Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (16 page)

"No tak' knif!

"No ... knife?"

"No tak' knif!"

"Why not? It would help us cut bread, if
Platinia finds us some bread. Meat ..."

"No!"

"Why?"

"Zwicia see ...." Startlingly, the old lady's
eyeballs rolled back into her head, leaving only a ghastly pair of
white, ghost eyes to stare blindly, straight ahead. She was
mumbling again as well, waving her hands as if peering into a
Weird-disk inside her mind.

Next came a pause in which Zwicia quieted,
her eyes rotating back -- though the strange, clear color of them
seemed to be dulled over. "Zwicia see ... knif ...."

And that was all that the Weird would say;
perhaps, all she could say. With Zwicia, you could never tell.

Except for being unable to explain herself,
the Weird recovered quickly enough for Platinia to get the old
woman on her feet, Platinia, with Zwicia tottering after her, going
out the door, the girl turning to shut the door, the two of them
off to gather supplies for the hoped for escape from Hero
Castle.

Making sure the door was shut tight behind
the "girls," John sat down at Zwicia's table.

Left to himself, John had the luxury of
laying the folded map on the table before him. Of unfolding it. Of
spreading it out, the parchment's thick, leathery paper making
cracking sounds under his smoothing fingers, like dry leaves
underfoot.

But ... couldn't concentrate on the map. Nor
was he thinking about the supplies they would need to escape the
stronghold. No. He had a more immediate problem.

Survival.

Spelled Zwicia!

Trying to remember, he didn't think he'd ever
heard the old gal scream like that -- to say nothing of screeching
for no reason -- to say nothing of caterwauling twice for no
reason. Prompting John to ask himself what would happen -- John,
Platinia and Zwicia attempting to escape the attention of the
Malachite defenders by sneaking through shadowed halls and down
dark stairs -- if that crazy old woman let loose with another,
no-reason scream!

Zwicia.

Always a burden.

Now, a "clear and present danger" to them
all!

By the light of a flickering, fire stone
torch, John led the little band down and down, then, down again.
John, Zwicia, Platinia, John keeping track of Zwicia as well as
possible by sandwiching her between himself and the girl.

It was slow going in the dark, stone-damp
halls. Partly because the torch put out such poor light (a perfect
example of magic-loss in Stil-de-grain) and partly because John had
to stop from time to time to consult the map.

As he descended, even as dark as the
corridors were, John noticed a change in castle design. At first,
fire stone torches helped light their way, torches thrust out from
wall niches. Now, they were seeing hanging fire baskets -- a more
primitive form of lighting. Not only were they going down, it
seemed, but also going "older," the castle built on the
substructure of a former edifice that, in turn, was constructed
over an even more ancient ruin.

Where a hall light supplemented the faint
luminescence of his own torch, John would stop to unfold the crisp
"blueprint." Bringing his guttering, but silent, torch-head close
to the page so he could "read" its directions, John would try to
locate his position in the chaotic ramblings of what was proving to
be extensive subterranean warrens under the castle. (One worry he
didn't have -- counting the only blessing he could think of -- was
that the "cool" flames struggling off his torch would set the map
on fire.)

Though he may have taken a wrong turn here or
there, in general, John thought they were headed in the right
direction. There was no denying, though, that the faded, spidery
lines on the antique page were difficult to read. To say nothing of
trying to make sense out of the odd, symbolic notations here and
there in the chart's crumbling margins.

It didn't help John's concentration that he
was tired -- lumbered, as he was, with the items Platinia and
Zwicia had dragged back to Zwicia's room. He'd never have believed
how much those two could scrounge up in such a short time, the bulk
of it packed in the single carryall that Platinia had also
"liberated." Though John had wished at the time for a second
knapsack, it wouldn't have helped. Platinia was too small to lug
much of anything. Zwicia too old.

In the bundle was a spare torch, a change of
clothes for each of them, blankets, some loaves of unsliced bread,
meat, and what looked and smelled like biscuits.

"N' go. N' go," mumbled Zwicia from somewhere
to the rear.

John stopped -- to let Zwicia and Platinia
catch up.

Stopped, looked, and listened, seeing nothing
either before or behind him, the dusky hall trailing off both ways
to total darkness. Hearing only the faint pounding of his
heart.

The women catching up, hitching up his
awkward pack, John started out ... and down again ... leading the
three of them into increasing blackness, increasing mustiness, even
the occasional fire basket on the wall no longer there to offer its
feeble help.

Noise!

Waving a warning, John stopped, the women
bunching up behind him, the three of them hugging a dent-like
irregularity in the wall.

As a precaution, John "doused" his torch by
putting its flames inside his loose tunic top, hugging the light to
his body so only a brown glow showed through.

Footsteps. Boots, clicking along a corridor
somewhere ahead of them. The sounds ... coming closer!

John turned; motioned the women to turn
around. They had to go back!

Whatever else, he must save Platinia, John
thought as he saw the small girl's eyes upon him, her eyes
reflecting the dull shine of the cloth-bound torch.

Strange, even in the emergency, the boot
steps drawing nearer, John experienced the ... feeling ... he
sometimes had about Platinia: that he must protect her.

The footsteps coming quickly, recognizing it
was too late for flight, John unslung his pack, dropping it to the
floor.

Ahead, there was a glow from a crossing
corridor, the approaching steps seeming to be from more than one
person.

What should John do, pretend to be a castle
slavey on an errand, the two women along to help him?

Before he could formulate further plans, two,
short-tuniced soldiers swung around a bend of corridor not five
feet in front of John, the lead soldier holding a torch in one hand
and a sword in the other.

Shocked to see John's party pressed against
the wall, the trooper gave a nervous shout and charged!

Reflexively, John whipped the torch-head out
of his tunic to block the soldier's sword stroke, parrying it down
and to the side. Surprised, the man's yell was cut off as John
backhanded the torch-head to the man's chin.

Feeling the shock of that lucky hit vibrate
through his arm, John saw the soldier crumple to the floor at
John's feet, the man's sword rattling to silence against the near
wall, his torch skidding away to disappear around a curve of the
mantled hall.

Instantly, John had his torch raised to ward
off the other man's attack.

It was in that frozen moment that John
realized that the remaining soldier was ... old. Old and without a
weapon, one arm raised to protect his head from John's blow, the
other dangling at his side.

Sensing the second soldier to be of little
threat, John glanced down at the man at John's feet, the soldier
quiet, an ugly welt swelling the man's chin.

"Just take it easy," John said to the second
soldier, his voice thin even in the quick echo of the bare, hard
hall, John hoping the soldier wouldn't hear the quaver in John's
voice. "I'm not going to hurt you if you don't do something
stupid."

"Is that how you killed the others? First,
rendered them senseless?" The man's low voice was scarred by
age.

Where had John heard that ...?

Then, John realized who this was. The Army
Head; the leader of the squad of soldiers; the officer who'd
ordered the old man's cage to be lowered from the ceiling.

"I haven't killed anybody," John gasped,
historians not trained to hit people with torches, that unnerving
act still tightening John's chest. "This man's only knocked out,"
John continued, waving the torch at the fallen soldier. "And I
wouldn't have hit him if he hadn't come at me with his sword." John
was beginning to think again. What had the Head said? "Somebody's
been killed?"

"Two soldiers," the Head replied, an agitated
tossing of the old man's head indicating that the murdered men were
somewhere behind him. "Murdered with their own knives."

Without warning, the stone corridor echoed
with a terrifying scream!

Zwicia!

The crazy old women had screamed again!

"Quiet, Zwicia," John ordered, the Weird,
like before, croaking off her shriek at his command.

John held up his free hand for everyone to be
quiet. ..... Except for the reverberation of Zwicia's screech,
there were no other sounds. ....

It seemed that this time, at least, the old
imbecile hadn't alerted the rest of the castle's soldiers.

The yell shooting John full of adrenaline,
John took a deep breath to settle himself.

They were back to square one. Wherever that
was.

As for the Army Head, he was just standing in
the corridor, the man's right arm hanging uselessly at his
side.

What had the Head said again? Soldiers?
Killed?

"Did you say soldiers had been ...
stabbed?"

"Yes. Back there." The Head gestured with his
good arm.

"Since I didn't do it, someone else did,"
John muttered, a chill seizing his spine with the realization that
a killer lurked out there in the dark. With a force of will, John
pulled himself together. "As for you, you just stand there while I
have a look at the map."

Careful to use his peripheral vision to keep
track of the Army Head, John unfolded the chart; scanned it once
again.

Just a short ways ahead -- if he understood
the faded markings on the paper -- was a bend to the left. Yes, the
branching corridor the soldiers had come down. Along that hallway,
doors. Two of them. Behind the near door ... what? A symbol John
couldn't identify. Beyond the far door, jagged markings that seemed
to represent steps going down to the castle's lowest level where
there were other notations that John took to be the Mage exit.

Before John could go on, however, John had to
do something about the Army Head. "What's your name?" John
demanded, looking up. Did captured soldiers in this place have to
provide name, rank, and serial number?

"Leet."

"I'm John Lyon."

Now that they'd been formally introduced,
what next? Think about what John could use to tie up the Head, John
finding he couldn't do that. There was something ... unnatural ...
about tying the man's good hand to his paralyzed one.

Neither could John (in cold blood?) knock the
man out.

Nor let the fellow run off to rouse the rest
of the soldiers.

Clearly, John had to do something, but
...

Take him along?

If John thought he had troubles with Zwicia,
what about needing to guard a prisoner who could yell for help at
any moment ........

Then, John thought of a possible solution. A
... Golden ... solution. "Zwicia." John motioned for her, the Weird
shuffling forward from her position in the shadows just back of
him. Slowly. As she did everything. Until she was standing beside
John, the old woman leaning into the circle of fire stone light,
both of them facing the short, gray-haired Army Head. "Do you
remember Golden?"

"'Member."

"And the land of the invisible giants?"

"'Member."

"How, to get Golden to remember the way out,
you hypnotized him?"

"H'nizd?" The old woman gave a negative shake
of her mop-top head.

"Ah ... controlled ... Golden? Took his
soul?"

"'Member." She was nodding this time like an
old time pump handle.

"I want you to do that to this man."

"What?" the Head cried, alarmed.

"Nothing dangerous," John said to reassure
him -- though no prisoner could have confidence in what his captor
said.

"Zwicia do."

At that, the old women fixed the soldier with
her vitriolic eyes. Raised her taloned hands, waving them in the
air. "Yu, tir'd. Yu, tir'd," the old woman said, rhythmically. "Yu,
sl'pp. Yu, sl'pp."

At least the Army Head was watching the crazy
old lady.

The question was -- as they stood there in
the semidarkness, Zwicia continuing to mutter and to wave her
claw-like hands, the loose flesh on her arms jiggling like globules
of lemon Jell-O -- were Zwicia's efforts to hypnotize him
"taking?"

"Yu, ti'd. Comma' me."

And, miracle of miracles, the Head -- Leet --
stepped forward.

Looking closer in the dancing haze of
firelight, John saw that the soldier's eyes were glazed -- an
indication that Zwicia had put him under, and in short order. Did
the old woman's power to hypnotize people have something to do with
her being a Weird? John didn't know. At the moment, didn't care.
The last time he'd been in this world, that time in the land of the
"invisible giants," she'd solved a similar problem for him.

One difficulty down. One to go.

John squatted to examine the soldier on the
floor, finding him still "out." If they could get far enough away
before the man came to, they were safe, the castle a big place,
after all. If the fellow stayed down for five minutes, that would
do it. Surely, in the twenty minutes it would take to organize a
search, John's party should be out of the castle or, at least, in
the Mage-tunnel on the way out.