Castle Spellbound

PIRAEON

The assembled armada choked the harbor. There were almost four hundred ships, hailing from all over Arkadia, its possessions, protectorates, fiefdoms, and allies. Ships of every class lay moored to the docks and anchored as far out as the breakwaters: sailing vessels, galleys, longboatseven a few barges. A good number were warships of Arkadian design-long, sleek galleys-cum-sail with high curved sterns and sharp low ramming-prows. But there were also modified traders, refitted fishing boats, and other improvisations. They'd scoured every harbor in the Central Sea to get this show together.

Trent sat at a table in front of his tent, which had been pitched on the leeward side of the hill above the harbor. He was trying to get some food into him. After what was going to happen in a very short while, he knew his appetite would vanish.

It was practically gone already. He had before him a very good ripened cheese from Tyras, a fine red Megaran wine, raw chopped lamb with olive oil, shallots and garlic, and good local bread; but he was barely able to force anything down. Nevertheless, he cut himself another wedge of cheese.

His young servant, Strephon, offered him more wine. That he could handle.

"Thank you," Trent said.

Strephon bowed and went back into the tent.

Trent downed the wine, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He pushed the cheese away.

No, food didn't go well with human sacrifice.

He looked up at the sky. It had been overcast for three solid weeks, the fierce winds bringing one storm after another. It was, he'd been told, the worst weather for this region in a century. The fleet had twice essayed a crossing of the Therean Sea to Dardanian waters, and twice foul weather had turned it back. Anthaemion was convinced the gods were against him, and was further convinced nothing less than a supreme sacrifice would propitiate them.

How did he know? He had been told so in a dream. A frigging dream. Can you beat that?

Say, let's kill somebody. Why? Well, I had this dream, see….

Right.

Trent sighed. No use condemning these benighted people. These were archaic, god-ridden times, centuries before the light of reason would dawn-if it ever would. (He had to keep reminding himself that this was not Earth and history did not have to unfold the way it did on Earth.) They didn't know any better; superstition was a way of life. Gods spoke in dreams, through oracles, out of the mouths of priests. If the gods demanded blood (and he also had to keep reminding himself that human sacrifice was fairly rare here), they got blood. Most of the time they were satisfied with a bit of roast lamb. But every once in a while they got a hankering for more exotic fare.

Damn. Trent drank more of the excellent wine. It was a little like a Valpolicella. Not much, but a little.

The thing that most upset him was that he couldn't do anything to prevent it. He had tried. He had talked, reasoned, argued, and cajoled until he was blue in the face. To no avail. Anthaemion remained adamant that nothing less than the sacrifice of his own daughter would ameliorate the wrath of those gods who had set themselves against the cause of the Arkadians.

Well, maybe she was his daughter. She was the daughter of one of his concubines, but it was common knowledge that they slept around. Anthaemion might not be the girl's father. He probably hadn't even known her name up until a day or so ago.

So maybe she wasn't his daughter. What difference did that make? That didn't make the cheese go down any easier. It didn't assuage Trent's vague sense of responsibility for having failed to talk Anthaemion out of it. The king had been on the verge of changing his mind several times, Trent had felt. If only he had pursued a point better, or presented something more to advantage, or tricked up some clever argument

No, no use. He'd tried his best, and he'd failed. It was as simple as that.

And what did it matter, finally, to him? This was not his land, these were not his times-this was not his world, for pity's sake. He wished his conscience would leave him alone.

Telamon was coming up the hill. Trent rose, forced a smile, and waved.

The Chamberlain waved back and returned the smile briefly. He mounted the last rise to the terrace slowly, hale fellow though he was. It was steep, this path up to the acropolis and its temples. Trent had ordered his tent pitched up here to get above the rotten-fish smell of the port city, to take advantage of the shelter provided by the lee side of the hill, and most of all to get away from the constant brawls and killings among the Arkadian hosts below. Ten thousand idle, itchy sword hands made for a nervous bivouac. Even at the best of times, Arkadians were a vendetta-plagued, murderous lot.

They were human beings. So what else was new? Telamon looked grim.

"Hail, Trent."

"Telamon. Have you eaten?"

"Yes. A swallow of wine, however."

Pouring, Trent said, "Sit, drink."

Telamon did so as Trent called for another cup, which Strephon soon delivered.

Telamon looked up. "No break in the weather."

Trent followed his gaze to the leaden grayness above. "No. Another storm is predicted." Trent took a drink and looked at the Chamberlain. "Is Anthaemion determined to do the thing?"

Telamon nodded gravely. "He is. They'll be up in a trice with the girl."

"Gods. How young…?" Trent shook his head. "No, I don't want to know."

"Best not to think of anything now but our duty." Trent said nothing. He wanted to tell Telamon that they were all crazy. He didn't, of course.

"The gods are strange in their ways," Telamon mused, watching fast gray clouds chase across the sky. "They are capricious. They are sometimes cruel. Yet they are gods, and we must accept them as they are and obey their will."

"Yes, of course," Trent said. "But all we know is that the king had a dream. We do not know the will of the gods."

"But they have not shown any sign that they do not want this thing done."

"What would such a sign consist of?"

"I cannot say. But surely they would make their displeasure known in some way. They always do."

Trent heaved an internal sigh. You simply couldn't argue with these people. No way to undercut their assumptions. But how did they know the king's dream came from a god? Well, he was the king, wasn't he? Q.E.D.

Trent began to construct another counterargument, but gave it up. There was nothing he could say to stop the killing. The only alternative was to use his magic.

But that involved another hitch. Several. For one, this world was very flat, magically speaking. Meaning that it was hard to work any here. It could be done, with some effort, but each world's magic was different, and Trent hadn't had much time to delve into the working of the Arts here. Consequently, his repertoire was limited. For another, these people were very sensitive to magical goings-on. No doubt Anthaemion would detect meddling. He wouldn't like it a bit, and would instantly suspect Trent.

That would never do.

There was still another consideration. Inky had explicitly told him to lay off. His role here was limited to that of a military adviser. He was not supposed to use magic except in a military situation, and, in that case, nothing more than a temporary invisibility spell or two. If that. In fact, Trent had not planned to use any supernatural crutches at all. Tricks would only complicate the situation; besides, military magic was not always effective. Better to keep your power dry and your sword sharp. Rely on hocus-pocus at your peril.

So, the upshot: mind your own gods-damned business. Telamon talked of other things while Trent's mind wandered. He wondered about Sheila and exactly how long he'd been gone now, according to Sheila's sense of time. He suspected that Inky had misrepresented the time-flow variance. Damn him.

Trent was worried, because in this world, this universe, three solid months had passed since he'd arrived. He hoped Sheila wasn't fretting. Inky had assured him he'd get word to her in case of any undue delay in his return. But how much time? How long was his absence, reckoning by castle-time: A day? A week? Perhaps as much as a month had gone by. Sheila would be beside herself.

But he was committed. He couldn't pull out. He'd pledged his help and he had to follow through. A matter of his word, his honor.

"You are distracted, friend," Telamon was saying.

"Hm? Oh, sorry. Yes, I'm afraid I can't get my mind off this business. I really wish-"

Telamon looked down at the slope. "It will be over soon, and there will be no more to think about."

Trent looked. A procession was coming up the path. Anthaemion, his court, his palace guard, others. And two soldiers escorting a young woman.

God, she looks all of fourteen, Trent said to himself. He downed the last of his wine and rose with Telamon. They waited.

The procession wound up the stone path. As it passed, he watched the girl. She wore a garland of myrtle around her head and was dressed in white robes. She was young, much too young. How could that miserable swine do such a thing?

She turned her head and looked at Trent. A faint smile crept across her lips. Bashfully; she turned her head away. She didn't know! And wouldn't till the last second, he hoped. Thank the gods.

He'd better stop using that expression. These weren't his gods. If they existed. Not that he had really ever…

Never mind, never mind. Should he go up and witness the bloody thing? Or stay here and get drunk, and a pox on the whole bunch of irrational, superstitious bastards?

The procession passed. He and Telamon followed it up the slope.

Trent's mind churned all the way up.

The temple complex on the acropolis was small. Three temples, but only one was anything more than a gazebo affair. There were a few other small buildings and shrines. The procession passed all these and headed for the open-air altar, a stepped pyramid that sat on the edge of a cliff above the sea.

Clouds of darker gray gathered above. The buildings were made of white marble, but they were old and weathered, even in this ancient time. (But now is now, Trent thought, correcting himself once again. And this is not Earth.)

Trent didn't know what gods or goddesses any of these structures were dedicated to, nor did he care.

On the altar's highest level sat a stone brazier, good for barbecues and your basic holocaust. Kill the victim, then burn the remains. That was how it was done. Usually the victim was not human.

Trent lost sight of the head of the procession. He broke into a run to catch up.

He sidestepped, ducked, and pushed his way through the clot of soldiers, sailors, courtiers, and noblemen, leaving ruffled dignity in his wake. Nasty looks were thrown his way, and a few swords came halfway out of scabbards. But he elbowed his way forward.

He reached the first step of the altar and began to climb, but hit an impasse. Bodies blocked his way. He lunged. One man fell over backwards. He gained two steps. Curses came to his ears from behind.

"Foreign trash!"

"Sorcerous dog!"

And worse, but he paid it no mind. Most were reluctant to challenge a sorcerer. He kept pushing his way up the terraced altar.

One ornery soldier wasn't about to let him pass. Snarling, the man drew his sword. Trent kneed him in the balls.

He pushed upward. Finally, he was at the top, but more noble carcasses barred his way.

He heard the girl scream. He jabbed his fist into the spine of the man in front of him.

When he went down Trent broke into the clear, and stopped in his tracks.

Above him, on the highest stone platform, Anthaemion stood with his right arm upraised, the gold of his bronze blade against the gray sky, ready to bring it down on the terrified child. The king's eyes were dark, a kind of resolute fury in them. Though he hesitated, he was clearly determined to see this through.

A blinding flash lit up the acropolis.

The blade of the king's sword was the focal point. Spider-legs of blue fire crawled from it, metastasizing to a circle of points around the oval brazier. A blue glow enveloped everyone and everything. Simultaneously, one of the spider-legs darted to Trent, lifted him up, and hurled him over the heads of the crowd. Then a cascade of sparks radiated from the king's sword, and white smoke rose from it.

A tremendous crash resounded. People tumbled over each other down the steps.

The sea echoed thunder.

Telamon's face came into focus. "Trent?"

Trent raised his head.

"What happened?" he asked.

"The sign."

"Uh, yeah."

Telamon helped Trent sit up, then palpated his arms, his legs, all of him. Nothing broken. Trent tried to get up, found that he could.

"The gods have spoken," Telamon said, "as they always do."

"Loud and clear," Trent said. He was a little dazed, and his ears hurt. He turned to find Anthaemion looking at him. The crowd had dispersed. A few lingered to stare at the top of the altar.

"Come with me," Anthaemion commanded.

Trent followed him back to the top of the altar. There, the king stopped and looked down at something lying at his feet: a piece of twisted half-fused metal.

Trent looked. It was Anthaemion's sword.

"It was a trial, a test," the king of Mykos said, staring at the thing.

"Yes," Trent said.

"To see if I would obey. And I obeyed."

"Yes," Trent said again. He had command of few words at the moment. "The girl? She…?"

Anthaemion looked at Trent. "She is unhurt."

"Ah."

"You were right, Trent. But the gods had their plan, which you tried to thwart. And I had no choice. Now, the gods have seen to it that my conscience is clear."

Trent nodded.

Anthaemion took a long breath. "I felt nothing," he said.

"The lightning's fire passed through me. Yet I had no sensation. Was there much pain for you?"

"Nothing at all," Trent told him.

Anthaemion nodded. "The gods are all-powerful. And all-wise." He looked out over the cliff. "We cannot fail now."

"No. I suppose not."

Trent went down, leaving the graying king to stare at the wine-dark sea.

Walking back down the stony path, Trent began to chuckle.

Yep. He'd played the ace about as cagily as it could be played. Anthaemion didn't suspect a thing. Close, though. Close.

Just how do you go about calling down a bolt from the sky and directing a convincing portion of it at yourself without hurting anybody or turning your carcass into a piece of charred meat?

Carefully. Very carefully.

Above the bustling seaport, a patch of blue was showing.