Castle Spellbound

by John Dechancie

  The thing settled into the clearing, the shush-shush of its whirling blades strangely quiet. Its engines whined softly. Kwip had seen depictions of similar craft in books in the castle library. This specimen looked to be of a higher species. It was bulbous in parts, yet sleek and supple elsewhere. It had short wings, and the engines appeared capable of rotating from vertical to horizontal. He had never seen this particular craft depicted, but had seen its progenitors.

  A hatch on the craft's side opened and metal men spilled out. Soldiers.

  Kwip was astonished again. Were these human beings or mechanical men? They were completely encased in metal—dappled, like the craft, in a strange mix of brown and green hues—from helmet to shoes. Yet they did not clank and lurch about; they moved as men, with but a faint hissing noise accompanying their movements. Six of them fanned out from the craft to take up defensive positions in a circle about it. They swung their weapons back and forth warily, on guard. Kwip could only imagine the coldly efficient eyes which lay hidden behind the dark glass that fronted their helmets. If indeed they had eyes at all.

  The defensive circle widened, each soldier advancing radially. One was coming directly at Kwip, who now felt himself on the prickly horns of a dilemma. If he retreated, it would be into unknown territory, one torn by war. If he moved toward the clearing and the portal, he would be discovered and possibly shot.

  He gave thought to retreating a safe distance and waiting for the invading troop to reboard the craft and fly away. But there was risk in that course of action as well. What if this lot were engaged in reconnoitering? They might be scouting the area in search of a suitable site for a camp.

  Unsettling thought, that. He'd never gain access to the portal. He would be stranded here, possibly forever.

  No. Only one thing to do. Make a mad dash for it across the clearing, cutting eater-corner. They would no doubt fire at him, but Kwip prided himself on his fleetness of foot. He would at least have a sporting chance, he thought.

  Suddenly, on the far side of the clearing, a sizzling bolt of fire erupted from one of the soldiers, emanating from the barrel of his arquebus, or whatever it was. The bolt hit the trees, sending flames skyward.

  Kwip gulped. Perhaps he would not have a sporting chance after all.

  Nevertheless, he was determined to make the attempt.

  But in what direction should he run? What was his destination to be? He scanned the circuit of the clearing, to no avail. He could detect neither hide nor hair of the portal, that elusive doorway back to the castle and relative safety (if a lion did not devour him immediately upon his arrival!).

  The soldier nearest him was still advancing, and the time was at hand for a decision. Kwip thought hard and furiously.

  No, he'd have to retreat. If the portal had not vanished, it was probably directly behind the strange craft. In that case a mad dash would be foolish. Truth be told, without knowledge of the portal's exact whereabouts, a mad dash would be silly in any case.

  He turned to beat a retreat and found himself on a narrow path, little more than a rabbit trail, that led away from the clearing. Creeping along on all fours, he followed it.

  A voice—amplified by some means—barked behind him. Suddenly the heat of fire seared his back.

  They were shooting at him! The trees bordering the clearing were in flames.

  He got up and ran, wondering how he had been seen. But who knew with what wizardry these demons augmented their inhuman senses?

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a stone corridor. He skidded to a stop.

  The portal! It had been here, behind him, all the while. At that moment he remembered running a short distance through woods before coming out into the clearing. Scatterbrained fool!

  He sprinted back along the rabbit trail. As he did, he saw the soldier enter the woods and take aim at him. He made a wild dive for the opening.

  He tumbled through the portal and back into the castle, ending up on his back on the flagstones. He jumped to his feet and ran to the nearest intersecting hallway and hid behind the corner.

  He peeked out.

  The soldier was framed in the portal, seeming to peer within, weapon at the ready. Then he walked off, only to appear again and shake his head. There was confusion in his manner. Apparently, to Kwip's great relief, the soldier—or this diabolical machine that took a soldier's form—could not perceive the portal.

  Kwip was safe.

  Something poked him in the back and he jumped and whirled about, sword raised and ready to strike.

  “Put that thing down, you crazy fool!"

  It was the woman of color, Deena Williams, and her sometime paramour, Barnaby Walsh. Kwip exhaled and sheathed his sword.

  “Jumpy, ain't he?” Deena asked of Barnaby.

  “You ought not surprise a man like that,” Kwip warned.

  “Some trouble up ahead?” Barnaby asked.

  Kwip looked toward the portal. The soldier walked by again, still oblivious to the phenomenon in front of him: a doorway to another world.

  Kwip shook his head. “None now, but you don't want to go through that aspect."

  “We been duckin’ in and out of aspects for the last couple hours,” Deena told him. “Hidin’ from all this garbage goin’ on."

  Kwip nodded. “Which I've been doing as well.” He suddenly remembered his abandoned booty and looked wildly about.

  Over Barnaby's shoulder he saw the glint of gold. He ran for it.

  It was a gold drinking cup; as he picked it up he caught sight of a necklace lying on the stone not far way.

  The stuff was scattered all over, kicked by dancers, nuzzled by lions, punted about by marching feet. Gods knew how wide an area it had been strewn over, all lying there, waiting for anyone to pick up.

  Kwip began searching, dashing around frantically, scooping things up, hurrying to the next item. Another necklace, a sapphire ring ... a chalice ... a bracelet...

  “Uh, is all this stuff yours?” Deena asked.

  “Yes,” Kwip said over his shoulder.

  The sound of a brass band grew near, and Kwip cursed. The commotion was returning in force after what must have been a momentary lull.

  “You ought to stick with us,” Barnaby said. “We're going to find a nice aspect to hide out in."

  “I must recover my valuables!” Kwip shouted as he ran to recover a diamond pendant. He was amazed that anything was left.

  “You're nuts!” Deena yelled. “Let's get out of here,” she said to Barnaby.

  “Right,” Barnaby said. Then he shouted at Kwip again. “You're absolutely sure?"

  “Off with you!” Kwip shouted back. “I'll be all right!"

  “Okay, good luck!"

  The pair left Kwip to his valuables and his foolish greed.

  Presently, two very large cats came prowling around the corner, a whiff of fresh meat in their bewhiskered nostrils.

  Plain

  His tent had a good view of the citadel. The fortress of Troas, well-built and lovely, its beetling walls formidably high, bestrode a hill overlooking the plain. On the north circuit, topless towers soared above the highest rampart. From the walls, from the towers, had come a lethal rain of arrows, spears, rocks, and boiling oil, with sacks of excrement thrown in for comic relief. It seemed the Dardanians had an endless supply of war materiel and that no siege, however long, would exhaust their stores.

  For two long years now, the Arkadian armies had tried to breach those angled walls, to scale them, to undermine them. Frustrated eyes had long beheld those towers, and tired, defeated minds had imagined them ablaze, destroyed for all time, their rain of death ended.

  But not yet. The siege went on endlessly, and so did the single-combat contests. Dauntless heroes from each side had locked in mortal combat, one on one. Victories had gone to both sides. In this respect the score was about even. But Dardanians were winning the siege, wearing down the Arkadian attackers. Arkadian supplies were low. There were only so many coastal t
owns to raid for food and other necessities.

  It was not a true siege, because the Dardanian army still had access to the sea. Troas was still linked to supply lines, though those were growing more tenuous. The Arkadians had ceaselessly harassed supply ships, to some effect.

  Two long years. Two agonizingly long years.

  Trent lay on his recliner, drinking plundered Dardanian wine. He was not quite drunk but was getting there. He had given up hope of getting back to the castle and Sheila. He was stranded. There had been no communication from Inky, no message of any sort. Trent felt abandoned and alone.

  And defeated. His strategies and tactics had for the most part not worked against the Dardanians. They were stronger than anyone had imagined, and devilishly resourceful to boot. Outnumbered, they had fought the Arkadians to a standstill. The towers of Troas still stood.

  With some effort, he got up and went to the tent's entrance, held back a flap, and looked out. Nothing was happening on the front today. A fight had broken out in the camp of the Arkadians. Some squabble about who should inherit a dead trooper's armor. The sky was clear above the citadel, a few fast clouds scudding by. He looked to his left and gazed at the distant rocky heights of Mount Eta for a long moment, then brought his eyes back to the camp. Someone had just run someone through with a spear. A major brawl was breaking out.

  The constant bickering disgusted Trent. He closed the flap, returned to his recliner and his wineskin.

  He was at the end of his tether. Somehow he had to bring this farce to some sort of conclusion, get back to Arkadia and slip back through the portal (not far from Mykos), and hope the time-compression effect had been enough to render his two-year subjective absence into something objectively tolerable—say, a few months. Even at that, Sheila still might brain him with a potted palm.

  If only he could bring himself to go back on his pledge not to work large-scale magic!

  Such as, say, conjuring a small tactical nuke...

  No. For any number of reasons—not the least of which was the problem of differing physical laws in different universes—that would not do at all. But what else? Fire spells, zone-of-death spells ... Actually those were more defensive than offensive. Did he know exactly how to go about constructing siege engines? No, not really; not without a little research. How about whipping up a couple of flintlocks? Too many technologies involved.

  Hexes. He could brew up something that would have the Dardanians dropping like flies. Mysterious plagues. Biological warfare!

  Damn, that wouldn't do either. He had never been very good at working those kinds of spells. Besides, as amoral as he liked to think he was, there were certain ethical considerations that he couldn't quite get around.

  Moreover, he had been charged with a purely military task. Inky's instructions allowed him to employ only those supernatural aids which were divinatory or clairvoyant in nature. Intelligence-gathering. In that, he had been successful. Knowing the exact positions of enemy forces had enabled the Arkadians to take and hold these strategically important flood-plains, sodden and swampy though they were.

  Which left most of the high ground to the enemy, true. But they were already up there.

  He took another swig of sweet Dardanian wine. Good stuff, if a little heavy. Got you drunk anyway, and that was all that counted.

  Tactical magic was out. He'd already tried to sneak in some strategic ploys, since the big show on the high altar. In fact, he'd tried the lightning-summoning bit again, bringing a fierce thunderstorm down on Troas. Lightning strikes had started a good number of fires. But the upshot was that Troas still stood. The fires had been a major nuisance, but nothing more.

  And afterward, he'd lain semicomatose for almost a week. The spell had taken a lot out of him.

  On the non-supernatural front, the undermining had been his idea, and this gambit had shown great possibilities until the Troadeans had copped to what was going on and had flooded the mine, using water from their hot springs. Two hundred men had lost their lives in that debacle.

  Remembering, Trent shuddered. Being parboiled alive like that, like a lobster. Ugh.

  And he could have easily been caught in there himself. A miracle he hadn't. What would Sheila have—?

  He chuckled. He must really love that woman. Yes, he did. He must get back to her. Her red hair was so lovely, her skin so fair, freckled here and there. Breasts large and full for such a slim woman...

  “Trent?"

  “Huh?"

  Telamon was standing in front of him.

  “Must have dozed off..."

  “Sorry to wake you."

  Trent sat up, feeling tired and logy. “Think nothing of it. Something up?"

  “Not really. But I wanted you to know that I talked the king out of arresting you again."

  Trent chuckled. “Kind of you. Why did you do it? Some wine?"

  “No, thank you."

  “Uh, pull up something and sit."

  “Thank you very much."

  Telamon piled some sheepskins together and sat cross-legged.

  He said, “Why did I do it? Because I rather admire you. Like you, even."

  “Same here.” Trent took a swig of wine. “What was eating Anthaemion this time?"

  “Nothing especially. He wants scapegoats and thinks your beard the longest."

  Trent looked around. “You'd best guard your tongue, my friend."

  “There is no one about, and you will not repeat my words."

  “No, I won't. Go on."

  Telamon shrugged. “There is no more. Eventually he will have you killed, or kill you himself. But he is afraid of you. You are a sorcerer. He keeps repeating rumors about you."

  “Rumors? What rumors?"

  “Those that circulate among the troops. One of them has it that you change yourself into an animal at night and prowl. One story says that you change yourself into a great bat and devour people."

  Trent laughed. “I don't have the right accent."

  “Can you do it?” Telamon asked.

  “Do what?"

  “Change yourself into an animal."

  Trent snorted. “Any sorcerer worth his salt can do an animal tranformation. Not that I do that traditional stuff much. When I was a kid I once changed myself into an eagle. I soared. Soared. Kind of liked that.” Trent was silent a moment, staring off, remembering. Then he looked at his visitor. “Anthaemion still expects me to win this war for him, doesn't he?"

  “Yes, I am afraid so."

  “Well, I can't."

  “He thinks you are in fact against him."

  “Yeah, he would think that."

  “Are you?"

  Trent smiled. “Are you sure you won't repeat my words?"

  Telamon was disappointed. “I had numbered myself among your confidants. It seems I was presuming."

  “Not at all. You want to know my opinion of Anthaemion? He's a major asshole."

  Telamon could not suppress a smile.

  “And I'll give you another opinion. I'm sick of this pack of morons you call an army. Thugs, every one of them. Pirates. I've seen biker gangs with more redeeming virtues."

  “I'm sorry—?"

  “Swaggering bullies. And as to their military prowess, none of them knows the first thing about discipline, about following orders. They are little better than a rabble, no matter how they strut and brag.” Trent snorted. “Heroes. These jerks wouldn't know heroism if it came up and bit ‘em on the backside."

  Telamon brooded a moment before admitting, “I am afraid there is something in what you say."

  “You bet your ass. Sorry, I'm not blaming you or including you in my sweeping generalizations. You're a man of some breeding and you have a head on your shoulders."

  Telamon bent his head. “My humble thanks."

  “But the rest...” Trent shook his head. He reached, rummaged among some debris, and finally came up with a wooden cup. He poured wine into it and let the skin drop. He drank.

  “But we cannot stay here
forever,” Telamon said.

  “I'd quit the whole business if I could,” Trent said. “But, although I'm a potential deserter, I'm no traitor. When I sign on with an outfit, my loyalty is part of the bargain."

  “I have assured the king of that very fact."

  “It's true. I also gave my word to my brother. My word, the word of a prince, counts for something, you know. I take that stuff seriously."

  Telamon's face registered momentary shock. Then he quickly rose and bowed solemnly.

  Puzzled, Trent asked, “What's up?"

  “I ask your forgiveness for sitting in your presence. I was not aware —"

  “Oh, that. Sit down, pal. Here, I'm a courtier, and one out of favor. In my world, it's different."

  “In your—? I do not understand."

  “Sit down, please."

  Reluctantly, Telamon reseated himself.

  Trent went on. “It's hard to explain, but we—my brother and I—are from a place so far away that it's hard not to call it a different world altogether. Unimaginably far away."

  “I see."

  “In fact, it's ... Forget it, we'll leave it at that."

  “Your magic must be godlike."

  “Well, shit.” Trent took another swallow of wine. “It can be. If I put my mind to it I could ... Ahhh, fuck the whole business."

  “Sweet wine can make one bitter,” Telamon said.

  “I'm not bitter, I'm ticked off. At my brother, mainly. For stranding me here."

  “One can imagine."

  “So, it's up to me to find a way out of this mess.” Trent poured himself more fortitude, sampled it. Then he looked at Telamon. “Have any ideas?"

  “The glimmerings of one."

  “Spill it. I'm fresh out of glimmerings."

  Telamon brooded at some length, then said, “If we could employ stealth instead of brute force, perhaps..."

  “Out with it. I'm all for stealth at this point."