Kedrigern in Wanderland (15 page)

unperturbed, but Dyrax’s horse whinnied in fear, reared up with rolling eyes, and set its feet firmly.

“He won’t go on, Master Kedrigern. He’s frightened,” Dyrax called to the wizard.

“What’s there to fear? It’s only an empty
. . .“
Kedrigern’s voice faltered as he looked more closely at the grayish-white stumps beside the path. Motioning to Dyrax to hold his ground, he dismounted and hunkered down for a serious inspection.

The stumps were not vegetation. They were fingers.

Swallowing and licking suddenly dry lips, Kedrigern said in a subdued voice, “Dyrax, I think it would be best if you blindfolded the horse and led him across. And keep to the path. Make sure you keep to the path and don’t walk on the
. . .
the stubble.”

Dyrax did as the wizard suggested, and asked no questions then or thereafter. He crossed the field without a glance to either side, his eyes fixed on the figure of Kedrigern riding before him.

Kedrigern, though he kept up a stalwart front, was dismayed. Those blackened nails and that peeling mottled fungoid flesh had given him a turn. A field of dead man’s fingers—and dead women’s and children’s, too, judging by the size of some of them—was a thoroughly nasty piece of work. Bad enough to see them sticking up out of the ground at all, but that obscene wriggling, as if they were beckoning to him, exceeded all limits. Whatever power lay behind this enchantment was certain to be something very unpleasant, and not the sort of thing to encounter when one’s magic is not at peak operating efficiency.

And yet he had to get out soon, for Princess’s sake, and there was no sure way out but to track down the source of the enchantment and neutralize it. How he would do this he had no idea, and the more he thought of that field of rotting writhing fingers the less he desired a confrontation with its maker. He hoped that no more demoralizing sight awaited them.

Unfortunately, one did. They came upon it very soon after reentering the woods.

The path had widened, and they were riding side by side. Despite their proximity, they were silent. Kedrigern was dredging his memory for haemony lore, and Dyrax was wondering if he had really seen what he feared he had seen in that field and hoping that he had not, even though he grew ever more certain that he had. It was only a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but it was unforgettable. He wanted a good rest, and soon. On a slight rise off to the side of the path a massive tree stood in the middle of a clearing, and Dyrax pointed to it.

“Master Kedrigern, this looks like a good place to stop for a while,” he said.

“What? Oh, yes, a stop. All right. Under that big tree?”

“Yes. It looks clean, and we can see clearly in all directions.”

“Very prudent thinking, Dyrax.” Kedrigern studied the site, then asked, “What kind of tree is that, anyway?”

“Hard to say. It has the outline of
. . .
an oak, I’d say.”

“But look at the fruit. What are they, apples?”

“That can’t be an apple tree. The shape is all wrong. And the fruit is too big. Maybe it’s
. . .“
Dyrax rode closer, then gave a horrified cry, sprang from his horse, and was spectacularly sick by the side of the path. “Oh, Master Kedrigern,” he said feebly when he had recovered. “I never thought I’d see
. . .
It’s
. . .
They’re
.

Kedrigern reached down to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then guided his steed closer. It was even worse than he had feared. Not fruit, but swollen heads hung from the branches, and their wide agonized eyes turned to follow his approach. Their mouths gaped and worked fitfully, but nothing came forth beyond a soft choked moaning. Kedrigern dropped his gaze. When he saw what lay on the ground beneath the branches he shut his eyes tightly, swallowed bard, and fought against the

swift rising of his gorge. The curled russet slips that lay all about were not fallen leaves, they were tongues. His great black steed sniffed at them, snorted, and tossed his head with a flash of silver, drawing back out of the shadow of the tree.

“Can you tell me anything? I’ll end this enchantment if I can, and set you free,” Kedrigern called to the heads that swayed above him. They gave no answer, only a low and mournful wailing. He turned and rejoined Dyrax.

“I don’t want any more of this, Master Kedrigern,” the shaken youth confessed.

“Neither do I,” Kedrigern replied.

“What shall we do?”

“Well, we can’t stay here.”

“No!” Dyrax said emphatically.

“So we go on.”

“Where? It gets worse and worse. Think what might lie
ahead!”

“I’m thinking about
it,
Dyrax. Believe me, I’m thinking
about it. But we have no choice.”

Dyrax glumly conceded that point. He remounted, and they went on. No further grisly sights lay on their way. They proceeded without incident until midday, when they stopped to eat and rest, and resumed their travels with spirits restored. They had gone only a short way when Kedrigern reined in his mount and turned to Dyrax.

“I feel a tingle in the air,” he said excitedly.

“I feel nothing.”

“Well, I do. ft’s unmistakable. My power is building up. The haemony is working.”

“What will it be this time, a swamp of entrails?” Dyrax asked squeamishly.

“It feels more like a fairy spell. Nothing messy.”

Dyrax nodded and said no more. They rode on, and in no time at all came to a hillside overlooking a spectacular castle, all spires and turrets and towers of gleaming white stone, rising from an island in a lake surrounded by tall trees. It was not an excessively large castle, nor was it

formidable nor menacing, nor was it at all impregnable, for a broad bridge led from the opposite shore to the gate, and the drawbridge was down.

“Do you think we might find an ogre in there?” Dyrax asked. He sounded considerably perkier than he had since their entry into the enchanted wood.

“Hard to say,” Kedrigern replied thoughtfully.

“How about a giant?”

“If there’s a giant in there, he’s awfully cramped,” said the wizard, reaching into his tunic.

“I hope it’s something I can confront blade to blade, and do a great feat,” said the young man eagerly.

Kedrigern took out his medallion and sighted in on the castle through the Aperture of True Vision. He checked turrets, gate, and bridge, and gazed long at the statues, perhaps a hundred of them, that stood in niches in the wall and in grottoes here and there in the parkland. They were statues of men and women in postures of piety and reverence: clearly, of saints. Blinking and rubbing his eye, he turned to Dyrax with a broad smile. “I think you may have a chance to do your feat, my boy, and you won’t even have to break a sweat.”

“What do you mean, Master Kedrigern?”

“You’ll see. Come on.”

Kedrigern raced down the hillside, with Dyrax close behind. Their horses clattered over the stone bridge, thundered across the drawbridge, sent a host of hollow echoes flying about the gatehouse, and finally clopped to a halt in a courtyard. All was still. No one had attempted to stop them. They waited a few minutes, but no one appeared to greet them or challenge them. The silence was unbroken.

“A strange place, Master Kedrigern,” said Dyrax, laying a hand on his swordhilt.

“Just an enchantment.”

“What sort of enchantment? What kind of ogres or evildoers dwell herein, that dare not show their faces? It is I, Dyrax, son of Lutermine, who challenge you one and all!” the youth cried boldly. Echoes rang from wall to

tower, dwindled and died, and still there was no sign of life.

Kedrigern dismounted and led his horse to the stables. Within lay horses and grooms and a pair of cats, sprawled in abandoned postures, unmoving.

“Foully slain!” Dyrax cried, drawing his sword.

“Dead men don’t snore,” Kedrigern pointed out. “Look at them. They’re all breathing.” As if to endorse his words, a groom shifted position and a cat twitched its paws and the tip of its tail in a dream pursuit. “It’s a sleeping spell, that’s all.”

“Then you must disenchant them.”

“No,” said the wizard, shaking his head and smiling. “You must disenchant them.”

“I? I am no wizard.”

“These spells generally call for a handsome prince. Now, you’re a prince, and you’re a decent-looking lad, so you should be just what these people need.”

“What feat must I do?”

“Somewhere in this castle there’s certain to be a sleeping princess. When we find her, you kiss her, and that will end the enchantment.”

“Is that all?” asked Dyrax, crestfallen.

“That’s all. Nothing to it.”

“Nothing, indeed, Master Kedrigern. To kiss a sleeping maid is no great feat.”

“Believe me, she’ll thank you for it. Let’s get started. You take the upstairs and I’ll look on this floor,” said the wizard, entering the nearest open doorway, which led to the kitchen.

Dyrax went ahead in search of the staircase, but Kedrigern lingered to inspect the kitchen, for he was fascinated by what he saw. A fire was burning in the huge fireplace and a cauldron of water hung over it, simmering. How long the fire had burned and the cauldron had simmered, he could not guess, but the cauldron was still nearly brimful and the fire had scarcely darkened the topmost logs. It was a subtle touch.

Across the room was another sight to gladden his professional heart. A scullion had been pouring water from one bucket into another when the spell struck her. The water poured on in an unbroken ribbon, but the receiving bucket remained half-full, and the surrounding floor was dry. This spell was the work of an artist, and Kedrigern greatly admired it.

Leaving the kitchen, he entered the great hall. Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen with refined features lay inelegantly about where they had succumbed to the spell, snoring as loudly as any churl. A king and queen, a distinguished couple in appearance, were slumped in their thrones, heads propped on hands in almost identical positions. But there was no sign of a princess.

Kedrigern next looked in a small chamber set into the wall just off the great hall. Again he was struck by the tidiness and attention to detail of the enchanter, for a candle stood on a small table, burning steadily without consuming wax. Kedrigern smiled appreciatively, reflecting how seldom one saw spelling of this quality nowadays. It was certainly a far cry from the nastiness of the forest, and a welcome relief.

Sitting at the table, chin cupped in one hand while the other hand grasped a freshly inked quill pen, was an elderly scribe, spelled in mid-sentence. Kedrigern, always curious about what people considered worth setting down, leaned over to read his work. After scanning the opening words, he gave a little yelp of excitement, for he saw a familiar name. He traced back up the long sheet for the beginning of the passage, and read on from there.

Then did Vorvas, called the Vindictive, come to the castle Cent Saints to seek the Princess Blamarde her hand in marriage, who did surpass in beauty all the fairest of song and legend, for having heard of her and seen the image of her face and form by practice of his art, he was fain to possess her love and enjoy her beauty. And the king her father, having intelligence of

Vorvas his vindictiveness, was loath to say him nay despite the displeasure of his wife and the shrieking of the fair Blamarde and the weeping and lamentation of all in the castle. And Blamarde, fearing herself lost, did rise up before Vorvas and speak thusly: “Dirty old wizard, thou stinkest like unto an oubliette, and sooner would I die than be thy wife, maugre thy power and the fear in which all men hold thee.” And he replied:

“Then die thou shalt, and all herein shall die with thee,” and spoke a spell, and straightway the fair Blamarde paled and fell in a faint and was carried to her bed. Vorvas did darkly vanish, and a great fear came over all in the castle Cent Saints. But the queen did then recall the promise of the good fairy Zickoreena, who had been invited to Blamarde’s christening and given a golden cup and spoon as presents, and tidbits from the queen’s own dish to eat, that she would come to the princess’s aid in her time of direst need; and she did send messengers to seek Zickoreena and beg her presence at the castle. And the fairy did come, and hear the account of Vorvas his mischief, and did say: “Fear not, for Blamarde shall live. Though I have not the power to break the spell of that evil man, yet can I soften it, and so I shall. The fair Blamarde shall not die, but sleep for an hundred years, and all herein shall sleep also. And at the end of the appointed time a handsome prince shall come to the castle Cent Saints, and with him shall be a good wizard of much power, and counseled by the wizard, the prince shall kiss the princess and set her and all herein free of the spell. And from this day until that, the castle shall be called castle Cent Sans Sens, for that for an hundred years all herein shall be deep in sleep.” And having said these words of comfort, the fairy departed amid great thanks. And the king bid all to make ready for a long sleep, and gave order