“But Geronimo isn’t a Warrior yet.”
“Keep rubbing it in, why don’t you?” Geronimo cracked.
“We’ll start with the second floor,” Blade suggested and went cautiously up to the next landing. There wasn’t a candle lit along its entire length, so he raised the one he held and walked to the nearest door. Standing to one side, he nodded.
Geronimo gripped the knob and turned. The door swung inward to reveal typically well-preserved furniture and a thick red carpet.
“Empty,” Hickok said.
And so it went. Room after room after room was examined, and in each they discovered furniture and nothing more. They finished with the second floor and moved to the third, where Blade stepped to the second door on the right and threw it open.
The lantern still glowed, but Angus Morlock was nowhere in evidence.
Blade crossed to the door in the east wall, which hung wide, and stared grimly at the square opening and the dangling trapdoor.
“What’s this?” Hickok asked.
“Where Morlock pulled a fast one on me.”
“I’ve got news for you, pard. That bozo has been jerkin’ us around ever since we got here.”
Blade retraced his steps to the hall and continued to search. Three more rooms yielded zilch.
“We’re wastin’ our time,” Hickok complained. “He’s likely sittin’ behind one of these walls laughin’ himself silly at our expense.”
“We’re not giving up.”
The gunfighter snapped his fingers. “Hey, I’ve got a brainstorm.”
“Uh-oh,” Geronimo said.
“What’s your idea?” Blade asked.
“Let’s smoke the rascals out. We’ll set fire to the place and wait outside for them to show their faces.”
Geronimo pressed a hand to his cheek. “My, why didn’t Blade and I think of that?”
“It’s brilliant,” Hickok bragged.
“Except for one small detail,” Geronimo said.
“Like what?”
“The castle is made of stone.”
“Oh.”
“But you keep thinking, Nathan. It’s what you’re good at.”
“Was that a cut?”
Blade glanced at them. “Will you two clowns clam up?” He shook his head and walked toward a closed door. As far back as he could remember, Hickok and Geronimo had always been at each other’s throat in an amiable sort of way. It always amused him that they could verbally rip each other to shreds time and again, but if someone else were to insult either one, then both would be on the offender’s case in a flash. Hopefully, once all three of them were Warriors and they were confronted with the full responsibilities of their posts, the nonstop banter would cease. He looked forward to the peace and quiet.
A faint glow rimmed the next door.
Blade motioned for his friends to be ready and tried the knob. Unlike other doors, this one was locked. He stepped back, drew up his right leg and planted his boot next to the knob. The wood held firm.
“Allow me, pard,” Hickok said, moving across the corridor. He lowered his shoulder and ran straight at the door, striking it with a resounding thud that knocked him onto his posterior. The panel shuddered but wasn’t even cracked.
Geronimo clucked a few times. “I could have told you that wouldn’t work.”
“Oh, yeah?” Hickok responded indignantly, rising.
“Yep. You should have used your head.”
“How about if I use these?” the gunfighter retorted, and both Colts leaped into his hands. Two shots thundered simultaneously, and the wood above the lock splintered and blew apart. He stepped over and tapped the door with a gun.
Even Blade had to grin when the door swung inward. He entered and halted just over the threshold, astounded by the extraordinary furnishings.
“Wow!” Hickok said. “What is all this?”
“It’s a weapons room,” Geronimo speculated.
Mounted on every wall and displayed in numerous cases were scores of weapons—swords of every size and type; axes and pikes; dirks, daggers and knives; lances and shields bearing various crests; maces and spiked clubs. Ringing the room at ten foot intervals were complete suits a medieval armor braced by supporting stands. Occupying the middle of the floor were five tables bearing additional ancient arms.
Hickok walked over to the suit of armor and ran his fingers over the polished metal. “Where’s Sir Galahad when you need him?”
“I’m impressed, Nathan,” Geronimo said, moving to the first table. “I thought your knowledge of history was strictly limited to the Old West.”
“I’ve gone through the same schooling courses you have,” Hickok replied. “I’m not ignorant, you know. I remember readin’ all about those Knights of the Oval Chamber Pot.”
“They were the Knights of the Round Table, nitwit.”
“Whatever.”
Blade stood to the left of the doorway and admired the collection.
Someone, undoubtedly Moray Morlock or one of his ancestors, must have spent a fortune to accumulate such fine, authentic weapons. Perhaps the Morlock clan collected diligently for generations.
The gunfighter knocked on the breastplate and asked, “Is anyone home?”
Geronimo chuckled. “What would you do if it answered?”
“Head for the hills.”
“We should keep looking for Morlock,” Blade said, motioning at the corridor.
“What’s the big rush?” Hickok responded, stepping to the next display of body armor, a huge suit suitable for the Biblical Goliath. “There might be something here we can use.”
Blade was about to argue but changed his mind. Technically, he had no authority for bossing the gunfighter around, and he’d rather save his energy for when it was really needed. He absently glanced at the door, at the shattered wood above the lock, then at the source of the light, a lantern resting on a case near the huge suit of armor.
Something about the door and the lantern bothered him, but he couldn’t determine the cause. So what if one of the clan left a lantern in the room earlier? So what if the door had been locked? Morlock probably didn’t want them to get their hands on any of the weapons.
Geronimo had picked up a weapon resembling a short lance topped by a spike and an odd hatchet. “What were these called?”
“Thingamajigs,” Hickok said.
“Thank you, Mr. Middle Ages expert.”
“It’s a halberd,” Blade told them. “They were used in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries by knights and foot soldiers alike.”
“No wonder you always got A’s in school,” Hickok said. “You have a knack for recallin’ all the diddly details that no one else does.”
“You remember them,” Blade stated. “You just pretend you don’t so you can act dumb.”
Geronimo looked up. “Why would he want to act dumb when it’s his natural state?”
“Same to you, turkey,” Hickok said. He started to reach toward the visor on the huge armor.
Blade stared at the door again, jarred by an unsettling thought. What if the latern was there because someone had been using it? And what if the door had been locked from the inside, not the outside? He turned to voice his concern to the others.
The gunfighter rapped on the visor and repeated the same question. “Is anyone home?”
From within the armor came a guttural reply that shocked all three youths. “Yes.” And with that, the knight attacked.
Chapter Eighteen
Hickok was the first to fall. Dumfounded by the development, his lightning reflexes were unable to prevent the knight’s right gauntlet from striking him a heavy blow on the left temple. He crumpled with his hands almost to his Colts.
“Nathan!” Geronimo cried and rushed in with the halberd upraised, neglecting to use his rifle in his concern for his friend.