It's Magic, You Dope!: The Lost Fantasy Classic

by Jack Sharkey

  CHAPTER 12

  "WELL, here we are,” I murmured despondently, standing on the twitching purple brink. A thirty-yard stretch of moss lay between us and the castle. Even could we have vaulted the gap, there was not so much as a fingerhold on that wall; it rose featureless and blank from moss to winged towers, stolid grey granite three hundred feet high.

  Timtik flicked a disdainful glance at the looming edifice. “We still have some magic left."

  I peeked into the wallet, which opened readily. “Nothing but the tooth,” I said. “It must be the right spell, because otherwise, the wallet wouldn't open, right?"

  "That seems reasonable,” said the faun, doing his impatient hoof-dance on the shore of the moss field. “If you'd just stop pondering and act..."

  "Oh. Okay,” I said, lifting out the bright gold molar. “I kind of wanted to save our last spell for emergencies."

  "If getting to Lorn before she's incinerated doesn't constitute an emergency, what does, for corn's sake!"

  Without giving either of us a chance for further argument, I tossed the golden molar out into the moss. At the same instant, the leather wallet vanished with a soft pop. “Why'd you do that?” asked Timtik.

  "I didn't,” I said. “Maggot must have a Finders-Weepers spell on it."

  "I mean that toss, Albert! Are you sure it's the right activation?"

  "The odds are in favor of it,” I hedged, watching anxiously the spot in the moss wherein the tooth had vanished. “I mean, although I punched the ticket, and squeezed the tube, the beer and the spool were both throw-items. So, I guessed this might be the same."

  "Well,” said the faun, watching the same spot as uneasily as I was, “there's a certain logic to magic; like with the beer."

  "What about the beer?"

  "It was the perfect all-purpose destroyer. In the high waves, the Centaurs drowned; in alcohol, the Wumbls pickled through osmosis; and the Cheesers—” Timtik blushed a little. “Alcohol is their primary waste product, so they died not unlike being buried under..."

  "I get it, I get it,” I said. “But the tooth?"

  "Well, it's a false tooth, and we need a bridge...” he said slowly. Before my groan got too loud, he went hastily on, “And the shape is right, Albert. Long roots to reach solidity under the muck, and a flat crown for us to walk on."

  I nodded thoughtfully. “And the beer, the cream, the thread, all grew larger, so the odds are fine.” I scanned the moss, futilely. “So where the hell is it?” I asked, impatiently.

  Timtik started to shake his head in woeful ignorance, then a little frown puckered his brow. He squatted down on his furry haunches and flicked at a tuft of moss with one sharp claw. The tuft pulled away, and there beneath it, gleaming in dreamy confidence, was the top of our golden bridge to the castle.

  "It's been there all the time!” he wailed. “But the spell won't last forever. Can we cross before it vanishes?"

  "The quicker, the likelier!” I said, sprinting for the wall, each bare footfall on the soft springy moss feeling as though it were at any moment about to plunge into that weird muck, with its slithering occupants and their caustic drool.

  "Hurry,” said Timtik, as if I weren't trying to.

  "You'd think Maggot'd have made the tooth visible!” I said, nearly to the wall. “Why she left it under the moss..."

  "It's Cort's doing, you dope!” said the faun, catching up to me at the base of the sheer granite scarp. “He has this region loaded with anti-magic. If he can't stop a spell, he can disorganize it a little."

  "Timtik!” I said, wavering. “Will this sword cut through a wall controlled by such a wizard?"

  "Like an axe through wax,” he said impatiently. “He can't overcome Maggot's spells. All he can do's make us start doubting them. Be confident, and for corn's sake, start cutting!"

  The silver blade flashed in my hand, described an effortless arc.

  And a circle of granite slid ponderously out of the wall, rolled and rumbled across the moss-hidden tooth-top, then plunged sluggishly out of sight beneath the muck-based moss beyond the hidden bridge.

  "Come to think of it,” I said, as Timtik and I sprang through the gap into the castle of Sark, “Cort went and loused himself up! With the tooth moss-covered, there was nothing to alert a sentry up on the walls!"

  "I told you not to doubt Maggot,” said Timtik, We hurried forward into the dim twilight interior, with Timtik third, myself second, and that all-powerful silver sword in the position of honor.

  There was light ahead.

  We'd inched along darkened corridors in gloom relieved only by a pale moonlight glow that spilled softly from the diamond on the sword. The light ahead told us we were nearing an inhabited part of the castle. We rushed noiselessly forward, our silence an unspoken consent between us. The light broke around us as we dashed into a great empty chamber.

  "Look, Albert!” said Timtik, pointing to four odd-shaped marble things on a rocky shelf. “They're for Lorn!” he said excitedly, as I realized that they were a pair of gauntlets and sabots, with hinges and clasps, “Maggot told me about them. When the Kwistians roast a nymph in the flame-pit, they don't like the smaller body-parts charring while the larger parts cook through, so they bind the hands and feet into these things to keep the juices intact!"

  "Stop!” I groaned. “Does, it mean that we're early or late?"

  "Let's hope early,” said the faun. Then, from high overhead, through a wide orifice in the ceiling, a piteous cry sounded, begging for mercy. Timtik's face went chalky, and I felt sick inside. “That was Lorn,” said the faun.

  A shadow moved across the floor, and we dodged back against the wall. The next instant, two winged men descended almost vertically through the ceiling-hole, and landed lightly on the floor before us, their great pinions folding into place. One had his back to us, but the other, after a startled blink, said, “Hey!” pointing at me. “The Earthman! Here!"

  As the first one whirled, shaken, the other took a backward step, and his wings began to unfold. Which was stupid of him, because a fifteen-foot wingspread isn't the stealthiest thing in the world to erect unnoticed. I flipped the point of my sword against the throat of the nearer man. “Hold it! If you make a move, your buddy gets it!"

  "Ha!” was his only reply as he sprang gracefully into the air.

  I shifted the hilt in my hand, drew back the silver blade like a spear, and hurled it.

  It caught the ascending Kwistian squarely between the shoulder-blades wherein his wings were rooted, sank in to the hilt, then slithered out and dropped on a suspiciously erratic curve directly back into my waiting hand, even before the gasping victim's wings folded about him and let him drop to the floor with a resulting thud.

  The other Kwistian stood frozen, not moving a feather. “Take us to Lorn, the wood nymph!” I demanded.

  The man gulped, then choked out feebly, “At once, sir!"

  Timtik frowned. “It sounds too easy."

  I glanced upward through the ceiling-hole, then realized that it was superseded by another in the ceiling, and that a final orifice lay even beyond that, in the floor of the castle's highest room. “Well,” I shrugged at the faun, “it's a pretty long jump, Timtik..."

  The faun sighed. “Okay, Albert. You're the boss."

  "If you'll let me hold each of you by an arm,” said our captive, too anxious to please, “I can—"

  "Correction,” I said. “We'll hold you by either arm. You might get tired and let go.” I clamped the man's right wrist in my left hand, keeping the sword in readiness in my right. Timtik clutched his other wrist with both hands, his face looking as though he dreaded heights more than I did.

  "Let's go,” I said, then reconsidered. “Wait! You came here for those marble things. So if you don't return with them, someone else will come and find this corpse.” I looked at Timtik. “We'd better move them."

  He ran and got the four marble items, and handed them to the Kwistian, who took them with poor grace.

 
"Now we go!” I said, re-establishing my grip. Then the floor fell away beneath us as the great white pinions labored gustily to raise the additional load.

  The next level up was deserted, but the center of the room was a thick column, radiating a lot of heat. Perhaps twenty feet in diameter, it reached from floor to ceiling.

  "What's that?” I asked, swaying from the wrist of the rising Kwistian, unwilling to look directly downward.

  "It's the base of the flame pit,” said the Kwistian. His voice was too smug for a captive, somehow. I suddenly realized that if the room we were approaching held the open mouth of the pit, it might very likely hold the rest of the cannibals, rattling their silverware in anthropophagous impatience.

  I forced myself to look at the awful distance below my sunburnt toes. My grip, as I dangled, was weakening. This parrot-beaked vehicle of ours was being too cooperative.

  "Hold it,” I said, touching the point of the sword onto the soft flesh between the base of his beak and his throat. The wings continued to beat the air. “Stop or—"

  "Or what?” mocked the creature. “You won't kill me. Not with a drop like that below you."

  I forced myself not to listen to Timtik's panicky moan at those words. “I'm warning you,” I said, pressing the needle-pointed blade gently. Pale red blood suddenly started to trickle down the Kwistian's chest, and the great wings faltered.

  "Ukkk!" he gagged, his thick tongue lolling through the gaping beak. Only a quarter-inch of point was in his neck, but it was enough. Eyes glazed; in fear, he fluttered feebly to the floor of the room. I waited till Timtik was standing free, then kept the sword-point in its niche as I said, trying to keep reaction-quaver out of my voice, “Where is Lorn right now? The room above?"

  "No-no,” he gurgled, afraid to move with that thing imbedded razor-keen in his throat. “She's in the room next to it, awaiting the donning of the marble slippers and gloves."

  "How do we get there?" I demanded, with tight desperation.

  "The only entrance is through the throne room, the room above here. The preparation room has no vertical entrance. He pointed to the ceiling near the rear wall. “It's up there."

  As I looked up, the Kwistian suddenly sprang upward with a flip of mighty wings, soaring directly toward the orifice above. He didn't even come close.

  The blade, which had left his throat as he rose, just fell lazily through his chest region like a sunbeam through fog. Face grey and dead, he sagged in mid-air, then thumped to the floor beside us.

  I shook my head over my latest corpse, then took the bits of marble from his hands and left them beside the lip of the hole through which we'd entered this level. Then I dumped the winged man all the way over it to lie with his companion, below. “We'll cut our way up,” I said, heading for the rear wall. “It'll take time, but they won't throw Lorn into the pit till they get those gloves and slippers, and there may be a time-lag till they send a new group to get them."

  "You think they won't spot the corpses down below if they find the marble stuff on this level?” asked Timtik.

  "I hope they won't,” I said, slicing a foothold in the wall.

  * * * *

  At the ceiling, short minutes later, clinging with my left hand while I sliced the granite above with my right, I took care to make the cutout part wider on top than below, like a bathtub plug, so we could push it up quietly. It proved to weigh more than I could budge, but Timtik reminded me about the brunt bearing propensities of the flat of the blade, and I found I could lift the granite slab with a light wrist-movement. I held it there while Timtik crawled up over me and through, then balanced it dexterously while I squeezed up after him. I let the segment ease back into place, then stood listening.

  A chamber adjoined the sort of closet we seemed to be in, and I could hear murmuring voices and soft feminine sobs. Lorn, weeping her heart out. We peeped out of the arched doorway together. Lorn was sitting between two tall Kwistian guards. My hand tightened on the hilt of the silver sword. Now, if they would just turn their backs...

  "Here they are!"

  A third Kwistian had rushed into the room, bearing those marble gadgets we'd left one level below. “I don't know what happened to Teek and Twelrik,” he added. “The Extremikilns were on the floor at the next level down."

  The emperor's getting impatient,” snapped one of the two guards. “Get the things on her, quick."

  "Right,” said the Kwistian, stooping to insert one of Lorn's feet into the proper marble slipper. He received her right big toe in his eye for his trouble. “Hold the nymph!” he cursed, rubbing his injured orb. The others grasped her legs and arms, and he finally got the glossy manual and pedal binders on her.

  Not ten feet away, around the corner, we waited, hoping they'd turn their backs. Timtik was shaking with excitement, clutching tightly at my free hand.

  "Hurry!” said a fourth Kwistian, joining the group. “Old Cort and the emperor are ready to split their beaks!"

  Before we could think out a plan, the men were out of the room with Lorn. Time had been short before. It was all run out, now.

  As the chamber cleared of occupants, we dashed to the next archway and looked into the throne room. As we looked in, Cort and the emperor had not yet seen Lorn. I knew who they were the moment I fastened eyes on them. There was no mistaking, even with those razor-edged parrot beaks, the Drendon-transmuted faces of Courtland and Geoffrey Porkle.

  Porkle-Kwist was speaking to Courtland-Cort.

  "Relax, they'll be here shortly."

  "Here they are!” Cort drooled, as the two guards came swooping with Lorn between them to a spot just before the throne.

  "Imperial majesty, the nymph is ready,” spoke the first of the two guards. They released her arms. A mistake.

  Lorn, her hands bound with cold marble, her feet shod with the same substance, showed him just how ready she was. A vicious swing of her right hand smashed into the half-opened beak of the speaker, sending him sprawling out across the stone floor, yelping with pain.

  Immediately, half the Kwistians standing in the throne room leaped toward her with brass tridents ready to strike her down.

  "STOP!” said Cort, with a strange motion of his arms. It wasn't a command, I realized, as my limbs congealed like swift drying cement; it was a spell. And all persons present, save Cort and Kwist, froze helplessly, even Timtik, right beside me.

  The wizard glowered, then pointed a finger at Lorn and growled, “You shall remain. All others: Released!” He said this last with a sharp fingersnap, and my body relaxed, as did everyone else's but Lorn's.

  "You fools,” said Cort to the shame-faced Kwistians lowering their tridents. “Can't you see that's what she hoped you'd do? She doesn't wish to be cooked alive. Take her to the pit, now; I've waited long enough."

  "She must be cooked to a turn,” said the emperor, suddenly.

  Cort flashed a frosty eye at the monarch. “You know I like my nymphs rare!” he said. Something in his tone told me that the sharing of rule with Kwist was a thorn in his side. His face was a dull red with rage. Apparently, though, his power held no sway over Kwist. At least, the emperor had not been paralyzed with the rest of us.

  "Pah!” said Kwist. “Ridiculous. Anyone who knows, good wood nymph will tell you that well-done is best."

  The frost in Cort's eye became a white-hot flame.

  "If you hadn't sneaked a look at my Black Art books, majesty,” he said, clicking the edge of his knife ominously upon the rim of his plate, “I'd have you so tied up in spells..."

  The emperor yawned. “Precisely. If. However, a man grows tired of being paralyzed every time his second-in-command gets annoyed with him. And that's not the only counterspell I've mastered, either, remember!"

  Kwist gestured airily toward Lorn. The guards had the nymph, paralyzed into enchanted rigidity, at the brink of the pit. They themselves had to avert their faces from the pulsating red glow emanating from within the bowels of the scorched, blackened hole in the floor.
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br />   "At least,” he said, “we should free her of her spell, that she may enjoy the fire fully."

  Kwist smiled nastily, and snapped his fingers sharply. Lorn was resurrected from her magical imprisonment, and her voice rose instantly in a terrible cry of anguish in the blast-furnace updraft that wafted her garment about her in undulating waves of green.

  The emperor waved a hand. “Throw the nymph to the fires!"

  "Hold it!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. I didn't know if Maggot's powers could stand much more drainage, but I was determined to make a last-ditch stand.

  The men holding Lorn turned, startled at the interruption. She staggered from the mouth of the glaring pit, away from the grip of her captors. Kwist spun about and saw me.

  "The Earthman!” he cried. “Destroy him!"

  At least half the Kwistians hurled their tridents, with deadly accuracy, at me, an easy target standing stock still in the doorway. And each and every trident was drawn right into the four-foot sword I bore, to glance off harmlessly and clang to the stone floor. An uneasy murmur arose.

  Cort stared appraisingly at me. His narrow eyes flickered with malevolence as he pointed a talonned finger at me, and shouted, voice ringing through the great room, “I, Cort, command you to stop!" His hands made that strange gesture again, and I stood numbly awaiting that cementine bondage to flow into my body again. But nothing happened. To me, at any rate.

  Cort the wizard, however, rammed back into the air as though struck by a pile-driver in the solar plexus. He spun along the floor for a dozen feet, then scrambled, pained and shocked, to his feet.

  "What happened?” whimpered Kwist, who had sat in dull dazedness on his throne from the moment of my entrance.

  "My spell...” mouthed Cort, blankly. “It backfired!"

  "Of course it did,” said Maggot, gliding in the great window with her faggot-broom hissing through the air, and great black cloak streaming silkily in her wake.

  "The witch!” gasped the emperor.

  But Cort gave an exultant howl. “Then the Thrake is dead! She'd never leave it while it was alive!"