Castle Perilous c-1

by John Dechancie

  There seemed no end to this maze, and she was near despair.

  No, she told herself. You’re not giving up. You’ll find Gene and we’ll get out of this place. Believe it.

  She believed it. For the first time in her life she actually believed she could do something, that she could be a cause and not just an effect.

  A section of the right wall slid back, revealing the end of a large pipe. Her reflexes well-sharpened by now, Linda was quick to step back. As she did, there came the sound not unlike a commode flushing. Water spurted from the pipe, and then a man came sliding out and tumbled to the floor.

  Linda held her nose.

  Osmirik groaned and massaged the base of his spine.

  “Mother Goddess!”

  “Are you hurt?” Linda asked him.

  He was startled at first, but when he saw Linda, he broke into a smile. “Greetings,” he said. “Be you human, or only a fair approximation?”

  “All too human, I’m afraid,” Linda said. “Can I help you?”

  “I am undamaged … methinks.” Osmirik struggled to his feet, wincing.

  “Oh! Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “You are too kind, fair lady. No, I am sound enough.”

  “However did you get yourself into the plumbing?”

  “It is a convoluted tale. I fell in, then was plucked out, but I had to throw myself back in, so to speak, in order to get out again.”

  Linda nodded, shrugging, “Makes sense.”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I’m at my wit’s end. I seek a certain person who may be about this part of the castle.”

  “Oh. Let me ask you a personal question. Are you out to help this person?”

  Osmirik gave her an odd look. “In truth, no. Why do you ask?”

  “This is just a wild guess, but is this person a tall, skinny redhead with well-developed magical powers and about half-a-dozen soldiers for bodyguards?”

  Osmirik was taken aback. “You have seen her?”

  “Oh, we’ve met.”

  Osmirik grasped Linda’s arm. “Where?” Linda flinched away, and he let go. “Forgive me. I am not wont to manhandle a lady. I am sore distressed. I must find this woman. She is a danger to us all.”

  “You’re telling me. She nearly killed me and my friends.”

  “That is danger enough, but she threatens the existence of many more. Where did you see her?”

  “That’s the problem. We escaped from the room where the Brain is, and then we —”

  “The Brain? Of Ramthonodox?”

  “Yes.” Linda explained.

  After listening, Osmirik nodded. “So the Stone and the Brain are together, the one holding the other in suspension, the other feeding its power into the containing spell.”

  “Huh? Well, they’re related, if that’s what you mean. Just what is Super-Bitch up to?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The woman. Your friend.”

  “She is hardly my friend. She is my liege lady and mistress.”

  “Mistress? Oh, you mean you’re her servant.”

  “That is so. You were saying that you escaped from the room wherein the Brain resides.”

  “Yeah, but now we’re lost again.”

  “ ‘We’?”

  “Well, yeah, my friends, but as you can see, we got separated.”

  “Hey, Linda!” came Snowclaw’s voice.

  Linda whirled, searching. “Snowy! Where are you?”

  “Hold on!”

  A moment later Snowclaw materialized in the corridor. He flashed a toothy grin. “Hey, how about that? Neat trick, huh?”

  “Fabulous! You got your talent!”

  “Ain’t it something? By the way, I found Gene.”

  Linda jumped up and hugged him. “You wonderful guy! Where is he?”

  “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but I just left him to get to you. I can jump right back, but I don’t exactly know where he is in relation to here — if you know what I mean.” He put Linda down and sniffed, looking around. “Hey, who did doo-doo all over the floor?”

  “Never mind. Let’s find Gene.”

  “That’s gonna take some doing.”

  “You say you don’t know where he is, but you can get there by doing your disappearing act?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you jump back to Gene and tell him to start yelling. We’ll do it too.”

  “Right.” Snowy poked a milky claw at Osmirik. “Who’s this dude?”

  “This is — I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Osmirik, scribe to the House of Gan.”

  “He’s on our side, Snowy. Nice to meet you, Os …”

  “Osmirik.”

  “Sorry. I’m Linda Barclay, and this is Snowclaw. Very pleased to meet you, Osmirik.”

  “The honor is mine, Mistress Linda Barclay, and … Snowclaw.” Osmirik bowed deeply.

  “Okay,” Snowclaw said. “I’ll jump back.” He closed his eyes briefly, turned his body slightly to the right, took two steps and vanished.

  “Wow,” Linda said admiringly. “Neat.”

  “I believe I can find your friend,” Osmirik said.

  “You can?”

  “We all have our talents, do we not? I seem to have been endowed with certain olfactory gifts ordinarily reserved for dumb beasts.”

  “Olfactory? You mean you can smell Gene from here?”

  “No, but the creature who just left us has a most unusual odor. He is in that direction.” Osmirik pointed to his right.

  “Speaking of unusual odors …”

  After Osmirik had bathed in the travertine tub Linda had thoughtfully conjured, he rubbed himself down, put on the clean tunic and tights she had also conjured, then stepped out from the partition.

  “I hope I do not catch my death of ague. I was taught that it is not advisable to immerse one’s body.”

  “It’s not only advisable, it’s desirable. And fun.”

  “Especially with another person,” Gene said.

  Linda spun around. Gene had his arms wrapped around Snowclaw. “Hey, it worked, Snowy.”

  “Whattaya know,” Snowclaw said. “I don’t know how, though.”

  “Apparently you have a teleportation field around you,” Gene said. “On second thought, why wouldn’t a chunk of the floor go with you too?” He shook his head. “No, it’s magic. You just have the ability to teleport things, including your own body.” He looked toward Osmirik. “Hi, there.”

  Osmirik bowed.

  Deepest Levels

  The caverns were deep and dark. Jacoby was fearful, but he trusted the voice. No harm would befall him as long as he persevered in his sacred mission. He passed through chamber after chamber, a strange radiance lighting his way, moving with him. As far as he could tell, the light had no source. It simply illuminated the area about him within a ten-foot radius. The caves themselves were visible by virtue of an innate luminescence in the rock.

  The strange light knew the way. Jacoby followed it.

  He passed a pool of dark, smoking liquid, a large bubble erupting on its viscous surface. The bubble broke, splattering, and steam vented from the hole that had formed until the black substance seeped back to close it off.

  He entered a narrow crypt, dark recesses cut into its walls. From them came rustling sounds, clicking sounds. A pair of red eyes regarded from a shadowy niche as he hurried through.

  All around him was a sense of presence, of discreet movement, of waiting and watching. But nothing challenged him, no one bothered him.

  Something multilegged with a pointed snout came scampering out of an intersecting tunnel. It saw Jacoby and stopped so abruptly that it nearly went tumbling. It did a hasty about-face and scuttled back into darkness.

  Jacoby breathed again and put a hand over his thumping heart. “Good God,” he said quietly. He filled his lungs, exhaled, and moved on.

  He came to an open area where a water-carved rock bridge arched over
a deep chasm, at the bottom of which lay a phosphorescent yellow lakelet, concentric ripples crossing and recrossing its oily surface. Silence here, save for the echoing plop of dripping water. He crossed the span, not daring to get close enough to the edge to look over. On the other side the light led him to the left along a narrow ledge, and then into a short tunnel. He emerged into another enormous room. This one was many-leveled, with galleries high up in the walls. The way led across the main floor, winding among weird rock formations. The moving light made the twisted forms around him writhe with life. Malformed faces silently howled at him, bony hands reached out.

  Jacoby was out of shape, and out of breath. “Please,” he said to anyone who would hear. “I must stop … I must rest. Just for a moment.”

  The moving pool of light stopped.

  “Thank you, Holy One, thank you.” He chose a flat stone ledge and seated himself. He rested for two minutes, trying to control his breathing. Then he got up and pushed on. Toward the end of the chamber he encountered a wide pit and had to walk around it. As he did so, he looked in. Foul-smelling currents of air washed over him. At the bottom lay an odd configuration of tissuelike material, and he was nearly past it when he realized what it was: a huge mouth, black inhuman lips parted to reveal the ragged stumps of mottled, yellow teeth. Jacoby gave a yell and dashed away. A rumbling, snarling sound came from deep within the cavity.

  Another tunnel brought him into a vast open area through which an underground river flowed, its dark waters silent, deep, and inexorably moving. A little way upstream a stone pier jutted out from shore. Jacoby walked to its end and stood, listening. Silence, except for the faint suck and gurgle of shore-lapping water. Before him the river extended to outer darkness. He could not see the other side.

  He let out a long, eschatological sigh. Choosing one of the cylindrical stone mooring posts, he sat down and awaited Charon’s boat.

  Lower Levels

  Gene shook his head after hearing Osmirik’s story. “So she means to loose the dragon and rule the world.”

  “That is her mad plan, yes. But it is doomed to failure, and she well knows it.”

  “Then what’s her motive, besides madness?”

  “Love.”

  “Love?”

  “And hate, its demon twin. Long ago she and Incarnadine were betrothed. He spurned her, returned her dowry, and paid breach-of-promise gold to her father. She has never forgotten the shame, nor has she forgiven Incarnadine.”

  “And for that she’d destroy the world?”

  “Years ago she would not have. She was a beautiful young woman, in love with life. But after her humiliation, she took to studying the Recondite Arts. Today she is still beautiful —”

  “But skinny, and her bust is nothing to write home about,” Linda said.

  “I don’t think they use brassieres in this culture,” Gene said.

  “— but her heart is a fist of stone, and she is possessed by madness. Therein lies the danger. She is, mayhap, the most powerful magician in the world.”

  “Better than Incarnadine?” Gene asked.

  “That may be.”

  Gene shifted his weight on the plain stone bench they had found. The alcove it stood in was quiet, an island in the eye of the storm. Outside, strange forms moved in the air. “Things are getting increasingly crazy out there.”

  Osmirik said, “Yes, and at some point every step will be taken at peril of one’s life. We had best act before that point is reached.”

  “We need a plan,” Gene said.

  “First we have to find the Hall of the Brain,” Linda said. “We’ve tried everything, even cutting through walls, but nothing seems to get us there.”

  “Let’s teleport there,” Gene said. “We can all hang on to Snowy —”

  “Will that work?” Linda said.

  “Only one way to find out,” Snowclaw said.

  “Okay. When we get there, then what?”

  Gene shrugged. “We take ’em. I mean, there’s only one soldier left, and a couple of servants.”

  “And the most powerful magician in the world,” Linda said. “This world, anyway.”

  “Yeah. We’ve got no choice.”

  Linda nodded grimly. “I know.”

  They discussed strategy awhile, then fell silent. Each made his preparations.

  “Methinks …” Osmirik began.

  “What is it, Osmirik?” Gene said.

  “Melydia has always resented her womanhood. Hers is a spirit that cannot be contained within the cramped boundaries of a woman’s station. That men and men alone rule the world is to her an intolerable injustice. In order to right this wrong, she has devoted her life to the accumulation of brute power. In that, I think, lies her gravest error.”

  Gene looked at Linda. “Who says this world is so different from ours?”

  High Above The Plains Of Baranthe

  He sprawled on his stomach and looked over the edge of the Oriental carpet. Far below, at the foot of the castle’s citadel, the tents and shelters of the besieging army lay grouped in clots and bunches. Along the perimeter lay corrals and animal pens, supply tents, and other makeshift shelters. The encampment looked like a dirty patchwork cloth spread over the plain.

  He turned over on his back and watched the sky. Clouds like obese sheep grazed in a field of blue. He let his eyes dwell on the blueness awhile.

  At length he sat up and took in the world around him. The castle sat like a magistrate high on his bench, presiding over and delivering judgments to the plains and mountains. He surveyed its curtain walls and black towers, its high parapets braced against the wind. It had been his home for over three hundred years. This might be the last time his eyes beheld it.

  He performed a short series of finger movements. The airborne throw rug on which he rode began its descent, banking in a wide turn back toward the castle. He felt no movement of the air, no wind, yet the carpet’s velocity with respect to the ground was considerable.

  An impish look came to his eyes. “Might as well have some fun,” he said. “While I can,” he added.

  His fingers worked fast — the pattern was extensive and complex. When it was completed, the transmogrification took effect instantaneously.

  He no longer sat on a flying carpet but in the cockpit of a high-tech jet fighter. Pushing the stick forward on a diagonal, he put the plane into a steep banking dive, heading for the enemy encampment. The needle of the machometer crept upwards and the airflow howled over the clear canopy. At a thousand feet he pulled out of the dive at four Gs. The enemy camp flashed past. He kicked in afterburners, yanked the stick back and stood the jet on its tail, sending it hurtling into the ethereal blue. The needle edged past Mach One.

  “That should give them pause — or a case of the shits,” he said, chuckling.

  With a pathetic whine the engine suddenly flamed out. Indicators fell off, and then the instrument panel went dark. He waited a few seconds for the speed to lessen, then worked his fingers quickly.

  The plane now became a propeller-driven, single-engine fighter, specifically a Focke-Wulf 190 A-4, armed with two 7.92mm machine guns and four 20mm cannon, and having an operational range of 592 miles. Unfortunately, as in the case of the jet, mechanical contrivances did not work well in this world, and the antique warplane would probably not even make it back to the castle. He made a mental note to do more intensive research into the question of exactly why machines of any complexity, even magical ones, could not function here for any length of time beyond a few minutes. As he had been working on the problem off and on for over a century, he had little hope of immediate success, but he was determined to get to the bottom of it. Someday.

  Or perhaps not. Perhaps he liked this world the way it was.

  Banking steeply, he headed back toward the citadel. He briefly considered making a strafing run over the camp, but decided against it. It would not be sporting, and the fate of Vorn’s men was sealed whether or not his plan was successful.

 
As he neared the castle, the engine sputtered and gave out. He dead-sticked in a little closer, then spelled the antiquated airplane away and replaced it with the carpet.

  The roof of the keep came up, and he landed. Stepping off the carpet, he stooped and rolled it up. He tucked it under his arm and walked to a small building into which was set a pair of doors. He pressed the button on a panel next to them. The doors rolled apart, revealing an open shaft.

  It was time for the final and inevitable confrontation.

  “Basement,” he said, jumping off into darkness.

  Underworld

  Something brought Jacoby out of his meditation. He looked out over the river. A boat was approaching.

  “Come, Charon,” he said, “and ferry me across.”

  The long boat moved rapidly, yet no one was rowing. Standing at the stern and manning the tiller was a strange being, a black figure, immense and powerfully muscled, humanlike but not quite human, with red eyes that glowed like embers in a face like a bull’s. The boatman deftly guided the craft into shore and brought it abreast of the pier, whereupon he moved to the bow and threw a loop-ended line over a mooring post. With a sinewy black arm he beckoned Jacoby to come aboard.

  The fat man stepped down into the launch, made his way amidships and chose one of a number of wooden boards slung gunwale to gunwale. There were seats for perhaps two dozen souls. The boatman cast off and moved to the stern, taking his station at the tiller.

  The journey downstream was uneventful. The boatman said nothing, and neither did Jacoby. Propelled by unseen forces, the boat parted the water gently with its blunt prow, leaving a wake of undulating ripples. The black waters of the river flowed quietly, inexorably. An occasional prismatic oil slick drifted by, faintly aglow in the passing light. The rest was darkness and quiet.

  It could have been hours, it could have been days, or only a few minutes. Jacoby’s sense of time had been left in the mortal world above. Eventually the boatman steered for the far shore and put in, docking at another stone wharf.