Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series

by John Stockmyer

  "Dange'us. Zwicia kno'." Whatever Zwicia "kno," she seemed to be tracking.

  "I think I've got a way to get us out of here."

  John waved the map, nothing about Zwicia to indicate she understood the paper's significance.

  "There's a secret passage under this moldering keep. If Platinia can get us into the basement, or subbasement, or dungeon or whatever you call the lowest part of this ruined pile, I think I can find a way out. A way that no one knows about."

  "Zwicia go."

  "Something else I wanted to ask," John added. Since Zwicia wasn't "with it" very often, you must make the most of having her attention. "The torches. Unless I'm badly mistaken, the torches seem to be failing here as they failed in Malachite. Is there now a loss of magic in Stil-de-grain?"

  "Som'." Testimony that backed up what John had heard from the soldiers and what he'd seen for himself in the flicker of the building's torches.

  Not only in Malachite, then, but also in Stil-de-grain, the magic failed.

  Because of the evil influence of the Azare Mage. At least, that's what everyone believed.

  Nothing John could do about that at the moment. More likely, nothing he could do about it ... ever!

  "If we get started, there should be enough light to get us out of the castle before down-light."

  John turned to Platinia who had drifted off to the side while he talked to Zwicia. "Can you find us some provisions? I don't want to get far from the castle, but we all need to be free of the soldiers." Platinia nodded. "It would help if you could also borrow a torch or two. I'd go with you except that you know the castle and I don't. Also, the soldiers expect to see you in the halls. But not me. I'd better stay here with Zwicia."

  The minute John said that, he had second thoughts. Staying with the Weird and, in particular, with the Weird's disk -- without Platinia there as a buffer -- still didn't seem like a good idea. "I have a better suggestion," he added quickly. "Down-light coming fast, why don't you and Zwicia both go. Split up to get us what we need. Food. Maybe some warm blankets. Torches. Spoons would be good. And maybe a knife ....."

  "Yiiiiiiii!"

  Zwicia!

  Screaming!

  Startling both John and Platinia!

  The scream over as suddenly as it had begun, they were again "treated" to the fly whisk whirling of Zwicia's hair as she shook her head. "No tak'! No tak' knif'!"

  "What?" John had always had trouble making sense out of Zwicia's brogue.

  "No tak' knif!

  "No ... knife?"

  "No tak' knif!"

  "Why not? It would help us cut bread, if Platinia finds us some bread. Meat ..."

  "No!"

  "Why?"

  "Zwicia see ...." Startlingly, the old lady's eyeballs rolled back into her head, leaving only a ghastly pair of white, ghost eyes to stare blindly, straight ahead. She was mumbling again as well, waving her hands as if peering into a Weird-disk inside her mind.

  Next came a pause in which Zwicia quieted, her eyes rotating back -- though the strange, clear color of them seemed to be dulled over. "Zwicia see ... knif ...."

  And that was all that the Weird would say; perhaps, all she could say. With Zwicia, you could never tell.

  Except for being unable to explain herself, the Weird recovered quickly enough for Platinia to get the old woman on her feet, Platinia, with Zwicia tottering after her, going out the door, the girl turning to shut the door, the two of them off to gather supplies for the hoped for escape from Hero Castle.

  Making sure the door was shut tight behind the "girls," John sat down at Zwicia's table.

  Left to himself, John had the luxury of laying the folded map on the table before him. Of unfolding it. Of spreading it out, the parchment's thick, leathery paper making cracking sounds under his smoothing fingers, like dry leaves underfoot.

  But ... couldn't concentrate on the map. Nor was he thinking about the supplies they would need to escape the stronghold. No. He had a more immediate problem.

  Survival.

  Spelled Zwicia!

  Trying to remember, he didn't think he'd ever heard the old gal scream like that -- to say nothing of screeching for no reason -- to say nothing of caterwauling twice for no reason. Prompting John to ask himself what would happen -- John, Platinia and Zwicia attempting to escape the attention of the Malachite defenders by sneaking through shadowed halls and down dark stairs -- if that crazy old woman let loose with another, no-reason scream!

  Zwicia.

  Always a burden.

  Now, a "clear and present danger" to them all!

  -13-

  By the light of a flickering, fire stone torch, John led the little band down and down, then, down again. John, Zwicia, Platinia, John keeping track of Zwicia as well as possible by sandwiching her between himself and the girl.

  It was slow going in the dark, stone-damp halls. Partly because the torch put out such poor light (a perfect example of magic-loss in Stil-de-grain) and partly because John had to stop from time to time to consult the map.

  As he descended, even as dark as the corridors were, John noticed a change in castle design. At first, fire stone torches helped light their way, torches thrust out from wall niches. Now, they were seeing hanging fire baskets -- a more primitive form of lighting. Not only were they going down, it seemed, but also going "older," the castle built on the substructure of a former edifice that, in turn, was constructed over an even more ancient ruin.

  Where a hall light supplemented the faint luminescence of his own torch, John would stop to unfold the crisp "blueprint." Bringing his guttering, but silent, torch-head close to the page so he could "read" its directions, John would try to locate his position in the chaotic ramblings of what was proving to be extensive subterranean warrens under the castle. (One worry he didn't have -- counting the only blessing he could think of -- was that the "cool" flames struggling off his torch would set the map on fire.)

  Though he may have taken a wrong turn here or there, in general, John thought they were headed in the right direction. There was no denying, though, that the faded, spidery lines on the antique page were difficult to read. To say nothing of trying to make sense out of the odd, symbolic notations here and there in the chart's crumbling margins.

  It didn't help John's concentration that he was tired -- lumbered, as he was, with the items Platinia and Zwicia had dragged back to Zwicia's room. He'd never have believed how much those two could scrounge up in such a short time, the bulk of it packed in the single carryall that Platinia had also "liberated." Though John had wished at the time for a second knapsack, it wouldn't have helped. Platinia was too small to lug much of anything. Zwicia too old.

  In the bundle was a spare torch, a change of clothes for each of them, blankets, some loaves of unsliced bread, meat, and what looked and smelled like biscuits.

  "N' go. N' go," mumbled Zwicia from somewhere to the rear.

  John stopped -- to let Zwicia and Platinia catch up.

  Stopped, looked, and listened, seeing nothing either before or behind him, the dusky hall trailing off both ways to total darkness. Hearing only the faint pounding of his heart.

  The women catching up, hitching up his awkward pack, John started out ... and down again ... leading the three of them into increasing blackness, increasing mustiness, even the occasional fire basket on the wall no longer there to offer its feeble help.

  Noise!

  Waving a warning, John stopped, the women bunching up behind him, the three of them hugging a dent-like irregularity in the wall.

  As a precaution, John "doused" his torch by putting its flames inside his loose tunic top, hugging the light to his body so only a brown glow showed through.

  Footsteps. Boots, clicking along a corridor somewhere ahead of them. The sounds ... coming closer!

  John turned; motioned the women to turn around. They had to go back!

  Whatever else, he must save Platinia, John thought as he saw the small girl's eyes upon him, her eyes
reflecting the dull shine of the cloth-bound torch.

  Strange, even in the emergency, the boot steps drawing nearer, John experienced the ... feeling ... he sometimes had about Platinia: that he must protect her.

  The footsteps coming quickly, recognizing it was too late for flight, John unslung his pack, dropping it to the floor.

  Ahead, there was a glow from a crossing corridor, the approaching steps seeming to be from more than one person.

  What should John do, pretend to be a castle slavey on an errand, the two women along to help him?

  Before he could formulate further plans, two, short-tuniced soldiers swung around a bend of corridor not five feet in front of John, the lead soldier holding a torch in one hand and a sword in the other.

  Shocked to see John's party pressed against the wall, the trooper gave a nervous shout and charged!

  Reflexively, John whipped the torch-head out of his tunic to block the soldier's sword stroke, parrying it down and to the side. Surprised, the man's yell was cut off as John backhanded the torch-head to the man's chin.

  Feeling the shock of that lucky hit vibrate through his arm, John saw the soldier crumple to the floor at John's feet, the man's sword rattling to silence against the near wall, his torch skidding away to disappear around a curve of the mantled hall.

  Instantly, John had his torch raised to ward off the other man's attack.

  It was in that frozen moment that John realized that the remaining soldier was ... old. Old and without a weapon, one arm raised to protect his head from John's blow, the other dangling at his side.

  Sensing the second soldier to be of little threat, John glanced down at the man at John's feet, the soldier quiet, an ugly welt swelling the man's chin.

  "Just take it easy," John said to the second soldier, his voice thin even in the quick echo of the bare, hard hall, John hoping the soldier wouldn't hear the quaver in John's voice. "I'm not going to hurt you if you don't do something stupid."

  "Is that how you killed the others? First, rendered them senseless?" The man's low voice was scarred by age.

  Where had John heard that ...?

  Then, John realized who this was. The Army Head; the leader of the squad of soldiers; the officer who'd ordered the old man's cage to be lowered from the ceiling.

  "I haven't killed anybody," John gasped, historians not trained to hit people with torches, that unnerving act still tightening John's chest. "This man's only knocked out," John continued, waving the torch at the fallen soldier. "And I wouldn't have hit him if he hadn't come at me with his sword." John was beginning to think again. What had the Head said? "Somebody's been killed?"

  "Two soldiers," the Head replied, an agitated tossing of the old man's head indicating that the murdered men were somewhere behind him. "Murdered with their own knives."

  Without warning, the stone corridor echoed with a terrifying scream!

  Zwicia!

  The crazy old women had screamed again!

  "Quiet, Zwicia," John ordered, the Weird, like before, croaking off her shriek at his command.

  John held up his free hand for everyone to be quiet. ..... Except for the reverberation of Zwicia's screech, there were no other sounds. ....

  It seemed that this time, at least, the old imbecile hadn't alerted the rest of the castle's soldiers.

  The yell shooting John full of adrenaline, John took a deep breath to settle himself.

  They were back to square one. Wherever that was.

  As for the Army Head, he was just standing in the corridor, the man's right arm hanging uselessly at his side.

  What had the Head said again? Soldiers? Killed?

  "Did you say soldiers had been ... stabbed?"

  "Yes. Back there." The Head gestured with his good arm.

  "Since I didn't do it, someone else did," John muttered, a chill seizing his spine with the realization that a killer lurked out there in the dark. With a force of will, John pulled himself together. "As for you, you just stand there while I have a look at the map."

  Careful to use his peripheral vision to keep track of the Army Head, John unfolded the chart; scanned it once again.

  Just a short ways ahead -- if he understood the faded markings on the paper -- was a bend to the left. Yes, the branching corridor the soldiers had come down. Along that hallway, doors. Two of them. Behind the near door ... what? A symbol John couldn't identify. Beyond the far door, jagged markings that seemed to represent steps going down to the castle's lowest level where there were other notations that John took to be the Mage exit.

  Before John could go on, however, John had to do something about the Army Head. "What's your name?" John demanded, looking up. Did captured soldiers in this place have to provide name, rank, and serial number?

  "Leet."

  "I'm John Lyon."

  Now that they'd been formally introduced, what next? Think about what John could use to tie up the Head, John finding he couldn't do that. There was something ... unnatural ... about tying the man's good hand to his paralyzed one.

  Neither could John (in cold blood?) knock the man out.

  Nor let the fellow run off to rouse the rest of the soldiers.

  Clearly, John had to do something, but ...

  Take him along?

  If John thought he had troubles with Zwicia, what about needing to guard a prisoner who could yell for help at any moment ........

  Then, John thought of a possible solution. A ... Golden ... solution. "Zwicia." John motioned for her, the Weird shuffling forward from her position in the shadows just back of him. Slowly. As she did everything. Until she was standing beside John, the old woman leaning into the circle of fire stone light, both of them facing the short, gray-haired Army Head. "Do you remember Golden?"

  "'Member."

  "And the land of the invisible giants?"

  "'Member."

  "How, to get Golden to remember the way out, you hypnotized him?"

  "H'nizd?" The old woman gave a negative shake of her mop-top head.

  "Ah ... controlled ... Golden? Took his soul?"

  "'Member." She was nodding this time like an old time pump handle.

  "I want you to do that to this man."

  "What?" the Head cried, alarmed.

  "Nothing dangerous," John said to reassure him -- though no prisoner could have confidence in what his captor said.

  "Zwicia do."

  At that, the old women fixed the soldier with her vitriolic eyes. Raised her taloned hands, waving them in the air. "Yu, tir'd. Yu, tir'd," the old woman said, rhythmically. "Yu, sl'pp. Yu, sl'pp."

  At least the Army Head was watching the crazy old lady.

  The question was -- as they stood there in the semidarkness, Zwicia continuing to mutter and to wave her claw-like hands, the loose flesh on her arms jiggling like globules of lemon Jell-O -- were Zwicia's efforts to hypnotize him "taking?"

  "Yu, ti'd. Comma' me."

  And, miracle of miracles, the Head -- Leet -- stepped forward.

  Looking closer in the dancing haze of firelight, John saw that the soldier's eyes were glazed -- an indication that Zwicia had put him under, and in short order. Did the old woman's power to hypnotize people have something to do with her being a Weird? John didn't know. At the moment, didn't care. The last time he'd been in this world, that time in the land of the "invisible giants," she'd solved a similar problem for him.

  One difficulty down. One to go.

  John squatted to examine the soldier on the floor, finding him still "out." If they could get far enough away before the man came to, they were safe, the castle a big place, after all. If the fellow stayed down for five minutes, that would do it. Surely, in the twenty minutes it would take to organize a search, John's party should be out of the castle or, at least, in the Mage-tunnel on the way out.

  John stood. Bent down to hoist his pack, getting his arms through the straps, the brief rest from its weight making it seem lighter.

  As a further precaution, John turned; c
rossed the width of hall and bent down to pick up the soldier's sword. If the man woke up, John wanted to make sure the soldier wasn't armed, precluding the man trailing John's party all by himself.

  Angling the blade of the short sword over his shoulder and working it under the flap of his pack, John was ready. "Follow me."

  And he was off, turning his head to see the army officer pivoting woodenly, the soldier plodding forward, the expanded procession continuing down the corridor, then bearing left to take the branch of hall from which the solider had come. For that was how John read the map. Ahead and to the left.

  A necessary, though gruesome choice as it turned out, the party coming upon the sprawled bodies of the dead soldiers the Head had specified.

  Bloody ... their pooled blood more black than red in the feeble light of a single wall torch!

  After the initial shock of that macabre scene, John realized where he was in the castle. In the hall of the tee-shaped corridor. It was in the corridor to the right that John and Platinia had crouched to listen to the three soldiers of the burial detail talk about the missing body of "Pfnaravin."

  Five feet ahead in that widened space was the same wood table, one of the soldiers tumbled under it, his legs sticking out at unnatural angles. Still seated in a chair, flopped forward, was the other man. His face a ghostly white, a red-lipped "grin" where his neck gaped open, the thick pool of blood from his jugular still dripping off the tabletop.

  Seeing the dead men in that familiar location, John guessed that the soldier he'd knocked out back along the corridor was the third man of the burial party.

  Thinking along that line, John imagined that the third soldier was the "nervous" one, the one frightened because he'd failed to follow orders to bury "Pfnaravin." John could speculate that the soldier had slipped off to tell the Army Head that "Pfnaravin's" body was missing, bringing the Head back here only to discover ..........

  John shuddered. Turned to console the others. Found that was unnecessary.

  The Head was still "out," seeing nothing in his mesmerized state. Platinia's face was at its solemn best. Little -- including the brutal death of others -- seemed to phase her. And Zwicia was calm. While the old lady was capable of screaming at nothing, she hadn't turned a hair at the sight of all that blood.