He remembered something and sat up with a start. Had not a page come this morning bearing a message from Spellmaster Grosmond? Something about… Yes! The message said that a secret crypt had been discovered in the basement, and that this crypt was stuffed with some very interesting articles, among which were several old books-magical books, they appeared to be-which Osmirik, as Royal Librarian, was supposed to examine to see if they were of any value. Osmirik had read the message and made a note on his calendar to go down there when, as Grosmond suggested in his communication, the place had been swept out a bit.
Osmirik rose from his seat. He must get to the basement as soon as possible. But that presented a problem in itself. Nevertheless, he was determined to attempt the passage, and he had a possible means of assuring his safety.
He picked up yet another grimoire, a quarto volume in lambskin embossed with gold. It, too, was a book of exotic spells, among which was a spell of invisibility. With this charm properly cast, Osmirik meant to pick his way through the chaos. There were other enchantments he meant to use as well, including a general facilitation spell. There was an overriding problem with all this, however.
Osmirik was not a very good magician. In fact, he was not much of a magician at all. He knew a great deal of theory, but working efficacious magic was a matter of talent as well as acumen. And talent, in the long run, was quite possibly more important than acumen in the making of a successful magician.
But now it was vitally important that he become a successful magician, and in very short order.
He took his seat again, opened the book, and began to study.
GRAND BALLROOM
With one mighty sweep of his broadaxe, Snowclaw decapitated another opponent.
The head rolled across the parquetry and stopped, its bulging eyes staring up at the cut-crystal chandeliers. Then it disappeared, as did the headless body at Snowclaw's feet. Snowclaw didn't care for that. Better both should lie there and bleed satisfyingly for a while.
Nevertheless, Snowclaw was having one hell of a good time.
Another gladiator came at him, this one wielding a trident. Snowclaw swung the axe and clipped the weapon off at the prongs, then followed through, going into a graceful pirouette and bringing his blade whistling around again to take the man's legs off at the knees. Blood gushed, then vanished.
"Darn it."
Wasn't good sport just to disappear like that. The least they could do was hang around a minute and spill a little gore.
The room was clanging with gladiatorial action, but at the moment no one else was free to engage Snowclaw. The great white beast waited impatiently.
"This is no fun."
He watched for a short time. None of these guys was any match for him. Or the females for that matter (and some of them were better than the males).
He left the ballroom and strode down the hall, swiping this way and that to clear a path. Soon everyone got the idea and stayed out of his way.
He met few challengers. At one point he, witnessed a victory and was ready to do combat with the victor, but the latter took one look at the broadaxe and wanted no part of it.
"Aw, come on, fella."
"You're not even human!" was the man's excuse as he skedaddled.
"Lot of fun you are."
Snowclaw walked on. No one would give him so much as a glance. Growing frustrated, and even though it wasn't exactly fair, he whanged an unsuspecting combatant on the head as he passed, using the flat of the blade. The man was out for the count, of course, but aside from that…
He came to an elevator shaft-one of several in the keep-and pressed the DOWN button. Maybe another floor would provide more action.
He passed the time watching the proceedings. Then a soft chime sounded; the doors slid open and he stepped in. The only other passenger was a man strumming a battered guitar.
"Down?" Snowclaw asked.
The guitar player nodded. The man was lanky, red-haired, balding, rather homely, and wore scruffy clothes. He launched into a folk song.
Snowclaw did not know the tune (he knew no tunes, as such), but instantly hated it. The man's voice was nasal and off-key (Snowy had perfect pitch) and just plain lousy. Nevertheless he belted out the lyrics, which were mawkishly sentimental and more than a little disingenuous in purport.
The elevator descended, and the man sang. Snowy was slightly embarrassed at first. Then he began to get irked. Several minutes later the elevator was still plunging and the man had squeaked out half-a-dozen verses, all more or less the same. Even Snowclaw, who knew nothing about any kind of music, much less human music, could see that enough listening to this sort of drivel could lead to serious brain damage and an erosion of the finer sensibilities. It was repetitious, simplistic, hackneyed, and boring.
The man was singing right into Snowy's face. Snowy tried to ignore him, but the man persisted.
Snowy pushed him away, but the guy didn't get the idea. Snowy got all the more ticked off.
Still the elevator fell. Snowy stabbed desperately at the control panel.
Mercifully, the man finished. And segued neatly into another number, this one sounding like a plagiarism of the last; which in fact it was, though sung at even louder volume. Something about striking and forming a union.
With a growl. Snowy grabbed the guitar and smashed the thing over the folk singer's sparse-haired cranium.
The doors slid open. Snowy walked out. The doors closed again to hide from piteous view one scruffy prone figure wreathed in silent kindling.
Snowy didn't know how many floors he'd gone down, but it didn't realty matter. This level was as replete with action and as scarce in respectable opponents.
A gladiator with a spear rushed at him.
Snowclaw sidestepped the shaft, warding it off neatly with his free forearm. Then he pivoted and applied the flat of his blade sharply to the back of the attacker's head. The man went end over end, fetched up against the wall and lay still.
Snowy yawned, scratching his belly.
He moved on. Mingled among the fighters were more singers and dancers and such. These he ignored. Animals roamed the hallways. Some of them sniffed at Snowclaw in passing, but none seemed to be really interested. One or two growled, but that was all.
All was chaos, and the situation seemed to be getting worse with each passing minute. Snowclaw watched as a chorus line kicked past. Just what was this activity supposed to signify? He couldn't fathom it.
He stopped and looked around. A sunlit aspect lay to his right, at the far end of an alcove. A breeze came from it, and he relished the coolness. He was hot. Human habitations were usually uncomfortably warm for arctic beasts like Snowclaw. To him, frozen tundras were balmy.
Deciding to take a break, he crossed the alcove and strode through the aspect.
A pair of warring gladiators followed him through-and promptly vanished.
He came out into a grassy pasture bordered by trees. A pond lay to the right, lying placid at the bottom of a hollow. On a log at the rim sat Gene and Linda, eating a picnic lunch.
Gene turned, saw Snowclaw, and raised a hand. "Hey!"
Snowclaw walked down to the pond.
"Hi, Snowy!" Linda said. "Where've you been?"
Snowclaw strode past them, threw the broadaxe on the grass, and dove into the pond with a mighty splash.
"Don't say hello," Gene said as he munched a kosher pickle.
"This stuff is getting a little wispy," Linda said, looking at her tuna salad sandwich.
"Not much taste." Gene watched the pickle in his hand disappear. "Not much to it, either."