The siege was serious. The Mundanes were reasonably apt at this sort of thing, since they were an army. Motivated by vengeance and greed and the knowledge that at least one measurelessly pretty girl was inside the castle, they knew no decent limits. They closed in about the castle and readied their assault.
At first the Mundanes simply marched across the rickety drawbridge and up to the blasted main gate. But the zombie ogre came charging out, much of his strength restored by the healing elixir, and tossed them into the moat, where the restored bog-monster chomped them. It did not actually eat them, because zombies had no appetite, but its chomping was effective. After that the Mundanes were more cautious.
“We have to clear the junk out of that moat,” Dor said. “They can just about wade across, as it is now, and the monster can’t get them all. If we do it now, while they’re recovering from the shock of meeting Egor Ogre—“
“You have the makings of an excellent tactician,” the Zombie Master said. “By all means handle it. I am working out your zombie restorative formula, which is devious in detail.”
So Dor took a squad of zombies out. “I am mortal, so should not expose myself,” he told them as he eyed the bog-monster. It had been trained not to attack other zombies, but that did not help him. “Arrows cannot kill you. So I will stand watch from the ramparts and call down directions. You will go down into the moat and start hauling armfuls of garbage out.” He felt less than heroic in this role, but knew it was the expedient course. The Mundanes were surely excellent archers. He was here to get the job done, after all, not to make himself look good.
The zombies marched down. They milled about uncertainly. They did not have very good minds, their brains being mostly rotten. The healing elixir worked wonders with their bodies, but could not restore the life and intellect that had once made them men and animals. Dor found his original revulsion for their condition giving way to sadness. What zombie ever knew joy?
“You with the skullhead,” Dor called. “Scoop up those water weeds and dump them on the shore.” The zombies started in, laboriously. “You with the scarred legs—haul that log out and bring it to the front gate. We can use it to rebuild the door.” It was almost pointless to explain such things to zombies, but he couldn’t help himself. It was part of his process of self-justification.
If what he did had no permanence in this tapestry world, what of this present situation? But for him, the Mundanes would not have laid siege to the castle of the Zombie Master. If the Magician were killed, would he be restored after Dor departed the scene? Or was the siege inevitable, since the Fifth Wave had already been headed this way? It was a matter of history, but Dor could not recall the details, assuming he had ever learned them. There were aspects of history the centaur pedagogues did not teach their human pupils, and Dor had not been a terrifically attentive pupil anyway. He would remedy that when he got home again.
If he got home again...
A few arrows came from the forest to plunk into the zombie workers, but with no effect. That evidently gave the Mundanes pause for thought. Then a party of warriors advanced with swords drawn, intending to cut the zombies into pieces too small to operate. Dor used a bow he had picked up from the castle armory, ancient and worn but serviceable. He was no expert at this, but his body had evidently been trained to this weapon too; it was very much the compleat warrior. He fired an arrow at a Mundane but struck the one beside his intended target. “Good shot!” Millie exclaimed, and Dor was ashamed to admit the truth. No doubt if he had let the body do the whole thing itself, it would have scored properly, but he had tried to select his own target. He had better stick to swords in future.
But it sufficed to discourage the attack, since this was just an offhand Mundane gesture, not a real assault on the castle. Also, they didn’t know that there was only a single archer on the wall. The Mundanes retreated, and the moat-clearing continued. Dor was pleased: he was accomplishing something useful. It would be ten times as hard to storm the castle with that moat deep and clear. Well, maybe eight times as hard.
Meanwhile, Jumper was climbing about the rafters and inner walls of the castle, routing out vermin— which he gobbled with glee—and shoring up weak spots. He lashed subsiding members with silk cords, and he patched small holes, using wood and chinks of stone fastened in place by sticky masses of silk. Then he strung alarm lines across the embrasures to alert him to any intrusions there. This was a small castle, somewhat haphazardly constructed, with a single peaked roof, so in a short time the spider was able to accomplish much.
Millie went over the living and cooking facilities. The Zombie Master, a bachelor, had a good store of provisions but evidently survived mainly on those that required least effort to prepare: cheese balls, fried eggs from the friers that nested on the rafters, hot dogs from the dogwood that grew just inside the moat, and shrimp from the shrimp plants in the courtyard. The courtyard was south of the roofed region, so that the sunlight could slant in over the south wall to reach the ground inside; a number of plants and animals existed there, since the zombies did not bother them.
Millie set about making more substantial meals. She found dried fruits in the cellar, and dehydrated vegetables, all neatly spelled to keep them from spoiling, and cooked up a genuine handmade mashed peach and potato cobblestone stew. It was amazing.
And the Zombie Master, after due experimentation in his laboratory, produced for Dor a tiny vial of life-restorative elixir, brewed from the healing water by the art of his talent. “Do not mislay this, or use it incautiously,” he cautioned. “The dosage suffices only for one.”
“Thank you,” Dor said, feeling inadequate. “This is the whole reason I came to this—this land. I can’t tell you how important this vial is to me.”
“Perhaps you could offer me a hint, however,” the Magician said. “Since we are about to sustain a determined siege, from which we may not emerge—I admit a certain curiosity.”
Delicately put! “I’m sorry about that,” Dor said. “I know you prefer living alone, and if I’d known we’d cause all this trouble—“
“I did not say I objected to either the company or the trouble,” the Zombie Master said. “I find I rather enjoy both. You three are comparatively simple people, not given to duplicity, and the mere presence of a challenge to survival evokes an appreciation for life that had been lacking.”
“Uh, yes,” Dor said, surprised. The Magician was becoming quite sociable! “You deserve to know.” Dor was feeling generous now that he had this much of his mission accomplished, and the Zombie Master’s candor was nice to receive. “I am from eight hundred years in your future. There is a zombie in my time I wish to restore to full life as a favor to—to a friend.” Even in this moment of confidence, he could not quite confess his real interest in Millie. This vial would make her happy, and himself desolate, but the thing had to be done. “You are the only one who knows the formula for such restoration. So, by means of enchantment, I came to you.”
“A most interesting origin; I am not certain I believe it. For whom are you doing this favor?”
“A—a lady.” The thought of letting Millie learn of her eight-hundred-year fate appalled him, and he resolved not to utter her name. He had not had much luck in keeping such resolutions before, but he was learning how. What horror would this knowledge wreak on so innocent a maid, who screamed and flung her hair about and kicked her feet so fetchingly at the slightest alarm? Far better that she not know!
“And who is the zombie?” the Magician prodded gently. “I do not mean to pry into what does not concern me—but zombies do concern me, for surely every zombie existing in your day is a product of my magic. I have a certain consideration for their welfare.”
Dor wanted to balk, but found that, ethically, he could not deny the Zombie Master this knowledge. “She—the lady calls him Jonathan. That’s all I know.”
The man stiffened. “Ah, the penalty of idle curiosity!” he breathed.
“You know this zombie?”
“I—may. It becomes a lesson in philanthropy. I never suspected I would be doing such a favor for this particular individual.”
“Is he one of your zombies here at the castle?” Already Dor felt a tinge of jealousy.
“Not presently. I have no doubt you will encounter him anon.”
“I don’t want to—“ No, he could not say that. What was to be, was to be. “I don’t know whether it would be wise to tell him—I mean, eight hundred years is a long time to wait for restoration. He might want to take the medicine now, and then he wouldn’t be there for the lady—“ Which was itself a fiendishly tempting notion he had to suppress. The elimination of Jonathan from his own time would not only rid him of competition for Millie’s favor—it would eliminate his whole reason for coming here. How could he restore a zombie who had already been restored eight centuries ago? But if he didn’t do it—paradox, which could be fatal magic.
“A very long time,” the Zombie Master agreed. “Have no concern; I will not betray your secret to any party.” He dismissed the subject with a brusque nod. “Now we must see to the castle defenses. My observer-bugs inform me that the Mundanes are massing for a major effort.”
The defenders girded to meet that effort. Jumper guarded the east wall and the roof, setting up a series of traplines and interferences for intruders. The Zombie Master took the south wall, which enclosed the courtyard. Dor took the west. All were augmented by contingents of zombies, and of course the ogre handled the north gate. Millie remained inside—to watch for hostile magic, conjurations and such, they told her. No one wanted to put her on the ramparts during the violence, where her cute reactions would serve as a magnet for Mundanes. She also had charge of the supply of healing elixir, so she could come to the aid of the wounded.
The zombie bugs must have made excellent use of their elixir-restored eyes, for the attack occurred right on schedule. A wave of Mundanes charged the side of the castle. Not the front gate, where Egor’s reputation more than sufficed, but the weakest wall—which happened to be Dor’s.
They threw down logs to form a makeshift bridge, stationed men with outsize shields on either side of it to block the moat-monster, and funneled about half their number across. They carried three scaling ladders, which they threw up against the wall. The castle had been constructed foolishly, with a ledge above the first two stories, ideal for ladders to hook to. The ledge terminated abruptly at the corner where the courtyard commenced, but led to a small door near the northern edge. Presumably this access was intended to facilitate cleaning of the gutter spouts—but it also ruined the integrity of the castle’s defense. A blank wall, with no ledge and no door, would have been so much better!
Dor stationed himself before the door and waited, hoping he was ready. His stomach was restless; in fact at the moment he felt in urgent need of a toilet. But of course he couldn’t leave. None of them could leave their posts until the attack was over; that had been agreed. There was no telling what tricks the Mundanes might try to draw the defenders out of position, making the castle vulnerable.
Men swarmed up the ladders. They were met at the top by zombie animals: a two-headed wolf with rotting jaws but excellently restored teeth; a serpent with gruesomely articulated coils; and a satyr with sharp horns and hooves.
The first men up were evidently braced for human zombies; these animals unnerved them, causing them to be easy prey. Then Dor ducked in with a long crowbar—he had no idea what the crows used them for—and levered off the first ladder, pushing it away from the wall so that it fell with its burden into the moat. The splashing Mundanes screamed. Dor felt a shock of remorse; he would never be acclimatized to killing! Actually, he reminded himself, the fall was not far as these things went, and the watery landing was soft. But the men were in a certain amount of armor that hampered their swimming.
Dor moved to the next ladder, but this one was really hooked on tightly. The zombie serpent was having trouble holding off the onslaught. “What’s holding you on?” Dor cried in exasperation as he labored to pry it up.
“I am an enchanted ladder,” it replied. “The stupid Mundanes stole me from a stockade arsenal; they don’t know my properties.”
“What are your properties?” Dor inquired.
“I anchor irrevocably when emplaced—until someone utters the command ‘weigh anchor.’ Then I kick loose violently. This facilitates disengagement.”
“Way anchor?”
“That doesn’t sound quite right. It’s weigh as in lifting, spoken with authority.”
“Weigh anchor!” Dor cried with authority.
“Oooh, now you’ve done it!” the ladder cried, and kicked off violently, dumping its occupants into the moat.
Dor went on to the next. The delay at the second ladder had cost him vital time, however. The top warrior had gotten over his shock of encountering the satyr, and had hacked it to pieces. Now three warriors stood on the deck, with more crowding up. Fortunately there was not room for them to stand abreast; they were in a line, and until they moved, the fourth man could not dismount from the ladder.
The first Mundane gave a loud cry and brought his sword down on Dor as if chopping wood. Dor’s body parried automatically blocking the descending sword with his crowbar so that it glanced off to the side. Simultaneously he dodged forward, coming inside the Mundane’s guard, striking into the man’s gut with his left fist. The man doubled over, and Dor caught his leg and heaved him over the parapet into the moat. He rose to face the next Mundane in one fluid motion.
This man was smarter about his attack. He came at Dor carefully, sword extended like a spear, forcing him back. The Mundane knew he did not need to slay Dor yet; all that was required was that he widen the stretch of ledge held by his forces, so that others could get off the ladder.
Dor, on the other hand, had to keep the man penned until he could eliminate him and the next man and get at the ladder. So he met the Mundane’s thrust with his own, pointing the bar, refusing to give way. In this restricted locale, the crowbar was an excellent weapon.
The Mundane’s eyes widened in an expression of astonishment. “Mike!” he cried. “You survived! We thought you were lost in that damned magic jungle!”
He seemed to be addressing Dor. It might be a ruse. “Look to yourself, Mundane,” Dor said, and forced the man’s sword out of the way so he could shove him outward with his arm and shoulder.
The Mundane hardly tried to resist. “They told me there was a man looked like you, but I didn’t believe it! I should’ve known the best infighter in the troop would make it okay! Hell, with your strength and balance—“
“Balance?” Dor asked, remembering how his body had walked Jumper’s line across the river.
“Sure, you could’ve joined a circus! But you kept pushing your luck too far. What are you doing here, Mike? Last I saw you, we got separated by goblin bands. We had to cut out to the coast, thought you’d rejoin us—and here you are! Lost your memory or something?”
Then Dor’s wedging prevailed, and the Mundane, surprised, toppled into the moat. Quickly Dor charged the third, jamming the dull point of his bar into the man’s middle before he got his guard up, and this one also fell. Then Dor jammed his pole into the ladder hooks and wrenched so hard that a whole section of the stone parapet gave way and the ladder lost purchase. All the men on it fell screaming. The job was done.
Now, standing victorious on the edge, looking down, Dor suffered a multiple reaction. He had killed, again, this time not in ignorance or in the agony of reaction to his friend’s mutilation, but to do his job defending the castle. Murder had become a job. Was that how he proposed to forward his career? The sheer facility with which he had done it—maybe that was partly the natural prowess of his body, but he had also used his talent to gain the ladder’s secret. No, it was he himself who was responsible, and he felt a great and growing guilt—after the fact.
And the Mundane—that man had recognized Dor, or rather Dor’s body, calling him Mike. That must mean this body was that of a Mundane, part of this army, a man separated from his companions in the jungle, trapped by goblins, and presumed dead. Dor had taken over that body, preventing its return to its army. What had happened to the personality of the real Mike?
Dor bashed his hand against his head. The flea had bitten him again. Infernal bug! Oops—others called Jumper a bug, and Dor didn’t like that; maybe the flea didn’t like being called a—oh, forget it!
Where had he been, as he pondered things and watched the Mundanes drown below? Oh, yes: the fate of the personality of the original Mike Mundane. Dor couldn’t answer that. He presumed the real Mike would return when Dor left. What bothered him more was the fact that he had taken advantage of the Mundane’s recognition of him, to hurl the man from the wall. The Mundane had paused, not wishing to strike a friend—and had paid for that understandable courtesy with his position, perhaps his life. How would Dor himself feel if he encountered Jumper, and welcomed him—and Jumper struck him down? That had been a cruel gesture!
Nevertheless, he had held his position. He hoped the others had held theirs. He didn’t dare check directly; this was his position to defend, and another ladder crew could arrive the moment he deserted his post.
War was not nice. If Dor ever got to be King, he would see that problems were settled some other way if at all possible. No one would ever convince him that there was any glory in battle.
The sun sank slowly before him. The Mundanes scrambled out of the moat, dragging their wounded and dead. They took their ladders, too, though these were sadly broken.
At last Millie came. “You can come down, now, Dor,” she said hesitantly. “The zombie bugs say the Mundanes are too busy with their wounded to mount another attack today, and they won’t do it by night.”
“Why not? A sneak attack—“
“Because they think this is a haunted castle, and they’re afraid of the dark.”
Dor burst out laughing. It was hardly that funny, but the tension in him forced itself out.
It drained from him quickly. With relief he followed her down the winding stairs to the main hall. He noted the pleasant sway of her hips as she walked. He was noticing more things like that, recently.
They organized a night-watch system. There had been no attack on the other sides; Dor had handled it all. “We would have come to your aid,” Jumper chittered. “But we feared some ruse.”
“Exactly,” Dor agreed. “I would not have come to help you, either.”
“If we don’t have discipline, we have nothing,” the Zombie Master said. “We living are too few.”
“But tonight you rest,” Millie told Dor. “You have labored hard, and have earned it.”
Dor didn’t argue. He was certainly tired, and somewhat sick at heart, too. That business with the Mundane who recognized him ...
Jumper took the first watch, scrambling all about the walls and ceilings inside and out. The Zombie Master retired for half a night’s sleep before relieving the spider. That left Millie—who insisted on keeping Dor company while he ate and rested.
“You fought so bravely, Dor,” she said, urging a soupnut on him.
“I feel sick.” Then, aware of her gentle hurt, he qualified it. “Not from your cooking, Millie. From the killing. Striking men with a weapon. Dumping them into the moat. One of them recognized me. I dumped him, too.”
“Recognized you?”
How could he explain? “He thought he did. So he didn’t strike me. It wasn’t fair to strike him.”
“But they were storming the castle! You had to fight. Or we would all have been—“ She squiggled, trying to suggest something awful. It didn’t come across; she was delectable.
“But I’m not a killer!” Dor protested vehemently. “I’m only a twelve-year-old—“ He caught himself, but didn’t know how to correct his slip.
“A twelve-year veteran of warfare!” she exclaimed. “Surely you have killed before!”
It was grossly misplaced, but her sympathy gratified him strongly. His tired body reacted; his left arm reached out to enclose her hips in its embrace, as she stood beside him. He squeezed her against his side. Oh, her posterior was resilient!
“Why, Dor!” she said, surprised and pleased. “You like me!”
Dor forced himself to drop his arm. What business did he have, touching her? Especially in the vicinity of her cushiony posterior! “More than I can say.”
“I like you too, Dor.” She sat down in his lap, her derriere twice as soft and bouncy as before. Again his body reacted, enfolding her in an arm. Dor had never before experienced such sensation. Suddenly he was aware that his body knew what to do, if only he let it. That she was willing. That it could be an experience like none he had imagined in his young life. He was twelve; his body was older. It could do it.
“Oh, Dor,” she murmured, bending her head to kiss him on the mouth. Her lips were so sweet he—
The flea chomped him hard on the left ear. Dor bashed at it—and boxed his ear. The pain was brief but intense.
He stood up, dumping Millie roughly to her feet “I have to get some rest,” he said.
She made no further sound, but only stood there, eyes downcast. He knew he had hurt her terribly. She had committed the cardinal maidenly sin of being forward, and been rebuked. But what could he do? He did not exist in her world. He would soon depart, leaving her alone for eight hundred years, and when they rejoined he would be twelve years old again. He had no right!
But oh, what might have been, had he been more of a man.
There was no attack in the night, and none in the morning—but the siege had not been lifted. The Mundanes were preparing another onslaught, and the defenders simply had to wait for it. While precious time slipped by, and the situation worsened for King Roogna. Magician Murphy was surely smiling.
Dor found Millie and the Zombie Master having breakfast together. They were chatting merrily, but stopped as he joined them. Millie blushed and turned her face away.
The Zombie Master frowned. He was halfway handsome after one acclimatized to his gauntness. “Dor, our conversation was innocent. But it appears there is something amiss between you and the lady. Do you wish me to depart?”
“No!” Dor and Millie said together.
The Magician looked nonplused. “I have not had company in some time. Perhaps I have forgotten the social niceties. So I must inquire somewhat baldly: would you take exception, Dor, if I expressed an interest in the lady?”
A green icicle of jealousy stabbed into Dor. He fought it off. But he could not speak.
Now Millie turned her large eyes on Dor. There was a mute plea in them that he almost understood. “No!” he said. Millie’s eyes dropped, hurt again. Twice he had rejected her.
The Zombie Master shrugged his bony shoulders. “I do not know what else I can say. Let us continue our meal.”
Dor thought of asking him to help the King, but realized again that what the Magician might do at his behest was suspect—and had an inspiration. What Dor himself did might lack validity, and what Jumper did —but what Millie did should hold up. She was of this world. So if she persuaded the Zombie Master to help the King—
A zombie entered. “Ttaakk,” it rattled. “Hhoourr.”
“Thank you, Bruce,” the Zombie Master said. He turned to the others. “The Mundanes are organizing for another attack in an hour. We had best repair to our stations.”
This time the attack came on Jumper’s side. The Mundanes had assembled a massive battering ram. Not a real ram; those animals did not seem to have evolved yet. A mock ram fashioned from a heavy trunk of ironwood, mounted on wheels. Dor heard the boom and shudder as it crashed over the bridge they laid down over the moat and collided with the old stone. He hoped the wall was holding, but could not go to see or help: his post was here, not to be deserted lest another ladder attack come without warning. The others had had the discipline to stay clear of his section, last time, for the same reason. This was a special kind of courage, this standing aloof and ignorant.
An arrow dropped to his ledge. It had slid over the roof of the castle and fallen, its impetus spent. “What’s the news over there?” Dor asked it.
“We’re trying to batter a hole in the wall,” the arrow said. “But that damned huge bug keeps yanking out our moat-crossing planks with its sticky lines. We’re trying to shoot that spider, but it dodges too fast. Thing runs right across a sheer brick wall! I thought I had it—“ The arrow sighed. “But I didn’t, quite.”
“Too bad,” Dor said, smiling.
“Don’t patronize me!” the arrow cried sharply. “I am a first-class weapon!”
“Maybe you need a more accurate bowman.”
“That’s for sure. More good arrows are ruined by bad marksmanship—oh, what’s the use! If arrows ruled the world, instead of stupid people—“
Life was tough all over, Dor thought. Even for the nonliving. He did not speak to the arrow again, so it could not answer. Objects had to be invoked each time, initially. Only when he gave them a continuing command, voiced or unvoiced, as with the spiderweb that translated Jumper’s chittering, did they speak on their own. Or when, through constant association with him, they picked up some of his talent, as with the walls and doors of his cheese cottage, his home.
How far removed that home seemed, now!
After a while the furor subsided, and Dor knew Jumper had succeeded in balking the attack. He considered going to check, since the threat had now abated, but decided to stay at his post. His curiosity was urgent, but discipline was discipline, even when it became virtually pointless.
And, quietly, a ladder crew came to his side. They were trying to sneak in! Dor waited silently for them to work their way across the moat and lift and hook the ladder and mount it. They thought he was absent or asleep, or at least not paying attention. How close they had come to being correct!
Then, just as the first Mundane came over the parapet, Dor charged across with his lever, wedged the ladder up, and shoved it away from the wall. He hardly noticed the screams and splashes as the men landed in the moat. By his constancy he had stopped the sneak raid and helped save the castle! Had he yielded to temptation and left his post prematurely . . .
He felt somewhat more heroistic than he had before.
Finally the zombie eye-spy announced that the Mundanes had withdrawn their main attack force, and Dor rejoined the others within. It was midday. They ate, then whiled away the long afternoon working on a jigsaw puzzle that Millie had discovered while cleaning the drawing room.
It was a magic puzzle, of course, for the jigs and saws were magical creatures who delighted in their art. When assembled, it would be a beautiful picture; but now it was in myriad little pieces that had to be fitted together. No two pieces fit unless spelled by the proper plea, which was often devious, and the portions of the picture that showed kept changing. The principle seemed to be similar to that of the magic tapestry of Dor’s own time, with the little figures moving as in life. In fact—
“This is it!” Dor exclaimed. “We are weaving the tapestry!”
The others looked up, except for Jumper, whose eyes were always looking up, down, and across, without moving. “What tapestry?” Millie inquired somewhat coldly. She was still sweetly angry with him for his rejection of her.
“The—I, uh, I can’t exactly explain,” he said lamely.
Jumper caught on. ‘”Friend, I believe I know the tapestry you mean,” he chittered. “The King mentioned it. He is looking for a suitable picture to hang upon the wall of Castle Roogna, that will entertain viewers and be representative of what he is trying to accomplish. This one should do excellently, if the Zombie Master will yield it up.”
“I yield it up to you,” the Magician said. “Because I respect your nature. Take it with you when you return to Castle Roogna.”
“This is generous of you,” Jumper chittered, placing another piece. His excellent vision made him adept at this task; he could look at several places at once, superimposing them in his brain, checking the fit without ever touching the pieces. He paused to chitter at the piece he held, and it evidently understood the invocation, because it merged seamlessly into the main mass of the forming picture. “But unless we are able to assist the King, the Castle will never be complete.”
The Zombie Master did not answer, but Millie looked up, startled. She caught Dor’s eye, and he nodded. She had caught on.
But she frowned. Dor knew the problem: she was interested in him, Dor, and did not want to practice her charms on the Magician. She was in no position to understand why Dor eschewed her, or why he did not continue to plead the cause of Castle Roogna himself. So she was sullen, concentrating on the puzzle. The afternoon wore on.
The puzzle was fascinating, an excellent device for whiling away the tense time. They all seemed to share its compulsion, vying together against its challenge as if it were the Mundane army.
“I have always enjoyed puzzles,” the Zombie Master remarked, and indeed he was the best of the human participants. His skeletal hands became quick and sure as they fetched pieces and jerked them across to likely slots, comparing, rejecting, comparing again and matching. Thin, gaunt, but basically healthy and alert, the Magician seemed more human with each hour that he passed in Millie’s company. “The excitement of discovery, without threat. When I was a child, before my talent was known, I would smash blocks of stone with a hammer, then reassemble them into the original. Of course it lacked the cohesion—“
“Was that not an aspect of your talent?” Jumper chittered. “Now you reassemble creatures, but they lack the cohesion of life.”
The Magician laughed, the first time they had heard him do that. He flung back his shaggy brown hair so that his eyebrow ridges and cheekbones stood out more prominently. “A significant insight! Yes, I suppose creating zombies is not so very different from restoring stones. Yet it becomes a lonely pursuit, because others—“
“I understand,” Jumper chittered. “You are a normal creature, as I am, but this world does not see it that way. I have my own world to return to, but you have only this one.”
“Would that I could go to your world,” the Magician said, lightly but with a certain longing beneath. “To begin fresh, unprejudged. Even among spiders, I would feel more at home.”
Millie did not speak, but her demeanor softened. They worked on the puzzle. It occurred to Dor that human relations were similar to such a puzzle, meshed by the conventions of language. If only he knew where the piece that was his whole life should be fitted!
“When I was young,” the Zombie Master remarked after a bit, “I dreamed idly of marrying and settling down in the normal fashion, raising a family. I had no thought of being—as you see me now. I had better appetite, was more fully fleshed, was hardly distinguishable from normal boys. Then one day I found a dead flying frog, and was sorry for it, and tried to will it back to life, and—“
“The first zombie!” Millie exclaimed.
“True. I watched that frog fly away with amazement, thinking I had wakened the dead. But it was less than that; I could only half-waken the dead. Except, perhaps, in special cases.” He glanced at Dor, obviously thinking of the restorative elixir. But that was more than the Zombie Master’s magic; that incorporated the magic of the healing elixir too, so was a collaboration. “From that point, my career was set. Against my preference, I achieved far greater status and isolation than any other of my time. It seemed that many others desired what I could do for them—making zombie animals to guard their homes, or fight their battles, or do their work—but none cared to associate with me on a personal level. I became disgusted; I do not like being used without respect.”
Millie’s softening became something more. “You poor man!” she exclaimed.
“You three are the first who have associated with me without revulsion,” the Zombie Master continued. “True, you came begging favors—“
“We didn’t understand!” Millie cried. “These two are from another land, far away, and I am only an innocent maid—“
“Yes,” the Magician agreed, looking at her with muted intensity. “Innocent, but with a talent that causes others to react.”
“Except for the three of you,” she said. “Every other man has wanted to grab me. Dor dumped me on the floor.” She cast a dark look at him.
“Your friend restrains himself because he is not of your world and must soon depart, and cannot take you with him,” the Zombie Master said. Dor was amazed and gratified at the man’s comprehension. “He can thus make you no commitments, and is too much the gentleman to take advantage on a temporary basis.”
“But I would go with him!” she cried naively.
Jumper interjected a chitter: “It is impossible, maid. There is magic involved.”
Her chin thrust forward in cute rebellion.
“Yet if you cared to remain here at my castle, Millie, you could have a life of status—“ the Magician began, then reined himself. “But also of isolation. That must be confessed.”
“You really have a lot of company,” Millie said. “The zombies aren’t so bad when you get to know them. They have different personalities. They . . . can’t help it if they’re not quite alive.”
“They are often better company than the living creatures,” the Zombie Master agreed. “They do possess muted emotions and dim memories of their prior lives. It is ignorance that makes them suspect—the ignorance of the majority of normal people. All the zombies need are set jobs to do, and a comfortable grave-site to sleep in between tasks—and acceptance.”
Dor listened, noting how Millie and the Magician were coming together, forcing himself to stay out of it. His direct involvement could invalidate anything that happened—if Murphy was right. Yet it bothered him increasingly, this attempt to use the Zombie Master, who was after all a decent man.
“I don’t think I’d mind living among zombies,” Millie said. “I met a girl zombie in the garden; I think in life she must have been almost as pretty as I am.”
“Almost,” the Zombie Master agreed with a smile. “She was slain by a pneumonia spell intended for another. But when I restored her, her family would not take her back, so she remains here. I regret that I cannot undo my magic, once it has been applied; she is doomed like the others to live half-alive forever.”
“I screamed when I met the first zombie. But now—“
“I realize your primary interest is elsewhere,” the Magician said, glancing obliquely at Dor. “But if, accepting the fact that you cannot be with him, you would consider remaining here with me—“
“I have to help the King,” she said. “We promised to—“
The Zombie bowed to the inevitable. “For you, I would even indulge in politics. Ad hoc. Employ my zombies to—“
“No!” Dor cried, surprising himself. “This is wrong!”
The Zombie Master glanced at him expressionlessly. “You are after all asserting your interest in the lady?”
“No! I can’t have her. I know that. But we stay here only because we are under siege, and the moment the siege lifts we’ll go back to King Roogna. It is dishonorable to let her play upon your loneliness only to gain your help for the King. The end does not justify the mean.” He had heard King Trent say that, in his own time, but had not appreciated its full meaning until now. End and mean—or was it ends and means? “You have been generous to me and Jumper, because you understood our needs and respected them. How could you respect Millie if—”
For the first time, they saw Millie angry. “I wasn’t trying to use him! He’s a nice man! It’s just that I made a promise to the King, and I can’t just go off and do something else and let the whole Kingdom fall!”
Dor was chagrined. He had not really understood her innocence. “I’m sorry, Millie. I thought—”
“You think too much!” she flared.
“Yet your thought does you credit,” the Zombie Master said to Dor. “And your naiveté’ does you credit, too,” he said to Millie. “I was aware of the ramifications. I am accustomed to trading for favors. This is not an evil, when the conditions of exchange are openly negotiated. I am simply prepared to compromise, in this circumstance. If it is necessary to save the Kingdom to make the lady happy, then I am prepared to save the Kingdom. Quid pro quo. I am pleased that the damsel keeps her word to the King so stringently; I can reasonably suppose that she would similarly keep her word to you, Dor. Or to me, were she to give it.”
“I haven’t given it!” Millie protested. “Not to anyone! Not that way.” But she seemed subtly flattered.
“The matter may be academic,” Jumper chittered. “We are under siege here, and lack the means to do more than defend ourselves within this castle, with the aid of the loyal zombies. We cannot help the King anyway.”
“And even if there were no siege,” the Magician said, “I have suffered attrition of zombies. They are immortal, but when physically destroyed, with the pieces lost, they become useless. I could only bring a token force to the aid of the King. Not enough to overwhelm the curse on Castle Roogna.”
“You could make more zombies,” Dor said. “If you had more dead bodies.”
“Oh, yes, without limit. But I need intact bodies, and fresh ones are best.”
“Could we but overcome the Mundanes,” Jumper chittered, “we could use their bodies to fashion a mighty army.”
“If we had a mighty army, we could use it to vanquish the Mundanes,” Dor pointed out. “Closed circle.”
“I do not wish to interfere with human concerns,” Jumper chittered. “But I believe I see a course through the impasse. There is some risk entailed—”
“There is risk entailed in remaining under siege,” the Zombie Master said. “Present your notion; we can consider its merit jointly.” He placed another piece of puzzle, uttering the mergence spell under his breath.
“It is an arrangement, a series of agreements utilizing all our efforts,” Jumper chittered. “The Zombie Master and Millie must defend this castle for a time alone, while I convey Dor outside by night. I can swing him along a line to a near tree so that no one will notice. The Mundanes cannot see as well as I can in darkness. Then Dor must use his talent to locate some of the real monsters of the wilderness—the dragons and such—and enlist their aid.”
“Dragons will not help men!” Dor protested.
“They would not be helping men,” Jumper chittered. “They would be fighting men.”
“But—“ Then Dor caught on. “Mundanes!”
“But we are people too,” Millie said. Jumper angled his head to cock eyes of three different sizes at her. He was obviously not human. “Well, still—“ she faltered.
“I will be with Dor,” Jumper chittered. “They will know me for a monster, and him for a Magician. Inside the castle will be another Magician and a woman, and many zombie animals. No normal human men. We will convey this promise: any monsters who die in the battle to lift the siege will be restored as zombies. But mainly, they will have the thrill of killing men with impunity. The King will not condemn them for what they do, since it is to assist him.”
“It just might work!” Dor exclaimed. “Let’s go!”
“Not until dark,” Jumper chittered.
“And not until you’ve eaten,” Millie added. She bounced off to the kitchen.
Jumper placed a final puzzle-piece and retired to an upstairs rafter to rest. That left Dor and the Zombie Master with the puzzle, which was coming along nicely. They had largely completed the center, with the scene of Castle Roogna, and were working toward the Zombie Master’s castle. Dor was increasingly curious to know how it would turn out. Would they be able to see themselves in it, under Mundane siege? How much of reality did these magic pictures reflect?
“Are you really going to help the King?” Dor asked. “I mean, if we break the siege here?”
“Yes. To please the lady. And to please you.”
Still Dor was troubled. “There is something else I must tell you.”
“You are about to risk your life in the defense of my castle. Speak without inhibition.”
“The lady ... is doomed to die young. I know this from history.”
The Zombie Master’s hand froze, with a translucent piece of puzzle held between gaunt fingers. The piece changed from warm red light to cold blue ice. “I know that you would not deliberately deceive me.”
Maybe he had spoken too uninhibitedly! “I would be deceiving you if I failed to warn you. She—maybe death is not the right word. But she will be a ghost for centuries. So you will not be able to—“ Dor found himself overcome by remorse at what he could not prevent. “I think someone will murder her, or try to. At age seventeen.”
“What age is she now?”
“Seventeen.”
The Magician rested his head against his band. The puzzle-piece turned white. “I suppose I could make a zombie of her, and keep her with me. But it wouldn’t be the same.”
“She—if you’re helping the King to please her—or to please any of us—we’ll all be gone within the year. So it may not be worth it, to—“
“Your honesty becomes painful,” the Zombie Master said. “Yet it seems that if I am to please any of you, I must do it promptly. There may not again in my lifetime be opportunity to please anyone worth pleasing.”
Dor did not know what to say to this, so he simply put out his hand. The Magician set down the puzzle-piece, which had turned black, and shook Dor’s hand gravely. They returned to the puzzle, speaking no more.
The puzzle, Dor wondered—for his mind had to get away from the grim prior subject. How could this puzzle be the tapestry, when they were all within the tapestry? Was it possible to enter this forming picture, by means of a suitable spell, and find another world within it? Or had the tapestry been merely a gateway, the entry point, not the world itself? Was it coincidence that he should be assembling this particular picture at this juncture? The Zombie Master was the key to this whole quest, the vital element—and he had the tapestry, the key to the entry to this world. Yet he had given it to Jumper. How did this relate?
Dor shook his head. Such mysteries were beyond his fathoming. All he could do was . . . what he could do.