Castle Spellbound c-7 Read online

  "In other words, I wouldn't have actual command," Trent said.

  "I need a plan for a lightning offensive. I want to get the war over quick, very quick. Minimum casualties."

  "What's the milieu?"

  "Late Bronze Age."

  Trent laughed. "Good luck. And here I was thinking laser-guided missiles."

  "I'm of a mind that it can be done at any level of technological development."

  "Well, I'm of a mind to agree with you, but the strategic situation has to be just right."

  "This one is near perfect. We have naval superiority, slightly superior numbers, and better-trained soldiers."

  Trent asked, "Then why do you need me, particularly?"

  "As I said, I want minimum casualties. What this world lacks is superior military science. Things are fairly primitive on that score. Wars tend to be long and bloody. I want this one to be short and, while I can't hope for zero casualties, I want the body count to be as low as possible."

  Trent nodded. "Gotcha. What's the mission objective?"

  "Reducing a fortified town near the sea. You won't be able to lay siege immediately, though, because they can field a pretty good army. Once you reduce their numbers, they'll use the town as a redoubt…." Incarnadine smiled. "Do I detect a note of interest?"

  Trent half-smiled, "Perhaps you do."

  "Well, let's delay the briefing. This is a party, no shoptalk allowed."

  "I still don't quite like the idea of Trent fighting a war," Sheila said.

  "More like a war game," Trent remarked, "judging from the sound of it. At least it'll be such to me, sitting in my den with maps and unit markers."

  "Still…" Sheila remained unconvinced.

  "Think it over," Incarnadine said. "Let me know. We have some time in that theater. In the other one, things are a bit more critical."

  "Oh? What's the milieu there?"

  "Muskets and cavalry charges."

  "Sounds more like my line of work."

  "Sorry, that one I have to handle myself. Still interested?"

  Trent took a long drink, then said, "Yes. Yes, I think I am.

  "I'll have my operational staff brief you in the morning. Okay?"

  "Okay. And thanks, Inky-

  "You look like you need something to get the blood rushing. Besides, you're getting a paunch."

  Sheila shook her head. "You two keep talking as though he's going to be fighting this war."

  Trent pulled his wife closer. "Woman, you are not to worry, hear? This is strictly a desk job. Right, Inky?"

  "Right."

  "Though I might have to pay a few visits to this world to get the feel of things," Trent dissembled.

  "He won't have to go anywhere near the actual fracas," Incarnadine lied blackly.

  "Right."

  "Well, okay," Sheila said dubiously.

  A band struck up a Caribbean beat. Couples took to dancing.

  "Let's dance," Sheila said, dragging her husband away.

  "Sure. See you later, Inky."

  "Have a good time."

  The king slurped up the last of his Slammer and turned back to the bar.

  "I think I will try a Kamikaze."

  "You're quite sure, my liege lord?"

  "Banzai!"

  KING'S TOWER — CELLAR

  Thorsby took another pull on the bottle of cooking sherry and put a foot up on the old carved table at which he sat. He belched loudly.

  Not far away, Fetchen swept the floor desultorily, pushing dust back and forth.

  "You missed a spot," Thorsby told him, pointing.

  "Up yours," Fetchen said pleasantly.

  Thorsby laughed. Then he yawned. "I never seem to get enough sleep," he complained. "Think I might bed down on that old settee over there, catch a wink."

  "You could sweep just a little." Thorsby looked around. "Well, there's only one broom, isn't there?"

  "Now that's a fix." Fetchen threw the broom at him.

  Grinning, Thorsby caught it neatly and laid it aside. "Sit down," he said. "Take a load off."

  Fetchen came over and snagged the bottle from him. "You've just about drunk the whole bloody thing."

  "Wasn't much left."

  Fetchen guzzled the dregs of the sherry and tossed the bottle among some heaped rags and boxes in a corner.

  "Look at him making a filthy mess."

  Fetchen glanced around at the piles of crates, stacks of musty books, battered antique furniture, and other junk. "What are you puling about?"

  Thorsby belched again. Then he farted.

  "First intelligent comment we've had out of you all day."

  "Shut your hole. I need a drink."

  "That sherry's bleeding awful."

  "Yes, quite. Let's conjure something."

  "You do awful stuff. Undrinkable."

  "Well, it's alcohol, isn't it?"

  "Marsh water."

  "You do it, then." Fetchen scowled.

  Thorsby chuckled. "Not so easy, eh? Food magic's hard enough, but drink magic-well, now."

  "Wait a minute." Fetchen got up, crossed the crypt, and began rummaging in a pile of debris. "Saw something when I moved this stuff… now, where did I-? Oh, here it is."

  He returned bearing a tattered leatherbound book, which he set on the table in front of Thorsby. "Have a look at that."

  "An old grimoire," Thorsby said after glancing at it. So?"

  "Read the title."

  Thorsby wiped the dust away. "The Delights of the Flesh." He sat up. "Ye gods."

  "There's one the Royal Librarian keeps under lock and key."

  "I should say so." Thorsby opened the book and began leafing through it.

  Fetchen moved his chair. "A houri."

  "Ah. Two of them."

  "Imagine being crushed between two sets of-"

  "Oh, look at her."

  "Gods, look at that one."

  "They have names. Fatima… Jalila… Layla… Safa-"

  "Who cares a fig for their names?"

  "And here are the spells to conjure 'em with."

  "Dare we? I remember warnings about this book."

  "Can you resist that?"

  Fetchen slavered at the full-page engraving. "Not for long."

  Thorsby flipped more pages. "There's everything here. Food spells, love charms, all manner of opiates and philtres-"

  "Drink. Let's have a drink."

  "All right, then. Where's the incantation?"

  "No, you have to do the thing in the front of the book first. The general invocation and pact."

  "Exactly who and what are we invoking? What kind of magic is this?"

  "It's ancient, and very tricky."

  "Not the sort of stuff you learn in school, is it?"

  "It's on the Index of Proscribed Books. I remember it."

  "Who cares. We can handle it."

  Fetchen made a dubious face.

  Thorsby winked. "Come on, then. Just a few of the more innocuous spells. Can't hurt, can it?"

  "I dunno."

  "Are you game or are you not, Fetchen?"

  Fetchen thought about it, then replied, "I'm game."

  It took a good hour to clear away debris, sweep the floor clean, and inscribe magical symbols on it. The pattern was a set of interlocking geometric figures. None were traditional pentacles.

  "Odd," Thorsby opined.

  "That's it, then. All done."

  "What now? Incantations?"

  "None. `Upon the completion of these devices, the pact is sealed thereon."' Fetchen threw the book down. "Now we get everything we wish for."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that."

  "All right, then. Give us a bottle of wine."

  A bottle appeared in the air not far from Thorsby's head, hung for a split second, then dropped.

  Delighted, Thorsby caught it. "That's the ticket! Oh, look, it's bubbly."

  "Let's have two bottles," Fetchen said, and another instantly appeared.

  Thorsby worked
the cork up on his and popped it. He upended the bottle and drank deeply. Swallowing, he regarded his partner with a look of disbelief. "That's… it's delicious! I've never-"

  Fetchen drank from his. "It can't be just wine."

  "Ambrosia!"

  "The nectar of the gods!"

  "Let's have more!" Thorsby commanded. "And food. Lots of food. A kingly feast!"

  "And the women to serve us."

  "Gods yes, the women," Thorsby said, rushing to the discarded book. He picked it up and frantically paged. "This one… and this one. Oh, can't forget her."

  "For you? Three?"

  "Why not? You can have four if you want. Five."

  "Three's all I can handle. Until I get drunk."

  "Wait."

  Fetchen stopped short of another swig. "What?"

  "Grosmond. We have to get this room done."

  "Look under `slaves, menial.'"

  "Oh." Thorsby flipped a few pages. "Slaves, factotums. Yes, we need a grunt to do our work. Gods, ugly thing."

  "Homunculus."

  "I suppose we need someone to clean up after us."

  "Right. We need it. Give us this one."

  A gnarled, bent form appeared at the center of the conjuring device. It was vaguely manlike, but had an enormous head. One eye was beside the nose, and the one above the nose was smaller, slitlike. The side of its head bulged a bit. One corner of its wide mouth leaked a rivulet of clear fluid. It was short and vaguely male but more androgynous than anything. Its clothing-blue denim bib overalls-lent an incongruous note. Its small four-toed feet were bare.

  "Hideous thing," Fetchen said.

  "You, there," Thorsby called.

  "Yes, master?"

  The creature's voice rasped like a saw.

  "Take this."

  The homunculus stooped to pick up the thrown broom.

  "Clean up a bit, will you? There's a good fellow."

  "Yes, master. What shall I clean, master?"

  "This place."

  "All of it, master?"

  "Yes, all of it, every last nook and cranny. Straighten it right up. Dust it up good, sort out the junk, and arrange it all on the floor there for inspection. Take care not to cover up the pattern, there."

  "Yes, master. Will there be anything else, master?"

  "Just do a good job, whatever it takes. And report when you're done."

  "Whatever it takes. Very good, master." The creature began to sweep diligently.

  "What now?" Fetchen asked.

  Thorsby gulped down more sparkling wine and let out a sigh of supreme satisfaction. He looked at Fetchen with a triumphant grin.

  "Now, my friend, we throw a right proper party. The biggest, the best party ever. An orgy. A saturnalia." Fetchen nodded. He stepped forward to command forces unseen.

  "All right, then, let's have your best tits and arse!"

  CLUB SHEILA

  The sun went down, the tide went out. Everyone began to dance and shout.

  "Hey, hey," Gene said, doing the lambada with Linda.

  "Ho, ho," Linda averred. She was a good dancer.

  "Shake that thing."

  They danced lewdly. People watched.

  Finally Gene said, "I'm bushed. And this is getting me horny."

  "Yeah. Me, too."

  "Want to take a walk on the beach?"

  "Sure," Linda said.

  They walked off the patio and past the pool, into which several people had either fallen, dived, or been pushed. The liquor had been flowing steadily, and things were getting nicely out of hand.

  Laughter rang out. The night was festive and gay.

  They crossed tennis courts and passed through the frinQe of palm trees that edged the beach. Here the water was close, low breakers washing the slowly eroding sand. Linda took her high-heeled shoes off.

  They sat together on the beach, legs crossed, knees touching. The moon was directly above, very high, very large, and full. It had dark markings on it that made it look like another planet. Which in fact it was, though a small one. The tides here were strong, much stronger than on Earth. In the morning, when the tide was at its lowest ebb, the surf would recede almost two hundred yards.

  "It's a shame to let that romantic moon go to waste," Gene said.

  "Sure is," Linda agreed.

  She hooked an arm around his neck, drew him close, and kissed him. It wasn't a fooling-around kiss.

  They parted and Gene looked at the moon again. "Now, I wonder what brought that on? The booze?"

  Linda shrugged. She was a little high. Not all that much, but a little.

  "Maybe," she said. "Was I out of line?"

  "Not at all. It was just a little surprising. Funny that we've never… well, you know."

  "Yeah. We're good friends. Buddies."

  "That wasn't a buddy kiss."

  "Nope. Did you like it?"

  "I certainly did."

  "Good," Linda said. "Let's do it again." They did it again, and took their time about it.

  "But why now, after all this time?" Gene wanted to know afterward.

  "I don't know, Gene. Maybe I never realized how much I like you. Maybe it's about time I stopped waiting for…"

  "Waiting for Mr. Right?"

  "I hate that expression."

  "So do I. Maybe it'll take a bit more time."

  "I'm tired of waiting."

  "But… "

  She nodded "I know, Gene, I know. Sorry."

  "Don't be. I'm not. I think… Linda, I think you're carrying a torch for somebody."

  "It shows, eh?"

  "Yeah. I won't ask who."

  "Don't, please." She scooped up some sand. "Oh, hell. I want to tell somebody. But I really can't."

  "Then don't."

  "But I want to. He's married."

  "That's tough."

  "Yeah." She tilted her hand to let sand cascade back onto the white beach.

  Gene fiddled with a shell some time before asking, "Someone in the castle?"

  "Yep."

  "Oh. Guest or staff?"

  "This is like Twenty Questions. Neither."

  "Neither?" Gene was mildly puzzled.

  "Oh, forget it. It's hopeless. Never happen. Took me years to realize I was in love with him. Then suddenly I did. I had a dream… But as I said, it's hopeless. I should forget. I should get on with my life."

  "Such as it is, inside a magical fairy fantasy castle."

  Linda giggled. "Magical fantasy fairy castle?"

  "Fairly fantastical magic castle."

  "Magical fantastical-"

  "Faerie castle."

  "What?"

  "F-a-e-r-i-e castle."

  "Oh. How did you pronounce that?" Gene made a sneering face. "Faeh."

  "Faeh?" Linda laughed.

  "Faeh-r-r-rie. Faeeeeeerr-r-r-rie."

  Linda laughed and fell back onto the sand, stretching her long legs out.

  Gene regarded her lithe body. He had never realized what nice legs she had, and her short black cocktail dress made them appear all the more shapely. He had always liked the way she was put together. Why hadn't he ever…?

  "Gene?"

  "Yes?"

  "When I said I was horny I meant it. Don't think you would be second fiddle. I've always thought you were very attractive. You're bright, witty-"

  "Gosh and shucks. I like you, too, Linda."

  "Don't think… Oh, shit. You probably think-everyone probably thinks of me as a cold fish. Asexual."

  "Nah."

  "Yeah. I know. But it's not that way. I have sexual needs, too."

  "Never said you didn't."

  "Gene, could we… should we have an affair?"

  "You know what they say about sex busting up a good friendship."

  "Is that what will happen? It doesn't have to, Gene. I won't hold you to anything. Really."

  "That's not the issue, Linda. That's not-"

  He thought better of saying what he was going to say. He decided to kiss her instead, and bent to
the task.

  The kiss was interrupted by approaching footsteps. "Here's a jolly spot!" a man's voice said. "Oh, rotten luck. Seems we're intruding on something momentous."

  Gene and Linda rolled away from each other and got up. It was Lord Peter and Cleve Dalton, each with a saronged chambermaid in tow. The women were dark and lovely and smiling.

  "Sorry, old chaps," Lord Peter said, waving a bottle apologetically. "Just in search of a good spot for a moonlight swim."

  "No, come ahead," Gene said, with instant regret.

  Cleve Dalton began, "We don't-want to-"

  "Oh, it's only Gene and Linda," Lord Peter scoffed, leading his lady friend out onto the beach.

  "I'm going to turn in early," Linda said, picking up her shoes. "I'm bushed."

  She gave Gene a long look. He met her gaze. The matter was somewhere very high up in the air.

  "Good night," he said.

  Linda walked back through the trees. Gene looked after her a long time. He was vexed, puzzled, and unsure. Presently he turned toward the intruders. Clothes already lay in piles on the beach. The two couples were wading out into the breakers, backlit by the huge moon.

  He got a fifth-wheel feeling and began to follow in Linda's footsteps, then halted.

  He didn't quite know what he wanted to do.

  He struck off down the beach in search of solitude and quiet. And darkness. He had some thinking to do. Some very important thinking.

  Why now, he wondered, after all this time?

  CELLAR

  The musty old crypt had gotten somewhat bigger, and in the process had acquired some interesting attributes. Completely transformed, it was now a plush seraglio fit for a sultan, padded with carpets, tapestries, pillows, and rugs. Standing braziers threw off the smoke of fragrant incense. Scented oils burned in dozens of polished silver lamps.

  There were two recliners, and on them reclined Thorsby and Fetchen. Attending each were no less than eight houris. "Peel us a grape, love," Thorsby commanded..

  A bare, milky arm reached out, a purple morsel 'twixt thumb and index finger.

  "Ye gods, that is a peeled grape."

  "It is yours but to wish, O Great One," said the houri nearest him.

  His hand idly roving across smooth bare female flesh, Thorsby accepted the bit of skinned fruit. It was sweet, melting on his tongue. A burst of flavor filled his mouth, flavor unlike any he had ever experienced.

  "Gods, if that's a bloody grape, what's the real food like?"