Songs of the Dancing Gods dg-4

by Jack L. Chalker

  The eerily lit landscape sped by below with steady and impressive speed and power; huge, leathery wings beat in slow, steady rhythm like the drums of an oarsman. On the back of the creature, two small reddish figures reclined facing each other.

  “Well, you’ve got to admit, there’s plenty of room for our gear and us with no weight problems,” Joe noted. “It hardly feels as if we’re even moving.”

  “I feel like I’m riding bottom-side up on the Titanic” Marge responded. “And I hope that’s the only analogy we have to that ship tonight.”

  “I’m just debating whether or not I even want to ask for the explanation of this,” Joe said, getting to his feet. He walked forward, then looked down in front of the wing. “We’re making incredible speed, though,” he noted. “I thought you said these suckers were slow.”

  “Oh, they do all right once they get up to speed, and they have enormous endurance,” Marge replied. “It’s just that they take an hour to get up to speed, and a fair amount of time to slow down, too, unless they hit something. But we can outfly and outsprint them any day of the week.”

  Joe stared at the landscape. “I wonder where we are? It would be a real joke if we were headed south, wouldn’t it? Wind up in the morning down in the City-States or over in the deserts of Leander?”

  Marge looked around. “No, we’ve been making north northwest pretty steadily. You can see the river down there still if you look closely, snaking through the highlands and gorges. Figure we started about eight o’clock, giving us eight or nine hours of darkness, then some margin to slow and land. Add an hour to gain this altitude and get up to speed, a fair tail wind, and, I’d say we’ll make seven to eight hundred miles tonight. That’s not bad.”

  “You were totally against this idea,” he reminded her.

  She shrugged. “Call it feminine pragmatism.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If it had gone wrong, I would have been morally right and would have been the voice of reason over stupidity. Since it’s worked, I’ll take the eight hundred miles.”

  “If we’ve got slowing and landing times, we’d better keep a lookout for any early signs of dawn,” he said worriedly, ignoring the comment. “I’d hate suddenly to become Joe, riding on Mia’s back, at this altitude and with this dead weight.”

  “Well, that’s your worry, not mine,” the Kauri reminded him.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said glumly. “See if you can find the map in my saddlebags without having the rest of the stuff blown all over creation. It might be an idea if we tried to figure out where we were before we had to land.”

  Marge fumbled with the straps as she struggled to get the map out without freeing the whole mess. Finally she managed it, unfolded the thing, and they tried using her figures and some landmarks to get their bearings. It wasn’t as easy as it seemed, and for several minutes they couldn’t find anything that matched, but, as Mia continued to fly pretty much up the river, had it been straight, they were finally able to come up with some points they thought might coincide.

  “If that range over there is the Kossims,” Joe said, pointing to a ragged line of jagged, glacier-scarred peaks, “then those are the Scrunder range in Hypboreya. Just beyond them should be the Golden Lakes. If that’s so, this will be mighty cold country even now. What sort of civilization is there, if any, in the Lakes area?”

  “It shows a few villages with funny squiggles,” she replied. “Who knows what this chicken-scratch really says? I know that the crossed swords symbol there is military—a northern guard-post area, probably, to help protect the royal retreat. And that shows the Kossims are dwarf territory and the Scrunder is crawling with gnomes.”

  “I’d take the dwarfs, but the gnomes are where we’re going,” he noted. “They have a reputation of being pretty flaky to the point of overdoing a gag to homicidal proportions. If we put down anywhere in there, the only civilization that’s marked is military, and I’m not sure I should use that safe conduct up here. Questions might be asked as to how a safe conduct probably dated yesterday wound up here today. The alternative is going around through gnome territory, right to the edge of the map. Then it’s sixty miles of solid ice. Man! You sure the Hypboreyan kings are human? What kind of people would have a summer palace in the middle of an ice pack?”

  “I admit to being puzzled by that myself,” Marge admitted. “I know it’s still a long way to the North Pole, but that place should do a real good imitation. Still, there’s got to be some reason for all those soldiers scattered along there, and Ruddy-gore’s information is always pretty reliable. It’s off the map, though, and supposedly due north from that point there, just below the shaded area with the skull with its tongue stuck out disgustingly. I guess that’s the so-called ancient battlefield. How far did he say it was from there to this palace?”

  “Sixty miles over the ice.” Joe sighed. “And no more full moons for a while.”

  The creature they rode roared loudly, sounding very much like a cross between Godzilla and a train wreck. Joe turned, and saw what Mia was concerned about. The moon was low, half hidden in the haze below, and the sky was lightening up above.

  “Uh-oh. Free ride’s over.” Joe sighed, feeling the beast already beginning to slow. “Looks hazy down there, but no snow except on the mountains.” He walked forward, until he was almost behind the eyes of the nazga. “Come down anywhere flat where you think you have room,” he shouted into what he hoped was an earhole. “If you see the lights of any settlements, come in near them but not so near as to be seen.”

  A snort answered, and he hoped that meant “message received and understood.” He walked back to Marge and the packs.

  “Marge, as soon as we untie this stuff, I want you to scout around for us,” he told her. “I don’t want any surprises, but we’ve got thirty or forty miles to the ice, then sixty on it. We’ll do it on foot if we have to, but if there’s any way to get any sort of transport, it would really help.”

  “I’ll check for bus or train stations but I sincerely doubt I’ll find any,” she responded. “I’m also not too sure about horses, once we reach the ice. If it’s relatively snow-free here, then the odds are that ice pack is water, like the Arctic Ocean, and that means that this time of year lots of cracks and crevices. You ever been on that kind of ice before?”

  “No,” he admitted, “but after coming face to face twice with Sugasto, I’m not going to let climate stop me.”

  Mia chose a broad, flat area closer to the mountains than the sea. To the northwest, perhaps ten or twelve miles, there appeared to be some man-made lights, and another couple of such signs of habitation scattered about. It was as good a choice as possible.

  He and Marge decided not to chance a landing; they jumped off and flew, matching the enormous creature as it glided in. It proved a needless precaution; Mia settled down finally as gently as a feather.

  It was hazy, though, making Joe wonder just what the temperature might be around here. He and Marge went to Mia and quickly unstrapped the packs, letting them fall to the ground. He looked at Marge. “Quick and thorough, before sunup,” he told her. “Get going. We’ve got to decide what to take and what not to take.”

  The price now had to be paid for what they had saved in time. No horses, no pack animals, and still a fair way to go. Although it was difficult to tell jusf exactly where they were on the map, he knew roughly where the ice pack started, and Ruddygore had indicated that if he headed there and looked out, he’d have no problems figuring out where to go.

  While getting the stuff together, it suddenly occurred to him that this couldn’t be Arctic-style north; not only was it not far enough north from the subtropical regions for that, the sun wasn’t already up. Since, this time of year, the sun wouldn’t even go down, or not down much, it was clearly still a long way to the Pole, possibly a lot farther than they’d come. If that was the case, then why was it so cold here? And what kept the ice pack so frigid? Since he’d never before been out from between the
tropic lines, at least not by much, he hadn’t given it much thought. This would be the equivalent on Earth of Rome or St. Louis, not Anchorage or Stockholm. That was the only reason this were trick had worked.

  In the true Arctic, the sun would never have gone down this time of year, full moon or not.

  Suddenly Ruddygore’s tale of the great battle, frozen in time in the ice by divine and not so divine intervention, came back to him. This was a place where natural law sort of worked almost all the time unless changed by something. If someone, sometime, had had sufficient power, there was no logic in Husaquahr that could stop him, her, or it from freezing the Equator and having palm trees at the poles. Or, it might just be that Husaquahr was in an Ice Age and nobody bothered to mention it before.

  Very suddenly, the enormous creature that had brought them here shimmered and vanished, leaving a lone figure on all fours on the ground. He hardly noticed. He was suddenly Joe again, stark naked, and if the temperature was anywhere near freezing, it was on the wrong side of it.

  He gave a holler as the shock hit him and started rummaging through the packs for his buckskin outfit and boots, praying that nothing had been left out. Mia, naked and hairless as before, ran over to him, puzzled. “Master, what is wrong? Did you step on something? Did something bite you?”

  His teeth were already chattering as he found first the pants and got them on, then the shirt. She came to help him and he pushed her away, shouting, “Boots! Find me boots! And gloves, if we have them!”

  “What is wrong?” she asked, looking through the other pack. “Here is your hat, Master. A bit flat, but—”

  “Mia! I’m freezing! I need boots! And gloves!”

  She rummaged around. “I did not know you were so sensitive, Master. It is a bit cool, but not terribly uncomfortable.”

  “Mia, it’s the spell Sugasto gave you. You don’t feel the weather; it’s as if you have Marge’s flesh or even some kind of spacesuit on you can’t see, feel, or touch. I don’t. Of the three of us, I’m the only one this weather can harm or even kill. Ah! The boots!”

  “And here are your gloves, Master,” she responded, still not quite following the reality of the situation. It just didn’t feel, or even look cold. Oh, on the mountains nearby there was snow, yes, but there was grass here, and even some flowers.

  Joe felt much better, but he still felt damned cold. This outfit would be uncomfortable around here but would allow him to survive; on the ice pack, though, where it was clearly going to be much colder yet, this would be no more good than a loincloth.

  Of course, there were the blankets they had used to keep the stuff together. Irving, the sword, was wrapped in three of them! He knelt down and began unwrapping the great weapon, for the first time more interested in the container than the contents.

  “We’ve got plenty of wool and cotton in these blankets,” he told Mia. “You’re gonna have to rig something from them that’ll keep me much warmer.”

  “Yes, Master. I will do what I can. Oh, look! When we speak we spout steam like a dragon!”

  “That’s because it’s cold,” he told her again, trying to underline the concept. “We humans are always warm inside but the air is around freezing. Our breath, heated from inside us, gets blasted by the cold air and it turns to fog.”

  She nodded. “I knew that happened, Master, but it honestly does not feel to me as if it is more than you might feel on a cool, cloudy day in Marquewood. This will take some getting used to. I will not know your requirements.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you,” he assured her. The trouble is, I wish I knew if my requirements can be met, he added to himself.

  He strapped on the sword and tested it out with the gloves. A bit awkward, but this Irving didn’t need much in the way of feel—it did its own fighting.

  He had finally warmed up to “just chattering and looked around. The mountains were a couple of miles over there, and, from the map, he assumed they were now in Hypboreya and that those were the Scrunder. Since that range was essentially east-west, it put the Lakes to their east and a bit behind him. To the north was almost a tundra; grasslands, rocky outcrops, yet basically flat. Not a lot of cover, but at least nothing much was going to be hiding from them, either. Still, he knew he would have to try and bluff his way through whoever was in the nearest settlement. He needed furs, not leather, around here. Best to wait for Marge to give him the lay of the land.

  Mia found some of the bread and vegetables he’d packed. Nothing to drink, though, right around here, unless they wanted to go mountain climbing.

  “So how come you came as that thing?” he asked her.

  “Well, Master, first the man came and flew the flying horse away, but not before he told his friend that the flying horses could not see well at night anyway, and so I had to think of what would best serve our needs and get me out of there and then I remembered us being chased—”

  He laughed. “All right! All right! I figured it was something like that. It’s done, it worked, and we’re here.” He looked around. “Why then do I suddenly long for that lousy cafe and that overpriced little room?”

  He was suddenly convinced that they were being watched. That sixth sense that keeps men in his profession alive was tickling the back of his neck, and he suddenly whirled around.

  He sensed—something getting out of the way fast, but where? And what? It was pretty flat here.

  Mia saw him, tensed, and turned to look around as well. “What is it, Master?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably nothing, but I’d swear that something was in the grass over there only a moment ago.”

  Before he could stop her, she ran over to where he was looking and looked around on the ground. She seemed to see something, because she suddenly crouched, as if waiting to pounce.

  “Bunnies,” said a tiny voice from somewhere behind her, like the voice of a small child speaking through its nose. She whirled, and a nearly identical voice said, “Yes, bunny!”

  Suddenly Mia stiffened, then stood, knees bent, her arms out in front of her and bent at the elbows so the hands hung down, and twitched her nose. She looked stupid, bewildered—and scared.

  Joe reached down and pulled living from his scabbard. The great sword hummed in anticipation.

  In fact, it hummed Melancholy Baby.

  Gnomes! he thought suddenly. He’d heard of their stupid tricks. “Mia!” he shouted. “Snap out of it! You are not a rabbit! It’s gnomes! Gnomes playing tricks in your mind! Listen only to me, not to them!”

  She blinked, seemed to wilt for a moment, almost assuming normal posture, when a chorus of the voices said, “Horsey! Horsey girl!” and she was back somewhat in the same position, only she was on tiptoes and actually whinnied!

  In the meantime, Irving had finished Melancholy Baby with a flourish and was starting on God Bless America.

  Wait a minute! he told himself. They can’t possibly know those songs! This is like a hypnotist’s act. Shut them out! Ignore them!

  Suddenly, out of the ground, rose a horrible, roaring monster, all teeth and fangs, dinosaurlike and hungry. It roared, and Irving just about swung into action at his reflexive moves, now humming the theme from Rocky.

  He moved in toward it, the sword poised, and almost struck— when the monster vanished, showing Mia there instead. Another split second…!

  “All right, you little monsters!” he growled. “That’s pushing it too far! Irving—the next one you hear, anywhere, strike!” He knew that the sword could not possibly be affected by these creatures; its songs were strictly what was coming from his own subconscious.

  “Irving?” a tiny voice just behind him said with disbelief. The sword took control, whirling Joe around and striking something with the flat of its blade. There was a terrible screech, and suddenly Joe was looking down at a tiny, limp form, sort of greenish but dull, with flecks of gray. It was about a foot tall, if that, with an oval-shaped, sexless body, two short, stubby legs, and equally short arms with tiny
hands. The face was a cartoon mask, with eyes five times too big, a nose that looked more like a hanging dill pickle, and a rubbery, oversized mouth.

  It also was out cold, and a real goose-egg-sized lump was rising on the side of its head.

  Suddenly the ground virtually erupted with clones of the little creature, all chaptering excitedly and screaming, “Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve done to him!”

  “Nothing the rest of you don’t deserve!” he shouted back. “That little bugger almost made me kill my companion! And the rest of you aren’t any better!”

  Mia stared openmouthed at the assemblage of little green something or others, but she repeated, “Companion?”

  “Spoilsport!” they began muttering to one another.

  “Spoilsport my ass!” he responded angrily. “You want me to instruct this sword, which is very sensitive about its very fine name, to whack each and every gnome it can? With the blade this time?”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “Not so funny when it’s your neck on the line, is it?” he went on. “From the looks of it, your friend here is eventually gonna wake up. Maybe a day or two from now, but he’ll wake up and just have a headache. But that’s iron that struck him, and hard.”

  “Iron not hurt gnomes,” one of the creatures said. “Swords hurt gnomes.”

  “Well, you deserve it,” he told them. “We weren’t doing anything to you and you scared that poor girl and almost made me kill her!”

  “You not live here. Gnomes live here,” another responded. “Gnomes no invite you two.”

  Well, they had a point mere.

  “We mean you no harm,” he told them, calming down a little. “We want to cause you no harm and will not unless you do more things to us.”

  “What use live if gnomes no can have fun with mortals?” one of them asked, possibly rhetorically.

  “You don’t get many people out here, I bet. And the ones that do probably don’t return.”

  The closest gnome shrugged. “Mortals come, be gnomes’ toys. Gnomes play with toys till toys break. What wrong with that? Gnomes no go mortal places.”