Castle Perilous (24 page)

A good while passed. At length Ervoldt looked out again at his descendant. “I understand. Yes, I would say you have an advantage here, be your ciphering correct and your surmises true.”

“Would you say that this advantage might offset any unfavorable sidereal conditions?”

“I think it would tend to ameliorate them. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“It is enough. You have been of invaluable service to me, Ancestor.”

“I am glad. You seem an able young man and a worthy bearer of the family name.”

“Thank you . . . Grandfather.”

“Before you leave me, one question.”

“Anything.”

“Have you attempted this communication before?”

“No. Have others made contact?”

“Not contact,” Ervoldt said, “but I have had detected strange meddlings, perhaps attempts to observe me. I am not sure.”

“I see. Though I cannot be certain, I think I know who it was.”

“Tell them to bugger off. I value my privacy. To future generations I am the dead. Let me lie, let me rest.”

“My apologies.”

“They are unnecessary. This look into the far future has lightened my heart. Simply to know that there is a future is somehow reassuring. May the gods look upon you with favor. Fare ye well.”

“Farewell.”

A motion of the hand and the screen went dark.

He sighed. Rising from the computer station, he walked the length of the room and stood before a star chart. He examined it, doing a few mental calculations. He shook his head.

“The worst possible time.”

The walls shook again and took on a strange cast. These disturbances had been occurring regularly for the past half hour, but he had been able to ignore them because of certain protections that this particular room afforded. Soon those safeguards would not be enough.

The time had come. He would have to make his way to the lower levels with all due speed and put his plans, such as they were, into immediate effect.

 

 

 

Hall Of The Brain

 

Snowclaw looked out from the bars of his cage. They were doing curious things out there. Braziers burned, candles glowed, and the smell of incense hung heavy in the air.

Snowclaw didn't like it one bit, but he had just about broken several bones trying to force his way out of the cage. It was no use. All he could do was observe the strange goings-on and comment now and again with a disapproving growl. At least he could let them know he didn't like it.

Snowclaw wasn't used to concentrated thinking, but now, with time on his hands, he was at leisure to put some thought into the process of deciding what to do next, if anything. He arranged the things he would do in sequential order. First he'd break out of his confinement. Then he'd tear the head off everybody in the room.

No, no good. The witch-female was too powerful for that. First, break out. Second, get away, so the magic-wielding hairless female couldn't cage him again. Third, find his good buddy Gene and the other female, the one he liked a lot, Linda. Fourth? Well, if Gene and Linda and he were together again, everything would be okay, there wouldn't be anything more to worry about, except getting back home. . . .

Home. He never really thought about it much, but what was home? A shack, that's all. A nice one, though, comfortably livable, and warm enough when the north wind blew and it got really cold at night, so cold the blowing snow felt like needles against your hide and the air was brittle enough to shatter like the glass in the windows of city-folks' houses if you yelled or made a sudden move, just shatter into a million pieces, so cold that you'd give anything for spring to break early and to see the icebergs calving into the sea and moving out with the tide, great white floating islands, and to feel a mild breeze and see little green things appear among the wet rocks. . . .

He was homesick. But all he had back there was a shack and a shaky living. Sometimes he got lonely — every once in a while, and he'd get the urge for companionship. Why, the last time he'd shacked with a mate was years ago. Yeah, it was a lonely existence out there in the ice fields. But it was the only way he knew how to make a living.

Now, this place — he kind of liked it here. It was lots of fun, sometimes, and the food was good. There were plenty of good fights, a little danger for spice. Yeah. He liked it. Thing was, on a permanent basis it would tend to wear a little thin. But on the whole, the prospect of staying here indefinitely didn't upset him as much as he would have thought.

He missed Gene. For some reason he liked the little smooth-skinned fellow a whole lot. Why, he didn't know. Didn't really matter.

Great White Stuff! He wanted out of this cage so bad he could taste it. What in the name of the Ice Queen were they doing out there? Witchy stuff, most likely.

He thought of Gene and Linda again and wondered what they were doing, whether they were okay. They could be in trouble. He was a bit worried. He grasped the bars again and shook. The cage rattled, and the hairless soldier turned to glare at him. Up your mud hole, Bare Butt. Give your dirty looks to someone else.

No use. He sat and leaned his broad back against the far wall of the cage. His thoughts returned again to his friends. He was convinced, somehow, that Gene was in trouble. Linda he wasn't sure about. But he was certain that Gene needed him. He had no idea how he knew that, but he knew it for sure.

He could almost see Gene. He closed his fierce yellow eyes. He could! He could actually see his buddy now, and it was true, the little hairless guy was up against it.

He jumped to his feet. “Gene!” he called out. “I'm coming, pal!”

Snowclaw could almost reach out and touch him. He didn't know what was happening, but whatever it was, Snowy was all for it.

 

Melydia sprinkled more incense onto the glowing coals. Smoke rose from the brazier.

She was not adept at visualizing spells, though her sense of them was keen. But her perception of the enchantment cast around the Stone had become so palpable that she saw, or thought she could see, an intricate network of glowing filaments surrounding the Stone like a spider's web, each strand pulled taut with extreme tension. As she recited the opening lines of the Spell of Abrogation, the web shimmered and vibrated, emitting a sound like an ethereal harp.

The beast in the cage made noises again, but it did not distract her. She barely noticed it.

She finished the Greater Invocation. Soon, Incarnadine, soon. You will show yourself, and you think you will have me, but you will be wrong. I am now far more powerful than you — than anyone one in this world. And once the demon is loose, it will do my bidding. You will control it no longer.

She regarded the Stone again. Around it, glowing strands of red, green, purple, and yellow entwined sinuously in a filigree of magic. She blinked her eyes and it was gone. Then, slowly, it returned. Yes, it was really there. She was not just imagining it.

She looked over her shoulder. The servants sat huddled as far away from her as they dared. The young one looked frightened. She would try to prevent him from dying immediately, so as not to upset the others. It would be difficult, though, as the spell called for a great quantity of virgin's blood. She would endeavor to put the least amount to good use. She cared nothing for the boy. At one time, long ago, she would have balked at such an act. In fact, it would have horrified her. But after years of delving into the Recondite Arts —

“Your Ladyship.”

She turned her head. It was the soldier.

“What is it?”

“The beast. It is no longer in its cage. It is nowhere to be found.”

“Have you been watching it?”

“Yes, my lady, just as you said. But it . . . it disappeared. One moment I was looking at it, and the next — ”

“No matter,” she said. “Do not bother to search for it. I doubt it will return here. Return to your post and do not disturb me again.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

Sometimes she forgot that everyone in this castle was a magician to some extent. Be that as it may.

She began another incantation.

 

 

 

Elsewhere, And Back Again

 

“At last I have you, Count Ciancia!”

From the floor Gene looked up at a man who was dressed in something that vaguely evoked The Three Musketeers and similar costume epics.

Gene said, “Huh?”

“I know not by what thaumaturgy you have contrived to change your appearance, or how this secret chamber was instantly revealed, but I know you, Count, for the fiend you are.”

“Wait a minute,” Gene said, struggling to his feet.

The man drew a rapier, whipped it about briefly, and fell into a fencing stance. “Be on your guard, sorcerer!”

“Hold it!” Gene yelled, raising his hand. “You've got it all wrong. I'm not this Count whatever you call him. You — ”

“More lies!” the man hissed, anger flashing in his eyes. “You spew them like vomit from a drunkard!”

“That's getting personal.” Gene glanced around. He couldn't figure what happened after the floor had swallowed him. He'd fallen, but not far, and had wound up in darkness, briefly. Then the lights had come on, and . . . Was he still in the castle?

“Have at you!” The man charged.

Gene barely had time to draw his sword. He sidestepped the middle-aged man's lunge, ran out of the alcove in which he'd found himself and into a spacious seventeenth century drawing room. He instantly realized that he'd just crossed a portal.

His antagonist chased after him, still yelling but now quite unintelligibly. On this side of the portal there'd be no communication at all.

Gene backed away, brandishing his sword. The weapons were mismatched, of course, broadsword against rapier, but Gene didn't know enough about weaponry to guess who'd have the advantage, if any.

He found out quick. His opponent was a passable swordsman, and the rapier's tip nearly skewered Gene three times before he had time to back out of range, parrying desperately. If Gene could bring the full force of the broadsword against the thin steel of the rapier's blade, the rapier would break. But his opponent wasn't about to let him do it. The man stayed with feint-and-lunge maneuvers that kept the rapier unpredictably darting about, avoiding contact with Gene's heavy weapon.

The portal might close any second. He would somehow have to maneuver back toward the far wall. But Gene was not in charge. His opponent would determine who would go where. On the positive side, the man was no expert. Although he couldn't fathom why, Gene had the feeling that he could hold his own with a fencing sword too. This flashed through his mind when he saw the crossed épées above the mantelpiece.

His back to the fireplace, he swung wildly with the broadsword and fended his opponent off, then overturned a stuffed chair to block him. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Gene reached back and fumbled with one of the crossed swords — it fell and rolled away. He reached again, grasped the remaining épée by its cupped hilt, and ran off toward the alcove.

“Coward!” the man yelled when Gene had recrossed the boundary. He was in the castle again — he could tell by the distinctive purplish-gray stone — but the chamber was a cul-de-sac. He had nowhere to run.

Gene switched the épée to his right hand and put it up against the man's thrusting attack, neatly parrying and delivering a riposte that the man had trouble beating away.

The man's expression changed. He was a little less sure of himself.

“Just who the hell are you?” Gene demanded.

“As if you didn't know!” came the answer, along with a forceful beat against Gene's sword and a savage lunge.

“I'm not Count Whozis,” Gene said, calmly beating back and riposting. “Isn't that apparent by now?” The sword felt like part of his hand, as if he were born to be a swordsman.

“No other human dwells in this place. If you are not Giovanni Luigino, the Count di Ciancia, then you are one of his familiars, and if that is true, I should be dead! But I'm not. So you must be he, though you bear no resemblance to the fiend.”

“Okay — ” Gene feinted, then attacked the man's left shoulder. His opponent parried, but couldn't riposte due to Gene's expert follow-up attack to the middle. “What's this guy done, anyway?”

“Damn you to hell! You know more than I what foul deeds are yours. I know only — ” The man overreacted to Gene's feint, leaving himself open to a quick lunge, which he had to hastily beat away, retreating. “I know only that you have raped my baby daughter and have forever soiled her reputation.”

“Hey look, if you want, I'll marry the bitch.”

The man froze, his eyes wide. “You will?”

“Hell, yeah, if you'll keep your shirt on.”

The man looked skeptical. “What sort of dowry will you demand?”

“Make it easy on yourself. Nothing, if you want. Or her hope chest, what do I care?”

“Done. You have my blessing.”

Three events happened then, almost but not quite simultaneously.

One: Snowclaw's voice came out of thin air.

“Gene! I'm coming, pal!”

Two: a short, chubby young woman in a blue hooped gown and décolletage came bursting through the double doors in the left wall of the outer room. Following close behind was a thin, dissolute young man dressed in lavender pantaloons, hose, and white puffed-sleeve blouse. At the sight of Gene, an outraged father, and the unexplained hole in the drawing room wall, his pale eyebrows rose. He lifted a monocle.

“How very interesting,” he said.

“Father!” the girl shouted indignantly, her multiple chins quivering. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Turning, the man said, “Corabella?” Then he saw the count and drew a sharp breath. “You!”

Three: Snowy materialized in a dead run and slammed into Corabella's father, sending him cartwheeling across the room.