The man yelled and went tumbling. But he was quick to recover, get to his feet, and charge again.
Gene and the gladiator fought. The shield was an advantage, but Gene was by far the abler swordsman. In short order Gene had the man backed into a corner, and slashing two-handed with his larger and superior weapon, reduced the shield to a battered and dented plate.
Linda, watching from behind the couch, let out a tiny scream when Gene found an opening and thrust his sword home.
Grimacing, the man dropped both shield and sword to grasp the blade that had buried itself deep in his abdomen.
“Thou hast conquered, comrade,” he gasped.
Gene withdrew the bloodied blade as the man fell. The gladiator drew one last breath.
Then he disappeared.
“That's a relief,” Gene said, looking at his sword, which was no longer bloody. “Didn't think he was real, but he sure put on a good show."
“Gene, if he'd killed you..."
“Morituri te salutamus. I sure as hell wouldn't disappear. I'd stay right there, deader ‘n a doorstop."
Two more gladiators spilled into the sitting room, swords clashing, shields banging. Gene ran and leaped over the couch.
“We'd better get out of here,” he told Linda.
Another pair of fighters, engaged in mortal combat, came in through the opposite entrance. Both pairs ignored Gene and Linda, who began backing out of the room.
“As long as there's an even number of combatants,” Gene observed, “we won't be attacked. But the loose guys are going to be a problem."
“Do you want to head back up?"
Gene shook his head. “No, my sword magic gives me the advantage. We have to see what's behind all this. You want to hide out somewhere while I go below?"
“Of course not. I want to be with you."
“Right. We do make a great team."
She took his hand. “Let's go, teammate,” she said, leading him cautiously out into the confusion of the hallway.
Stairwell
“What's the matter?” Dalton called back over his shoulder. “Getting winded, old boy?"
Below, Thaxton was slow to mount the next few steps. “Nothing of the kind. Just feathering back a bit to conserve strength."
“Only five more stories to the top."
“Right."
Thaxton took two steps at a time to catch up, winding his way up the spiral stairwell. But when he reached the spot where Dalton stood waiting, he wilted.
He sat and heaved a weary sigh. “Gadzooks."
“You should get more exercise, old fellow. Play a little golf now and then."
Thaxton sent a withering look upward.
“Or whatever's your pleasure,” Dalton amended.
Thaxton said sarcastically, “Golf is not my pleasure, as I'm sure you know."
“Sorry. Ever been up to the roof, by the way? Or the high battlements, I should say."
“No,” Thaxton said. “Have you?"
“Once. Magnificent view. Plains, snow-capped mountains. Beautiful."
“I'm sure."
“Truly. But strange, disorienting in a way."
“How so?"
“Well,” Dalton said, “we know there are about eighty stories to the keep. But from outside, it doesn't look it. I mean, the castle is huge, massive. But the keep looks to be only about thirty to forty stories at its highest point. Which makes it towering compared to earthly castles, but not exactly the World Trade Center either."
“Really. Can't say I'm surprised, though."
“No, the castle does tricks with interior space."
“Indeed."
“Ready?"
“A bit longer,” Thaxton begged.
“No problem."
“How old are you, Dalton, old boy?"
“I'll be sixty-six come October eleven."
“Really. I must say you're in jolly good shape for an old blighter."
“Why, thank you. Strikes me that I never asked you the same question."
“Fifty-one, old boy. Fifty-one bloody years, and I feel every one of them in every bone in my body.” Thaxton looked up. “Please don't bring up exercise again."
“Never!"
Thaxton looked glum. “Some people don't age well."
“Guess not."
Hauling himself upward with great effort, Thaxton said, “Remind me again what we're doing this for."
“To see if the source of the invasion is outside the castle."
“Don't they have lookouts?"
“The lookouts were pulled from their posts when the ruckus started. Tyrene needed every reinforcement. Tyrene delegated me to go up and see if anything's out there."
“Oh. I see."
“Don't expect to see much. Looks like an interior problem. Damned castle magic gone awry, like so many times before."
“Oh, yes,” Thaxton said. “So many times."
They resumed climbing the helix of the stone stairwell. Every third turn brought round an embrasured window, but the narrow aperture offered a limited view. The windows let in some daylight, however.
They had encountered anomalies on the lower levels: comedians spouting routines to anyone who'd listen, Oriental jugglers, and so forth; but the apparitions had petered out at about the sixtieth floor.
At last they came to the highest landing and a stout oak door set into the curving wall. Dalton opened it and went through, Thaxton following. They came out into brisk open air and a maze of high, windswept parapets.
“Good Lord."
There was a lot to see. First, the castle itself. They found themselves on a walkway running along the keep's battlements. The castle keep was eye-defying in its complexity, bristling with hundreds of towers. Below lay a maze of walls enclosing more walls, marking off wards and barbicans and a thousand different cloisters and courtyards. Parapets capped the walls and ramparts. Enclosing the keep itself was a concentric network of curtain-walls and bastions, each higher and more formidable than the last, until the outside wall was almost as high as the keep itself. Castle Perilous was an impregnable fortress, vast and enigmatic.
All that was left bare of the citadel on which the castle stood was a narrow ledge of rock surrounding everything. A thousand feet below that ledge lay the barren Plains of Baranthe, a snow-capped mountain range rising on its western extremity.
Gathered in all at once, it was a breathtaking view. But there was more to see.
Gossamer displays of light emanated from the keep and the entire castle. Some contained vague images: faces, human figures, various forms of animals and objects. Like auroras, these phenomena flickered and fluttered. Diaphanous birdlike images arose and flapped their way skyward before disappearing. Nothing was sharply defined; all possessed a ghostly quality.
Hovering above all this was a vague shape, gradually taking form, seeming to preside over everything. It might have been a face.
“What the devil's all this?” Thaxton wanted to know.
“Anybody's guess,” Dalton said, looking up. “What do you make of that up there?"
Thaxton looked at it. “Looks like a bloke in a turban."
“Strange. Seems to be smiling at us. Unnerving."
“Yes. Uh, perhaps we should..."
“Definitely has something to do with what's going on in the castle,” Dalton ventured. “But what, I don't know."
“Neither do I. Well, shall we be off, then?"
“Let's see what this is all about,” Dalton said, venturing farther along the walkway.
“Uh ... well, if you insist."
They walked cautiously, keeping to the middle of the walkway, Thaxton casting periodic nervous glances downward. The way was not nearly wide enough, as far as he was concerned.
“What the devil could it be?” Dalton said, eyes still on the gathering image above.
“Looks like a genie out of a bloody lamp."
“It does at that,” Dalton said, stopping. “But more sinister."
“Qui
te. Well, the genie's loose. Let's report to Tyrene."
“It seems to be still in the process of forming. We should observe it a little."
“Yes, I suppose we should. Just a bit longer."
“Nervous?"
Thaxton feigned surprise. “Who, me, old man? Of course not. It does pay to be cautious, though."
“You're right. I don't like the looks of this. Don't like it at all."
“Yes, it does give one pause. Wish it wouldn't gawk at us like that, with that bloody insipid grin."
“Looks like it's smirking, sort of,” Dalton said.
The face was a trifle more distinct now. It kept moving slightly from side to side, and continued to go in and out of focus. It looked like an image projected on a cloud of smoke. It was definitely grinning. The grin was impish, sly, and—this was quite discernible—a bit evil.
“Perhaps we should try to communicate with it,” Dalton said.
“Eh? Whatever for?"
“Find out what it wants."
“Well, we know that. It wants the bloody castle. Doesn't everybody?"
Dalton cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “You up there? Can you hear? Can you understand?"
A sudden wind rose on the parapet. Thaxton shivered.
“Did it speak?” Dalton asked.
Thaxton said, “Pardon?"
“Did you hear it say something?"
“No, sorry."
Dalton again raised his hands to his mouth. “I say, can you hear us, whoever you are?"
Quite distinctly, came a voice from above. No need to shout. It was a pleasant, melodious voice, with perhaps a trace of an accent.
“Who are you?"
Laughter came from the image.
Then this, merrily: Wouldn't you like to know?
Dalton looked back at his partner with sardonically raised eyebrows, then turned to face the apparition. “What's your game? What do you want?"
"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—"
“Good God, it's quoting poetry at us,” Thaxton said.
“Look here,” Dalton said to the thing. “We'd like to know what you're up to. You seem to be succeeding in whatever you want to accomplish. Why don't you tell us what it is?"
"The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."
“Well, that's helpful, I must say,” Thaxton sneered.
Dalton said, “Sounds like it's warning us."
“See here,” Thaxton said with a finger raised. “Threats won't get you anywhere."
Again, soft laughter.
“Bet it thinks it's holding all the cards,” Dalton ventured. “And maybe it is."
“Well, we're not going to get anywhere with the bloody thing, whatever it is, so we'd best—"
Dalton shouted to the skies once more: “Look here, you'd better be aware that the master of this castle is a very powerful magician. He won't take kindly to any mischief."
The laughter rose in pitch.
Thaxton cast a look behind and was dismayed. A lion, its mane shaggy and full, had just walked out of the door to the tower and was proceeding up the walkway with great interest.
Thaxton tapped his friend on the shoulder. “I say, old man..."
“Did you understand what I said?” Dalton continued yelling on high, his attention on the image. “His name is Incarnadine. I don't know if that name means anything to you particularly, but he's quite well-known as one of the most powerful—"
“I say, Dalton, old fellow."
“—magicians in a whole passel of worlds, so you'd best give all this business some thought before you proceed with whatever it is you're up to."
“Dalton, please, give a look behind!"
“Huh? I...” Dalton turned. “Holy smoke."
They ran.
The walkway made an L at the next turret and proceeded right along the battlement. The lion began loping after them, its interest piqued, but not sufficiently to induce it to give full chase. Thaxton pulled slightly ahead of Dalton, threw a wild look behind and increased his lead.
They made the circuit of a turret atop a tower that stood at an oblique-angled corner of the keep. Above, the disembodied face observed their progress with some glee. Impish laughter sounded above the rising wind.
They ran along neatly laid flagstones, past the crenelated battlements and rows of loopholes. The sun was low, throwing long shadows across the courts. The wind began to buffet them. And all around them, spectral apparitions flapped and flew, leaped and cavorted. An auroral prominence arched high into the air and dissipated, to be followed by another, not quite so spectacular but still impressive. Faint shafts of light swung like spotlight beams, crisscrossing in Hollywood-premiere flamboyance. Pink elephants and chartreuse zebras gamboled atop the revetments.
Another turret lay ahead, this one a bartizan hanging precariously far out over the wall. Thaxton ran by it but skidded to a stop on the walkway beyond.
Another lion was coming at them, from the other direction.
Dalton dashed into the turret and climbed up on the battlement.
“Thaxton, old boy! Up here. It's our only chance!"
Thaxton backed into the turret, eyeing with dismay the flanking approach of the two beasts, who had slowed their gait to a stealthy walk. He stopped and glanced behind.
“What the devil are you doing up there?"
Dalton said, “If they come any closer, we've got to lower ourselves over the side and hang on till they lose interest and go away."
“Good God, have you taken leave of your senses?"
“Maybe we won't have to. They may let us alone if we don't move."
The lions seemed determined to make a meal of it. Both had a lean and hungry look.
Thaxton said, “Oh, bloody hell."
He jumped up into the notch—crenel—adjoining the one Dalton stood on. He looked down.
“WHOOOAAAA!"
Dalton reached and grabbed him before he toppled over into empty space.
“Don't look!” Dalton commanded.
“Bloody blue blazes, how can you not look?"
“Turn around and get down on your haunches!"
Trembling and white as a ghost, Thaxton did as instructed.
“W-what now?” he wanted to know.
“We watch and see what they do."
The animals kept advancing, looking very confident that they had their prey cornered. These were not a pair of toothless old pussycats escaped from a circus; they looked quite as wild and ferocious as lions come.
“I think we had better do the hanging bit,” Dalton decided.
“Can't we do something else?"
“Not unless you want to jump."
“I'm almost persuaded that would be the better course."
“Might be. But I'm for trying the other thing first."
Thaxton stiffened up a bit. “Right you are, old man. You first."
Dalton got one leg over the edge; then, grasping the inner edge of the crenel with both hands, he lowered the other leg and eased himself down.
More slowly, and with some difficulty, Thaxton did the same.
The wind gusted and tore at them. Their legs dangled over the plains.
“Oh, dear,” was all Thaxton could say. His face was the color of bean curd.
Dalton's face was a grayish-green. “I'm afraid...” He lurched and struggled for a better handhold, his shoes scraping against the stone. “Afraid I'm losing my grip here."
Dalton's hands slipped from the inner edge of the wall. He dropped but caught himself, finding a tenuous purchase on the outer edge.
“Christ!"
Thaxton yelled, “Hang on, old boy, hang on!"
“I really think..."
“Here, grab onto me!"
“I'm going to fall..."
; With great horror, Thaxton watched as his friend lost his handhold and dropped, uttering not a sound, to his certain death.
Thaxton hung there in space, the wind howling around him. Better if Dalton had screamed, he thought. All the more dreadful like that, plummeting in utter silence.
Dreadful.
Laboratory
Jeremy stood peering at the dial of a curious device that resembled a grandfather clock, but was not a clock. It was a delicate instrument, sensitive to the ebb and flow of magic in and about the castle.
He observed the displacement of the single hand and the numeral it pointed to, then made a notation on a pad. He stepped to the next machine and did the same.
Melanie watched over his shoulder.
“These machines can tell you if something is going on?” she asked. She hadn't spent much time in the lab since coming to the castle.
“Something is going on, all right,” Jeremy replied. “The question is, what is it and where is it?"
“Will those gizmos tell you that, too?"
“If I can triangulate, yeah."
“Oh."
All this didn't make much sense to Melanie. The room they were in looked like a science lab, not a place of magic. Correction: it resembled a science fiction lab, worthy of a chiller flick. Right out of Frankenstein.
Jeremy stepped to the next machine. All these unusual sensing instruments were similar, but the faces differed. Some had single hands, some had two or three, and a few had several rotating dials and gauges. All looked antique and brought to mind something one might have discovered in the study of a medieval alchemist. But no alchemist or magician had ever owned these odd contraptions. None but Incarnadine, that is.
Melanie took a self-guided tour of the lab, noting the many strange items in it, then returned. She sat at the work station of the castle's mainframe “computer.” They called it a computer, but it looked like a collection of old juke boxes lost in an array of more Frankenstein stuff. She sat back and watched Jeremy busy himself about the banks of gauges and verniers.
Presently he came to the work station, sat down in front of a modern-looking terminal, and began typing quickly and dexterously.
“You know a lot about computers?"
“Hm? Uh, yeah, I guess. You?"
“Not much,” Melanie said. “I use one, but mainly for word processing ... Oh, sorry. You're busy."
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