Castle Kidnapped

by John Dechancie

  Suddenly worlds began to flicker by, landscapes flashing like card faces in a riffled deck.

  — Desert ... seascape ... barren waste ... forest ... veldt ... mountains—suddenly a city, a jumble of shapes—more mountains ... wild seacoast ... burnt salt flats, winged things in the sky ... sheer cliffs against a starry night canopy ... a featureless plain ... river valley ... more cities ... lonely road ... wide savanna, animals grazing beneath stunted trees ... rain forest ... moonscape —

  The riffling went on. He turned his attention inward and concentrated on his plan of action. There would be enough power to break through the interdimensional barrier, and enough to enable him to locate Ferne. He hoped there would be energy sufficient to ward off the inevitable opposition until the holocaust weapon arrived. And, of course, he prayed for enough in reserve to take him safely home.

  The chief unknown was the exact nature of the enemy universe itself. There was little to go on. That it was a high magic continuum had long been suspected. To his knowledge, no one had ever sent an interdimensional probe to the Hosts’ universe, and no one had been there since Ervoldt the Great himself blundered through its castle portal, some three thousand years ago. Ervoldt had written a book about his explorations of the castle's 144,000 “aspects,” titled, straightforwardly enough, Ervoldt, His Book. In it there was one paragraph about the Hosts’ aspect, which Incarnadine knew by heart:

  I did then discover a Cosmos like no other I had seen. Vast and drear and fearful it was, a place of blackness and despair; yet Beings dwelled there, having such horrific Lineaments and foul Mein that I bethought them Demons, to be numbered among the very Hosts of Hell. I did but escape with my Life out of that Place, and laid a Spell of Entombment on the Way that led therein, and the Gods forfend its unbinding, at peril of the world—nay, of Creation itself! I say, beware this Place, in which is contained a surfeit of malign Cunning.

  That was the sum total of all that was known about the Hosts’ universe, save for what had been gleaned from periodic communication with its inhabitants over the centuries. And that, as he knew only too well, had been damned little.

  Now he would be the first of his line to discover at long last what the Hosts were all about.

  Correction. Ferne had been the first.

  He wondered whether she was still alive. The temporal gradient between universes had been thrown out of whack by the cosmological disturbance, so he could not be sure how much time had elapsed in the Hosts’ world since he made contact with her several hours ago. She could very well be dead by now. In which case, this whole mission would be a waste of time.

  But he had to make an attempt at rescue. It was his duty.

  The worlds kept shuffling. The flickering hurt his eyes, and he made a motion to turn a knob that would darken the view port.

  He halted. The craft had arrived at its destination.

  What he beheld out the port now was difficult to apperceive. It was a landscape, but so strange and dark as to be almost invisible. There was a vast blackness above, in which hung a faintly glowing orb, its color a dull red. A sun? Perhaps. Below lay the twisted contours of a jumbled terrain, a narrow river meandering through it.

  He set the Voyager to following the river, which eventually flowed out of the hills and into flatlands, fed by tributaries along the way. The river swelled and became wide and sluggish, its color gone a dull black, here and there reflecting prismatic colors like an oil slick.

  He could not tell whether the landscape emitted its own light or was reflecting feeble light from above. He could have been looking at a computer simulation on a dim cathode-ray tube. This world was strange, very strange.

  Stranger yet was its magical structure. There was almost no physical energy here. It was a universe of burned-out stars and clouds of cold gas. Indeed, he did not know if there had ever been any astronomy to speak of. It was a dark universe, cold and drear, just as Ervoldt described.

  He marveled that such a place could exist. It relied almost entirely on magic. Most worlds had a scientific base. There was chemistry to fire the processes of living and growth, of consumption and combustion; physics to provide frames of reference for the interplay of force and counterforce. But not here. Almost everything rested on an ontological substratum subject, not to objective laws, but to the strange dialectic of a supernatural will.

  Whose will? He did not know. He had long suspected that the Hosts were a single mass entity, a group mind of some sort. Such individuals as had shown themselves over the years may well have been only single cells in a larger organism, incapable of volition.

  If true, this state of affairs would obviate the ticklish moral problem he faced. Genocide was repugnant. Forget that the Hosts were irredeemably evil. They were, but it made no difference. It would make him feel a lot better if he could persuade himself that he was wiping out only one entity which happened to possess myriad semi-independent parts.

  But the question was moot. He had already made the decision. The energy-weapon was on its way, and he would have to wrestle with the moral ramifications for some time to come. If he lived to wrestle at all.

  He followed the river's course, the Voyager now functioning very well as an aircraft. Clusters of what he took to be habitations lined the banks of the river. They had a honeycomb look to them, but it was hard to see detail at this altitude. There were a few roads connecting these “cities,” crisscrossed by trails cutting through the bleak terrain. Again he was fascinated by the faint glow that suffused everything. Some form of radioactivity?

  Flashing off on the horizon to the left. He knew he had been detected. Something as anomalous as the Voyager making a sudden appearance in this universe would doubtless set off alarms all over.

  “Calling airborne craft! Calling airborne craft! Identify yourself at once, or suffer immediate destruction!"

  The voice came from the speaker on the communications panel, a button of which he reached to press.

  “I very much doubt it,” he answered.

  “Inky! Is that really you? How nice of you to drop by! This is an unexpected delight, I must say."

  It was the smarmy voice again, minus the artifact-image that usually accompanied it.

  “Delight is not an item on the agenda, I'm afraid."

  “Really? Then are we to infer that this is not a social call?"

  “You may so infer."

  “Well, how utterly dreary. That means we'll have to defend ourselves. Inky. And we will, of course."

  “Of course."

  “Watch your right flank, Inky. Something brewing there."

  “Thanks for the tip. However, you seem to be attacking from the left."

  Great birdlike creatures with eyes like embers swept down to parallel his course, arranging themselves in a roughly V-shaped formation.

  “Why are you waiting?” he asked. “A little cautious perhaps?"

  “We have time. We're not going to let you get away, Inky dear. This is a golden opportunity, and we shan't let it pass."

  He made a quick motion with his hand, and a great flaming prominence left the Voyager, snaking its way across the sky to envelop the squadron of interceptors. For a split second, a great flash relieved the sky of its blackness.

  He looked out. A raging fireball blossomed in the night, thin trails of fire falling out of it like roots seeking earth.

  “Very impressive, Inky. Very impressive. We will have to be more chary of you, won't we?"

  “That is but a taste of what is to come."

  “Absolutely right, Inky old chum. This is shaping up to be quite a nasty little dustup. But when the dust settles, you'll be ours, Inky, rest assured."

  “It would be easier for you simply to destroy me. But you want me alive, don't you?"

  “Oh, yes, Inky. To make you feel pain, more pain than you thought was possible. Just like the pain your sister is feeling. Want to hear her?"

  Ferne's screaming filled the compartment.

  “She's still alive, Your
Kingship. Still breathing, and she'll stay alive and conscious for an indefinite period, experiencing unendurable torment. Delicious, isn't it?"

  Anger exploded inside him, and he durst not speak.

  “Worried a little now, Inky? Just a bit?"

  “I weep that you will soon be doomed,” he said.

  “You weep for us? Isn't that just like your kind? And this suicide mission of yours. What a beau geste. Very noble stuff indeed."

  “There is something you do not realize,” he said.

  “And what might that be? Prithee tell us, O King."

  “The metaphysical structure of your cosmos is such that my powers, considerable as they are in my home universe, are here increased more than tenfold."

  “Pretty extravagant claim, Inky boy. You're going to have to back it up."

  It was true. He fairly quivered with new power, could feel it coursing through his being. But would it be enough?

  The sky was crowded now with strange shapes. Dragonlike things soared above, warbirds below. Flanking him were star-shapes, these keeping a wary distance. More objects approached at two o'clock high.

  “You're outnumbered, Inky,” the voice said flatly.

  “How many active units have you ready to deploy, if you don't mind my asking? In round numbers."

  “Don't mind at all. Thousands and thousands, Inky. Thousands upon thousands."

  “Then I am not outnumbered."

  “What cheek. We'll see. We'll just see."

  He was still a long way from Ferne's position. Below, the beginnings of an urban sprawl of sorts was taking shape. He decided to descend and have a closer look.

  The habitations were hivelike complexes, yet incongruous suggestions of technology lay about. He saw structures that looked like industrial facilities, and some that vaguely evoked power plants. Yet he could not be sure what they were. He doubted that their function was in any way comprehensible.

  The black river snaked on, strange reticulations inscribed on its banks. A city came into view, if it was a city. A central dark spire glistened against the blacker sky, flat-roofed structures fanning out from its base. Lesser complexes abutted these, petering out into the sprawl of hovels that blanketed the nondescript terrain.

  The star-shapes attacked first, and he fought back successfully, each star disintegrating with a burst of scintillation. Next to make a strafing run were the dragons, diving from above. The Umoi craft shook and vibrated. His return fire, though, was accurate. He watched forty of the great beasts plummet in flames.

  Next up, huge warbirds, attacking from the rear. These he outraced, sending the Voyager into a fast climb, leveling off, then diving in a sharp banking turn to the right.

  Leveling out below, he found himself over one of the fan-like complexes at the base of the ebony spire. Picking out a likely spot to land, he set the craft gently down. He checked the instruments, put the craft on standby, and got up from the uncomfortable pilot's seat.

  He opened the hatch and peered out, sniffing. There was air here, and strangely enough, oxygen, but the attendant fumes were overpowering. He cast a protective envelope over himself, driving out the noxious odors. He stepped outside and closed the hatch. There was not much to see except a jumble of rooftops and the towering edifice above. He looked up.

  “'Childe Roland to the dark tower came,'” he murmured.

  Warbirds circled above, faint light glinting from their golden armor-scales. They would not attack him here.

  Flickering light off to his right. Turning, he beheld streamers of fire that coalesced into the shape of a gigantic demon. The eyes of the thing were difficult to meet. In them glowed white-hot malevolence, a consuming hatred. The thing spoke.

  “Welcome to your doom. You were unwise to come here. This place was devised to bestow eternal pain on all those who enter, and none who enter may leave. Abandon all hope, mortal."

  He scowled back. “Let's cut the shit and get down to business,” he said.

  The thing regarded him silently for a moment, then it gestured with one taloned hand. “Behold,” it said.

  Hosts of lesser demons approached, hopping from roof to roof toward him, bearing swords.

  The sword he materialized was about eight feet long, most of it bright, fiery blade. He swished it about for a moment and listened to the crackling sound it made. Bringing it to the ready, he waited for the first wave of warriors to reach him.

  The sword exploded. When the smoke and fire cleared, all the warrior demons lay dead, their carcasses littering the rooftops.

  He smiled up at the big one. “Surprise."

  The thing howled its dismay, then hurled a globe of fire at him.

  He brushed it aside. “Look, this is silly. You can't use interstitial power in your own world. You realize that by now, don't you? You can only transfer it to another universe, like mine, where you've been up to no end of shenanigans."

  Enraged, the demon yowled again, shooting lightning bolts and other fancy stuff.

  These he ignored. “Don't you understand? When there's too much magic, nothing makes any difference. This whole thing”—he gestured expansively—“your entire world, nothing but a nightmare, a fever dream. A chimera."

  The thing screamed in pain, clutching at its breast. Then it exploded in a burst of glitter that swirled and dispersed in the foul winds.

  He sighed. Spying a cavelike entrance in a humped projection on the roof, he moved toward it. Not letting the darkness within deter him, he entered the administration complex of Hell itself.

  Lab

  Nobody made an effort to move for a long while. Finally Gene struggled to his feet and limped to Vaya. She still lay huddled against the wall, but her eyes were open.

  “My God,” Gene said.

  He took her hand, and she sat up. Her skin was its normal light brown, and the burns had completely disappeared. She examined herself, running a hand over the smooth, unblemished skin of her arms and her long, perfectly shaped legs. She looked up at Gene and smiled.

  “The gods have granted me new life,” she said.

  “Yeah, they sure have.” Gene suddenly spun around. “Jesus, Linda."

  He ran to where her body had been thrown. A tangle of wire covered her, and Gene gently cleared the mess away.

  Linda rolled over and sat up. She blinked and said, “What hit me?"

  “Linda, are you okay?"

  “Yep.” She got up with Gene's help. “Incarnadine must have thrown something around us, just in case. Lucky thing, too."

  Jeremy was already up and about, disgustedly kicking through the debris.

  “Well, this place is done for,” he said.

  The lab was a shambles, a total loss. Most of the machinery lay in smoking heaps. The great coils had toppled, but one metal sphere still hung aloft, swaying disconsolately, its once-mirrored surface now blackened and dented.

  Strangely enough, the materialization platform was intact.

  Gene helped Vaya up. Linda eyed the strange woman, sizing her up as women are wont to do to one another on occasion.

  “What I want to know,” Gene said, “is who the hell is responsible for all this. Who kidnapped me?"

  “The same person who did it to Sheila, Trent, and Snowy, and tried for me and Jeremy,” Linda said.

  “Who?"

  “Jamin."

  Gene was astonished. “Jamin?"

  “I don't know how or why, but Jamin has something to do with it. His little plan for us didn't work out. But the earthquakes hit, and we didn't get a chance to confront him."

  “Let's do that right now,” Gene said.

  “Shouldn't we wait for Incarnadine?"

  Gene glanced toward the platform. “Maybe we should. But we don't all have to go. You stay here and look after Vaya."

  “No, I'm coming with you. Jamin's a powerful magician."

  “Okay, fine. Jeremy?"

  “I'll wait for him,” Jeremy said, rooting through the mess. “By the way, did anyone see my compu
ter?"

  A plaintive beeping came from the ruins. Jeremy kicked a battered instrument panel out of the way, stooped, and fished out the laptop. The computer was intact, though a little scuffed and dirty.

  The readout screen showed, SOMEONE GET THE NUMBER OF THAT NUCLEAR WARHEAD.

  “I will come with you, my husband,” Vaya said.

  Linda raised her eyebrows. “Husband? Gene, are congratulations in order?"

  “Uh, well..."

  Linda nodded. “Well, congrats, if it fits."

  “Let's talk about that later. I want to get to the bottom of this right now."

  A far-off rumbling sounded.

  “Think we can make it?” Linda said. “You missed all the fun we've been having here."

  “We'll make it,” Gene said, then stopped and looked down at himself. “Uh ... Linda, can you—?"

  “Oh, I think the loincloth is cute. But is it the custom for the groom to wear more than the bride?"

  “Linda."

  “Sorry.” She waved her hand, then inspected Gene's usual attire, a modified Guardsman's uniform: leather cuirass, breechclout, hose, and high boots.

  Gene brandished his sword. “Great. Okay, let's go."

  “If the castle's still in a turmoil,” Linda said, “then Jeremy has to come with us."

  “Why?"

  “You'll see. Let's go, Jeremy."

  “Right."

  WAIT! THE LOVE OF MY LIFE IS PINNED UNDER THAT RUBBLE!

  “We'll put her back together later. Or him, or whatever it is. I'll help, I promise."

  YOU MARVELOUS MAN.

  “Feh,” Jeremy muttered.

  The castle was indeed still in a turmoil, and the laptop's stabilization program helped. Still, the going was rough. The castle's stone blocks had turned the consistency of cheese, fracture lines like spiderwebs running through them. Floors bowed, and ceilings drooped.

  When they reached the servants’ wing, however, they encountered an area that was obviously under magical control. It so happened that Jamin's quarters lay nearby.