Madman Run

Chapter Fourteen

The impact knocked Blade prone, the breath whooshing from his lungs, and sent the Marlin skidding across the landing. He heard Tabitha and Selwyn laugh—laugh?— and then he frantically pushed to his knees and tried to turn. A naked foot caught him at the base of the neck and sent him down again, his surroundings spinning as if in a whirlpool.

The serfs laughed below.

Numb from the last blow, Blade feebly attempted to roll over. Iron hands closed on his shoulders, and he was bodily lifted into the air. He struggled weakly, but it wasn’t enough to prevent his assailant from throwing him against a corridor wall. He landed on his left side and finally saw his attacker.

The hulking form of Elphinstone moved toward the youth, his mallet-like hands clenched into huge fists.

In a certain sense, Blade felt relieved. It was the apish brute, not Grell.

At least he stood a chance. Since he’d arrived at Castle Orm, he’d been played a fool, beaten, treated like dirt, and experienced the supreme humiliation of stark cowardice. Now was his chance to show these bastards what Warriors were made of.

Elphinstone halted next to the youth’s head and leaned down to grab him.

Not this time, Blade thought, driving his knees up and around, his legs bent, and succeeding in catching Elphinstone in the left temple.

The brute grunted and staggered backward.

Blade was up in a flash, in the on-guard stance. He considered resorting to his Bowies and promptly discarded the notion. His foe wasn’t armed.

Using the knives would be unfair.

Neither of the serfs were laughing.

Straightening, Elphinstone vented an inarticulate growl and charged, swinging his fists wildly, going for the youth’s face.

This time Blade was ready. He ducked under a couple of punches that would have caved in his skull and delivered three swift jabs to the brute’s ribs. When Elphinstone shifted to the right, Blade pivoted, pressing his initiative, burying his left fist in the apish man’s stomach and following through with a right to the jaw that rocked Elphinstone on his heels.

Instantly, Blade closed in, kneeing his adversary in the groin.

Elphinstone wheezed and doubled over, and Blade executed a flawless snap kick into the brute’s nose that sent him tottering backward almost to the edge of the landing. “Had enough?” he asked.

Elphinstone recovered his balance and bellowed his enraged response.

“No!”

Blade wanted to end the fight before Morlock or Grell showed up, especially Grell. As Elphinstone came toward him, he ran to meet the brute halfway. But instead of using his fists, he leaped into the air, performing a flying side kick, the yoko-tobi-geri, and struck Elphinstone full in the mouth.

As if smashed by a sledgehammer, Elphinstone catapulted head over heels onto his stomach with a loud thud. For a moment he lay stunned.

His head slowly rose from the hard floor, his lips cracked and bleeding, and he spat blood. With a guttural growl, he started to rise.

Blade was ready. Instead of slugging it out with the brute, he must rely on the martial arts. Elphinstone obviously knew nothing of the science of self-defense, and while the brute might be stronger, his reflexes and coordination were no match for Blade’s.

The young Warrior glided in and flicked a snap kick to his foe’s head before Elphinstone could rise, rocking the apish man on his haunches.

Another snap kick with the right leg was blocked, but a crescent kick with the left connected and sent the brute onto his back.

Elphinstone took longer to rise this time. Dark stains coated the lower half of his face and neck. He grunted as he propped himself on his elbows, then came off the floor in a surprising burst of speed.

Still in the on-guard stance, Blade retreated a step to give himself more room and leaped into the air, whipping his body in a spinning back kick that hit the brute at the base of the throat and lifted Elphinstone from his feet to sail to the edge of the landing and over it. He alighted on the balls of his feet and moved to the first step, expecting to see the apish figure barreling up toward him.

There was no one there.

Perplexed, Blade scanned the stairs below and saw no sign of his adversary. Yet Elphinstone had to be down there, somewhere. He doubted the brute was gravely injured. It would take more than a few kicks to put the Neanderthal out of commission. Pivoting, he looked at the serfs.

Tabitha and Selwyn were riveted in place, their expressions reflecting total astonishment.

Blade anticipated they would be elated at his victory and walked up to them. “See? I told you I’d take care of you.”

“You hurt him!” Tabitha declared angrily. “You hurt Master Elphinstone!”

“You had no right to be so cruel!” Selwyn added.

Bewildered by their passionate reaction, Blade blinked and jabbed a finger at the stairs. “He was trying to kill me,” he said defensively.

“He was not,” Tabitha disagreed. “He probably just wanted to put you in a cage.”

“And you think I should have let him?”

“Certainly. He’s one of the masts, after all. All of us should serve them gladly.”

“I’m no one’s slave,” Blade snapped, “and I don’t serve your masts. If I can, I’m going to put them out of business for good.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean I’m going to put an end to their enslavement of the serfs.”

The brother and sister looked at each other.

“You can’t,” Selwyn responded in horror, forgetting his usual excessive civility.

In exasperation Blade threw his hands into the air and both serfs flinched. “Why not?” he demanded.

“Who will watch over us?” Tabitha asked, on the verge of tears. “Who will protect us and clothe us and feed us?”

The implications of her questions shook Blade to the core of his being.

He took a pace backward and gazed at them in blatant disbelief. “Let me get this straight. You want them to take care of you?”

“Of course, sir,” Tabitha said.

“We’d be lost without them, sir,” Selwyn chimed in.

“But they take advantage of you.”

Tabitha giggled. “How do they ever do that, sir?”

“They make you work for them, make you till the fields to produce their food, and they keep you cooped up during the day. You’re little better than slaves.”

“Oh, you have it all wrong, sir. We like working for the masts. They love us and treat us fairly.”

“How can you say such a thing? They beat and tortured your friend Tweena until she died. And Grell ate a serf.”

Tabilha nodded. “But Tweena deserved to be punished for disobeying the masts. And Cathmor deserved to be eaten for trying to leave the Domain.”

The absurd illogic baffled Blade, and he pressed a palm to his forehead as he tried to make sense of it all. The serfs were enslaved and didn’t even know it. Worse, they preferred the status quo. How could they? Didn’t they realize how precious freedom was?

“Can we go now, sir?” Tabitha asked.

“Go where?” Blade responded absently.

“We’d like to find our friends and play before dawn, sir,” Selwyn said.

“Or before the masts catch us,” Tabitha stated and snickered.

Blade stared at their pale skin, at their pale features, at their pale eyes, and suddenly their very paleness offended him. Their personalities were as colorless as their complexions, devoid of all character, stripped of any semblance of conviction and independence. They were pale imitations of human beings, at best, puppets on a string who didn’t want the puppeteers removed. “Go,” he said harshly. “Get out of here.”

The serfs giggled and danced down the stairs, and moments later they were swallowed by the inky shadows.

Good riddance, Blade reflected. He abruptly realized his rifle was missing and scoured the landing until he found it. As he stooped to retreive the Marlin he heard a little laugh behind him.

“I could have spared you a lot of trouble, boy.”

Startled, Blade crouched and spun, leveling the rifle, his finger on the trigger. He saw the thin figure of the lord of Castle Orm standing at the junction.

“I’m unarmed,” Morlock said calmly.

The youth hesitated, suspecting a trick. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

“There’s no need for violence, boy.”

“The name is Blade, remember? Come closer so I can see you.”

Morlock advanced and held out his empty hands to demonstrate he posed no threat. “See? You have nothing to fear.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“A while.”

“Where are my friends?”

“I have no idea.”

Blade took a stride and aimed at the smaller man’s forehead. “Tell me the truth.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? I think not.” Morlock chuckled. “You won’t kill a defenseless man, boy.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Morlock nodded at the stairs. “I saw your fight. If you were a born killer, you would have pulled your knives instead of trying to best Elphinstone with your hands and feet.” He paused. “My compliments, by the way. No one has ever beaten him before.”

“Where is he now?”

“How would I know? Probably nursing his wounds.”

“And where’s your wife?”

“My darling Endora is taking her nightly stroll.” Blade lowered his rifle barrel a few inches. Now that he had Morlock right where he wanted him, he didn’t know what to do. By all rights he should put an end to the man’s reign of terror by terminating him on the spot, but he couldn’t bring himself to fire. Morlock was right, damn him. Blade wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. “We need to talk,” he said lamely.

“Indeed we do. That’s why I’m here. I knew you entered the underground through the portal in the mausoleum and came down to meet you.”

“How did you know?”

Morlock grinned. “That’s my little secret.” He shifted and gestured upward. “Must we stand here in the draft to discuss what’s on your mind?

Why not come upstairs with me where we can have our chat in a civilized fashion?”

“Lead the way,” Blade said, keeping the Marlin trained on the thin man’s back as Morlock led the way toward ground level. His every instinct told him not to let down his guard for an instant. For the time being, though, he had to play along, at least until he knew the fate of Hickok and Geronimo. “Where’s Grell?” he asked.

“You know about him, do you?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Very well. I’d imagine he’s out trying to round up the serfs. Eventually they’ll stop playing their games and let themselves be herded together.”

“Just like cattle,” Blade stated bitterly.

“In a way, they are.”

“Where did they come from? What have you done to them?”

“I’ll explain everything once we’re comfortable.”

Blade fell silent until they reached the ground floor. The sight of candles flickering in holders at regular intervals along the corridor prompted an observation. “I thought all of you can see in the dark.”

“Our night vision is exceptional, but we’re not completely weaned from a dependence on light. We usually keep a few candles lit after dark,” Morlock said and began to climb the next flight.

“Where are you going?”

“The chamber I have in mind is on the third floor.”

“What’s wrong with one on this floor?”

Morlock paused to look down. “Not a thing, but the sitting room I have in mind is very comfortable and private. We won’t be disturbed there.”

Who would disturb them? Blade wondered, reluctantly following all the way to the third landing. He stayed on the small man’s heels as they went right to the second door, which was wide open. Inside was a lavishly furnished room. Instead of candles, a kerosene lantern provided moderate illumination. “You must have a kerosene storage tank somewhere,” he commented, crossing to a wooden chair.

“Take that one, why don’t you?” Morlock suggested, pointing at an easy chair near the sofa.

Since it made no difference to the youth, he sat where Morlock wanted.

“And yes, we do have an underground storage tank,” the master of the castle disclosed enroute to the sofa. “It’s almost dry after all these years, so we conserve what little usable kerosene we have left. When I knew you were coming, I lit a lantern in preparation.”

“How did you, by the way?”

“I’ll get to that in a bit,” Morlock said, taking a seat and folding his left leg over his right. “Would you care for refreshments?”

“Just information,” Blade said, not knowing what to make of his host’s continued civility. It must be a trick of some kind. At the first hint of hostility, he’d put a bullet in the bastard’s brain. He was safe as long as he had the rifle and his Bowies.

“Very well. Where would you like me to begin? With the serfs?”

“That would be nice.”

“I overheard enough to know you believe the darling creatures are little better than slaves. Am I right?”

“They are slaves.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the definition of a slave is someone completely under the domination of another person, someone who is the property of another. Would you agree?”

“Sounds accurate enough to me.”

“Then your accusation is unfounded. You heard Tabitha and Selwyn.

Do they consider themselves slaves? Absolutely not. They like the life they live and have no desire to change. They’re happy,” Morlock said. “Would you begrudge them such a blessing?”

Blade disregarded the disquieting question and tried another tack.

“Where did they come from?”

“The serfs have served the Morlock clan since shortly after the war—”

“Wait a minute,” Blade interrupted. “Is Morlock your first or last name?”

“Morlock is the family name. Moray Morlock was the first lord of Castle Orm.”

“Then what’s your first name?”

“Angus,” Morlock replied, smirking.

Why did he do that? Blade asked himself. “Okay. Back to the serfs. Who were their ancestors? Where did they come from?”

“As I understand it, a dozen survivors showed up here about a week after the missiles were launched. They were suffering from radiation sickness. Moray took them in and let them live in the lower levels.

Eventually most of them recovered, and they decided to stay here and work for Moray in exchange for their lodging.”

“So the current serfs are their descendants?”

“Aye. Over the years their skin has become paler and paler, and now they’re strictly nocturnal.”

The explanation was plausible, but Blade felt he was being deceived. He couldn’t put a finger on the reason. Perhaps it was Morlock’s smug expression and superior air. “And where did Grell come from?”

“Moray found him in the woods ten years after the war.”

Blade sat up. “Impossible. That would make Grell close to ninety years-old.”

“He is. The serfs even refer to him as the immortal one since three generations of them have known and feared him. Grell was just a pup when Moray stumbled on him hiding in a thicket. Moray liked the wee creature and gave it a home. Ever since Grell has been the Morlock watchdog.”

“What kind of mutation is he?”

“I don’t know. Moray believed a bear embryo underwent a radiation-induced transformation. If you’ve seen Grell, you know that no bear grows to such a massive size.” Morlock shrugged. “Who knows what his parents were?”

Blade thoughtfully pursed his lips, debating whether to pry into another disturbing matter, and decided to try an oblique approach. “Did Moray ever marry?”

“Yes.”

“Another survivor?”

“Aye. Bands of wanderers would travel through the area from time to time. His wife, Constance, was a refugee from the Twin Cities.”

And what about your wife? Blade wanted to inquire, but couldn’t bring himself to.

“Are you certain I can’t entice you to take some refreshment? I took the liberty of having a tray of food set out in the next room.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad. We have excellent wine and cheese.”

Wine? Blade wondered if enough of it might loosen Morlock’s lips.

Perhaps a glass or two of wine was in order. He’d do anything to uncover a clue concerning his friends. “All right. Some wine can’t hurt.”

Again Morlock smirked and stood. He walked toward a closed door in the east wall. “Follow me. You can select whatever you want.”

Blade held the rifle down low as he crossed to the doorway. His host went through first, and he took three strides himself before he realized he’d been suckered.

Displaying unexpected speed, Morlock darted to the left and grabbed a lever on the wall.

Taken unawares, Blade was sluggish in reacting. “Don’t touch that!” he warned and began to bring the barrel up. Too late.

Morlock yanked on the lever.

Blade’s finger was tightening on the trigger when the floor fell out from beneath his feet.