by Moore, John
At first it was hard to see. The room was darker, and she was disoriented. The torch was lying on the floor. A thin line of flaming oil trailed across the stones, marking where the torch had rolled, so the struggling men were now lit from below, and their shadows traded blows across the ceiling. Mercredi was hunched in a corner, with his hands over his head. And Laura was back, standing in the open doorway, openmouthed, dumbfounded, and frozen. A burly guard had Kevin backed against the wall, holding him by the throat with one huge fist and hitting him with the other. For his part, Kevin had his fingers dug into the man’s windpipe and was matching him blow for blow. But the guard was a professional soldier, one who had seen many fights and had long ago learned to shrug off injuries. His punches were brutal and methodical, while he didn’t seem to even notice Kevin’s fist.
All this Becky saw in an instant. It took her even less time to react. She sprang to her feet, seized the torch, and swung it against the guard’s helmet with a resounding crack.
It didn’t faze him in the least. He batted her away with an irritated look and resumed punching Kevin. Becky hit him again, and the third time had the presence of mind to hit him on the back of the neck. At which point the guard actually did topple over, though whether from Becky’s blows, or Kevin’s chokehold, or a combination of the two, it was hard to say. Kevin leaned against the wall, rubbing his throat and trying to speak. “Thanks,” he panted.
Becky hugged him. “Thank you. You were very brave.”
“Apparently you didn’t notice I just got my face punched in.”
Becky touched him lightly on his bruised lips. “That was why it was brave. Any man can jump into a fight when he knows he’s going to win. Tackling someone who outweighs you takes more courage.”
“She’s a princess,” Kevin told Mercredi and Laura. “They teach them to say supportive stuff like that.”
Mercredi was already at the door. “That solves the problem of getting out of this room, anyway.” He and Laura eased out warily, looking up and down the corridor. “This is the first time I’ve been down this far. I think they brought me this way.”
“No,” said Laura, “I’m sure the stairs are the other way.”
Becky looked out the door also. “I’m not sure. I was surrounded by guards when they brought me down. I couldn’t see where I was going.”
“Actually, I couldn’t see much either.”
“Follow me,” said Kevin. “I searched out all these levels when I was looking for Becky. The stairs are right over here.”
He led the way, left out the door, taking a right turn, and going to the end of the corridor, where a narrow stair was set in a niche in the wall, not visible more than a few feet down the corridor. The stairwell was so narrow that Kevin’s shoulders brushed the wall on both sides. The rest of the group followed him up, waiting while he paused at the top and looked cautiously around the corner. The coast was clear, so they followed him into another set of corridors, turning first left, then right, then left, and onto a broader set of stairs that opened into a somewhat wider corridor. “No guards so far. Where is everyone?”
“They’re all out manning the walls,” said Becky.
“Right. I forgot. We need to go up some more.”
He opened a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and went through, which brought them into another hallway with lamps hanging from the ceiling, then led them around a narrow, curved passage and down a half flight, then up a flight of stairs to another hallway with lots of doors leading into rooms of various sizes. “This is good. We are back at ground level.”
“Are you certain? There are no windows.”
“I remember going through these rooms.”
“Then which is the way out?”
“We’re getting there, Becky.” He led them through one of the doors, into a passage with a ceiling so low they had to duck their heads. But presently this brought them to a much broader passage, one with parquet floors and tapestries on the walls. It had a door at the far end. Kevin stopped with his hand on the wood and the rest of the group piled up behind him.
“Okay,” he whispered. “We’re on our way. This door leads to the entrance hall and beyond that are the front doors, which open into the front courtyard, with the gate beyond that. Now once we’re outside, we’ll be targets for the archers on the walls; but I’m guessing they’ll save their arrows for Logan’s attack.”
“Will there be guards in the courtyard and entrance hall?”
“I don’t know about the entrance hall, Becky. We can expect the courtyard to be defended, but they’ll be looking the other way, expecting danger to come from outside. So we’ll move quickly. If there are only a few men here, we should be able to just rush past.”
Becky, Mercredi, and finally Laura, just nodded.
“Okay,” said Kevin. He twisted the knob. “Let’s go.” And then he shoved the door open and all four of them tumbled into the next room.
Which happened to be the gift shop.
Becky looked at Kevin. “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”
“Oh, look,” said Laura. “This blouse is on sale.”
“Damn, I wish I still had my notes.” Kevin picked up a paperweight, a glass globe with a small model of the Fortress of Doom inside. He studied it while the flakes of artificial snow settled around the Fortress. “Okay, I think I know where I went wrong. We’re not too far off. The entrance is really close to here.”
“I’m sure,” said Becky. “And I know just how to get there. Follow me.”
Kevin eyed her doubtfully. “You said they hauled you straight off to the dungeon. When did you get a chance to learn your way around the fortress?”
“I didn’t,” said Becky. “But now we have this.” She plucked a large, gaily colored brochure from a counter. She unfolded it so the rest of the group could see the title—printed in a hokey, gothic sort of script—that read Tourist Guide to the Fortress of Doom. Then she flipped it over to show the back. “It has a map in it.”
“Great! Just what we need. Let me see it.”
Becky held it out of Kevin’s reach. “It’s mine. I found it. I get to lead us out of here.”
“I just want to take a look at it.”
“Ha! You just think a girl can’t read a map.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Just follow me, and you’ll find out.”
“If we don’t get a move on,” said Mercredi, “you two won’t have any breath to argue with. Your Highness, I would follow you anywhere, but preferably out of this fortress.”
“This way,” said Becky. She chose one of the doors, pulled it open, and checked the hallway. It was still clear. She consulted the map. “Left.”
She led them down the hallway, into another hallway, up a long flight of stairs, along another hallway, down a short spiral of stairs, and into a large room. She pointed at one wall, painted in a pastoral scene with a handsome shepherd tending his flock. “That’s south.”
“How can you tell?”
Becky read from the brochure. “‘Pause to admire the fresco on the south wall, one of the earliest known works of Antonio Calivetti.’ There’s the fresco, so that must be the south wall.”
“Okay. But now we’re off the ground floor?”
“Right.”
“Where do we go to next?”
“First we have to pause to admire the fresco.”
“Sure, Becky. Maybe after the battle we can check out the artwork. Right now I think our top priority ought to be getting out of here.”
“Stop telling me what to do, Kevin Timberline!” Becky’s voice was high and edgy, on the brink of hysteria. Kevin realized the strain of the past few days was catching up with her. “These are my directions, and they say to pause to admire the fresco!”
“Right, right. Pause to admire the fresco. What a lovely fresco. Note the depth of color, the chiaroscuro, the almost impressionistic interplay of light and shadow. Magnificent.”
“I like horse pic
tures,” said Laura.
Becky read again from the brochure. “The shepherd was modeled after the son of Calivetti’s patron, the Duke of Fortescue.”
“His eyes are really pretty,” said Laura. “They seem to follow you around the room.”
“Because the artist made the eyes the center of perspective,” said Mercredi.
“I’m deeply moved by this painting,” said Kevin. “Now, Becky, could we please move on?”
They moved on to the next exhibit, because Becky insisted on doggedly following the map step by step. “If we follow the tour, it will end at an exit. If we deviate from it, we’ll only get lost again.” There was no choice but to follow her. And Kevin had to admit he was totally lost. None of these rooms looked familiar to him. Laura had not been inside the fortress before. Mercredi, though he had been working there for several months, had only been allowed in the area around his lab. Even then he had often been under guard, with little chance to explore.
So they trailed behind the Princess, dutifully admiring an elaborately carved banister, twenty steps high, yet built from a single piece of bird’s-eye maple. They nodded respectfully at a pair of antique mirrors in gilt frames (work of an unknown craftsman), gazed upon several stained-glass windows (impossible to see out of, unfortunately) and did a quick critique of a floor-to-ceiling depiction of—according to the brochure—the Diet of Lohengrin-Fatima, which showed several dozen cardinals in red robes gathered around an altar.
Mercredi let his eyes drift across the portly figures. “Just the types you’d expect to find at a Lo-Fat Diet.”
“Cute,” said Kevin. “If we could go on?”
The next stop brought them back down to a lower floor. Kevin looked around. “Are we back on the ground floor?”
“It all looks the same,” said Laura.
Becky looked up from the map. “Yes, it’s the ground floor. Just one last pen-and-ink, and we’re out of here.” Kevin was doubtful at first. All the halls on this section of the castle tended to look the same, and after the last sketch (Portrait of the Countess de Werque by Francois Delouard) there were no more tourist points of interest to orient themselves to the map. Then they had to hide in an unlocked room to avoid a group of soldiers moving through the fortress. When this happened for the third time he became convinced that Becky was right, and they really were on the ground floor, or at least a floor with access to the outer walls. Eventually their path was clear of soldiers. Becky brought them to another door. It was unmarked, heavy and solid. She waved for them to gather close by.
“Now this is the door to the entrance hall,” she whispered, tapping the map. “And the plan is the same as Kevin said before. There will probably be guards inside, so our best chance is to rush for the door. Keep running and don’t stop. Everybody with me on this?”
They all nodded. Becky’s hand tightened on the door handle. “Let’s go.”
She flung the door open and they all rushed through. And stopped. They were back in the gift shop.
“The map is wrong.” Becky threw it on the floor. She stamped over to a table and sat down to scowl at a rack of postcards.
Kevin sat down next to her and put his arm over her shoulders. “I’m sure it is,” he said gently.
“Well it is, dammit! I read the map right. It’s just wrong. I’ll bet that isn’t a genuine Calivetti either. Calivetti never used tempera.”
“Never mind,” said Mercredi. “I have it figured out. Follow me.” He turned and went back out the door.
Becky pouted and didn’t move. Kevin had to drag her by the arm. “Mercredi, wait,” he said. “How do you know? Where are we going?”
“I’m a fool,” said the alchemist, striding briskly, his fingers gripping the lapels of his laboratory coat. “I should have seen it the moment we started.” He turned left around a corner. “I’ve been here for months, but mostly they kept me in the area around my lab, so I didn’t realize it. But after taking that tour it becomes obvious.” He turned another corner, going left again.
“What does?” The Prince was exasperated.
“The layout of the Fortress of Doom. We’ve all noted how it feels like we’re living in a maze. All these turns and blind hallways and dead ends. Well, I maintain that it is a maze. It was probably built that way to confuse invaders. The floor plan is patterned on a maze and like any maze, all we have to do . . .”
“Is keep turning in the same direction,” Kevin finished with him. They went around the next corner together, the two girls trailing behind.
“Exactly. Come in the front entrance, keep turning in the same direction—it doesn’t matter whether it is right or left—and eventually you will come back to the front entrance. Similarly, put your hand against any interior wall”—here he paused to slap his palm against the stone—“and keep turning right or left from there. Trace the same hand along the wall, and you will trace the entire perimeter and reach the center.”
“But we don’t want to get to the center,” objected Becky.
“Continuing from the center will bring you back to the entrance. But I believe we were already past the center when we started—we’ve been moving outward, not inward—so we’ll reach the door to the Fortress next.” Mercredi was completely sure of himself now, speaking in his college professor’s lecturing tone. He was also walking faster and faster as he spoke, until he simply broke into a run. “Left.” The others hastened to catch up with him. “Left, and another left.” He skirted a staircase, breathing heavily. “And left again.”
“Aha.” A door appeared in front of him. He slowed his pace. “And here is our way out. There’s no need for maps or memorization to escape a maze. A simple knowledge of design and a little bit of common sense is all it takes.” He grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. “Quickly now.” And with Kevin at his side, and Becky and Laura right behind him, he strolled boldly right back into the gift shop.
This time it was not empty. It was half-filled with soldiers, and they were armed. There were at least four of them covering each and every door to the room. They had pushed back the shelves to give themselves space to fight. Sunlight came in through the high windows and showed as gleaming white lines on the finely honed steel blades of their drawn weapons. They did not look as though they were in any sort of a good mood.
“Um,” said Mercredi. “We must have missed a turn.”
The guards stepped forward. Kevin felt pinpricks as the points of a dozen swords and spears penetrated his clothing. He looked around the circle of brutal, unsmiling men. Slowly and carefully he raised his hands over his head. Becky, Laura, and Mercredi all did the same; but once again the guards seemed to identify Kevin as the most likely source of trouble. They closed in with their weapons until Kevin was backed against a wall. And then they held him there while a thin, ascetic figure pushed his way to the front.
“Really, Prince Kevin Timberline of Rassendas,” said Stan, “I am surprised at you. Surely you must have visited an historic old castle before. Have you never realized they’re all designed the same way? It’s impossible to exit without going through the gift shop.”
If an opportunity comes to stab the Evil Overlord in the back, you must do so without hesitation. When innocent lives are at stake, the practical hero does not “give him a sporting chance.”
—HANDBOOK OF PRACTICAL HEROICS BY ROBERT TAYLOR
Logan rode his horse up and down the lines. The men were at attention, but as he approached, they straightened their shoulders just a little bit more, and after he passed by they would start talking to each other from the sides of their mouths. That was good. It meant morale was high. Depressed men didn’t chatter much.
“Have you ever been in battle before, Sam?”
“No, sir,” Bigelow admitted.
“Nervous?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“You look like you spent a sleepless night.”
Bigelow was wearing his breastplate and metal gauntlets, but he still had his helmet under hi
s arm. His hair was tousled and his eyes were bloodshot. “Ah . . . I was . . . I’m fine, sir.”
“That was a good report you sent. You were up late writing it?”
“Um, yes, sir. That was it, sir.”
“Hmm.” Logan looked up at the Fortress. To other people it reeked of evil and despair, but to Logan it was merely an obstacle. A man sees the world differently when he has an army behind him. “The townspeople are quite certain he’s up there?”
“Oh, yes, sir. See that round tower, the new one? They say he often stands at one of the windows and looks over the valley. They see him all the time, dressed in a black cloak. Or possibly midnight blue. They weren’t sure.”
“Really? All right, Sam. Thank you. You may rejoin your unit now.” Logan didn’t wait for Bigelow to leave. He reined his horse around, gave it a little spur, and trotted it over to the lines of archers. He summoned the fire control officer. “You see that line of windows on the tower? No, don’t point to them, just glance casually over.”
The officer let his gaze sweep across the walls and the men massed atop them. “I see them, sir.”
“Take half a dozen of your best archers and set them to concentrate their fire on those windows. If anyone appears at one of those windows, especially a man in a black cloak, I want him taken out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Logan wheeled his horse around again and resumed his inspection. The men were in full fine fettle. The ground was damp but firm, perfect for maneuvering. A light wind made the regimental banners flap. The band was tuning up. The townspeople were gathering on the hillside, where they would be in a good position to watch the fighting, then come down and loot the bodies afterward.
Logan looked up at the Fortress again. The sky was absolutely clear. The sun was over the mountains, and the tower was catching the rays. It didn’t illuminate it, for it seemed no amount of sunlight could escape that flat black stone, but it did glimmer off the windows. In a short time it would be shining on the walls and into the faces of the soldiers who manned them. Then Logan would start the attack.