Bride of the Castle c-8 Read online

  "Hardly," Linda said calmly. "Now just take it easy. Who are you?"

  The man lowered his sword a little, looking around wildly. "Where is this place? Where am I?"

  "Castle Perilous," Linda told him. "In the chapel."

  "Indeed," the man said, dropping his sword arm. He spun around, taking in the vastness of the place. He nodded. "A fine edifice it is. But where is it?"

  "Well, where are you from?"

  "Corcindor," the man said. "I am Rance of Corcindor."

  "Rance, nice to meet you. You've somehow walked into Castle Perilous. It's a nice place, and no one's going to torment you."

  "So you say," Rance circled, still taking the measure of the place, assessing its dangers. At the same time he was awed. He had never seen such a fine cathedral.

  Presently he stopped and sheathed his sword. "I believe you."

  "You didn't come in through a portal," Linda said.

  "Portal?"

  "That's the usual way to enter Castle Perilous, through a magic doorway."

  "Ah. Magic. I've had a bellyful of that!"

  "Yeah, it gets old. How did you get here? Do you know?"

  "I can only surmise. I was flung here by the black spell of an evil wizard. If the spell worked, this is a world that is not the world, but another which is entirely different and separate."

  "I'd say that was an accurate statement. Are you hungry?"

  "Eh? Why… yes." Rance thought about it. "I'm famished."

  "Let's go to the dining room. I'm Linda Barelay. Nice to meet you."

  Rance took her hand, looked down at it, then up at her. "You are a beautiful woman."

  "Thank you."

  "Though attired strangely. Are you sure you're not a demon?"

  "Quite sure. Will you dine with us, Rance?"

  "Uh… yes. I would be honored."

  "You're a Guest, capital G. A Guest of the Castle. This way."

  Rance watched Linda walk off. Her companions, among whom were several other attractive women, followed hard on her heels. One or two of them regarded him warily, but their manner was not wholly uninviting.

  He took one last look around.

  "Benarus, I may thank you yet," he murmured. Keeping a distance, he followed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "My head still hurts," Gene said. "Don't feel like running a gauntlet today."

  "Well, you're probably not going to have any choice in the matter," Snowclaw said as he watched the barbarians line up by twos, their swords and axes ready.

  "I prefer not to."

  Snowclaw chuckled. "They prefer otherwise. Looks like a bunch of them are going to chase you through the lineup from one side, so yoe can't go back. You'll have to fight your way through."

  "My goddamn head hurts."

  Snowclaw stepped back and surveyed the makeshift stockade that imprisoned them. "I could rip out these posts with a little work. Maybe we could make a break for it."

  "They'd catch us. Besides, I'm going to teach them a lesson for whacking me on the head."

  "Oh, you are?"

  "Yup."

  Snowclaw chortled again. "Fine by me. This is gonna be good."

  "Should be."

  The sky was overcast, a gray dome above the steppes. A chilly wind blew in from the west, where a low-hanging sun was a ball of yellow fuzz surrounded by swirls of gray. Short grass rippled in the wind, and the occasional tall weed bent to necessity.

  "You sound really confident," Snowclaw observed.

  "I am. This world is very amenable to my sword magic."

  "It is?"

  "Yup. In fact, it's super-amenable."

  "Yeah? But you don't have a sword."

  Gene said, "Good point. However, do you think they're going to send me through that gauntlet without one? Or are they going to be sporting about it?"

  "I dunno," said Snowclaw.

  "I think they'll give me a pretty lousy sword to make it sport. You know, to see how long I can last. Is their leader around-the guy with the horned helmet?"

  Snowy scanned the campsite. "Yeah, he's there."

  "Good." Gene yawned.

  "Looks like they're about ready for you. Think they'll make me run it, too?"

  "I think they'll just stick spears at you through the stockade."

  "Then I should loosen these posts a little so I can get out quick and rip into 'em."

  "Yeah," Gene said, "surprise them. Hey, Snowy."

  Snowclaw grasped one of the posts and began to twist, his sinews rippling beneath his fur. "Uhhh!… What?"

  "Do you remember… when we were looking into this world, through the portal. Do you remember if you saw the grass waving real fast or clouds hauling ass across the sky? Recall anything like that?"

  "Uhhh. These posts are really in there… Uh, no, I really don't remember, Gene."

  "I think I remember. If true, it means that there's time slippage between this universe and the castle's. I might not miss the wedding after all."

  "Uhhhhhhhhh… there! That one's out a little."

  "Not that missing the wedding would be a bad idea. No, wait. I didn't mean that. I love Linda. I really do."

  "Uhh. This one's loose already. And so's… yeah, so's this one. Okay, I'm ready for the ugly little runts. Boy, I'm going to enjoy this."

  "Snowy, do you think we're compatible?"

  "You and me? I dunno. What's it mean?"

  "I mean me and Linda. Oh, why the hell am I asking you?"

  "I give up. By the way, here they come."

  "Wonderful."

  Gene jumped to his feet and peered through the posts. A contingent of no less than six barbarians was walking toward the stockade, armed with axes, swords, and spears.

  "Snowy, what's really odd is that they don't seem to think there's anything unusual about you."

  "What's unusual about me?"

  "Nothing, but this is a human world, and you are obviously nonhuman. But they seem to regard you as merely an oversized man."

  "Pretty dumb of them."

  "No, I think it's something else."

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "Magic. Your magic."

  "My magic? Hey, I don't have any of that stuff."

  "Everyone who ends up in Castle Perilous gets magic powers, to some degree or another. You've never seemed to have any at all, and I've always wondered. But you do have a talent, and I think it has to do with disguising yourself."

  "Yeah? How do I do that?"

  "I don't know. I doubt if you know how you do it. But you do it. Remember when you went to Earth that one time, and Linda whipped up a spell-or was it Sheila? Anyway, it was a disguise spell."

  "That fizzled."

  "Yeah, it fizzled. But the trouble with Linda or Sheila doing it is that neither of them can work much magic on Earth. Not many people can. Even Incarnadine has trouble. See what I mean?"

  Snowy considered it. Then he shook his head. "No."

  "You disguised yourself, somehow. It was magic. I don't know how you worked Earth magic, but you did. And you're doing it here, again. And you've done it in a lot of other worlds. Someone had to start the spell, but you kept it going."

  "Okay, I'll buy it," Snowclaw said. "Anyway, does that mean I get to tussle with that lineup of ugly runts?"

  "Could be, could be."

  "We have a little celebration prepared for you two," one of the barbarians said with a snaggletoothed smile. He wore an ornate metal helmet. The others wore helmets of leather braided with wicker or a like material.

  "Nice of you to think of us," Gene said. "It appears you'll be breaking camp soon. True?"

  "True. We march on Verimas, and hope to lay siege to it by week's end. I fear you won't be present for those festivities."

  "Yeah, too bad, sounds like fun. What's the occasion of this little party you're throwing for us?"

  "Oh, something of an initiation ceremony, actually."

  "Yeah? Initiation into what?"

  "Into our ranks, the allied trib
es of the Outlands. The Empire calls us the Gowthan."

  "So you're inviting us to join your outfit? Hey, that's real camaraderie."

  The barbarian laughed. "Don't be too grateful. You have to pass the ordeal first." He turned and pointed to the twin lines of armed men. "That's the Gauntlet of Heroes. You have to get from one end to the other. We'll give you each a sword and a shield. Fair is fair. If you come out to the other side in reasonably good shape, you'll be pressed into service. If you don't make it, we'll give you a hero's burial."

  Gene smiled. "Damned decent of you."

  "After all, we're not barbarians." The man's grin widened to reveal a gap left by a missing bicuspid. The rest of his broken teeth merited yanking as well.

  "Well, Snowy, looks like they're going to give us a chance to show our stuff."

  Snowclaw opined a low, gloating chuckle.

  Gene turned his charming smile on his host. "Anytime you're ready, Gruesome."

  The gate unbarred, the two prisoners were bade to come out, and, at sword's point, were persuaded to cross to the left end of the twin rows of eager barbarians, who clapped sword against shield and cheered when the two strangers took the weapons offered them.

  Gene swished his ill-made sword around. "Wonderful." He examined the blade. "Not exactly Damascus steel."

  "It will serve you for as long you'll need it," said Gruesome with an evil snicker, "which shouldn't be long."

  "You got an axe?" Snowy requested.

  "Give him an axe!" someone shouted.

  An axe was delivered, and Snowy hefted it. "This'll do."

  "Shield?" Gruesome offered.

  "Get that wimp-lid out of my face, fella."

  "We have a brave one here. Take him to the other end of the gauntlet!"

  Drums began to beat as Snowclaw was escorted to the other end of the lineup. Gene surveyed his helmeted adversaries, flashing a grin.

  "Hi, guys, nice to see ya." Nervous laughter from the ranks.

  "Come dance to the beat of our drums, stranger," one of the men said.

  "Do you do the Lambeth Walk?"

  "Eh?"

  "Never mind, pal. I'll lead."

  The tempo of the drumbeat increased.

  "Let the ordeal begin!" Gruesome shouted into the wind. Gene approached the first two men, sword raised, shield up. As he neared, the one on the right leaped at him, bringing his sword down in a haymaker swing. Gene easily warded it off and parried with a lunge to the midsection. The sword pierced the man's solar plexus deeply.

  The man's breath went out of him, his horrified face up against Gene's. He grunted in pain and disbelief.

  Gene brought up his knee and pushed him away just in the nick of time, the second man's sword whanging against the wood-and-leather shield. He took two steps back, then charged.

  In a blinding series of feints, thrusts and parries, he fought the second man like something possessed, finishing off with one gigantic swipe.

  Gene stepped off and watched the headless body teeter for a moment before it fell over. Then he whirled to face the next pair of combatants.

  It went pretty well after that, Gene's magic performing even better than expected. After he had worked his way six or seven pairs down the line, he had a second to look up and see how Snowclaw was doing. Mutilated bodies lay all along the other end of the gauntlet. A head flew.

  Satisfied that things were going well, Gene continued to fight. The magic seemed to grown ever stronger. He was invincible, or imagined he was; which might have been the same thing. He made short work of his end of the gauntlet, and when the last man decided that discretion was the better part of barbaric bellicosity and ran off, Gene turned to meet Snowclaw, who wore a toothy, satisfied smile.

  "That was fun," Snowclaw said.

  "Keeps the blood moving," Gene agreed, then turned to see how the leader of the tribes took it.

  The chief, a tall bearded man wearing a horned helmet, regarded them with an equanimity belied by a nervous tic in one eye, his long fur cloak flapping in the wind.

  Gene and Snowclaw approached him. "You fight well," the chief said evenly.

  "Thanks, Brunhilda," Gene said. "What's your beef against the Empire? By the way, what Empire?"

  "You know not of the Empire of Orem? Where do you hail from?"

  "Far, far away. How has Orem wronged you?"

  "Wronged me?" The chief laughed. "I am Rognar the Conqueror. I have crossed the stone mountains, swept across the Great Open and come down to the lands of the Cake Eaters, who tremble before me, for they know that the days of their empire are numbered. I will take Verimas next week, and after that the great fortress town of Rhane. And then the way to great Orem itself will be open. Orem will fall and the Cake Eaters will be crushed under the hooves of my white stallion."

  "You have a problem with hostility," Gene said. "Have you ever been in therapy?"

  "I know not the things you speak of. I think you jest. Nevertheless, I have seen you fight and defeat any number of my best men. Are you sorcerers?"

  Gene looked at Snowclaw, then back at Rognar. "In a manner of speaking."

  "Then you are welcome to join us. There will be much booty. Gold, silver, women. You will be welcome to your share of the spoils."

  "What do you say, Snowy? Need any gold, silver, or women?"

  "Just give me a couple of good fights and you can keep the rest of it," Snowclaw said.

  Gene smiled at the chief. "You've persuaded us. Where do we sign up?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Night.

  Brooding, suspicious night, settled on Hawkingsmere. A chill wind blew in from the heath, rattling old windows and setting bare twigs to tick against the windows. Ghost-cloud chased across a starless sky. The wind whimpered in th, eaves.

  Policemen and deputized locals took up posts at ever door of the estate. Outside, more men prowled the ground. No one could leave, no one could enter.

  For all that the manor was full of guests, a strange quiet fell: a hushed, fearful quiet.

  Inspector Motherwell drank from his teacup, then set cup and the saucer down. "So, what do we have so far?"

  "Not much," Colonel Petheridge said.

  The door to the library opened and Blackpool came in. "If there is nothing else, gentlemen, I will retire."

  "Lock your door, like the others," Motherwell instructed

  "I will, sir."

  "Are they all nestled in up there?" Colonel Petheridg asked. "Room for everybody?"

  "Yes, sir. There are eighteen bedrooms in this house."

  Motherwell humphed. "The ruling class, they do live well. Very good, off you go, Blackpool."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  When Blackpool had left, Motherwell grimaced. "Creepy sort, don't you think?"

  "Occupational hazard," Petheridge said. "They live in the cracks."

  "Hm? Oh, yes. Right." Motherwell sighed. "Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. Two murders, too many suspects, no clues."

  Thaxton asked, "You were saying, before Blackpool came in?"

  "I was saying? Oh, yes. Well, I was saying that I wanted a gathering in of all the loose ends. The possibilities, as it were."

  Thaxton said, "We'd come to the conclusion that Amanda Thripps was nowhere near Lady Festleton's bedroom at the time of the murder. She was in the conservatory with Humphrey Thayne-Chetwynde and Sir Laurence."

  "But she did have a motive, if she thought that Honoria had killed the earl, her lover."

  "Correct."

  Motherwell continued, "And Lady Festleton's outrage on finding out that Amanda was the earl's current mistress might have been a motive for killing him. Although she did know he'd had others."

  Thaxton said, "We do have the maid's testimony that she got the blackmail letter in the morning post. She read it, and immediately rushed out of the house."

  "Where did she have the sawed-off stashed?" Dalton wanted to know. "Maid didn't see her with it."

  "Outside somewhere?" Thaxton guesse
d. "In a shed? Blast it, if I'd only seen more of her from the portal. But it was only a fleeting glimpse."

  Motherwell looked up from his cup and saucer. "Eh, what's that? What portal?"

  Thaxton said, "Uh…"

  "Port Road," Dalton improvised.

  "What?" Petheridge snorted. "That's not the Port Road out there. It's miles to the south."

  "Yes, I knew, but Lord Peter has a terrible time reading a map."

  "Right," Thaxton said, relieved.

  "I see," Motherwell said. "Anyway; we've established that the earl was being blackmailed."

  "That's something," Thaxton said. "But not a motive for murder in either case."

  "No," Motherwell said. "The blackmailer wouldn't profit by the death of either the earl or Lady Festleton. Which brings us round to Amanda Thripps again."

  "Or Daphne Pembroke," Dalton said.

  Motherwell nodded. "The earl's previous mistress, the woman scorned. But she has an alibi. She fired the only other shot, which you heard moments before the fatal one, and she was far out on the heath and surrounded by witnesses."

  "And there's Horace Grimsby," Dalton said, "Miss Pembroke's jilted suitor."

  "Who also witnessed Daphne banging away at a grouse that the dogs had flushed," Thaxton said. "Or says he did."

  "The others might be covering for him," Motherwell said. "If you'll forgive, my lord, the upper class look out after their own."

  "In some cases," Lord Peter acknowledged. "And in this case, Grimsby could have been the blackmailer."

  "'The postmark was local," Petheridge pointed out.

  "Yes, it was," Motherwell said, adding ruefully, "and if Grimsby's typewriter matched the typeface on the envelope, we'd have the case bloody well solved."

  "Your men have been quick on the legwork," Thaxton said.

  "Thank you. I like to get on things straight away. But that lead proved a blind alley."

  "Easy to use someone else's typer," Petheridge said. "Simply bring the envelope to dinner or a soiree, slip into the den, and Bob's your uncle."

  "True, but we can't very well go running around the countryside, barging into everyone's den checking typers, now can we?"

  "Suppose not," Petheridge admitted.

  "What about this business of Stokes the gamekeeper getting into a dust-up last night with a prowler?" Thaxton said. "That's intriguing, what with the interloper being a dark-skinned foreigner."