Chapter Two
Indy shut his eyes and prepared for a painful landing. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t falling, and when he opened his eyes, he saw that his fingers were barely managing to grip the bottom edge of a stone coffin. His hold was small, but he maintained it until his knuckles were white. Don’t look down, he thought. Don’t look down, don’t look down... He looked down and saw his flashlight spiraling down a hundred foot drop into total darkness. Why don’t I ever listen to me?
He tried to pull himself up, but the coffin’s ancient stone had begun to crumble from the moment he grabbed it. Large chunks and pieces fell from his grasp. He looked around frantically. There had to be something else to grab, anything else... Yes! He plunged his hand through the coffin’s glass cover and grabbed the corpse’s ankle. But this, too, failed to support him. He began to fall, dragging the entire coffin after him. Quickly he grabbed the ankle with his other arm as well, hoping to scale the coffin’s inhabitant to high ground before it was too late.
The corpse’s entire leg broke through the glass cover, swung him like a pendulum, and snapped off.
Indy braced himself for the fall a second time. This time when he opened his eyes, he found himself on a rocky ledge, located only a few feet below the open crypt floor. He only had a few inches of room to spare, and he saw behind him that it didn’t lead anywhere, but that was okay. MacGowan would get through the door eventually and Indy could sit tight until then.
He stared at the leg still clutched in his hands, which were lacerated in several places from breaking through the glass. Now that he noticed them, the pain still failed to register. He looked up at the coffin teetering precariously over the edge. He hated to desecrate someone’s final resting place, especially when it may have been old enough to have archaeological significance. Oh well, he thought, tossing the leg away, if we ever get out of this, I probably won’t be coming back anyway. This creepy castle can keep its relics.
The ledge snapped.
Well, Indy though as he fell through the pitch blackness, this is a fine how-do-you-do. I don’t know what’ll be worse, if God is real or if he isn’t. What’s better, purgatory or oblivion? Once again the darkness reminded him of Hitler’s soul, but this time the thought brought him joy and he didn’t push it aside. There’s one man who’ll make me look like a saint, anyway.
He hit something with a thud and agony shot through his entire body. I must be the only person in world history unlucky enough to fall that far and not get a quick, painless death, he thought bitterly. Then he gasped and broke the surface of what he realized was a pool of water surrounded by rocky, cavernous walls. His fisherman’s hat bobbed beside him. Less than two hours ago he had been fishing, and now it seemed like weeks... As he reached for it, a fish flapped out of the water, gobbled up one of the hat’s live baits, and disappeared.
Indy smirked humorlessly. “Now they bite!”
He attempted to paddle toward shore. The pain was fading already because there hadn’t been any real damage, just a message from his body that it would rather not ever do that sort of thing again, please and thank you. But no sooner had he started moving than he heard a loud sound of grinding metal and rattling chains. His eyes darted to the side. Two horizontal metal gates had ejected from the cavern walls, shooting across the water toward a point of convergence located approximately at his neck.
If the gates hadn’t been thick with rust and mildew, Indy probably would have been dead before he saw them. As it was he had time to dive underwater as they snapped shut less than an inch above its surface. He realized he had just condemned himself to a worse fate; he had no room to resurface. He clutched the grating, trying to move the gates apart, but they were either locked fast or just plain too heavy. Did this trap reset? How long would it take? Too long, he figured. There was nowhere to go but down.
He hoped for an alternate escape, but there was no bottom in sight. Made sense; after all, one didn’t design death traps that any old victim could just walk out of. Already his air was running out. Swimming had never been his forte by a long shot and adrenaline could only go so far. His eyes bulged and his face lost color; his muscles burned with lactic acid buildup. Fuzzy bright spots appeared all over his field of vision. Only a few precious seconds of life remained, he knew that. Then he began to feel strangely peaceful and lightheaded, completely content with himself and what was coming. If he had been thinking clearly he would have remembered this was a traditional part of drowning.
Something flashed by in his peripheral vision. A small tunnel, built into the cavern wall. Something broke through his clouded brain and told him he should go toward it, so he did. He bolted into it and saw light at the end, real light this time, breaking through his fog more fully and giving him incentive to swim harder. But his brain was shutting down, the darkness was closing in. And, what was more, his lungs burned. He couldn’t take it any longer. He took a breath of water.
And then the drain cover flipped open and he sprawled onto the base of a large, three tiered stone fountain, choking, gasping. Instead of the familiar carvings of angels and beautiful maidens, this structure was surrounded with water-spewing demons, gargoyles, and hellish beasts of the ilk he’d grown accustomed to seeing around here. It was an interesting piece if a disturbing one, but Indy didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except letting air into his wet, tired lungs.
In a few minutes color returned to his face, and he examined his other surroundings. He was shocked to find himself inside of a sprawling banquet hall, beautifully decorated in immaculate Victorian dignity. Even in his present sorry state he was shocked to notice that there was not one speck of dust. Two Medieval suits of armor adorned one wall, a black one and a white. A gargantuan crystal chandelier hung above a long, mahogany banquet table.
At the far end of the table sat a shriveled, white haired elderly man whom by now Indy would have recognized in any crowd. Baron Seamus Seagrove III.
No, Indy thought, this can’t be real, after all I just went through; I must still be woozy. But Baron Seagrove was there, calmly eating his dinner. A bloated roast boar rested on a silver platter before him, among an assortment of other mouth-watering delicacies and wines. The same candle he had seen burning in the upstairs room and the family crypt now rested on the table directly beside the Baron. No, he scolded himself again, who says it’s the same one? Two powerful, muscular mastiffs were tied to Baron Seagrove’s chair, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. The hounds fought for a scrap of meat that was shredding like cardboard in their jaws.
Indy slowly struggled to his feet and stepped out of the fountain, stumbling and nearly falling flat on his face. Well, here he was without a policeman in sight, left to his own devices once again. Those dogs weren’t pretty, but the Baron seemed like a docile enough guy, and probably deserved the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just didn’t know his castle was a harbinger of hell. The man was probably hard of hearing too; he never noticed the intruder’s presence even when Indy began walking toward him. “Excuse me, sir?” Indy said. “Hello?”
Baron Seagrove didn’t look up from his plate.
Indy moved closer and spoke louder. “Can you hear me?”
Beneath the table, the Baron’s hand went unnoticed as it nonchalantly untied the mastiffs’ bindings.
Indy was still walking toward the table, and he was shouting now. “Hey, old man!” The Baron continued to ignore him. He grew annoyed; after all that had just happened he didn’t have the patience for a senior citizen’s frailties. “Listen, pal,” he snapped, “there are two dead policemen upstairs and –”
The mastiffs leaped forward. Indy tried to jump to the side, but in his exhaustion he was too slow. The hounds were instantly upon him, tearing, clawing, biting. They dragged him to the floor. Baron Seagrove continued to enjoy his dinner, seemingly oblivious to the scene before him.
Indy fought for his life, repeatedly punching the vicious dogs in the snouts and trying to keep them away from his face and neck. They tore at the rest of his clothing and skin, though, making long painful gashes. Knowing he could not hold out for long he looked around the room for something to help him escape, and spotted it on the wall above. Hanging amidst a display of stuffed animal heads was a hunter’s trumpet. He struggled to his knees to reach for it. But the dogs kept up their relentless attack, weakening him.
His fingers were inches from the horn, and the mastiffs’ sharp claws ripped at his outstretched arm. But he managed to snatch it and quickly moved it to his lips. With all the air he could muster under the circumstances he blew a high, piercing note. Responding to the sound, the dogs halted their attack and got off of him. For a moment.
Tattered and bruised, Indy jumped to his feet. He dropped the horn and ran - a stupid decision in retrospect, he decided. Where could he run to? Indeed, the mastiffs soon came to their senses and darted after him, mouths foaming. Baron Seagrove continued to dine peacefully.
The window, he realized, seeing a velvet curtain and heading toward it. If the glass didn’t finish the job the dogs had started he’d probably fall to his death, but it was worth a shot. No, he had a better idea when he got there. He grabbed hold of a long, thick rope attached to the curtain and tore the whole apparatus from the wall. The window behind it was a beautiful stained glass masterpiece but he didn’t have time to admire it.
The first mastiff was already leaping at him. He quickly draped the curtain over the hound and tied a large knot in the open curtain end, trapping it. But now the second mastiff was only a few feet away. With nowhere else to go he jumped to the ledge and opened the window. The mastiff lunged, clearly prepared to end his life. Indy jumped out the window, and it sailed out into the air after him.
The mastiff fell hundreds of feet into the rocky waters of the loch below. Its vicious howl faded as it hit. Indy looked away before he saw if it had survived or not, unwilling to look at what had almost been his own fate. He was hanging onto the swinging window frame, more or less safe for the moment. This maneuver had been significantly easier than the coffin thing, given more preparation; but he was still thoroughly sore. He dragged himself back into the room as quickly as he could.
Baron Seagrove was just pouring himself a glass of wine. A very angry Indiana Jones marched over to him, trying to put as much menace in his limp as possible. The old coot couldn’t possibly have missed all this. “Chow time’s over, mister,” he snapped. “You better start talkin’.” The Baron still ignored him. “There’s a lot of strange things happening around here –”
One of the suits of armor, located a few feet behind him, twitched. Its arm lowered. Its head slowly turned.
He still walked toward the Baron, who was now preoccupied with spreading butter on his bread. Indy was practically screaming now. “– and I want some answers! Do you hear me?” He slammed a fist on the table, upsetting the Baron’s wine glass. “I want some answers! Now!”
He leaned over to continue his tirade directly into the Baron’s ear. With a loud creak of metal, a huge, sharp battle axe swung over his head, its breeze stirring his hair. Spinning around, he was appalled to see the glistening, black suit of armor come to life. It was nearly seven feet tall. He backpedaled, his mind numbed with the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. It followed him, wildly swinging the axe.
Indy had no way of knowing his steps were leading him toward the other suit of armor, the silvery white one, even taller. As he came closer it opened its arms. When he was in reach, the knight locked its powerful arms around his chest, knocking the wind out of him once again. He struggled but its grip was far too tight. The black knight still approached, its frenzied axe swings coming within inches of his face.
Indy saw his life flash before his eyes. No, not his whole life, he realized, but a few select scenes from high school. That was it! He reversed his struggle and flung himself backward, sandwiching the white knight between himself and the wall. Then he lunged forward again and down, flipping the stunned behemoth over his head and into its black partner. They both crashed to the floor. Wow, he thought, it works on brainless jocks and otherworldly demons.
He shot to his feet, but so did they, nearly as fast, and a chase was on. The black knight continued swinging its axe and the white one unsheathed a long, sharp sword. Baron Seagrove spooned another helping of boiled potatoes onto his plate.
Indy realized he could not outrun them for long. He’d been taxed nearly to his limit and they, despite his previous convictions that such things did not exist, were obviously some sort of otherworldly things that never tired. He snatched a shield and sword from a nearby wall display and turned to fight. Maybe he could hold them off until MacGowan got here. Maybe.
The knights were instantly upon him. He fended off the bludgeoning axe blows with his shield, and dueled the other knight with his sword. He tried to think of all the moves he’d seen Errol Flynn do, but didn’t have the advantage of this fight being choreographed. The knights weren’t the speediest or most agile opponents but their sheer strength was more than a match for his.
His sword managed to strike the white knight in the chest, but his attacker might have planned it; the weapon snapped in two. As he jumped back to avoid the blow aimed at his stomach, the other knight’s battle axe knocked his shield from his hand. The two metal giants raised their weapons high, aiming for his head.
As the two knights swung, he dove to the floor; another trick from high school. Funny how those years he wanted to remember even less than his war experiences were suddenly coming in handy. The knights couldn’t stop their weapons in time and each delivered a hard blow to the other. In a momentary daze, they wobbled and spun. Indy jumped to his feet and bolted.
The black knight hissed furiously and dashed after him while the white one was still reeling from the blow. It raised its axe, preparing to split him neatly down the middle. Indy figured his only chance was to whip the weapon out of its hand. His trusty bullwhip shot forward as the knight was lowering its axe.
And missed. The whip wrapped itself around the knight’s neck. Well, close enough. Indy dropped again and pulled it as hard as he could. The knight, off balance from the swing of its unwieldy weapon, went flying through the air even more impressively than its comrade. This time, though, crashed into the stone fountain, shattering and thereby improving several of the sculptures. Dazed, and dented, the black knight attempted to stand, but lost its footing on the slippery surface and fell backward into the fountain’s wide drain hole that Indy had carelessly left uncovered. Encumbered by the weight of its armor, it could not climb out, and sank all the way down.
Indy had only a moment to catch his breath before the white knight's sword sliced his jacket. He jumped back and turned to run, finding himself face to face with the roasted pig on the banquet table. He ducked as the knight lowered its sword in a flurry of blows, carving the pig into perfect sections. The Baron looked very satisfied as he helped himself to one of them.
.
Indy leaped onto the table top. The knight jumped up after him, scattering several dishes, and gave chase. Indy glanced upward to the heavy chandelier and smiled.
When the knight was directly below it, he snatched up a sterling silver plate and whisked it toward the rope that held it up. The rope severed and the chandelier crashed down on the white knight, which dropped the sword from its lifeless hand onto the miraculously intact, albeit disheveled, table top.
Indy snatched up the sword. Seething with rage, weapon outstretched, he stomped across the table top to Baron Seagrove, who was preparing to take another bite of his food. Before he could put it in his mouth, the tip of the sword’s blade found his rubbery throat. Indy snarled at him. “Haven’t you had enough?”
Baron Seagrove lowered his fork and finally looked at him. Indy drew back, shocked by the soullessness behind his eyes, shark eyes. The man’s face twisted into an eerie grin, and then he laughed, the same maniacal laugh Indy had heard twice earlier. In response, he got a grip on himself and blew out the mysterious candle.
Suddenly the room’s door burst open. Inspector MacGowan and Galbraith dashed over to Baron Seagrove, pistols aimed at him. Galbraith handcuffed the Baron as fast as he could. MacGowan took a long, hard look at the bruised, bloodied and tattered Indiana Jones. MacGowan began to ask him something, but Indy’s face clearly said he did not want to talk about it. Instead he managed a weak grin. “Now you can get back to your fishing, Dr. Jones.”
Indy grunted. “No chance, Mac. My plane leaves in the morning. Vacation’s over. Gotta get back to school.”
MacGowan shook his head sympathetically. “‘Tis a shame to go home empty handed...” he said. His face brightened as an idea came to him. “Tell ya what, me fren’... I fancy meself quite the fisherman. Tomorrow, I’ll go out and catch you a real beauty, eh?”
Indy smirked. “Right. Send it to me airmail.”
“Dr. Jones!” the Inspector sputtered. “You doubt me? A MacGowan’s word is truer than –”
“Yeah, yeah, an angel’s kiss,” Indy said. “I know.” He ached all over and wasn’t in the mood for stereotypical Scottish platitudes. But there was no point in hanging around here any longer, he thought, and dragged himself from the room.
The villagers surrounded the castle, bright torches raised high in the air, anxious to catch a glimpse of the returning heroes and the culprit. As Baron Seagrove was led out of the castle by Indy and the police, they began to whisper among themselves. Their eyes were agog at the old man, but he paid them no similar heed. Instead, as he was taken to the police vehicle, he turned and looked at Indy, his eyes boring in once again, wild with madness this time.
In a trembling, raspy voice that only Indy could hear, he said, “No... jail... can... hold... me.”
A chill rushed through Indy that topped all thus far. He groped for a witty reply, but the Baron had already turned away as if nothing had happened, continuing to the police wagon.
One of the villagers shouted, “‘E’s done it! Dr. Jones ‘as captured the killer!” The crowd burst into a cheer. Indy tried to tear his mind from the whole night’s sordid events and managed a humble nod and wave. MacGowan shook his hand, but his gaze wandered to the police vehicle as Baron Seagrove climbed into the back compartment and Galbraith closed the doors. As he watched in disbelief, the Baron raised his hands, no longer in cuffs, and lit a cigarette. The match flame shone straight through him.
Indy lost control of his motor functions. No one else had seen this apparition, but MacGowan noticed the pale expression on his face. “What is it, man?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a screamin’ banshee!”
Indy pointed feebly back to the police vehicle, but it was already driving over a far hill, disappearing into the fog and darkness as if it had never been. He sighed and turned back to the Inspector. “Ah, it was nothing, Mac,” he said, beginning to believe it himself. “Nothing at all.”
“Loss of blood, perchance,” MacGowan said. “Yer in rough shape. We’d best get you medical attention right away.”
And a change of pants, Indy thought.
Next: Chapter Three
He tried to pull himself up, but the coffin’s ancient stone had begun to crumble from the moment he grabbed it. Large chunks and pieces fell from his grasp. He looked around frantically. There had to be something else to grab, anything else... Yes! He plunged his hand through the coffin’s glass cover and grabbed the corpse’s ankle. But this, too, failed to support him. He began to fall, dragging the entire coffin after him. Quickly he grabbed the ankle with his other arm as well, hoping to scale the coffin’s inhabitant to high ground before it was too late.
The corpse’s entire leg broke through the glass cover, swung him like a pendulum, and snapped off.
Indy braced himself for the fall a second time. This time when he opened his eyes, he found himself on a rocky ledge, located only a few feet below the open crypt floor. He only had a few inches of room to spare, and he saw behind him that it didn’t lead anywhere, but that was okay. MacGowan would get through the door eventually and Indy could sit tight until then.
He stared at the leg still clutched in his hands, which were lacerated in several places from breaking through the glass. Now that he noticed them, the pain still failed to register. He looked up at the coffin teetering precariously over the edge. He hated to desecrate someone’s final resting place, especially when it may have been old enough to have archaeological significance. Oh well, he thought, tossing the leg away, if we ever get out of this, I probably won’t be coming back anyway. This creepy castle can keep its relics.
The ledge snapped.
Well, Indy though as he fell through the pitch blackness, this is a fine how-do-you-do. I don’t know what’ll be worse, if God is real or if he isn’t. What’s better, purgatory or oblivion? Once again the darkness reminded him of Hitler’s soul, but this time the thought brought him joy and he didn’t push it aside. There’s one man who’ll make me look like a saint, anyway.
He hit something with a thud and agony shot through his entire body. I must be the only person in world history unlucky enough to fall that far and not get a quick, painless death, he thought bitterly. Then he gasped and broke the surface of what he realized was a pool of water surrounded by rocky, cavernous walls. His fisherman’s hat bobbed beside him. Less than two hours ago he had been fishing, and now it seemed like weeks... As he reached for it, a fish flapped out of the water, gobbled up one of the hat’s live baits, and disappeared.
Indy smirked humorlessly. “Now they bite!”
He attempted to paddle toward shore. The pain was fading already because there hadn’t been any real damage, just a message from his body that it would rather not ever do that sort of thing again, please and thank you. But no sooner had he started moving than he heard a loud sound of grinding metal and rattling chains. His eyes darted to the side. Two horizontal metal gates had ejected from the cavern walls, shooting across the water toward a point of convergence located approximately at his neck.
If the gates hadn’t been thick with rust and mildew, Indy probably would have been dead before he saw them. As it was he had time to dive underwater as they snapped shut less than an inch above its surface. He realized he had just condemned himself to a worse fate; he had no room to resurface. He clutched the grating, trying to move the gates apart, but they were either locked fast or just plain too heavy. Did this trap reset? How long would it take? Too long, he figured. There was nowhere to go but down.
He hoped for an alternate escape, but there was no bottom in sight. Made sense; after all, one didn’t design death traps that any old victim could just walk out of. Already his air was running out. Swimming had never been his forte by a long shot and adrenaline could only go so far. His eyes bulged and his face lost color; his muscles burned with lactic acid buildup. Fuzzy bright spots appeared all over his field of vision. Only a few precious seconds of life remained, he knew that. Then he began to feel strangely peaceful and lightheaded, completely content with himself and what was coming. If he had been thinking clearly he would have remembered this was a traditional part of drowning.
Something flashed by in his peripheral vision. A small tunnel, built into the cavern wall. Something broke through his clouded brain and told him he should go toward it, so he did. He bolted into it and saw light at the end, real light this time, breaking through his fog more fully and giving him incentive to swim harder. But his brain was shutting down, the darkness was closing in. And, what was more, his lungs burned. He couldn’t take it any longer. He took a breath of water.
And then the drain cover flipped open and he sprawled onto the base of a large, three tiered stone fountain, choking, gasping. Instead of the familiar carvings of angels and beautiful maidens, this structure was surrounded with water-spewing demons, gargoyles, and hellish beasts of the ilk he’d grown accustomed to seeing around here. It was an interesting piece if a disturbing one, but Indy didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except letting air into his wet, tired lungs.
In a few minutes color returned to his face, and he examined his other surroundings. He was shocked to find himself inside of a sprawling banquet hall, beautifully decorated in immaculate Victorian dignity. Even in his present sorry state he was shocked to notice that there was not one speck of dust. Two Medieval suits of armor adorned one wall, a black one and a white. A gargantuan crystal chandelier hung above a long, mahogany banquet table.
At the far end of the table sat a shriveled, white haired elderly man whom by now Indy would have recognized in any crowd. Baron Seamus Seagrove III.
No, Indy thought, this can’t be real, after all I just went through; I must still be woozy. But Baron Seagrove was there, calmly eating his dinner. A bloated roast boar rested on a silver platter before him, among an assortment of other mouth-watering delicacies and wines. The same candle he had seen burning in the upstairs room and the family crypt now rested on the table directly beside the Baron. No, he scolded himself again, who says it’s the same one? Two powerful, muscular mastiffs were tied to Baron Seagrove’s chair, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. The hounds fought for a scrap of meat that was shredding like cardboard in their jaws.
Indy slowly struggled to his feet and stepped out of the fountain, stumbling and nearly falling flat on his face. Well, here he was without a policeman in sight, left to his own devices once again. Those dogs weren’t pretty, but the Baron seemed like a docile enough guy, and probably deserved the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just didn’t know his castle was a harbinger of hell. The man was probably hard of hearing too; he never noticed the intruder’s presence even when Indy began walking toward him. “Excuse me, sir?” Indy said. “Hello?”
Baron Seagrove didn’t look up from his plate.
Indy moved closer and spoke louder. “Can you hear me?”
Beneath the table, the Baron’s hand went unnoticed as it nonchalantly untied the mastiffs’ bindings.
Indy was still walking toward the table, and he was shouting now. “Hey, old man!” The Baron continued to ignore him. He grew annoyed; after all that had just happened he didn’t have the patience for a senior citizen’s frailties. “Listen, pal,” he snapped, “there are two dead policemen upstairs and –”
The mastiffs leaped forward. Indy tried to jump to the side, but in his exhaustion he was too slow. The hounds were instantly upon him, tearing, clawing, biting. They dragged him to the floor. Baron Seagrove continued to enjoy his dinner, seemingly oblivious to the scene before him.
Indy fought for his life, repeatedly punching the vicious dogs in the snouts and trying to keep them away from his face and neck. They tore at the rest of his clothing and skin, though, making long painful gashes. Knowing he could not hold out for long he looked around the room for something to help him escape, and spotted it on the wall above. Hanging amidst a display of stuffed animal heads was a hunter’s trumpet. He struggled to his knees to reach for it. But the dogs kept up their relentless attack, weakening him.
His fingers were inches from the horn, and the mastiffs’ sharp claws ripped at his outstretched arm. But he managed to snatch it and quickly moved it to his lips. With all the air he could muster under the circumstances he blew a high, piercing note. Responding to the sound, the dogs halted their attack and got off of him. For a moment.
Tattered and bruised, Indy jumped to his feet. He dropped the horn and ran - a stupid decision in retrospect, he decided. Where could he run to? Indeed, the mastiffs soon came to their senses and darted after him, mouths foaming. Baron Seagrove continued to dine peacefully.
The window, he realized, seeing a velvet curtain and heading toward it. If the glass didn’t finish the job the dogs had started he’d probably fall to his death, but it was worth a shot. No, he had a better idea when he got there. He grabbed hold of a long, thick rope attached to the curtain and tore the whole apparatus from the wall. The window behind it was a beautiful stained glass masterpiece but he didn’t have time to admire it.
The first mastiff was already leaping at him. He quickly draped the curtain over the hound and tied a large knot in the open curtain end, trapping it. But now the second mastiff was only a few feet away. With nowhere else to go he jumped to the ledge and opened the window. The mastiff lunged, clearly prepared to end his life. Indy jumped out the window, and it sailed out into the air after him.
The mastiff fell hundreds of feet into the rocky waters of the loch below. Its vicious howl faded as it hit. Indy looked away before he saw if it had survived or not, unwilling to look at what had almost been his own fate. He was hanging onto the swinging window frame, more or less safe for the moment. This maneuver had been significantly easier than the coffin thing, given more preparation; but he was still thoroughly sore. He dragged himself back into the room as quickly as he could.
Baron Seagrove was just pouring himself a glass of wine. A very angry Indiana Jones marched over to him, trying to put as much menace in his limp as possible. The old coot couldn’t possibly have missed all this. “Chow time’s over, mister,” he snapped. “You better start talkin’.” The Baron still ignored him. “There’s a lot of strange things happening around here –”
One of the suits of armor, located a few feet behind him, twitched. Its arm lowered. Its head slowly turned.
He still walked toward the Baron, who was now preoccupied with spreading butter on his bread. Indy was practically screaming now. “– and I want some answers! Do you hear me?” He slammed a fist on the table, upsetting the Baron’s wine glass. “I want some answers! Now!”
He leaned over to continue his tirade directly into the Baron’s ear. With a loud creak of metal, a huge, sharp battle axe swung over his head, its breeze stirring his hair. Spinning around, he was appalled to see the glistening, black suit of armor come to life. It was nearly seven feet tall. He backpedaled, his mind numbed with the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. It followed him, wildly swinging the axe.
Indy had no way of knowing his steps were leading him toward the other suit of armor, the silvery white one, even taller. As he came closer it opened its arms. When he was in reach, the knight locked its powerful arms around his chest, knocking the wind out of him once again. He struggled but its grip was far too tight. The black knight still approached, its frenzied axe swings coming within inches of his face.
Indy saw his life flash before his eyes. No, not his whole life, he realized, but a few select scenes from high school. That was it! He reversed his struggle and flung himself backward, sandwiching the white knight between himself and the wall. Then he lunged forward again and down, flipping the stunned behemoth over his head and into its black partner. They both crashed to the floor. Wow, he thought, it works on brainless jocks and otherworldly demons.
He shot to his feet, but so did they, nearly as fast, and a chase was on. The black knight continued swinging its axe and the white one unsheathed a long, sharp sword. Baron Seagrove spooned another helping of boiled potatoes onto his plate.
Indy realized he could not outrun them for long. He’d been taxed nearly to his limit and they, despite his previous convictions that such things did not exist, were obviously some sort of otherworldly things that never tired. He snatched a shield and sword from a nearby wall display and turned to fight. Maybe he could hold them off until MacGowan got here. Maybe.
The knights were instantly upon him. He fended off the bludgeoning axe blows with his shield, and dueled the other knight with his sword. He tried to think of all the moves he’d seen Errol Flynn do, but didn’t have the advantage of this fight being choreographed. The knights weren’t the speediest or most agile opponents but their sheer strength was more than a match for his.
His sword managed to strike the white knight in the chest, but his attacker might have planned it; the weapon snapped in two. As he jumped back to avoid the blow aimed at his stomach, the other knight’s battle axe knocked his shield from his hand. The two metal giants raised their weapons high, aiming for his head.
As the two knights swung, he dove to the floor; another trick from high school. Funny how those years he wanted to remember even less than his war experiences were suddenly coming in handy. The knights couldn’t stop their weapons in time and each delivered a hard blow to the other. In a momentary daze, they wobbled and spun. Indy jumped to his feet and bolted.
The black knight hissed furiously and dashed after him while the white one was still reeling from the blow. It raised its axe, preparing to split him neatly down the middle. Indy figured his only chance was to whip the weapon out of its hand. His trusty bullwhip shot forward as the knight was lowering its axe.
And missed. The whip wrapped itself around the knight’s neck. Well, close enough. Indy dropped again and pulled it as hard as he could. The knight, off balance from the swing of its unwieldy weapon, went flying through the air even more impressively than its comrade. This time, though, crashed into the stone fountain, shattering and thereby improving several of the sculptures. Dazed, and dented, the black knight attempted to stand, but lost its footing on the slippery surface and fell backward into the fountain’s wide drain hole that Indy had carelessly left uncovered. Encumbered by the weight of its armor, it could not climb out, and sank all the way down.
Indy had only a moment to catch his breath before the white knight's sword sliced his jacket. He jumped back and turned to run, finding himself face to face with the roasted pig on the banquet table. He ducked as the knight lowered its sword in a flurry of blows, carving the pig into perfect sections. The Baron looked very satisfied as he helped himself to one of them.
.
Indy leaped onto the table top. The knight jumped up after him, scattering several dishes, and gave chase. Indy glanced upward to the heavy chandelier and smiled.
When the knight was directly below it, he snatched up a sterling silver plate and whisked it toward the rope that held it up. The rope severed and the chandelier crashed down on the white knight, which dropped the sword from its lifeless hand onto the miraculously intact, albeit disheveled, table top.
Indy snatched up the sword. Seething with rage, weapon outstretched, he stomped across the table top to Baron Seagrove, who was preparing to take another bite of his food. Before he could put it in his mouth, the tip of the sword’s blade found his rubbery throat. Indy snarled at him. “Haven’t you had enough?”
Baron Seagrove lowered his fork and finally looked at him. Indy drew back, shocked by the soullessness behind his eyes, shark eyes. The man’s face twisted into an eerie grin, and then he laughed, the same maniacal laugh Indy had heard twice earlier. In response, he got a grip on himself and blew out the mysterious candle.
Suddenly the room’s door burst open. Inspector MacGowan and Galbraith dashed over to Baron Seagrove, pistols aimed at him. Galbraith handcuffed the Baron as fast as he could. MacGowan took a long, hard look at the bruised, bloodied and tattered Indiana Jones. MacGowan began to ask him something, but Indy’s face clearly said he did not want to talk about it. Instead he managed a weak grin. “Now you can get back to your fishing, Dr. Jones.”
Indy grunted. “No chance, Mac. My plane leaves in the morning. Vacation’s over. Gotta get back to school.”
MacGowan shook his head sympathetically. “‘Tis a shame to go home empty handed...” he said. His face brightened as an idea came to him. “Tell ya what, me fren’... I fancy meself quite the fisherman. Tomorrow, I’ll go out and catch you a real beauty, eh?”
Indy smirked. “Right. Send it to me airmail.”
“Dr. Jones!” the Inspector sputtered. “You doubt me? A MacGowan’s word is truer than –”
“Yeah, yeah, an angel’s kiss,” Indy said. “I know.” He ached all over and wasn’t in the mood for stereotypical Scottish platitudes. But there was no point in hanging around here any longer, he thought, and dragged himself from the room.
The villagers surrounded the castle, bright torches raised high in the air, anxious to catch a glimpse of the returning heroes and the culprit. As Baron Seagrove was led out of the castle by Indy and the police, they began to whisper among themselves. Their eyes were agog at the old man, but he paid them no similar heed. Instead, as he was taken to the police vehicle, he turned and looked at Indy, his eyes boring in once again, wild with madness this time.
In a trembling, raspy voice that only Indy could hear, he said, “No... jail... can... hold... me.”
A chill rushed through Indy that topped all thus far. He groped for a witty reply, but the Baron had already turned away as if nothing had happened, continuing to the police wagon.
One of the villagers shouted, “‘E’s done it! Dr. Jones ‘as captured the killer!” The crowd burst into a cheer. Indy tried to tear his mind from the whole night’s sordid events and managed a humble nod and wave. MacGowan shook his hand, but his gaze wandered to the police vehicle as Baron Seagrove climbed into the back compartment and Galbraith closed the doors. As he watched in disbelief, the Baron raised his hands, no longer in cuffs, and lit a cigarette. The match flame shone straight through him.
Indy lost control of his motor functions. No one else had seen this apparition, but MacGowan noticed the pale expression on his face. “What is it, man?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a screamin’ banshee!”
Indy pointed feebly back to the police vehicle, but it was already driving over a far hill, disappearing into the fog and darkness as if it had never been. He sighed and turned back to the Inspector. “Ah, it was nothing, Mac,” he said, beginning to believe it himself. “Nothing at all.”
“Loss of blood, perchance,” MacGowan said. “Yer in rough shape. We’d best get you medical attention right away.”
And a change of pants, Indy thought.
Next: Chapter Three
