“Let’s clear up one detail before we step out there,” Hickok said as Blade pulled the door open. “Do we shoot to kill on sight?”
There was no hesitation on Blade’s part. “Yes.”
Hickok chuckled. “Maybe you’ll make a decent Warrior after all.”
They entered a dark corridor. From somewhere came a fluttering sound, like the beating of bat wings.
Blade took the lead and advanced for dozens of yards before he noticed an unlit candle in a holder to his left. “Wait a second,” he said and felt in his pockets for the boxes of matches. All three were soaked on the outside.
Doubting he would find a match that wasn’t drenched, he opened the boxes and felt for a dry one.
“Where’d you find those?” Hickok asked.
“In a storage room.”
“Did you happen to see any dynamite?”
“No.”
“Shucks.”
At the center of one of the boxes Blade found five dry matches. He quickly lit one, removed the candle from the holder and applied the flame to the wick. “Geronimo, will you gather up the matches?” he requested. “If we dry them out, we might be able to use them.”
“Sure.” The Blackfoot squatted and put the boxes in his pockets. The four dry matches went in a separate one.
Blade resumed walking, holding the candle aloft to give them a ten-foot radius of dim illumination. He tried not to think of what would happen should they encounter Grell, but an image of the fiery eyed beast haunted his every step.
The corridor connected to the central stairs, where a whispering draft almost extinguished the flickering flame. Blade cupped the same hand holding the rifle around the top of the candle and started upward into the wicked heart of the festering evil.
At the next level they paused. There were four forks extending on a line with the four main points of a compass. From the southern branch light laughter arose.
“Serfs, you reckon?” Hickok commented.
A few moments later six pale figures materialized and pranced gaily toward the three youths.
Blade smiled, relieved to encounter some of the innocents first. They drew close and halted, giggling childishly. Tabitha and Selwyn weren’t among them. “Hello,” he said in greeting.
“Hello, sir,” one of the males responded.
“What are you doing?” Blade asked casually.
“We’re waiting for the great mast to come back so we can play pincushion.”
Only then did Blade see the knives in their hands. Shocked, he lowered his arm. “Pincushion?”
“Yes, sir.” The male tittered. “Sometimes Master Morlock puts outers in a cage. We get to surround the cage, and when he opens the door we play pincushion with our knives.”
Horrified, Blade glanced at his companions, then at the presumed innocents. “Do all of the serfs play pincushion?”
“Yes, sir. The masts gather all of us together for the treat. Master Morlock gave us these knives an hour ago and told us to wait on this level until the rest of the serfs come back. Then the fun will begin.”
“How can you describe stabbing a human being to death as fun?”
“Oh, it’s terrific,” the male stated, and several of the others laughed.
“The outers always scream and beg and whine while we poke them with our knives. Some of them put up a wonderful fight. In the end, though, they always fall down and go to sleep.”
“Why don’t you put those knives down and go play something else?” Blade suggested.
One of the women answered. “We can’t do that, sir. The great mast gave us orders, and we must obey.”
Blade stiffened when a harsh voice bellowed down from one of the upper levels.
“Felcram, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Master Morlock,” the male answered, gazing all around as if he couldn’t figure out where the voice came from.
“Kill the three outers!”
“These three?”
“Yes. Kill them now.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Blade began, thinking he could persuade the serfs to let them pass in peace. Suddenly the six attacked, cackling with glee and swinging their knives maniacally. He swung the Marlin to keep a man and a woman at bay while holding the candle aloft.
Geronimo used the rifle in a similar fashion, fending off two males, blocking repeated swings. “I don’t want to harm you,” he said. “Please stop.”
They only chortled.
Lacking a rifle, Hickok was twisting and dodging to evade a pair of women intent on burying their knives in his chest. “We don’t have time for this,” he said, blocking a fierce swing with his forearm, then slugging the woman in the jaw. She collapsed at his feet.
“Please stop,” Blade pleaded. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Sure we do,” one of the males said. “We’re playing pincushion.”
Blade knew the three of them wouldn’t be able to evade the knives forever. There had to be a way to drive the serfs off without hurting them.
As he side-stepped a lunge at his legs, he inadvertently lowered the candle and saw both males hastily back up, their eyes narrowed. He remembered how Tabitha and Selwyn had dreaded going near the campfire and grinned. Instead of using his rifle, he now swung the candle from side to side, keeping it at eye level, careful not to let the flame go out, and moved towards the serfs.
Both males shielded their eyes, whined and fled.
As if on an unseen cue, the rest of the band joined their fellows in flight except for the woman Hickok had decked.
“Good riddance,” the gunfighter stated.
“Why did they run?” Geronimo asked.
“They can’t stand bright light,” Blade said. “Even a candle shoved in their faces is more than they can take.”
“Too bad we don’t have another torch,” Hickok said.
Blade watched the retreating serfs until they took a left and disappeared. He gazed up the stairs and snapped. “Let’s go.”
They ascended quickly, alert for traps or an ambush, until once more they stood on the ground floor. The candles along the corridor caused intermittent shadows to dance and writhe like ethereal, inky demons.
A strident howl of glee echoed to their ears from above.
“It’s Morlock,” Hickok fumed.
In verification came a taunting shout. “Did you like playing with my serfs, boys?”
“Show yourself!” Blade yelled.
“And spoil all the glorious entertainment yet to come? You must be joking.”
“You can’t hide from us forever,” Blade called up.
“I don’t intend to, dear boy. You’ll see me when you least expect it.”
Morlock paused. “It’s so rare for us to have guests such as yourselves. This is a very special night, and we want to prolong the amusement for as long as we can.”
“I can’t wait to plug that cowchip,” Hickok muttered.
“Never happen, boy,” Morlock said.
None of the youths replied, and silence gripped the castle.
Geronimo was the first to speak. “How did he do that?”
“Do what, pard?” the gunfighter asked.
“How did he hear your last remark? He must be three floors above us, at least.”
Blade mulled the same question. Earlier, Morlock had claimed to know the moment he entered the underground through the mausoleum. How?
Had Morlock watched him from a hidden passage? But a secret passageway wouldn’t explain overhearing a hushed remark from three floors up.
“Maybe we should split up,” Hickok proposed. “We can each take a floor and get this over with a lot sooner than if we stick together.”
“No,” Blade said. “We’ll do this as a team, as if we were a Warrior triad.”