Above all, John experienced ... disorientation.
Sensing nothing in his hands, John glanced down fearfully ... to find he was still holding what was now an ultra light generator. He hadn't lost his ticket home!
Around him was the familiar, circular tower, wedge-shaped recesses built into the ten-foot thick walls, depressions that allowed defending archers access to cross-shaped arrow slits.
The only furnishing in the turret was a limestone slab table, stone benches paralleling it.
The floor was, if anything, slimier than when he'd been here last, its stones appliqued with patches of gray-green moss, the tower smelling even more musty than he remembered.
No sign in the ageless, upper room of how many days ... weeks .... months ........ years .... had passed here compared to the time John had spent in his own world.
As John glanced around the room, the super-light static electric device still in his arms, he realized he'd been smiling -- both from the knowledge of the complete success of his trip and from the tower's familiar look.
Back to reality.
For now, he had to locate a hiding place for the generator, an out-of-the-way spot where no one was likely to come across it, somewhere to put it until he had time to stash it in a more secure hiding place. ......................
Under the stone table -- a too obvious choice but the only one. (That this room was seldom used, was the machine's best defense.)
Walking to the left, careful not to slip on the scummy floor, John bent over to set the generator down; stooped to untie the rope; used his foot to slide both rope and machine under the table as far as he could.
Straightening up, stepping back, looking, John was satisfied for now, the generator practically invisible.
John had a recognizably uncomfortable feeling -- cold knees. Followed by the irrational desire to pull the knee-length tunic down over his legs. For someone from a pants-preferring world, drafty tunics took some getting used to.
Now that he thought about it, his bare shoulders were cold, as well.
His mind functioning well enough, he was ready to leave this tower room through the curving hall -- the room's only exit -- after that lope down the castle's twisting stone stairs to the lower floor.
Perhaps, to find Platinia?
One more glance about the room and John was off, his boots slipping on the mossy floor before scuffling over dryer hall-stones, John tap dancing down the first of many, slab stairs, his heavy boots as light as ballet slippers in this band's, weak gravity.
"Tripping" down short flights of irregular steps, every hand-built corridor and stairway of the castle less than "true," John wasn't surprised that the castle's byways continued to confuse him. On the positive side, John reasoned that, if he chose the twists and turns that took him down, he'd reach the first floor where he knew his way around. On first, he could locate the great room with its raised "harvest" table, high round, windows, and vaulted ceiling, a room replete with tapestries bleached by age into a uniform ivory, the wall coverings originally embroidered with colorful, imaginary animals and ill-clad, primitively-armed knights. If the Hero had gone to John's world and returned to teach his people this kind of "castle-culture" (as the natives believed) he had to have visited John's world in the early Middle Ages. Leaving open the question of how the Hero, landing in the center of North America among primitive, plains Indian's, got to Medieval Europe. Then back again? Just another enigma of world-to-world travel.
Nearing what had to be the first floor, John whipped around a turn to find himself on a landing just as a man coming up stepped on the riser. A soldier, by the look of his uniform, the officer seeming less surprised to discover John going down than John was to find him coming up!
"Slavey," said the short, dark-haired man calmly, "What is your name?"
"John."
"An odd name, but probably common in Stil-de-grain."
A soldier? In Hero Castle? A short, dark man, dressed ... in a short, green striped army tunic.
Though John's mind was still somewhat disoriented, seeing a military man in Hero Castle registered a warning! Ignorant of much of this world's culture, John knew this "green-striped" man for what he was: a fighter of the Malachite Army.
Malachites in Stil-de-grain? When John was here last, Malachite had been the enemy.
Could it be that the allegiances in this world had shifted?
Possibly.
Twentieth-Century coalitions had certainly flip-flopped in crazy ways in John's world!
On the other hand, this man could be a member of occupying forces, Hero Castle forfeit for Stil-de-grain's loss of the war.
Whatever the truth, the situation advised caution.
"You are a castle slavey?" Narrow-eyed and swarthy, the soldier was used to having his questions answered.
"Yes." Lying came naturally when your life was at stake.
"I'm looking for my company Head. A man with one arm. Have you seen him?"
"No, sir."
"If you do, tell him that Zoner looks for him."
"I will, master," John mumbled, hanging his head as he'd seen servants of the castle do in his own presence.
"Go on about your business, then."
"Yes, master."
The order given and received, the two of them continued past each other, the young soldier going up, apparently searching for his commanding officer, John continuing to descend -- but more warily.
Another turn and down another, short flight of stairs, this time with wider steps and ... John was at the bottom, emerging at one end of a hall he recognized: the front corridor that led into the dining room.
His meeting with the soldier making him cautious, John slunk through the shadowed, cloth-draped corridor, flattening himself against one wall until he reached the thick stone buttress beyond which, lay the dining hall.
Coming up behind the arch support, pressing himself against the pitted, cold-stone pillar, using one eye (and little of that) John peered around the edge of the columned entranceway. Seeing ... the dining room with its central hearth, iron framework over it hung with pots.
Beyond the fire stone cooking area was the familiar raised trestle table at the far end of the large room.
Other than these "built-in" objects -- except for a few wooden chairs here and there against the room's walls -- the room was empty. Clearly, it was too early for the evening meal, the steep slant of light rays coming through the second story, windows verifying the time.
Still hiding behind the entrance arch, John looked the room over more carefully. Saw the faded tapestries covering its walls.
Raising his eyes, John noticed that flags had been added to the room's decor, their staffs placed in evenly spaced holders around the large, rectangular hall, the pointed banners ... green.
A solid, glowing green. The color of the sky-band of Malachite!
Staring into the gloom that obscured the timber roof trusses, he noticed something else that hadn't been there before. A rectangular object, a chain suspending it at a story and a half.
A ... cage?
Whatever it was up there, it had bars; was a bulky enclosure like a tiger cage in an old-time carnival.
Was something or someone in the barred structure?
Concentrating on the object above, John failed to pick up the sound of rhythmic footsteps, John with barely enough time to duck back behind the arch-flange as a squad of marching men tramped into the dining hall from the opposite side. Dark-haired soldiers in green striped tunics. Malachites!
Following the soldiers were white robed ... priests. At least they looked to John like they might be priests. ...... Smelled like it too, the odor of musk permeating the damp air.
Had he seen men of religion dressed like that in the streets of Bice? Smelled that dark, thick scent as they glided past? Maybe.
Risking another peek, even as far away as he was, John recognized the soldier John had run into on the stair landing.
Leading the troopers was a
n older soldier -- broad green sash angled across his chest. Their officer. Seamed face. Scarred right cheek. Short, gray hair.
Something about him ....
Yes.
This was the Head the young soldier had been seeking. Described to John as having but a single arm.
What the soldier meant was that the Head had the use of only one arm, the commander's right arm hanging unnaturally, apparently paralyzed.
"Halt," ordered the Head, the rough sound of his voice echoing from the walls so that it was clearly understandable at John's distance. "Take him down," two men quick-stepping to the lower end of the ceiling chain, after a lock-click, lowered the heavy barred box, the resistance of the square, age-darkened beam helping to keep the heavy object from crashing to the floor.
Swinging a little as it came down, the ribbed block's metal bottom finally scraped onto the flagstone floor.
Getting a better look at the box now that it was at ground level, John could see it was, indeed, a cage and that there was a man inside. An old man, by the look of his gray hair, sitting in the center of the cramped enclosure.
Everyone's attention on the over-built pen, John chanced a longer look around the arch.
Why was a helpless old fellow like that in confinement? Nor did it make sense that the coop had been hoisted off the floor to swing in the middle of the air.
Like everyone else was doing, John now stared at the captive. .....
Did John remember seeing that man before? ..........
Wasn't that the man in John's house!? The man who was backing under John's stairs the night of the lightning strike?
Looking past the soldiers, John saw the approach of a table-like machine, pushed in on a wood-wheeled platform, castle slaveys squealing the device into the room.
A rack! like the late King, Yarro, had in his dungeon. Except that this "improved" model was mounted on wheels as a way of exporting torture.
John took another look; pulled his head back quickly.
Accompanying the infernal instrument was .... a bear? Wearing a white, long-sleeved robe? A trained chimpanzee topped by a silly hat?
A man, John decided, the guy's head completely devoid of hair ... including ... though John was too far away to be sure ... eyebrows and lashes? In the place of hair, the man's head had been painted with horizontal bands of color.
John risked another look, seeing that the strangely painted man had something strapped to the lower front of him, something that flopped as he walked.
Could this be a ... clown?
No.
The strangely shaved and painted person seemed to be the chief of the robed priests, the man?? coming to a halt in front of them.
The rack, with its squealing wheels, stopped, John saw the slaveys retreating as the chief priest minced over to stand beside the Army Head, the strangely decorated priest's head bobbing about as if attached to a weak spring.
"May I be the one, sir?" the odd looking creature said in a whispered hiss that nonetheless slithered around the rough, stone walls to where John was hiding.
Ignoring the priest, the Army Head waved a hand at the cage, a soldier stepping smartly to the cage door, bending, unlocking the door, swinging it out.
"Come out," the Head commanded, the old fellow failing to respond, instead, collapsing on the floor of his cage.
"You and you," the Head indicated two soldiers, "bring him out."
Obviously reluctant to obey that order, the soldiers detached themselves from the squad, each bending to enter the cage to squat beside the recumbent form.
Taking an arm apiece, the soldiers dragged the fellow out -- the old man dressed in the shirt and pants of John's world.
More than ever, John thought this must be the fellow he'd surprised in his house the night of the lightning strike.
Their job done, the army leader waved the soldiers back in line, the men saluting, the officer nodding a return salute, the Head approaching the prisoner. Slowly.
Bending over, the officer's paralyzed hand flopping awkwardly as it stubbed into the floor, the army leader put his ear to the supine man's chest. Listened. ..............."This man is dead," the Head announced, his voice dry, gravely, the soldier standing again.
"Dead?" piped the banded man, his voice rising to falsetto. "Dead!?"
Unexpectedly, the priest prostrated himself on the stone floor, arms spread wide, a lament ululating from his mouth, a keening that rose in pitch and intensity until it shrieked from the stone room's unforgiving walls.
The other men in robes -- lesser priests? -- taking up the cry, they also threw themselves on the rough floor, rolling and thrashing like men in spasm.
Ignoring the freakish actions of the white-robed priests, the commander signaled with four fingers, four soldiers stepping forward to march to the corpse. Halted, two men at either end of the body, the soldiers stooped to pick up the dead man by his hands and feet, the pallbearers slow-marching the corpse out the back of the room, their booted feet scraping mournfully on the flagstones.
Meanwhile, the chief priest had risen to jump about and scream, the other priests mimicking him like men possessed.
"Quiet!"
A thunder shot in that echo chamber of a room, the robed men fell silent, their bodies frozen in the grotesque poses of their bizarre ballet.
"But we must mourn him," hissed the man with the banded head.
"Then do it quietly."
"It is not fitting. When a Mage dies, he must be mourned with song and dance."
"Mourned?" the army Head said, sarcastically. "You were about to stretch his joints until they snapped."
"Still, a Mage is dead, mighty soldier," the clown said with his sibilant lisp. "More than a Mage. The greatest Wizard of our, or any other, band -- Pfnaravin."
Pfnaravin? The Mage John had been mistaken for.
Could the man in the cage actually have been .....?
No.
Another mistake had been made, errors like this to be expected in a superstitious era. On the receiving end of that kind of stupidity, John could appreciate how wrong ideas got started in this backward place.
More and more, John believed the man in the cage to be the poor old man John had caught in his house the night of the storm. Probably the same guy who was hiding in the woods surrounding John's house, no doubt a transient who'd been checking to see when John was away from home. Had found a way to get into the house to keep warm and find something to eat.
It all fit!
Slipping into the house the night of the storm, making a noise that awoke John, hearing John come down the stairs, the old fellow had panicked, in an attempt to hide, had pried open the stairwell door and ducked inside just as the lightning bolt struck the house, the static from that strike charging the old man with electricity so that the old guy had vaulted through to this other reality.
The way people's minds worked here, anyone appearing from John's world was likely to be thought to be the missing Mage, Pfnaravin, the assumption they'd made about John when he'd first come across.
The same thing had apparently happened to this derelict.
With ... a major difference. That a Malachite force had captured Hero Castle; may have overrun all of Stil-de-grain, for all John knew.
Learning that John (Pfnaravin) had gone to the other world, finding the old man coming back through the "tunnel," these Malachites had mistaken the man for Pfnaravin returning to Stil-de-grain, the great Wizard a dangerous enemy of the current, Malachite regime.
No wonder these Malachites had put the old fellow in a pen. Hoisted the whole shebang in the middle of the air where even a Mage couldn't get out and where no one could get him out. Even caged, they were afraid of Pfnaravin's power!
What it looked like was that they were about to torture the old guy when he'd done the sensible thing -- dropped dead.
John heard clanking.
Glancing out at the great hall again, he saw that the soldiers had unhooked the chain from the top of the cag
e, were pulling the slack chain off the high beam; coiling it up as it came down, the soldiers clattered the iron-whorl up on the rack.
"Lift the gaol upon the cart," commanded the officer, the soldiers gathering to put their backs into picking up the heavy cage, hoisting it beside the pile of chain.
"Detail for labor ... march!" -- a squat of ten putting their shoulders to the laden platform to push it out of the room's other side, the ungreased, wooden wheels squealing loudly under the extra weight of the cage-and-chain, the army commander and the rest of his men marching out as well.
The soldiers and the rack gone, the priests resumed their "song and dance," the priests now waving knifes, daggers that, heretofore, they'd concealed under their robes.
The priests' strange antics fascinating him, John continued to glance out at them from time to time until, their shrill voices rising to crescendo, the priests began ... slashing their own wrists with their knives! John could see spurts of blood, the men's white robes soon spotted with vermilion!
All bleeding -- including the color banded chief -- each priest ducked his head to suck blood from his own wrists. Disgusting!
Putting away their knives at last, tightening the sleeves around their self-inflicted wounds to stanch the bleeding, forming a line behind their holy clown, the lot of them "bunny-hopped" out of the room, exiting in the same direction as the soldiers.
Leaving the shadowy-cool room in blessed silence.
The action over, John still curiously numbed by his transference to this world, he realized he was ... hungry .... the cooking pots over the fire stones at room center calling to him.
If he took a pot of "vittles" with him, he could lose himself in the vastness of the castle; in that way, gain the time he needed to figure out what had been going on here in his absence.
That settled, as timid as a deer in a forest of wolves, John edged out from behind the arch. Had gone but a single step when a soft sound froze him in place!
Mewing?
Whirling about, John spied a figure hidden by a floor length tapestry across from the arch that had been John's refuge.
A ... girl. In her arms, a large, squirming cat.
Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series Page 9