Castle Spellbound c-7

by John Dechancie

  "Yes. sir?"

  "Is this ship in working order?"

  "Don't know that."

  "Why not?"

  "Ain't tested her."

  "Oh? I thought you-"

  "Ain't had a chancet. We worked on fixin' 'er up all day, but ah cain't rightly say she's fixed up."

  "Great." Jeremy flipped a few switches. Green lights lit up on the instrument panel. "She looks okay. All systems pretty much in `Go' state."

  Luster said, "Yup, I'd say."

  The craft lurched again, this time more violently.

  "I say we get the heck out of here now," Melanie voted. Jeremy looked at her. Then he examined the control panel again. "Well, let's see if the motor turns over."

  He threw a few more switches, pushed some buttons. The craft's engines came alive with a high-pitched whine. "Yeah, it's running all right. Everything seems to check out." Jeremy turned his head to fix Melanie with a questioning stare, as if delegating the decision-making to her. "Do we take her out?"

  Melanie blanched. "Jeez, I don't know. Is this thing safe? Does it work?"

  "It usually does. Trouble is, every time I take it out I get into some kind of jam."

  The tiny ship took another heavy assault from outside. It tipped and teetered. Loud clanging and banging commenced.

  "We are in a jam," Melanie said.

  "I guess so," Jeremy said. He reached and threw another switch.

  "I'm not guessing."

  "Should we make a run for it?"

  It was Jeremy's turn to lift his shoulders. "We could get killed real easy, maybe."

  Melanie nodded dolefully. "Maybe. But what other choices have we got? If we stay here…" She looked about the cramped compartment.

  "No food, no water," Jeremy said. "No bathroom."

  "Funny you should mention that," Melanie said, curling her lip.

  Something thumped against the outside of the craft. Shouts and general commotion were heard.

  "What are they doing?" Melanie wondered. "Uh, they're, like, whacking on the ship."

  "Why?"

  "Rowdy bunch."

  More whacks came against the craft's hull, resounding hollowly.

  "Like being inside a garbage can when someone's beating it with a sledgehammer."

  "Really," Jeremy agreed.

  The Voyager shook with a heavy impact.

  "Whoa!" Melanie looked worried. "What could they be doing now?"

  "Maybe one of those elephants?" was Jeremy's surmise. "Want to look out?"

  "No, forget it. We have to do something."

  "Like?"

  Melanie thought, then said, "Take the ship out."

  "Out where?"

  "Wherever it goes when it… you know, goes out."

  "You mean out into the interdimensional thing?"

  Melanie nodded emphatically. "What you said."

  The engine noise increased sharply in pitch, then subsided to a low, steady hum.

  "Well, we're out," Jeremy announced.

  "Where are we?"

  "Oh, we're floating around in the non-space between the universes."

  "Oh."

  "Just kinda hanging out. You know."

  "Uh, right. Just hanging out."

  A red light blossomed on the instrument panel. "Uh-oh."

  Melanie swallowed hard. "What's that?"

  "Navigation system."

  "Navigation system?"

  "Yeah. We don't have one now."

  Melanie took a breath and held it. Then she let it out. "And that means… what?"

  Jeremy settled back in the tiny pilot's seat.

  He said: "It means we can't get back to the castle."

  LIBRARY

  There was chaos amidst the stacks.

  Gladiators fought up and down the aisles, whooping battle cries or letting out screams of agony: cases differed. Swords clashed. Bookshelves toppled, sending fine first editions, bound in skins of calf and lamb and kid, crashing to the stone floor, there to be trampled underfoot. Huge folios flew; quartos were drawn and quartered. Octavos lay in tattered shreds.

  The place was a shambles.

  Osmirik the librarian sat in the midst of it all, sequestered in his protected carrel, his long nose in a book; several, in fact. He was a small man with a sharp face and soft eyes. His expression was perennially sober and serious. He rarely smiled. He favored the simple clothing of a scholar: a long brown cloak with a hood.

  As he pored over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, part of his mind harked back to the many times he had sought refuge in this little redoubt, a stone-walled cubicle with a sliding door of stone that served well as a barrier to the chaos without.

  He redirected his attention to the task at hand: which was to discover what had gone awry in the castle. Somewhere within, a spell had gone amiss; that was obvious. The solution was to abrogate the spell-cancel it. The person who had cast the spell either could not cancel it or did not wish to do so. In either case it was up to another party to effect a solution to the problem; and in order to cancel someone else's spell, this other party first must know what kind of enchantment it was, what particular brand of magic was being practiced.

  That was the immediate task. The table before him was heaped with grimoires, books of magical spells with instructions on how to cast them. He had eschewed the more obvious kinds of magic, bringing to the carrel only those books that smacked of the exotic, the off-beat, the heterodox.

  He had not had much luck so far. Page after page bore his weary eye tracks. It had been several hours since he'd started, but he had not hit on anything yet.

  He closed one old leatherbound quarto, laid it aside, and chose another.

  Well, what have we here? Ah, something called A Book of Eldritch Charms and Divers Enchantments. Not really so recondite, judging by the title. Open it up and let us see.

  He read, flipped a page, read more. He riffled through the introductory sections to get to the meat.

  There was no meat. Conventional magic with a few spices thrown in for savor. Nothing new. He'd bungled in choosing this one.

  With a great sigh, he closed Eldritch Charms and laid hands on a little octavo, printed on cheap paper and bound in cloth, that was nothing more than a compendium of lists of books on magic, well-known and obscure. He paged through it.

  What, exactly, was he looking for?

  He sat back and folded his arms. Indeed. If only he could characterize the spell, describe its nature, he would then have a handle by which to grasp the problem.

  Let's see: Dancing girls. Musicians. Entertainers. Definite thread there.

  Janitorial homunculi. Hmmmm. Gladiators.

  Osmirik twiddled his thumbs. Gods, what could the connection be? Was there some pattern he was not seeing? Perhaps it was so obvious that he could not see it for its very simplicity.

  Troubadours and gladiators. Well, the latter were considered entertainment in some cultures. But in others, religious ritual. What did troubadours and circus acts have in common? Or, for that matter, high-flown dance troupes and comedians? Surely the practice of a refined art form had nothing to do with animal acts or the telling of coarse jokes. Marching bands. Oh, dear.

  He flipped through the pages of the octavo. Grimoire after grimoire; but which one held the key?

  Perhaps he would do better not to consider effects, but look to style. Was there some flavor to the spell that could provide a clue as to its origin? Osmirik considered the matter.

  No, he could discern no identifiable signature. The magic surely was not Incarnadine's, or Trent's, nor did it evoke anyone whose style he might recognize. But the magic did have a flavor of sorts. It was… exotic, romantic. It struck him as self-indulgent, given to excess. Obviously it was a spell gone wild, out of control; but something told him that the spell was profligate in and of itself.

  Could it be a pact with supernatural forces in which the mortal signatory was granted any wish? In other words, had someone sold himself to demons?
Perhaps. Or it was something similar. Not a pact, but the invocation of a malign spirit.

  Perhaps it was a simple wish spell that had gone out of control. But it seemed too powerful to be simple. What about a very complex wish spell that involved the invoking of some powerful supernatural force, a malevolent one? What if that had got out of control?

  What if…? Ah, yes. Suppose an incompetent magician had got hold of a very dangerous grimoire, one that offered spells that only a past master could work without deleterious side-effects. Suppose further that this incautious neophyte botched the thing badly enough so as to give malign supernatural forces free rein to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting world.

  Yes, suppose. It would be fruitful then to compile a list of exotic wish-granting spells.

  But that would be a long list. Was there some way to narrow the list still further? Osmirik gave the possibility some thought.

  Shouts and confusion outside. Someone or something crashed against the wall of the cubicle.

  A spell botched this badly could only have come from a complete fool of a magician or one so naive as to dabble in dangerous magic without adequate preparation. Perhaps a very young or inexperienced magician; and it would help if that youngster was quite venal and not very bright. Such a one could stumble across…

  He remembered something and sat up with a start. Had not a page come this morning bearing a message from Spellmaster Grosmond? Something about… Yes! The message said that a secret crypt had been discovered in the basement, and that this crypt was stuffed with some very interesting articles, among which were several old books-magical books, they appeared to be-which Osmirik, as Royal Librarian, was supposed to examine to see if they were of any value. Osmirik had read the message and made a note on his calendar to go down there when, as Grosmond suggested in his communication, the place had been swept out a bit.

  Osmirik rose from his seat. He must get to the basement as soon as possible. But that presented a problem in itself. Nevertheless, he was determined to attempt the passage, and he had a possible means of assuring his safety.

  He picked up yet another grimoire, a quarto volume in lambskin embossed with gold. It, too, was a book of exotic spells, among which was a spell of invisibility. With this charm properly cast, Osmirik meant to pick his way through the chaos. There were other enchantments he meant to use as well, including a general facilitation spell. There was an overriding problem with all this, however.

  Osmirik was not a very good magician. In fact, he was not much of a magician at all. He knew a great deal of theory, but working efficacious magic was a matter of talent as well as acumen. And talent, in the long run, was quite possibly more important than acumen in the making of a successful magician.

  But now it was vitally important that he become a successful magician, and in very short order.

  He took his seat again, opened the book, and began to study.

  GRAND BALLROOM

  With one mighty sweep of his broadaxe, Snowclaw decapitated another opponent.

  The head rolled across the parquetry and stopped, its bulging eyes staring up at the cut-crystal chandeliers. Then it disappeared, as did the headless body at Snowclaw's feet. Snowclaw didn't care for that. Better both should lie there and bleed satisfyingly for a while.

  Nevertheless, Snowclaw was having one hell of a good time.

  Another gladiator came at him, this one wielding a trident. Snowclaw swung the axe and clipped the weapon off at the prongs, then followed through, going into a graceful pirouette and bringing his blade whistling around again to take the man's legs off at the knees. Blood gushed, then vanished.

  "Darn it."

  Wasn't good sport just to disappear like that. The least they could do was hang around a minute and spill a little gore.

  The room was clanging with gladiatorial action, but at the moment no one else was free to engage Snowclaw. The great white beast waited impatiently.

  "This is no fun."

  He watched for a short time. None of these guys was any match for him. Or the females for that matter (and some of them were better than the males).

  He left the ballroom and strode down the hall, swiping this way and that to clear a path. Soon everyone got the idea and stayed out of his way.

  He met few challengers. At one point he, witnessed a victory and was ready to do combat with the victor, but the latter took one look at the broadaxe and wanted no part of it.

  "Aw, come on, fella."

  "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 realty 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.