Castle Perilous (3 page)

He searched in vain. He did find a featureless corridor which met another at a T. To his right the way was dark, so he turned left, turned again at an L, and found himself back in the concrete-walled silence of the garage again. Sighing, he retraced his steps, passed the intersection of the first corridor and continued on into the darkness. Feeling his way, he went about thirty paces until he bumped into a wall. The passageway turned to the right, still unlighted, and continued interminably.

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

Another turn, and there was light up ahead. Gene could see a stairwell.

“Now we are getting somewhere.”

Once into the light, coming from a strange fixture mounted on the wall at about eye level, he noticed that walls of the corridor were now of masonry, meticulously executed, with dark stones set in intricate patterns. The stone itself was dark gray in color, spangled with tiny glowing flecks of red, blue, and green. Then he noticed the light fixture. It looked more or less like a torch, a long wooden handle mounted into a bracket affixed to the stone, but at the top of the handle there was a glowing bulb shaped like a faceted jewel. The light it emitted was bright and of a faintly bluish cast.

“USX's medieval period, I guess.”

He mounted the stairwell, which turned to the left, then to the right, and came out into another passageway identical to the one below, complete with the odd light fixture and another stairwell set into the opposite wall.

Four stories up he began to wonder what the hell was going on. This could not be . . . no, categorically impossible . . . could not be the USX building. Where the hell was he?

As he thought it over, sounds came from his right. He listened. A low rumbling, then . . . a scream? He walked on down the passageway toward the noise, coming to the pool of light cast by the next jewel-torch. Farther down, another corridor intersected. The sounds came from the branch to the right. He approached the corner.

What he heard next made him drop his attaché case. It was the full-throated yowl of some hell-spawned behemoth, the thunder of its rage shivering the stones around him. He backed away. He heard another scream. From the adjoining corridor came the sound of running feet, advancing toward him.

Bursting around the corner came a man in full flight. He came right at Gene, saw him, yelped, danced around him and ran on into the shadows.

“Hey!” Gene yelled after him. “Hey, buddy!”

He was gone. Gene picked up his briefcase and trotted after him for a few steps, then stopped. He scratched his head. The man had been dressed strangely.

The horrific noise sounded again, much nearer. Gene took a few more paces in pursuit but stopped again, unsure of what to do. He looked back toward the intersecting passageway.

What came running around the corner this time froze him solid to the floor.

It was large, maybe seven, eight feet, walked on two legs, and was covered head to foot with silky white fur. Oh, and the head. The head was smallish, but the mouth was not, agleam with razor-edged teeth and curved three-inch fangs. Bone-white claws tipped its fingers. Its shoulders were almost as broad as the beast was tall, and from them hung long sinewy arms. But with all that bulk, it was fast. And it was coming toward him.

Somewhere within Gene's mind, a part that had not as yet turned the consistency of Cream of Wheat, he was thinking, Movie, they're filming a movie. Oh, yes, that's what it is.

As the beast neared, the glow from the jewel-torch fired its eyes, luminescent yellow agates. An alien intelligence burned within them, fierce, cruel, and inhuman.
 

The sound of the hell-beast shook the passageway.

But the white-furred thing ran right past him — and as it went by, it spoke.

It said, “Run, you fool!”

 

 

 

Inner Palisade — South-Southeast Tower

 

The voice spoke to him as he lay in meditation in the Hall of Contemplative Aspects, a grouping of adjacent rooms at various intervals along the curving wall of the tower. In each room there was a wide unglazed window reaching almost from floor to ceiling.

He reclined on a couch set back a short distance from the window, head propped on an arm. About him, the room was a seraglio of painted screens, velvet cushions, wicker baskets, luxurious carpets, low settees. Here and about were inlaid tables upon which lay assortments of finely crafted objects — brass oil lamps, rosewood boxes, carved tusks, scented candles, incense burners, and other curios. Tapestries and decorative rugs draped the walls. Scents of exotic perfumes hung discreetly in the air.

Outside the window, two moons — one larger and of a pale blue color, the other bronze tending toward gold — were becalmed above a quiet sea, its waters a-dance with fingers of moonlight. Sparkling combers washed a narrow beach, above which lay a town of white stone buildings topped with domes, minarets, and campaniles. Above, the night was starry. Glowing filaments of nebulous gas stretched across the firmament. Faint sounds of exotic music arose from the town, and here and there among the buildings, festival lights could be seen. Tall broad-leafed trees stirred in the salt breeze.

But when he heard the voice, the mood was broken.

The time of my freedom is imminent.

“No doubt,” he answered aloud.

Unfettered, corporeal once again, I shall soar . . . I shall destroy . . . .
 

“As one of my Guests is fond of saying, ‘Whatever turns you on.' ”

I crave the fastnesses of the air above the earth . . . the cold sky . . . the icy winds . . . I have been too long in bondage . . . .

“We all have our sundry problems.”

Sighing, he arose and walked out of the room. Passing through an archway, he entered another of the chambers, this one sparsely furnished: a single table with an ensconced candle on it, and a low wooden bench. The window opened onto a vast level plain populated with huge monoliths in various geometric shapes. He seated himself on the bench and endeavored to recapture a meditative state of mind.

To no avail.

Already the Spell Stone sings to those who seek it, drawing them near . . . .

He let a few moments of silence go by before he said, “Indeed.”

He got up and approached the window, stepping out through it, and stood in the sand. A mild wind blew in from his right, carrying fine grains of sand to tickle his cheek. He felt the desire to walk out among the monuments, touch them, sit within their shadows. He stepped farther out.

Where are you going?

The voice diminished as he withdrew from the suspended rectangle of the window.

You will return.

The sound of the wind through the monoliths was drear, but somehow comforting. The sky was violet. A triangle of three bright stars shone just above the horizon to his left. All was simplicity, clarity, peace.

I remember . . .

He was farther from the window now. The voice was partly lost in the moving air.

“What did you say? You remember? What?”

Your father's father . . . or was it your father's father's father . . . he who spoke my name . . . he who enchained me.

“What of him?”

How long ago? That I do not remember.

“Do you remember what you are?”

No, not completely. I do not entirely know my nature. Much has been lost.

He halted. The voice was a whisper now.

“Why do you speak now? You have not done so in a hundred years.”

That long? I did not know. Was it you to whom I spoke?

“Does it matter?”

No. It is sometimes difficult for me to ascertain individuality . . . and I do not care in any event.

“You spoke to me. I ask again — why have you broken your silence?”

I speak now because I sense an impending liberation.

A spark of light above caught his eye, and he looked to the zenith. A falling star scratched a trail across the heavens. It glowed with a phosphorescent green light.

“Ah.”

What is it?

When the star had descended, he looked down, his face troubled.

“Nothing.” Presently, he said, “A moment ago you spoke of soaring, of destroying. Is that your nature?”

I feel it must be.

“You also spoke of the Spell Stone. What is it?”

That which both holds me in bondage and denies me knowledge of my nature.

“But what is it? Where is it?”

I do not know.

“I see.” The song of the wind rose up again, and he turned toward it. He felt drawn to the open spaces before him. But the shackles of obligation held him back. He chafed at them.

He shook his head, turning to the window. On the other side of the sky a blue-white sun was setting. Here, the freedom of nothingness was comforting. But he knew he could not stay. He had many tasks before him.

“Tell me this,” he said. “Do you remember your name?”

No.

“That is good.”

After taking one last look at what lay about him, he strode toward the window and stepped inside it.

 

 

 

Southern Barbican — Near The Keepgate House

 

Two lords and a lady sat inside a tent at a table made of rude planking. A draft from the breach in the outer wall, very near, ruffled the cloth walls of the tent.

At one end of the table stood an imposing mountain of a man, wearing battle dress executed in the style of the Eastern Empire, and the finery of it spoke of the highest rank. He wore a burnished helmet of bronze, set with blue stones and decorated with bars of white enamel. His long-sleeved tunic was of vermilion wool, bordered at hem and cuffs with gold embroidery. The massive breastplate shone like a golden sun, and a blue cape flowed over his shoulders and down his back like a cataract.

The other men were dressed for battle as well, though in more utilitarian style: suits of mail under long sleeveless tunics, on which were emblazoned their respective coats-of-arms. The lady occupied one side of the table by herself. She wore a long cloak dyed a bright orange. Behind her stood a man in a long hooded gown.

From outside came the gruff voices of soldiers, the rattle of wagons, the whickering of destriers.

“You say we have begun undermining the inner palisade?”

Prince Vorn turned to Lord Althair, who sat nearest him.

“Last night, though work progresses slowly, by hand. We must use the bore sparingly, since its noise could give us away. Moreover, the spell that runs the engine does not work well below the earth. Bores are meant for walls above ground.”

“Even in its proper element,” Lord Dax, seated to Althair's right, remarked, “your bore did not excel. Three months to breach the outer wall.”

Vorn turned a withering dark eye on him. “Three months to bite through stone that is more like metal than metal itself.”

Dax lifted a silver flagon of wine to his lips, pausing to mutter, “True,” before drinking.

Lord Althair, a thin-faced man with light brown eyes, scratched his long nose with a finger. “We started last night? I suspect they have already begun to countermine. Incarnadine has anticipated our every move. We have taken inordinate casualties.”

“Most of which have been from among my best regiments,” Vorn said.

“Your regiments make up the bulk of our combined forces, so it's hardly surprising. That is why we three have formed an alliance with you. Without aid, we could never have begun to take Castle Perilous.”

“Then why complain?”

“I do not complain. I state facts.”

“You would do well not to state the obvious.”

Althair's lips drew up into a pout.

“To business, then,” Vorn said, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “The Spell Stone. I should like to hear again what its function is and how we may go about locating it.”

Lady Melydia of the House of Gan, a woman of delicate features and bold blue eyes that glowed with a curiously discordant intensity, inclined her head toward the man standing to her left. “Osmirik will tell you.”

Osmirik reached up and drew back his hood. His hair was long and black, matching his beard. “If it please His Royal Highness . . .”

“It would please me if you were brief this time.”

“I shall endeavor to obey His Royal Highness.”

Vorn snorted and leaned back.

“The Spell Stone may be likened to the keystone of an arch,” Osmirik said, “without which the arch would collapse. It is the core of the castle's strength. Find the Stone, abrogate its spell, and the castle shall undergo detransmogrification.”

“Bandy no scholar's jargon with me. Are you speaking of magical transformation here?”

“Yes, sire, though of a higher order than usual. Once the spell is broken, the castle will revert to whatever it was before it was transformed.”

“What would that be?”

“I do not know, sire.”

There was a moment of silence. Vorn glanced around the table, then looked at Osmirik. “Is that all?”

“His Royal Highness requested brevity,” Althair said with a snicker.

Vorn ignored him. To Osmirik, he said, “Continue.”

“Sire?”

“You have no idea what the castle would revert to?”

“Most likely the Stone itself and a pile of rubble. Or it may be that Castle Perilous is a transmogrified conventional castle. There is no historical evidence to support this supposition, but it may be true nonetheless.”

“We know,” Dax said, “that the castle has existed for the last three thousand years. The written record goes back no farther.”

“However, there are legends, my lord,” Osmirik said.

“Legends?” Vorn brought a meaty hand up to scratch his trimmed black beard. “What do they say?”

“Legend has it,” Osmirik said, “that the ancient home of the Haplodites, of whose line Incarnadine is, was far to the south, in another part of the Western Pale. Indeed, there are ruins in that region such that, if one undertakes a comparative analysis of architectural styles — ”