Bride of the Castle

by John Dechancie

At that moment Krak broke free of his magical bonds and lunged.

  Rance drew Bruce and hacked at the thing. The sword seemed to disappear inside it, burying itself deep into the matted fur. In fact, Krak seemed to be composed of not much but dried hair and a few bones. The fur flew and the bones rattled to the floor.

  Rance stood over an unmoving pile of debris on the stones. He blew fur away from his face.

  A bluff, as you can plainly see, the voice said. Ah, well . . .

  “Get back to that circle before it’s too—”

  But it was already too late.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  the wedding rehearsal was not going well. In hushed tones, the members of the wedding speculated that the groom’s absence was having its effect on the bride, thus affecting the general mood. No one knew where Gene had gone, nor was there any word when he would return. Snowclaw was missing, too, and that was in a sense reassuring, for the two were probably together; but at the same time it was a clue that he and his human pal might be off on some adventure.

  It was, to say the least, an inappropriate time for them to be off on an adventure.

  “Let’s have the flower girls split into two columns, each going off in opposite directions when they reach the altar.”

  Linda was looking off into the choir loft. She turned to Melanie McDaniel, who had made the suggestion. “Huh?”

  Melanie said with wry grin, “You’re not all here, Linda.”

  “Sorry. What were you saying about the flower girls?”

  “Two columns. Wait—let’s keep them in one column, and when they reach the altar rail, one girl goes right and the next goes left, and so on.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what. Two columns, or one?”

  “I don’t care. One?”

  “Okay,” Melanie said, making a note on her clipboard. “One column, and they alternate directions.”

  There were no pews in the chapel. Seats would be brought in for the wedding, but for now the wide stone floor was bare. With a flip of her hand, Linda conjured a bunch of chairs and sat down in one. A few of the members of the wedding party sat down. Most kept to talking in little groups.

  Melanie sat, too. “Your heart’s not in this. Let’s postpone the wedding until Gene gets back.”

  “I won’t postpone it,” Linda said firmly. “If he doesn’t get back, he doesn’t get back.”

  “Okay,” Melanie said evenly. “Anything you say, Linda.”

  “He’ll be around,” Linda said. “Gene’s not a Castle beginner. He can take care of himself.”

  “Well, he has three days,” Melanie said. “But it’s just strange that he didn’t say anything about where he’d be going.”

  “Does he ever say anything when he and Snowy take off?”

  “Sure. Sometimes.”

  “Well, this time he didn’t,” Linda said. “I’m not worried.”

  “Sorry, Linda, I’m not trying to cause you any anxiety. Sure, Gene can take care of himself, and Snowy’s indestructible. He probably got himself into a serious project, another revolution or something. And if I know Gene, he’ll be out of it soon. He never stays long in any one aspect.”

  “Right,” Linda said.

  “But, if by chance the two of them get themselves into a tight situation, they could be delayed.”

  “Gene’ll be here for the wedding,” Linda insisted.

  Melanie shrugged. “Fine with me.” She made another notation on her clipboard.

  “Let’s cut the rehearsal short,” Linda said, standing. “I’m tired.” She sighed. “I’m always tired, these days. For some reason.”

  “But we haven’t got to the recessional,” Melanie reminded her.

  “Oh, to hell with it. After the ceremony, who cares what happens? Everybody gets up and leaves, and that’s it. We’ll wing it.”

  Melanie lifted her shoulders again. “Okay. You’re the dictator.”

  “I wish I were a dictator. Okay, everybody, that’s it. Thank you very much, and we’ll see you on Saturday. That’s Fifthday of Baletidings Week, on the Castle calendar.”

  “I’ve never been able to figure out the Castle calendar,” said Barnaby Walsh.

  “No wonder, when every week of the year has a different name,” M. DuQuesne said.

  “It is a liturgical calendar, right?” Barnaby asked.

  “I do believe so,” DuQuesne said.

  “It’s screwy, that’s what it is,” Deena Williams pronounced.

  “Well, this is not Earth, after all,” Walsh said.

  “No kidding, Sherlock,” Deena said.

  “No, what I meant was—”

  “The Castle’s religion is a strange and complex thing,” DuQuesne commented.

  “I never figured that out either,” Deena said. “All I know is there’s a bunch of gods, but then again, there’s only one of ‘em, because of something or other.”

  “The Pantheistic Concatenation.”

  “The which?”

  “It’s not unlike the Trinity in Christian doctrine, but it involves more god aspects.”

  “Oh. Let’s discuss theology while we eat. I’m hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry,” Barnaby Walsh complained.

  “I’m eating for two.”

  “Huh?”

  “Me and myself.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Linda said.

  Everybody stopped.

  “Where are Dalton and Thaxton?”

  Everybody looked around. “I forgot all about ‘em,” Deena said.

  “This is getting strange,” Linda said. “Do you think something happened to all four of them?”

  “You mean Gene, Snowy, Lord Peter, and—”

  “Were they all together? Did anyone see them together?”

  “Dalton and Thaxton didn’t show up at the bachelor party,” Barnaby said.

  “They didn’t? That’s the first I’ve heard of this. I haven’t seen them today.”

  “Oh, they’ll be all right, too,” Melanie said. “Come on, let’s go have a cup of coffee.”

  “I’m going to my room. I need a nap.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The entire wedding party began the long walk across the floor of the “chapel,” which was bigger than most earthly cathedrals.

  “One of these days I’m going to go into my room and not come out for a year,” Linda moped. “A recluse, an aging spinster.”

  “Now, Linda,” Melanie said.

  “Mrs. Haversham. I’ll wear my wedding dress to rags, and—holy hell!”

  Something appeared out of thin air ahead.

  Deena Williams screamed at the strange figure that had inexplicably materialized in front of her. She leaped backward and hid behind Barnaby Walsh, who looked wishful for somebody else to hide behind.

  The figure was that of a bearded, thick-thewed barbarian, broadsword raised high. His hair was long and tangled, his clothing tattered, and there was a fierce look to his countenance. Growling, a suspicious slant to his angry brow, he advanced on the Castlefolk.

  Everyone spread out and away from him.

  “What tricks now, spirit?” the man roared.

  “Hey, no tricks,” Linda said.

  The man halted, sword still raised warily. “What are all of you? Demons sent to torment me?”

  “Hardly,” Linda said calmly. “Now just take it easy. Who are you?”

  The man lowered his sword a little, looking around wildly. “Where is this place? Where am I?”

  “Castle Perilous,” Linda told him. “In the chapel.”

  “Indeed,” the man said, dropping his sword arm. He spun around, taking in the vastness of the place. He nodded. “A fine edifice it is. But where is it?”

  “Well, where are you from?”

  “Corcindor,” the man said. “I am Rance of Corcindor.”

  “Rance, nice to meet you. You’ve somehow walked into Castle Perilous. It’s a nice place, and no one’s going to torment you.”

>   “So you say,” Rance circled, still taking the measure of the place, assessing its dangers. At the same time he was awed. He had never seen such a fine cathedral.

  Presently he stopped and sheathed his sword. “I believe you.”

  “You didn’t come in through a portal,” Linda said.

  “Portal?”

  “That’s the usual way to enter Castle Perilous, through a magic doorway.”

  “Ah. Magic. I’ve had a bellyful of that!”

  “Yeah, it gets old. How did you get here? Do you know?”

  “I can only surmise. I was flung here by the black spell of an evil wizard. If the spell worked, this is a world that is not the world, but another which is entirely different and separate.”

  “I’d say that was an accurate statement. Are you hungry?”

  “Eh? Why . . . yes.” Rance thought about it. “I’m famished.”

  “Let’s go to the dining room. I’m Linda Barclay. Nice to meet you.”

  Rance took her hand, looked down at it, then up at her. “You are a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Though attired strangely. Are you sure you’re not a demon?”

  “Quite sure. Will you dine with us, Rance?”

  “Uh . . . yes. I would be honored.”

  “You’re a Guest, capital G. A Guest of the Castle. This way.”

  Rance watched Linda walk off. Her companions, among whom were several other attractive women, followed hard on her heels. One or two of them regarded him warily, but their manner was not wholly uninviting.

  He took one last look around.

  “Benarus, I may thank you yet,” he murmured.

  Keeping a distance, he followed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “my head still hurts,” Gene said. “Don’t feel like running a gauntlet today.”

  “Well, you’re probably not going to have any choice in the matter,” Snowclaw said as he watched the barbarians line up by twos, their swords and axes ready.

  “I prefer not to.”

  Snowclaw chuckled. “They prefer otherwise. Looks like a bunch of them are going to chase you through the lineup from one side, so you can’t go back. You’ll have to fight your way through.”

  “My goddamn head hurts.”

  Snowclaw stepped back and surveyed the makeshift stockade that imprisoned them. “I could rip out these posts with a little work. Maybe we could make a break for it.”

  “They’d catch us. Besides, I’m going to teach them a lesson for whacking me on the head.”

  “Oh, you are?”

  “Yup.”

  Snowclaw chortled again. “Fine by me. This is gonna be good.”

  “Should be.”

  The sky was overcast, a gray dome above the steppes. A chilly wind blew in from the west, where a low-hanging sun was a ball of yellow fuzz surrounded by swirls of gray. Short grass rippled in the wind, and the occasional tall weed bent to necessity.

  “You sound really confident,” Snowclaw observed.

  “I am. This world is very amenable to my sword magic.”

  “It is?”

  “Yup. In fact, it’s super-amenable.”

  “Yeah? But you don’t have a sword.”

  Gene said, “Good point. However, do you think they’re going to send me through that gauntlet without one? Or are they going to be sporting about it?”

  “I dunno,” said Snowclaw.

  “I think they’ll give me a pretty lousy sword to make it sport. You know, to see how long I can last. Is their leader around—the guy with the horned helmet?”

  Snowy scanned the campsite. “Yeah, he’s there.”

  “Good.” Gene yawned.

  “Looks like they’re about ready for you. Think they’ll make me run it, too?”

  “I think they’ll just stick spears at you through the stockade.”

  “Then I should loosen these posts a little so I can get out quick and rip into ‘em.”

  “Yeah,” Gene said, “surprise them. Hey, Snowy.”

  Snowclaw grasped one of the posts and began to twist, his sinews rippling beneath his fur. “Uhhh! . . . What?”

  “Do you remember . . . when we were looking into this world, through the portal. Do you remember if you saw the grass waving real fast or clouds hauling ass across the sky? Recall anything like that?”

  “Uhhh. These posts are really in there . . . Uh, no, I really don’t remember, Gene.”

  “I think I remember. If true, it means that there’s time slippage between this universe and the Castle’s. I might not miss the wedding after all.”

  “Uhhhhhhhhh . . . there! That one’s out a little.”

  “Not that missing the wedding would be a bad idea. No, wait. I didn’t mean that. I love Linda. I really do.”

  “Uhh. This one’s loose already. And so’s . . . yeah, so’s this one. Okay, I’m ready for the ugly little runts. Boy, I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “Snowy, do you think we’re compatible?”

  “You and me? I dunno. What’s it mean?”

  “I mean me and Linda. Oh, why the hell am I asking you?”

  “I give up. By the way, here they come.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Gene jumped to his feet and peered through the posts. A contingent of no less than six barbarians was walking toward the stockade, armed with axes, swords, and spears.

  “Snowy, what’s really odd is that they don’t seem to think there’s anything unusual about you.”

  “What’s unusual about me?”

  “Nothing, but this is a human world, and you are obviously nonhuman. But they seem to regard you as merely an oversized man.”

  “Pretty dumb of them.”

  “No, I think it’s something else.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Magic. Your magic.”

  “My magic? Hey, I don’t have any of that stuff.”

  “Everyone who ends up in Castle Perilous gets magic powers, to some degree or another. You’ve never seemed to have any at all, and I’ve always wondered. But you do have a talent, and I think it has to do with disguising yourself.”

  “Yeah? How do I do that?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt if you know how you do it. But you do it. Remember when you went to Earth that one time, and Linda whipped up a spell—or was it Sheila? Anyway, it was a disguise spell.”

  “That fizzled.”

  “Yeah, it fizzled. But the trouble with Linda or Sheila doing it is that neither of them can work much magic on Earth. Not many people can. Even Incarnadine has trouble. See what I mean?”

  Snowy considered it. Then he shook his head. “No.”

  “You disguised yourself, somehow. It was magic. I don’t know how you worked Earth magic, but you did. And you’re doing it here, again. And you’ve done it in a lot of other worlds. Someone had to start the spell, but you kept it going.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy it,” Snowclaw said. “Anyway, does that mean I get to tussle with that lineup of ugly runts?”

  “Could be, could be.”

  “We have a little celebration prepared for you two,” one of the barbarians said with a snaggle-toothed smile. He wore an ornate metal helmet. The others wore helmets of leather braided with wicker or a like material.

  “Nice of you to think of us,” Gene said. “It appears you’ll be breaking camp soon. True?”

  “True. We march on Verimas, and hope to lay siege to it by week’s end. I fear you won’t be present for those festivities.”

  “Yeah, too bad, sounds like fun. What’s the occasion of this little party you’re throwing for us?”

  “Oh, something of an initiation ceremony, actually.”

  “Yeah? Initiation into what?”

  “Into our ranks, the allied tribes of the Outlands. The Empire calls us the Gowthan.”

  “So you’re inviting us to join your outfit? Hey, that’s real camaraderie.”

  The barbarian laughed. “Don’t be too grateful.
You have to pass the ordeal first.” He turned and pointed to the twin lines of armed men. “That’s the Gauntlet of Heroes. You have to get from one end to the other. We’ll give you each a sword and a shield. Fair is fair. If you come out to the other side in reasonably good shape, you’ll be pressed into service. If you don’t make it, we’ll give you a hero’s burial.”

  Gene smiled. “Damned decent of you.”

  “After all, we’re not barbarians.” The man’s grin widened to reveal a gap left by a missing bicuspid. The rest of his broken teeth merited yanking as well.

  “Well, Snowy, looks like they’re going to give us a chance to show our stuff.”

  Snowclaw opined a low, gloating chuckle.

  Gene turned his charming smile on his host. “Anytime you’re ready, Gruesome.”

  The gate unbarred, the two prisoners were bade to come out, and, at sword’s point, were persuaded to cross to the left end of the twin rows of eager barbarians, who clapped sword against shield and cheered when the two strangers took the weapons offered them.

  Gene swished his ill-made sword around. “Wonderful.” He examined the blade. “Not exactly Damascus steel.”

  “It will serve you for as long you’ll need it,” said Gruesome with an evil snicker, “which shouldn’t be long.”

  “You got an axe?” Snowy requested.

  “Give him an axe!” someone shouted.

  An axe was delivered, and Snowy hefted it. “This’ll do.”

  “Shield?” Gruesome offered.

  “Get that wimp-lid out of my face, fella.”

  “We have a brave one here. Take him to the other end of the gauntlet!”

  Drums began to beat as Snowclaw was escorted to the other end of the lineup. Gene surveyed his helmeted adversaries, flashing a grin.

  “Hi, guys, nice to see ya.”

  Nervous laughter from the ranks.

  “Come dance to the beat of our drums, stranger,” one of the men said.

  “Do you do the Lambeth Walk?”

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind, pal. I’ll lead.”

  The tempo of the drumbeat increased.

  “Let the ordeal begin!” Gruesome shouted into the wind.

  Gene approached the first two men, sword raised, shield up. As he neared, the one on the right leaped at him, bringing his sword down in a haymaker swing. Gene easily warded it off and parried with a lunge to the midsection. The sword pierced the man’s solar plexus deeply.