Castle Perilous (12 page)

Then the head exploded in a fountain of blood, pulp, and ghastly pink mess. The eyes popped out and the sockets gushed streams of boiled brain. The dinosauroid shambled a few steps more before its massive hind legs collapsed, sending its bulk crashing to the ground. It lay unmoving, the area about its head looking and smoking like a mound of hot beef stew.

Thaxton putted. The ball described a wide curving orbit across the green, approaching the cup. It caught the rim, spiraled around like a planet spinning into its sun, and dropped for a bogey.

“By Christ, did you see that? I — ” Thaxton looked around for an audience. Linda was staring past him, hands clapped over her mouth, her eyes rounded, her complexion ashen. Snowclaw and Gene were running toward the fallen creature, Dalton following at a jog.

“Bloody hell. Best shot of my life and it's an anticlimax.”

Thaxton began calling for Lummox, who was nowhere in sight.

Gene stood examining the mess. “Good God,” he said, waving fumes away from his nose. “Whew! What a stink.”

Dalton walked up. “The big ones usually keep to the low ground, but every once in a while a rogue wanders out of the valley and gives us trouble. This one is probably old, and lost his harem to a young buck.”

“Where did you get that thing?” Gene wanted to know.

“This?” Dalton displayed the weapon. “I traded it for gold I panned in a desert aspect a while back.”

“I don't understand. If technology like that is available — ” Gene swatted at the hilt of his antiquated weapon. “ — why all the silly swordplay?”

“Good question,” Dalton answered. “It so happens that devices like this don't work inside the castle. Almost nothing does, including electricity.”

“What about gunpowder?”

“I'm told that gunpowder works, but a simple spell can prevent it from exploding with any force. Consequently, that particular technology has fallen into disuse.”

“No kidding. Say, how does that thing work? Do you know?”

“No, I don't. And I don't know what aspect it came from.”

Linda was edging up to them, seeming drawn to the carnage by a morbid fascination she couldn't quite overcome. She eyed the mess queasily.

“Oh, my,” she said. “Yuck.”

Deadpan, Gene asked, “Hey, Linda. Would you mind getting a spoon from the cooler, if Lummox has one?”

Linda's jaw dropped. “A sp — ”

“Yeah, or a fork or something.” Gene unsheathed his sword, slid the point into the mess and ladled out a gob of gore. “Hard to eat with this thing.”

“Oh . . . oh — ” Gagging, Linda turned and ran.

 

 

 

Keep — West Wing — Forebuilding

 

“Hell's wizardry,” Kwip muttered as he viewed the tipping caldrons of fire. He stood at a window on the top floor of one of the many smaller structures that abutted on the keep. He could not see much over the wall of the inner ward, but the tops of the belfries were well in view, towers of flame all. He watched as soldiers, human torches, hurled themselves to the ground. The hell-sent apparitions floated above. The crucibles had turned nearly upside down and had emptied, drops of liquid fire depending from their rims. Then the disembodied hands began slowly to tilt the caldrons up again.

Awestruck, Kwip shook his head. He had seen enough; he moved away from the window.

The castle still shook and quivered, its stone blocks glowing with a faint ghost light, but things had quieted somewhat. He tried to set his mind back to business, although his hope of ever finding the treasure room had somewhat diminished over the last few hours.

Passing another window, he glanced out and came to an abrupt halt. The castle walls were out there, but no battle was in progress. The ramparts were deserted, as was the inner ward below. All was silent.

And it was raining.

Kwip scratched his black-bearded chin and shook his head. What was phantasm — the bloody conflict he had just witnessed, or this? Which window looked out on reality?

Both did, perhaps. Or perhaps neither did.

His memory was jogged just then. Windows . . . windows that looked out on sundry strange worlds. There was something familiar about that. Briefly, he searched his childhood memories. Images of his aunt's face floated from the depths — a grim face, haggard and snaggletoothed. He saw her thin-lipped mouth curled with contempt — contempt for him, her sister's bastard son. Kwip's mother had died in childbed delivering him, and his aunt had resented the burden that he was. Kwip remembered the sting of the rod across the backs of his thighs, still heard the whistle and the crack. Unpleasant memories indeed. And the bugbears she frightened him with, the stories. She would sell him into servitude, she would, if he didn't straighten out — sell him to an evil sorcerer-king who lived in a black castle. What was the name again? It was on the tip of his tongue.

Unspeakable harridan! May she rot in Hell.

Coming to a corner, he turned and walked the length of the forebuilding, then entered a spiral stairwell and descended until he came upon a landing with an archway leading into the keep. He went through and turned left, walking along a short hallway that terminated in a rectangular stairway. This he descended, pausing at each floor to look about. Nothing brewing. About six floors down he stepped from the raised landing and strode off to the left, following a wide hallway broken by a series of pillared archways. Here and there the walls were hung with paired weapons flanking shields upon which were emblazoned a strange heraldic device. Kwip stopped to examine one. Ostensibly, the design was of a black dragon rampant on a field of red — but was that indeed a dragon? Winged it was, yes, but far more horrific. It had three sets of legs, the front pair ending in great, clawed feline paws. The head was feline in one aspect, reptilian in another. The huge wings were tipped with spines. Even in featureless outline the image set Kwip's spine to tingling. Something about it . . .

Kwip shrugged and walked on. Doubtless some mythical animal.

After wandering through a maze of corridors, he paused at a junction roofed with a groined vault. He sniffed the air. He smelled food, and realized how hungry he was. Following his nose, he soon came to a wide archway leading through to a dining hall. Inside, a few strangely dressed people were seated at a long table draped in fine white cloth and set with a wide variety of comestibles.

“Hello, there!” one of them called.

His gaze fixed on the table, Kwip approached the group.

“We're having a bit of lunch,” a thin man with wire-rim eyeglasses said brightly. “Would you care to join us? My name is DuQuesne. This is Edmund Jacoby, and . . . um, is anything wrong?”

Kwip tore his eyes from the food — it was a feast fit for any manner of royal personage one could name, more food and more sorts of food than he'd ever seen in one place at one time. He suddenly felt self-conscious, despite the man's amiable greeting, and somewhat out of place.

“Did you say . . .?” Kwip cleared his throat and ran his tongue over his dry lips. He managed a smile. “I am feeling a mite hollow.”

“Do sit down and help yourself, my good man.”

“You are too kind, sir.” Kwip seated himself and looked around uneasily.

“Wine?” DuQuesne asked, holding up a bottle.

Kwip nodded and watched DuQuesne fill a long-stemmed glass. He reached for it, warily raised it in salute. “To your health, sir.”

DuQuesne nodded, smiling.

Kwip drained the glass in three gulps, wiped his lips on the sleeve of his doublet, and belched loudly.

DuQuesne reached for a platter bearing a large cut of meat. He set it in front of Kwip. “The roast is especially good today.”

Kwip took out his dagger, cut off a healthy slice, and stuffed it in his mouth. He smiled and nodded in approval. He began to eat in earnest. He reached for a wheel of cheese, chopped out a wedge, and bit off half. He took a loaf of bread, wrenched off a piece and crammed that in too.

“You must have some more wine,” DuQuesne told him, refilling the glass.

Kwip smiled through his mouthful, but didn't — and couldn't — speak. Abruptly self-conscious again, he halted a motion to tear into the roast beef. He put down the dagger, chewed, then swallowed quickly though with some difficulty. He glanced around the table with an embarrassed smile and said, “I beg your indulgence, sirs. My swinish manners . . . I crave your forgiveness — ”

“Tut-tut,” Jacoby said.

“Eat hearty, my friend,” DuQuesne told him. “We have a relaxed attitude toward etiquette here. Enjoy yourself.”

“You are most gracious, sir. I am not used to sitting at table with persons of quality such as yourself.”

“Oh, please,” DuQuesne protested.

“In truth, sir.”

“Hardly.”

Kwip took a sip of wine. A thought occurred to him. “Have I . . .?” He looked at the four men seated about the table. “Have I the honor of dining with the master of this castle?”

They all laughed.

“We are all Guests here,” Jacoby said, “as are you.”

“Ah.” Kwip took a bite of cheese and chewed thoughtfully. “Then may I ask to whom I am in debt for this repast?” He lifted the wineglass to his lips.

“His name is Incarnadine,” DuQuesne began, “and there are at least a hundred honorifics tagging after it, but we simply call him Lord. . . . what's the matter?”

Recovered from choking on his wine, Kwip gasped, “Did you say . . .? An eternity of pardon, did you say . . . Incarnadine?”

“Why, yes.”

Kwip sat back, rubbing his throat. He glanced around uncomfortably, then knitted his brow in troubled thought. “I see.”

“I take it you've heard the name,” Jacoby ventured.

“Hm?” Kwip turned to him. “Your pardon, sir. Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Oh,” DuQuesne said. “You're a local, then?”

“I am not sure I take your meaning, sir.”

“Do you hail from this land?”

“This land? I think not. But in truth, I don't know where I am. Neither do I know how I came to be here.”

“Well, that's nothing new,” Jacoby said. “You're a proper Guest, I should think.”

“But you've heard of this place?” DuQuesne pressed on. “Castle Perilous?”

Awed, Kwip looked about the dining hall. “Yes. Indeed, I have. Not for years have I heard its name, but I have heard it.” He stared abstractedly at the far wall for a moment. Presently he resumed eating, slowly.

“Then you very well could be a native of this land — this world,” DuQuesne said.

Kwip reached for more bread. “I require time to think on these things, sir. Perhaps you could tell me — how is this land called?”

“It's known as the Western Pale.”

Kwip searched his memory, squinting one eye. “I have never heard of it.”

“Well, neither had I,” DuQuesne said, “until I blundered into this place. None of us had.”

“And none of us,” Jacoby put in, “had ever heard of Castle Perilous. But you, my friend . . .”

Kwip nodded. “Aye, heard of it I have, but only in story and legend.”

“Indeed,” Jacoby said.

“In truth. Long ago my mother's sister used to . . . spin me tales of Lord Incarnadine in his enchanted Castle Perilous.”

DuQuesne put down his wineglass and leaned back. “I see. This is very interesting. I don't believe we've encountered this before.”

Jacoby asked, “No one has come from a world in which Castle Perilous was merely a legend?”

“I don't believe so. Roger, have you ever run into this?”

The thin, dark-haired man seated across from DuQuesne smiled and rubbed his aquiline nose. “Castle Perilous is a legend in our world.”

Jacoby leaned forward, frowning. “You don't say?”

“I do. It's an Arthurian tale, a routine damsel-in-distress epic. Gareth and Linette are the protagonists. Gareth, I believe, was Sir Gawain's brother.”

DuQuesne said, “Oh, of course. Yes, Gareth and Linette.”

“Now, as I remember,” Roger went on, “in that tale the besieger of Castle Perilous was Sir Ironside, the Red Knight.”

“Doesn't incarnadine mean the color red?” asked the young man to Roger's left.

Roger smiled again. “You're right, Tom, it does, but I think we can attribute that to coincidence. Frankly there aren't many aspects of the tale that correspond with the situation here. But I'm no expert, and there are lots of legends about enchanted castles. There very well may be a yarn that more closely resembles this dream we're living.”

“Ah, yes,” DuQuesne said wistfully. “It does all seem like a dream sometimes, does it not?”

All agreed.

Jacoby looked at Kwip. “How did you happen to come here?”

Kwip swallowed. “It was . . . quite by accident.”

“That's what everyone says.”

Kwip halted a motion to reach for his wineglass. “You doubt me?”

“Don't be so touchy. By that I meant that almost everyone here essentially blundered into the castle, and some can't even describe how it happened. The usual story is something about a wall disappearing, or a door suddenly materializing where none was before. That sort of thing.”

Kwip nodded. “I see. Yes, my story is very like that.” He bowed his head. “An eternity of pardon, sir, for mistaking your meaning.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Kwip smiled. “To speak the truth, it happened to me in this wise: I was visiting a friend, a man of quality who owns a large and very fine house. A number of my comrades were there as well, and I am afraid we imbibed to excess. I excused myself and went to find the privy . . . or a garden wall against which to relieve myself — forgive my vulgarity, but I must confess I was somewhat overburdened with drink. I wandered a while, in and out of unfamiliar rooms, and finally found myself in what looked like the nether portions of a great castle or fortress. And in truth, I was here. I found a stairway and began to climb. That was when strange things began to happen.”