“Good. Then we can get back to the castle.”
“Easily, as long as you don’t wander too far.”
“Fine. Now, about this course …”
“Nobody I know remembers when it was put in,” Dalton said. “It’s maintained by castle servants, though, so I imagine Incarnadine had it built for the delectation of his Guests.”
“Hmm. No kidding.”
“Rather glad he did, myself. Golf’s one of my passions.” He crossed his ankles, put the head of his seven-iron at his feet and leaned on the shaft. “In addition to good books and straight gin. The latter is my one vice.”
“Where the devil is that lummox of a caddy?” Thaxton griped. “Oh, to hell with it.”
He stood up, trudged over to the ball and addressed it.
“It’s like the bloody Sudan here,” he muttered. “You have to be bloody Chinese Gordon to play this course!”
His trap shot hit the lip of the bunker and bounced back into the sand. A bout of potent cursing ensued.
“There’s a lady present,” Dalton told him.
“Eh?” Thaxton looked, Linda’s gender hitting him. “Oh. Frightfully sorry. Do forgive me.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Linda called.
“It is a difficult course,” Dalton conceded. “Impossible to find a ball in the rough.”
“Yeah,” Gene said. “Is there anything else here besides the golf course?”
“No, except for a small clubhouse. Mostly lockers and things. It does have a bar, however.”
“Hm. No civilization, then. Rats.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say no civilization.…”
“There you are, you great bumbling twit!” Thaxton shouted to the strange figure coming over the rise. “I need my wedgie chop-chop!”
Linda’s hand shot up to cover her mouth.
The caddy, a green, seven-foot-tall saurian beast resembling a kangaroo, broke into a loping run. Spindly forelegs struggling with two golf bags and a plastic cooler, it ambled down the grade, dropped one of the bags, back-tracked and bent to pick it up, and in so doing, emptied the other bag of its clubs.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
After some effort and a few more mishaps, the caddy finally arrived at the green, dumped its burdens, fetched one of the bags back up, and frantically rummaged through it.
Thaxton looked on, scowling. Losing patience, he barked, “The wedgie, the wedgie! No, no, no, not that one, for God’s sake. Yes, that one. Yes! Can’t you bloody hear? Right, now give it to me.”
“Is that thing intelligent?” Gene asked in wonder.
“Not bloody likely,” Thaxton answered, striking out into the endless wastes of the sand trap.
“I mean, is it sentient?” Gene amended.
“Oh, yes, very,” Dalton said. “This one’s not the best of the caddies, but he tries. They all belong to a local tribe.”
“Tribe? Wow.”
Dalton turned to the beast and said, “Lummox, old boy, could I trouble you for a drink?”
Lummox nodded and opened the cooler, which was filled with bottles and other containers nesting in shaved ice. He withdrew a small plastic pitcher, opened the spout on the cover, took out a long-stemmed frosted glass and filled it. Gene and Linda were amazed at how humanlike and dexterous the hands were. Bearing the glass and moving his huge feet carefully, Lummox walked over to where Dalton stood, but stopped just short.
His face, generally saurian but capable of much expression, suddenly developed a guilty look.
“O-live!” Lummox wailed apologetically.
“Never mind, old boy,” Dalton said mildly. “Give it here.”
“Damn!” Thaxton’s shot had wound up a goodly distance from the cup; the ball hugged the edge of the green. “It’ll be a good twenty feet for a bogey! Damn!” He trudged out of the sand. “Damn, damn, damn!”
“Well,” Gene said, sighing. “I guess there’s not much use in us staying here. Unless you’re in the mood for golf, Linda. How ’bout you, Snowclaw?”
Snowclaw snorted.
“You know, he’s kind of cute,” Linda said, walking up to Lummox. The caddy gave her a shy smile and scurried back to the cooler.
“Yeah, really,” Gene said. He turned to Dalton. “What would you suggest we do?”
Dalton sipped at his drink. “I’ll say one thing for Lummox — he makes a damn good martini. I’m sorry, what did you say? What should you do? Why, anything you want. You’re young — there’s a very good aspect just down from the Queen’s dining hall. You might try that if you like white-water rafting. There are some good guides available.”
“White-water …? No, what I meant was, what’s the best way to go about finding a way out of the castle?”
Dalton was appalled. “Why in the world would you want to do that? There’s absolutely nothing out there.”
“No, I mean a way back to our world.”
“Oh, that. Well, if I were you I’d disabuse myself of that notion in short order. The gateways to the world we come from are very erratic. No telling where or when one will appear. In three years I’ve never caught a glimpse of a way back.”
“But I don’t understand,” Linda said. “Why are some portals so stable, like this one, and others not? It doesn’t make sense.”
Dalton shrugged. “It’s a random process, I suppose. It just so happens that the aspects opening onto our world are of the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t variety. No explaining it.”
“But if we conducted a systematic search —”
“You might find one, for all I know. But it might open up in the middle of the Pacific, or the bottom of Death Valley in July — or fifty thousand feet in the stratosphere. There’s no telling where. And it might stay open only for seconds.”
Gene protested, “But surely the castle can’t be so big that you’d never run across one at some point.”
“As I said, for all I know, you might get lucky. But I wasn’t, and believe me I tried.” Dalton took another sip. “Well, maybe I didn’t make an all-out effort. I like it here. If you don’t, maybe it’ll give you the motivation to succeed.”
“Maybe,” Gene said dourly. “But if no one has ever succeeded in getting back, fat chance we’ll have.”
“Nobody I know has, but I keep to myself, mostly. So, why don’t you ask some of the other Guests? They may be able to help.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Excuse me, I have to mark my ball.”
“Sure.”
Gene’s attention was drawn across the fairway, where thrashing noises had commenced among the trees. A deep-throated roar sounded, and ponderous footsteps shook the ground. Gene started walking toward Linda and Snowclaw, who had turned toward the noise.
Lummox was squawking nervously, fumbling with corkscrew and bottle, his attention drawn toward the disturbance.
“I want that glass of Madeira sometime this week, Lummox,” Thaxton snapped. “Come on, then, it’s just one of the big ones — nothing to worry about.”
A towering beast, two-legged, cavern-jawed, and hungry, broke out of the trees. It took three thumping steps out into the grass of the fairway and stopped, scanning to the left, then to the right. Its eyes, a good twenty feet from the ground, found the grouping of foodstuffs on and about the green. Its maw opened and a liver-colored tongue flopped out then retracted slowly, trailing across rows of spiky teeth. It turned on its powerful hind legs and began to walk toward the green, picking up speed as it moved.
“Jesus, a Tyrannosaurus?” Gene yelped, taking Linda’s arm and leading her back.
“Harak!” Snowclaw shouted.
Lummox threw the glass and the bottle of Madeira into the air and broke for the woods.
Dalton had calmly marked his ball and now was walking toward his bag. Thaxton was addressing his ball, chin almost to chest in a concentrated putting stance.
“I say, Dalton, old boy. Would you mind —”
“Make your putt,” Dalton said, sl
iding a strange-looking weapon out of the bag. Basically rifle-shaped and constructed of blue-green metal, it had a curving wire stock and a bell-shaped business end. Dalton put the stock to his shoulder and aimed at the animal.
There was no sound.
The beast slowed, a vaguely puzzled expression forming on its saurian countenance. Then the tough, canvaslike skin of its head and neck changed color rapidly, from a flat gray-green to an angry red. A plume of steam issued from the top of its bony skull.
Then the head exploded in a fountain of blood, pulp, and ghastly pink mess. The eyes popped out and the sockets gushed streams of boiled brain. The dinosauroid shambled a few steps more before its massive hind legs collapsed, sending its bulk crashing to the ground. It lay unmoving, the area about its head looking and smoking like a mound of hot beef stew.
Thaxton putted. The ball described a wide curving orbit across the green, approaching the cup. It caught the rim, spiraled around like a planet spinning into its sun, and dropped for a bogey.
“By Christ, did you see that? I —” Thaxton looked around for an audience. Linda was staring past him, hands clapped over her mouth, her eyes rounded, her complexion ashen. Snowclaw and Gene were running toward the fallen creature, Dalton following at a jog.
“Bloody hell. Best shot of my life and it’s an anticlimax.”
Thaxton began calling for Lummox, who was nowhere in sight.
Gene stood examining the mess. “Good God,” he said, waving fumes away from his nose. “Whew! What a stink.”
Dalton walked up. “The big ones usually keep to the low ground, but every once in a while a rogue wanders out of the valley and gives us trouble. This one is probably old, and lost his harem to a young buck.”
“Where did you get that thing?” Gene wanted to know.
“This?” Dalton displayed the weapon. “I traded it for gold I panned in a desert aspect a while back.”
“I don’t understand. If technology like that is available —” Gene swatted at the hilt of his antiquated weapon. “— why all the silly swordplay?”
“Good question,” Dalton answered. “It so happens that devices like this don’t work inside the castle. Almost nothing does, including electricity.”
“What about gunpowder?”
“I’m told that gunpowder works, but a simple spell can prevent it from exploding with any force. Consequently, that particular technology has fallen into disuse.”
“No kidding. Say, how does that thing work? Do you know?”
“No, I don’t. And I don’t know what aspect it came from.”
Linda was edging up to them, seeming drawn to the carnage by a morbid fascination she couldn’t quite overcome. She eyed the mess queasily.
“Oh, my,” she said. “Yuck.”
Deadpan, Gene asked, “Hey, Linda. Would you mind getting a spoon from the cooler, if Lummox has one?”
Linda’s jaw dropped. “A sp —”
“Yeah, or a fork or something.” Gene unsheathed his sword, slid the point into the mess and ladled out a gob of gore. “Hard to eat with this thing.”
“Oh … oh —” Gagging, Linda turned and ran.
Keep — West Wing — Forebuilding
“Hell’s wizardry,” Kwip muttered as he viewed the tipping caldrons of fire. He stood at a window on the top floor of one of the many smaller structures that abutted on the keep. He could not see much over the wall of the inner ward, but the tops of the belfries were well in view, towers of flame all. He watched as soldiers, human torches, hurled themselves to the ground. The hell-sent apparitions floated above. The crucibles had turned nearly upside down and had emptied, drops of liquid fire depending from their rims. Then the disembodied hands began slowly to tilt the caldrons up again.
Awestruck, Kwip shook his head. He had seen enough; he moved away from the window.
The castle still shook and quivered, its stone blocks glowing with a faint ghost light, but things had quieted somewhat. He tried to set his mind back to business, although his hope of ever finding the treasure room had somewhat diminished over the last few hours.
Passing another window, he glanced out and came to an abrupt halt. The castle walls were out there, but no battle was in progress. The ramparts were deserted, as was the inner ward below. All was silent.
And it was raining.
Kwip scratched his black-bearded chin and shook his head. What was phantasm — the bloody conflict he had just witnessed, or this? Which window looked out on reality?
Both did, perhaps. Or perhaps neither did.
His memory was jogged just then. Windows … windows that looked out on sundry strange worlds. There was something familiar about that. Briefly, he searched his childhood memories. Images of his aunt’s face floated from the depths — a grim face, haggard and snaggletoothed. He saw her thin-lipped mouth curled with contempt — contempt for him, her sister’s bastard son. Kwip’s mother had died in childbed delivering him, and his aunt had resented the burden that he was. Kwip remembered the sting of the rod across the backs of his thighs, still heard the whistle and the crack. Unpleasant memories indeed. And the bugbears she frightened him with, the stories. She would sell him into servitude, she would, if he didn’t straighten out — sell him to an evil sorcerer-king who lived in a black castle. What was the name again? It was on the tip of his tongue.
Unspeakable harridan! May she rot in Hell.
Coming to a corner, he turned and walked the length of the forebuilding, then entered a spiral stairwell and descended until he came upon a landing with an archway leading into the keep. He went through and turned left, walking along a short hallway that terminated in a rectangular stairway. This he descended, pausing at each floor to look about. Nothing brewing. About six floors down he stepped from the raised landing and strode off to the left, following a wide hallway broken by a series of pillared archways. Here and there the walls were hung with paired weapons flanking shields upon which were emblazoned a strange heraldic device. Kwip stopped to examine one. Ostensibly, the design was of a black dragon rampant on a field of red — but was that indeed a dragon? Winged it was, yes, but far more horrific. It had three sets of legs, the front pair ending in great, clawed feline paws. The head was feline in one aspect, reptilian in another. The huge wings were tipped with spines. Even in featureless outline the image set Kwip’s spine to tingling. Something about it …
Kwip shrugged and walked on. Doubtless some mythical animal.
After wandering through a maze of corridors, he paused at a junction roofed with a groined vault. He sniffed the air. He smelled food, and realized how hungry he was. Following his nose, he soon came to a wide archway leading through to a dining hall. Inside, a few strangely dressed people were seated at a long table draped in fine white cloth and set with a wide variety of comestibles.
“Hello, there!” one of them called.
His gaze fixed on the table, Kwip approached the group.
“We’re having a bit of lunch,” a thin man with wire-rim eyeglasses said brightly. “Would you care to join us? My name is DuQuesne. This is Edmund Jacoby, and … um, is anything wrong?”
Kwip tore his eyes from the food — it was a feast fit for any manner of royal personage one could name, more food and more sorts of food than he’d ever seen in one place at one time. He suddenly felt self-conscious, despite the man’s amiable greeting, and somewhat out of place.
“Did you say …?” Kwip cleared his throat and ran his tongue over his dry lips. He managed a smile. “I am feeling a mite hollow.”
“Do sit down and help yourself, my good man.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Kwip seated himself and looked around uneasily.
“Wine?” DuQuesne asked, holding up a bottle.
Kwip nodded and watched DuQuesne fill a long-stemmed glass. He reached for it, warily raised it in salute. “To your health, sir.”
DuQuesne nodded, smiling.
Kwip drained the glass in three gulps, wiped his lips on the sleeve o
f his doublet, and belched loudly.
DuQuesne reached for a platter bearing a large cut of meat. He set it in front of Kwip. “The roast is especially good today.”
Kwip took out his dagger, cut off a healthy slice, and stuffed it in his mouth. He smiled and nodded in approval. He began to eat in earnest. He reached for a wheel of cheese, chopped out a wedge, and bit off half. He took a loaf of bread, wrenched off a piece and crammed that in too.
“You must have some more wine,” DuQuesne told him, refilling the glass.
Kwip smiled through his mouthful, but didn’t — and couldn’t — speak. Abruptly self-conscious again, he halted a motion to tear into the roast beef. He put down the dagger, chewed, then swallowed quickly though with some difficulty. He glanced around the table with an embarrassed smile and said, “I beg your indulgence, sirs. My swinish manners … I crave your forgiveness —”
“Tut-tut,” Jacoby said.
“Eat hearty, my friend,” DuQuesne told him. “We have a relaxed attitude toward etiquette here. Enjoy yourself.”
“You are most gracious, sir. I am not used to sitting at table with persons of quality such as yourself.”
“Oh, please,” DuQuesne protested.
“In truth, sir.”
“Hardly.”
Kwip took a sip of wine. A thought occurred to him. “Have I …?” He looked at the four men seated about the table. “Have I the honor of dining with the master of this castle?”
They all laughed.
“We are all Guests here,” Jacoby said, “as are you.”
“Ah.” Kwip took a bite of cheese and chewed thoughtfully. “Then may I ask to whom I am in debt for this repast?” He lifted the wineglass to his lips.
“His name is Incarnadine,” DuQuesne began, “and there are at least a hundred honorifics tagging after it, but we simply call him Lord … what’s the matter?”
Recovered from choking on his wine, Kwip gasped, “Did you say …? An eternity of pardon, did you say … Incarnadine?”
“Why, yes.”
Kwip sat back, rubbing his throat. He glanced around uncomfortably, then knitted his brow in troubled thought. “I see.”
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