by Paul Kenyon
"Don't try anything," Sir Angus' voice said.
He was sitting in a swivel chair next to a periscope, a gun resting on the kilt between his legs.
MacCaig was beside her, leaning on his double-edged sword. "Aye, or I'll lop off your head before you can turn it."
Of course they wouldn't want to shoot a gun inside the submarine.
"Where's Lord Cavendish?" she said.
"He's in the forward compartment. I don't want you two together."
"I don't wonder. We gave you a run for your money, didn't we?"
"You're a very troublesome young lady. And now Lord Cavendish is a problem."
"Who told you we'd be anchored at Lossiemouth? Callum?"
"Callum's been on my payroll a long time. He's a Bane."
One of the blue-jerseyed submariners approached Sir Angus. "Verzeihung, Herr Bane. Wohin mochten Sie?"
"Fahren Sie mich zu das Schloss," Sir Angus said in a creditable German accent. But then, he'd had a lot of practice.
"My goodness, your own submarine with your own German crew," she said. "It must have cost a pretty penny."
"They can afford it. In any case, money won't matter for long."
"You're going to collect all the oil revenues of the entire world, is that it?"
He grunted. "The Norwegians have already signed up. The English are being stubborn. We're going to turn them into an object lesson. That will get the Arabs and the Americans and the rest of them in line."
"How are you going to do it?"
"Lord Cavendish's rig is the key. The Caledonian oil platform is sitting right on top of the major dome of the North Sea oil reserve. If 1 can inject my modified arthrobacter bacteria deep enough at that point, the infection will spread under the seabed through the entire British sector."
"Aren't you afraid it may get out of hand?"
"My dear young lady, I don't give a damn."
She struggled to sit up in a more comfortable position. The German sailors and MacCaig gawked at her breasts as they swayed, but not Sir Angus. His eyes burned with the pure light of a fanatic.
"The Illingford rig didn't infect the North Sea reserves," she said. "Why not?"
MacCaig tapped his sword point against the deck. "Ye're asking too many questions," he said.
"It's all right, MacCaig." Sir Angus said. He turned to Penelope. "The Illingford desposit was isolated. And the drill point didn't go deep enough. Just deep enough for our test."
"You use the drill as a giant hypodermic needle, is that it?"
Sir Angus laughed. "Aye, that's a good way of putting it."
"A needle that might be five miles long?"
"Aye, aye."
"In that case, why do you need the submarine?"
He leaned forward. "The TR-5 bacteria are very fragile. They would not survive the trip down the drill shaft. They must be injected at the bottom, and at the time the drill breaks through."
"That means you need a confederate at top. Who did it at the Illingford rig? Callum?"
"He was convenient. He was aboard, spying for your friend Lord Cavendish."
"And who's your confederate aboard the Caledonian rig?"
MacCaig stirred uneasily. "I do na' like this. There's no need to tell her."
Sir Angus nodded. "You're right, MacCaig. An old man sometimes gets carried away. She'll never tell what she knows, but it's best to take no chances."
The little submarine vibrated. Penelope had a sense they were in motion.
"Take me to the castle," Sir Angus said.
"So I'll never tell what I know?" she said. "What are you going to do with me?"
Sir Angus' face split in a decidedly unsaintly grin. "Ye're a slippery one," he said, "so we're going to boil you in oil."
* * *
The Baroness coughed. The oil fumes and the smoke from the peat fire below weren't what her abused lungs needed at the moment. Her long black hair was hanging in front of her face. She tossed it out of the way with a shake of her head so she could appreciate the situation a little better.
She was dangling upside down over an enormous cauldron of oil that had a smoky fire built under it. Her hands were shackled behind her back, and her ankles were tied by a long rope to an overhead pulley. She still had her pants on. Black Tom's castration complex made him leery of the sight of the nether female anatomy.
She swayed at the end of her rope like a lazy pendulum. Black Tom gave her an absentminded push every once in a while, while he fed the fire. The oil hadn't started to bubble yet.
A somber light from pitch torches set in the walls showed her about as much of the dungeon as she cared to see. This was the place where generations of Banes had brought their enemies to be boiled, burned, beheaded, and dismembered. The much-used old implements were still on display: the iron weights and shackles, the pulleys, the hooks, the pokers, the bed of spikes. No doubt Sir Angus turned an extra penny charging admission to his paying guests.
"The laird is verra vexed wi' ye," Black Tom said gloomily, tossing another square of peat on the fire. "Killing Duncan and the German feller and those other lads. And blinding poor Duff. And Muir nowhere to be found — he kens ye hae somethin' to do wi' that."
He gave her an upside-down scowl as she swung past, his black eyebrows twitching in his oatmeal face.
The fumes made her cough again. "How come he isn't here to see me sauteed?" she said.
He gave her another push. "He leaves a' that to me," he said. "He's a busy man."
An upside-down figure in a kilt swam into her vision: Sawney MacCaig descending the dungeon steps. They were a continuation of the wrong-way spiral that extended above ground; this part of the dungeon was a huge circular stone chamber. MacCaig walked over to the cauldron and looked at her curiously. She could see his freckled face grinning at her, and the hilt of the claymore sticking up over his back.
She swung toward him. Abruptly he raised his spread hands and caught her breasts like two basketballs. They squashed painfully, and MacCaig gave a shove that sent her flying out over the kettle's rim. She came swinging back, and he pushed her again by the breasts. He looked as if he were prepared to keep it up all day.
"Here, here, mon, don't get in the way," Black Tom said. "What is it ye want?"
Tears in her eyes, she promised herself that she was going to get MacCaig somehow, parboiled or not.
"The laird says you need not ask her any questions," MacCaig said. "Just get on with it, he says."
That was interesting: Sir Angus didn't care anymore if she were tortured or not. The only reason she could think of that she hadn't been killed outright was that Bane would want to know if she'd managed to pass on information about him. Apparently he was confident now that she hadn't. Why?
"Aye, aye," Black Tom said peevishly, "I'll do that if ye'll just take yereself out o' my dungeon!" He sounded exactly like a fussy cook ordering someone out of the kitchen.
MacCaig grinned again, then suddenly turned and spun her by the shoulders. He sauntered out of the dungeon, whistling a Highlands air.
When she stopped spinning, she could see, dizzily, Black Tom poking a finger into the cauldron to test the temperature of the oil. He snatched the finger back hastily. When he saw that she was looking at him, he gave her a small, crafty smile.
"Ye see, there be two ways o' boilin' a person in oil," he said. "The first is to get the oil boilin' hot, then drop him in like a lobster. 'Tis a merciful way to do it, for ye die sae quick that ye do na' feel a thing. The second way is to bring the oil to a boil gradually, and let the person simmer. It takes a long time, and is marvelous painful."
"Let me guess," she said. "You're going to simmer me."
"First," he said, "I'm going to scald ye a wee bit."
He moved to where the rope was tied to a stanchion. He untied it and, holding on with both hands, played it out to the overhead pulley.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She plunged headfirst into the vat of oil. Her nostrils clogged,
and she could taste the few drops that got past her closed lips. It wasn't painfully hot yet — she'd taken baths that were hotter. But it was definitely uncomfortable.
He hauled her up again. She hung there, dripping and bedraggled. Her hair was heavy with the oil that soaked it. There was a slimy feeling all over her skin. She tried opening her eyes. They were gummy; the lids had stuck. She managed to get one of them open and immediately regretted it. The oil burned painfully. She blinked, trying to clear her vision.
Black Tom was saying something, but she couldn't hear him through her clogged ears. She hung there a while, coughing and spitting, while he threw more peat on the fire.
She could see and hear again after a few minutes. Black Tom cocked his head at her and said, "Time to baste ye again."
This time it was worse. The oil was scalding hot. It searched out all the tender nooks of her body and made them tingle. For a moment she thought, hopefully, that she was going to drown in oil, and then she was being lifted into the cool air again.
She sputtered and coughed. The oil soaked her. She had a feeling all over her body as if she'd been in the sun too long. She saw Black Tom piling more peat on the fire and wanted to scream.
He paused in his labors to look up at her. His eyes slid past her pendant breasts to her blackened face.
"Aye, and do ye na' look like Slippery Donald now," he said. "And will ye na' die the same way. Look at ye now, all clarty wi' oil!"
She tried to talk, but her throat was burning with oil. She spat, and a black gob landed at his feet.
He laughed. "I'll just gie it five minutes more to heat a wee bit, then drap ye in again. This time it will shrivel the skin right off your flesh. I did it once to a thrawn croftie. The poor tawpie screamed and screamed when I pulled him out, but he could na' die. Och, I kept him hangin' there for another hour before I lowered him again, and even then I just boiled his head."
It was better to drown than to burn. She had to force the issue. She coughed and swallowed and managed to get her throat clear.
"Listen to me, Tom Dubh," she croaked, putting as much contempt into her voice as she could. "You are no more of a man than your grandfather, Robbie Mo Thogair, was, and you have naught between your legs but an empty cloutie. It's no wonder that you don't dare to wear the kilt!"
She could see the oatmeal face change before her eyes to the color of a plum. He gave a cry of rage and let go of the rope.
She plunged into the oil. God, it was even hotter than last time! With her face screwed shut, she wriggled under the surface, doubling up her body until her knees were pressing against her face. There was just enough play to the shackles to allow her to squeeze her buttocks over the chain, between her wrists, and get her hands in front of her. She was tangled in that damned rope. She was still suspended helplessly in the black brew. Her breath was giving out.
There was a strange sensation at her belly. Maybe, just maybe, it was just hot enough!
She got her wide leather belt unbuckled. She pulled it out of the loops of her trousers. Was it straightening out in her hand?
It was. It wasn't leather. It was plastic, textured and colored to look like leather. Once it had been a sword, a double-edged sword forged of the same neo-methyl-methacrylate co-polymer as the wristwatch straps that turned to knives. Now, simmering in the heat of the oil, the molecules of the belt remembered their former configuration. The plastic flowed and writhed until it was a sword again.
She sliced at the rope around her ankles and felt her legs come free. Black Tom, glowering at the cauldron, saw an amazing sight. A pitch-black woman, naked to the waist and wielding a huge two-handed sword, burst out of the pot, dripping with oil. The pot tipped over as she sprang out, showering him with hot oil. He flung an arm up to protect himself, then turned to run.
The Baroness swung, and the sword swished through the air. It just breezed past the back of Black Tom's neck, and he whimpered in fear. He scrambled for the dungeon stairs, the Baroness in hot pursuit.
"Come back, Tom Dubh!" she called, and took another whack at him. He scrambled to avoid it, and tripped. He gave a cry of anguish as he saw where he was falling.
It was the bed of spikes. He pitched toward it, face first.
She heard a gurgling scream from him. She put down her sword and bent over to have a look. Black Tom turned his head to look at her with pain-clouded eyes. He was still alive. He was impaled by a hundred rusty spikes that held him inches off the base of the bed itself. Blood was dripping down and collecting in a dozen little pools.
His mouth opened, a gaping black hole lined with rotten teeth, and he tried to say something. Perhaps he thought he was saying something, but no sound came out. She thought she knew what it was.
"I'll be glad to, Tom Dubh," she said, and cut off his head.
She turned to the base of the wall where the great spiral of stone steps started. The dripping sword in her two chained hands, she began to mount the steps, leaving a little pool of oil on every one.
She raised the trapdoor at the top and cautiously peered out. There was no one in sight. She climbed on through, leaving a trail of oil. If she could get to her room, there was a good chance the transceiver would still be there. She could summon Skytop and the others and hide in the secret passageways in the walls until they arrived. Then they could clean out this rat's nest.
It must have been about three o'clock in the morning. The great hall was silent and empty. She crept up the spiral staircase, quiet as a mouse.
He was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, his freckled face stretched in a mocking smile. He bulked large against the dim light from an arrow slit, an elemental figure out of Scottish legend in his kilt and bonnet, his arms bare and brawny, the great two-handed claymore in his hands.
MacCaig!
She paused just out of reach of that terrible sword. His eyes took her in: naked, glistening with oil from head to toe, breasts quivering, hands chained together, a broad double-edged sword that seemed to have a buckle at the hilt. The advantage was all his: he was a superb swordsman, he was bigger, with a longer reach, and he was above her. And he was left-handed, standing on a spiral staircase that had been built for left-handed swordsmen.
She lunged with the point, and he easily swatted it aside. With a mischievous laugh, he plinked her left breast. It was the merest prick, drawing a drop of blood to mix with the oil, but it was designed to show that he was playing with her.
She swung at his legs. He jumped lazily upward, with a contemptuous inch to spare, and her sword whistled under the soles of his feet. When he came down again, he plinked her right breast.
She bit her Up and backed down a step. He followed her.
She swung again. Her elbow hit the stone wall, as the Banes who had built the staircase intended their enemies should do, and spoiled the blow. He swayed out of the way of her blade without bothering to move his feet and nicked her just below the navel.
She retreated another step, and again he followed her. Without warning, he brought his great blade down like an axe. It would have split her skull, cleaved her in two all the way down to the navel, but she just managed to dodge aside. The direction of his stroke changed, as if the claymore had been no more than a feather, and he scored its point along the inside of her thigh. He was still playing with her.
MacCaig was good. He was the best swordsman she'd ever encountered, better than Sumo. She was using every ounce of skill that she possessed to stay alive. She managed to parry another of his blows, but with her light plastic against his heavy steel, her wrists had to do all the work. She launched an instant riposte, and he not only parried it but found time to circle one of her nipples gently, not breaking the skin, getting oil on the tip of his blade. She hit at his point with the chain joining her wrists, and there was a jangle of iron. He reprimanded her by slashing her arm. There was a searing pain. The games were getting more serious. She backed down another step and he followed her. She could feel blood dripping from her arm. The
muscle was still intact; she could still keep a grip on her plastic sword.
He swung, a blow that would have lopped her head off if she hadn't ducked. He laughed, a hollow sound in the deserted tower. The games were over. How long could she hold him off, now that he was in earnest? A minute? Two minutes? Three? It wasn't much of a lifespan.
She exploded into a desperate, frenzied attack that kept him busy for five of those precious seconds. With a bellow of rage, he returned the attack in kind, a blurred slashing windmill. She backed down a step, two steps, then, as if in mindless panic, turned her back on him and ran.
He bounded after her, an animal grin on his face, the big sword lifted above his head to bite into her skull and split her in two. His foot encountered one of the little pools of oil she'd dripped on the way up. She'd been watching for them. He hadn't. He gave a cry of surprise and consternation and sat down abruptly on the steps.
Instantly she whirled. They looked at one another in a suspended, timeless moment of total rapport: the rapport of two superb fighting creatures who knew exactly what was going to happen in the next inevitable moment. The picture of him sitting there emblazoned itself on her mind forever: the rueful, almost embarrassed, grin on his freckled face, the kilt hiked indecently up, the heavy sword resting on the step where he couldn't possibly lift it up and bring it down again before she made the single move that would kill him.
She was three feet below him on the stairs, and she dealt him the only killing blow she could have from that position. Her shackled wrists together, she swung her sword upward like a golf club. Its razor edge sliced between his parted legs, under the kilt, up, up until it came to rest somewhere near his breastbone.
He was still grunting with the shock of it, not having had time to die, when his body, split almost in two halves like a clothespin, tumbled down off the spiral stair and hit bottom with a splat.
* * *