Castle Spellbound c-7 Read online

Carrying three sacks of gold and jewels, Kwip climbed the spiral stairs of the High Tower, huffing and puffing. He was hating every minute of it.

  Trying to get away from the confusion on the lower levels of the keep, he had first tried to reach the basement, only to find that the strange apparitions increased the lower he went. He had run to the nearest tower and begun climbing. He had been climbing steadily for the better part of an hour.

  The High Tower was high indeed. But was it high enough?

  Periodically he had stopped to explore a floor or two, finding more anomalies, more odd goings-on. Harlequins and troubadours milling about. Marching orchestras playing their "music" at unbelievable volume. How anyone could abide such noise was beyond his comprehension.

  No matter. He would hole up somewhere, hie himself through an aspect and fritter away some time there until the tumult died down.

  But you never knew about aspects. You didn't want to go blundering into one without reconnoitering. And loaded as he was with swag? — well, that was taking an enormous risk. He hoped to avoid risk altogether. The castle was a vasty barn; surely it was big enough to provide a hiding place. Surely the hurly-burly wouldn't spread to the entire castle. Someone was coming down the stairs.

  He suppressed an impulse to run back down. Better to brass it out.

  A youngish man with a thin, scratchy-looking beard came round the bend of the stairwell. He was dressed in a slovenly T-shirt and faded jeans. Seeing Kwip, he halted.

  "Did you ever wonder why the next line over in a bank moves faster than yours? And when you get in that line, the line you were in starts to move faster? That happens in supermarkets, too. Did you ever wonder about that?"

  Kwip kept silent and continued marching up the steps. "And did you ever notice that the lane you're driving in always ends in five hundred feet? It's never the other lane! Why is that?"

  Kwip passed him and kept climbing.

  The comedian didn't follow but kept on talking.

  "Why can't you be `unkempt' but you can't be `kempt'? How can you be un-something but you can't be the something? That's not logical. And did you ever wonder about-?"

  "Blow it out your arsehole!" Kwip growled over his shoulder.

  He kept mounting the stair, the sacks growing heavier and heavier. He was exhausted. He couldn't climb another flight. When he reached the next landing, he exited the stairwell.

  "Gods!"

  More pandemonium. Here were hallways choked with buskers, circus acts, ballet troupes, and vaudeville danceand-patter teams. A juggler juggling muskmelons walked past. A trained seal flippered by, a huge beach ball balanced on its snout.

  "Ye gods and green salamanders."

  Kwip steeled himself, resettled the bags against his back, and struck out into the melee.

  "I don't have any luck at all," a stocky man complained in passing. "I'm tellin' you, it's murder."

  Kwip moved on.

  Turning a corner, he halted in his tracks. Lions!

  And a lion-tamer in jodhpurs and riding boots, whip in hand. There came a cracking and much roaring.

  Kwip backstepped hastily.

  He found another crossing corridor, this one relatively empty, and lit out into it. He proceeded cautiously. The din of all the huggermugger echoed in his ears, and the smell of animal dung assailed his nostrils. Shouts and commotion came from every quarter.

  He wondered, What in the name of all the gods is going on? The castle had never been like this in all his experience of it. It was ofttimes a place fit for madmen, true enough; but its madness had never reached such a fever pitch. This was sheerest insanity. What lay behind it all? Witchery, he guessed. Evil spells. What else? Such was the cause of most of the trouble around here. Find a fracas, turn over the bodies, and you'd doubtless reveal one kind of magical trickery or another. The place was rife with sorcerers. Sometimes he had half a mind to quit it all, rush pell-mell through the first aspect that presented itself, and the devil take the hindmost!

  A great maned lion came round the corner ahead. It stopped in its tracks and glowered at Kwip.

  Kwip halted. He smiled weakly. "Nice puss," he said.

  The lion snarled. Then it sniffed. Fresh meat.

  "N-n…" Kwip licked his dry lips and swallowed. "Nice pussy. Dear pussycat." He began to back off.

  The lion advanced a few steps forward, still taking Kwip's olfactory measure. Its tail swished back and forth. Kwip hurled the sacks at it and ran. At his back, the lion roared.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of trees and blue sky. An aspect! He altered his path and ran for it, crossing through an alcove. He streaked through the magic doorway. Into another world.

  Coming out into fresh air, he sprinted across a grassy clearing. On reaching its other side he dove into low brush, hunkered down low, and held his breath.

  He pushed a twig aside and looked out. The clearing was empty. The lion hadn't followed.

  He exhaled and took off his cap, wiped his brow with his sleeve. Ye gods.

  Ye gods! The gold! He'd left it strewn across the castle flagstones. He'd best get back there quickly.

  He looked again. No great beasts in sight. But there was plenty of cover to hide a big cat. He didn't want to risk being caught out in the open. He'd better wait a bit.

  But all he could think of was the gold. Glittering yellow metal, finely wrought into cups and plates and medallions and rings and things, all scattered about the castle, waiting for the first person to come along and scoop them up. Blast! It was likely all gone already! Where was that infernal beast?

  He peered out once more. Nothing. He'd have to risk it. Now, where was the portal? There.

  No. There. No, wrong again. It should be directly across the clearing. The grass wasn't tall enough to have bent in his path; no tracks to retrace his steps. But he hadn't run that far. The way back to the castle should be… there.

  Well, it was somewhere about, of that he was sure. With no lion to bother him, he would simply search until he found it. Unless…

  Unless this was an aspect that tended to pop in and out of existence, as some were wont to do. In that case, the portal might have disappeared, and he'd be stranded. Best not to think of that, yet.

  He put on his cap. He got to his feet slowly, looking around, then cautiously came out from cover. He began to walk back across the clearing.

  He was halfway across when a tremendous explosion threw up great gouts of earth at the far end of the clearing. The concussion knocked him down, and clods of dirt rained down on him.

  He was dazed, but was almost to his feet when another explosion hit in the woods he'd just left, to the same effect. More shocks followed.

  He staggered for the tree line, and when he reached it, the portal was not to be found. He fell behind a bush, lay flat, and covered his head with his arms.

  A salvo of artillery shells hit the clearing, shaking the earth and engendering in Kwip's benumbed mind the consoling thought that he didn't have to worry about the gold. He would never see the castle again.

  PIRAEON

  The assembled armada choked the harbor. There were almost four hundred ships, hailing from all over Arkadia, its possessions, protectorates, fiefdoms, and allies. Ships of every class lay moored to the docks and anchored as far out as the breakwaters: sailing vessels, galleys, longboatseven a few barges. A good number were warships of Arkadian design-long, sleek galleys-cum-sail with high curved sterns and sharp low ramming-prows. But there were also modified traders, refitted fishing boats, and other improvisations. They'd scoured every harbor in the Central Sea to get this show together.

  Trent sat at a table in front of his tent, which had been pitched on the leeward side of the hill above the harbor. He was trying to get some food into him. After what was going to happen in a very short while, he knew his appetite would vanish.

  It was practically gone already. He had before him a very good ripened cheese from Tyras, a fine red Megaran wine, raw chopped lamb with olive o
il, shallots and garlic, and good local bread; but he was barely able to force anything down. Nevertheless, he cut himself another wedge of cheese.

  His young servant, Strephon, offered him more wine. That he could handle.

  "Thank you," Trent said.

  Strephon bowed and went back into the tent.

  Trent downed the wine, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He pushed the cheese away.

  No, food didn't go well with human sacrifice.

  He looked up at the sky. It had been overcast for three solid weeks, the fierce winds bringing one storm after another. It was, he'd been told, the worst weather for this region in a century. The fleet had twice essayed a crossing of the Therean Sea to Dardanian waters, and twice foul weather had turned it back. Anthaemion was convinced the gods were against him, and was further convinced nothing less than a supreme sacrifice would propitiate them.

  How did he know? He had been told so in a dream. A frigging dream. Can you beat that?

  Say, let's kill somebody. Why? Well, I had this dream, see….

  Right.

  Trent sighed. No use condemning these benighted people. These were archaic, god-ridden times, centuries before the light of reason would dawn-if it ever would. (He had to keep reminding himself that this was not Earth and history did not have to unfold the way it did on Earth.) They didn't know any better; superstition was a way of life. Gods spoke in dreams, through oracles, out of the mouths of priests. If the gods demanded blood (and he also had to keep reminding himself that human sacrifice was fairly rare here), they got blood. Most of the time they were satisfied with a bit of roast lamb. But every once in a while they got a hankering for more exotic fare.

  Damn. Trent drank more of the excellent wine. It was a little like a Valpolicella. Not much, but a little.

  The thing that most upset him was that he couldn't do anything to prevent it. He had tried. He had talked, reasoned, argued, and cajoled until he was blue in the face. To no avail. Anthaemion remained adamant that nothing less than the sacrifice of his own daughter would ameliorate the wrath of those gods who had set themselves against the cause of the Arkadians.

  Well, maybe she was his daughter. She was the daughter of one of his concubines, but it was common knowledge that they slept around. Anthaemion might not be the girl's father. He probably hadn't even known her name up until a day or so ago.

  So maybe she wasn't his daughter. What difference did that make? That didn't make the cheese go down any easier. It didn't assuage Trent's vague sense of responsibility for having failed to talk Anthaemion out of it. The king had been on the verge of changing his mind several times, Trent had felt. If only he had pursued a point better, or presented something more to advantage, or tricked up some clever argument

  No, no use. He'd tried his best, and he'd failed. It was as simple as that.

  And what did it matter, finally, to him? This was not his land, these were not his times-this was not his world, for pity's sake. He wished his conscience would leave him alone.

  Telamon was coming up the hill. Trent rose, forced a smile, and waved.

  The Chamberlain waved back and returned the smile briefly. He mounted the last rise to the terrace slowly, hale fellow though he was. It was steep, this path up to the acropolis and its temples. Trent had ordered his tent pitched up here to get above the rotten-fish smell of the port city, to take advantage of the shelter provided by the lee side of the hill, and most of all to get away from the constant brawls and killings among the Arkadian hosts below. Ten thousand idle, itchy sword hands made for a nervous bivouac. Even at the best of times, Arkadians were a vendetta-plagued, murderous lot.

  They were human beings. So what else was new? Telamon looked grim.

  "Hail, Trent."

  "Telamon. Have you eaten?"

  "Yes. A swallow of wine, however."

  Pouring, Trent said, "Sit, drink."

  Telamon did so as Trent called for another cup, which Strephon soon delivered.

  Telamon looked up. "No break in the weather."

  Trent followed his gaze to the leaden grayness above. "No. Another storm is predicted." Trent took a drink and looked at the Chamberlain. "Is Anthaemion determined to do the thing?"

  Telamon nodded gravely. "He is. They'll be up in a trice with the girl."

  "Gods. How young…?" Trent shook his head. "No, I don't want to know."

  "Best not to think of anything now but our duty." Trent said nothing. He wanted to tell Telamon that they were all crazy. He didn't, of course.

  "The gods are strange in their ways," Telamon mused, watching fast gray clouds chase across the sky. "They are capricious. They are sometimes cruel. Yet they are gods, and we must accept them as they are and obey their will."

  "Yes, of course," Trent said. "But all we know is that the king had a dream. We do not know the will of the gods."

  "But they have not shown any sign that they do not want this thing done."

  "What would such a sign consist of?"

  "I cannot say. But surely they would make their displeasure known in some way. They always do."

  Trent heaved an internal sigh. You simply couldn't argue with these people. No way to undercut their assumptions. But how did they know the king's dream came from a god? Well, he was the king, wasn't he? Q.E.D.

  Trent began to construct another counterargument, but gave it up. There was nothing he could say to stop the killing. The only alternative was to use his magic.

  But that involved another hitch. Several. For one, this world was very flat, magically speaking. Meaning that it was hard to work any here. It could be done, with some effort, but each world's magic was different, and Trent hadn't had much time to delve into the working of the Arts here. Consequently, his repertoire was limited. For another, these people were very sensitive to magical goings-on. No doubt Anthaemion would detect meddling. He wouldn't like it a bit, and would instantly suspect Trent.

  That would never do.

  There was still another consideration. Inky had explicitly told him to lay off. His role here was limited to that of a military adviser. He was not supposed to use magic except in a military situation, and, in that case, nothing more than a temporary invisibility spell or two. If that. In fact, Trent had not planned to use any supernatural crutches at all. Tricks would only complicate the situation; besides, military magic was not always effective. Better to keep your power dry and your sword sharp. Rely on hocus-pocus at your peril.

  So, the upshot: mind your own gods-damned business. Telamon talked of other things while Trent's mind wandered. He wondered about Sheila and exactly how long he'd been gone now, according to Sheila's sense of time. He suspected that Inky had misrepresented the time-flow variance. Damn him.

  Trent was worried, because in this world, this universe, three solid months had passed since he'd arrived. He hoped Sheila wasn't fretting. Inky had assured him he'd get word to her in case of any undue delay in his return. But how much time? How long was his absence, reckoning by castle-time: A day? A week? Perhaps as much as a month had gone by. Sheila would be beside herself.

  But he was committed. He couldn't pull out. He'd pledged his help and he had to follow through. A matter of his word, his honor.

  "You are distracted, friend," Telamon was saying.

  "Hm? Oh, sorry. Yes, I'm afraid I can't get my mind off this business. I really wish-"

  Telamon looked down at the slope. "It will be over soon, and there will be no more to think about."

  Trent looked. A procession was coming up the path. Anthaemion, his court, his palace guard, others. And two soldiers escorting a young woman.

  God, she looks all of fourteen, Trent said to himself. He downed the last of his wine and rose with Telamon. They waited.

  The procession wound up the stone path. As it passed, he watched the girl. She wore a garland of myrtle around her head and was dressed in white robes. She was young, much too young. How could that miserable swine do such a thing?

  She turned her head
and looked at Trent. A faint smile crept across her lips. Bashfully; she turned her head away. She didn't know! And wouldn't till the last second, he hoped. Thank the gods.

  He'd better stop using that expression. These weren't his gods. If they existed. Not that he had really ever…

  Never mind, never mind. Should he go up and witness the bloody thing? Or stay here and get drunk, and a pox on the whole bunch of irrational, superstitious bastards?

  The procession passed. He and Telamon followed it up the slope.

  Trent's mind churned all the way up.

  The temple complex on the acropolis was small. Three temples, but only one was anything more than a gazebo affair. There were a few other small buildings and shrines. The procession passed all these and headed for the open-air altar, a stepped pyramid that sat on the edge of a cliff above the sea.

  Clouds of darker gray gathered above. The buildings were made of white marble, but they were old and weathered, even in this ancient time. (But now is now, Trent thought, correcting himself once again. And this is not Earth.)

  Trent didn't know what gods or goddesses any of these structures were dedicated to, nor did he care.

  On the altar's highest level sat a stone brazier, good for barbecues and your basic holocaust. Kill the victim, then burn the remains. That was how it was done. Usually the victim was not human.

  Trent lost sight of the head of the procession. He broke into a run to catch up.

  He sidestepped, ducked, and pushed his way through the clot of soldiers, sailors, courtiers, and noblemen, leaving ruffled dignity in his wake. Nasty looks were thrown his way, and a few swords came halfway out of scabbards. But he elbowed his way forward.

  He reached the first step of the altar and began to climb, but hit an impasse. Bodies blocked his way. He lunged. One man fell over backwards. He gained two steps. Curses came to his ears from behind.

  "Foreign trash!"

  "Sorcerous dog!"

  And worse, but he paid it no mind. Most were reluctant to challenge a sorcerer. He kept pushing his way up the terraced altar.

  One ornery soldier wasn't about to let him pass. Snarling, the man drew his sword. Trent kneed him in the balls.