David Robbins - Madman Run

For 20 yards the corridor ran straight without a break, and then a junction signified he’d arrived at the levels under the castle. Blade scanned each branch and elected to go forward. His eyes had adjusted to the murky conditions sufficiently for him to discriminate doorways on both sides.

All the doors were closed. He tried the first one on the left and found it locked. The next door on the right was likewise secure. But the third door opened at the twisting of its knob and revealed a huge storeroom beyond.

Blade slid in and surveyed shelves piled high with goods, stacks of crates and boxes, and tables laden with all kinds of articles. Conducting a closer examination, he discovered a stash of canned goods in the southwest corner, and by holding the cans up to his face he was able to read those labels bearing white print. There were peaches, fruit cocktail, string beans, lima beans, corn, several types of juice, zucchini and much more. From the dust covering them, he guessed the cans had been placed there almost 100 years ago by Moray, the first lord of Castle Orm.

He found tools, untouched medical supplies, piles of clothing, blankets, and even pots and pans. None of the goods gave evidence of use, which puzzled him. Why had Moray’s ancestors let all this stuff go to waste?

Perhaps for the very same reason the Family hadn’t used all the supplies stockpiled by the Founder; it would take 1000 years to do so. Both men, apparently, provided more than their descendants would need for many, many generations to come.

A cabinet in a corner arrested his attention. He opened a door and found the equivalent of a gold mine in the form of three boxes of matches.

Eagerly he scooped them up, placed two in his pockets and opened the third. Now all he needed to do—

What was that?

Blade stiffened at the faint patter of footsteps in the passageway.

Crouching, he aimed at the doorway.

A pale figure appeared, then another.

“Pard, are you in here?”

Blade recognized Tabitha’s voice. Flabbergasted, he rose and moved into the open. “Tabitha and Selwyn?”

“Yep,” the woman replied happily.

“This isn’t my idea, sir,” Selwyn stated quickly. “She made me do it.”

He sighed. “The things brothers do for their sisters.”

The youth walked over to them. “I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

“We’ve been following you, sir,” Tabitha said.

“Following me?”

“Yes, sir. Ever since Grell came. We hid in the forest and watched him destroy your camp, then we followed after you.”

“I thought you’d rejoined the other serfs.”

“Not yet, Pard. We’re having too much fun.”

Blade looked into her pale eyes. “Why do you keep calling me pard?”

“Isn’t that your name, sir? We heard the blond one call you Pard.”

“My name is Blade.”

“Oh. We’re sorry, sir.”

Blade leaned closer. “Tell me. Did you happen to see what happened to my friends?”

“No, sir,” Tabitha answered.

“We did see Master Elphinstone going toward the front of the great house,” Selwyn disclosed and giggled. “He never saw us hiding in the weeds.”

A frown creased Blade’s lips. There it was again, a hint of immaturity or instability or a combination of both. The serfs knew they would be punished for their transgressions, yet they viewed the whole affair as a great game. “Why have you been following me?”

“Because we like you, sir,” Tabitha said.

“Please call me Blade.”

“Okay. Because we like you, Blade, sir.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Of course, sir. In the lowest level below the great house. There are a lot of rooms with many strange things in them, just like this one.”

“More storerooms?”

“More rooms like this one, sir.”

“On which level do the serfs live?”

“The next two up.”

“Take me there.”

“If you want, sir, but Master Morlock and Mistress Endora might be there. They’ll punish us,” Selwyn said.

“Take me.”

Brother and sister turned and exited the room.

Cramming the third box of matches into a back pocket, Blade trailed them. He’d save the box until it was really needed. They passed more doors and once a branch to the right. “Where does that go?” he inquired.

“The bone room, sir,” Tabitha said. “It’s where Grell throws the bones of all the animals and such he eats.”

The mention of the monster quickened Blade’s pulse, but he didn’t allow the panic to seize control again. “He saves bones?”

“Yes, sir. Likes to munch on them when the masts give him time to himself. The room is sort of his den.”

“Keep going.”

The serfs guided the youth to the central stairway and started up the steps. They slowed when they were halfway to the next landing and turned to the giant.

“We’d rather not go any farther, sir,” Tabithaa said respectfully.

“That’s right, Blade, sir,” Selwyn started. “We’re just not in the mood to be punished right now. We’d rather stay out until morning and take our medicine then.”

“You don’t need to worry. I won’t let any of your masts harm you.”

“I doubt you can persuade them not to punish us, sir,” Tabitha said.

“There are ways.”

Shrugging, the pair climbed higher.

Blade followed and could make out the landing and several forks. It wasn’t pitch black, after all, and he attributed the reason to moonlight filtering in from outdoors. The matches would help, but any light on the lower levels would undoubtedly attract Morlock and company like a campfire in the open sometimes attracted murderous scavengers.

They reached the landing and halted, Tabitha and Selwyn hanging back, reluctant to advance.

“Please let us leave, sir,” she begged.

“You have nothing to fear,” Blade told them. He walked to the left-hand fork and peered down the corridor, then turned his back to the middle branch and smiled at his newfound friends. “I’ll take care of you.”

An express train hurtled out of the darkness and slammed into his back.

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.