by Andre Norton
Now the wizard turned to the fire, pointed a forefinger. Phrases of a language that meant nothing to Milo came from his lips in an invoking chant. Out of the heart of the flames spread more smoke but in no random puff. This was a serpent of white which writhed through the air, reaching out. It split into two and one loop of it fell about Milo, Naile and the elf before they could move, noosing around their heads, just as the other branch noosed the four facing them.
Milo sputtered and coughed. He could see nothing of the room now or of those in it. But . . .
“ALL RIGHT, YOU PLAY THAT ONE THEN. NOW THE PROBLEM IS . . .”
A room, misty, only half seen. Sheets of paper. He was . . . he was . . .
“WHO ARE YOU?” A VOICE BOOMED THROUGH THE MIST WITH THE resonance of a great bell.
Who was he? What a crazy question. He was Martin Jefferson, of course.
“Who are you?” demanded that voice once more. There was such urgency in it that he found himself answering it:
“Martin Jefferson.”
“What are you doing?”
His bewilderment grew. He was—he was playing a game. Something Eckstern had suggested that they practice up on for the convention using the new Q K figures.
That was it—just playing a game!
“No game.” The booming voice denied that, leaving him bewildered, completely puzzled.
“Who are you?”
Martin wet his lips to answer. There was a question of two of his own for which he wanted an answer. The mist was so thick he could not see the table. And that was not Eckstern’s voice—it was more powerful. But before he could speak again he heard a second voice:
“Nelson Langley.”
Nels—that was Nels! But Nels had not come tonight. In fact he was out of town. He hadn’t heard from Nels since last Saturday.
“What are you doing?” Again that relentless inquiry.
“I’m playing a game . . .” Nels’ voice sounded odd—strong enough and yet as if this unending fog muffled it a little.
“No game!” For the second time that curt answer was emphatic.
Martin tried to move, to break through the fog. This was like one of those dreams where you could not get away from an ever-encoaching shadow.
“Who are you?”
“James Ritchie.”
Who was James Ritchie? He’d never heard of him before. What was going on? Martin longed to shout out that question and discovered that he could not even shape the words. He was beginning to be frightened now—if this was a dream it was about time to wake up.
“What are you doing?”
Martin was not in the least surprised to hear the same answer he and Nels had given—the same denial follow.
“Who are you?”
“Susan Spencer.” That was a girl’s voice, again that of a stranger.
Then came three other answers: Lloyd Collins, Bill Ford, Max Stein.
The smoke was at last beginning to thin. Martin’s head hurt. He was Martin Jefferson and he was dreaming. But . . .
As the smoke drifted away in ragged patches he was—not back at the table with Eckstern—no! This was—this was the tower of Hystaspes. He was Milo Jagon, swordsman—but he was also Martin Jefferson. The warring memories in his skull seemed enough for a wild moment or two to drive him mad.
“You see.” The wizard nodded as his gaze shifted from one of the faces to the next.
“Masterly—masterly and as evil as the Nine and Ninety Sins of Salzak, the Spirit Murderer.” The wizard seemed divided, too, as if he both hated and feared what he might have learned from them. Still, a part of him longed for the control of such a Power as had done this to them.
“I am—Susan.” The battlemaid took a step forward. “I know I am Susan—but I am also Yevele. And these two try to live within me at once. How can this thing be?” She flung up her arm as if to ward off some danger and the light glinted on her bracelet.
“You are not alone,” the wizard told her. There was no warmth of human feeling in his voice. It was brisk in tone as if he would get on to other things at once, now that he had learned what he wished of them.
Milo slipped off his helm, let his mail coif fall back against his shoulders like a hood so he could rub his aching forehead.
“I was playing—playing a game. . . .” He tried to reassure himself that those moments of clear thought within the circle of the smoke were real, that he would win out of this.
“Games!” spat the wizard. “Yes, it is those games of yours, fools that you are, that have given the enemy his chance. Had it not been that I, I who know the Lesser and the Larger Spells of Ulik and Dom, was searching for an answer to an archaic formula, you would already be his things. Then you would play games right enough, his games and for his purpose. This is a land where Law and Chaos are ever struggling one against each other. But the laws of Chance will let neither gain full sway. Now this other threat has come to us, and neither Law nor Chaos are boundaries for him—or them—for even yet we know not the manner or kind of what menaces us.”
“We are in a game?” Milo rubbed his throbbing head again. “Is that what you are trying to tell us?”
“Who are you?” snapped the wizard as if he struck with a war axe and without any warning.
“Martin—Milo Jagon.” Already the Milo part of him was winning command—driving the other memory far back into his mind, locking and barring doors that meant its freedom.
Hystaspes shrugged. “You see? And that is the badge of your servitude that you set upon yourselves in your own sphere of life, with the lack of wit only fools know.”
He pointed to the bracelet.
Naile dug at the band on his wrist, using his great strength. But he could not move it. The elf broke the short silence.
“It would seem, Master Wizard, that you know far more than we do concerning this matter. And that also you have some hand in it or we would not be gathered here to be shown what you deem to be sorcery behind it. If we were brought to this world to serve your unknown menace, then you must have some plan—”
“Plan!” The wizard near shouted. “How can a man plan against that which is not of his world or time? I learned by chance what might happen far enough in advance so that I was able to take precautions against a complete victory for the enemy. Yes, I gathered you in. He-it-them are so confident that there was no part ready and waiting for you to play. The mere fact that you were here perhaps accomplished the first purpose toward which the enemy strives. By so little am I in advance of what is to come.”
“Tell us then, follower of sorcerous ways,” the cleric spoke up, “what you know, what you expect, and—”
The wizard laughed harshly. “I know as much as those who serve those faceless gods of yours, Deav Dyne. If there are any gods, which is problematical, why should they concern themselves with the fates of men, or even of nations? But, yet, I will tell you what I know. Chiefly because you are now tools of mine—mine! And you shall be willing tools, for this has been done to you against your will, and you have enough of the instincts of lifekind to resent such usage.
“Karl!” He clapped his hands. From the darker end of the room moved the messenger who had led Milo and his comrades. “Bring stools and drink and food—for the night is long and there is much to be said here.”
Only Gulth, the lizardman, disdained a stool, curling up on the floor, his crocodile-snouted head supported on his hands, with never a blink of his eyelids, so that he might have been a grotesque statue. But the rest laid their weapons down and sat in a semicircle facing the wizard, as if they were a class of novices about to learn the rudiments of a charm.
Hystaspes settled himself in a chair Karl dragged forward, to watch as they drank from goblets fashioned in the form of queer and fabulous beasts and ate a dark, tough bread spread with strong-smelling, but good-tasting cheese.
Though Milo’s head still ached, he had lost that terrible sense of inner conflict, and for that he was glad. Still he remembered, as if
that were the dream, that once he had been someone else in another and very different world. Only that did not matter so much now, for this was Milo’s world and the more he let Milo’s memory rule him the safer he was.
“The dreams of men, some men,” the wizard began, smoothing his robe across his knees, “can be very strong. We know this, we seekers out of knowledge that has been found, lost, hidden, and found again, many times over. For man has always been a dreamer. And it is when he begins to build upon his dreams that he achieves that which is his greatest of gifts.
“We have discovered that it may be entirely possible that what a man dreams in one world may be created and given substance in another. And if more than one dream the same dreams, strive to bring them to life, then the more solid and permanent becomes that other world. Also dreams seep from one space-time level of a world to another, taking root in new soil and there growing—perhaps even to great permanence.
“You have all played what you call a war game, building a world you believe imaginary in which to stage your adventures and exploits. Well enough, you say, what harm lies in that? You know it is a game. When it is done, you put aside your playthings for another time. Only—what if the first dreamer, who ‘invented’ this world according to your conception, gathered, unknowingly, dream knowledge of one that did and does exist in another time and space? Have you ever thought of that—ha?” He leaned forward, a fierceness in his eyes.
“More and more does this dream world enchant you. Why should it not? If it really is a pale, conscious-filtered bit of another reality, therefore it gains in substance in your minds and in a measure is drawn closer to your own world. The more players who think about it—the stronger the pull between them will be.”
“Do you mean,” Yevele asked, “that what we imagine can become real?”
“Was not playing the game very real to you when you played it?” countered Hystaspes.
Milo nodded without thought and saw that even the lizard head of Gulth echoed that gesture.
“So. But in this there is little harm—for you play but in a shadow of our world and what you do there does not influence events that happen. Well and good. But suppose someone—something—outside both of our spaces and times sees a chance to meddle—what then?”
“You tell us,” Naile growled. “You tell us! Tell us why we are here, and what you—or this other thing you do not seem to know very much about—really wants of us!”
3
Geas Bound
IN SO FAR AS I HAVE LEARNED, IT IS SIMPLE ENOUGH.” THE WIZARD waved his hand in the air. His fingers curved about a slender-stemmed goblet that appeared out of nowhere. “You have been imported from your own time and space to exist here as characters out of those games you have delighted in. The why of your so coming—that is only half clear to me. It would seem that he—or it—who meddles seeks thus to tie together our two worlds in some manner. The drawing of you hither may be the first part of such a uniting—”
Naile snorted. “All this your wizardry has made plain to you, has it? So we should sit and listen to this—”
Hystaspes stared at him. “Who are you?” His voice boomed as it had earlier through the smoke. “Give me your name!” That command carried the crack of an order spoken by one who was entirely sure of himself.
The berserker’s face flushed. “I am—” he began hotly and then hesitated as if in that very moment some bemusement confused him. “I am Naile Fangtooth.” Now a little of the force was lost from his deep voice.
“This is the city of Greyhawk,” went on the wizard, an almost merciless note in his voice. “Do you agree, Naile Fangtooth?”
“Yes.” The heavy body of the berserker shifted on his stool. That seat might suddenly become not the most comfortable perch in the world.
“Yet, as I have shown you—are you not someone else also? Have you no memories of a different place and time?”
“Yes . . .” Naile gave this second agreement with obvious reluctance.
“Therefore you are faced with what seems to be two contrary truths. If you are Naile Fangtooth in Greyhawk—how can you also be this other man in another world? Because you are prisoner of that!”
His other hand flashed out as he pointed to the bracelet on the berserker’s wrist.
“You, were-boar, fighter, are slave to that!’
“You say we are slaves,” Milo cut in as Naile growled and plucked fruitlessly at his bracelet. “In what manner and why?”
“In the manner of the game you chose to play,” Hystaspes answered him. “Those dice shall spin and their readings will control your movements—even as when you gamed. Your life, your death, your success, your failure, all shall be governed by their spin.”
“But in the game”—the cleric leaned forward a little, his gaze intent upon the wizard, as if to compel the complete attention of the other—“we throw the dice. Can we control these so firmly fixed?”
Hystaspes nodded. “That is the first sensible question,” he commented. “They teach you a bit of logic in those dark, gloomy abbeys of yours, do they not, after all, priest? It is true you cannot strip those bits of metal from your wrists and throw their attachments, leaving to luck, or to your gods, whichever you believe favor you, the result. But you shall have a warning an instant or two before they spin. Then—well, then you must use your wits. Though how much of those you can summon”—he shot a glance at Naile that was anything but complimentary—“remains unknown. If you concentrate on the dice when they begin to spin, it is my belief that you will be able to change the score which will follow—though perhaps only by a fraction.”
Milo glanced about the half-circle of his unsought companions in this unbelievable venture. Ingrge’s face was impassive, his eyes veiled. The elf stared down, as if he were not looking outward at all, at the hand resting on his knee, the bracelet just above that. Naile scowled blackly, still pulling at his band as if strength and will could loose it.
Gulth had not moved and who could read any emotion on a face so alien to humankind? Yevele was not frowning, her gaze was centered thoughtfully on the wizard. She had raised one hand and was running the nail of her thumb along to trace the outline of her lower lip, a gesture Milo guessed she was not even aware she made. Her features were good, and the escaped tress of hair above her sun-browned forehead seemed to give her a kind of natural aliveness that stirred something in him, though this was certainly neither the time nor place to allow his attention to wander in that direction.
The cleric had pinched his lips together. Now he shook his head a little, more in time, Milo decided, to his own thoughts than to what the wizard was saying. The bard was the only one who smiled. As he caught Milo’s wandering eyes, the smile became an open grin—as if he might be hugely enjoying all of this.
“We have been taught many things,” the cleric replied with a faint repugnance. He had the countenance of one forced into speaking against his will. “We have been taught that mind can control matter. You have your spells, wizard, we have our prayers.” He drew forth from the bosom of his robe a round of chain on which dull silver beads were set in patterns of two or three together.
“Spells and prayers,” Hystaspes returned, “are not what I speak of—rather of such power of mind as is lying dormant within each of you and which you must cultivate for yourselves.”
“Just when and how do we use this power?” For the first time, the bard Wymarc broke in. “You would not have summoned us here, Your Power-in-Possession,” (he gave that title a twist which hinted at more than common civility, perhaps satire) “unless we were to be of use to you in some manner.”
For the first time the wizard did not reply at once. Instead he gazed down into the goblet he held, as if the dregs of the liquid it now contained could be used as the far-seeing mirror of his craft.
“There is only one use for you,” he stated dryly after a long moment.
“That being?” Wymarc persisted when Hystaspes did not at once continue.
&nb
sp; “You must seek out the source of that which had drawn you hither and destroy it—if you can.”
“For what reason—save that you find it alarming?” Wymarc wanted to know.
“Alarming?” Hystaspes echoed. Now his voice once more held arrogance. “I tell you, this—this alien being strives to bring together our two worlds. For what purpose he desires that, I cannot say. But should they so coincide—”
“Yes? What will happen then?” Ingrge took up the questioning. His compelling elf stare unleashed at the wizard as he might have aimed one of the deadly arrows of his race.
Hystaspes blinked. “That I cannot tell.”
“No?” Yevele broke in. “With all your powers you cannot foresee what will come then?”
He flashed a quelling look at the girl, but she met that as she might a sword in the hands of a known enemy. “Such has never happened—in all the records known to me. But that it will be far more evil than the worst foray which Chaos has directed, that I can answer to.”
There was complete truth in that statement, Milo thought.
“I believe something else, wizard,” Deav Dyne commented dryly. “I think that even as you had us brought here to you, you have wrought what shall bind us to your will, we having no choice in the matter.” Though his eyes were on the wizard, his hands were busy, slipping the beads of his prayer string between his fingers.
Ingrge, not their captor-host, replied to that. “A geas, then,” he said in a soft voice, but a voice that carried chill.
Hystaspes made no attempt to deny that accusation.
“A geas, yes. Do you doubt that I would do everything within my power to make sure you seek out the source of this contamination and destroy it?”
“Destroy it?” Wymarc took up the challenge now. “Look at us, wizard. Here stands an oddly mixed company with perhaps a few minor arts, spells, and skills. We are not adepts—”
