Castle Perilous

by John Dechancie

  He waited. “Yes?”

  That it was a loss. I can characterize it better now. It was insignificant, but it was a loss nonetheless.

  He sat up. “Can you tell me what was lost?”

  A long pause. Then, Part of what constitutes me. I am no longer the sum of my parts. I am less.

  “Indeed? This is news. Can you elaborate further?”

  No.

  “Do you know your name?”

  A single bead of sweat formed on his forehead as he waited.

  Finally, No. Still am I nameless, still am I in thrall. But the time will come when I will once more beat the air with my wings.

  “Before that time comes, tell me this. Could the loss have been the result of a taking away of something?”

  Yes! That was it. What I have lost was taken from me.

  Breath slowly went out of him. “Good,” he said. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  He rose and left the room. In the next he turned to the right and exited through an arch, coming into a third room with a few tables and benches, a large fireplace at its farther end. He stopped and faced an area of wall demarcated by two stone pilasters.

  He extended his arms and touched both index fingers together. Then he drew his arms apart.

  The portion of wall described by the pilasters disappeared, revealing the interior of a charmingly furnished apartment. The two Guardsmen on the other side of the portal came to attention. They saluted as he walked through. He nodded.

  “How goes it?” he asked one.

  “All’s well, sire.”

  “Is my family up and about yet?”

  “It is still early morning here, sire.”

  “Pity to wake them, but I must. I’m running out of time.”

  “You will prevail, sire.”

  He smiled. “I believe you.”

  He moved through a large sitting room that opened onto a veranda and bright blue morning. Next were several utility rooms, and then a long hallway, at the end of which two more Guardsmen stood flanking an intricately carved wooden door. They saluted, then one man carefully opened the door for him. He stepped through, and the door closed quietly behind him.

  He checked the children’s suite first. His son had thrown off the bed covers. He spread a blanket over the sleeping boy, then went into his daughter’s room. She lay on her back, sunlight making her small, oval face glow with radiant innocence. He touched his lips to her forehead, then smoothed her long dark hair. He moved to the window and adjusted the blind so that the light wouldn’t wake her.

  He walked quietly into the master bedroom. His wife was sitting up in bed, smiling at him.

  “I heard you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I was awake.” She held out her arms. “Come.”

  They lay together quietly for a moment.

  At length she said, “It’s over?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Then there is no change? We’ll lose the castle?”

  “That may be.”

  She rolled to her side and faced him. “I don’t care. We have a good life here.”

  “We do. But that is not the issue.”

  “What is, then? You are vice-regent here. Is that not enough power, enough wealth?”

  “Dearest, it’s hardly a question of lust for riches or power.”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I never wanted to be queen. I care nothing for that wasteland and its drafty old castle. I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “I know. It doesn’t matter.”

  “You love it so. It’s such a pity. I cry for you.”

  “Do not. I have not lost it yet.”

  “Oh, she is evil beyond measure, beyond understanding.”

  “She is mad, poor woman.”

  “Poor woman? How can you think her deserving of pity when —”

  He covered her mouth and made a shushing sound.

  She was silent.

  He removed his hand, kissed her cheek and said, “I must go.”

  “So soon?”

  “Something has come up. A matter that needs my closest attention. Actually, it is a bit of hope.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. But I will know more after some investigation.”

  He got up and went to the open window, looked out. A bright low sun threw spider webs of light across the sea, and the breakers churned and foamed in sparkling silver and blue-green. Nearby a tall palm swayed in the salt breeze.

  He turned toward the bed. She knelt with her thighs wide, a stripe of morning light across her high breasts, her dark eyes sad and pleading. He held out his arms and she sprang from the bed and came to him. They embraced in sunlight.

  “Stay,” she said. “Let that world end, if it must.”

  “You don’t mean it,” he said, caressing her soft skin.

  “Of course not. But may I not have my secret wishes?”

  “I have mine,” he said. “In my arms now.”

  “My belovèd!”

  They moved to the bed. Because he thought it might be the last time, he cherished every touch, every throb of fire, every thrust of her hips against his, every sound she made, and all the love she had to give him.

  Afterward she lay with eyes closed. He got up and dressed, making few sounds. For a few moments he regarded her lithe sun-browned body stretched out across the sheets. Then he turned to go.

  “Incarnadine.”

  He stopped. “Yes, my love?”

  She was sitting up. “How many worlds do you inhabit? How many lives do you lead?”

  He grinned. “If I had more than one life, my dearest bride, I would give them all to you.”

  Her smile faded as he left.

  Lower Levels

  “Beware the girl. She is a witch.”

  There were only five soldiers left and four prisoners to dispose of. But they were an efficient unit. One stayed behind to guard Melydia and the servants.

  They marched double file, a soldier and a prisoner, the sergeant-major, who now commanded, in the lead with Linda. Leaving the Hall of the Brain, they walked the passageway that circumscribed it, then took one of the corridors that radiated outward.

  Gene was thinking furiously. He knew Linda was too. He hoped she could come up with something. He had no doubt that time was rapidly running out. These guys weren’t going to buy them lunch, that was for sure. These guys didn’t buy anyone lunch, or drink Perrier with a twist of lime, or put on their Asics Tigers in the morning and run five miles, or talk about their Porsches or their BMWs, any of that stuff. They didn’t ordinarily do much but eat, sleep, and kill, with a little rape thrown in for savor.

  They turned left at a cross tunnel, proceeding down it until they came to a small alcove.

  “This is far enough,” the sergeant-major barked. He drew his sword. “Let’s be about it.”

  My God, Gene thought as the soldier guarding him pushed him toward the alcove, they are actually going to kill us.

  A deep-throated growl came from farther down the tunnel.

  The sergeant-major whirled. Out of the shadows bounded a tawny, full-maned lion in royal rage, its bared teeth white and gleaming, though not as brightly nor as fearsomely as the dentition belonging to the saber-tooth tiger that stalked angrily behind him.

  However, it was the leopard that ran past both of them and tore out the sergeant-major’s throat. Then the scene in the tunnel became two-dozen episodes of Wild Kingdom running at once.

  “Gene! In here! Everybody!”

  It was Linda, huddling in the alcove. Gene leaped, tripped over a charging cougar, and fell against Jacoby, knocking him into the alcove and on top of Linda. Kwip jumped in, and suddenly all was dark.

  There came a muffled protest. “Mr. Jac —”

  “What happened?” Jacoby warbled.

  “Get … off me!”

  “Terribly sorry.”

  A light came on. Gene
looked up at the Coleman lantern hanging by a chain from the ceiling, then saw that the alcove was now sealed off by a wall.

  “Linda? Are you okay?”

  She sat up and blew air upwards to brush the wisp of hair off her eyes. “Yeah. Now the ropes. Any suggestions?”

  “A simple knife, maybe,” Gene said.

  “Okay, catch.”

  Gene felt the handle in his hands. “You’re getting great at this.”

  “Life and death situations make for good practice. You try that, I’ll try my Cuisinart.”

  “Huh?”

  “Without the plastic cover. See? Those are the chopping blades. I cut myself on them once or twice trying to wash them. Now if I can just do it without —”

  Linda got free first and cut Gene’s bonds, then Jacoby’s and Kwip’s.

  “Those big cats?” he asked. “Why didn’t they bother us?”

  “I created them with a real craving for fresh soldier meat.”

  “Nasty.”

  “Those bastards were going to kill us.” She held her head and shook it woefully. “Look what this place has done to me. Those men are dead.”

  “As cat food, they had their finest hour. Don’t fret about it, Linda. You did what you had to do. By the way, I loved the saber-tooth. Nice touch.”

  “Oh, if I had thought, I might have come up with something that wasn’t lethal.”

  “And you would have gone to heaven for being a nice person.”

  She sighed. “I guess you’re right.” She looked around. “Now what? I guess we go out through the other side.”

  “Unless you can conjure Marlin Perkins.”

  Linda materialized a small opening. Kwip cautiously peered out. It was a tunnel paralleling the one they’d been in.

  “We have to go back and get Snowy,” Gene said. “You can dematerialize the cage, and then —”

  “Wait,” Linda said. “I don’t think I can do that. My talent is creating things out of thin air, not making things disappear. Hold on.” She looked at the Cuisinart and wriggled her nose. “No soap. I can’t make it go away.”

  “How come you can create doors and openings? After all, they’re sort of negative quantities.”

  “I don’t know. A door is something to me. You can see it.”

  “Well, anyway, there’s only one more soldier. And there’re four of us.”

  “You’re forgetting Super-Bitch.”

  “Yeah. Do you think you can handle her?”

  Linda looked inward for a moment, then said, “I don’t know. She’s up to something. And she’s powerful.”

  “So are you, and you’re getting stronger by the hour.”

  Middle Levels

  Osmirik stopped in his tracks when he saw the giant creature sitting in the middle of the large domed chamber. Something told him it was a creature, although it looked in some respects more like a vegetable garden. On the whole it was of such complexity that the eye was at pains to make sense of it. Leaves, claws, stalks, legs — these appendages and more protruded from the beast at haphazard angles. Green and yellow fronds covered the body in most places, save for a few areas where strange feathers grew.

  Osmirik backed off. It was a long way around the thing.

  “Greetings,” came a voice emanating from an appendage resembling a cabbage head. It appeared to have a mouth.

  Astonished, Osmirik halted.

  “We bid thee greetings,” spoke another vegetable mouth.

  Osmirik bowed stiffly. “A good day to you, sir … er, sirs.”

  “It is polite,” the first head observed.

  “Ask it what place this be,” suggested a third.

  “Capital idea. Kind stranger, canst tell us how this place is called?”

  “You are in Castle Perilous,” Osmirik answered, “the master whereof is Lord Incarnadine by name.”

  “Might ye know, then, how we came to be here? We are unclear on the matter ourselves.”

  “Unfortunately, I do not know. My apologies.”

  “Tis nothing. Thou hast done us a kindness.”

  “Ah, tis beyond hope,” lamented a fourth head.

  “By the heavens, I think thee right,” said the first. “We shall never leave these walls.”

  “Your pardon,” Osmirik said. “I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A very long time. We think for at least a hundred cycles of the stars, albeit none are here to be seen.”

  “And you have spoken to no one in all that time?”

  “Thou’rt the first who deigneth to speak to us.”

  “A pity,” Osmirik pronounced. “And an injustice.”

  “Truly, for we have in that time composed nigh on two million lines of a new poetical work.”

  Osmirik was somewhat taken aback. “You don’t say?”

  “Yes. It is lyrico-pastoral in nature, with overtones of romantic melancholy. Likely as not, it would please thee greatly.”

  Osmirik looked off, searching for the nearest exit. “Under ordinary circumstances, I would fain hear it. However —”

  “We would be honored to perform it for thee,” the first head intoned. “Chorus, assemble!”

  The cabbage heads rearranged themselves.

  “Very well. Begin.”

  All heads then chanted in unison:

  “Hear us, O Demiurge, whose spirit deep abides

  In soils which giveth life to each and all,

  And bless these humble lays, that they may be

  As seeds cast on fertile ground to germinate

  And bear the fruit of Universal Love …”

  “Mother Goddess, blank verse!” Osmirik murmured as the chorus droned on. He began sidling his way through the narrow space between creature and wall, smiling pleasantly and nodding enthusiastically. At length he made it to the other side, stood and listened a polite moment, bowed, and walked through an exit.

  “Uncultured dolt,” came a voice at his back.

  Osmirik exhaled, then shuddered. What next? he thought. After an outsized cabbage garden with a penchant for high-flown poesy, what could follow?

  The floor opened up and swallowed him.

  He slid, endlessly, down a dark spiraling pipe. He tried halting himself, but the angle was too steep and the walls inordinately slippery. He extended his arms and legs and let his body go as loose as possible, praying that the pipe would soon level off.

  It did not. It widened, then tipped to vertical. Screaming, Osmirik plummeted in darkness.

  The pipe ended and he shot through into open air. He was briefly conscious of falling through a great semidark chamber. Then came a violent shock —

  He was underwater. Warm currents pulled him this way and that as he thrashed his way upwards, his lungs burning and his heart slamming against his breastbone. Just at the moment when he thought he could no longer keep himself from inhaling water, he broke the surface and gulped air.

  He gagged and choked as the intolerable stench of raw sewage assailed his nostrils. He was swimming in the stuff. He looked around. The chamber was huge and generally spherical, a vast stone cesspool, and from the roof protruded the ends of numerous pipes.

  He searched the darkness at the edges of the chamber. There appeared to be a bank or at least a ledge bordering the lake of offal. He began swimming toward it.

  As he neared shore, something seized his right foot, briefly, then let go. He splashed and kicked furiously until his strength was at an end and the ledge was an unbridgeable arm’s reach away.

  An arm reached for him, and he was pulled from the foul waters like the rotting carcass of a great fish.

  “Fine day for a swim!” said a jolly voice. It belonged to a short, balding man wearing tights and a simple gray tunic.

  After getting his breath, Osmirik wheezed, “I owe you a great debt.”

  “Think nothing of it. I like company now and again. Tis aching lonely down here at times.”

 
“You are …?”

  “Dodkin, Master of the Castle Waterworks, is what I’m called to my face. Shitmaster Dodkin, to other parts of me.”

  “You have my perpetual gratitude, Master Dodkin. But tell me —” Osmirik coughed and spat. “However do you put up with the smell down here?”

  With a puzzled frown, Dodkin sniffed the air. “What smell?”

  King’s Study

  The room was a clutter of bookshelves, strange artifacts, alchemistic paraphernalia, and other oddments. A large astronomer’s orrery sat on a table in one corner of the room. Star charts lined the walls in that area. A large, detailed globe of the world occupied another corner.

  He sat at a table that held a number of curious instruments constructed of wood and metal. He scrutinized one in particular, a box with a window through which a copper needle could be seen. He observed the position of the needle on a calibrated scale and made a notation with a quill pen. His attention shifted to another device, this one a glass globe, inside which hung two pieces of metal foil joined at one end. He noted the extent of their separation, dipped the point of the quill in an inkwell and scratched more numbers on a sheet of foolscap. He turned then to a third device, a loom of interwoven strings threaded with hundreds of small colored beads which clicked and clacked as he manipulated them, singly and in groups. He did this for a good while, then ceased and contemplated the results. He recorded more data, taking careful readings from each of the instruments. A candle on the table burned steadily, limning his face in soft shadows. A film of fine sweat sprang to his forehead as he worked. Several sheets of foolscap, acrawl with numbers and symbols, fell to the floor in quick succession.

  Finally he put down the quill and mopped his brow with a kerchief he had taken from inside his gown. Bearing the last sheet of foolscap, he rose from the table and crossed the room to a low multitiered desk. On it sat a personal computer with a compact keyboard terminal, a color CRT, a twin floppy-disk deck, and a hard-disk drive. He seated himself and made a simple hand pass. The screen came to life, showing an AO> prompt. With quick accurate strokes he punched a series of keys, then waited for the screen to go through an elaborate display of graphic pyrotechnics.

  “Damned showy off-the-shelf software,” he muttered.