Castle Spellbound

by John Dechancie

  "Hold off, you two!"

  Another man, this one shorter but with a voice that seemed to carry more authority.

  “Sheathe those swords! Now!"

  “Yes, sir."

  “Where did this one come from?"

  “Just wandering about like the others, sir."

  “A fine specimen. The best of the lot. I'll relieve you of it, subaltern."

  Reluctantly, “Yes, sir. Very good, sir."

  “What a magnificent horse! A gift of the gods, in honor of our victory. It must be so."

  “Very likely, sir."

  “Yes, yes. The Arkadians wouldn't have left anything so beautiful, so valuable."

  The new man slapped his rump.

  “The Arkadians didn't have much to leave behind, did they, boy? Except their dead.” He laughed. “And now, with their war chests depleted, we'll take to raiding their coasts and plundering their towns at our leisure. Won't we, boy?"

  Another slap on the rump, another burst of laughter.

  Weasel.

  “You two take the other horses back. Put them in the palace stable."

  “Not in your personal stable, sir?"

  “Don't be absurd. All these animals are the property of His Majesty. Now, do as I tell you. I'll take this one to the palace myself."

  “Yes, sir."

  The first two left. The one remaining stroked his neck lovingly.

  “Yes, you'll stay in the royal stables, but you're mine. I'll ride you down the main street of Mykos. You'll have new armor, burnished like the sun, and a new war mantle. No dragging chariots for you, my fine fellow. I'll be sitting on you when we watch them lop off old Anthaemion's head."

  He was led away.

  Yeah, right. You don't know it, pal, but you are going to get yours. Tonight.

  The stables smelled bad but he didn't mind so much. The hay was good, what little there was of it. At midday, oats was served. It was tasty. But as the day wore on, the stable hands seemed to slack off. They missed the evening feed altogether. They were falling-down drunk by then.

  There was much jubilation in the city. Voices were raised in triumphant shouts. He heard singing, much singing, heard crowds move about. He saw women run by; then, men running after them with hungry smiles on their faces.

  Night fell, and the celebration went on. The citadel rang with laughter and song. A thousand lamps blazed up on the acropolis, where choruses sang hymns of thanks to the gods. Elsewhere there was feasting and drinking. Much drinking. Bonfires lit up the night.

  There was a bay roan filly at the other end of the stable. She smelled good to him and he wanted to get to know her.

  But there was work to do. Later. Later that night. Besides, he must remember who he was and what he was.

  The dead of night arrived. The city was quiet. Voices had stilled and the fires were embers now and all the lamps had gone out on the acropolis.

  A dog barked, far away. A wind had come up, sounding over the unmanned walls of the citadel. Most of the lookouts had drunk themselves into a stupor. Most of the city's soldiery were sprawled in their wives’ or lovers’ beds, or in the stables, or in the gutter.

  It was time to remember that he was not what he seemed to be, though it was a very difficult thing to accept. It seemed that he had always been like this. This was a natural state of being for him. There were no concerns, there was no worrying. It was easy to be this way. He rather liked it.

  But he knew, he knew. He was not a horse. He was a man. And it was time to stop being a horse. To do that, he had only to want to be a man again.

  Did he want to be a man again?

  Yes. So...

  Now.

  He was down on his hands and knees in the stall, naked. The floor reeked of dung.

  “Yuck."

  He got up, bent to gather straw, and cleaned himself. Then he looked about. No one. Nothing was stirring. He wondered where Telamon was, and if his magical transformation had reversed yet.

  He moved cautiously out of the stall, unlatching the gate carefully. He looked up and down the mews. It was dark and he heard not a sound.

  He walked from stall to stall, searching for white stallions. He saw horses, but none white.

  He came to a seemingly empty stall and looked in.

  His servant Strephon rose from a crouch out of the darkness.

  “It is I, master."

  “Where's Telamon?"

  “I saw him. He is looking for you."

  “Go find him, bring him here."

  “Yes, master."

  Strephon walked off into the darkness of the stable. Very soon he returned with two men. Trent smiled at Telamon and his servant Ion.

  Trent asked, “Where are the other two?"

  “Still in their stalls, waiting."

  “Send Ion to get them. They've reverted, haven't they?"

  “Yes. I think we all reverted on schedule. You are a brilliant sorcerer, my friend. I really, truly was a horse. I saw the world as a horse sees it. It was ... strange. Yet absolutely marvelous."

  Trent nodding, smiling. “It is an amazing experience. You get the idea that it might be better to be an animal rather than a human."

  “Yes. Remarkable. Go, Ion. Fetch the others."

  Ion stole away into the gloom.

  “What now?” Telamon said. “Can we find weapons?"

  “Easily, though we mustn't be seen by anyone who is still awake. I saw enough passed-out troopers out in the mews to accommodate us all. We strip them and take their weapons. And then move down the hill, quietly, quickly, and take the north tower. From the sound of things out there, I'd be surprised if we found one sober Troadean."

  “I also heard a lot of commotion earlier. Drunken revelry."

  “After two years of hard siege, for it suddenly to be lifted would give one cause to celebrate."

  “Indeed,” Telamon said.

  “But we have to move silently and quickly. Not everyone is unconscious, surely, and there might be one or two guards who take their jobs seriously."

  “Understood. Here are the others. They know what to do."

  “Okay.” Trent counted. “All six accounted for. We pair up and go out and forage, then report back here when we have weapons. Clothes are optional. We don't really need them to do our work. If the man you're rolling shows any sign of coming to, kill him quickly and silently. Understood?"

  “Understood."

  “Above all, make no noise."

  “Also understood."

  “Telamon, you take Ion. I'll take Strephon. You and you are a team. Okay, is everybody ready?"

  Nods.

  “Right,” Trent said. “Telly, you first. I'll wait sixty beats of the heart before I send the next team out. Okay, go!"

  Ion and Telamon left.

  “Strangest thing, I was beginning to feel like Mr. Ed, there, for a while."

  “Master?"

  “Never mind."

  The streets were dark and quiet. The wind had grown gusty, its dull roar making it all the more easy to make their way through the city with complete stealth. Following twisted streets, they came down from the acropolis with its grand palace and its temples, into the city proper.

  Silence ruled. Windows were dark. Not even an alley cat made an appearance to mark their passing until they got to the poorer sections of town. They heard voices and dispersed into the shadows.

  Two drunken soldiers were escorting a drunken woman between them. The three weaved down the street and negotiated the next corner.

  Trent watched them. The woman shrieked once, far off. Whether a belly laugh or a cry of dismay, he couldn't tell.

  It became quiet again. Trent signaled Telamon, and the commando team resumed their mission.

  Troas was small, no more than five hundred yards in circumference. A legend even in its own time, it was nonetheless little more than a fortress. They reached the north circuit of the outer wall in short order.

  Trent surveyed the battlement from the sha
dows. Nothing seemed to be stirring above. If lookouts had been posted they were not manning their positions.

  He had expected the city to let its guard down, but the extent to which this had occurred was surprising. Had everyone in the place swilled themselves into oblivion? In and around the stables the soldiers they'd rolled hadn't moved a muscle. It had been like undressing manikins. Trent was sure one man had been dead: alcohol poisoning, heart attack, or he'd choked on his own vomitus.

  Was everyone in town completely smashed, passed out? Well, they'd soon find out at the high watchtower, the one that guarded the northern gate of Troas.

  Those legendary topless towers. Trent regretted mightily having to burn them. But when Anthaemion's lookouts saw the signal fire Trent's men would set, the Arkadians would return in force, in the middle of the night. Trent would then open the main gate of the city and let them in.

  And then the bloodshed would begin. The slaughter. The Troadeans wouldn't have a chance. The Arkadians, maddened by two long frustrating years of stalemate, would give no quarter. No mercy. They'd easily kill all the males of military age, probably males of every age, including infants, especially the children of nobility. They'd rape most if not all the women, then carry them off as concubines, servants, and slaves.

  And when they'd done all that, when the slaughter and plundering and looting were done, they'd put Troas to the torch.

  The sack of Troas.

  Damn. Trent did not want to do this. But he had to. He'd given his word.

  He gave the signal to move in. Telamon sprinted across the street and flattened himself against the base of the tower. Ion followed.

  The honor of opening the door devolved to Trent. It was secured from the inside, of course. Secured very early this evening. But Trent had it open in a trice with a simple door-opening charm. There was no lock; the massive oak door was barred with a heavy wooden beam which a bit of levitation took care of handily (after Trent had used his clairvoyant powers to see behind the door).

  They slipped into the tower and closed and barred the door after them. It was pitch-dark inside, save for the light spilling through tiny embrasures on every floor. They climbed the narrow stairs single-file.

  It happened on the fourth level. The stairway was blocked; with what, Trent could not see. It felt like a stack of crates or trunks. Puzzled, he reached behind him, took Ion's hand, waited for him to link with the others, and led into the adjacent chamber.

  They were suddenly jumped, and a fight in total darkness ensued. Before he could begin to draw his sword, Trent had several sets of hands laid on him. He kicked out but didn't connect. In answer, a solid clout to the head knocked him down.

  Light blossomed. A beam of light stabbed his eyes.

  A flashlight beam?

  He heard a familiar chuckle. Three Troadean soldiers had him pinned. The fight was already over, his commando teammates all subdued.

  “Who the devil are you?” Trent said to the man holding the flashlight.

  The man turned the beam upward to illuminate his own smiling face.

  "Inky!"

  Incarnadine's apartment in the palace was luxurious. “How long have you been mage to the court of Troas?” Trent asked as he stuffed himself with a very late supper. He had to admit the fare was better than the oats and timothy he'd enjoyed earlier. Actually, it was good to be human again.

  “Oh, many years, local time,” Incarnadine said, sipping the same dark, sweet wine Trent was drinking. “In fact, I wormed my way into Mykosian culture chiefly for the purpose of saving Troas, my favorite city here."

  “Tell me again why you used me as a cat's-paw. My head's a little thick tonight."

  “I couldn't very well be in two places at once,” Incarnadine answered. “I needed someone convincingly good as a strategist, yet someone whose mind I knew well and could second-guess. I couldn't let you in on my plans because Anthaemion surely would have sensed your duplicity. He's as cagey as they come, and a bit of a telepath."

  Trent nodded. “Okay, I buy that. I had enough trouble with him. Despite my best efforts, he seemed to sense that I disliked him and that I was half-hoping that the whole operation would fail. How did you know I'd try the Trojan horse bit?"

  “I didn't, but I was prepared for one sort of commando operation or another, and knew you'd be trying to take the watchtower at the north gate. The horse-transformation thing was a brilliant stroke, Trent. Masterly bit of deception. I think they would have chopped up the wooden version for firewood, it's so scarce around here."

  “Right. But it's strange how the horse motif persists."

  “I've followed the Troy thread in over a dozen worlds so far. It's the central legend in dozens more. Something basic is at the core of it, but I don't know what, yet. One of the things I'm studying. But all the versions I've encountered are the same in essentials."

  Trent looked out the window, west, toward the sea. The city was still dark, but daybreak was not far off.

  “Anthaemion's out there, somewhere, waiting for my signal fire."

  Incarnadine nodded. “And when rosy-figured dawn breaks without his having seen anything, he's off for home, never to return. And Troas is saved."

  “And a legend is lost. You're right, this mythos is central to most Earthlike cultures. What cultural havoc are you wreaking here?"

  Incarnadine chuckled and pushed a scroll across the table.

  “Scan that."

  Trent unscrolled what looked like the beginning of a long poem written on sheepskin.

  “'Sing, Muse, of the wrath of Aeakides...'” Trent gave his brother a sardonic look. “What, you joined the Blind Poets’ Guild?"

  Incarnadine laughed. “No, but this culture will have its heritage. As is true in most worlds, later generations will never be sure of the historicity of any of this. But they will have the poem. As for Troy—or Troas—the bay will silt up, the citadel will lose its strategic value, and it will eventually be abandoned."

  Done eating, Trent sat back and drank off the rest of his wine.

  “Nevertheless, my dear brother, I am mightily pissed off at you."

  Incarnadine shrugged. “I can well understand."

  “Why didn't you let me get word to Sheila, for gods’ sake? I can't believe your insensitivity. You know how she—"

  “There is no need to."

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?"

  “The time difference between the castle and this world is variable. I couldn't tell exactly how long you'd be gone, castle time. I knew it would be short, but I didn't figure on how short. The slippage factor shot up to five digits and has remained so the whole time we were here."

  “Five digits? You mean we've been here over two years, and only—"

  Incarnadine nodded, grinning. “Only a few hours have passed back at the castle."

  Trent was struck dumb.

  Incarnadine chuckled again. “So when you get back it'll be late evening of the day you left. Remember that when you see Sheila."

  Trent laughed in spite of himself. “You rotten, no good..."

  “Sorry. But she'll never know, unless you choose to tell her."

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn't ... Hold it, hold it. You're forgetting we have to get back to Mykos to go through the portal."

  “It was originally here. I moved it back."

  “Oh."

  “So everything's fine."

  “Whoa, just a another minute now. This doesn't let you off the hook, my friend. You duped me."

  Incarnadine nodded. “That I did. Rather well, too."

  “Artfully. I'm going to get back at you."

  “I'm rather sure you will. Have some more wine.” Incarnadine reached for the pitcher.

  “Thanks."

  “By the way, something's been happening at the castle while we've been gone. I'm getting vague vibrations, but I'm sure it's some sort of strange magic."

  Trent didn't answer immediately. Then he said, “It will be long in coming, a
nd when it comes it will be sudden, unexpected, and frightful."

  “All good revenge schemes should work that way,” Incarnadine said, pouring. “Say when."

  Crypt

  “Are you sleeping?"

  “Hm? Just have my eyes closed."

  “This floor should be hard and cold but it's not cold at all. It's not exactly soft, but it's not exactly uncomfortable either. What do you think?"

  “Hm?"

  “Do most men always sleep after?"

  “Ah, the perennial question of male post-coital somnolence."

  “Huh?"

  “We should get up. By the way, notice anything?"

  “Yes. Everything's quiet. No crowds, no nothing."

  “Yeah. Did you notice when, in the middle of everything, it got awfully strange? I mean, intensely strange?"

  “Yeah, I saw weird feet. Big pink bunny-rabbit feet."

  “Yeah, and chartreuse elephant feet, and like that."

  “Right."

  “And then, very suddenly, everything got wispy and faded out."

  “Right. I noticed. I was rather preoccupied at the time, of course."

  “Of course. Me, too. Let's get out from under the table."

  They crawled out and dressed hurriedly.

  The huge underground crypt was empty except for a few curious pink clouds scudding near the ceiling. They seemed to emanate from the crypt next door, and toward this destination they began to walk.

  “Are we near the source, do you think?” Linda asked.

  “I'd venture to say that we are,” Gene said. “But the source seems to have dried up."

  “Thank God. Is it over?"

  “The weirdness? Don't know. Hope so."

  They passed through a tall arch that followed a corbeled passageway which made several L's. After the last one, a short walk brought them out into another huge crypt, but this one was strange. It looked like the interior of an ancient ruin. Its marble walls were cracked and pitted; decorative friezes lay in shards along the floor. They passed dry fountains and stands of dead potted palms. Debris littered the floor.

  The place was deserted except for three people up on a platform at the far end of the hall, toward which Gene and Linda moved.