Apparently the unthinkable had happened. A gray, churning mass of water was rushing toward him.
He ran, knowing he couldn’t outrun it, dashing on in the blind hope of finding a stairway, preferably one leading up, or a room with an aspect he could duck through and escape. Anything would do for the moment, anything but this endless corridor. The view ahead was not encouraging. The hallway continued its interminable way to an infinite vanishing point.
With the waters roaring at his heels, he saw an opening in the wall ahead and put on a burst of speed. It was a stairwell! — one that began on this level and led up. Jubilantly, Kwip dashed into it.
It went up two flights and dead-ended into a blank stone wall.
“Gods of a pig’s arse! Not again!” He halted, stumbling, then turned to regard the gush of water that had followed him up the stair.
He took a deep breath and contemplated his end. “Aye, so this is it.” Perhaps it was meant to be. He had escaped the hangman’s noose, only to die by water in a castle of dreams.
Ah, well, he thought. As good a way to die as any.
He backed against the wall as the water foamed up to the landing. He watched it rise until it filled the truncated stairwell and began lapping at his boots. By the time the water’s level had reached his knees, however, its rate of climb had slowed. Hope yet. But it was fleeting. Presently the flood tide began to rise rapidly again, reaching his groin, then his waist, his chest, his neck …
Soon he was floating, his boots feeling like lead weights. He kicked them off and found that he was able to tread water sufficiently well to keep breathing. But he was rapidly running out of breathing space. The chamber was small, and soon the water would fill it to the vaulted ceiling, at the apex of which, Kwip noticed, was a small round opening … a ventilation shaft, most likely. Kwip had a sudden idea. He had had no formal education, but as a boy he had passed endless hours playing with odds and ends around the house, experimenting and pondering the results. If he could plug that hole, the remaining air pocket might stop the water from rising, just as air trapped inside a submerged inverted cup prevents it from being filled.
His leather jerkin did the job. Stuffed into the hole, it made a dubious airtight seal, but the rising flood slowed, then stopped. Presently the waters began to recede, and in time Kwip was wading knee deep again.
It was definitely seawater. Bits of shell and other flotsam crunched underfoot, and scraps of seaweed floated about. Apparently the water had found an outlet and was draining away, flooding the floors below.
“Passing strange,” he muttered. “A deluge out of a boudoir.Damned queer.”
Shaking his head, he retrieved one boot and sloshed down the steps to find the other. Something grabbed his leg.
He struggled against it, grasping the iron rail above and pulling against it. Whatever it was tugged back. He strained and managed to raise his unshod foot out of the water.
A slimy, gray-green tentacle had coiled itself about his ankle. Kwip yelled, drew his sword and hacked at it until his foot was free. He shook the severed end of the thing off and backed to the wall of the landing as another appendage rose from the depths. It was of the same color but slightly thinner, and at its end rode a single unblinking, fishy eye. Balanced on its delicate stalk, the eyeball scanned the chamber, then swung around to gather Kwip into its view.
Not for long; a sweep of Kwip’s sword sent the Argus eye plopping into the water, the cut end of the stalk spurting pink and yellow humors until it sank below the waterline. A smile grew on Kwip’s face, fading as another eyestalk rose, this one forewarned enough to keep its distance.
More tentacles leaped up, these equipped with wicked, needlelike stingers at their ends. Doubtless they were poisonous. Kwip leaped to the side to avoid one while hacking at another. With some quick swordsmanship he succeeded in truncating four tentacles, but more were coming at him, many more. He backed up the stairs, swinging and slashing.
Very quickly his back was to the blank wall at the top of the stairwell. Three tentacles were drawing a bead for a simultaneous strike under the guidance of more eyestalks. He feinted a thrust at one and cut wickedly at another, but landed only a glancing blow as the thing ducked away. The sword hit the iron rail and went flying from his wet grasp, falling with a gentle splash into the water.
He screamed, “No!” but knew it was the end. He pressed himself against the wall, straining, pushing as though the stone could yield.
Suddenly he was falling backwards. He hit with his buttocks, rolled on his back, and leaped to his feet.
Silence. He looked around. He was in another hallway, this one dry and devoid of sea monsters. There was no door in the wall in front of him, no opening of any sort. It was as blank as the one …
On the other side?
“Gods of a poxed doxy.” Kwip examined the dark, smooth stone of the wall. The unmortared joints hardly showed at all. There was no way he could have —
A sudden impulse seized him, and he thrust his fist at the wall as if to strike it.
His arm passed through the stone like a ghost through a midnight fog.
Keep — Near The Main Portcullis
The subaltern saluted and nervously began his report.
“If it please Your Royal Highness! I —” The words caught in his dry throat.
Prince Vorn laid a hand on the young soldier’s mailed shoulder. “Be at ease, son. When last did you see an enemy soldier?”
The subaltern cleared his throat, then said, “Almost a day ago, sire.”
Vorn nodded and turned to look at Lord Althair.
Althair shrugged. “I submit to you that we have triumphed.”
Vorn scowled. “Or do we walk triumphantly into Incarnadine’s trap?”
Althair looked about the high-ceiling hall in which they stood. It was being used as a staging area. Heaps of supplies lay about. Men of the quartermaster’s corps were carrying more in. “I see no trap, Your Royal Highness. In fact, I see nothing but the same rancid field rations and mildewed blankets that have held this army together for more than a year.” Beside him Lord Dax snickered.
Vorn grunted. He turned again to the subaltern.
“I am told you fought bravely, and well.”
The subaltern’s chest expanded slightly. “It was my privilege. Your Royal Highness.”
“Your unit overran more than a few enemy barricades. You led the charges yourself. True?”
“Sire, I cannot gainsay it.”
“Tell me this. How far into the keep has your phalanx penetrated? I realize distance here is difficult to judge.”
“I truly do not know, sire. We walked for hours, then tried to find our way back. We nearly lost ourselves for good and all.”
“And you were never challenged?”
“Never, sire.”
“And you’ve seen no castle guards since yesterday?”
“None, sire.” The subaltern’s gaze darted around the immense chamber. “Sire, this castle is truly enchanted! We —”
“Yes, we know. You and your men are relieved until further notice. Eat, drink, and disport yourselves. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sire!” The subaltern saluted and left.
Vorn’s face was troubled. Arms akimbo, he began to pace. “Too easy,” he murmured. “Too, too easy.”
“Put your suspicions to rest, Highness,” Dax said. “We have won the day. If Incarnadine’s sorcery could prevail, it would have done so long before this.”
Vorn stopped and nodded. “Aye, one would think so.”
“He sprang his traps at every turn,” Althair said. “We always managed to fight our way out.”
Vorn snorted. “We? You mean my soldiers did. At the cost of rivers of their blood.”