Castle for Rent (15 page)

The man took his hand.

“Kwip's the name,” the green-clad, dark-bearded stranger said.

 

 

 

Elsewhen

 

The ruins looked Mayan only because of the jungle setting, but the architecture was just as strange, the carved glyphs just as enigmatic, the hidden crypts as dark and foreboding. Froglike inhuman faces stared out in bas-relief from the walls of buildings whose functions were difficult to guess. They could have been temples, or just as easily dormitories or warehouses. Inside, bare rooms were laid out in bewildering mazes. In one of the larger buildings there was a spacious, rotundalike chamber which did evoke a religious atmosphere, and it was there that the foursome stopped to rest after touring the ruins. The heat was awful, the jungle air a sodden, mist-hung pall that shrouded everything, stifling and oppressing.

The interior walls of the “temple” were profusely decorated in enigmatic frescolike paintings.

“Real interesting,” Gene remarked sarcastically, dabbing at his forehead with his undertunic, which he had doffed, along with his cuirass, in the heat.

“I think so,” Linda said, examining a curious mural which depicted strange bipedal beings doing even stranger things. She couldn't quite make sense of it.

“Well, I wanted civilization,” Gene said, stalking around the huge polygonal room. “I didn't count on a dead one, though."

“No,” Linda said, “I guess there's no chance of finding a super-weapon here."

“A knife, maybe, good for cutting out the hearts of sacrificial victims."

“Yuck."

“Don't worry. If they indulged in that sort of thing, they're long dead."

Snowclaw said, “
Ghallarst miggan
."

“I was wondering how it was affecting you,” Gene said, walking over to his white-furred friend.

Snowclaw sat down wearily on a stone bench and let his sword clatter to the floor.
"Hallahust ullum nogakk, tuir ullum miggast kwahnahg."

“Don't die on us, Snowy,” Gene said, laying a hand on Snowclaw's snout and turning his head a bit. “Your eyes do look glazed."

“How can you understand what he's saying?” Sheila asked.

“I don't, not really,” Gene said. “But you can get the general drift. I've been listening to his jabber for almost a year now, while at the same time listening to a simultaneous translation. You get to the point where the jabber becomes semi-intelligible."

“That's amazing,” Sheila said. “Back in the castle I could understand Snowy perfectly, even though I knew he was doing a lot of barking and growling. But now it sounds just like a lot of barking and growling."

“Yeah, I know what you mean. It took me a long time before I could understand him at all this way."

“But I still don't see how."

“Well, I heard somebody say once that if you watched enough foreign movies with subtitles, you'd eventually learn the languages. I never believed it, but it seems to be true. Either that or it's some kind of holdover effect of the castle's magic. I really don't know."

“What's Snowy saying?"

“He says he can't stand the heat, and that he has to cool off somehow, and soon, or he'll get really sick. He may even die."

“Oh, no."

“Yeah, it's going to be a problem."

“Hallosk ullum banthahlk nak gethakk."

Gene answered, “Sorry, chum. I wish there was something I could do."

Snowclaw said something else, and Gene nodded.

“What did he say?” Sheila asked.

“He said he'd be okay, but not to count on him in a fight. He's not feeling up to snuff."

“Poor baby.” Sheila went over to Snowclaw and stroked the top of his massive head. Snowy encircled her waist with a sinewy arm and squeezed gently.

“Well, wonderful,” Gene declared. “Here we are, stuck somewhere in the goddamn eightieth dimension. Just our luck. We had our choice of worlds—universes, for Christ's sake! What do we do? We pick some wild, jerkwater aspect that appears in the castle every two hundred years, or something. We buy ourselves a one-way ticket to Rod Serling's game room, that's what we do."

“It won't do any good to complain,” Linda said.

“Do you mind if I complain just a little bit?"

“Be my guest,” Linda answered with a shrug.

Gene stared at the floor awhile, then said, “I'm sorry, Linda. You're right."

“Forget it, Gene. There really isn't much we can do."

“What we have to do is some thinking.” Gene plopped down on the edge of a circular stone platform that could have been an altar, or perhaps a stage or dais. “Thing is, I don't have a thought in my head. How do we go about chasing down a portal that could appear anywhere in this world, if it ever appears again?"

“It may crop up somewhere near,” Linda said. “We just have to keep a sharp eye out for it."

“Our chances are pretty slim, Linda. We might just have to face that."

Linda looked away, her face set grimly. “I'm not sure I can. I don't have any magic here. I'm back to being what I was back home. Sort of a nothing."

“Linda, don't say that."

“It's true."

Gene frowned reproachfully. “You're not being fair to yourself."

“Please don't lecture me."

“I'm sorry.” Gene wrung his hands for a while, clenching his jaw muscles. Then he stopped. “Did you actually try your magic?"

Linda was staring off. She came out of her reverie and said, “Huh?"

“I said, did you try your magic here?"

“First thing. I got all kinds of weird feelings, but nothing materialized. How about you?"

“I don't think I'll be able to tell for sure until I get into some sort of combat situation, but I suspect I am no longer ze greatest sword een France ... or anywhere else, for that matter."

Linda looked off again, head cocked to one side, as if hearing something in the distance. Her eyes narrowed. “Something tells me mere is magic here, somewhere."

“I sort of get that feeling, too,” Gene said.

“But it's a different sort of magic. Very different. Not like the castle's."

“Yeah. Lot of help to us."

Brow furrowed, Linda fell into deep thought.

Sheila said, “Something tells me you guys will work it all out.” She smiled wanly and gave a helpless shrug. “You guys are magicians. You can do anything. I've
seen
you do absolutely mind-boggling things, things that nobody would ever believe. And you did them as easy as falling out of bed!"

“Yeah, but that was back in the castle...” Gene broke off, something catching his eye across the room. He jumped up, crossed to the far wall, and stood with hands on hips, casting a critical eye over the strange mural. Moving nearer, he scrutinized several details, then stepped back again to take in the entire scene.

“There's something here,” Linda said, slowly looking around the great chamber. “In this room.” She stared curiously at the circular platform.

Sheila got up and walked to Gene's side.

“What does that look like to you?” Gene asked her, pointing to the middle of the painting.

“Where, there?"

“Yeah, that rectangle near where the thing with all the teeth is. Behind it."

“Yuck, what is that?"

“That's what I'm asking you."

“No, I mean the thing with all the teeth. What a horrible-looking thing."

“Some kind of demon or monster. And I think it's guarding that rectangle."

“What rectangle?"

“Well, it's hard to see with all the gingerbread. I missed it at first. Sort of ignore all that rococo stuff around it and inside it. See that box?"

“Oh, okay. Yeah, now I see it. Could it be..."

“Yep, I think that's the portal. And I think this place was a temple for the cult that worshipped it. Or whatever they did. It stands to reason that strange, inexplicable holes in the air would wind up being thought of as miraculous things. Doorways to the realm of the gods, whatever."

“Yeah, it stands to reason, all right. But what does the painting mean?"

Gene lifted his damp shoulders. “Who knows?"

Linda called, “Gene?"

Sheila and Gene walked back to the stone altar. Linda was standing in the middle of it.

“I feel something here,” she said. “There's some kind of force, some kind of ...
thing
going on here."

Gene turned around and looked back at the painting. “Hey, that's it! It's gotta be!"

“What is it?” Linda said.

“The portal materializes here,” Gene said, pointing to the middle of the altar. “Look at the painting, underneath the rectangle. A circle. It's gotta be this thing we're standing on."

“That must be it!” Sheila jumped once and clapped her hands.

“If they built a temple around this spot,” Gene went on, “it must mean that the portal appears here every so often.” He sighed. “Of course, the question is
how
often. Every hour? Every other Tuesday? Once a year? Or maybe once a millennium."

They surveyed the room, looking at the other wall paintings. All were just as enigmatic as the one with the portal, if not more so.

“It'd take a team of archeologists to make any sense of this stuff,” Gene said cheerlessly. “All the answers are written all over the damn walls, if only we could read them."

Linda said, “I guess the only answer is that we have to wait. Wait for the portal to appear."

 

 

      

Pennsylvania Turnpike, Near Bedford

 

“You up?” Trent asked.

Incarnadine touched the control button, and the leather bucket seat tilted up. “I am now.” He rubbed his eyes. “What's that infernal buzzing?"

“Just a danger signal."

“Oh.” Incarnadine looked back through the rear window. “Nothing but a trailer truck, it looks like, back about half a mile."

“That must be it. We're coming to a three-mile downgrade. If he's going to make his move, it'll be when we're going down this mountain."

“You seem fairly sure. It could just be a trailer truck."

Trent shook his head. “My spells rarely fail me. Get that gun out and get ready."

“Will do."

Trent increased speed. The cold rural night howled by, whistling through the car's air vents and a hairline fresh-air crack that Incarnadine had left between the window glass and the weather stripping on the door on his side.

A pair of bright headlights grew in the rear window. Trent's eyes shifted between the road and the rearview mirror. Incarnadine watched out of the mirror on his side. The truck drew up to the Mercedes, headlights glaring, its huge engine revved to a frenzy. It hung there a moment, then suddenly swerved into the passing lane. It went thundering by, plunging down the steep hill, a leviathan of the night, its flanks glittering with dozens of tiny red and yellow lights.

“What was that about fail-safe spells?"

Trent seemed discomfited. “Something may be up ahead, waiting for us. The car we saw back at the Burger King, maybe."

They drove on for several uneventful minutes. The road was dark in both directions.

“Are you sure your Earth magic is all it's cracked up to be?” Incarnadine asked.

Trent gave his head a quick shake. “Can't figure it."

Like the sudden deadly blooming of a nuclear fireball, the crest of the hill behind them lit up in a blaze of light. Something big topped the rise and rolled down the hill, approaching with unbelievable speed.

“I take it back,” Incarnadine said. “Your lookout spell isn't fooling."

“Interesting,” Trent observed. “What do you make of it?"

“Not your average tractor-semitrailer."

The thing behind them was twice as big as any conventional vehicle, its array of headlights like a blinding galaxy of suns. The windshield and windows glowed strangely blue, and yellow flames shot out of twin exhaust stacks at either side of the cab. Swooping down the hill at breakneck speed, the spectral truck howled like a psychotic beast chained in the fires of Hell.

Trent floored the accelerator and wheeled the Mercedes around a bend to the right as the road continued down the side of the mountain. The speedometer crept past 80 mph, edging into the red.

“Got your seat belt on?” Trent asked casually.

“When did they start putting these things in automobiles?"

Trent didn't answer as he mashed the accelerator into the floorboard. The thing behind them was still gaining.

“We'll never outrun it,” Incarnadine said.

“You're right. I wonder if he means to crowd us off the road, or simply run over us."

“It looks quite capable of either tactic."

“Inky?"

“Yes, Trent?"

“I think we've had it."

The monster vehicle closed steadily. Trent began swerving between lanes, and the demonic semi followed suit. There was very little room for maneuvering; the right shoulder was narrow, edging an almost vertical wall of blasted rock. An aluminum barrier ran between the roadways. There was no emergency lane and no place to pull off.

Ghastly blue light flooded the interior of the Mercedes as the truck drew close. An ear-splitting horn blast rent the night, and gouts of flame belched from the twin exhaust stacks. The truck's contoured windshield looked like a phantasmal roaming eye, radiating otherworldly light. The truck tried to pass, and Trent blocked its path, eliciting another angry blast of the demonic horn. Incarnadine thought his ears would burst. The truck swerved right, and Trent dodged back into the right lane.

“Watch it,” Incarnadine said.

“I can't let it get abreast of us."

The truck stopped weaving and crept closer to the rear of the Mercedes.

“You can't let it—” Incarnadine began to say.

The truck bumped into the rear of the Mercedes and backed off; then, engine yowling, it sprang forward and slammed into the car, its huge burnished grille looking like a shark's mouth, huge and hungry and slavering for the kill.