Castle Kidnapped

Sixteen King’s Study

“ … Five … four … three … two … one.”

On a wooden table in the middle of the chamber, there appeared a strange, feathery glob of golden light. Shifting and shimmering, it neither took shape nor attained substance, but somehow suggested the form of a bird.

Incarnadine approached the phenomenon. Extending his hand, he gently lifted the thing. Actually, “guided it” would be the more accurate description, for the phenomenon seemed somewhat capable of movement.

He moved to a table on which sat a personal computer.

“Reduce to data,” was his command to the thing he bore.

The luminous blob vanished with a flash. The screen of the computer suddenly came to life with a golden snowstorm of numbers and symbols.

He seated himself and studied these, occasionally entering commands on the computer’s keyboard.

At long last, he sighed and sat back. He waved his hand, and the golden smear of light exited from the back of the computer. It hovered before him.

“I release you,” he said.

The phenomenon brightened, fluttering and pulsing.

“Go on, beat it.”

The light shot off, darting about the room in a frenzy of rediscovered freedom. It bounced off the walls, did an Immelmann turn, then rocketed ceilingward and continued straight through the stone, disappearing.

He rose and crossed the room. Against a far wall stood a collection of strange contraptions, some of them resembling grandfather clocks. He consulted the dials on a number of these, his brow knitting as he did so.

“Damn. What in the name of all the gods do they think they’re doing?”

He shook his head, peering at more meters and gauges.

“Strange, strange,” he murmured, recrossing to the desk.

He entered some commands and punched Return. The screen swam with blurred images. He waved his hands and chanted something in an exotic tongue.

Annoyed, he banged a fist on the top of the device. “Drat. What’s wrong now?”

He tried different commands, to no avail.

“Trent? Trent, can you hear me? Come in.”

The screen was devoid of anything recognizable. Then a garbled voice could be heard.

“ … Inky? … you?”

“Trent!” he answered. “Speak up! I’m having trouble receiving you.”

More unidentifiable noise, clearing up for a second or two. “ …trouble … the hell this is, but it’s … get us out? … ”

He waited, but there was no more.

“Going to have to do this the old-fashioned way,” he complained.

The old-fashioned way turned out to be a large crystal globe sitting on a table in a far corner of the cluttered room. The thing was covered with dust, so he took a chamois cloth to it and soon had it acceptably clear.

He closed his eyes, then opened them suddenly. “Damned if I haven’t forgot the riffs. Ye gods …”

After rummaging through stacks of old books, he finally discovered the one he wanted, then found out it wasn’t. More rummaging, and much annoyed throwing of things.

He chuckled. “I’m losing my grip. Here it is.”

The right tome, the right passage, the right incantation. He read through it, moving his lips.

He slammed the book closed. “That’s it.” As he passed the desktop computer, he shook his head ruefully at it. “Technology. Makes a cripple of you, it does.”

Standing once again before the crystal globe, he struck a proper wizardly pose arms wide, thumbs and first fingers touching. He commenced a monotonous chanting.

Again, he stopped.

“No, not Trent,” he decided.

He resumed his stance and the incantation.

The globe grew milky. Motile shadows writhed within it, and fuzzy images flew hither and yon.

A face appeared; less a face than a contorted mask of pain, a horrific caricature of a face he knew.

“Ferne!” he called, dismayed.

The answer was a moan. Flecks of bloody foam dribbled from the lips.

“Ferne!” This time he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Ferne, where are you?”

The face of his sister changed. The eyes opened, a glimmer of desperate hope in them.

“Who …?”

“Incarnadine, your brother. Where are you, Ferne? Tell me! Who has done this to you?”

Her face tightened again, the eyes became tiny wrinkled slits. She screamed hideously.

He shouted her name again, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.

“In the name of the gods, Ferne, speak to me! Tell me where you are!”

She spoke in Haplan, the traditional tongue of the Haplodites; her milk tongue, and Incarnadine’s. “In Hell. In deepest … darkest … Hell.” She screamed again.

“They’re hurting me. Inky.” Her voice was like a child’s. “Tell them to stop.”

“Steady on, woman. I will come and help thee.”

“Please.” The voice was a rasp. “Help me.”

“I swear on my life. The gods strike me dead an I fail thee.”

There was a long, ragged breath, then coughing.

This now in English: “Hurry, Inky dear. Hurry.”

The globe grew milky again, and the image faded. Soon the crystal cleared.

He lowered his arms. He staggered to an easy chair and collapsed into it.

He was a long time recovering. When he had composed himself, he got up and moved purposefully toward the door of the study, but stopped in midstride. He turned, pondered, then made a motion toward the bank of instruments, but again came to a halt.

What to do?

So many things. He needed help. Trent, it seems, had problems of his own. But Trent would have to fend for himself. There was no time for him, at least for now.

Who, then? Deems was gone, poor, dear, dead brother. Victim of his own venality.

Dorcas? A good heart, but not much talent. As for the other relatives …

No, he must avail himself of the resources of the castle, human and otherwise. But who —?

He had the answer. He would be taking a risk in relying on one so young and inexperienced, but raw talent was the requirement here….

At that moment the quaking began. He looked off, sensing, judging the magnitude of the disturbance. The effects were minimized here, protective spells shielding this section of the castle. He checked his guesses on the banks of measuring instruments.

When it had passed, he nodded his head.

“On schedule. I wonder if they know they’re bound to destroy themselves as well.”

He moved toward the door.

“Probably do, the insane bastards.”