David Robbins - Madman Run

Damn his stupidity!

Anger supplanted the initial shock, anger at his gullibility. He’d waltzed right into the trap with both eyes open. Attila or any of the other experienced Warriors would never have let themselves be so blatantly duped. Being a novice was no excuse. Even novices were expected to exercise basic common sense.

The shaft angled to the right, then the left, in gradual curves designed to retard the speed of passage.

Blade’s elbows and knees banged and scraped on the sides, and when he lifted his head and tried to see the bottom his forehead struck the top with a resounding crack. The descent went so long that he estimated the shaft must drop down into the underground levels. When he began to wonder if it would ever end, it did.

Shooting out of the mouth like a tongue out of a lizard, Blade plummeted over ten feet into an enormous tank of stagnant water. He hit with a loud splash and went under, instinctively holding his breath but unable to prevent the warm liquid from filling his nose and ears. A bitter taste filled his mouth, almost gagging him, and then his boots hit bottom and he shoved off, kicking desperately for the top.

He burst from the surface and inhaled deeply, grateful merely to be alive. Shaking his head and wiping his arm across his face, he blinked and looked about him, treading water to stay afloat. To his consternation he found himself imprisoned, enclosed on all four sides by clear glass or plastic walls rising over ten feet above the water.

It was like a gigantic fish tank.

Blade swam to one side and took stock. The depth was 12 feet. The length and width were the same, ten feet both ways. He reached out and touched the wall, deciding the substance must be a hard plastic. Never in a million years would he be able to climb so smooth a surface. And since he couldn’t get a purchase for his legs either, he was ingeniously snared and effectively helpless.

The water had a brownish tinge and gave off a foul odor.

Abruptly realizing there must be a light source nearby, Blade surveyed the chamber in which the tank was located. It dwarfed all the others. Fifty feet high and seventy in length, the walls were composed of large, square stones, and the ceiling of immense wooden beams. More thick candles mounted on the walls provided marginal illumination. Far off on the right, at the top of a flight of wooden stairs, stood a broad wooden door.

He swung to the left and received a pleasant shock. Aligned against the wall were five metal cages, the bars on each spaced six inches apart, and two were occupied by unconscious figures.

Hickok and Geronimo!

Elated, Blade swam to the left side of the tank and stared happily at his companions until a horrifying thought occurred to him. What if they were dead? He licked his lips and called out. “Hey! Sleepyheads! Rise and shine!”

There was no reaction.

Intensely worried, Blade yelled louder. “Wake up, you dummies! It’s me, Blade.”

At last Geronimo stirred, groaning and rolling onto his back. His arms moved feebly.

“Geronimo, wake up!”

The insistent shout had an effect. Geronimo’s eyelids fluttered, and after a few seconds he opened his eyes and sat up, gazing in confusion at his surroundings until his gaze alighted on the tank. Recognition brought a flood of awareness, and he suddenly rose to his knees. “Blade! What’s going on?” He seized one of the bars. “Where in the world are we?”

“In an underground chamber below Castle Orm,” Blade called out. His legs were beginning to tire and he wished he could rest for a while, but there was no place in the tank to gain a firm footing. “What happened to you? How did they catch you?”

Geronimo rubbed the back of his head and stood. “I’m not sure. The last thing I remember is running around the corner and not seeing any sign of Hickok or the serfs. I stopped and was turning when something or someone rose out of the shadows at the base of the wall and clobbered me but good.” He paused. “I think it was Elphinstone.”

“Morlock captured me,” Blade revealed, without bothering to elaborate.

“Have you seen Hik—” Geronimo began and looked to his left. Beaming, he stepped to the side of his cage. “Nathan! On your feet, you goof.”

The gunfighter didn’t budge.

Geronimo reached through the bars and tried to grab Hickok’s cage, but it was inches out of reach. He desisted and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Yo, Nathan! I know you need your beauty sleep, but don’t go overboard.”

Hickok finally moved his arms. His head bobbed, he licked his lips, and his eyes snapped open. “Where am I?” he bellowed, sitting up. “Where’s the lowlife who hit me?” He saw the tank, did a double take and glanced in both directions. Discovering Geronimo, he did another double take, then chuckled.

“What can you possibly find amusing?” the Blackfoot inquired.

“Since you two clowns are here, it’s a safe bet I’m not in heaven.”

“You’re still on Earth, dimwit. Under Morlock’s castle.”

The gunfighter shoved up, his hands falling to his holster—his empty holsters. “Hey! Where are my six-shooters?”

It was Blade who found them. He noticed a table at the end of the row of cages and distinguished a small pile of weapons. “Over there,” he shouted, pointing.

Hickok looked and fumed. “Some hombre is going to pay for takin’ my Colts. Nobody takes my guns—ever!”

“How did they manage to catch you?” Blade yelled so his voice would carry over the top of the tank.

“I was after those fairies, as I recollect. I ran into the yard, thinkin’ I was about to catch ’em, but they were all gone. I didn’t know if they went on around the blamed castle or lit into the trees, and then I saw one of those fancy tombs was open. So I just kept on going, right inside, and I was about to give a call and let you know where I was when the door swung shut and someone bashed me on the head,” the gunfighter explained.

“Probably Elphinstone,” Blade said. “He’s been a busy bee tonight.”

“Wait’ll I get my revolvers back,” Hickok snapped. “I’ll teach that yahoo a lesson.”

“How are we going to get out of this mess?” Geronimo asked.

Blade wanted an answer to that one himself. After all he’d been through, after the strain of the chase and the fight, his limbs were already weary. The sustained effort of staying above the surface only aggravated his condition. He found it hard to keep his grip on the Marlin.

“Are you holdin’ your rifle, pard?” Hickok inquired in amazement.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Try to shoot your way out of that overgrown goldfish bowl. A couple of shots should crack one of those walls, easy.”

“What if they’re bulletproof?”

“Then the ricochet might hit you,” Hickok said. “But what does a little scratch matter if it gets us out of this dungeon?”

Blade tapped the nearest wall with the Marlin, debating the merits of the gunfighter’s suggestion. He still had no idea whether the substance was glass or plastic, but a few rounds might just do the trick. There wasn’t enough water to do more than cover the floor to a depth of two or three inches, at most, so none of them need worry about drowning. His main concern was the wall. Would it break cleanly or with jagged edges? If the latter, he might be cut badly when the water poured from the tank. “I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “What’s wrong with the idea?”

“I could be killed.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, pard. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Geronimo snickered. “Easy for you to say, Nathan. You’re not doing the slicing.”

“And what the blazes is that crack supposed to mean?”

Their discussion was interrupted by the opening of the big wooden door. In strolled the master of Castle Orm bearing a five-gallon bottle in his hand. The bottle contained a brownish liquid.