Castle War! (22 page)

“Snowy's
cute
. That thing was ... never mind. Getting to the lab is out.”
 

“I suppose there isn't another way?”
 

“Not that I know of. Where do we go now?”
 

Sir Gene sheathed his sword. “There's nothing left to do but go back to the world of the black cloud and wait.”
 

“There's nothing for me to do there,” Linda said. “I'm going to try to make it to Sheila's world. She might be back from her trip. If so, she can help out.”
 

“That's as good an idea as any, I suppose,” Sir Gene said.
 

“Shouldn't you be directing the battle?”
 

“I've no control over what's happening. If I had a hundred duplicates of myself—”
 

“We're not going to try that again, even in the castle.”
 

“I'm not suggesting we try it. I find the existence of even one doppelganger intolerable. Where is this Sheila and her world?”
 

“Isn't there a Sheila in your castle?”
 

“No. Not that I've met, anyway. There are any number of Guests who are strangers to me.”
 

“Sheila's aspect is on a level about midway between the Guest Residence and the laboratory, here in the castle keep.”
 

“Then let's drop to that level and hope there are no skirmishes in the area.”
 

“There's fighting going on all over the keep,” Linda said, “thanks to you, but there's always hope. Hit the fifty-first-floor button.”
 

Sir Gene searched the floor selection panel, found the correct button, and depressed it. “This contraption is well equipped.”
 

“Your typical medieval elevator.”
 

The conveyance descended, humming and whirring appropriately. After a half minute it slowed and stopped. Sir Gene drew his sword and held it at the ready.
 

The doors opened to silence.
 

Sir Gene poked his head out and looked. “It's clear.”
 

They exited into a dim hallway and proceeded right, keeping to the left-hand wall, which was punctuated by numerous alcoves suitable for ducking into. They passed a sitting room, complete with heavy oak furniture and tables. No one was about. They came to an aspect, a doorway leading to a forest scene.
 

“We could hide in there,” Sir Gene said.
 

Linda shook her head. “I want to see Sheila. It's just down the hall and to the left.”
 

They passed along more dim hallway before encountering an unused dining hall, dark and gloomy.
 

“I'm reminded that I'm still hungry,” Sir Gene said.
 

“Want me to whip up something for you?”
 

“No, I can wait.”
 

“The food is good at Sheila's hotel.”
 

“She discovered this world?”
 

“She and Trent, Lord Incarnadine's brother.”
 

“Didn't know he had a brother.”
 

Linda said, “I'm beginning to see that there are lots of differences between our castle and yours.”
 

“Does seem that way. Is it much farther, this aspect?”
 

“Just down this hall, about—”
 

Having just rounded the corner, Linda stopped in her tracks. Her jaw dropped. Walking toward her, flanked by two anti-Guardsmen, was what could have been her twin sister were it not for some differences. The quasi-twin's teeth were crooked and stained, her complexion sallow. Her hair was a fright wig, dyed a bright red. There was something wrong with the eyes; they were ringed with dark circles and had a strangeness in them.
 

The anti-Linda smiled and said, “I thought I heard voices. Well, well, well. My counterpart, Lady Linda the dishwater blonde. How can you wear it that color, dear?”
 

Linda closed her mouth, took a deep breath. Then she said calmly, “I was born with it, that's why.”
 

“And that outfit. Cute. Like a pixie, little tights and everything. Oh, nice boots. Get those at Bloomingdale's?”
 

Linda looked at the horror of a white lace gown that draped her twin. “Early Bela Lugosi movie” would have been the appropriate period, and the kindest capsule description. She decided to refrain from commenting. She did say, “Why don't you go back where you belong?”
 

The anti-Linda took a step forward, sudden anger boiling in her strange eyes. “Look, honey, I don't take orders well, not even from Incarnadine, let alone from some castle tart playing Glinda the Good Witch. So, get your bitchy lips off me, all right?” Her expression and manner shifting abruptly, almost jarringly, she turned to Sir Gene with an inexplicable smile. “Put that sword away, Gene, sweetheart. I've no grudge against you.”
 

Sir Gene grunted and lowered his sword, but kept it out. “That would be a radical change.”
 

“Gene, Gene, how many times have we worked at cross-purposes? Weaving our separate strands, always warp-to-warp, never warp-to-woof.”
 

“Charming metaphor.”
 

“But I mean it. I could have aided you in your last bid for power, but you chose not to include me in your lovely little conspiracy.”
 

“You ought to be grateful. It failed miserably.”
 

“Because I didn't help you. We never were the best of friends, Gene, but that shouldn't have prevented us from becoming business partners.”
 

“I like to work alone.”
 

“It takes two to conspire, darling.” She batted her eyelashes sweetly. “But no matter, you had your chance. And now Incarnadine's appointed me regent of this new castle. Oh, yes! It'll be practically like ruling Perilous itself. Wait a minute. How silly of me. It will be exactly like ruling Perilous. This
is
Castle Perilous, after all.”
 

“How fortunate for you,” Sir Gene said. “I suppose I'll be a nonperson here as well?”
 

The anti-Linda shook her head. “Don't leave on my account, dear. I won't give you any trouble. Of course, if Incarnadine finds out you're here—”
 

“We already ran into each other.”
 

“How unfortunate for you. Don't worry, I won't sic my boys, here, on you. Put your sword away.”
 

Sir Gene harrumphed to himself and sheathed his weapon.
 

“It might be wise to keep you handy,” the anti-Linda said. “I suspect you'll be ducking through an aspect to lie low, but keep in touch, will you? It's good to keep potential allies close at hand.”
 

Sir Gene gestured toward Linda. “What about her?”
 

“Well, that's a problem.” The anti-Linda brought up her hand. Somehow a strange elongated pistol had materialized in it.
 

“A gun?” Sir Gene said, perplexed.
 

The anti-Linda was looking at her twin. “Sorry, honey, but the best way to deal with you is just to get it over with. I hear you're very sweet, but you'd only be in the way. My apologies.”
 

Sir Gene began, “But a gun won't work—”
 

The pistol made a sharp hissing sound. Sir Gene turned toward Linda and looked wonderingly at the feathered dart that had blossomed in Linda's chest like a small deadly flower. Linda sank to her knees.
 

“Poison-tipped,” the anti-Linda said. “Quick-acting, attacks the nervous system almost instantly.”
 

Sir Gene made an instinctive motion to catch Linda as she teetered.
 

“Let her go, Gene. She's dead. No magic can block the effects.”
 

Sir Gene straightened. The whites of Linda's eyes rolled up, and she fell over and lay still.
 

The anti-Linda smiled brightly. “Gene, how about lunch?”
 

 

 

 

Weirdworld

 

“There it is,” Dalton said, pointing ahead.
 

“That look like a teeing green to you? Nothing but gravel.”
 

“Well, there's the hole, way out yonder.”
 

Thaxton shaded his eyes. “Where?”
 

“Out beyond that herd of animals.”
 

“You mean we have to play through a herd of bison?”
 

“I don't think those are bison.”
 

“Yes, there is something strange about them.”
 

“They have six legs apiece.”
 

“Well,” Thaxton said, “they're an improvement over gryphons and basilisks. Do I have the honor, or do you?”
 

“You.”
 

“Look at that bloody fairway. Full of rocks.”
 

“It's a challenge.”
 

“Right you are.” Thaxton chose a driver and teed up.
 

They played the thirteenth. The herd moved off the fairway for the taller, more succulent grasses of the rough, and the men made their approach shots. They were on the green in three and two-putted for par.
 

“That was an easy hole,” Dalton said as they followed a path away from the green and up a little hill.
 

“Yes. I hope they're not setting us up for something really dicey.”
 

“We've pulled through so far.”
 

“So far, so good, the man said as he fell thirty-nine of forty stories.”
 

“I wonder who designed this course,” Dalton mused.
 

“You think someone actually sat down and thought out this madness?”
 

“It has its inspirations, and there's a method to it all, however bizarre. Recurring themes, too.”
 

“Oh, yes, and I'm just about fed up with the strange beastie motif.”
 

They had come to the top of the hill. Below lay a shallow valley shrouded in impenetrable fog.
 

“Well, we're not going to be playing through that.”
 

“Looks like there's no getting around it,” Dalton said. “Next tee's bound to be somewhere in there.”
 

“I'm worried about what else may be in there.”
 

“What's a little fog to two seasoned hell-golfers?”
 

Thaxton hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Right, what could be worse than ... I won't say it. No telling what could be worse.”
 

They descended into the mist. A blanket of whiteness enveloped them, bringing a moist, muffled silence. They walked down a gentle grade for a good stretch. When the ground leveled off they stopped.
 

“See anything?” Dalton said.
 

“Not a bloody thing. Are we still on the course?”
 

“I think we missed the tee.”
 

“Then this must be the fairway. Let's retrace our steps.”
 

“Wait a minute,” Dalton said. “I've lost my bearings. Is that the way we came?”
 

“I dunno.”
 

“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. We'll have to wait for the fog to lift.”
 

Thaxton eased down and arranged himself so that he was half reclining, elbows resting on his golf bag.
 

Dalton squatted on his. “How's the leg?”
 

“Coming along. I'm a fast healer.”
 

A sound like the moan of a dying man came out of the mist.
 

“Good God, what was that?”
 

“He must have a bad lie.”
 

Shrieks like the tortured screams of the damned. Then the flapping of great wings.
 

“That bloody roc again,” Thaxton said.
 

“Or something else.”
 

“Maybe a harpy. Actually I wouldn't mind. That barbecued harpy doesn't sound so bad now. I'm feeling a bit peckish.”
 

“That salamanderburger didn't fill you up?”
 

“Like Chinese food,” Thaxton said. “You know, an hour later...”
 

“I'm rather fond of Chinese. Moo shoo with plum sauce.”
 

“Not my cup of tea, to coin a phrase.”
 

“Of course, nothing can beat French cuisine.”
 

“As a general rule I don't fancy wog food.”
 

Dalton looked at him. “Wog?”
 

“Well, you know, the wogs begin at Calais.”
 

Dalton glanced around. “Fog's lifting.”
 

The mists took a few minutes to clear. Shapes in the distance came into view, craggy peaks against a black sky. Something was howling in the rocks to the right of the fairway where remnants of fog curled. To the left, a bloated yellow moon was rising, casting eerie light and purple shadows. In the sky were faint stars and glowing spectral clouds.
 

They had been sitting, as it turned out, right in front of the tee. The grass both on the tee and in the fairway looked like green crepe paper.
 

“Strange,” Thaxton said.
 

“Yup. That moon's throwing enough light to play by, though. So...”