Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (12 page)

Nearing what had to be the first floor, John
whipped around a turn to find himself on a landing just as a man
coming up stepped on the riser. A soldier, by the look of his
uniform, the officer seeming less surprised to discover John going
down than John was to find him coming up!

"Slavey," said the short, dark-haired man
calmly, "What is your name?"

"John."

"An odd name, but probably common in
Stil-de-grain."

A soldier? In Hero Castle? A short, dark man,
dressed ... in a short, green striped army tunic.

Though John's mind was still somewhat
disoriented, seeing a military man in Hero Castle registered a
warning! Ignorant of much of this world's culture, John knew this
"green-striped" man for what he was: a fighter of the Malachite
Army.

Malachites in Stil-de-grain? When John was
here last, Malachite had been the enemy.

Could it be that the allegiances in this
world had shifted?

Possibly.

Twentieth-Century coalitions had certainly
flip-flopped in crazy ways in John's world!

On the other hand, this man could be a member
of occupying forces, Hero Castle forfeit for Stil-de-grain's loss
of the war.

Whatever the truth, the situation advised
caution.

"You are a castle slavey?" Narrow-eyed and
swarthy, the soldier was used to having his questions answered.

"Yes." Lying came naturally when your life
was at stake.

"I'm looking for my company Head. A man with
one arm. Have you seen him?"

"No, sir."

"If you do, tell him that Zoner looks for
him."

"I will, master," John mumbled, hanging his
head as he'd seen servants of the castle do in his own
presence.

"Go on about your business, then."

"Yes, master."

The order given and received, the two of them
continued past each other, the young soldier going up, apparently
searching for his commanding officer, John continuing to descend --
but more warily.

Another turn and down another, short flight
of stairs, this time with wider steps and ... John was at the
bottom, emerging at one end of a hall he recognized: the front
corridor that led into the dining room.

His meeting with the soldier making him
cautious, John slunk through the shadowed, cloth-draped corridor,
flattening himself against one wall until he reached the thick
stone buttress beyond which, lay the dining hall.

Coming up behind the arch support, pressing
himself against the pitted, cold-stone pillar, using one eye (and
little of that) John peered around the edge of the columned
entranceway. Seeing ... the dining room with its central hearth,
iron framework over it hung with pots.

Beyond the fire stone cooking area was the
familiar raised trestle table at the far end of the large room.

Other than these "built-in" objects -- except
for a few wooden chairs here and there against the room's walls --
the room was empty. Clearly, it was too early for the evening meal,
the steep slant of light rays coming through the second story,
windows verifying the time.

Still hiding behind the entrance arch, John
looked the room over more carefully. Saw the faded tapestries
covering its walls.

Raising his eyes, John noticed that flags had
been added to the room's decor, their staffs placed in evenly
spaced holders around the large, rectangular hall, the pointed
banners ... green.

A solid, glowing green. The color of the
sky-band of Malachite!

Staring into the gloom that obscured the
timber roof trusses, he noticed something else that hadn't been
there before. A rectangular object, a chain suspending it at a
story and a half.

A ... cage?

Whatever it was up there, it had bars; was a
bulky enclosure like a tiger cage in an old-time carnival.

Was something or someone in the barred
structure?

Concentrating on the object above, John
failed to pick up the sound of rhythmic footsteps, John with barely
enough time to duck back behind the arch-flange as a squad of
marching men tramped into the dining hall from the opposite side.
Dark-haired soldiers in green striped tunics. Malachites!

Following the soldiers were white robed ...
priests. At least they looked to John like they might be priests.
...... Smelled like it too, the odor of musk permeating the damp
air.

Had he seen men of religion dressed like that
in the streets of Bice? Smelled that dark, thick scent as they
glided past? Maybe.

Risking another peek, even as far away as he
was, John recognized the soldier John had run into on the stair
landing.

Leading the troopers was an older soldier --
broad green sash angled across his chest. Their officer. Seamed
face. Scarred right cheek. Short, gray hair.

Something about him ....

Yes.

This was the Head the young soldier had been
seeking. Described to John as having but a single arm.

What the soldier meant was that the Head had
the use of only one arm, the commander's right arm hanging
unnaturally, apparently paralyzed.

"Halt," ordered the Head, the rough sound of
his voice echoing from the walls so that it was clearly
understandable at John's distance. "Take him down," two men
quick-stepping to the lower end of the ceiling chain, after a
lock-click, lowered the heavy barred box, the resistance of the
square, age-darkened beam helping to keep the heavy object from
crashing to the floor.

Swinging a little as it came down, the ribbed
block's metal bottom finally scraped onto the flagstone floor.

Getting a better look at the box now that it
was at ground level, John could see it was, indeed, a cage and that
there was a man inside. An old man, by the look of his gray hair,
sitting in the center of the cramped enclosure.

Everyone's attention on the over-built pen,
John chanced a longer look around the arch.

Why was a helpless old fellow like that in
confinement? Nor did it make sense that the coop had been hoisted
off the floor to swing in the middle of the air.

Like everyone else was doing, John now stared
at the captive. .....

Did John remember seeing that man before?
..........

Wasn't that the man in John's house!? The man
who was backing under John's stairs the night of the lightning
strike?

Looking past the soldiers, John saw the
approach of a table-like machine, pushed in on a wood-wheeled
platform, castle slaveys squealing the device into the room.

A rack! like the late King, Yarro, had in his
dungeon. Except that this "improved" model was mounted on wheels as
a way of exporting torture.

John took another look; pulled his head back
quickly.

Accompanying the infernal instrument was ....
a bear? Wearing a white, long-sleeved robe? A trained chimpanzee
topped by a silly hat?

A man, John decided, the guy's head
completely devoid of hair ... including ... though John was too far
away to be sure ... eyebrows and lashes? In the place of hair, the
man's head had been painted with horizontal bands of color.

John risked another look, seeing that the
strangely painted man had something strapped to the lower front of
him, something that flopped as he walked.

Could this be a ... clown?

No.

The strangely shaved and painted person
seemed to be the chief of the robed priests, the man?? coming to a
halt in front of them.

The rack, with its squealing wheels, stopped,
John saw the slaveys retreating as the chief priest minced over to
stand beside the Army Head, the strangely decorated priest's head
bobbing about as if attached to a weak spring.

"May I be the one, sir?" the odd looking
creature said in a whispered hiss that nonetheless slithered around
the rough, stone walls to where John was hiding.

Ignoring the priest, the Army Head waved a
hand at the cage, a soldier stepping smartly to the cage door,
bending, unlocking the door, swinging it out.

"Come out," the Head commanded, the old
fellow failing to respond, instead, collapsing on the floor of his
cage.

"You and you," the Head indicated two
soldiers, "bring him out."

Obviously reluctant to obey that order, the
soldiers detached themselves from the squad, each bending to enter
the cage to squat beside the recumbent form.

Taking an arm apiece, the soldiers dragged
the fellow out -- the old man dressed in the shirt and pants of
John's world.

More than ever, John thought this must be the
fellow he'd surprised in his house the night of the lightning
strike.

Their job done, the army leader waved the
soldiers back in line, the men saluting, the officer nodding a
return salute, the Head approaching the prisoner. Slowly.

Bending over, the officer's paralyzed hand
flopping awkwardly as it stubbed into the floor, the army leader
put his ear to the supine man's chest. Listened.
..............."This man is dead," the Head announced, his voice
dry, gravely, the soldier standing again.

"Dead?" piped the banded man, his voice
rising to falsetto. "Dead!?"

Unexpectedly, the priest prostrated himself
on the stone floor, arms spread wide, a lament ululating from his
mouth, a keening that rose in pitch and intensity until it shrieked
from the stone room's unforgiving walls.

The other men in robes -- lesser priests? --
taking up the cry, they also threw themselves on the rough floor,
rolling and thrashing like men in spasm.

Ignoring the freakish actions of the
white-robed priests, the commander signaled with four fingers, four
soldiers stepping forward to march to the corpse. Halted, two men
at either end of the body, the soldiers stooped to pick up the dead
man by his hands and feet, the pallbearers slow-marching the corpse
out the back of the room, their booted feet scraping mournfully on
the flagstones.

Meanwhile, the chief priest had risen to jump
about and scream, the other priests mimicking him like men
possessed.

"Quiet!"

A thunder shot in that echo chamber of a
room, the robed men fell silent, their bodies frozen in the
grotesque poses of their bizarre ballet.

"But we must mourn him," hissed the man with
the banded head.

"Then do it quietly."

"It is not fitting. When a Mage dies, he must
be mourned with song and dance."

"Mourned?" the army Head said, sarcastically.
"You were about to stretch his joints until they snapped."

"Still, a Mage is dead, mighty soldier," the
clown said with his sibilant lisp. "More than a Mage. The greatest
Wizard of our, or any other, band -- Pfnaravin."

Pfnaravin? The Mage John had been mistaken
for.

Could the man in the cage actually have been
.....?

No.

Another mistake had been made, errors like
this to be expected in a superstitious era. On the receiving end of
that kind of stupidity, John could appreciate how wrong ideas got
started in this backward place.

More and more, John believed the man in the
cage to be the poor old man John had caught in his house the night
of the storm. Probably the same guy who was hiding in the woods
surrounding John's house, no doubt a transient who'd been checking
to see when John was away from home. Had found a way to get into
the house to keep warm and find something to eat.

It all fit!

Slipping into the house the night of the
storm, making a noise that awoke John, hearing John come down the
stairs, the old fellow had panicked, in an attempt to hide, had
pried open the stairwell door and ducked inside just as the
lightning bolt struck the house, the static from that strike
charging the old man with electricity so that the old guy had
vaulted through to this other reality.

The way people's minds worked here, anyone
appearing from John's world was likely to be thought to be the
missing Mage, Pfnaravin, the assumption they'd made about John when
he'd first come across.

The same thing had apparently happened to
this derelict.

With ... a major difference. That a Malachite
force had captured Hero Castle; may have overrun all of
Stil-de-grain, for all John knew.

Learning that John (Pfnaravin) had gone to
the other world, finding the old man coming back through the
"tunnel," these Malachites had mistaken the man for Pfnaravin
returning to Stil-de-grain, the great Wizard a dangerous enemy of
the current, Malachite regime.

No wonder these Malachites had put the old
fellow in a pen. Hoisted the whole shebang in the middle of the air
where even a Mage couldn't get out and where no one could get him
out. Even caged, they were afraid of Pfnaravin's power!

What it looked like was that they were about
to torture the old guy when he'd done the sensible thing -- dropped
dead.

John heard clanking.

Glancing out at the great hall again, he saw
that the soldiers had unhooked the chain from the top of the cage,
were pulling the slack chain off the high beam; coiling it up as it
came down, the soldiers clattered the iron-whorl up on the
rack.

"Lift the gaol upon the cart," commanded the
officer, the soldiers gathering to put their backs into picking up
the heavy cage, hoisting it beside the pile of chain.

"Detail for labor ... march!" -- a squat of
ten putting their shoulders to the laden platform to push it out of
the room's other side, the ungreased, wooden wheels squealing
loudly under the extra weight of the cage-and-chain, the army
commander and the rest of his men marching out as well.

The soldiers and the rack gone, the priests
resumed their "song and dance," the priests now waving knifes,
daggers that, heretofore, they'd concealed under their robes.

The priests' strange antics fascinating him,
John continued to glance out at them from time to time until, their
shrill voices rising to crescendo, the priests began ... slashing
their own wrists with their knives! John could see spurts of blood,
the men's white robes soon spotted with vermilion!