David Robbins - Madman Run

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.