“That should give them pause — or a case of the shits,” he said, chuckling.
With a pathetic whine the engine suddenly flamed out. Indicators fell off, and then the instrument panel went dark. He waited a few seconds for the speed to lessen, then worked his fingers quickly.
The plane now became a propeller-driven, single-engine fighter, specifically a Focke-Wulf 190 A-4, armed with two 7.92mm machine guns and four 20mm cannon, and having an operational range of 592 miles. Unfortunately, as in the case of the jet, mechanical contrivances did not work well in this world, and the antique warplane would probably not even make it back to the castle. He made a mental note to do more intensive research into the question of exactly why machines of any complexity, even magical ones, could not function here for any length of time beyond a few minutes. As he had been working on the problem off and on for over a century, he had little hope of immediate success, but he was determined to get to the bottom of it. Someday.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps he liked this world the way it was.
Banking steeply, he headed back toward the citadel. He briefly considered making a strafing run over the camp, but decided against it. It would not be sporting, and the fate of Vorn’s men was sealed whether or not his plan was successful.
As he neared the castle, the engine sputtered and gave out. He dead-sticked in a little closer, then spelled the antiquated airplane away and replaced it with the carpet.
The roof of the keep came up, and he landed. Stepping off the carpet, he stooped and rolled it up. He tucked it under his arm and walked to a small building into which was set a pair of doors. He pressed the button on a panel next to them. The doors rolled apart, revealing an open shaft.
It was time for the final and inevitable confrontation.
“Basement,” he said, jumping off into darkness.
Underworld
Something brought Jacoby out of his meditation. He looked out over the river. A boat was approaching.
“Come, Charon,” he said, “and ferry me across.”
The long boat moved rapidly, yet no one was rowing. Standing at the stern and manning the tiller was a strange being, a black figure, immense and powerfully muscled, humanlike but not quite human, with red eyes that glowed like embers in a face like a bull’s. The boatman deftly guided the craft into shore and brought it abreast of the pier, whereupon he moved to the bow and threw a loop-ended line over a mooring post. With a sinewy black arm he beckoned Jacoby to come aboard.
The fat man stepped down into the launch, made his way amidships and chose one of a number of wooden boards slung gunwale to gunwale. There were seats for perhaps two dozen souls. The boatman cast off and moved to the stern, taking his station at the tiller.
The journey downstream was uneventful. The boatman said nothing, and neither did Jacoby. Propelled by unseen forces, the boat parted the water gently with its blunt prow, leaving a wake of undulating ripples. The black waters of the river flowed quietly, inexorably. An occasional prismatic oil slick drifted by, faintly aglow in the passing light. The rest was darkness and quiet.
It could have been hours, it could have been days, or only a few minutes. Jacoby’s sense of time had been left in the mortal world above. Eventually the boatman steered for the far shore and put in, docking at another stone wharf.
Jacoby disembarked, walked to the end of the pier and looked about. “What, no Cerberus at the gate? No Virgil to guide my way?”
The ebony boatman raised a thick arm and pointed to a flight of steps rising from the riverbank. He spoke in a voice as deep and as slow as the black waters he plied: “Go forth from this place. Go up into the light of day. Do not return.”
“I shan’t, you needn’t worry.”
Jacoby climbed the steps, which eventually led into a passage that cut through the rock, bearing ever upward.
Hall Of The Brain — And Elsewhere
“Ready, Linda?”
Perched on Snowclaw’s mighty shoulders, Linda tucked her feet more tightly under his arms. “Yep,” she said. “Climb on, guys.”
Gene jumped up and locked his legs around the arctic beast’s middle, couldn’t hold on, and fell off.
“Let’s make this simple,” Snowclaw said, grabbing him and lifting him up with one arm. He gathered in Osmirik with the other and hoisted the scribe up.
The four now looked like an odd circus act.
“Jesus, Snowy,” Gene said. “You sure you can hold us?”
“This ain’t gonna take but a second.”
“You got a fix on the Brain room?”
“Yup. I been there, so I know where it is, so to speak.”
“Okay.”
“Ready?” Snowclaw asked.
Gene said, “We all know what to do, right?”
Nods all around, except for Snowclaw, who couldn’t.
“Okay, gang,” Snowclaw said, “here goes.”
And suddenly they were there.
Gene jumped off Snowy, drew his sword and sized up the situation. It was just as Snowclaw had described it. There was one soldier and five servants. No, only four. Then Gene saw the young boy lying down in front of the kneeling Melydia. White, blood-daubed bandages were wrapped around both his wrists. Melydia was undoing one of them.
The soldier spun around. “Your Ladyship!”
Melydia turned her head. She did not seem in the least surprised.
“Okay, Super-Bitch,” Gene said, stepping down the last stone terrace onto the circular floor. “The game’s over. Stop what you’re doing.”
Sword drawn, the soldier stood his ground. His eyes were fixed fearfully on Snowclaw, who was rushing toward the cage. Nearby the battle-ax lay where Snowy had dropped it.
“Let me handle him, Snowy,” Gene called.
The servants, all of them unarmed, had jumped to their feet and were warily retreating in Melydia’s direction. Then, suddenly, all halted to stare in wonder at the swords and shields that had materialized in their hands.
“On second thought, Snowy old buddy, old pal …”
“I got ‘em, Gene,” Snowy said as he rushed by with broadax raised.
“Fight!” Melydia shouted. “Protect your mistress!” The servants glanced nervously at her, then advanced.
Gene found that his left arm was looped through the handles of a heavy shield. “Thanks, Linda,” he said over his shoulder.
The soldier charged him.
The fight was quick. Osmirik, armed by Linda, took on one servant while Snowclaw battled three. Osmirik’s opponent held his own against the scribe, but the three were no match for Snowclaw. He made quick work of them, then came to Osmirik’s aide and dispatched the remaining servant. By that time Gene’s expert swordsmanship had backed his adversary almost to the base of the black rock. The soldier desperately fought off Gene’s blows, his eyes fearful and wondering. He knew it was only a matter of time.
Gene slashed crosswise, putting another dent in his opponent’s shield, then feinted a thrust under the shield, which the soldier lowered a bit too much, laying himself open to Gene’s quick thrust to the shoulder of his sword arm. The point penetrated, and the soldier yelled and dropped his sword. Gene hacked at the shield, knocking it away, and his next blow laid open the soldier’s throat. Gene stepped back and watched him fall.
Gene took a slow, deep breath. He had never killed a man before.
Melydia seemed unconcerned by all this. She was still busy tracing designs in the air, muttering, making other strange movements. The boy lay dead at her feet. The brazier into which she’d poured the last of his blood still smoked.
Gene ran toward her. “Stop what you’re doing!”
She did not even look at him. Her hand went out, made a movement.