Castle for Rent

John DeChancie

 

 

To Thomas F. Monteleone

 

 

 

The splendor falls on castle walls
 
And snowy summits old in story:
 
The long light shakes across the lakes,
 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
 
         
—Tennyson

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

Cellar, Near the Donjon

 

In a niche in a crypt deep within a great castle, a section of wall vanished and revealed a high-raftered, pelt-hung room which evoked the interior of a Viking hall—but not quite. Two creatures stood in the room, facing each other. They were not human, but approximated human form. Their faces were huge and wrinkled, their eyes narrow slits over a blunt snout split by a mouth not unlike a hippopotamus', save that the teeth were numerous and sharp. They had thick, squat bodies, exorbitantly muscled, with leathery blue skin. They wore pieces of shiny green armor that could have been plastic or fiberglass or some composite material—or perhaps sections of the carapace of a giant insect. Both creatures wore swords and daggers in ornate scabbards. The behavior and mannerisms of both creatures could generally be described as an exaggeration, perhaps even a parody, of behavior patterns peculiar to a certain type of overaggressive male human.

The sudden materialization of the opening had interrupted a conversation—rather, a confrontation involving bared teeth, threatening postures, and much angry grunting and gesticulating. The creature who faced the opening stopped in mid-gesture, his six-fingered hand raised to strike the other creature. A puzzled expression formed on his inhuman countenance. The other creature had backed off, hand darting to the curving grip of a pistol in a hip holster.

Slowly the first creature lowered his arm, then grunted and motioned toward the opening, which lay at his adversary's back. The other grunted threateningly in reply, warily maintaining his orientation and taking another step back. He wasn't taking any chances. The first grunted again, pointing emphatically toward the suddenly created doorway.

The second creature couldn't resist casting a glance to the rear. He did an almost comic double take and whirled about to face the opening. Their argument temporarily forgotten, the two approached the anomaly. The second creature drew his weapon—a strange thing with a short barrel and a large underhanging clip. Cautiously they peered out. There was nothing immediately outside the opening but the bare stone walls of a corridor running to darkness at either hand. The gun-bearing creature stuck his head out and looked one way then the other. He snorted.

Then he said: “Secret passage. Escape tunnel."

The other grunted something in reply.

The first holstered his weapon and stepped out into the corridor. “Runs directly to Proconsul's quarters, leads to outside."

“Convenient,” said the first creature as it came through the doorway. “But where did wall go?” He examined the dark stone of corridor, still looking puzzled. “Wonder where stone comes from. Strange stuff.” He thumped a blue fist against it.

The gun-toting creature sniffed the air, snout wriggling. “Something not right here."

The other glanced about warily. “Strange. Very strange."

They wandered about, sniffing high and low, probing cracks and crannies with fat, blunt fingers.

“Sorcerer's work,” the unarmed creature pronounced, peering at multicolored glittering motes that lay deep within the stone.

“You think?"

“What else? I saw wall disappear."

“You are drunk."

“If I want excrement from you, I will squeeze it out of your head!"

“And I will make you eat it—along with your words, dung-breath!"

The two squared off and snarled at each other for a spell. Gradually the tension lessened as they were again distracted by the strange apparition.

“Sorcerer's work, I tell you."

“Nonsense. Escape tunnel, nothing more."

“Look at seam here, between stone and wood. Blurry.” The creature put his hand up against the juncture and observed that the hand became indistinct, then withdrew it as from something hot.

“Look!"

Far down the corridor, a mote of light danced in the darkness. Soon footsteps approached.

The two creatures went into defensive stances.

“Hi, there!” came a voice from down the hall.

A human approached, a short bearded man in jeans and a T-shirt. He stopped a short distance away. He held an odd lantern: it was a long wooden handle with a huge glowing jewel affixed to the end. The jewel glowed an eerie blue-white.

“Hi! Mort Kaufmann's the name. Have you two just wandered into the castle?"

The one with the gun slowly straightened.

“What sort of creature are you?” he barked. “And what are you doing in stronghold of Proconsul?"

“The what of who?” Kaufmann laughed. “You got it wrong. I should be asking what you're doing here—but of course I know perfectly well what you're doing. You were just minding your own business when all of a sudden a wall in your—” He took a step forward and peeked into the opening. “—living room? Yeah, a wall in your living room suddenly went
poof
and a doorway pops out of nowhere. And you go through, and you wind up here, and you're wondering what it's all about. Right?"

The creature thrust the pistol toward him. “I ask you question! Speak, or I will drill hole in your hairy head."

Kaufmann backed off. “Hey, now look. I don't want any trouble with you guys. Just being friendly, is all. I'm just trying to help out. You know, you really shouldn't—"

The unarmed creature rushed him. The jewel-torch clattered to the floor and Kaufmann went flying. The corridor wall interrupted his flight with a sickening thud. The creature then picked him up like a limp rag and began to pummel him mercilessly.

The other creature went for the torch, scooped the thing up, and examined it. At length he looked over his shoulder and growled, “Don't kill it! Proconsul will want to interrogate!"

Kaufmann lay still on the floor, one arm at an anatomically improbable angle.

“Two-legged, hairy creature that talks. Fantastic! Where did it come from?"

“From this place, wherever."

“Look. It has red blood."

“I can see that, fool!"

“Can you also now see—
idiot —
that there is something more to this?"

The other regarded the torch again. “Perhaps so.” It ran a sausagelike finger over the handle.

The unarmed creature pointed at Kaufmann.

“Come, we must report this. Bring creature.” When the other gave no response: “That is my order!"

The other glared back. “I urinate on your orders. You have no authority over me."

“I have Proconsul's authority! I am his chief of staff. As captain of stronghold guard, you are technically under my command. Obey!"

“Slime-eating schemer! You backstabbed your way to power!"

The other smiled toothily. “I could have you shot.” His hand was a blur as it slipped behind his breastplate, bringing forth a small pistol. He trained it on the captain. “I could shoot you right now."

“You are coward as well."

The chief of staff's smile faded. Slowly he put the pistol back into its hiding place. He brought back his hand to his side.

“Now make your move."

It was quiet. Both creatures remained motionless for several minutes.

The captain of the guard carefully unbent and relaxed. “This is foolish. I will fetch prisoner."

The chief of staff picked up the torch. Looking it over, he walked toward the opening. Just as he reached it he caught sight of what the captain was about to do.

The captain's pistol smoked and sputtered. A brief flame coughed from the end of the barrel. That was all. Dumbfounded, the captain stood looking at the useless weapon in his hand—briefly, until a dagger suddenly grew in his throat. He dropped the pistol, gurgled, and fell dead. Bright purple blood issued from the wound.

The chief of staff retrieved the knife and picked up the gun. He looked at one, then the other.

“Strange."

Throwing down the gun, he grabbed the human by the hair and dragged him back through the portal.

 

 

 

SIX

(Approximately)

MONTHS

(For Lack of Better Word)
 

LATER

 

 

 

Over the Plains of Baranthe

 

He pushed the stick forward. The nose of the jet fighter dipped, allowing him to view the entirety of Castle Perilous atop its high promontory. It was as it always had been, a vast dark edifice of eye-defying complexity, a jumble of towers, turrets, bulwarks, and other fortifications, all ringed by concentric curtainwalls. The central keep soared into the clouds. The castle sat like a magistrate high on his bench, delivering judgments to the plains below and the snow-capped mountains beyond.

The castle belonged to him, as it had to his father, his father's father, his father's father's, etc., and all his forebears unto many generations. It was his home (one of them, at least), his freehold, and his fortress.

It was the biggest white elephant in the world. In several worlds, in fact.

But he loved the place.

He sent the plane into a wide banking circle around the castle and spent a good quarter hour inspecting it. As old as it was, the castle looked as though it had been built yesterday. No weathering discolored its stone, no mortar crumbled from its joints and cornices. It looked spanking new; in fact, it had been magically reconstructed a little less than a year before.

Without warning, the jet's single engine died with a whistling whine, and the lights on the instrument panel blinked, then went out.

“Infernal machine,” he said irritably, shaking his head. He worked his fingers in complex patterns and muttered an incantation. The engine coughed once, roared to life, but faded seconds later. He worked his fingers again, chanting monotonously.

No use, the engine was dead. The jet dropped like a stone. He could have effected a levitation spell to keep it up, but that was hardly fun. Sighing, he waved his hand.

The jet disappeared, and was instantly replaced by a helicopter. He took the control bars, checked his counter-rotation, and put the ship into a steep dive.

He leveled off near the ground and hovered. The earth was blackened as if by a great fire. The copter bore down. Charred skeletons lay among the dust of the plain—the remains of the last army that had laid siege to Castle Perilous. The siege had been long and bitter, and the castle had almost fallen. But the besiegers had met a horrible end.

The helicopter's motor sputtered and choked.

“Damn!” He was dangerously close to the ground. He worked his fingers fast.

The aircraft that appeared around him was an eclectic meld of curving silver metal and clear, tear-shaped bubbles. It hummed and crackled. He looked over the controls—he had flown one of these only twice in his life—then gingerly put the tips of his fingers on the control panel. The craft shot toward the virginal blue sky with astonishing speed.

He leveled off at ten thousand feet, the castle still bulking hugely below him.

“Now to do what I came up here for,” he said.

There was a computer terminal, of sorts, to his right. He studied it briefly, then punched in some data. A small screen next to the terminal lit up.

He was busy for several minutes. Then he looked up and searched the skies.

By the end of an hour, his neck hurt horribly and his eyes burned from reading instruments. It was hard work. The craft's engines had failed regularly every ten minutes or so, and had to be bolstered by complex levitation spells. The last of these was now fading rapidly.