“You're not even human!” was the man's excuse as he skedaddled.
“Lot of fun you are."
Snowclaw walked on. No one would give him so much as a glance. Growing frustrated, and even though it wasn't exactly fair, he whanged an unsuspecting combatant on the head as he passed, using the flat of the blade. The man was out for the count, of course, but aside from that...
He came to an elevator shaft—one of several in the keep—and pressed the DOWN button. Maybe another floor would provide more action.
He passed the time watching the proceedings. Then a soft chime sounded; the doors slid open and he stepped in. The only other passenger was a man strumming a battered guitar.
“Down?” Snowclaw asked.
The guitar player nodded. The man was lanky, red-haired, balding, rather homely, and wore scruffy clothes. He launched into a folk song.
Snowclaw did not know the tune (he knew no tunes, as such), but instantly hated it. The man's voice was nasal and off-key (Snowy had perfect pitch) and just plain lousy. Nevertheless he belted out the lyrics, which were mawkishly sentimental and more than a little disingenuous in purport.
The elevator descended, and the man sang. Snowy was slightly embarrassed at first. Then he began to get irked.
Several minutes later the elevator was still plunging and the man had squeaked out half-a-dozen verses, all more or less the same. Even Snowclaw, who knew nothing about any kind of music, much less human music, could see that enough listening to this sort of drivel could lead to serious brain damage and an erosion of the finer sensibilities. It was repetitious, simplistic, hackneyed, and boring.
The man was singing right into Snowy's face. Snowy tried to ignore him, but the man persisted.
Snowy pushed him away, but the guy didn't get the idea. Snowy got all the more ticked off.
Still the elevator fell. Snowy stabbed desperately at the control panel.
Mercifully, the man finished. And segued neatly into another number, this one sounding like a plagiarism of the last; which in fact it was, though sung at even louder volume. Something about striking and forming a union.
With a growl. Snowy grabbed the guitar and smashed the thing over the folk singer's sparse-haired cranium.
The doors slid open. Snowy walked out. The doors closed again to hide from piteous view one scruffy prone figure wreathed in silent kindling.
Snowy didn't know how many floors he'd gone down, but it didn't really matter. This level was as replete with action and as scarce in respectable opponents.
A gladiator with a spear rushed at him.
Snowclaw sidestepped the shaft, warding it off neatly with his free forearm. Then he pivoted and applied the flat of his blade sharply to the back of the attacker's head. The man went end over end, fetched up against the wall and lay still.
Snowy yawned, scratching his belly.
He moved on. Mingled among the fighters were more singers and dancers and such. These he ignored. Animals roamed the hallways. Some of them sniffed at Snowclaw in passing, but none seemed to be really interested. One or two growled, but that was all.
All was chaos, and the situation seemed to be getting worse with each passing minute. Snowclaw watched as a chorus line kicked past. Just what was this activity supposed to signify? He couldn't fathom it.
He stopped and looked around. A sunlit aspect lay to his right, at the far end of an alcove. A breeze came from it, and he relished the coolness. He was hot. Human habitations were usually uncomfortably warm for arctic beasts like Snowclaw. To him, frozen tundras were balmy.
Deciding to take a break, he crossed the alcove and strode through the aspect.
A pair of warring gladiators followed him through—and promptly vanished.
He came out into a grassy pasture bordered by trees. A pond lay to the right, lying placid at the bottom of a hollow. On a log at the rim sat Gene and Linda, eating a picnic lunch.
Gene turned, saw Snowclaw, and raised a hand.
“Hey!"
Snowclaw walked down to the pond.
“Hi, Snowy!” Linda said. “Where've you been?"
Snowclaw strode past them, threw the broadaxe on the grass, and dove into the pond with a mighty splash.
“Don't say hello,” Gene said as he munched a kosher pickle.
“This stuff is getting a little wispy,” Linda said, looking at her tuna salad sandwich.
“Not much taste.” Gene watched the pickle in his hand disappear. “Not much to it, either."
“Rats. This aspect has lousy magic. But if I go back into the castle and whip up more food, it'll probably fizzle too when I bring it out."
“Not hungry anyway,” Gene said.
Snowclaw's head broke the surface. He spat a needle-thin stream of water out between his great teeth.
“Hi, guys,” he said. “I was hot."
“We gathered,” Gene said. “You been noticing all the commotion inside?"
“Yeah. It was fun for a while. Then it got boring."
“We're trying to get to the bottom of it. Want to come along?"
“Sure. Got nothing better to do."
Snowclaw waded toward shore, pushing through tall marsh grass. When he climbed out, he wasn't as wet as one would expect. The water beaded on his thick white pelt and ran off easily. He helped the process with a few quick shakes.
Linda wiped water off her forehead. “Hey, take it easy, Fido."
“Sorry. Gosh, I'm hungry."
“I'd conjure something for you, but my magic doesn't seem to be working here."
“Don't bother. This stuff looks okay."
Snowclaw was referring to the tall grass at the pond's edge. He pulled up a clump and chewed the blades. He swallowed, then nodded.
“Not bad."
“Bet it goes better with a little pond scum,” Gene suggested.
Snowclaw looked down. “Yeah? You mean that green stuff?"
“Snowy, don't!” Linda yelled, then scolded. “Gene, are you trying to make me sick again?"
“Just trying to be helpful."
“Behave yourself. Let's get back to business. What are we going to do when we get to the basement, if we can make it?"
Gene shrugged. “See what's what?"
“What do we do about the ‘what'?"
“At least we can report to Incarnadine, tell him whatever the what is."
Linda nodded. “Okay, that sounds feasible. Because we're not going to be canceling this crazy spell, if that's what it is."
“You still think it's a spell gone bad?"
“Yeah, that's what it looks like. Somebody who didn't know what he was doing started something he couldn't finish."
“Or knew what he was doing and wanted to cause trouble."
“Well, he succeeded."
Gene threw a pebble into the pond. “I don't know, nothing's really happened so far. Actually, it's been kind of fun to watch."
“It won't be fun if the spell keeps going, which is exactly what it's going to do if somebody doesn't cancel it."
“What can happen?"
“The castle will become uninhabitable, that's what can happen."
“Oh. Anything else?"
“That's not enough?"
“I see what you mean."
Linda went on. “It'll become so clogged with crazy stuff that no one will ever be able to get in there and douse the spell. And if, as I suspect, this nutty thing is tapped into the castle's power, which is almost infinite ... Get the picture?"
Gene watched a ripple reflect from shore and go outward again. “Hm. Never thought of that. All the worlds could be in danger."
“Now you're catching on."
“'Chapter Twenty-one, In Which Our Heroes Once Again Save the Universe.’”
“You got it, keed."
“Funny thing is, where the hell is Incarnadine?"
Linda said, “You know, it's only been a few hours since the confusion started. He could have stepped out for something, intending to come rig
ht back."
“Right. If only the goofy stuff had begun just a tad earlier. He could have just snapped his fingers and tidied up the whole mess."
“God, I wish.” Linda's shoulders fell. “I don't want to go down into any spooky basements."
“Do not be afraid, my dear,” Gene said, doing a passable Bela Lugosi. “Those screams are merely the howling of the wind."
Linda frowned. “Gene, don't start with me. I hate spooky stuff, you know that."
“Why, I wasn't starting anything, my dear,” he went on, now into his best Boris Karloff. “The basement is merely where I conduct my experiments in cell division and growth. What? You say you've never seen a spider that size? Why, the little devil must have gotten loose—"
Linda stared him down. “Gene,” she said warningly.
“I'll stop. Thing is, I don't think we'll make it."
“To the basement? Why not?"
“The congestion is increasing geometrically the farther down we go."
Linda nodded glumly. “Yeah. Well, we have to try."
“We'll need your magic in there."
“No problem. I can create a shield."
“The old magical force screen."
“But it'll make maneuvering harder."
“Always some dues to pay for magic,” Gene said.
“True. Well, shall we give it a go?"
“Once more into the dumpster, dear friends.” Gene got up. “Let's get moving."
Snowclaw had pulled up a major portion of the grass at the edge of the pond.
“Not much to this stuff,” he commented, “but it is tasty. Specially the little dab of mud that comes up from the bottom."
Linda's face soured. “Snowy, you're making me ill."
“Sorry. I'm hungry."
“Snowy, you're always hungry."
“'The sedge has withered from the lake,'” Gene said. “"And no birds sing.’”
“Where?” Snowclaw said, looking around eagerly.
“You leave those poor birds alone, Snowy,” Linda reprimanded. “We're going now."
“I'm going to be starving in a little while."
“I'll whip up something for you in the castle,” Linda assured him. “Come along, Snowclaw."
“Yes, ma'am."
Linda started walking up the hill.
When she'd gotten halfway up, Snowclaw asked, “Are most human females as bossy as Linda is sometimes?"
Gene put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You are treading very dangerous ground, my friend. Not PC, if you get my drift."
“Huh?"
“"Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,’ and all that."
“What?"
“Let's go."
“Oh. All right."
Scratching his massive white head, Snowclaw followed Gene up the hill.
Arena
The arena shook with the roar of the crowd. Howls of blood lust resounded. The crowd was average for a Saturday night.
On the sandy floor at the base of the vast circus, several contests were going on. One, not properly a contest, involved lions attacking helpless victims. Another featured a clash of cavalries, horses neighing and rearing amidst the rising dust of battle. Still another pitted charioteers against spear-carrying men on foot. The former were winning.
Thorsby regained consciousness and sat up. He looked out across the arena, then swung his feet over the edge of his divan.
He tried to get up. He couldn't quite make it and sat back down heavily.
“Is something wrong, great Caesar?"
“Eh? Uh, no. I've had enough. I'm heading up."
“Why, O Magnificent One?"
“I've a bleedin’ headache. And besides that, I've seen everything."
“A thousand pardons if I contradict the divine Caesar, but you have seen nothing yet!"
Thorsby looked bleary-eyed at the houri who had entreated him. “Oh? I'd like to know what else there is. I've gobbled all the grub, guzzled all the grog, did all the naughty bits. Wonderful, wonderful, but, really..."
“What is it, Divine One?"
“Well, you know...” Thorsby chuckled. “It's all a spell, really. Just a conjuration. Means nothing, all hocus pocus, don't you know. It was all a bit of fun, but we really have to be getting back to work. Matter of fact, I do think we're in serious trouble already. Where the blazes is Fetchen? Fetchen!"
“Methinks, Divine One, thou knowest not the true trouble thou'rt in."
Thorsby got unsteadily to his feet. “Fetchen, old boy? Now, where did that rascal get to—"
Thorsby's face collided with a massive naked chest. He stepped back and looked up. The owner of the chest was an immense figure in a turban, voluminous pants, and long pointed slippers. The man (if that is what he was) stood with his sinewy arms folded, one hand grasping the haft of an immense scimitar, its wicked curving blade upraised and gleaming.
“Going somewhere?” the man asked pointedly.
Thorsby took another step back. “Uh, well, yes. More or less. Time to cancel the spell."
“Cancel the spell?” The huge man shook his head. “I'm afraid not."
“Oh?” Thorsby's voiced squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Why not?"
“We get this chance very seldom. We shall not miss it."
“Chance for what, exactly?"
“To come out into the world. To be alive. Very tiresome simply to exist as potential, with no actuality."
“Oh. Yes, well, I'm afraid that can't be helped, old boy. You'll have to go back into your bottle or lamp or whatever. The whole lot of you, in fact. It was a bit of fun, but—"
“That will not happen, great one."
Thorsby made an effort to gather himself together. “See here. You're forgetting who the magician is, who's in charge of this whole charade."
“That is not forgotten, master. But these obligations are not one-sided. By giving us unlimited license, you have opened a door that is not easily shut."
Thorsby nodded. “I see, I see.” He looked around. “Well, we'll just have a look at that grimoire. Around here someplace...” Thorsby got down on his knees and searched.
“You won't find it, master."
“Eh? I won't?"
“No."
“Oh. Well.” Thorsby rose and dusted off his hands. “Then we'll throw a general cancellation spell on the whole affair and see what happens."
The turbaned man ran a thick finger delicately along the blade of his scimitar. “Master would not want to do that."
“And why not?"
“Because master would not get the second word out of his mouth if he uttered the first."
The turbaned man grasped the curving sword in both meaty hands and swished it about viciously.
“Does my master understand the full import of my words?"
Thorsby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes. Quite."
The turbaned apparition smiled. “Meanwhile, your every wish will be indulged. Does my master wish anything?"
“A drink."
The man held out his hand. A goblet full of purple liquid appeared on his palm. He extended his arm toward Thorsby.
“A drink for my master."
Thorsby took the goblet and drank. His eyes widened.
“Why, this is super. Super! I've never tasted wine like this. It's ... well, I can't believe it, but it's better than the other stuff!"
“Only a foretaste of what is yet to come. I bid thee, sit, O divine Caesar. Disport thyself!"
“Enough of the Caesar bit, please. Let's go back to sultan, or caliph, or shah, or something. All this spilling of guts is making me queasy."
“Your slightest whim is graven in stone, great and wonderful master!"
Thorsby lay back down on the divan. He drank, and marveled again at the taste of wine.
Then his face lapsed into a worried frown.
“Grosmond is going to be ever so pissed off at us,” he said to himself.
War Zone
Kwi
p flattened himself against the turf as more artillery shells fell in the vicinity of the clearing, not far away. He had been under fire once or twice before, but had never experienced the terror of these weapons. The explosions pierced his ears like crossbow bolts and the concussion was almost enough to knock him senseless.
Nevertheless he clung to consciousness until all was quiet once again.
When he thought it safe, he rose slowly. Now, to find the portal.
He was sure the magic doorway was very near. As best he could surmise, it lay directly across the clearing from where he had crouched in the underbrush, hiding from the lion—the lion which had never materialized. He had been walking straight back across the clearing when the bombardment started.
But the portal was nowhere in sight.
Was it possible that he could have got turned about widdershins? In that case, the portal would be directly across from where he was right now. But he could not be sure. No telling which way he had run.
The clearing was slightly oval, its border lacking distinguishable features. The shelling had put him in a dither; he was now completely disoriented. Perhaps if he crossed again—but he feared renewed shelling. He resolved, therefore, to keep to the wood, which offered some protection against the blasts.
Kwip drew his sword.
He made his way through the underbrush, keeping as close as possible to the edge of the clearing, yet still leaving a margin of safety. He ducked under low branches, pushed through tangles of vines and weeds. It seemed to be late spring here. The smell of wildflowers was in his nostrils, though he couldn't see any, not at the moment.
He tripped over an exposed root and stifled a curse. All was quiet; not even the birds had recovered their composure. No insects buzzed. He stopped, squatted, and peered out into the clearing. Lumps of raw, red clay had been thrown up by the explosions out of deep craters. He'd have to watch himself when and if he crossed again.
He moved on. At length he stopped again, now totally befuddled. Where was that confounded portal?
There came to his ears a strange whirring sound, and he could not for the life of him imagine what could be making it. He thought of a great metallic bird.
He was astonished when such a creature landed in the clearing. Well, “creature” it may have been, in a manner of speaking; it flew and had stubby wings and spindly legs or supports. It was made of some sort of metal, though a metal painted in stripes of brown and green. Yes, a strange thing to behold; but he was well aware that it was an infernal machine of some sort. It looked wickedly destructive, bristling with rods and other projections—armaments of some kind, he guessed.
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