by Frank Tuttle
I swung the cane, striking the glass with the glowing jewel as hard as I could.
It bounced off, jarring my arm, but leaving no mark.
Alfreda was still savaging Thorkel’s limp frame. I pushed her aside and snatched him up by his lapels.
He didn’t weigh what he should. Lifting him was as easy as lifting a suit of empty clothes.
His hat was gone. His hair was mussed and skew, as though his scalp had been given a half-turn on his head.
Alfreda raged, clawing and gurgling.
I pushed his body against the glass.
His remaining eye snapped open, and he smiled through his ruined, bloody mouth.
He spoke a word. It had no meaning to me, but it echoed in the dark. No sooner did its last syllable fade, than thumps and scrapes and footfalls sounded amid the candles and the mirrors.
Alfreda clawed at his face. His wig came off.
Suddenly I was clutching nothing but a coat. Pants and shirt and gloves and belt fell in a heap, and the glow in the head of his cane died.
I smashed the cane against the glass. This time the cane broke, but the glass was unscathed.
Alfreda grabbed my hand.
“Go,” she said. Her voice was thick and bubbly. Black fluid oozed out of her mouth. “Go.”
Something out there among the candles and the mirrors began to whistle. Something else cackled with mad laughter. Other things hissed or growled. I heard the scrape of talons on the featureless hard floor.
Alfreda pulled so hard I took a step, and when I looked back at Buttercup’s glass, she was gone.
I cussed. I reloaded. I wasted a shot by firing into the dark. I whirled about and called her name, but Buttercup didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
Then things began to show themselves, at the edges of my sight. The mirrors filled with a thousand furtive motions. Mad eyes blinked, a million times in unison.
I let Alfreda drag me off toward what I hoped was safety.
Chapter Ten
We ran through the nightmare.
Monstrosities flanked us on every side. The Man of Bones and the Vampire Woman. The spider-thing and a shapeless mass of gelatin. A wailing bank of fog that smelled of rot and burning flesh.
I emptied both revolvers, brought down a thing of tentacles and stingers that nearly dragged Alfreda into its beak-like maw. I know I winged the flying witch, because she flew away cussing and screeching, trailing blood that burned bright green where it fell near a candle flame.
I ran out of rounds, couldn’t stop to reload. I grabbed a pair of grenades from my sack, yanked out the silver pins, and hurled them to each side.
On the count of three, each exploded, and damned if I didn’t hear glass shatter at last.
Something off to my right fell and rolled. Shrieks and howls came from every direction. I’d hurt something—but the rest kept coming, drawing closer with every step.
Alfreda stumbled. I yanked her to her feet, wound up dragging her as she struggled to regain her balance.
I realized with a chill she had no more idea how to escape the hall of mirrors than did I.
We’d run farther than the tent was wide. Several times over. But it continued to stretch off toward infinity in every direction.
Our pursuers weren’t in any hurry. They knew haste was unnecessary.
No one can run forever.
I lobbed another pair of grenades toward the closest howls.
Got to be a way out, I thought. Even if it’s magic, there’s got to be a way.
Something grabbed at me from behind. I sidestepped, whirled, and smacked an upright wolf in his furry muzzle with the butt of my useless revolver.
Down he went, snarling and bleeding, and on we ran.
Above us, the witch laughed.
The grim realization that I had maybe another half a minute of run left in me set it. The grenades were good at keeping things at bay, but would be as deadly to us as they were to the nightmares at close range. I figured I might get a shot or two off, if that, once I stopped to reload.
The inside of the tent is bigger than the outside, I thought.
The outside of the tent couldn’t be seen unless you knew it was there.
So maybe the inside plays by the same rule?
I thought it, and then I saw it. Directly ahead, maybe twenty feet away. Plain thick burlap tent wall, flap half-closed, dim light from a nearby lantern creeping through.
My heart was pounding. I didn’t realize how hard and fast I was huffing and puffing until I tried to speak.
“Alfreda,” I said. “The way out is magic. It isn’t there until you know it is.” I caught my breath. “I see it. Trust me. It’s there. Hold tight.”
I grabbed Alfreda up with both hands and charged through the flap at a run.
I fell flat on my face, Alfreda beneath me. We rolled and got tangled in each other and that probably saved both our hides because a hail of bullets from a rotary gun sizzled past just above my fool head.
Noise returned, nearly deafening me after the eerie silence of the tent. Guns blazed. People shouted and screamed and ran. A trio of sword-wielding clowns went down a stone’s throw distant. A rotary gun chewed them in half before they flopped to the dirt.
A cannon flashed and roared. The ball arced through the riding wheel, cutting a single spoke in two before falling down amid the tents on the far end of the midway. Dirt heaved up when it fell, peppering us with debris.
Alfreda tried to scream. Things were coming through the flap after us, the quivering blob and the snake-headed walking tree among them. I scooped her up and took off in a crouch, seeking cover amid the tents across the midway.
The cannon roared again. Rifles cracked and bullets whizzed. We reached the line of show tents about the time the rotary guns came thundering to life, spraying the emerging monsters with a hail of deadly bullets.
The air stank of gunpowder and wood-smoke. A dozen tall fires danced amid the tents. Screams and shouts still sounded.
A massive furry hand fell hard on my shoulder.
“Whiskey?” asked the Troll.
The wolf-man I’d whacked sprinted through the sleet of gunfire and charged us. I got my knife out of my boot but Slim knocked the wolf-man’s head off with a casual backhanded blow before the wolf-man got close enough to bite.
The body went down thrashing.
Slim the rheumy-eyed Troll looked down at Alfreda, who turned her face away.
“Poor creature,” he said. His tone was sorrowful, not accusatory. He moved his furry paw to her head and clumsily stroked her hair.
The cannon barked again. A fireball arced overhead, trailing sparks like a lazy comet.
“Slim, who the hell is shooting?”
The Troll shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “Thought you died. Gone for days.”
Alfreda began to bawl. The last of the monsters fell, cut down by the guns, but then the guns themselves fell silent. As I watched, claws caught hold of the black flap, and a dozen glowing eyes peeked out from the dark within.
I took advantage of the sudden relative silence. “Over here!” I shouted. “Evis! Darla! Anybody!”
Arrows came wobbling down, cutting through the smoke and thumping into the ground around us. Slim sheltered us with his body, swatting away the only pair of shafts to fall close.
I reloaded both my revolvers, dropping half a dozen rounds in the process.
“Markhat!” came a bellowed reply. I recognized Evis’s voice. “Stay put, we’re coming!”
The rotary guns opened up again. I heard crashes and shouts and the thunder of hooves.
A sneaky clown sidled out of the shadows, crossbow leveled at my gut. I shot him, then emptied both guns into the enormous hairy bear-thing wiggling out of the black tent.
A wagon rolled into vi
ew. Half a dozen black-clad halfdead, rifles blazing, leaped from the bed and rushed toward us. The figure holding the reins threw back his hood, and I recognized Evis in the dim light of many fires.
“Don’t shoot the big guy,” I shouted. “Slim, don’t thump the vampires.”
“Get on this wagon,” shouted Evis. He coughed and spat. “Dammit, where’s Buttercup?”
The halfdead formed ranks across the midway, cutting down clowns and monsters alike. I hustled Slim and Alfreda toward the wagon, pushed her aboard.
“Get her somewhere safe,” I said.
Evis glared at me. His face was streaked with black ooze. His eyes were swollen nearly shut.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. Overhead, the witch cackled as she soared past. A thick foul smoke fell in her wake, and two of the halfdead went down, twitching and screaming.
“Buttercup is still inside,” I yelled. “I’m going back in.”
A cannonball fell close, showering us both with dirt and bits of something wet and red.
“No time,” said Evis. “We’re running out of ammunition.”
“Slim, you want to die a hero?” I asked.
The Troll nodded solemnly. “You offer me honor,” he growled.
I turned toward the black tent, but the damned thing was gone.
“I know you’re there!” I shouted. “I know!”
Evis frowned. “Hell, Markhat, I’m the one with fever. Get a move on.”
There were tents, all right. Small tents, one red, two yellow, one aflame. But no black tent. No Buttercup.
South of us, a pair of red flares spiraled skyward and exploded.
“That’s Darla and Gertriss,” said Evis. “Means they’re under attack. Ride or walk. We’re leaving.”
His vampire soldiers gathered their limp comrades and swarmed aboard the wagon. One manned the rotary gun, turning the crank in a blur and spewing fire at the hulking forms massing at the edge of the light.
Slim caught Alfreda up and hugged her to his hairy chest. “Where?” he asked, his bloodshot eyes glowing behind his matted hair.
I cussed. The black tent was gone. I heard gunfire erupt to the south, and trumpets sound to the north.
“Follow the wagon,” I said. “Keep your head down.”
Evis turned his mounts, and we charged toward the flares.
Arrows and bolts followed. One clipped my right ear just deep enough to draw blood. Two protruded from the back of the wagon. I watched as an arrow struck one of Evis’s soldiers square in the spine. He didn’t even stop firing his rifle.
Roars sounded, and the fall of heavy feet. The rotary gun whirled about, firing backward toward the sound, spinning a web of glowing arcs above my head. I didn’t look back to see what was pursuing us.
Slim kept pace at my right, without any apparent exertion. Twice he dispatched attackers, once with a blow and again by yanking an arrow from the wagon and flipping it expertly into a man’s chest.
His grip on Alfreda never wavered.
The cannons spoke again, this time three strong. The air was thick with smoke. Clowns lay dead everywhere. I didn’t see a single halfdead corpse among the fallen.
We crashed through a makeshift barricade formed of snack carts, and I saw the line of cannon, and the row of monsters advancing on it.
Mama Hog climbed atop a cannon, waving her cleaver, shouting words lost to the gunfire. I saw vague shapes in the dark behind her, and wondered if I was seeing Darla and Gertriss make a desperate last stand.
Evis charged the monsters. The rotary gun chewed through their right flank, keeping Mama and the cannons out of the line of fire. Things went down in a tangle of legs and inky dark blood.
One of the halfdead tossed me a sword. I caught it as Slim hefted Alfreda into the back of the wagon. The hilt was familiar in my hand, and I realized Evis had brought me Toadsticker, my legendary sword of carving Yule hams and occasional head-knockings.
“Die well!” Slim bellowed, and together we charged the left flank of the nightmares.
I hacked and I slashed. Toadsticker bit through flesh. Slim just waded in singing, grappling with whatever was nearest with those big Troll hands.
I slipped on spilled blood, went down to one knee. A hairless, red-skinned manikin with black devil horns and yellow eyes howled with glee and dived for me, talons gleaming.
Some attentive halfdead put a bullet in his head. I threw the spasming body aside, stood up in time to slash the back of a lizard-man’s right ankle. He howled, lurched, and the slicing blow he’d aimed at Slim’s eyes went wild.
A Troll fist sent him flying.
“I like you,” Slim croaked. “You fight like a Troll.”
“Same to you, big fella,” I said. “To your right.”
He turned and bellowed, and another monster squealed its last.
The rotary gun went silent. Its barrel glowed as red as Thorkel’s staff had done. A halfdead doused the gun’s muzzle with a bucket of water. Steam erupted from it, hissing and sizzling.
The gunman yanked back the bolt and started counting backward from twenty.
I leaned on Toadsticker and gulped air. The line of monsters was down. Some few still moved. Slim ambled from creature to creature, dispatching the wounded with blows from a blunt-ended timber.
I lurched toward the wagon. Evis waited until I was aboard, and then we made for the line of cannon.
A team of halfdead tamped fresh rounds down the barrels. Mama Hog saw us, screeched, and leapt down before charging toward us.
Mama met us halfway. A halfdead reached down and hauled her up and she fell sprawling down in the wagon-bed with me and the two injured soldiers.
“Mama,” I said. “Good to see you.”
She sat up, and slapped my face.
“Damn,” I said. She slapped me again.
Then she wrapped her stubby arms around my chest and hugged me, briefly but fiercely.
“I ain’t never been so mad at somebody in my whole damned life,” she said. “Nor so pleased to see them.”
I rubbed my cheek.
“Let’s stick with pleased to see them,” I said. “Is Darla here? Evis said Darla was here.”
“Where the hell else should she be, boy?” Mama disentangled herself and her face resumed its habitual scowl. “You been gone for more’n two days. Evis and all his vampires couldn’t keep her nor me away from here.”
“Two days?” I shook my head. “Mama, it can’t be much past midnight.”
Mama cussed. The wagon careened into a turn, and we all scrambled for hand-holds.
Mama’s eyes went suddenly wide. “Is that a Troll I see yonder?”
“His name is Slim,” I said. “He’s a friend.” Alfreda moaned, and Mama bent to her side and rolled her gently over before I could speak.
“Oh damn,” whispered Mama, at the sight of the girl. “Damn, damn, damn. Child, what have they done to you?”
Darla leaped into the wagon and caught me in a fierce hug.
“You’re not dead,” she said. I was about to answer when the rotary gun cut loose two feet from my best pair of ears.
I moved us around so I could see. The gunner was sweeping the midway, firing into a new line of monstrosities that crawled and slithered and hopped and flapped toward us. The rounds cut into them, and some fell, but the rest kept charging forward.
The cannons barked, all at once. All but a pair of the monsters were slain. The riflemen concentrated their fire on them, and they too began to stumble.
Slim came lumbering up to the wagon, heedless of the spray of bullets passing so close.
“Got trouble now,” he opined. His fur dripped with blood. I hoped it wasn’t his. “Big trouble now.”
The last pair of monsters howled and fell. Not a single arrow came sailing down through the s
moke. The only clowns I could see were sprawled and deathly still.
“What do you mean? I think we just won.”
The rotary gun went silent.
“Run now,” said Slim, and he dropped his makeshift club and headed at speed for the trees.
The pop-pop-pop of the rifles stopped. For a moment, all was still, save for the dance of distant fires and the billowing of the smoke.
We heard a trumpet blow. One trumpet, then a second, then a third.
The music from the carousel began to play.
Something bellowed, on the other side of the fires. Loud as thunder, primal and deep and savage, the roar rose up, and was joined by another, and another, and another.
The ground shook. The pair of war-horses pulling our wagon batted the air with their front hooves and we lurched forward even as Evis dragged at the reins and shouted them down.
Five enraged mastodons came charging through the carnival, right toward us.
Tents were trampled underfoot. Fires were brushed aside in great showers of sparks and burning debris. Lines and ropes snapped and went flying or were dragged along, snagging and pulling burning debris, starting new fires on every side.
The cannons fired. Two of the beasts were struck, with no apparent effect other than to elicit a fresh round of furious trumpeting. They moved like furry mountains determined to gallop, bringing their front legs up together and leaping forward and crushing whatever they landed on. Obstructions were shouldered aside or heaved into the air with a single toss of their thirty-foot tusks.
“To the trees!” shouted Evis, and halfdead surged out of the ruins of the carnival, passing us on every side. Another pair of wagons rolled up, driven by halfdead, and we all turned toward the road to the river.
The mastodons saw us. I never saw a drover, never saw anyone directing them, but they saw us and they made their bone-shaking calls and they were upon us before any of the wagons was a hundred yards from the midway.
There wasn’t time. Wasn’t time to speak or plan or reload. I just grabbed Darla and held on.
I can still see it, in my mind’s eye. A dirty yellow tusk ducked under our wagon, and the sky and the ground switched places, and we flew, my Darla and I, right past the wet brown eye of a mastodon as it trampled the wagon into splinters before thundering off into the night.
