Castle War

ever gets back.”

“Where is he?”

“Haven’t been able to find out.”

“Then don’t worry about him.”

“Okay, guys, let’s go to lunch.”

“Forget about the King’s Hall. We’re not going to get any good food here in the castle. Let’s head into the Nouvelle Provence aspect. There’s a little cafe there that makes a great bouillabaisse. And the troubadours are superb.”

“We might not be able to get through. If you haven’t noticed, many aspects are screwed up.”

“Not Provence. I had breakfast there.”

“Fine. Well, let’s go.”

“Right.”

They all trooped out of the Queen’s Hall. In the corridor outside they ran into another Incarnadine.

“Where’re you people going?”

“Lunch. Want to come?”

“Who’s buying?”

“Separate checks. C’mon.”

The new Incarnadine turned to his –5Guardsmen. “Go in there and kick some ass. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Very good, sire!”

Incarnadine trotted after his colleagues.

“Hey, wait up!”

Twenty-eight Moor

“This is getting back to the roots of golf,” Dalton said. “Nothing like a moor to play on.”

“You’re thinking of links land, along a seacoast. Nobody plays golf on a bloody bog.”

“I stand corrected. But it still seems I should be using a brassie or a cleek for this hole.”

The teeing ground was on a knoll above the moor. The land rolled from rise to bog as far as the eye could see. Purple-flowered heather grew all over, sedge and other grasses clumping in the marshy areas.

Dalton said, “Are we using the white markers?”

“Yes, unless you’ve turned into a scratch player overnight. Are you still keeping score in your head?”

“Yep. You’re at —”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Are we doing match play?”

“We’re playing Nassau,” Dalton said. “I won the first nine.”

“Fine. Shoot.”

“I’d be handicapping, but it’s hard to do without a score-card.”

“Forget the handicapping. This is a friendly game.”

“Of course.”

Dalton’s drive went straight and true and landed in a bog.

“Still want that brassie?” Thaxton said mordantly.

“A two-wood’s not going to do any good here, there being no true fairway.”

“All rough and no fairway. Interesting concept.”

“Get any sleep last night?” Dalton asked.

“Oh, some. Hard to get much with the bloody wind howling over the moor like a lost soul.”

“It put me to sleep.”

Thaxton drove deep and straight and wound up with a tall-grass lie.

“I’ll need a sickle to get out of there.”

“Hope we don’t get literally bogged down,” Dalton said.

They did. The sky was a thick leaden bowl and the land was dark and forbidding. Their spiked shoes sank into the wet peat. Dalton couldn’t find his ball and lost a stroke. Thaxton hacked away at the grass with his seven-iron Ping Eye-2 until he could get at his.

“This is bloody preposterous.”

A demonic howl went up from the bogs to the east and made the hair on the back of Thaxton’s neck bristle.

“What in the world was that?”

“The hellhound!” Dalton said, chuckling.

“Don’t bloody laugh about it.”

Thaxton’s approach went well and he was on the “green” (an irregular patch of unevenly trimmed bent grass) in two. He read the break brilliantly, successfully negotiated all the hills, bumps, and swales between the ball and the cup, and was in for par. Dalton chipped onto the green and putted for a double bogey.

“Where’s the next hole?”

“I don’t know,” Dalton said. “But there’s a path of sorts. See it?”

“Yes, but —”

Another blood-freezing howl, this one closer.

“Good God, bloody Basil Rathbone will show up next in his mackintosh and deerstalker.”

“Look what is showing up,” Dalton said, pointing to a rise where an enormous black dog had appeared at the crest. It was a monstrous animal, yipping and snarling and pounding full tilt straight for them.

The men dropped their bags and ran, Thaxton for some reason keeping his putter in hand. They didn’t get far before the dog caught up and began to pace them almost teasingly, snapping and slavering at their heels, yellowed fangs bared, foam dripping from the corners of its mouth.

It chased them for a quarter mile before Thaxton stumbled and rolled in the heather. The dog leaped over him, chased Dalton for a few paces, then turned back. Thaxton reached for the putter and raised it in desperation against the inevitable attack.

The animal stopped and panted, its long pink tongue lolling in and out. Its tail began to wag.

“What the devil?”

The thing whimpered and its tail wagged faster.

“It’s friendly?” Thaxton said incredulously.

Dalton returned. “Looks like.”

“But it sounded as though it wanted us for supper.”

“Dogs can be very territorial. Maybe this is his turf.”

“Look at the thing. Paws as big as melons.”

“Nice doggie.” Dalton went up to it and scratched its enormous head.

The animal seemed to appreciate the gesture. Dalton patted its head and ran his hand up and down the neck.

“What sort of breed is that?” Thaxton asked.

“It’s big even for a mastiff. Looks a little like one, though, around the droopy cheeks. It’s a mutt, probably.”

“Mongrel from Hell.”

“Oh, this is a good dog — aren’t you, fellow?”

“Whuuff!”

“Thank heaven it can’t talk,” Thaxton said. “I’m full up with bloody sentient beasts.”

“It seems to understand.”

“God, look at it drool. Looks like marshmallow sauce. It’s making me ill.”

“Looks like he wants to come along! Maybe he can find balls. Probably make a good hunting dog.”

“I’ll fetch the clubs, you entertain Baskerville, here.”