by Andre Norton
Quag Keep
Tor Books by Andre Norton
Quag Keep
Return to Quag Keep
(with Jean Rabe)
The Crystal Gryphon
Dare to Go A-Hunting
Flight in Yiktor
Forerunner
Forerunner: The Second Venture
Here Abide Monsters
Moon Called
Moon Mirror
The Prince Commands
Ralestone Luck
Stand and Deliver
Wheel of Stars
Wizards’ Worlds
Wraiths of Time
Beast Master’s Planet
(omnibus comprising
The Beast Master and
Lord of Thunder)
The Solar Queen
(omnibus comprising
Sargasso of Space and
Plague Ship)
The Gates to Witch World
(omnibus comprising
Witch World,
Web of the Witch World,
and Year of the Unicorn)
Lost Lands of Witch World
(omnibus comprising
Three Against the Witch World,
Warlock of the Witch World, and
Sorceress of the Witch World)
Grandmasters’ Choice
(Editor)
The Jelkyll Legacy
(with Robert Bloch)
Gryphon’s Eyrie
(with A. C. Crispin)
Songsmith
(with A. C. Crispin)
Caroline
(with Enid Cushing)
Firehand
(with P. M. Griffin)
Redline the Stars
(with P. M. Griffin)
Sneeze on Sunday
(with Grace Allen Hogarth)
The Duke’s Ballad
(with Lyn McConchie)
House of Shadows
(with Phyllis Miller)
Empire of the Eagle
(with Susan Shwartz)
Imperial Lady
(with Susan Shwartz)
BEAST MASTER
(with Lyn McConchie)
Beast Master’s Ark
Beast Master’s Circus
CAROLUS REX
(with Rosemary Edghill)
The Shadow of Albion
Leopard in Exile
THE HALFBLOOD CHRONICLES
(with Mercedes Lackey)
The Elvenbane
Elvenblood
Elvenborn
MAGIC IN ITHKAR
(Editor, with Robert Adams)
Magic in Ithkar 1
Magic in Ithkar 2
Magic in Ithkar 3
Magic in Ithkar 4
THE OAK, YEW, ASH,
AND ROWAN CYCLE
(with Sasha Miller)
To the King a Daughter
Knight or Knave
A Crown Disowned
THE SOLAR QUEEN
(with Sherwood Smith)
Derelict for Trade
A Mind for Trade
THE TIME TRADERS
(with Sherwood Smith)
Echoes in Time
Atlantis Endgame
THE WITCH WORLD (Editor)
Four from the Witch World
Tales from the Witch World 1
Tales from the Witch World 2
Tales from the Witch World 3
WITCH WORLD: THE TURNING
I Storms of Victory
(with P. M. Griffin)
II Flight of Vengeance
(with P. M. Griffin &
Mary H. Schaub)
III On the Wings of Magic
(with Patricia Mathews
& Sasha Miller)
Quag
Keep
ANDRE NORTON
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
QUAG KEEP
Copyright © 1978 by The Estate of Andre Norton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
First published in the United States by Atheneum Books
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Norton, Andre.
Quag keep / Andre Norton.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
Summary: Seven strangers, each wearing a
similar bracelet, meet and become pawns in the
continuing struggle between the forces of good and evil.
ISBN-13 978-0-765-31302-7
ISBN-10 0-765-31302-2
1. Good and evil—Fiction. 2. Fantasy games—Fiction. 3. Fantasy.
PZ7.82 Qa 2003
[Fic] 22 2006040367
First Tor Trade Paperback Edition: May 2006
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The author wishes to express appreciation for the invaluable aid of E. Gary Gygax of TSR, expert player and creator of the war game, DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS, on which the background of QUAG KEEP is based. I wish also to acknowledge the kind assistance of Donald Wollheim, an authority and collector of fantasy miniatures, whose special interest was so valuable for my research.
Contents
1 Greyhawk
2 Wizard’s Wiles
3 Geas Bound
4 Out of Greyhawk
5 Ring of Forgotten Power
6 Those Who Follow—
7 Ambush
8 Black Death Defied
9 Harp Magic
10 The Domain of Lichis
11 Lichis the Golden
12 The Sea of Dust
13 The Liche Ship
14 Rockna the Brazen
15 Singing Shadow
16 Into the Quagmire
17 Quag Heart
18 Roll the Dice
Quag Keep
1
Greyhawk
ECKSTERN PRODUCED THE PACKAGE WITH AN EXAGGERATED FLOURish and lifted the lid of the box to pluck out shredded packing with as much care as if he were about to display the crown jewels of some long-forgotten kingdom. His showmanship brought the others all closer. Eckstern liked such chances to focus attention, and tonight, as the referee chosen to set up the war game, his actions were backed with special authority.
He unwrapped a length of cotton and set out on the table, between the waiting game sheets, a two-inch figure, larger than any they habitually played with. It was, indeed, a treasure. A swordsman—complete with shield on which a nearly microscopic heraldic design blazed forth in brilliant enamel paints. The tiny face of the figure was sternly set above the rim of the shield, shadowed by a helmet with a small twist of spike rising from it. There was an indication of mail on the body which had been modeled as if the figure were advancing a step in grim determination. The sword in the hand was a length of glittering metal, more like well-polished steel than lead which was the usual material for playing figures.
Martin stared at it in fascination. He had seen many expertly painted and well-positioned war-game figures but this—this gave him a queer feeling, as if it had not been turned out of a mold, but rather had been designed by a sculptor in the form of a man who once had lived.
“Where—where did you get that?” Harry Conden’s slight hesitation of speech was more pronounced than usual.
“A beauty, isn’t it?” Eckstern purred. “A new company—Q K Productions—and you wouldn’t believe the price either. They sent a letter and a list—want to introduce their pieces to ‘well-known’ p
layers. After we won those two games at the last convention, I guess they had us near the top of their list . . .”
To Martin, Eckstern’s explanation was only a meaningless babble. His hand had gone out without his conscious willing, to touch fingertip on that shield, make sure it did exist. It was true that the makers of playing pieces for the fantasy war games were starting to try to outdo each other in the production of unusual monsters, noble fighters, astute elves, powerful dwarves, and all the other characters a player might call for, identify with while playing, even keep on display like some fabulous antique chessmen between games. Martin had envied those able to equip themselves with the more ornate and detailed figures. But the best he had seen in displays could not compare to this. Within him came a sudden compulsion: he must have this one. It was beyond any doubt meant for him.
Eckstern was still talking as he unwrapped other figures, set them out, his elbow firmly planted meanwhile on the referee notes for the coming game. But Martin’s attention never wavered from the swordsman. This was his! He grasped it lovingly.
THERE WERE GOOD SMELLS AND STALE ONES FIGHTING FOR DOMinance in a room lit only by baskets of fire wasps, one of which was close enough so that he could see every old stain on the table at which he sat. By his right hand stood a drinking horn mounted on a base of dull metal. His right hand . . .
He stared at both hands, the fists lightly clenched and lying on the scored board. This was (it seemed that his mind had skipped something of importance as a heart might skip a beat), this was, of course, the Sign of Harvel’s Axe, a dubious inn on the edge of the Thieves’ Quarter in the city of Greyhawk. He frowned, troubled. But there had been something else—something of importance—of which only a hint slithered so swiftly through his brain that he could not fasten on it quickly enough.
His name was Milo Jagon, a swordsman of some experience, now unemployed. That much was clear. And the hands before him were bare below sleeves of very supple, dark-colored mail which had a hint of copper in it, yet was darker brown. Turned back against his wrists were mitts fastened to the sleeves. And about each of his thumbs was the wide band of a ring. The one to the right was set with an oblong stone of dull green, across which, in no discernible pattern, wandered tiny red veins and dots. The setting on the left was even more extraordinary—an oval crystal of gray, clouded and filmed.
On the right wrist there was a glint of something else; again that faintest hint of other memory—even of alarm—touched Milo’s mind. He jerked down the right mitt and saw, banded over the mail itself, a wide bracelet of a metal as richly bright as newly polished copper. It was made of two bands between which, swung on hardly visible gimbals, were a series of dice—three-sided, four-sided, eight-sided, six-sided. They were of the same bright metal as the bracelet that supported them. But the numbers on them were wrought in glistening bits of gemstones, so tiny he did not see how any gem smith could have set them in so accurately.
This—with his left hand he touched that bracelet, finding the metal warm to his fingertips—this was important! His scowl grew deeper. But why and how?
And he could not remember having come here. Also—he raised his head to stare about uneasily—he sensed that he was watched. Yet there were none in that murky room he was quick enough to catch eyeing him.
The nearest table to his own was also occupied by a single man. He had the bulk, the wide shoulders and thick, mail-covered forearms, of a man who would be formidable in a fight. Milo assessed him, only half-consciously, with the experienced eye of one who had needed many times in the past to know the nature of an enemy, and that quickly.
The cloak the other man had tossed to the bench beside him was of hide covered with horny bristles. And his helmet was surmounted with a realistic and daunting representation of a snarling boar brought dangerously to bay. Beneath the edge of it, his face was wide of the cheekbone and square of jaw, and he was staring, as Milo had been, at his hands on the tabletop before him. Between them crouched a bright, green-blue pseudo-dragon, its small wings fluttering, its arrow-pointed tongue darting in and out.
And on his right wrist—Milo drew a deep breath—this stranger wore a bracelet twin to his own, as far as the swordsman could see without truly examining it.
Boar helm, boar cloak—memories and knowledge Milo did not consciously search for arose. This other was a berserker, and one with skill enough to turn were-boar if he so desired. Such were chancy companions at the best, and the swordsman did not wonder now that their two tables, so close together, were theirs alone, that the rest of the patrons, eating and drinking, had sought the other side of the long room. Nor was he surprised that the stranger should have the pseudo-dragon as a traveling companion or pet, whichever their relationship might be. For the weres, like the elves and some others, could communicate with animals at will.
Once more Milo gave a searching, very steady survey of the others in the room. There were several thieves, he guessed, and one or two foreigners, who, he hoped for their own sakes, were tough enough to defend themselves if they had wandered into Harvel’s Axe without due warning. A cloaked man who, he thought, might be a druid (of low rank) was spooning up stew with such avidity that spattering drops formed gobbets of grease on his clothing. Milo was paying particular attention to right wrists. Those he could see were certainly innocently bare of any such banding as he and the berserker wore. At the same time, the impression that he was being watched (and not with any kindness) grew in him. He dropped hand to sword hilt and, for the first time, noted that a shield leaned against the table. On it was emblazoned an intricate pattern which, though dented in places and plainly weatherworn, had once been skillfully done. And he had seen that . . . where?
The vagrant curl of memory grew no stronger for his trying to grasp it. He grinned sourly. Of course he had seen it many times over—the thing was his, wasn’t it? And he had callouses from its weight along his arm to prove that.
At least he had had the wisdom to pick a table where he sat with his back to the wall. Now there flowed through his mind half memories of other times when he had been in just such uncertain lodgings. A table swung up and forward could serve as a barrier to deter a rush. And the outer door? . . .
There were two doors in the room. One led, uncurtained, to the inner part of the inn. The other had a heavy leather drape over it. Unfortunately, that was on the opposite side of the room. To reach it he would have to pass a group he had been watching with quick glances, five men gathered close together whispering. They had seemed to show no interest in him, but Milo did not depend on such uncertain reassurance of innocence.
The eternal war between Law and Chaos flared often in Greyhawk. It was in a manner of speaking a “free city”—since it had no one overlord to hold it firmly to his own will. For that reason it had become a city of masterless men, a point from which many expeditions, privately conceived and planned for the despoiling of ancient treasures, would set out, having recruited the members from just such masterless men as Milo himself, or perhaps the berserker only an arm’s length away.
But if those on the side of Law recruited here, so did the followers of Chaos. There were neutrals also, willing to join with either side for the sake of payment. But they were never to be wholly depended upon by any man who had intelligence, for they might betray one at the flip of a coin or the change of the wind itself.
As a swordsman Milo was vowed to Law. The berserker had more choice in such matters. But this place, under its odors of fresh and stale food, stank to Milo of Chaos. What had brought him here? If he could only remember! Was he spell-struck in some fashion? That idea caught and held in his mind to worry him even more. No man, unless he had won to high adeptship and therefore was no longer entirely human, could even begin to reckon the kinds and numbers of spells that might be set to entangle the unwary. But he knew that he was waiting—and he again tested the looseness of his sword within its sheath, keeping his other hand close to the edge of the table, tense as a man may be before he r
eaches a position he has chosen for his own defense.
Then—in the light of the fire wasps he caught the flashes from his wrist. Dice—moving! Again he half remembered a fast, fleeting wisp of some other knowledge he should have and did not—to his own danger.
But it was not the suspected men in the corner who were a threat. Instead the berserker got to his feet. Up the mighty thickness of his mailed arm fluttered the pseudo-dragon, to perch upon his shoulder, its spear tongue darting against the cheekpiece of his heavy helmet. He had caught up his cloak but he did not turn to the leather curtain of the outer door. Instead he took two strides and stood towering over Milo.
Under the brush of his brows his eyes held a red glint like those of an angry boar, and he thrust out his hand and wrist to match Milo’s. There, too, showed the glint of the dice, turning by themselves on their almost invisible gimbals.
“I am Naile Fangtooth.” His voice was close to a low grunting. And, as his lips moved to form the words, they betrayed the reason for his self-naming—two teeth as great as tusks set on either side of his lower jaw. He spoke as if compelled to, and Milo found that he answered as if he must offer some password, lest the danger that made his flesh crawl break forth. Yet at the same moment he knew that his sensed danger did not come from this mighty fighting machine.
“I am Milo Jagon. Sit you down, fighting man.” He moved his shield, slid farther along the bench to make room for the other.
“I do not know why, but—” Fangtooth’s eyes no longer held those of the swordsman. Rather he was looking with an open expression of perplexity at their bracelets. “But,” he continued after a moment’s pause, “this is what I must do: join with you. And this”—he attempted to slip the bracelet from his thick wrist but could not move it—“is what commands me—after some fashion of its own.”
“We must be bespelled.” Milo returned frankness with frankness. Berserkers seldom sought out any but their own kind. Among their fellows, they had comradeships that lasted to the shores of death and beyond, for the survivor of a fatal encounter was then aware always of only one driving force, the need for revenge upon those who had slain his other self in battle-kinship.
