The Fallable Fiend

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  “I suppose I am. I know of no other Twelfth Planer hereabouts.”

  “This relieves the general’s mind; he’s been concerned lest the sentry who bore the tale had been suffering hallucinations. And now, what’s your purpose in seeking stealthily to mich back into doomed Ir?”

  “I am sorry, sir, but I do not think it proper to answer that question.”

  “We have ways of making prisoners talk,” said Charondas.

  Just then, an officer came in and handed the general the two copies of the proposed contract between the Irians and the Hruntings, which I had been carrying. After more converse, Ulola gave the documents to Charondas. The renegade unrolled one and began to read it aloud, translating into Paaluan.

  When he had finished, there was more talk. Then Charondas said: “Since these documents tell us what we need to know about your mission, we shan’t have to question you. It but remains to decide what to do with you.”

  He spoke with the general and again to me: “It is decided to execute you, as we do all Novarians we catch. The general says, however, that we shall not eat you, for you might disagree with us. You’ll be served to our dragons instead.”

  “Well, sirs,” I said, “you have me in a position to do as you please with me. But if you will pardon my saying so, such an act does seem a bit drastic, when I have only striven to furnish satisfaction and obey my masters’ hest.”

  Charondas translated this remark and the general’s reply. The ensuing indirect discussion between me and the general went as follows: “Demon, we have nought against your kind as a whole. But, by working for the Novarians, you have incurred their guilt. You have committed a moral outrage that merits instant death.”

  “How so, General?”

  “The Novarians, like the other folk of this continent, are irredeemably wicked and therefore should be destroyed.”

  “What does their wickedness consist of, sir?”

  “In making war upon one another. We have looked into the matter and know they are all given to this vile practice.”

  “But, General, you are currently making war upon them, are you not? Wherein, then, lies your right to judge them?”

  “Oh, we are not making war! We are conducting a foraging or harvesting expedition. We harvest a crop—a human crop—and we do it for the simple, normal, wholesome purpose of feeding our people. Since all creatures must eat, this is a natural and hence moral procedure. But to slay men for no good reason is wicked and immoral. Those who practice it deserve no mercy.”

  “But, General, I am told that the folk of this continent, when they make war, claim to have equally just reasons.”

  “What reasons? So that some political adventurer can extend his rule over more human beings, or seize their wealth, or convert them to his particular superstition, or kill them off so that his own folk can occupy their land?”

  “How about those who defend themselves against such attacks? We demons of my plane do not practice war, but we do recognize the right of self-defense.”

  “That is a mere pretext. Two of these nations go to war, each claiming the other has attacked it, which is obviously absurd—albeit the most diligent inquiry might not be able to assign the true blame. Besides, if one of these paleface nations defends itself now, you can be sure that it has attacked some neighbor in the past.

  “Nay, the only legitimate reason for slaying another human being is to eat him. So the only sensible thing is to round up the whole fractious lot, salt them down, and consume them. Since we Paaluans do not engage in war, we are obviously more moral than the palefaces, and it is therefore right and proper that we should so use them.

  “But enough of this, demon. We have sentenced you to death, which is normally by decapitation. Charondas tells me, however, that you demons are of very tough fiber, and an ordinary ax or sword might give you no more than a flesh wound. Have you any suggestions?”

  “Yes, General. Commute my sentence to banishment back to my own plane.”

  “Ha ha, very funny.” Ulola spoke to Charondas, who replied in Paaluan. Then Charondas said to me: “The general has commissioned me to build a beheading machine that shall take care of you, demon. A few hours should suffice. We shall see you anon.”

  Several soldiers bore me back to the inclosure, dumped me in, and stood guard over me. The day was one of the most unpleasant of my Prime Plane experience, combining apprehension with tedium. None fetched me water or did aught else to alleviate my discomfort. I had no hope of rescue by the Hruntings, since Hvaednir had decided not to move until I brought the signed contract back from Ir.

  Under the circumstances, there was nothing else for me to do but sink into a digestive torpor. I was getting muckle tired of being mewed up in this tyrannous manner.

  Early next day, I was dragged out of the inclosure and taken to a place before the general’s tent. A gang of Paaluans were putting the finishing touches on Charondas’ machine. This consisted of, first, a beheading block of the conventional kind, grooved for the reception of the victim’s neck and chin. Fifteen feet away stood a massive wooden framework, in which a log was pivoted at one end. The lower end of this pole was fitted with a short axle, which in turn revolved in a pair of stout uprights. The upper end bore a huge blade, like an ax blade but several times as large. The Paaluan smiths must have worked all day and all night to get this piece of steel ready.

  Beyond the pole and its foundation, a tall, three-legged wooden structure provided support for a pulley, over which ran the rope that held the log nearly upright. When the rope was released, the log would fall forward, bringing the blade down on the block—probably with enough force to split it in twain. This engine would have done for beheading a mammoth.

  As the Paaluans hauled me to the block and laid my neck across it, I called out to General Ulola, who stood nearby with his officers: “Sir, permit me to say that I truly believe this to be an unjustifiable and imprudent procedure. Yesterday I lacked the time to marshal my arguments in logical order, but if you will defer this function until I can explain, I am sure I can convince you—”

  General Ulola said something to Charondas, who laughed and said to me: “O Zdim, the general wonders at a being who, about to lose his head, can still argue quillets of logic.”

  Charondas spoke to another Paaluan, who stepped to the tall tripod of timber with an ax. I saw that he meant to sever the rope that held the pole against falling. Ulola raised his arm to signal the ax man.

  Before the general could lower his arm, there came a trumpet blast. This was followed by more trumpet calls, whistles, drums, and general uproar. Paaluans ran hither and thither, shouting. Some went by, pulling on their armor. The general, too, ran off. Dragon-lizards waddled past me with armed men on their backs.

  Bound as I was, I could not truly see what was happening. From the noise, I inferred that Hvaednir must have changed his mind and attacked the camp.

  The noise waxed even louder. I could discern the clatter of weapons and the screams of wounded men. After some time, the racket receded, as if the battle were rolling away from the camp. Had Hvaednir been repulsed?

  Then the noise rose again, but from another direction. A few Paaluans ran past. After them came a multitude in the garb of Novarian sailors. They swirled past and out of sight.

  A few lingered. One, in an officer’s uniform, said: “And what in the nine hells is this?”

  “Sir,” I said, “permit me. I am a demon named Zdim, in the service of the Syndicate of Ir. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Well, what do you here? Oh, I see; the cannibals were about to shorten you by a head. Ho, Zarko! Cut not that rope! Come hither and sever this thing’s bonds. If it be a foe of the cannibals, it must be a friend of ours.”

  The sailor cut the ropes that bound me. While rubbing my limbs to restore circulation, I again asked the name of my rescuer.

  “I am Diodis, High Admiral of Zolon,” said the officer. I knew that the High Admiral was the chief executive of
that island principality. “Explanations were too long for now, and I must forth with my men.”

  “Sir,” said I, “if you will kindly lend me a weapon, I shall be glad to play my part in this affray, since the Paaluans have given me no cause to love them.”

  “Better not mix it in the front ranks, lest you be slain in ignorance by one of your own side. I have it! You shall stay by me as a bodyguard, eh? Come along!” he barked, and trotted off towards the main gate.

  I followed the admiral, who had a brusquely authoritative way not easy to gainsay. We climbed a watchtower that flanked the main gate, whence we had a splendid view. A stream of messengers came and went, swarming up and down the ladder to our eyrie.

  Before us, an extraordinary sight was spread out. To avoid confusion, permit me to summarize what I learnt later, piece by piece, about the situation.

  Having destroyed the pirates of Algarth, the Zolonian fleet had sailed back to Chemnis to collect their pay from the Syndicate before returning to Zolon. Arriving at Chemnis, however, they found the harbor full of strange-looking craft manned by small numbers of naked black men, who shot arrows at them as they neared. The admiral ordered an attack and soon captured all the strange ships.

  The admiral deduced that the main Paaluan force had marched up the Kyamos to attack Ir. So he chose a fleet of vessels of shallow draft, both Zolonian and Paaluan. He loaded them with armed men and brought them up the Kyamos. They anchored at the mouth of the unnavigable Vomantikon and marched up that affluent.

  The Hrunting scouts saw this force, and the chiefs sent to demand their purpose. When the nomads learnt that the Zolonians meant to break the siege of Ir, they decided that, if they expected any pay at all for their long march, they needs must attack the Paaluans themselves, before the Zolonians could do so. Although the Zolonian force was small compared to their own, there was a chance that a surprise attack would rout the cannibals. Then the Irians would refuse to pay the Hrunting army one penny, on the ground that they had done nought to earn it.

  The Hrunting chiefs were not rash. The five hundred Irians, who had arrived in the camp, were sent out as a decoy force, with a few hundred Hrunting horsemen to protect them from being surrounded. The Irians attacked the camp but let themselves be driven back. Filled with ardor, the Paaluan army poured out of the camp in pursuit—dragons, bouncers, and foot.

  As soon as the Paaluans were clear of the camp, Yurog cast his cold spell. Down from the sky roared freezing winds. These not only discomfited the naked cannibals but also slowed the dragons to a gradual stop, like some mechanism that has run down. Now they stood like so many gray stone statues all over the plain, some with one leg lifted for the next step.

  Then over the ridge separating the two camps came the rest of the Hrunting army, with its great block of mammoths in the middle. The cold was nothing to the Shvenites in their furs and sheepskins and to the mammoths in their hairy hides.

  Meanwhile, the Zolonians entered the nearly vacant Paaluan camp, sweeping the few cannibals there before them. The sailors passed on out the front gate to assail the Paaluans in the rear.

  But the cannibals, for all their strange customs, were fell fighters. Their dragons might be immobilized, their bouncer cavalry be scattered like chaff, their bodies be littering the plain, and they be surrounded and outnumbered. Natheless, the survivors formed a vast hollow square, with pikes bristling on all sides, and stood fast.

  From within the square, their archers sent flight after flight of high-arching arrows, and their javelineers cast twirl-spears. They beat off charge after charge by foot, horse, and mammoth. Each attack left more bodies piled in front of the steady ranks of the spearmen. The Hrunting horse archers whirled past the square, pouring shafts into the massed ranks. When a Paaluan fell, his comrades closed the gap.

  I was surprised that the first charge of mammoths did not roll over the cannibals and scatter them, but then I saw what they did. As the hairy monsters shuffled forward, with leathern sleeves on their trunks to protect them from sword cuts, the Paaluan wizards sent illusions of flying monsters against them. Squealing with terror and shaking their heads, the mammoths turned back.

  Beside me in the tower, Admiral Diodis cursed and prayed, while messengers came and went. His speech was disjointed: “Tell Captain Furio to move men from his left wing to his right!—Zevatas, king of the gods, help thy faithful worshipers—by Vaisus’ brazen arse, get in there! Get close, so they can’t use their pikes!—Franda, mother of gods—Tell Lieutenant Omphes he hangs back; if he bestir himself not, he’ll hang up later . . .”

  ###

  Then another force arrived. This was an army of gaunt, pallid men from the city of Ir. They jog-trotted through the Paaluan camp, past our tower, and out on the battlefield. Their trumpets warned the Zolonians to clear the path, and they went through the gap at a run.

  The Irians crashed into the hollow square with a fury that nought could withstand. Men climbed over the bodies of their fellows to get at their foes. When their spears were broken, they fought with their swords; when they lost their swords, with their daggers; when these had gone, with nails and teeth. In a trice they had broken the square and were pouring into the interior, spearing and swording Paaluans in the back.

  At the same time, another charge by the mammoths got home. The wizards inside the square were too busy being slain to cast another spell. The beasts plowed into the foe, swinging their heads. With each jerk, one or two cannibals would be caught by the huge tusks and sent flying.

  The dust became so thick that it was hard to see anything. Little by little, Paaluan fugitives appeared out of the cloud, racing across the plain and throwing away weapons and armor. After them came Hvaednir’s horsemen, shooting and spearing.

  Of the original seven thousand Paaluans who had marched up the Kyamos, a little over six thousand were left at the beginning of the battle, the rest having perished in the siege or succumbed to sickness. Of this six thousand-odd, the great majority fell on the field, for no prisoners were taken. A few got away; but, lacking means to cross the Western Ocean, all were hunted down and slain during the ensuing months.

  The greater part of the Paaluan losses took place after the Irians pierced the square and the formation began to break up. By contrast, of the nearly ten thousand men that fought against the cannibals that day, several hundred were killed or later died of their wounds. This was a sizable loss, but still only a small fraction of that of their foes. Such disparity in losses is not, I am told, unusual in battles on the Prime Plane, since a crowd of fleeing men can be slaughtered with comparative ease and safety by their pursuers.

  Strictly speaking, one prisoner was taken: General Ulola, who was found wounded on the field. A quick-witted Irian officer stopped the soldiers from killing him as they were doing with other wounded cannibals. Rather than slay him at once, the Irians took the rest of the day to try and formally condemn him.

  General Segovian acted as chief justicer. Since Charondas the renegade had prudently disappeared, there was nobody to translate for the general. He made some vehement but unintelligible speeches. My tendrils told me that he was filled with righteous indignation, that he should be punished for doing what he considered only right and proper.

  In any case, he was found guilty and, despite his struggles and vociferous protests, placed on the headsman’s block prepared for me. An Irian cut the rope. Down came the log, crash, and off flew General Ulola’s head.

  I was sorry in a way. If he had been spared and I could have learnt to communicate with him, there were some interesting philosophical points on the morality of cannibalism, which he had brought up, which I should have been glad to pursue further. After all, I had eaten Prime Planers myself, even if I had never wantonly hunted them for aliment. But then, human beings have no due appreciation of abstract questions.

  The battle had another curious consequence. The dragons had been frozen stiff by Yurog’s spell, but the spell did not last for ay. Our victorious fighters had
all but forgotten the statuesque reptiles when they began to thaw out and move. The commanders at once ordered their men to slay the monsters. This they did to a number; but not a few, no longer under control of their Paaluan masters, fled the battlefield and escaped. Some were hunted down. But I later heard rumors of dragon-lizards dwelling in the great Marsh of Moru, in southern Xylar, where the clime may be mild enough to sustain them the year around.

  XI

  PRINCE HVAEDNIR

  I have read many of those imaginary narratives that Prime Planers compose for one another’s amusement, which are called “fiction.” We have nothing like this on the Twelfth Plane, being too logical and literal-minded a species to enjoy it. I confess, however, that I have acquired a taste for the stuff, even though my fellow demons look at me askance as if I had become addicted to a dangerous narcotic.

  In these imaginary narratives, called “stories,” the human authors assume that the climax of a story solves all the problems posed and brings the action to a neat, tidy end. In a story, the battle of Ir would have been the climax. Then the hero would have mated with the heroine, the villains would have been destroyed, and the leading survivors, it is implied, would have lived happily ever after.

  In real life, it is different. After this battle, the survivors continued their lives as before, with the usual ups and downs of fortune. Sometimes they profited from their virtues or suffered from their faults; sometimes the inscrutable workings of fate raised them high or cast them low irrespective of their merits.

  Prince Hvaednir was overseeing the care of his wounded after the battle and the merciful cutting of the throats of those who seemed likely to die. General Segovian approached him and spoke, but neither could understand the other. Hvaednir looked around for Shnorri. Not finding him, he sighted me, standing with Admiral Diodis. The admiral was engaged in similar duties. Hvaednir called: “Ho, Zdim! Come hither and interpret.”

  “With your kind permission, Admiral,” I said. “Prince Hvaednir wants me.”