Madman Run

Chapter Seventeen

Blade raised the rifle and aimed at the nearest creature, feeling sick again at the thought of one of those things inserting its tongue into his body. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to hold the barrel steady.

“Let me,” Hickok stated, stepping past the giant, a grin curling his lips.

“Eat these, bloodsuckers,” he said and drew both Colts in a blur of ambidextrous speed. Five shots boomed in succession.

Blade was astonished by his friend’s accuracy. With each shot a mutation flipped into the air or skidded backwards, its thin form neatly punctured, then thrashed wildly in its death throes, spraying water right and left.

“Let’s skedaddle, pard,” the gunfighter proposed. He began reloading the spent rounds, his gaze constantly roving over the floor.

No urging was necessary. Blade hurried to the wooden stairs and climbed them to the door. Surprisingly, Morlock hadn’t bothered to lock it, but with those vile creatures sucking blood from his face, he’d probably been too preoccupied to give thought to the door.

“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.”

“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.