The Gate of Days - Book of Time 2

by Guillaume Prevost

“So much the better. Your grandmother sends her love, Sammy, and so does your cousin.”

  “Any problems with Evelyn?”

  “No. As Lily probably told you, her plan worked perfectly. Evelyn was so happy, she got Rudolf to speak to the police chief and have them give back the things they seized. I left most of it at home, but I thought you’d like to see this.” He pulled the Book of Time out of his plastic bag.

  “My God!” cried Sam. “What happened to it?”

  The big volume’s red cover was more battered than usual, scarred with scuff marks and scratches. It was also faded here and there, as if it had been left out in the sun and the weather.

  “You’d almost think it had aged in two days,” said Sam in astonishment.

  “That’s not all,” added Grandpa. “Lily says that some pages have been torn out.”

  Nervously Sam opened the book. It was true: A number of pages were missing. Some had been carefully cut, others simply ripped out. The greater part remained, however, and they showed engravings of the town of Sainte-Mary in 1932. Each page bore the same title: “Sainte-Mary Country Fairs.”

  “Setni was right!” cried Sam. “The Arkeos man did try to keep us from coming back! But what about the police? How do they explain its condition?”

  “It’s pretty strange,” answered Grandpa. “They claim that all the evidence was stored under lock and key and no one had access to it. Anyway, we can deal with the police later. Have you been making any progress?”

  “Yes. I got hold of a plan of Bran Castle. That should save me some time.”

  “That’s great. It sounds like you’re on the right track. By the way, there’s something I want to talk about that I didn’t want to bring up in front of your grandmother. Exactly what was your father planning to do there in Wallachia?”

  Sam had carefully avoided this topic before, but now he looked his grandfather full in the face. “I think Dad was partly supplying the bookstore with books from the past — and he may have stolen other things as well.” Reluctantly he explained the situation with the mortgage and the Navel of the World.

  Grandpa scratched his chin. “I was afraid it was something like that. Your father was very worried about money, unfortunately. We helped him out now and again, but he’d become so distant! And that mortgage …” He shook his head heavily. “I’m not sure how we’ll manage that. Anyway, thank you for your honesty. Not a word to Grandma, of course. You know how proud she is of Allan.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet.”

  “That’s good. One more thing: I brought you this.”

  From his bag, Grandpa took a package tied with string. With trembling fingers, he untied the knot and unwrapped a chamois cloth. It contained a black pistol.

  “It’s my father’s Browning,” he explained. “He was found not guilty at the trial, so they gave it back to him afterward. I’ve never been able to get rid of it. Maybe I was waiting for a moment like this one. Who knows? I’ve taken care of it, and it’s in perfect working order. It’s very easy to use. Look here.” He gave a quick demonstration — cylinder, hammer, trigger — that Sam watched somewhat anxiously.

  “There are seven bullets left,” said Grandpa. “Might be useful, where you’re going.”

  With some trepidation, Sam took the Browning and hefted it, as if to get better acquainted. Should he take the gun to Bran Castle? he wondered. It was a tremendous responsibility, and a scary one, especially since he’d never used a gun before. But he and his father were facing a man who skewered people for fun. The pistol frightened Sam, but Vlad Tepes frightened him even more.

  20 Bran Castle

  Sam had barely set the Chinese capsule on the carved sun when heat vaporized every drop of his blood, as if ten billion needles had exploded under his skin. Then the boiling vapor condensed, and scalding plasma started flowing through his veins. The trip through time had never been so painful.

  He lay dazed for nearly a minute, too weak to vomit or even cough. When he came to completely, blood was dribbling from the corner of his mouth, and he had to spit several times to get rid of the bitter taste. Thanks a lot, Chinese empress! Maybe Setni would be good enough to check his gadgets’ side effects next time.

  Sam got to his feet with enormous difficulty, to find himself standing beside a river flowing through a dense forest. The sun barely pierced the gray clouds, and thick foliage blocked its weak rays. The forest understory looked dark and hostile, like the Ent forest in The Lord of the Rings. But the tall outline of Bran Castle could be seen rising above the river a mile or so away — success!

  Sam retrieved the Browning from the stone’s cavity and checked the bullets. It was reassuring to have it with him, though he didn’t plan to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. But as he stuck it in his pocket, the huge risk he had taken by not bringing another coin began to dawn on him. He had assumed the wooden capsule and the black snake coin would travel with him through time, so he chose the immediate security of the gun over the escape promised by an extra coin. But the stone statue was empty — half hidden by reeds, holding neither the coin nor the capsule. He had no way to get home!

  Well, that was too bad, he decided; he would deal with the problem later. First he had to take care of Allan. The best thing to do would be to follow the stream, try not to be spotted, and Find the mill. Mills must be close to water, right? After that he could only pray that the Romanian student who drew the castle plans was an ace historian.

  After his earlier flameout, the cool breeze felt good on Sam’s face as he walked along the riverbank. The grassy path occasionally became so narrow that he was forced to detour through the forest of tall dark pines with scaly bark. The strangest thing was that there wasn’t a sound to be heard, not even birdsong. The forest was mute, as if on its guard.

  The closer he got, the more formidable the castle looked. It was perched on a rocky promontory, and its two towers, one round and the other square, seemed to challenge the sky. Compared to the way Bran Castle appeared in Sam’s time, this medieval version appeared simpler and more massive, with fewer windows and buildings, and less whimsy in the arrangement of the roofs. It was surrounded by a strong wall and looked more like an impregnable fortress than a country resort. By squinting, Sam was able to make out a couple of helmeted soldiers standing watch on the parapet. He gripped the Browning, not fully certain of his invincibility.

  The stream led him to a clearing choked by tall grass and dominated by the charred ruins of a stone mill. The waterwheel had been taken apart and its planks scavenged, and the rest of the building wasn’t in much better shape. Half of the structure had collapsed, and chunks of blackened beams jutted from the ruins like rotten teeth. The fire must have happened a long time ago, because yellowish lichen had spread over a freestanding section of wall. If the underground passage really did begin there, he would have some excavating to do!

  Sam stepped under what remained of the mills roof and checked to make sure the floor wasn’t going to cave in. The place was a tangle of stone blocks, branches, weeds, and spiderwebs. The upper floor was gone, and a staircase ended in midair. Behind it, Sam could see a room with arrow-slit windows. This part of the ruin was less chaotic, and some stones had even been stacked on the left. A crack in the floor indicated the presence of a trapdoor. Its surface had been swept clean at some point, and a rusty bolt lay nearby. Someone had gone this way.

  Sam looked around for something to lift the trapdoor and noticed a twisted metal bar under an arrow slit. As he picked it up, he saw two letters scratched into the wall: A.F. Allan Faulkner — his father had left him a clue! He was on the right trail!

  Sam grabbed the makeshift lever and strained to raise the trapdoor, his legs shaking. After two unsuccessful attempts, it finally fell open. The hole below it looked bottomless and as dark as a well. Feeling around, Sam touched the top rung of a ladder about a foot and a half down, so a caving challenge was definitely part of the days program. Sam wondered if he should close the t
rapdoor behind himself after he climbed down, but decided against it: Best to leave the way open in case he had to beat a hasty retreat.

  He descended a dozen rungs before reaching bottom about fifteen feet down, where the tunnel began. It smelled of moisture and mold, and he couldn’t see a thing. He took a deep breath and cautiously started walking, touching the walls as he went. A couple of times his fingers brushed something furry that ran away squeaking, and Sam had to talk himself into not running away as well, in the opposite direction. The passageway finally ended in a wall, and he groped around for a moment before he found a fairly high step on his right. A staircase …

  The steps were uneven and slippery, so he climbed up on all fours. To keep his focus, he started counting the steps to himself: one, two, three … As he reached a hundred and sixty-five, his knee bumped an object that would have clattered noisily down the steps if he hadn’t grabbed it. It felt like a fat metal fountain pen with a swivel cap — not medieval material, that was for sure. Could his father have dropped it when he tried to enter Vlad Tepes’s lair five or six months earlier? If so, that would mean that this secret stairway wasn’t used very much, which was all to the good.

  Sam resumed his climb, stopping more and more often to catch his breath. He lost count around the three hundredth step, so he tried to think about pleasant things, such as the first evening he and his father would spend together back in Sainte-Mary. Would they go out for pizza? Bowling? A movie? Or maybe just have a quiet meal at home, a couple of sandwiches in front of the TV? An ordinary slice of life in an ordinary family, that was what Sam wanted!

  The top of the stairway was blocked by a low door reinforced with heavy iron straps. Sam ran his fingers over it, but didn’t find a handle, lock, or hinges. He shoved it with all his might, but it didn’t budge. It was as if it were part of the rock. If only he had a little light! Come on, he told himself, take a deep breath and don’t panic. Resuming his inspection, he found a kind of groove at the edge of the panel. The door didn’t swing open front to back, it slid from right to left! And when he pushed sideways he felt it move slightly, even though it seemed to weigh tons.

  Inch by inch, Sam managed to open a space wide enough to slip through. Unfortunately, there was another obstacle right behind the door, a heavy wardrobe or large cabinet. He could see faint light on either side of it, and hear a man singing in the distance:

  Through the fair greenwood high and low,

  Scabbard and tabard, dagger and bow.

  By bracing his leg against the wall and pushing with his shoulder, Sam was able to slowly shove the cabinet aside.

  Through the fair greenwood high and low,

  Stalking the boar; stalking the doe.

  Sam was in luck. The man’s lusty singing covered the squeaking the cabinet made as he wrestled it out of the way. He squeezed through the space, stretched his leg down, and felt his foot touch the floor. Whew! He’d made it!

  He peered around. The stairway ended in an arched room hewn out of the rock: an armory, with halberds, maces, shields, crossbows and their bolts, and small cannons and cannonballs, all carefully hung on the walls or stored on the shelves of cabinets like the one that blocked the underground passage. Sam shoved the cabinet back in place, but left the heavy sliding door open — again to save time in case of a quick exit. The room next to the armory had benches and tables with helmets on them, and a fireplace. The singing came from a soldier who was roasting a haunch of meat. Melting fat sizzled in the flames as he swung into the next verse:

  Shadows are lengthening, the moon starts to glow,

  Through the fair greenwood high and low.

  The singing chef seemed to be alone and completely absorbed in the pleasure of his anticipated feast. But Sam would have to pass right by him to exit the kitchen. The man had his back to Sam and wasn’t paying any attention to what might be happening behind him — always a mistake.

  Sam fetched a club from the armory — one that looked like a baseball bat with a spike at the end. Silently he crept up behind Wallachia’s great singing hopeful.

  Home to the castle, the cottage below,

  Through the fair greenwood high and low.

  Weaving her magic, my winsome Margot,

  Through the fair greenwood high and —

  The club crashed down on the mans neck with a thud.

  “Hello!” said Sam.

  The cook collapsed, and Sam grabbed him to keep him from falling into the fireplace. Faithful to the conventions of every infiltration game worthy of the name, Sam dragged him into a dark corner of the armory. Considering the state Margots boyfriend was now in, it would be a long time before he got home.

  Glancing through the guardroom door, Sam saw a spiral staircase connecting the basement and the upper floors, no doubt in the round tower. If he remembered the map correctly, the dungeon was located below the central courtyard, on the east side. The most discreet route was always the safest, so Sam decided it would be best to try going through the basement. He slipped downstairs, where the halls were lit by torches spaced at regular intervals. To his surprise, he didn’t see anybody in the basement either. He could just barely hear the sound of marching steps in the distance. Were all the soldiers on vacation?

  He began to investigate various hallways, hoping to find the dungeons. At one intersection, Sam thought he had reached his goal, but the barred grillwork he encountered protected only a few rows of barrels. After a few additional detours, he discovered a staircase that descended to the depths of the castle, and this one led to his destination.

  He peeked out from behind the staircase wall to get a sense of the layout. The prison consisted of a fairly wide, low-ceilinged hallway with half a dozen cells off it, each with a heavy studded door. A soldier sat on a bench next to a table in the center of the hall, carving a piece of wood with an enormous knife. A pitcher of beer stood within easy reach, and the man was whistling a cheerful tune. Amazing — everyone seemed to be candidates for Wallachian Idol!

  Unfortunately, the guard was facing the stairs, so once Sam stepped into the light, he would have no chance of remaining unseen. Well, he would need to get the keys from the guard anyway. He took the Browning out of his pocket, summoning his courage to use it if necessary. As he did, he felt the object he had picked up in the underground passage earlier. It was a tear gas cartridge, like the ones his father had bought to protect the bookstore! So it had indeed been Allan who’d used the tunnel from the mill. Had he planned to neutralize Dracula by squirting him with tear gas? Why not use a little garlic spray instead?

  Struggling to master his fear, Sam stepped forward, gun in hand.

  “I’ve come to free Allan Faulkner,” he blurted.

  This sounded like dialogue from a cheesy movie, but the soldier looked up in surprise. He had a reddish three-day beard and a flattened nose with a huge gray wart. “What —”

  “Allan Faulkner,” Sam repeated. “Where is he?”

  The guard recovered. “By my mother-in-law’s horns! Who do you think you arc, you whiffet? Do you plan to flog me with your little stick?”

  If he’d had the time, Sam would have raised at least two objections: He was not a “whiffet,” whatever that meant, and his “little stick” represented five hundred years of technological progress. But he was in a hurry, so he shot the pitcher instead.

  It exploded in a thousand pieces, and the echo of the gunshot filled the hallway. The terrified soldier leaped back and dropped his knife. “Its … its black magic!”

  “That’s right,” confirmed Sam. “And if you don’t do what I say, I swear I’ll do the same thing to your foot. Free Allan Faulkner now!”

  “Allafaukner?” asked the guard. “I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

  Had his father given them a false name? “He came five or six months ago. Fairly tall, dark hair, blue eyes.”

  “Oh, the madman! But if I release a prisoner, they’ll kill me!”

  “Would you rather die right now? What
cell is he in?”

  The man shot a worried glance toward one of the cell doors. Sam raised his gun slightly.

  “All right, all right, I’ll open up. But point that strange cannon somewhere else. I don’t want it blowing up in my face!”

  The guard took the key ring from his belt and unlocked the door. “You can go in,” he said, stepping aside.

  “You first,” said Sam.

  21 Conversation in a Cell

  The soldier with the wart bent down to enter the cell. Sam followed, nudging the Browning’s barrel into the man’s ribs. The stench was pestilential and the cell’s floor was strewn with straw, as if they were keeping wild animals instead of human beings. In the near darkness, all Sam could make out was a thin, huddled shape.

  “Dad?”

  The figure turned slowly to him, and Sam’s heart sank. The man was so thin that his cheekbones seemed about to come through the skin. His nearly closed eyes were vacant, and his hair and beard were so long, he looked like the survivor of a shipwreck. But it was definitely his father.

  “Dad?” Sam repeated.

  “Sa-Sam?” came a quavering voice.

  Sam felt something suddenly snap inside. Big hot tears began to run down his cheeks, and he made no effort to stop them. He cried silently, with joy and sadness, at finding Allan after all this time, after all the ordeals and terrors, at finding him in this pitiable state, but still alive — alive in spite of everything. He cried for his father, for Alicia, and for his grandparents who were so far away he wondered if he would ever see them again. He cried for his mother too, and for the pride she must be feeling as she sat in some little corner of heaven and looked down at him. He had succeeded.

  But Sam’s relaxing his vigilance for that moment proved fatal. Seeing his sudden vulnerability, the guard jabbed him with his elbow. The pistol went flying through the air, the soldier slammed his muscular body into Sam’s chest, and they fell onto the straw. Sam rolled into a ball so as not to be crushed.