too."

“Say, woman. You and me have some wedding plans to discuss."

“Yup. Church or secular?"

“Oh, church. We have that huge chapel upstairs."

“Great! I'd never figured you for a church-wedding type."

“Me?” Gene said. “Why, I'm as pious as they come."

“Oh, yeah."

Just then, Cleve Dalton came walking into the crypt.

“Cleve!"

“Halloo!"

After Dalton mounted the stairs he felt the need to sit, and the one intact divan was all there was to sit on, which he did, despite its being a filthy mess.

“Is it all clear upstairs?” Gene asked.

“All clear,” Dalton said. “It was over pretty quick. Everything just started to fade, and then it all went
poof
, like that. Nothing left but some pretty smoke.” Dalton sized up the place. “Looks like someone threw a hell of a party down here."

“Yup. By the way, Linda and I would like you to be the first to know that we're—"

“There you are, Dalton."

Lord Peter Thaxton came sprinting up the stairs. “Well, you look hale and hearty."

“No problem,” Dalton said. “Something tells me you found out about the safety-net spell."

“Firsthand. You must have had a ghastly time of it, though, not knowing."