Madman Run

Chapter Eight

Blade instinctively elevated his arms to ward off the clinging mesh, but he was too late to prevent the loops of rope from draping over his torso and falling almost to the floor. He took a step backwards, or tried to, and regretted his stupidity when his lower legs became entangled and he lost his balance. Down he went, toppling halfway through the doorway, his right shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact and making him wince as the stone floor jarred him to the bone. Rolling onto his stomach, he attempted to push erect, but the clinging net restricted his arms to the point where he couldn’t move more than an inch.

Light thuds sounded to his rear.

Mystified, Blade tried to roll over again. Strong hands gripped his ankles and started to pull him into the room. Realizing he was helpless and anticipating he might be shot or stabbed at any second, he tilted his neck and yelled at the top of his lungs. “Hickok! Geronimo! They’ve got me!”

A hard object, perhaps a fist, rammed into the fledgling Warrior’s back.

Blade arched his back, grit his teeth against the pain and renewed his struggle to turn over. He let go of the Martin, which was flush with his body, and tried to force his huge arms outward, exerting all of his prodigious strength. More blows rained down, but he ignored them. The fact his assailants weren’t using knives or clubs made him think they wanted to capture him alive, which was little consolation under the circumstances. He strained as he’d never strained before, every muscle bulging, and slowly, inch by inch, the net began to loosen.

A loud scraping sound suddenly punctuated the pounding of the fists.

Engrossed in breaking free at all costs, Blade thought nothing of the noise until a heavy object that felt like solid iron crashed down onto his head and shoulders. His consciousness swirled, and for a second he was on the verge of blacking out. He vaguely registered the drumming of footsteps, and then bright light engulfed him and familiar voices brought overwhelming relief.

“Here he is, Geronimo!”

“He’s caught in a net!”

“What was your first clue?”

“Get him out, quick.”

“You get him out. I can cover better than you can.”

As the net was pulled off, Blade twisted his head and blinked up at his friends. Hickok stood with his Colts leveled, glaring into the chamber, while Geronimo was tugging on the net with one hand and holding the torch aloft with the other. “Took you long enough,” Blade muttered, his shoulders and back throbbing, and then thought of his attackers. “Where are they?”

“Who?” Hickok responded.

“The ones who jumped me,” Blade stated, sitting up.

“We didn’t see anyone,” Geronimo said.

“Impossible,” Blade declared. “I think there were two of them, and they didn’t go out this door.” He clasped the Marlin and stood up. Nearby lay an overturned wooden chair. He realized one of his foes had used it to strike him and wished he could return the favor. Incredibly, there was no one else in the chamber.

But there were books, thousands and thousands of them, filling bookcases that lined all four walls from the floor to the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a large mahogany table and five chairs, brothers to the one lying near the doorway.

“It’s a library,” Blade said, stepping over to the table. His eyes made a complete circuit of the room, seeking an exit. There was none. He did discover how they’d managed to drop the net on him. The bookcases on either side of the door weren’t completely filled, which led him to conclude his attackers had climbed up and perched there with the net taut between them until he came in. If so, it meant the woman in white deliberately led him into an ambush.

“Did you happen to get a look at the ones who jumped you?” Geronimo inquired.

“Nope,” Blade replied. “It was too dark.”

“How did the vermin escape without us spotting them?” Hickok asked.

Blade recalled a book he’d read several years ago entitled The Complete Sherlock Holmes. “There has to be a secret passage in here. Spread out and try to find it.”

They each took a portion of wall and conducted a hasty search, moving books aside and thumping on the back panels in an effort to locate a concealed door. After several minutes each of them stopped and stared at the others.

“This is hopeless,” Geronimo said. “There are too many shelves, too many books. It could take us a year.”

“Then we’ll keep going from room to room until we flush them out again,” Blade proposed.

“What makes you think we will?” the gunfighter asked.

“They obviously don’t want us in the castle. Why else did they pounce on me?”

Hickok shrugged. “They probably mistook you for that monster with the red eyes.”

“Can’t you be serious for one minute?”

“Okay. Maybe they figured you were one of the wood nymphs.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got style.”

Blade walked into the corridor and glanced in both directions. There were more doors on this floor, including some he’d passed as he pursued the woman, and he nodded at the closest one. “Let’s check it out.”

“We’re right behind you,” Hickok said, replacing the Colts. “Just try not to get lost this time.”

“Not funny,” Blade said, leading the way.

The gunfighter leaned toward Geronimo and snickered. “Boy, a few bumps and bruises and he goes all to pieces.”

Blade looked over his shoulder. “I heard that.”

“Good ears. You must be part bunny rabbit.”

Sighing, the giant opened the next door and peered in at a plush sitting room complete with thick carpeting, a half-dozen easy chairs, and a gold-gilded sofa fit for a palace.

Hickok whistled in appreciation. “Too bad we can’t lug any of this stuff back with us. That sofa would look great in my cabin.”

“You don’t have a cabin yet,” Geronimo noted. “Only married couples are alloted cabins.”

“I’ll be married some day.”

“My condolences to your future bride.”

“Clam up, you two,” Blade snapped. He went to the next room, and the next, and in each found the same extravagant furnishings, the same immaculate conditions, the same evidence of greath wealth. The thought brought him up short.

Wait a minute!

Immaculate conditions?

Blade stared at the floor, then the walls. He ran his fingers over the stone and examined the tips. “Have you guys noticed something?” he asked.

“Do you mean other than you actin’ weird?” Hickok rejoined.

“There isn’t any dust,” Blade informed them.

“Dust?” the gunfighter repeated.

“Yeah, you know. As in dirt and grime and all that. These walls and the floor are clean enough to eat off of, which means someone mops and dusts on a regular basis.”

“You’re right, pard,” Hickok said, glancing around. “We must be up against a bunch of irate house cleaners. Or is that castle cleaners?”

Geronimo offered his rifle to Blade. “You’re welcome to shoot him with my gun if you want.”

“Why waste the bullet?” Blade said and resumed hunting for clues.

They covered every room on the second floor, then went up to the third.

Again they found chambers filled with furniture, ornaments and paintings that would have cost a small fortune prior to the Big Blast. But evidence someone lived there eluded them.

“How many floors are there in this place?” Hickok asked as they made toward the last doorway along the corridor.

“There must be six or seven in a building this size,” Blade guessed.

“We can be here all day.”

“If you have a better idea on how we can discover who’s behind all of this, I’m open to suggestions.”

“I was just thinkin’ about Attila.”

“What about him?”

“We’re supposed to be on guard duty tomorrow night. If we don’t show up, he’ll be as mad as a wet cat.”

Geronimo snorted. “You have such a wonderful way with words, Nathan.”

“We’ll be back at the Home by the time our shift starts,” Blade predicted. “Even if we stay over here tonight, we’ll have all day tomorrow to make the return trip.”

“Are you plannin’ to stay over?”

“It depends on how things turn out.”

Hickok chuckled. “You can’t fool me. The real reason you want to stay another night is you’re hopin’ to see those fairies again.”

“Please use my gun,” Geronimo begged.

Blade turned to the door and reached for the knob when from somewhere far below, seeming to come from the very bowels of the earth, came a faint scream, a terrified shriek that lasted for a good 30 seconds and abruptly ended in awful silence. “Let’s go,” he barked and made a move toward the stairs.

“We can’t,” Geronimo stated.

“Why not?”

“The torch is going out.”

Sure enough, the flames were much lower and might extinguish completely within the next couple of minutes. “There must be something we can use to make another one,” Blade said, then he opened the door.

A music room unfolded before their wondering eyes, with a harp in one corner, a bass on a stand in another, a violin mounted in a case on the south wall, and another piano, this one smaller than its counterpart downstairs, the only furniture consisted of two chairs, a small sofa and a narrow cabinet against the rear wall.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything we can use,” Geronimo said.

Blade was about to close the door when his gaze fell on the polished piano. An idea occurred to him, and he hastened to the maple cabinet.

“What are you doing?” Hickok asked.

“Looking for whatever they used to polish the furniture and the piano.”

“What in the world for?”

“It just might be flammable,” Blade responded, opening the panel doors. There were four narrow shelves crammed with odds and ends—several bows for the violin, music books, a harmonica, three glass bottles partially filled with liquid substances, folded pieces of cloth and more. He raised one of the bottles and read its label: EVERLASTING WOOD POLISH. Unscrewing the cap, he raised the bottle to his nose and promptly regretted doing so. An acrid scent capable of gagging a horse made him turn aside and cough. On closer inspection of the label he found two words printed at the bottom: WARNING. FLAMMABLE.

“Bingo,” he announced.

Geronimo had walked to the sofa and was examining the stitching in the smooth, pink fabric covering the upholstered seat and back. “Your knives can cut this easier than my tomahawks,” he remarked.

Blade went over and handed the bottle to the Blackfoot, then crouched.

Drawing his left Bowie, he proceeded to cut six-inch wide strips of pink fabric, each about a foot long, and draped them over the armrest. After accumulating four such strips, he slid the knife into the sheath and stood.

Hickok was standing guard at the door.

“The owners won’t be very pleased at having their furniture destroyed,” Geronimo mentioned.

“And I’m not overjoyed at having someone beat on me with a chair,” Blade replied. “Which makes us even.” He took one of the strips and poured the polish over it until the fabric was soaked, then did the same with the remaining three.

Meanwhile, the torch had sputtered down to a few lingering fingers of flame.

“Hold it out,” Blade directed, clasping the drenched strips in both hands. He had to work quickly or suffer burnt fingers. Extending his arms to the side, he waited until the torch was almost out and he could barely see the limb, then he whipped the strips around and wrapped them tightly about the smoldering end. No sooner had he secured them and drew his hands back than the torch flared to life again with a sizzling sound and a puff of smoke.

“Pretty clever, pard,” Hickok complimented him.

“Now let’s go see where the scream came from,” Blade proposed and hastened from the music room to the stairs, his companions right beside him. They paused at the landing to listen.

“Think it was the woman in the white dress?” Hickok wondered.

“No telling,” Blade said, moving slowly downward. “But from now on we stick together no matter what.”

“Shucks. Do you mean I can’t go chasin’ after any wood nymphs?”

“Will you stop already with the wood nymphs?”

“Sure. Just tryin’ to cheer you up after the lickin’ you took.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Try and cheer Geronimo up for a change.”

“Hey, don’t involve me,” the Blackfoot said softly. “He’s your problem.”

“Who are you callin’ a problem?” Hickok demanded.

“Quiet,” Blade said sternly.

The gunfighter, of course, had to get in the last word. “Boy, what a couple of grumps.”

In silence they descended to the ground floor and halted. Blade stood at the edge of the next flight of steps and peered into the inky domain below.

The air felt cooler, and the dank scent was stronger. He gripped the Marlin and went down cautiously, carefully placing one foot after the other. Another stone corridor, narrower than those upstairs, appeared below, with branches running in four different directions. At the next landing they stopped to survey the lower level.

To Blade’s amazement, they’d discovered a subterranean network of passageways and rooms. A half-dozen doors were visible along each branch. Even more surprising was the fact that the stairs continued down to yet another level. He speculated on how far down the levels actually went. If there were as many floors below ground as above, then trying to search every square inch of the castle was an impossible task.

The dank, cool air intensified, and a slight breeze caressed their faces.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Geronimo said.

“How can there be a breeze down here?” Hickok asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade admitted, wrestling with the decision of whether to go lower or check this level first. He believed the scream came from farther down, but the idea of venturing into the castle’s nether realms intimidated him. His vivid imagination created all sorts of horrid beasts waiting below for the chance to pounce on them. Before he could make up his mind, however, an unforeseen event occurred.

Hickok cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said ever so politely.

“What is it?” Blade responded, turning to find the gun-fighter staring up the stairs.

“We’ve got company.”

Startled, Blade turned and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the lady in white standing not ten feet away.