Castle Spellbound c-7

by John Dechancie

  "Uh, is all this stuff yours?" Deena asked.

  "Yes," Kwip said over his shoulder.

  The sound of a brass band grew near, and Kwip cursed. The commotion was returning in force after what must have been a momentary lull.

  "You ought to stick with us," Barnaby said. "We're going to find a nice aspect to hide out in."

  "I must recover my valuables!" Kwip shouted as he ran to recover a diamond pendant. He was amazed that anything was left.

  "You're nuts!" Deena yelled. "Let's get out of here," she said to Barnaby.

  "Right," Barnaby said. Then he shouted at Kwip again. "You're absolutely sure?"

  "Off with you!" Kwip shouted back. "I'll be all right!"

  "Okay, good luck!"

  The pair left Kwip to his valuables and his foolish greed. Presently, two very large cats came prowling around the corner, a whiff of fresh meat in their bewhiskered nostrils.

  PLAIN

  His tent had a good view of the citadel. The fortress of Troas, well-built and lovely, its beetling walls formidably high, bestrode a hill overlooking the plain. On the north circuit, topless towers soared above the highest rampart. From the walls, from the towers, had come a lethal rain of arrows, spears, rocks, and boiling oil, with sacks of excrement thrown in for comic relief. It seemed the Dardanians had an endless supply of war materiel and that no siege, however long, would exhaust their stores.

  For two long years now, the Arkadian armies had tried to breach those angled walls, to scale them, to undermine them. Frustrated eyes had long beheld those towers, and tired, defeated minds had imagined them ablaze, destroyed for all time, their rain of death ended.

  But not yet. The siege went on endlessly, and so did the single-combat contests. Dauntless heroes from each side had locked in mortal combat, one on one. Victories had gone to both sides. In this respect the score was about even. But Dardanians were winning the siege, wearing down the Arkadian attackers. Arkadian supplies were low. There were only so many coastal towns to raid for food and other necessities.

  It was not a true siege, because the Dardanian army still had access to the sea. Troas was still linked to supply lines, though those were growing more tenuous. The Arkadians had ceaselessly harassed supply ships, to some effect.

  Two long years. Two agonizingly long years.

  Trent lay on his recliner, drinking plundered Dardanian wine. He was not quite drunk but was getting there. He had given up hope of getting back to the castle and Sheila. He was stranded. There had been no communication from Inky, no message of any sort. Trent felt abandoned and alone.

  And defeated. His strategies and tactics had for the most part not worked against the Dardanians. They were stronger than anyone had imagined, and devilishly resourceful to boot. Outnumbered, they had fought the Arkadians to a standstill. The towers of Troas still stood.

  With some effort, he got up and went to the tent's entrance, held back a flap, and looked out. Nothing was happening on the front today. A fight had broken out in the camp of the Arkadians. Some squabble about who should inherit a dead trooper's armor. The sky was clear above the citadel, a few fast clouds scudding by. He looked to his left and gazed at the distant rocky heights of Mount Eta for a long moment, then brought his eyes back to the camp. Someone had just run someone through with a spear. A major brawl was breaking out.

  The constant bickering disgusted Trent. He closed the flap, returned to his recliner and his wineskin.

  He was at the end of his tether. Somehow he had to bring this farce to some sort of conclusion, get back to Arkadia and slip back through the portal (not far from Mykos), and hope the time-compression effect had been enough to render his two-year subjective absence into something objectively tolerable-say, a few months. Even at that, Sheila still might brain him with a potted palm.

  If only he could bring himself to go back on his pledge not to work large-scale magic!

  Such as, say, conjuring a small tactical nuke…

  No. For any number of reasons-not the least of which was the problem of differing physical laws in different universes-that would not do at all. But what else? Fire spells, zone-of-death spells… Actually those were more defensive than offensive. Did he know exactly how to go about constructing siege engines? No, not really; not without a little research. How about whipping up a couple of flintlocks? Too many technologies involved.

  Hexes. He could brew up something that would have the Dardanians dropping like flies. Mysterious plagues. Biological warfare!

  Damn, that wouldn't do either. He had never been very good at working those kinds of spells. Besides, as amoral as he liked to think he was, there were certain ethical considerations that he couldn't quite get around.

  Moreover, he had been charged with a purely military task. Inky's instructions allowed him to employ only those supernatural aids which were divinatory or clairvoyant in nature. Intelligence-gathering. In that, he had been successful. Knowing the exact positions of enemy forces had enabled the Arkadians to take and hold these strategically important flood-plains, sodden and swampy though they were.

  Which left most of the high ground to the enemy, true. But they were already up there.

  He took another swig of sweet Dardanian wine. Good stuff, if a little heavy. Got you drunk anyway, and that was all that counted.

  Tactical magic was out. He'd already tried to sneak in some strategic ploys, since the big show on the high altar. In fact, he'd tried the lightning-summoning bit again, bringing a fierce thunderstorm down on Troas. Lightning strikes had started a good number of fires. But the upshot was that Troas still stood. The fires had been a major nuisance, but nothing more.

  And afterward, he'd lain semicomatose for almost a week. The spell had taken a lot out of him.

  On the non-supernatural front, the undermining had been his idea, and this gambit had shown great possibilities until the Troadeans had copped to what was going on and had flooded the mine, using water from their hot springs. Two hundred men had lost their lives in that debacle.

  Remembering, Trent shuddered. Being parboiled alive like that, like a lobster. Ugh.

  And he could have easily been caught in there himself. A miracle he hadn't. What would Sheila have-?

  He chuckled. He must really love that woman. Yes, he did. He must get back to her. Her red hair was so lovely, her skin so fair, freckled here and there. Breasts large and full for such a slim woman…

  "Trent?"

  "Huh?" Telamon was standing in front of him. "Must have dozed off…"

  "Sorry to wake you."

  Trent sat up, feeling tired and logy. "Think nothing of it. Something up?"

  "Not really. But I wanted you to know that I talked the king out of arresting you again."

  Trent chuckled. "Kind of you. Why did you do it? Some wine?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Uh, pull up something and sit."

  "Thank you very much."

  Telamon piled some sheepskins together and sat crosslegged.

  He said, "Why did I do it? Because I rather admire you. Like you, even."

  "Same here." Trent took a swig of wine. "What was eating Anthaemion this time?"

  "Nothing especially. He wants scapegoats and thinks your beard the longest."

  Trent looked around. "You'd best guard your tongue, my friend."

  "There is no one about, and you will not repeat my words."

  "No. I won't. Go on."

  Telamon shrugged. "There is no more. Eventually he will have you killed, or kill you himself. But he is afraid of you. You are a sorcerer. He keeps repeating rumors about you."

  "Rumors? What rumors?"

  "Those that circulate among the troops. One of them has it that you change yourself into an animal at night and prowl. One story says that you change yourself into a great bat and devour people."

  Trent laughed. "I don't have the right accent."

  "Can you do it?" Telamon asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Change yourself int
o an animal."

  Trent snorted. "Any sorcerer worth his salt can do an animal tranformation. Not that I do that traditional stuff much. When I was a kid I once changed myself into an eagle. I soared. Soared. Kind of liked that." Trent was silent a moment, staring off, remembering. Then he looked at his visitor. "Anthaemion still expects me to win this war for him, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, I am afraid so."

  "Well, I can't."

  "He thinks you are in fact against him."

  "Yeah, he would think that."

  "Are you?"

  Trent smiled. "Are you sure you won't repeat my words?"

  Telamon was disappointed. "I had numbered myself among your confidants. It seems I was presuming."

  "Not at all. You want to know my opinion of Anthaemion? He's a major asshole."

  Telamon could not suppress a smile.

  "And I'll give you another opinion. I'm sick of this pack of morons you call an army. Thugs, every one of them. Pirates. I've seen biker gangs with more redeeming virtues."

  "I'm sorry-?"

  "Swaggering bullies. And as to their military prowess, none of them knows the first thing about discipline, about following orders. They are little better than a rabble, no matter how they strut and brag." Trent snorted. "Heroes. These jerks wouldn't know heroism if it came up and bit 'em on the backside."

  Telamon brooded a moment before admitting, "I am afraid there is something in what you say."

  "You bet your ass. Sorry, I'm not blaming you or including you in my sweeping generalizations. You're a man of some breeding and you have a head on your shoulders."

  Telamon bent his head. "My humble thanks."

  "But the rest…" Trent shook his head. He reached, rummaged among some debris, and finally came up with a wooden cup. He poured wine into it and let the skin drop. He drank.

  "But we cannot stay here forever," Telamon said.

  "I'd quit the whole business if I could," Trent said. "But, although I'm a potential deserter, I'm no traitor. When I sign on with an outfit, my loyalty is part of the bargain."

  "I have assured the king of that very fact."

  "It's true. I also gave my word to my brother. My word, the word of a prince, counts for something, you know. I take that stuff seriously."

  Telamon's face registered momentary shock. Then he quickly rose and bowed solemnly.

  Puzzled, Trent asked, "What's up?"

  "I ask your forgiveness for sitting in your presence. I was not aware-"

  "Oh, that. Sit down, pal. Here, I'm a courtier, and one out of favor. In my world, it's different."

  "In your-? I do not understand."

  "Sit down, please."

  Reluctantly, Telamon reseated himself.

  Trent went on. "It's hard to explain, but we-my brother and I-are from a place so far away that it's hard not to call it a different world altogether. Unimaginably far away."

  "I see."

  "In fact, it's… Forget it, we'll leave it at that."

  "Your magic must be godlike."

  "Well, shit." Trent took another swallow of wine. "It can be. If I put my mind to it I could… Ahhh, fuck the whole business."

  "Sweet wine can make one bitter," Telamon said.

  "I'm not bitter, I'm ticked off. At my brother, mainly. For stranding me here."

  "One can imagine."

  "So, it's up to me to find a way out of this mess." Trent poured himself more fortitude, sampled it. Then he looked at Telamon. "Have any ideas?"

  "The glimmerings of one."

  "Spill it. I'm fresh out of glimmerings."

  Telamon brooded at some length, then said, "If we could employ stealth instead of brute force, perhaps…"

  "Out with it. I'm all for stealth at this point."

  "I had a dream the other night. I dreamt of a great horse-"

  Trent looked pained. "Oh, no." Telamon frowned.

  Trent said, "Does this idea of yours have something to do with hiding some guys inside a big wooden horse?"

  Telamon was astounded. Awed as well, he shook his head. "Is there no hiding even dreams from a sorcerer?"

  Trent grinned. "Sorry, it's not that I'm peeking into your noggin, it's just-never mind. No, the horse thing is silly. Forgive me, but do you really think the Troadeans are dumb enough to fall for something like that? They'd build a fire under the thing first to see if anyone yelped. I'd drill a few holes and run a spear or two through. First thing I'd think of, once I saw that the enemy had pulled up stakes and vamoosed, leaving this huge fucking statue of a horse. Wouldn't you?"

  Telamon laughed. He nodded. "I suppose I would."

  "Oh, there's a chance, I suppose." Trent drank again. "No, I take that back. That scheme has about as much chance as a fart in a-"

  Something seemed to occur to Trent just then. He stared off into space.

  Telamon studied his face. After a longish while he said, "You have an idea."

  Presently, Trent's attention returned to the here-and-now.

  He spilled the rest of the wine into the dirt, then tossed the cup into a corner.

  He smiled. "I do. As they say right before the fadeout, `Now, here's my plan…"'

  HIGH IN THE AIR

  Dying wasn't so bad, once you got over the initial panic. This thought came to Dalton as he fell. At first there had been a numbing terror. Then… nothing. He'd blacked out.

  Now? Peace. Great peace. His life was over. It had been a good life, all told. Not that there weren't a few things he regretted. Difficult to avoid all the rough spots. But overall, hc'd enjoyed living. And he was grateful for the castle. Yes, especially for the castle. The privilege of living in Perilous I'm just a few years had been enough to make it all worthwhile.

  Marvelous place, even though it killed him in the end. Another thought came to him: he'd been falling for an awfully long time. A bit too long, really. Maybe he was already dead.

  He opened his eyes. Sky above. He rolled his head. There was the ground, and he was surely heading toward it. But there was something wrong. His sense of time was distorted.

  Was it true, the old saw about your entire life flashing in front of your eyes? Well, he was indeed feeling a bit retrospective. Maybe when you die this compressed time thing happens, and it takes forever to actually kick the old bucket. Good thing dying wasn't all that unpleasant.

  He was falling. He could feel and hear the air rush past. But he wasn't falling very fast. What was the formula? Feet per second squared times the gravitational constant g… something like that. He should be plummeting, really dropping. But he wasn't. This was rather peculiar.

  He craned his neck to look at the ground again. Yup. Still getting closer, but not as fast as the last time he'd looked. This was damned peculiar. Was he going to die or wasn't he? Here he had gotten used to the idea, had even arrived at the point where he was thinking, well, maybe it isn't such a bad thing after all; in fact, maybe it's the old proverbial consummation devoutly to be wished-and now it seemed there was some doubt about the whole business. Hmph. Well, that didn't wash with him. If you fall off a high parapet, you're damned well supposed to die, and that's all there is to it.

  Slowly, he tumbled over until he was dropping face forward, like a skydiver in free fall.

  Except that he was doing blessed little diving. This was more like floating, for pete's sake. Floating? What the blue blazes was going on here?

  Out of the air, a familiar voice came to him.

  Hello, there! This is your lucky day. You've managed to trip one of the castle's safety spells. This one is designed to catch people who have been heroic, clumsy, or just plain dumb enough to fall out of a window or off a battlement. Only you know which case applies! Whichever it is, though, you're quite safe. The levitation spell will lower you safely to the ground. No need to worry. If you've been heroic, you have my thanks. If not… do try to be more careful in the future.

  The voice was Incarnadine's.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Dalton said.

 
; After a superhuman effort, Thaxton managed to pull himself up.

  He spilled over onto the walkway and lay on his back, not really caring that lions might devour him at any moment. He feIt sick with grief, wanting to die himself. He almost would have preferred to fall than watch Dalton do it.

  The funny business above the castle was still going on, though he couldn't quite make out the strange smirking face. Bright things flapped in the air above the parapets, among rainbows of unnatural color.

  Presently, he thought he might get up. He raised himself a sitting position and looked about him.

  No lions.

  Well. He got to his feet, an act that took slightly more strength than he seemed to possess. He went to the parapet and looked over the edge.

  It was a frightfully long way down. He couldn't see a thing, and he didn't really want to. There was no chance that Dalton had survived, and he had no need to see evidence confirming the fact.

  He'd best get back downstairs. It would devolve to him to apprise everybody of the grim event.

  Nasty business. Nasty, nasty business. He headed back to the tower.

  Like Buck Rogers with his antigravity belt (he still remembered those old serials!), Dalton settled gently to earth, feet first.

  He felt a little wobbly, but otherwise fine. He stood in the middle of a high-walled courtyard. An arched gateway lay his right, and he walked to it.

  He entered another courtyard. He crossed it, going through another gate.

  After traversing a maze of cloisters, courtyards, and barbicans, he finally found what he thought was the exterior wall of the keep. He kept it to his right as he continued to thread his way through the labyrinth.

  Finally, he saw a pair of mammoth bronze doors. No knobs or door handles, but strangely enough there was, set into the stone wall beside one door, a button that looked like a doorbell. He pressed it. A deep chime sounded inside.

  After a longish moment, he pressed it again. As he was about to do it a third time, a small wicket opened in the right-hand door and a strange-looking Guardsman poked his head out.

  "Who is it?"