Thus he remained for endless moments, wrapped in an annihilating horror, plunged too quickly into utter ruin. And outside his closed lids, not inches from his face, he felt the terrors gathering, the unholy nightmares pressing toward him. He could not run; he could not open his eyes; he could not leave them closed.
There is a fear beyond all fears, and faced with it, a human must confront it or cease altogether. A child, knowing no defense, having no power, might flee endlessly; a man cannot.
For him, reason must either hold or shatter completely.
Behind his closed eyes, Carter’s rationality struggled to reassert itself. A soft voice whispered within him, reminding him he was no longer a lad, but Master of Evenmere. How could he have forgotten? He ceased his muttering; he drew deep breaths. Yet he did not dare open his eyes, not without some weapon to aid him.
The Word of Hope came to his mind, a Word designed to end confusion and despair, its letters burning silver with heat. Using it would diminish his strength, but without it he could not go on. He brought it to his lips, the power surging around him. He spoke it: Rahmurrim. The room shook.
He felt no great change, no lessening of the fear; the terrors still murmured around him, proving they were truly real, and no illusion for the Word to dispel, but he found the courage to press forward. With an effort he opened his eyes.
A leering face bobbed before him, ghost-white, hideous, with writhing tentacles growing from it; the lips bright red, the hair green; its fangs glistened.
Shouting in terror, Carter swung at it with all his strength, a blow that overbalanced him, sending him onto his side as the monstrous head bobbed backward, avoiding the sword. He leapt to his feet, facing the creature, and in the midst of his panic, an odd realization occurred. As a child he remembered dreaming of such a nightmare, a thing too horrible to gaze upon. But in his dream he had dared to look a second time, and what had at first seemed terrible, had appeared no more than a clown’s face. So it was with this, for he suddenly saw that it was but a childhood apprehension, a face pressed against the windowpane, no more than a caricature. And this, he knew, the Word of Hope had shown him, so that, there, in the Room of Horrors, he did what he had never thought to do. Before the dead face, he laughed.
The monster vanished at once; the room became deathly still; the evil withdrew, perplexed.
The first time, he had not had a lantern, now he held it high. The floor was dirty; boxes and staring doll faces lay scattered, common things.
He began his search for the Master Keys. The room was vast, its walls invisible in the dark, yet he moved unerringly forward, as if he felt the pull of the keys, sensing their presence now that they were so near. This did not surprise him; he was their master as well.
Just at the edge of sight flitted ghostly forms, shrouded figures with skeletal hands and empty eye sockets. They crowded innumerable beyond his circle of light, but drew no closer, perhaps fearing his sword, if such can fear. And though these, too, were the phantoms of childhood, he felt his pulse pounding at his throat.
For perhaps twenty minutes he continued, and the ghosts were joined by monsters and devils of every kind, yet his fright lessened as he perceived they would not approach him, though they moaned and cried with hideous voices. Through their clamor a single, soft groan caught his hearing, a pleading note different from the rest, and he turned toward its source.
Amidst heaps of garbage, its legs chained to the floor, lay a human form, bedraggled, hair matted, the once-fine garments shredded rags. As the circle of light touched it, it looked up with feral eyes. Carter gasped; it was Murmur.
“Carter!” she cried, her voice broken, ancient. “Are you real, or another come to torment me?”
“No, lady. It is I.” But he did not approach her. “Did the Bobby do this?”
Her eyes glistened with hatred. “Him! He promised everything, but when Duskin betrayed us, he cast me here. Called me ‘of no further use,’ I, the lady of the manor, friend to the lord of every kingdom in the High House! How could he be so blind? I am the most important woman in Evenmere. Help me, Carter! I’ve seen horrible monsters, demons with my own face, all accusing. They all accuse me. I can’t stand the accusations anymore.” She burst into tears.
Moved by compassion, Carter drew near. “Dear Carter,” she muttered. “Sweet Carter. You were always a good boy.”
He drew his sword and struck the chain, which shattered with a thunderous crash. As he bent to help her rise she raked his cheek with her sharp fingernails, barely missing his eye, sending blood rilling down his jaw. She hissed like a snake and, crouching, backed away, her pleading glance turned to malice, her eyes wild.
“Stand back! Stay away!” she cried. “I know what you want. Revenge or nothing! With me gone you think you’ll become Master. But you won’t take it away from me. Duskin will rule, and I beside him. All the great house.”
“And did I ever seek your harm?” he cried.
“Because you could not!” she sneered, triumphant. “We had you sent away before you could. And you never should have returned! Why did you?”
Carter’s whole being trembled, as if he had suddenly fallen into a great void. His voice shook. “You … knew I would take the keys. You were working with the Bobby even then.” He gripped his Lightning Sword tighter. “You didn’t just leave the gate open for him. You planned it all.”
She became suddenly frightened. “Now, Carter, it wasn’t like that at all. Your father—”
He exploded with rage. “It wasn’t petty jealousy! Planned! Contrived to exile a child!” Nearly blind with anger, he lifted his sword.
She fell at his feet, weeping, cowering like a dog. “Then slay me. I deserve it! I never had what I desired. The house was never mine. I should have been a queen. But your father would not! He had the power and he refused to use it! Slay me and I will die in ruins.”
The rage ran through him, turning to pity and disgust. “No,” he said, lowering his sword. “My father would not. Nor will I. Follow me and I will lead you from this place.”
Still clutching his feet, she looked up at him. “Then perhaps together, the three of us could govern Evenmere. I could be very useful. And Duskin—”
“I am the Master of Evenmere, Murmur. The house has chosen and nothing will change that. You never understood. And Duskin is my brother, though you did your best to separate us. He supports me in all things. He may have given his life to see me reach this room. If he still lives, he will indeed have a place in the house. But I can never allow you to dwell there again. That, too, is the responsibility of the Master.”
She pulled herself away from him, hissing, her hands claws, utter venom in her face. “Stay away from me!” she screamed. “Keep back!” She suddenly bolted into the darkness, remarkably agile, and faded into the shadows before he could respond. He did not call to her, but turned and continued toward the Master Keys.
He could think of no reason besides cruelty for the Bobby to imprison Murmur in the chamber, except she might delay someone seeking the keys. So she had done, and would have done more, if Carter had been obligated to escort her to the entrance.
He passed through a part of the room where every form of torture was displayed, where dying men hung on crosses and women sobbed on racks. He looked but once into the eyes of those sufferers, and wished he had not, for though he knew them to be delusion given flesh, still he pitied, and would have helped each if time had allowed. Between the crosses he went, holding his light low so those suspended above him were left in shadow. The groanings filled all the darkness and he was glad when he left the tormented behind.
Still the keys called him, and he came at last upon a gaping hole in the floor, perfectly circular and six feet across. He walked cautiously around it, hoping the trail would lead farther on, fearing it would not, but when he sought to walk away, he felt the Master Keys as a lodestone drawing him back.
He stood at the edge and peered down, but the lantern light did not penetrate t
he darkness. Slowly, he lowered the lamp past the edge, where it vanished altogether in the deep pitch. Carter drew it swiftly back and examined it, to ascertain it was still there, and found it undamaged.
Time was precious, but still he stood staring into the abyss, mortally afraid, more frightened than he had been by the monster faces, more frightened than he had been by anything. And far below he heard the sound of rippling water.
Darkness, closed places, and drowning. He knelt on his haunches and trembled. He had called them silly fears and childish; they did not seem childish before that void.
He looked around. Once inside the well it would be easy for an enemy to trap him. Yet, even then he would not be helpless, so long as he possessed his Lightning Sword and the Words of Power.
As he stared at the chasm a slow resolution overtook him. “This is where it leads,” he half whispered. “All those years ago, when I stole the keys. Oh, bitter consequence.” Yet, he knew it was his consequence, and he found it suddenly ironic that the darkness was a circle, for only by restoring the keys could he close the circle begun so long ago. There was justice in that.
He groped his way along the edge, reaching into the darkness, working his way around the rim until he found metal rungs, for he knew the Bobby must have a way to descend. Cold sweat ran down his back as he placed his foot on the first step. The lantern would be useless below, and he left it burning at the edge. Rung by rung he descended, but while his shoulders and head were still above the lip, a pistol cracked, and a bullet ricocheted off the floor just to his left. He ducked down, leaving only his eyes above the darkness.
The Bobby charged from the shadows with a velocity suggesting a furious flight to reach the room before Carter regained the keys. His revolver blazed again and again, and wooden splinters grazed Carter’s face, blinding him. By the time he recovered, his enemy was directly above him, aiming at his head.
Carter drew his Lightning Sword. In answer to the danger it flashed like its namesake, a brilliant golden bolt. It did not affect Carter’s sight, but the Bobby reeled backward as if struck, his hands before his face, his shot wild. He fired twice more, sightless, and then the gun was empty. Carter clambered back up the ladder, and was half over the rim when his foe kicked blindly at where he thought he must be, catching him a bad swipe to the head. His sword clattered to the floor as he seized the Bobby’s leg and shoved him backward. Though dazed, Carter leapt at his enemy, but fell short.
The Bobby sat up quickly, and catching Carter beneath the arms with amazing strength, carried him back toward the abyss. In that brief second, Carter had a flashback of being thrown into the well in the yard, and he fought with all his might against those cold hands, the double fury of child and man within him.
Then they toppled, both together into the darkness.
They struck the water hard and separated. Carter pulled himself to the surface, racked with coughing, clearing his lungs.
The darkness within the well was thick as a mantle. A panic swept through him, greater than any he had ever known. He would die here, in the cold night, trapped in the well, forgotten. There was nothing to cling to and he could not touch bottom. His enemy awaited him somewhere in the narrow confines.
He reached forward, seeking his foe, and received a solid blow to the chin that reeled him backward, dazed. He heard the splashing as his enemy followed after; Carter swung blindly and connected against solid muscle. Arms like bands of iron gripped his waist; he struck again, a pitiful, glancing blow. The Bobby threw him against the side of the well, driving the breath from him, and as the anarchist paddled even closer he saw the faceless head, glowing faintly, ghastly green like a hobgoblin, just visible through the murky air.
The Bobby’s strength was unbelievable; Carter clearly could not face him without help. All in a moment, a Word of Power sprang unbidden to his mind, the Word Which Gives Strength. Desperation gave him the will to invoke it quickly; the entire well shook as he spoke it. New power rushed through him, filling his limbs, even as the Bobby pounded him in the ribs. Though he felt the impact, it did not conquer him; he returned with a jab to the eye, and the Bobby grunted in surprise at its force. At last, Carter could harm his enemy. They separated, distance extinguishing the luminescent face.
They circled, each trying to disguise his position, a task made impossible because of the noise of the water. Carter backed into the side of the well, but could gain no fingerhold for support.
The Bobby leapt at him with a liquid rush, the face rising like a demon from the dark, the gloved hands finding purchase around his throat, powerful fingers closing his windpipe and forcing him beneath the surface.
He struck out savagely, pummeling the Bobby’s abdomen and chest. For an instant the gloved grip held, then the anarchist broke away, leaving Carter gasping for breath.
He knew this trial must end soon; already his legs were strained from staying afloat. He searched for his revolver, but it had slipped from his pocket during the fall. His hand chanced upon his knife, but even as he took it he heard the soft snick of another blade being opened.
He dove beneath the water, going deep, then drifted upward, searching for his foe, hoping to rise under him. Groping, he found nothing, and was finally forced to return to the surface. He took a deep breath and dove again.
So they played their game, maneuvering in the dark, and the well, such a small place, still hid them from one other. But Carter knew he would soon drown.
He came up again, and this time his hand brushed his enemy’s leg. Immediately, the Bobby kicked hard, a glancing blow to Carter’s head. He stabbed furiously upward, driving the knife into the anarchist’s thigh, but the Bobby pulled away in pain, and Carter’s blade was ripped from his grasp to tumble to the depths.
Carter swam forward, hoping to take his enemy while he was still stunned by the wound. The ghastly face appeared; he clutched for the Bobby’s knife, but as he slammed his foe’s right hand against the side of the well he found it empty—the anarchist was left-handed.
He turned inward, so that the thrust caught only the edge of his inside shoulder; he felt skin separate, blood run. He screamed in pain, captured the knife hand, and hammered it against the side of the well, disregarding the blows to the left side of his face. His head was ringing by the time the knife fell splashing into the water.
He wanted to break away, to flee, but his time was short, and he knew this must end soon. He blocked the blows to his head with his left hand, while jabbing hard into his enemy’s kidneys with his right. He had trained in boxing at university, and the knowledge came to the fore. So, too, did his anger: here was the author of all his pain, the initiator of all the schemes against him. His blows became sledges, while he ignored the few return jabs and battered away at his enemy’s face.
Then the Bobby had his hands before his head, defending himself against the punches. Carter kept up a merciless pace, his anger swelling.
Suddenly the Bobby pushed out from the side of the well with his legs, coming down over Carter, dragging both of them deep. Then Carter knew he had weakened himself with his attack, wasting his strength while the Bobby protected his head and rested. His arms felt leaden; his anger fell from him, replaced by fear.
They were sinking deeper, and he had not taken sufficient air. The Bobby was hoping to outlast him. Carter brought his legs up against the other’s stomach, and kicked upward furiously, daring all his breath in the attempt. His struggles pushed him away from his enemy, and he darted toward the surface. He broke gasping into the air, and slipped quickly to the side, exhaustion overtaking him. He had never been a strong swimmer, and there was nowhere to rest.
He heard the Bobby break the surface to his left. Because he could do nothing else, he dove for his enemy, determined that this would be the last encounter, for well or ill.
This time it was he who was on top, driving the Bobby downward, guided by the glowing face. He squeezed his enemy’s throat, even as the anarchist’s hands encircled his neck—Ca
rter vowed to stake all on his ability to outlast his foe. He felt his throat closing, and he gripped tighter himself. They drifted deeper into the well.
The moments dragged on, an eternity of seconds, while darkness crept to the edge of Carter’s sight. He was losing consciousness, losing the battle, yet he dared not relinquish his grip.
Bursts of light exploded before his eyes; the thrashing of the water was like crashing waves on a far shore. His arms and hands, the well and the darkness, the Bobby’s face, all seemed far away.
Distantly, he felt the Bobby kicking at him. Even through his stupor, he clung tighter. His father’s face suddenly appeared before him, the kind eyes, the ready smile; he wondered vaguely if he were about to join him in death. His vision narrowed, everything closing down, until Lord Anderson was only a distant speck at the end of a long tunnel.
And then, before the tunnel dwindled completely, he saw a Word of Power dancing through it, the letters flaming, sparking with a vigor Carter no longer felt. The Word Which Manifests. He had used it before, in the attic, to drive the Bobby back. Now, this close, it might be damaging indeed. His thoughts began to wander, but he refocused on the Word, until he saw it alone, standing as if miles high, huge, unrelenting, the symbol of a Power that would never submit, never surrender, though Carter himself should fail.
He spoke it, though whether in his mind or beneath the water of the well itself, he never truly knew. The letters were all he could see, but he felt the water steaming all around him, as if the heat of the Word had brought it to a boil. The whole world seemed to shake.
Then, he was looking at the face of the Bobby once more, not a blank face, but a face with terrified eyes and snarling lips, a face confronting death and dark defeat. The legs flailed, the hands drifted downward.
The High House Page 31
