The morning was bright by now, and wisps of vapor rose and danced above the moat. A face appeared in a slit beside the bridge. The helmet-clad head nodded. Moments later, with much creaking and groaning, the bridge was lowered.
"Go, you!" Clive's guide commanded. Clive walked carefully across the drawbridge. When he was halfway across, the guard in the castle shouted, "Halt!"
Clive took the opportunity to peer over the edge of the bridge, into the murky moat. Something swimming by peered back up at him and seemed almost to grin, a hungry, anticipatory grin that revealed rows of gleaming, triangular teeth.
Taking a careful stride, Clive positioned himself closer to the center of the span. With the sound of protesting metal, the portcullis rose. Clive could see that its bottom edge was fitted with a series of terrible barbed spikes that fitted into the ground beneath—but that could as easily impale a man and shred his flesh.
More of the gnomish guards appeared and surrounded Clive. He cast a single glance behind him. The squad that had escorted him from the cart had turned and was marching away from the moat. The cart itself and its passengers were nowhere to be seen.
Were they safe? A lump rose in Clive's throat when he thought of his companions—those he had left in the cart and those from whom he had been separated earlier. Smythe and Finnbogg and Shriek would have accompanied him had he asked. He was certain of that. But the terms of the situation meant that he must advance alone. He must press on. He must see this through. Somehow, in the course of doing so, he would find his way back to the others, especially to Annie—or she to him—and they would discover their fates together.
But for now he must go on. Again he repeated to himself, as he moved step by step across the stone-paved courtyard and toward the main keep of the castle, he was alone . . . alone . . . alone.
This time the gnomelike guards refused to speak a word. Even their commander communicated by heavy gestures and harsh shoves. The thought flickered across Clive's mind that Neville's journal might have another message in it by now, but he had left the black-bound book with Smythe. There was no revising that decision: it was a fait accompli.
The guards marched Clive through corridors and passageways until they reached an audience room. The captain of the guards took Clive by the elbow and hustled him to the center of the room. Before a raised platform the captain shoved Clive forward, at the same time kicking him behind the knees. In a single moment Clive felt himself tumble to the floor. In a crazy flash of clarity he found himself examining the carpet that had been laid there—a rich oriental weave with a single pattern replicated hundreds upon hundreds of times in golden threads against a background the color of midnight.
The swirling spiral of stars.
There was a moment of silence. Then a smoothly masculine voice spoke. "Now, there's no need for that."
Clive raised his eyes. A man and a woman were seated on carved wooden thrones.
"Come," the man said. "There's no excuse for the way you've been treated. I'm really very sorry, old fellow. We try to instill some courtesy in these chaps, but they do have a long tradition behind them and it's hard to make them change." He gestured to Clive to rise, then indicated a third chair near the dais.
Clive made his way to the chair and sank into it. He was conscious of his raggedness and of the filth that covered him. He had not had a bath or a shave in days, nor a change of clothing in weeks.
By contrast, the man who spoke was immaculately groomed. He was almost grotesquely tall and slim, yet his form and features were marked by an enviable grace. His costume was all of white, a pale silken material cut to accentuate the conformation of his body. When he moved, the impression was one of power and grace despite his extreme slimness.
His companion was his female counterpart, dressed also in a costume of white silk. Her clothing was tightly fitted to arms and body, although cut so low at the bosom as to draw Clive's unwilling attention. Below the waist, where the man's costume comprised tightly fitted trousers that disappeared into dark-tinted boots, the woman wore a long skirt that lay softly across her lap and against her legs.
Both wore jeweled rings, glittering emeralds mounted in silver bezels. A single dark emerald was suspended by a silver chain from the woman's throat—it lay against her generous bosom, rising and falling with her every breath.
But what most struck Clive about the two was their coloration. Their skins were white. Not the so-called white of the Anglo-Saxon, but a true white, as if they had been carved from living snow or ice. And the hair and the eyes of both were of a dark, glittering green, the color reflected in the emerald gems that both wore as decoration.
"You are Major Clive Folliot," the man said.
Clive acknowledged his identity.
The man smiled faintly. "Of the island of Angle Land on the planet Tell us, and of the Third Era of Technology of that world."
Clive could think of no response to make.
"And I," the man said, "am N'wrbb Crrd'f." He placed a hand deprecatingly against his chest, inclined his head courteously. "And my companion," he continued, "is the Lady 'Nrrc'kth." He extended his hand toward the woman. She took it in hers, smiling softly at Clive.
Her smile, despite her tall, slim conformation and startling coloration—or perhaps because of these characteristics—was breathtaking. Clive compared it to those of women he had known through his life and found none to which to compare it. She released N'wrbb Crrd'fs hand and he withdrew it. The magnificent woman touched the emerald that lay against her bosom, and Clive found himself wondering at the likely color of the areolae of her breasts. Would he ever see them for himself?
N'wrbb Crrd'f was speaking, Clive realized with a start. ". . . will wish to refresh yourself. In all honesty, it astonishes me that you have survived to this point. I will lose a wager." He laughed. "A friendly wager, but one that I regret losing nonetheless. I never expected you to survive to this point. I've thought you a weak link, Major Clive Folliot. Far stronger and more capable candidates than yourself have attempted this journey, and have not come anywhere near reaching the castle. But—"
He made a gesture with his hands, as if in self- deprecation. "For every winner there is a loser and vice versa, so I shall pay and my friend will collect and all will thus remain in equilibrium."
He took his lovely companion's hand and they rose and walked from the dais. Clive stood to face them. At this closer distance they were even more graceful, the man even more powerful, the woman even more breathtakingly lovely, than Clive had realized.
"My men will take you to your quarters. You will find a warm bath, soap, a razor, fresh clothing. I'm sure you will be happier and more comfortable when you have removed the evidence of your travels. Then you will join us for dinner, Major Clive Folliot." Clive shook his head. "My friends. My companions." He pointed vaguely to the entrance of the room, indicating the whole path he had followed, the cart and Finnbogg and Shriek and Horace Hamilton Smythe.
"I'm sorry, Major. They cannot join us. I fear for them—there is only a small chance that they are alive, although I certainly wish them well."
"No longer alive? Sergeant Smythe? Finnbogg and Shriek? No longer alive?" Clive began to tremble.
"But there is another guest," N'wrbb Crrd'f said softly. "I'm sure you will be pleased to share our board with the brigadier."
Numbly, Clive echoed the other's last word. "Brigadier?"
"Yes," N'wrbb Crrd'f smiled, "Brigadier Neville Folliot."
Clive luxuriated in the tub. It was made of wood, the pieces so perfectly fitted and finished that it was absolutely watertight. Servants had brought the hot water in buckets, had clipped his hair and shaved his beard, had washed and rubbed and pampered him.
The room contained little furniture—soft draperies upon the walls, a huge bed where fresh costumery was laid out, a heavy rug like that below, where the pattern of swirling stars repeated itself endlessly.
Left alone, he climbed from the water and dried himself in a
huge, soft towel. The costume that had been set out for him was medieval in cut—-jerkin and trousers and high-topped boots of soft leather. The colors were all shades of red and maroon. The clothing fitted perfectly. A dagger, golden-hilted and decorated with polished rubies, hung at his waist.
Clive stood before a tall mirror, admiring himself. The room was illuminated by torches mounted in brackets.
Behind Clive there appeared a tall, graceful figure in white. He whirled and saw the Lady 'Nrrc'kth. She pressed a finger to her lips, reached out a slim-fingered hand, and pressed it against Clive's mouth to silence him even before he had spoken.
He nodded and she dropped her hand.
His lips burned maddeningly where she had touched them. That fleeting contact was like a kiss of frozen flame, a sip of iced wine tinctured with a burning spice.
Operating by little more than reflex, he clasped the lady in his arms. She came to him, unresisting. He felt her lips at his ear, her warm breath close against his skin, her body strong against his own. For all her height, he could see the magnificent emerald that hung upon her bosom. As she shifted he learned the answer to one mystery that had puzzled him: the color of the areolae that decorated her breasts.
"Clive Folliot," 'Nrrc'kth whispered in his ear, "Clive Folliot, you must rescue me!"
These were the first words he had heard her speak, and he was flabbergasted by them. Was she not the consort of N'wrbb Crrd'f? He asked if the lord was not her husband.
'Nrrc'kth laughed, low and bitter. "He wishes to be my husband. I despise him!"
"But—I saw you together. Ruler and consort. Man and wife.""
"We are nothing of the sort."
Clive shook his head. "Is this not your world? Your castle?"
"No, neither. I am not of this world, nor is the beast N'wrbb. Our world is far from here. Agents of the Dungeon came there and N'wrbb made league with them. If he would aid them in their plans, they would help him to capture me and force me here as his prisoner."
Clive was dizzy. Perhaps it was the hot bath that had drained the blood from his brain; perhaps it was the nearness of the Lady 'Nrrc'kth. He staggered and she helped him to the bed. He meant only to sit on its edge, but there was a ringing in his ears. Perhaps there had been some subtle infusion in the bathwater itself. He lay back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where shadows cast by torches danced hypnotically.
He saw a face leaning over his own—a face that was somehow alien but yet was the most beautiful into which he had ever looked. The skin was pallid, the hair a glossy greenish black. He felt soft hands touching him, laid against the sides of his face. He heard words but could not understand them. His own hands felt smooth cloth and wonderful soft flesh.
Without warning the Lady 'Nrrc'kth was dragged from him. He felt a hand grasp him by the front of his costume, haul him unceremoniously to his feet. He stood looking up into the face of the Lord N'wrbb Crrd'f. "I should kill you," the lord snarled at Clive. His breath was hot and foul. "I should kill you both. But I'll do better than that. Much better. You think you know the meaning of the word Dungeon, Clive Folliot. You think you know that, but you know nothing. Nothing!"
N'wnab drew back his hand and struck Clive with all his strength on one side of the face, then on the other. Still dizzy, still weak, Clive saw a blackness filled with N'wrbb's sneering face in the center of a spiral of swirling stars.
"You and the Lady 'Nrrc'kth together shall learn the meaning of the Dungeon—while Brigadier Folliot and I look on in amusement!"
He had come that close to finding Neville! That close! And now—what was to become of him?
Clive felt himself swung violently by the sinewy N'wrbb. He felt himself dragged toward the doorway. Even as he lost consciousness he wondered what was happening to the Lady 'Nrrc'kth.
CHAPTER 28
The Army of Despair
Pain preceded full awareness, so that Clive seemed to swim up to consciousness through a sea of agony like a diver swimming from the ocean floor up to the surface. He blinked his eyes; the light that made him blink was a watery, wintry light that filtered faintly through tiny windows near the roof of the stone chamber.
He felt for the dagger that had been part of his costume. At the time he had thought it merely a ceremonial appurtenance of the red-and-maroon finery that had been provided for him. Now it would prove of supremely practical importance.
The dagger was gone!
He pushed himself to a sitting position. He was in a dungeon once again! Not only was the whole bizarre universe into which he had been unwillingly plunged called the Dungeon—it was well equipped with literal dungeons, and Clive was developing a most regrettable penchant for getting himself tossed into them.
The lovely, exotic 'Nrrc'kth was beside him, her magnificent white gown torn and stained, her breathtaking silver-and-emerald jewelry gone. They were surrounded by a motley crew of ill-assorted individuals. A stocky woman whose coloring resembled that of 'Nrrc'kth stood over them, Clive's ruby-hilted dagger in her hand. Her appearance was that of an oldster, but there was obvious strength in her limbs and agility in her movements. She was clearly in command of the situation.
The shambling creatures that surrounded them were obviously awed by the stocky woman, and the addition of Clive's dagger to her arsenal had helped to keep them at bay.
The woman flicked a sharp-eyed look at Clive. "Awake at last, are you, cookie?"
Clive staggered to his feet. There was no need to answer the woman's question, asked in the patois that served so much of the Dungeon.
"Call me Gram," the woman said. "And who are you, you queer-looking turnip?"
As well as he could in a few brief sentences, Clive told her who he was.
"Brigadier Folliot's brother, hey? Well, well, we're all related around here, ain't we!"
Clive averred that he didn't understand the comment. "Well, I'm pretty-girl's great-aunt, as a matter of fact." She indicated 'Nrrc'kth's cool, green-and-white beauty.
"You were brought here from the same world?"
"Djajj—you'd know it as Baten Kaitos Omicron."
"No, I would not." Clive shook his head. "I don't know it at all."
"Where you from, boy? What's your planet? And what's your year?"
"Uh—Tellus. Terra. Earth. The year was 1868." The old woman laughed. "I guess you'd call my year—our year"—she indicated 'Nrrc'kth—"801,702. Or close enough as makes no difference."
The old woman looked around the scores of ragged, filthy individuals who filled the dungeon. "Seems to me there was another fella here from Earth. Can't say as I remember the year." She paused to rub her chin.
Clive's mind raced. Another fellow from Earth— could it be Horace Hamilton Smythe? Or Sidi Bombay? The old woman knew who Brigadier Folliot was—Clive's brother must have awarded himself the promotion to a more exalted rank than that of a humble Guards major.
"Tomàs!" the old woman shouted.
The rows of shambling prisoners parted and a swarthy, unshaven man shuffled forward. He wore a sailor's knitted cap and vaguely nautical garb. He doffed his cap and bobbed his head to Gram. "Yes'm."
"What year did you say you came from, Tomis?" The seafarer's eyes flicked from Gram to Clive and back, then from Gram to 'Nrrc'kth, then back once more to Gram. "It was 1492," Tomàs said. "Snatched right off the good ship Nina I was. Night watch, that was my duty. Settin' there doin' my duty, keepin' a sharp eye out for waterspouts and sea serpents. And sayin' my beads, too, so's we wouldn't fall off the edge of the world when we got there."
"Yes," Gram interrupted. "Get to the point, Tomàs."
"Yes'm. Well, there I sat, meditatin' on the agony of Our Lord and contemplatin' the stations of the cross, when all of a sudden there's a glare of lights in the sky, all colors, as bright as day. And then a bunch of stars breaks through a patch of clouds in the sou'west, I remember like today it was the sou'west. And they forms into a spiral and they swirls around and around. I felt so dizzy, I had to drop my bea
ds and just hold on to the crow's nest to keep from failin' to the deck. But it didn't do me no good, no. They got me anyhow. They just swept me up into the sky, and down to the Dungeon and all the things that happened to me then—"
"Never mind," Gram cut him off. "Is that enough?" She turned to face Clive. "This is Tomàs, then. Tomàs, this is Clive. You two being from the same planet, maybe you can do some good together. While I take care of my little baby, here." She put her arms around 'Nrrc'kth and tended to the younger woman's hurts. Clive and Tomàs moved off together. Clive cast a look around him, taking in the forms of the other prisoners. Why were they here? Why did the mysterious, shadowy figures who ran this world, be they Q'oornans or some even more alien race, capture beings of so many worlds and ages, and bring them to the Dungeon, only to abandon some and imprison others?
If he had just succeeded in locating Neville, Clive was convinced, he could have made a start at solving this even greater mystery. And he had been so close, so agonizingly close to finding his brother!
Nor was he prepared to abandon that goal! But he did not expect to locate Neville by remaining passive in this stone prison. He had traveled too far, endured too much, paid too great a price in pain and the loss of friends, to remain here.
"Tomàs," he addressed the sailor. "Portuguese, are you?"
"Yessir."
"Have you friends here, Tomàs? Are these prisoners a community whom we can mobilize against our captors?"
The Iberian looked solemn. "The Dungeon is Our Lord's way of testing us, sir. If we keep our faith, we will yet be saved. If we give way to rebellion or despair, we are doomed."
Clive Folliot was as pious as the next man, but there were times for salvation through faith and times for salvation through acts. This was clearly one of the latter.
"I've no doubt that your faith is strong, Tomàs. And of course no one would go against the will of heaven. But surely you don't think your captors are doing heaven's bidding! More likely the opposite! Won't you help us to win our freedom? Surely that is heaven's will—freedom, not misery, for the faithful."
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