Castle Kidnapped

by John Dechancie

Gene pounded on the door. “Jamin! Open up!"

  “Do you think he's in there?” Linda asked.

  “Where would he run to? Besides, his best spells are probably set up here.” Gene pounded again. “Let's go, Jay baby. The jig is up."

  A muffled voice on the other side said, “Go away."

  Linda said, “Let us in, Jamin. We want to talk to you."

  “I have nothing to say."

  Gene sheathed his sword. “Okay, Jamin. You asked for it.” He turned to Linda. “Scare up an ax for me."

  One appeared in his hand instantly. “Stand back,” Gene said.

  It was hard work. The door was oak, three inches thick.

  “You want a speed-up spell?” Linda asked.

  Gene wiped sweat from his brow. “Now you tell me."

  “Sorry."

  Gene became a whirlwind, and the door flew to splinters in no time.

  “Jeremy, you stay out here. Watch the door and look after Vaya."

  Jeremy eyed her up and down. She was a head taller. “Uh, yeah."

  Gene kicked in what was left of the door, and he and Linda charged in.

  It was a spacious chamber, tastefully appointed. Numerous objets d'art from many worlds lay about, and tasteful paintings bedecked the walls.

  Jamin stood in the middle of the room, his eyes fearful yet defiant. The young page—the one who had summoned Gene and all the others—sat at a table to one side, idly playing solitaire.

  “How dare you intrude,” Jamin said, glaring.

  “You have a lot to answer for, Jamin,” Gene said.

  “And why should I answer to the likes of you?” His thin lips formed a sneer. “Common as clay. You wander into this great house and get treated like royalty. Vagabonds! Ruffians! Subhuman rubbish."

  “It's been boiling inside you for years, hasn't it, Jamin?"

  Jamin gritted his teeth. “It rankles. Oh, it rankles."

  Gene drew his sword. “Well, at last the motivations are getting an airing out. This explains some of it."

  Linda asked, “What did you hope to gain, Jamin?"

  “You wouldn't understand,” Jamin sniffed.

  “Try me."

  “No, thank you, your ladyship. Despite that ludicrous title, I regard you as nothing more than a common strumpet."

  Gene lunged forward.

  Jamin backstepped quickly. “Vasagaroth, help!"

  The page boy laid down a card. “Too late,” he intoned. His voice did not sound boyish.

  Jamin struck a wizardly posture, hands poised to cast a spell.

  Linda said, “Jamin, I'm warning you. Make one move and you're dead meat. I mean it."

  “I have great powers now,” Jamin said, trembling.

  “Not without him,” Linda said, pointing to the page.

  “Vasagaroth, please!"

  The page calmly laid another card down. “No can do, Jamin. The pipeline just went dry."

  Gene sidestepped toward the table. “What's your story, kid? Who put you up to this?"

  “Screw off, asshole,” the boy said over his shoulder.

  “Whoa, are you out of line,” Gene said. “I'm going to have to teach you some manners. And a little about cards. You're playing a red jack on the red queen."

  The page spat at Gene's feet. “I said screw off."

  “Gene, easy,” Linda said.

  “Just who is this little pustule?” Gene demanded.

  “Why don't you challenge him and find out?” Jamin said, grinning slyly.

  “Any way you want to play it, human,” Vasagaroth said casually.

  “Both of you are coming with me,” Gene said.

  “And where might we be going?” Jamin asked pleasantly.

  “To the Donjon, to await the King's disposition of your case. C'mon, let's go. That means you, punk-breath."

  Gene laid a hand on the page's shoulder. The boy's arm came around sharply and knocked Gene's away. He stood.

  “Time for the masquerade to end,” he said.

  Gene stepped back, sensing what was about to happen. And it did.

  The page boy's skin turned gray, then white, and began to puff up horribly, as if pushed out from something growing inside. A hairline crack appeared along the boy's cheek. As it widened, it revealed a glowing red surface underneath.

  Gene and Linda had witnessed this process before, but it was no less startling in reprise. The boy's skin fell away in limp shards to reveal the luminous demon-body hiding within. Inexplicably the thing grew as it shed its bogus human form. When the last of the camouflage had fallen away, the crown of the creature's horned head topped off at no less than seven and a half feet. A long, curious sword then came into being in its left hand.

  Its voice shook the rafters. “Human, you will die horribly!"

  Gene swallowed hard. “Tell me how it can be fun."

  The demon lunged and nearly decapitated Gene with one stroke. Gene backed off, happening to catch a glimpse of Jamin's gloating grin.

  The demon charged, chasing Gene around the room. Gene backed up against a love seat and fell over it, scrambled up, and backstepped. The demon kicked the piece of furniture out of the way and advanced, sword whistling as it swung.

  “My magic doesn't work on him!” Linda shouted.

  “Speed me up!” Gene begged.

  “Something's wrong. Jamin's blocking!"

  “Exactly right, little hussy.” Jamin said. “Now let's see how your champion swordsman does against the Hosts of Hell."

  Central Bureaucracy—Ministry of Pain

  “You are holding my sister here,” he told the demon clerk behind the counter. “I want her."

  The clerk was a gnarled, hunched-over creature with cadaverous gray skin that looked like wet rubber. Suppurating yellow sores afflicted one side of its bald head.

  It looked up with pained, bloodshot eyes. “Your name?"

  “You know my name."

  “I must have your name, sir, to complete the proper forms.” The creature brought forth a thick sheaf of official-looking papers.

  He materialized a broadsword, swung, and struck the thing's head from its body. A fountain of pink goo erupted from the neck as the carcass fell beneath the countertop.

  Almost immediately another clerk hobbled out from behind a partition. The creature looked a perfect match for the one who had just been granted early retirement.

  The thing smiled at him. “And how may I help you, sir?"

  His shoulders slumped. “I wish to see your superior."

  “I'm sorry, sir, but my superior will be in a meeting for the rest of the day."

  “Then I wish to speak to his superior."

  “Do you have an appointment?"

  “No, I do not have an appointment."

  “Very sorry to say that the deputy minister is out of town. Is there anything I can do?"

  “Yes. As the saying goes, take me to your leader."

  “I beg your pardon?"

  “I wish to speak to the controlling entity, the central mind."

  “Ah. That is a very tall order, sir."

  “Indeed?"

  “Yes, indeed, sir. You'll have to make an appointment."

  Incarnadine's blade swished round again. This time, blue ichor flowed from the truncated neck.

  A third clerk stepped out from behind the partition.

  “I'm afraid you have the wrong department, sir,” it said. “Go down this hall, turn right, follow the corridor, and it's the third door on your right. However, they might be out to lunch at the moment. Now, if you prefer to put your request in writing..."

  The thing babbled on, its voice dwindling as he stalked away.

  The walls were not straight here. There wasn't a right angle in the place. The corridor twisted and bent. Every so often he passed another counter with another blandly smiling clerk behind it. The place was dim and stifling, and silence choked the air like a miasmal fog.

  He was hours in the place. There seemed no end to it. He knew Ferne's
location, but could not get there. He gave up and got new bearings. Finding stairs, he began a descent of miles. Progressively darkening gloom enveloped him. Eyes like glowing coals monitored his progress, peering out from the crannied walls. The character of the place changed, became cavelike. Following a downward-spiraling tunnel, he increased his pace to a jog. The tunnel leveled out, debouching into an immense chamber. In the middle of the floor was a deep pit which emitted a pulsating light.

  He walked to the edge, looked down, and beheld the mind-shattering creature that dwelled therein.

  [Finally we meet, human.]

  The voice was a whispering in his mind.

  He nodded. “Finally."

  [You find it painful to behold me as I really am.]

  “Somewhat, I must admit. My apologies."

  [None needed. Can your mind contain that which I am?]

  “I am not sure,” he answered. “Your nature is rather ... exotic."

  [Indeed. And to me, it is you who are strange.]

  “No doubt. In any event, your end is at hand."

  [So be it.]

  “You have no regrets?"

  [Can one regret one's nature, one's being? Can one regret the ineluctable mechanisms of existence?]

  “I have no answer for you. I can only say that I regret ending the existence of any intelligent entity."

  [Why? Non-Being is implicit in Being itself.]

  “Your equanimity comforts me, to some extent."

  [I am glad.]

  “One thing, though. You knew you would lose in the end."

  [Of course.]

  “Yet you persisted."

  [I grow weary. There must be an end, and I could not see one.... Why are you astonished?]

  “It's true, then. You are alone here."

  [Utterly. I cannot remember when I was not alone.]

  “There were never others of your kind?"

  [Unthinkable ages ago, perhaps. I do not remember.]

  “But there must have been others."

  [So you say. As I have said, I know naught of this, and care less.]

  “You speak of existence, yet you loathe it."

  [With every mote, with every granule of my being.]

  “Why, then, did you not end your life?"

  [With this hatred in me still burning? Impossible.]

  There came something like a long sigh.

  [Enough. I shall speak no more. Do what you must.]

  “I need do nothing. Doom cracks even as we speak."

  [Then go.]

  He averted his eyes from the thing in the pit, walked a few steps away, bent over, and vomited.

  Not much came up. Swallowing bile, he walked off, wishing for a drink of water. But such a ware fetched a high price in the very pit of Hell.

  The world shook as he searched for his sister. Demon carcasses littered his path, victims of the holocaust weapon's first effects.

  He found her in a laboratorylike room on one of the upper levels. What he saw staggered him, and the bile again rose in his throat.

  There was no describing the monstrous device of which she was the central concern. Rods, probes, drills, blades—wicked implements of every sort bit deep into her flesh. Every accessible nerve point was tapped, every orifice violated. Little remained of her skin, and much of her body had been subject to hideous mutilations.

  Her heart still beat, yet he could do nothing for her. Quickly he cast the only enchantment that would help.

  Her eyes were open, for the lids were gone, torn away. But now she saw.

  “Incarnadine,” she croaked, her swollen lips trying to smile. “Inky dearest."

  “Ferne. Are you still in pain?"

  “No, Inky. It's marvelous. I feel nothing now. I want to go home."

  “In a moment. Just say yes or no to my questions. You somehow got away from the guards who conducted you to your exile. You spelled them and fooled them into thinking that they had thrust you through a wild aspect. True?"

  “Yes."

  “You cast about for a plan. In a moment of wildest desperation, you decided to throw in your lot with the Hosts."

  “Very bad mistake, Inky. I was ... a fool."

  “Don't talk,” he said. “Save your strength. Now, listen. You didn't do what you did last time, unravel the spell that blocked their portal. Instead, you simply unhooked it temporarily and passed through. I don't know how you did it, but you did it."

  She nodded.

  “Again, you amaze me, sister. But then you were at the mercy of the Hosts. You tried bargaining with them, but they had the upper hand. They had you. You outlined a plan to attack the castle, taught them how to transfer power between universes. But there had to be someone on the other side to use that power. A confederate within the castle. An adept magician who could use that power selectively and wisely within castle walls."

  “Yes. J—” She struggled to utter the name. “Jamin."

  “And someone else. Something else. A warrior demon who had stayed in hiding when we chased the Hosts from the castle?"

  “Yes."

  “I see. Insurance against Jamin's possible double cross. So, the Hosts had a plan, and now the machinery for a covert operation. The plan was first to rid the castle of powerful magicians, starting with the more talented of the Guests. This tactic was high on the list, I imagine, because the Guests had proved such a thorn during the last round of hostilities."

  “Yes."

  “But there was one catch. Feeding power through the interdimensional barrier drained the Hosts of their reserves. They needed another source of power, and you knew of one. This was their way of persuading you to divulge it."

  “Yes, and I told them. I told them everything, Inky, all my tricks. But they didn't stop, they didn't stop....” She trailed off into a moan.

  “Easy, easy.” He made motions again, then waited for her respiration to stabilize. “Are you all right now?"

  “Yes, Inky."

  “Fine. You're going to go to sleep in a moment. When you wake up, you'll be home."

  “I'm dying, Inky. I know it."

  He was silent.

  “Inky?"

  “Yes, my dear?"

  “Did you love me?"

  “Of course, dear sister."

  “You know what I mean. We once kissed like lovers, and we weren't exactly children. We were in our early teens. Do you remember it?"

  He looked away.

  “You do. You're ashamed. You did love me, I always knew it. But we never made love. We should have. To hell with convention, Inky."

  “Ferne, my darling sister Ferne."

  “Don't cry, Inky. I knew what I was doing. We all do what we must. We all have our—"

  Sudden, violent convulsions racked her. Then the light in her eyes faded, and her chest heaved once and was still.

  Extricating her body from the diabolical machine was a consummately grisly task. Parts of her came away with the blades, the screws, the drill bits; gobbets of flesh crumbled off. But at last she was free. He could not recognize the body of his sister, who had been the most beautiful woman he had known.

  He materialized a casket to contain her remains, and conjured two pale figures—indistinct, squat, and homuncular—to bear her away.

  They reached the roof, where the Voyager still waited, undisturbed.

  The sky was no longer black. Streamers of pale green fire banded it, forming a circular storm system whose calm central eye was contracting rapidly as the chaos closed in. He stopped to regard this phenomenon as the pallbearers loaded the casket into the Umoi machine.

  He heard a roar like thunder, turned, and watched pieces of the dark tower fall and crash to earth. The roof under him wobbled, and he thought he had better be off. He dismissed the bearers, and they disappeared. Then he boarded the craft.

  He watched from on high as the black spire disintegrated and the surrounding complex of hives turned to dust. The ground disappeared, shrouded in fingers of green mist that choked and throttl
ed the life out of the land.

  Some time later, there was nothing below but a vast gray wasteland, featureless and undifferentiated.

  He threw a switch and even that was gone, replaced by the nothingness of no place, of nowhere.

  Nowhere at all.

  Chamberlain's Quarters

  Gene had once fought a demon of the Hosts successfully, but only with magical help. Now he was holding his own without aid, after having survived the fiend's initial attack. Either Gene's skills had increased or the demon was operating on low power. Gene was persuaded by the latter theory. The way he understood it, these warrior demons were really analogous to robots, needing energy from the home universe.

  Gene swung mightily, sparks flying as his sword met the demon's. He backed his opponent into a corner and probed for an opening that would allow a killing blow.

  But the demon had some juice left in him. It attacked with renewed vigor, and Gene had to back off.

  Then, very suddenly, something changed. The demon halted and lowered its sword. The hideous head twisted to and fro, glowing eyes searching about for things unseen.

  “Something is happening,” it said.

  Its sword clattered to the floor.

  “Vasagaroth!"

  Jamin came out from behind a stuffed chair and rushed to the side of his diabolical ally. “Vasagaroth, you can't stop now. You must kill him. You must kill them all, or I am doomed!"

  Vasagaroth turned withering eyes on him. “It is the end."

  “Don't say that! What is amiss?"

  The demon teetered backward to the wall and leaned against it, the sweaty red luminosity of its body on the wane.

  Jamin whirled about, eyes desperate, pleading. “I give myself up! Linda, you must intercede for me with His Majesty. I was possessed by the minions of Hell! I knew not what I was about! They m—"

  The words choked off, for Vasagaroth's immense taloned hand, the right, had locked about Jamin's neck. The other enveloped his head. Both squeezed. Jamin's feet lifted a few inches off the floor. He kicked wildly, his body spasming.

  Linda yelled, “Gene, do something!"

  Gene could do nothing. Jamin's strangled gasp ended abruptly, blood spurting from between the demon's fingers.

  Linda screamed.

  Then Jamin and his murderer keeled over together and lay still on the bloodied oaken boards.