Greyhawk - [Quag Keep 02] - Return to Quag Keep

by Andre Norton, Jean Rabe (v1. 0) (epub)

  “Milo Jagon.’’ The voice came out of the darkness. “And Naile Fangtooth. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.” “Jalafar-rula?”

  “Why yes, Milo. Jalafar-rula of Stonehenge. Now if you would be ever so kind as to get me out of here.”

  "So where . . . precisely . . . are we? Where is here?” Naile asked. He felt Alfreeta on his shoulder, her wings beating slightly, and her tail twitching, then wrapping loosely around his neck.

  “You are with me,” Jalafar-rula said. The wizard’s voice was not near so commanding as they’d heard it in the Glothorio priest’s spell. It was the voice of an old, old man, more of a whisper, thin, though they could tell he wasn’t whispering. “You are in a very dark place. In a cell in Pobe’s dungeon.’’

  “I think we could’ve figured that out on our own, that we re in jail. Naile and I are making a habit of getting tossed in cells. A bad habit. At least this time we haven’t been drinking first, and my head isn’t pounding from a hangover—though maybe it would be better if it was. You’d think for the value of those rings the Glothorio priests could’ve sent us outside your cell. ” Milo sniffed. "Stinks in here. Not so bad as the last place, though. Dark as dark gets. Can’t see anything. And my eyes are wide open.”

  “Pobe likes the dark,” Jalafar-rula continued. “He is a part of it.” “Is he here?’’ Milo rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “This Pobe?”

  "No, for you would smell him. Sulfur and worse, he exudes. And you would hear him, rattling like a snake, slithering over the stones. I believe he has gone below, or perhaps he is elsewhere, conversing with his minions.”

  “Minions,” Milo muttered. “Sulfur and worse. Locks you up in a

  place where you can’t see anything. This Pobe sounds like a wonderful sort.”

  “You need to free me, Milo Jagon and Naile Fangtooth. That is why I summoned you here to this land.”

  "Have to find you first.” This from Naile. “Keep talking, Jalafar-rula.” He reached to his shoulder and scratched Alfreeta’s stomach. Dismal as his surroundings were, the berserker was pleased he’d been reunited with his scaly friend. “What’s this?” He felt something rolled in cloth at the little dragon’s neck, noticing a collar that hadn’t been there before. “Where have you been, Alfreeta? Where'd you fly off to? I missed you.” He took the rolled cloth loose and felt the parchment inside. “Might be a spell scroll. Might be a map. Might be important.” He stuck this in his belt, knowing he couldn’t read in here without any light. Then he removed her collar. She lapped at his face. “Now let’s find Jalafar-rula.”

  Milo felt Naile bump into him and heard Alfreeta hiss. “Let me get out of your way.” Milo edged forward, fingers extended in front of him, and touching a damp wall. Something spongy was growing on it, and he shook his hand and wrinkled his nose. “Naile’s a lawyer, Jalafar-rula.”

  “Of that, I am aware,” the wizard replied.

  "Lawyers are supposed to be good at getting people out of jail. He wasn’t any help at the last place, though. Suspect he’ll be just as useful here.”

  "Copyright infringements, remember Milo?” Suddenly Naile stopped and clenched his jaw. What wad the Lew I cade he’d been working on? What wad the iddne? Who wad the client? It was nearly painful to try to remember.

  "A good lawyer,” Jalafar-rula pronounced.

  "Yeah? You really know that I’m an attorney, Jalafar-rula?” Naile waved his arm around in front of him, touching stone, then moving on. "From Brooklyn. You know that?”

  "1 know all about you. Graduated from a legal academy more than two of your years past. High in your class. More than a few lawyers

  are . . . gamers ... as you call them. Quite the imaginations you legal types have. But, then, that’s one of the reasons why I chose you.” “Then if you know all about us . . . what’s Milo do . . . back in Wis-kaaaahn-sen?”

  Milo spun about, smacking into a stone wall.

  “Yon Milo is a counter man.”

  “Counter man?”

  “That’s enough,” Milo warned. Unbidden, some of the memories of his home floated around in his head. He had the sense that the wizard had done something to stir those memories, perhaps making it urgent to get out of here and get back to his apartment.

  “Ah, a counter man! A clerk? Milo’s a salesman?”

  “Salesman,” the wizard said. “Yes. That’d be the term you use.” Milo tried to scrape the mossy stuff off his hands and face. “You don’t need to say more, Jalafar-rula.” He started feeling around the walls again, looking for a door to the cell.

  “What’s he sell?” Naile pressed.

  “What 1 luted to sell isn’t important,” Milo cut in. "What’s important is rescuing Jalafar-rula and getting out of here. Finding a way out of this dungeon. Finding Yevele and Ingrge. Saving our world . . . if it really is in jeopardy. Getting home. Besides, my memories aren’t as clear as they used to be.”

  "Mine neither,” Naile admitted. “Been fading with each passing week. This morning I could barely recall my address.”

  “Like we’re losing ourselves,” Milo added. “I want to get back home.”

  "Back to Wis-kaaaahn-sen,” Naile said. The berserker’s fingers brushed a robe, floundered forward and felt the emaciated form of Jalafar-rula. “Got you.” His fingers drifted up to touch the old man’s face, gently running his thumbs across the wizard’s features the way a blind man would examine someone to get a mental picture, then drifting down to feel the beard that stretched to the wizard’s waist. “Yeah, I’d say you’re the man we saw in the priests’ magical picture.” Next, Naile felt for the wizard’s hands, finding heavy iron shackles around his wrists, with chains that extended to a wall behind him. Naile crouched and touched the wizard’s bare feet, shackles around his ankles, blisters and sores, and more chains. "Trussed you up real good, Jalafar-rula. Didn't want you going anywhere. He’s starving you, isn’t he? Pobe? You’re all bones.”

  “To keep me weak. But Pobe will not let me die. He cannot afford to.”

  Naile tested the spot where the chains met the wall. “This could take a while.”

  "Can’t seem to find a cell door,” Milo said. “Stone all the way around. Don’t feel any mortar between these bricks, either. Yet they’re tight. Wonder how it all holds together.’’

  "Magic built this place,” Jalafar-rula said. His voice seemed to be a little stronger, perhaps because he was using it, or perhaps because he now had hope. “Magic is the mortar. The very weight of the Keep holds it together, too. I helped build this place. As 1 built Stonehenge.” His voice sounded almost wistful. “So much magic your world had then.”

  “So you said.” Naile continued to work on the chains. “Were there any wizards on Earth? Other than you?”

  “I was but a visitor, friend Naile. But there were other people of magic native to your lands. For a time they were called witches. And the people of industry and Pobe’s minions bred distrust around them.”

  “Burned the witches,” Naile said.

  “Hung them, and their familiars. Stoned them,” Jalafar-rula said. “The last one killed in the land of the Scotts was in . . .” He paused, searching his vast memory. “In your year seventeen twenty-seven, I believe. Or very close to that date. Not so long ago for me. I would have tried to save her, but I was away at the time. I believe I was working in my laboratory on — ”

  "So if you built this Keep,” Milo interrupted, "you should know where the cell doors are.”

  “Are you standing?”

  Milo nodded, then realized the wizard couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

  Then he stretched his arms above his head and started feeling higher along the walls.

  “Then you should be looking low, Milo Jagon. Close to the floor is where the door be.”

  “Wonderful.” Milo got down on his hands and knees and started searching, damp moss — he hoped it was moss anyway — seeping through his trousers and getting the skin beneath wet and slimy.


  Naile continued to tug on the chains. “So what did Milo sell, Jalafar-rula? Cars? Real estate?”

  “No, Milo performed a most valuable service and sold to the masses.”

  From somewhere in the darkness, Naile heard Milo make a growling sound.

  “What to the masses? Sold what?”

  “Garments,” the wizard continued. “Colorful garments for those of all ages and sizes.” Jalafar-rula couldn’t see Naile raise an eyebrow. “Symbols on them'—”

  “T-shirts!” Milo sputtered. “All right, Naile? I sell . . . I dold. . . T-shirts. Cheap cotton ones that would shrink a whole size the first time you washed them.” His anger nudged his memory, his blood pounding, the words came quick. “T-shirts. And more T-shirts. T-shirts with slogans on them. T-shirts with pictures of the lake. Green Bay Packer T-shirts. Lemon yellow ones with Brett Favre’s smiling mug in the middle. Brewer T-shirts that hung on the rack forever because the team sucks and no one wants to be caught dead in them. Pink T-shirts with kittens on them for little girls. T-shirts that say ‘my parents visited Wis-kaaaahn-sen, and all they bought me was this lousy T-shirt.’ Oh, and my favorite, Frazetta’s Death-Dealer printed on ash gray. I have three of them—free ’cause the design was done crooked and they wouldn’t put them on display. Oh, and more than T-shirts. It’s a little tourist trap I worked . . . work ... in, sandwiched between a badly aging arcade, where half the games don’t work right, and a restaurant that sells chocolate-blueberry coffee and has uncomfortable vinyl chairs. Less than a block from the lake, we pulled . . . pull . . . them in during the summer. Stocked shot glasses and toothpick holders with women in bikinis printed on them, plastic back scratchers, postcards — lots of postcards, chintzy jewelry, charms of water skiers and power boats, mugs with decals that are good for about a year before the dishwasher dissolves them, bean bag frogs. We have ballpoint pens in the shape of fishing poles, soap dishes that look like overturned turtles, flip-flops in case you forgot to pack a pair, sun-tan lotion—but not the kind that’ll keep you from getting burned — it’ll just make you feel greasy, bobble-headed cats and dogs to stick in your back window. But mostly we sold T-shirts. Cheap T-shirts all the way up to size triple-X.” Milo sagged against the wall. "Satisfied, Mr. Copyright Infringement?”

  "Sorry, Milo. I was just curious. Didn’t mean to strike a nerve. And you don’t need to be all sensitive about it.”

  "Well, I am,” Milo admitted. His anger starting to fade, the memories were going with it. What was his phone number? "It was a lousy job. And if I ever get back home, I’m going to look for a better one. Should’ve looked for a different one last year. Oh, and bumper stickers. We had a shelf full of bumper stickers, some dating back nine or ten years—when bumper stickers were popular.”

  "Tell you what.” Naile smiled. He felt one of the links near the wall open up. "If we get back, I’ll get you a job at the firm.”

  “Doing what?”

  Naile shrugged. "Filing, doing some leg-work. Bet it’ll pay more than selling T-shirts and toothpick holders.”

  “You couldn’t pay me enough to live in Brooklyn.”

  “Would you rather stay here?”

  The three men were silent for a while, Milo searching for the cell door, Naile working on the wizard’s ankle chains, Jalafar-rula resting his voice. Alfreeta made little chirping sounds of encouragement to Naile, her beating wings keeping him cool as he struggled with the links and finally managed to break one.

  One foot free. Now the other. Naile started on another link against the wall.

  “Found it,” Milo said. “All the way at the bottom. Not quite two feet square. Yuck. What is this stuff? Never mind. I don’t want to know. There. I fee] some wood and . . .yuck. No latch on this side. Jalafar-rula, you’d herd pigs through something like this.”

  The wizard sighed. "I did not help build the dungeon for comfort. Had I known I would be staying in it, I would have done things a little differently.”

  “Pobe threaded you through this, huh? Chained you up?” Milo kicked hard at the door, managing to jam his knee in the process. “Strong wood.’’

  “It’s enchanted,” Jalafar-rula said. “You likely cannot break it. We surely will need magic, or skills beyond our own. And, no, Pobe did not put me in here and chain me up. His minions did. They feed me, too, from time to time."

  Milo suppressed a shudder. “And just what kind of minions does he have?”

  “Trolls, mostly, a giant or two for effect,” Jalafar-rula said. "Lots of smaller things that aren’t too troubling. The smaller things herded me in here.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think a troll could fit through this little door. I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit through this door, let alone Naile.”

  “Pobe uses goblins, mostly, among all the smaller beasts. They’re not much taller than two feet, and they can crawl through most things.”

  “And they’re smelly.” This from Naile. “King Kale dropped another goblin in the mud. And the moon gleamed high and pearly, pearly bright.”

  “So you’ve heard of King Kale,” Jalafar-rula said.

  “In a song.”

  “He was a friend of mine. King Kale and I shared many a bottle of wine in our younger days.”

  Naile put all of his strength behind this pull, bracing his legs against the stone. Another link snapped and both of the wizard's feet were free.

  “Naile, you think Alfreeta could help with this door?"

  “She's got her own kind of magic, and she’s handy in a fight. But she’s not strong. Sorry.” Naile stood and felt for the chains holding

  Jalafar-rula's wrists. He started tugging. “Did you have these chains installed, too, Jalafar-rula?’’

  “Why, yes. They were the strongest iron available at the time.” "Always buy the best for your dungeon,” Naile said. His muscles bunched, and he felt the veins standing out in his thick neck. Alfreeta rubbed her face against his cheek, encouraging him. “Wouldn’t want to make it easy for one of your prisoners to escape.” A loud clank, and another link was snapped.

  Milo continued to pound on the door with his feet. “Hope this noise doesn’t bring anyone ... or anything . . . down here.”

  “I really don’t think you can break that open,” Jalafar-rula mentioned again. “I tried to make sure the doors were impregnable. It is too bad you did not appear on the outside of my cell. It would have made things far easier.”

  “So how do we get out of here, Jalafar-rula, if we can’t physically break the door down?” Milo kicked at it one more time. "1 keep thinking about what I’ve got smeared all over my clothes and armor. God, but I reek. Naile, I never imagined this in the game.”

  "What?”

  "The smells. Oh, I always thought about what a world like this would look like and sound like, what the food and ale would taste like. Our game master was always pretty vivid in his descriptions of those things, but he never got to the smells. If I ever get home, I’m gonna open his eyes. Dungeons stink. Stink. Stink. And stink some more. The people stink, none of ’em taking baths often enough. Their clothes stink. The — ”

  "Milo, we get your point. How about I help you kick at that door? I’m strong."

  "It won’t work, I say.” Jalafar-rula rubbed his wrists, still shackled, then reached out to touch the berserker. "Thank you, Naile Fangtooth. It is good to move around again. I’d prayed that you would find me here.”

  "Just too bad we didn't end up on the outside of this cell.’’ "Perhaps we should take a look at our surroundings. My magic

  fails me at the moment, but if I could borrow a little of your friend’s energy. ”

  “ Alfreeta’s?”

  The little dragon gave a cooing sound.

  “She says all right. She says she’d like to help.’’

  Alfreeta uncurled her tail from Naile’s neck and flitted away.

  “I think she must be able to see in this darkness.”

  “Aye, I think you be right,” the wizard replied. “She’
s with me now. On my shoulder. Little girl, I need some of your strength. Just to borrow it, you’ll gain it back. There. That’s it.” Then Jalafar-rula started speaking in a soft sing-song voice, the words similar to those which the Glothorio priest had spoken. But there were subtle differences, more slurring and changes in pitch.

  When he was finished, an egg-shaped olive colored flame appeared inches above the wizard’s open palm. It cast a ghoulish light in the cell, but it allowed them to see their surroundings — though it tinged everything green.

  The moss that covered all the walls quivered, as if it were a living thing. Something dark and viscous dripped from the ceiling to pool on the floor near the small door. There were moldy piles every few feet, a few of these quivering like the moss. The same moss was smeared all over Milo’s leggings.

  “If I'd had lunch, I’d be losing it right about now,” Milo said. “This is worse than the jail in the city.” He looked at his arms and chest, smeared with something gray and oily.

  “It was not meant to be a pleasant place, I told you.” The wizard's face looked haunted, the cheeks sunken and eyes hollow-looking, worse than the Glothorio priests’ spell portrayed him. His hair was spotted with pieces of moss, and the corners of his mouth were crusted, as if he drooled as some old, old men do. However, his eyes were bright, looking large, black and pupilless in the olive light. They seemed to measure Naile and Milo, weighing them in his arcane mind and pronouncing them . . . “More than adequate, you turned out to be.”

  “But not adequate enough to get this door open,” Milo returned. “Maybe you can take some of Alfreeta’s energy and blow it off its hinges.”

  “Wait.” Naile pulled the parchment from his belt and stepped next to the wizard. He unrolled it and held it near the light. “Smells like dried blood, this scroll.”