Castle Perilous

by John Dechancie

  “That’s an especially interesting volume. Rare.”

  The stranger laid it aside and examined another, then another.

  Presently the book vendor said, “Is there anything in particular …?”

  “Yes. I am in search of a book of some repute, a work dealing with a certain aspect of the Recondite Arts.”

  “Magic, is it?”

  “More or less. Demonology.”

  The book vendor looked thoughtful. “Ah.”

  “Be you Durstin, the book vendor?”

  “His honor knows of me? I am he.”

  “I was told you possessed a copy of this particular work.”

  “Does the honored sir know its title?”

  “It is simply called The Book of Demons.”

  The book vendor’s eyes did not betray his surprise. “I have … heard of it. It is a rare item indeed. Very old.”

  “Then you have a copy?”

  “Regrettably, no. A thousand pardons.”

  “A pity.” The man turned to go.

  “I …”

  “Yes?”

  Durstin looked away. “I am curious as to who told the honored sir that I possess a copy of a banned work … an allegation which I most emphatically deny.”

  “I was unaware that the book was proscribed.”

  “It is indeed, and has been for centuries on the List of Forbidden Works. As I said, I am curious —”

  “Khaalim sent me.”

  The book vendor nodded. “There is an inn near the stockyards called the Pale Eye. Be there at sunset.”

  “I have little time.”

  “We can’t do business in broad daylight. Not this sort of business.”

  “I will pay you double what the book would ordinarily fetch. Do you have it here in your stall?”

  Durstin cast his eyes from one end of the bazaar to the other. “I have been hauled before the Suzerain’s magistrate on one previous occasion. The charge was selling vulgar and immoral literature. The scars still twinge when the weather turns. For a work on the List —”

  “I will pay you handsomely. I need it now.”

  The book vendor was silent, still nervously looking about.

  “Name your price.”

  Durstin’s gaze swung round. He shrugged. “Say, fifty gold pieces?”

  “I said I would pay you handsomely. I did not say I would deliver over the fortune of a king.”

  “Forty, then.”

  “I will pay thirty. Copies of this book are rare, but they do exist, and can be had elsewhere.”

  Durstin smiled crookedly. “His honor said something about having little time.”

  The stranger’s lips curled slightly. Then he said, “I will pay thirty-five, or I will make time.”

  “Done. Pick up a book, any book, and ask the price.”

  “Hm? Very well. How much for this?”

  Raising his voice the book vendor answered, “Two silver, three brass, good sir.”

  “That is all I have in my purse. Take it.”

  Durstin caught the leather purse, hefted it, opened it and looked inside. Fingering the contents, he smiled and nodded. “And so you have. A protective sheath for the book, good sir? No charge.”

  “Please.”

  The book vendor retreated into the stall and slipped behind a flap of brightly colored cloth. Shortly he returned bearing a cheap cloth scroll sheath.

  “Here you are, good sir. Blessings of the gods be with you.”

  The stranger took the bundle and opened it, looked inside. He nodded and slipped it inside his tunic. “Good day.”

  The book vendor watched him go. The stranger left the bazaar area directly, not stopping at any other stalls. Durstin sighed. He then reseated himself, leaned his head against the post and went back to sleep.

  * * * *

  Eating a hurried lunch in an outdoor cafe, he felt the pressure of observing eyes. He made no effort to look about and find who was watching him. He paid the bill and left, returning to the stable where he had left his mount. He knew he was being followed.

  He passed through the city gate in the middle of the afternoon and headed out into the desert, making straight for the mountains to the north. The sun was fierce but bearable this time of year, dun-colored rocks baking in its glare.

  He reached the foothills by mealtime but did not stop, heading upward, his animal’s sure-footed gait slackening only a little on the steadily inclining terrain. He surveyed the parched land around him as it gave way to grassland, then stunted evergreen, then alpine meadow. He was aware that two riders had followed him and were now closing the gap.

  They passed him an hour later, smiling and waving as they urged their mounts up the twisting trail.

  When they disappeared into the pass, he stopped. He traced patterns in the air with his fingers and looked thoughtful, as if testing the wind. Presently he gently kneed his mount in the ribs. The animal brayed, broke wind, and continued up the trail.

  In the narrow pass two riders blocked his way, while the two who had followed him came out of a side canyon to close off his only avenue of retreat.

  The leader was young and had a pointy, rodentlike face and a sneering smile.

  “Greetings, honored sir!” he called. “And what is a finely dressed man of distinction such as yourself doing on this lonely trail?”

  “Be you Vorn’s men?” the stranger asked.

  “Eh?”

  He looked at each man in turn. “No, I think not. Common highwaymen.”

  “A pox on you,” the leader sneered. “We’re not common. You’ll not find our like in a thousand leagues of road. But enough of that — deliver your purse, or it will go badly for you.”

  “I left it in the city, along with its contents.”

  “Then give us what you bought.”

  “It is a mere book, of no use to you.”

  “You insult me!”

  “How so?”

  “You imply I’m unlettered!” The others laughed.

  “You are,” the stranger answered, “and a scoundrel to boot.” He traced a quick pattern in the air.

  Shrugging, the leader drew his shortsword. “Enough of this pleasant banter. Throw all your valuables over here now, or — “ He suddenly developed a pained expression, dropping his sword and clutching at his chest. Alarmed, his companion reached out and grasped his arm to steady him. The leader’s eyes bulged; then blood exploded from his mouth. His mount reared, throwing him off.

  The other three regarded the still form of their leader, then looked fearfully at the stranger, who had ceased his hand passes and finger waving.

  “A sorcerer!” one of them gasped.

  The stranger raised a hand, one finger pointing. “Begone,” he said. “That way. Or your heart, too, shall burst like an overripe melon.” He pointed in the direction from which he had come.

  They left very quickly, not bothering to take their leader’s body or his mount.

  He breathed deeply, tasting the mountain air. Then he resumed his Journey.

  The cave was high on the descending slope, its entrance hidden by gnarled brush. He unsaddled his mount, set the beast free, and entered the cave mouth. The way was narrow at first and he had to stoop, but soon there was ample head room, though not much light. He walked in darkness awhile, finding his way from memory, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth rock walls. At length he saw light ahead, coming from a side passage. He turned the corner and beheld cut-stone walls, jewel-torches lighting a way into the castle.

  After taking shortcuts which only he knew, he arrived at his chambers. He went inside, locked the door, shed his costume and donned another, that of a castle functionary.

  The voice spoke to him again.

  You have returned.

  “Yes. Are there any further developments?”

  I feel there must be. I sense an impending end to my bondage. Someone calls to me, I know not who.

  “Have more memories returned to you?”

 
Not many. I feel, though, that it is only a matter of time.

  “Do you know your name?”

  There was silence, then: No. Will you tell me?

  “No, but there are those who will.”

  He left by a secret panel, threading his way through narrow passages until he came to a dead end. He shoved against a large stone block and it moved, swiveling on a central fulcrum. He pushed it open a crack and paused, looking out, then stepped into the hallway. The stone swung back and became a blank wall again.

  A door lay to the left. He opened it and went inside.

  The library was vast and many-volumned, shelves rising several stories to the corbeled ceiling. He strode across the main floor and entered an area where free-standing stacks stood in rows. He walked down the central aisle, turned left at the thirty-fourth row, and followed the shelf to its end, coming out into an aisle running along the wall, against which was set a row of carrels. He chose one and seated himself. He withdrew the scroll from his tunic, took it out of its sheath, undid the ties and opened it.

  He took a deep breath, scanning the first few lines. It was written in a script he couldn’t immediately decipher, but a translation spell would take care of that.

  Wearily, he rubbed his eyes. He had only an inkling of what he was after. A key; he needed a key to unlock a mystery — then to close it up again, once and for all.

  Perhaps the answer lay in this ancient book. Perhaps not. Time would tell, and he had so very, very little of it.

  Keep — Somewhere

  They’d been wandering now for at least a day. Last “night” they’d bedded down in a storage room full of odds and ends. “Today” they’d encountered evidence of recent flooding.

  Gene waded through the puddle of brackish water. The carcass of another large sea animal lay beached nearby, an oily gray mass in the shadows. It stank.

  “I wonder if it was a tidal wave that slopped through one of the portals, or something else,” he said.

  Linda and Snowclaw avoided the puddle. Linda’s nose wrinkled at the smell. “What else?”

  “An incredibly huge aquarium that sprang a leak, here in the castle somewhere?”

  “That’s silly.”

  “In this place? Nothing is.”

  Snowclaw said, “It’s probably what you said, Gene. A leak through a portal.”

  Gene whistled and said, “What an incredible place to live. Imagine! You could be sitting around, darning socks or something, and all of a sudden —”

  The far wall of the chamber disappeared, revealing a blasted alien landscape. A violent air current nearly swept them into the portal as pressure differences adjusted. Soon the air flowed the other way and waves of heat assailed them.

  “Oh, hell,” Gene complained. “The way out was through that wall. Now we’ll have to double back. And there ain’t nothing back there.”

  Linda looked nervously out at the dark rocks and bleached sand. “That doesn’t look like a very nice place. I’m for going back.”

  Gene sniffed. “Air’s breathable, but it looks hotter than hell out there. I guess we can’t explore it. Unless …” He began walking toward the portal.

  “Gene! Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to take a quick look. It sort of reminds me of parts of Utah. Maybe —”

  Something large bounded through the opening and entered the chamber. It was twice as tall as Gene and ran on two powerful hind legs. Its head was somewhat reptilian, though the eyes, unnervingly intelligent, were set close enough together to afford accurate depth perception. Its skin was beet red and looked rough and dry. It had a long, supple tail, and the claws on its short but sinewy fore limbs curved wickedly. It saw Gene and stopped in its tracks.

  So did Gene, but he hit a wet spot and slipped, falling on his buttocks.

  The beast eyed him, its blunted snout parting to reveal a gleaming set of caninelike teeth. Then a voice emanated from the cavity: “Look like food, but it speak.” Its voice was several registers lower than human, but intelligible. Taking two steps closer, it said, “You food?”

  The beast towered over Gene, who struggled to his feet. “Hi, there!” he squeaked in an almost hysterical giggle.

  “Smell like food,” the beast observed.

  “Uh … uh … uh …” Gene backed stiffly away.

  The beast’s yellow eyes moved from side to side, taking in the chamber, Linda, and Snowclaw. The latter had begun slowly moving toward the thing, broadax raised.

  “I not see this cave before. I smell much food.”

  Still backing off, Gene drew his sword and pointed it lamely at the beast.

  The animal said, “I think you food. I eat.” It sprang forward.

  Snowclaw was a blur and a howl. The beast broke off his charge at Gene and turned to meet him, raking forward with its great claws. But in an instant Snowclaw had run by, and the beast’s talons clawed nothing but air. It halted, looking puzzled. A great, raw gash had opened up across its chest, oozing grayish-purple ichor. The beast searched from side to side, then whirled.

  Gene saw the great tail sweeping around at him and threw himself flat on the floor. The thin whiplike tip whistled inches over his head. He got up and ran.

  The thing charged at Snowclaw, who had begun running in a wide arc back toward it. The beast ran a curving course to intercept, but at the last possible second Snowclaw executed an impossible pivot and leaped in the other direction, making a lightning-quick swipe with the ax. He raced back to the other end of the chamber. The beast did not follow. It turned slowly. Another incision gaped wide, this one running straight across its throat.

  “No food?” it gurgled, its visage registering a faintly perplexed expression. It took three unsteady steps forward, then collapsed with a floor-shaking thud and lay unmoving.

  Gene and Linda were peeping out from behind the stanchion of the arched doorway.

  “You okay, Gene?” Snowclaw asked.

  Gene stepped out. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “You were lucky. You wouldn’t’ve had a chance against that thing.”

  “I know. You were …” Gene shook his head in wonder. “Incredible.”

  “Aw, it was nothing. I’ve tackled worse than him.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “I’m a hunter, you know.”

  Gene looked at Linda, then hugged her, burying his face in her blond hair. Linda hugged him back.

  They parted, and Gene said, “I almost couldn’t move. I was totally petrified.”

  “Who wouldn’t have been?”

  Gene scowled. “I’m going to have to be quicker if I want to stay alive.”

  “Don’t worry about it, buddy,” Snowclaw said.

  “I should have done something, thrown my sword at its face and run … something. But I just stood there like a wimp.”

  “It happened so fast,” Linda said.

  Gene grunted and looked immensely displeased.

  “Talk about fast,” Snowclaw said, staring at the far end of the chamber.

  The portal was gone. The wall had reappeared, and with it the doorway leading out of the chamber.

  * * * *

  An hour later it was “lunch time,” and Linda whipped up another spread. She was getting very good at it. She not only conjured an assortment of coldcuts and salads, but materialized a buffet table to serve it on.

  “Hey, this is nice, Linda,” Gene said as he scooped linguine salad onto his white china plate. “Ice sculpture’s real nice.” He cocked his head toward the carved swan with swanlings in tow.

  Linda looked thoughtful, then said, “You know, I think I’ve seen this layout somewhere.” She snapped her fingers. “My cousin Terri’s wedding reception!”

  “Congratulations. Snowclaw, don’t eat with your hands.”

  “Who’s going to care?”

  “The bride’s family will get the wrong idea.”

  Linda frowned. “No, if it were Terri’s wedding, then there’d be a champagne fountain. Maybe it was
the rehearsal dinner.” She chewed her lip.

  “Linda,” Gene said, “it hardly matters. Eat something.”

  She sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “What’s this pink Jell-O-looking stuff here?”

  “Pink Jell-O stuff.”

  “I mean, is it —”

  A shout echoed down the corridor. They froze and listened. It came again.

  “Sounds like somebody yelling for help,” Snowclaw said, his furry white ears cocked.

  They raced toward the sound. After making a few false turns, they came to what would have been an ordinary furnished room were it not for the wedge of botanical garden that someone had plopped in the middle of it. And in the middle of the riot of vegetation lay Jacoby.

  “Quick!” he yelled at them. “It’s got me! I can’t control it!”

  Gene alone made it to him after cutting a path through the dense undergrowth. Linda and Snowclaw had gotten tangled.

  Jacoby was lying on his side. “My feet,” he said hoarsely.

  Gene looked. Shiny green vines were wrapped about the man’s ankles. He drew his sword, followed the vines away from Jacoby’s legs, and began hacking. He heard a high-pitched scream of pain.

  Gene was horrified, thinking he’d cut Jacoby. But the scream hadn’t come from Jacoby.

  “You bitch! How dare you cut me!”

  “Huh?” Gene froze, sword in the air. The voice seemed to come from a thick, rough-barked tree stump that sat amid a nosegay of attractive flowers nearby.

  “How would you like someone cutting and sawing at you?”

  “What? Well, I’m sorry … hey, wait a minute.”

  “Just don’t think you can come waltzing into my territory and pull any of your two-legged tricks! Mobile lump of meat! Your shit smells!”

  “No need to get abusive. Let go of this man here, and I’ll stop chopping.”

  “Cut them!” Jacoby screamed. “The portal may close!”

  “Come on, now, let him go.”

  “I’m hungry!”

  “Jesus Christ. Shades of Little Shop of Horrors.”

  For God’s sake,” Jacoby shrieked. “Hurry!”

  Hideous screams issued from the tree as Gene brought his sword down in a series of quick chops that left one thick tentacle-vine intact. He took a measuring swing, then brought the sword down mightily. The end of the blade hit something hard and the sword dropped from his hand, but the vine had been severed.