The River Of Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  Her reputation alone was enough to keep most everybody away, but any who came, perhaps to do her harm, would have raised enough of an alarm among the animals, compelled to defend the place, to result in her awakening in plenty of time to deal with that intruder. She had no reason to fear the animals themselves, she’d thought. A few examples and long domestication had made them fearful and complacent, she was sure. Nor was she concerned with the possibility of a rebel in the newcomer.

  He was far too large to fit through her door.

  But the newcomer was not a rebel, but a rebel leader. Now came the revolution if that pig and that goat could pull it off.

  Inside the cottage, Grogha and Houma were moving slowly in the near total darkness, almost too scared to breathe. They were both well aware of how impossible it all seemed and that they would be the ones to bear the consequences of failure.

  The snores were somewhat reassuring, but then Grogha brushed against a chair, which scraped slightly, and both he and Houma froze as the snoring abruptly stopped. Their hearts felt as if they were about to leap from their chests while there was total silence; but finally they heard her turn slightly and begin to snore once more.

  Cautiously, Houma the goat approached the bed. He had the best night eyesight of the bunch, and the strongest jaws.

  Grogha was backup and support only, one who considered his presence in the room mostly for the purpose of moral support.

  They feared that the magic stick might be in a holder, or sequestered away in some secret place, but it was not. It was right there, on the floor beside the bed as Macore had assured them, ready to be grabbed in an instant should the woman wake. Had it been smoother and straighter, she might have slept with it.

  Houma opened his mouth wide and gingerly wrapped it around the stick, then clamped down tight. Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head to bring the stock horizontal and there was a crash. The woman hadn’t been all that trusting she’d tied a thread to it that brought down the pots and pans!

  She was up and turning in a flash as Grogha screamed, “Too late now! Run like hell!”

  Houma hadn’t waited for the advice, but had kicked off on his hind legs and made for the door, stick in mouth. The thread hadn’t broken, though, and trailing him came a large iron frying pan, making all sorts of clatter. Unable to get to the goat, the woman grabbed the frying pan and pulled, hard, at almost the same instant Grogha decided that it was act or die. Leaping forward, the hog ran right for her legs and into them, toppling her backward.

  Houma jerked around on the line, falling as the woman on the other end of the string fell backward and pulled; but in a flash the pan came free of her hand as she screamed and hit the floor.

  “Hurry!” Grogha yelled. “Get out of here! I’m right behind you!” And, with that, pan still clattering behind, both went out the doorway. Feeling lucky even to be alive, Houma dropped the stick at Joe’s feet and took off, followed as fast as he could by the porcine Grogha.

  The witch had recovered quickly and was now also coming out the door, yelling and cursing at the top of her lungs. Joe seized the stick, and she again made to grab the frying pan, jumping on it and holding tight, but this time the force at the other end was no scrawny goat but a huge bull. The string snapped, and she fell backward once more, still grasping the frying pan.

  Macore yelled, “Move it!” from atop Joe’s back, and Joe and the two horses took off as agreed.

  Now the moonlit night helped rather than hindered, and Joe was able, even with his poor vision, to follow the route Macore had mapped out for him, getting him in a roundabout way to the west gate. He clutched the magic stick in his mouth for all it was worth and feared only that he was going to trip and break a leg or at least lose the stick. In the dim light of the moon, it was unlikely that he or his passenger could find it again.

  Ultimately they reached the gate, where the others could already be heard waiting nervously. At the sight of Joe, they gave an irresistible cheer.

  The gate was just that a wooden gate, barred with a simple wood latch that was incorporated into the long fence line. Joe decided not to wait for the niceties he lowered his head and charged, hardly feeling it as his massive head hit the gate, shattered the wood, and broke him into the open.

  The others followed, and they were off on the barren dirt road. Once away a bit, Joe slowed, allowing the others to catch up. The two horses made it almost on his heels, but it took a little longer for the smaller goat and particularly for Grogha the pig to reach the gathering.

  Macore crowed in spite of himself. “Whoopee! We did it!

  We’re out!”

  Suddenly Joe, who’d been running mostly on emotion, realized it, too. “We’re free! We’re really free...”

  “Not for long if the old bag catches up to us,” a breathless Houma reminded them. “Let’s put a little distance between us and the farm and ditch that stick where she’ll never find it.”

  They made their way down the road, Joe and the horses valiantly trying to be slow enough to accommodate the goat and the pig. Finally the road turned sharply southward, and they realized that they were coming upon the junction of the main road to Terdiera.

  Joe stopped. “Any of you with better eyes see a place where we can rest for a while?”

  ‘There’s a grove of trees over there that will give us some protection,” Houma said. “To your right near the little pond.”

  Joe looked up. “Little pond? How little? Does it look deep?”

  “Hard to say,” the goat replied. “Why?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be a bad place to toss this stick, now, would it?”

  “Say! You’re right at that!”

  Macore was more cautious. “I wonder if we might not try to break it, at least in two, first. That won’t help us, but it might make it hard for her to go back into business if she ever does find the pieces.”

  They nodded and made for the pond.

  Joe, Posti, and Dacaro took turns trying to break the thing, but finally it was a combination of Houma’s goat jaws and Joe’s weight that did it. Joe didn’t know what he’d expected some weird magical lights, something but it seemed just like any other old stick. Somehow, the lack of a reaction at its breaking was disappointing.

  Still, having broken it, they tossed one piece in the pond, not knowing if the water was inches or yards deep. The other piece Joe chewed on for a while, then finally dropped in an area in the woods where there was much deadwood on the ground. “No use in making it easy to put the thing back together again, if she can,” he noted.

  With that they decided on a schedule of guards and tried to get some rest. It was hard, coming after the excitement, and they soon started talking.

  “Posti, you were the one who kept the others from coming,”

  Joe noted. “Now you’re here. Don’t you feel any regrets?”

  “Naw. Not really. I just never really figured you could do it. Fact is, I’m still kinda happy bein’ a horse. It just makes it easier to be free of that old witch. Besides, if you think on it, the others are free, too, if they wanna be. So I’ll string along and see how this goes.”

  Joe looked over at Dacaro. The sleek black stallion had said barely a word, from the initial debate through now, although he’d done his part and had, at least, said enough to vote for the plan. “What’s with him?” Joe asked Posti.

  “He don’t talk much, but he’s a good man,” Posti responded.

  “I dunno much about him, but I got the impression he’s not too unhappy bein’ a horse, either. You wonder what he’s run nin’ from or to. Me, you know about.”

  Joe nodded. After a while, conversation petered out, and they did get a little fitful sleep.

  The next day was cloudy and humid, with occasional light rain in the air, which suited them all just fine. The poor weather would reduce commerce on the main road and perhaps give them a little edge in avoiding trouble.

  They decided to parallel the road rather than follow it, as much as t
he land and fencing would allow, avoiding any complications. By midday, Terdiera was in sight, looking a little less than festive in the gloomy weather. They gave the town a rather wide berth to the north, then returned to the road connecting the village with the castle. By mid-afternoon, the familiar walls of Terindell were in sight.

  Joe stood there looking at the great castle and shook his head in wonder. “I can hardly believe it. We made it!”

  “Yeah, with no real fuss, too,” Posti responded, a little awed by the luck.

  “So far, so good,” Grogha agreed, “but now what? Are they just gonna let us barnyard animals wander in? And if we do get in how the hell are we gonna tell ‘em who we really are ...and what we need?”

  “We spell it out for ‘em,” Dacaro said, startling them all.

  Every head turned to the taciturn stallion.

  “He talks!” Houma said with some surprise.

  “Shut up and listen!” Joe snapped, then looked back at Dacaro. “How do we do this? Anybody here know how to read and write this stuff?”

  “I do,” Dacaro told them. “As to the how, we just scratch it with hooves or spell it out with a stick in the dirt. I don’t know how much will be necessary, though. I think in that castle they will be able to see an enchantment.”

  “Can you show us the marks to make just in case?” Grogha asked cautiously.

  “Just one will probably do in a pinch,” Dacaro responded.

  “Look.” With his right front hoof he scratched a simple pattern.

  “Like this.”

  They all stared at it. “What does it mean?” Macore asked.

  “Basically, the few lines inside indicate an enchantment or spell,” the stallion told them. “The shape of the border, with its six sides, says that the sign refers to us. No animal would or could make that sign. Can you all remember it?”

  It was simple, and all agreed that they could. With that Joe said, “Well, let’s get on down there.”

  They went down from the hill to the road itself, now something of a sea of mud. The great outer castle wall loomed ahead, and the drawbridge inside was down, as usual. It wasn’t a real problem, considering the magical reputation.

  Dacaro continued to puzzle Joe. “Where’d you learn to read?” he asked.

  “Long ago, and in this very place. I am no friend of the one you call Ruddygore, nor is he a friend of mine.”

  “But you came with us.”

  Dacaro’s proud head nodded. “Yes. I came. But not for the reasons you think. It was not any problems back there, but what you said at the last that made up my mind. About the Dark Baron.”

  “Yeah, I did say something. At the time I thought I shouldn’t have.”

  “It was well that you did.” Dacaro looked around as they passed through the outer castle gate. “Ah, what. memories I have. Not good memories.”

  None of the usual elf gardeners or other staff seemed about, although it wasn’t that surprising, considering the weather.

  There was inside activity, though fires glowed through windows, and the master kitchen’s chimney flowed with white smoke and good odors.

  They stopped in the middle of the courtyard, feeling a bit nervous and dwarfed by it all.

  “Well? So where’s the welcoming committee?” Grogha wanted to know.

  Across the courtyard a door suddenly opened, and a tall, lean figure emerged. Joe recognized Poquah the Imir instantly, but, for once, the Imir did not recognize him. In fact, at first Poquah seemed not to notice them standing there as he walked across the courtyard. Suddenly he stopped, turned, and began to frown as he looked at them. Finally he came over to them, without any apparent apprehension.

  ‘Draw the sign! Somebody draw the sign!” Grogha prompted.

  “I thought as much,” the Imir said. “Enchantments. A Circean spell, if I’m not mistaken. Why do you come here?”

  “How the hell can we tell him?” Macore grumped.

  “Well, you could just tell me,” the Imir responded. “Do you think so simple a spell would be a barrier to me?”

  “We’ve come asking for the aid of Terindell,” Dacaro said smoothly. “Obviously, those who would receive aid will serve in payment.”

  The Imir’s arrow like brows rose. “Indeed? And why should we have need of such as you? Go on your way. Fate and your own unwariness have cast your lot. You must accept that. Such spells as we would give you here would be worse than any you might suffer as you are.”

  “I told you it was all for nothin’,” Posti grumped.

  “Listen, you hawk faced overgrown elf!” Joe snapped. “I’m Joe de Oro, damn it, and I don’t think Ruddygore wants me to stay like this!”

  The Imir seemed thunderstruck for a moment. Then, suddenly, his granite-like face began to quiver, as unaccustomed muscles were brought into play. And, slowly, Poquah did the one thing none who had ever known him would believe possible.

  Poquah laughed.

  Suddenly aware of how his demeanor had broken down, he got himself under quick control and stared at the bull. “Really?’ he managed.

  “Yeah. Really, damn it.”

  “I must admit we never expected this,” the Imir said. “We had the whole river region staked out as well as the Valisandra Road

  . Gorodo must be having fits out there right now.” He stood back and shook his head wonderingly. “Actually, you are much improved this way in all except disposition. I assume you decided to cut cross country and ran into that old witch with her shaping stick. Yes. It makes sense. Stupid, but it makes sense in your context.”

  “Well, save your opinions and get Ruddygore!” Joe snapped.

  “I want release. My friends here, too. I couldn’t have busted out without ‘em and I owe them.”

  “That will be up to the Master,” Poquah responded. “Remain here and I will see if he’s in and prepared to receive you.”

  “You can also tell him that I won. Fair’s fair. I passed your little test.”

  That, too, seemed to rock the Imir. “You won9”

  Joe was starting to enjoy this. “Sure. I was to get back here, inside the castle, with no time limit, before anybody from the castle caught me. Well here I am!”

  “A highly unprecedented method,” Poquah said, “but you may have a point.”

  “Just go see about Ruddygore.”

  “As you wish. I am not quite certain how he is going to take this.” He turned to go, then paused and turned back to them. “The Master may not be in, or he may be otherwise occupied. Just stand around and munch grass, or whatever it is you do. He will attend to you in his own good time.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Joe muttered, absent mindedly munching grass.

  Chapter VIII

  Building A

  Company Identity

  Companies must be composed of no less than seven individuals, at least one of whom should not be fully trusted.

  - XXXIV, 363, 244(a)

  The dark host was impressive in its ordered march and fairly dripped of evil. Ruddygore, in astral form, looked down upon the enemy forces from his high vantage point and was amazed at their number and organization. How many? Ten thousand, surely, if there was one. The multitude of races, both from Husaquahr and from realms far beyond, was also startling.

  When the Dark Baron conquered, he gained forces and additional loot with which to hire the best from afar.

  They were a sinister bunch, but even evil had its beauty, which was one reason it was so attractive. Huge, beaked tarfur in their great flowing robes of black and gold perched atop swift, multi-winged suggoths. Behind were the bat winged gofahr and at least two small legions of hog-like uorku and the horned riders of far Halizar. There were elves and men as well down there, the elves biologically identical with the gardeners of Terindell, yet were somehow rough, hard, and ugly, with eyes either burning or empty. The humans ran the gamut from tall, fierce looking barbarian mercenaries to professional soldiers, opportunists, and obvious conscripts.

  The Dark B
aron had doubled his forces since the start of the flood season, and more were coming day after day. Ruddygore knew. Everybody feared a winner, and the Baron certainly looked like one. Queasy leaders in a dozen places were making very certain that they would be positively remembered if the Baron’s forces conquered all of Husaquahr and beyond. He knew that many of those far off leaders, with their own evil forces and marching armies to face, understood that the Baron was merely an agent for the same dark powers that moved all of the others on this huge world of sorcery. Across the mighty oceans, on far away continents and in countries unknown in Husaquahr, other dark and powerful leaders were also pressing, as they always were; in many cases, the leaders of those forces were the only ones who fooled themselves that they were not tools of a greater master of evil, one forbidden for the past two thousand years to vie directly for control of the worlds, who instead had to use the egomania and greed and lust for power of more worldly agents to do his evil work.

  And he and they did it very well indeed.

  In the great tent city that was in the process of being struck, the generals plotted their strategies and awaited orders from their supreme commander, whose identity even they did not know, as to where to march next.

  Yet already here in Zhimbombe, the legitimate authorities had been reduced to living in caves in the eastern mountains, those who had not broken and caved in to the dark power.

  But even those still defiant were refugees. They had been beaten, and the enemy spent the flood season in and around the Zhafqua and in the ruins of the formerly beautiful capital of Morikay.

  With the flood plain now drying, the enemy forces were preparing to march, certainly to the River of Sorrows and the border of Marquewood. Would they now flank to the east, or perhaps attempt a second line by crossing the River of Dancing Gods?

  They had a hundred miles to the River of Sorrows, which would buy Ruddygore some time. Some, but not much. A bit more time to construct some sort of temporary bridge across the receding but still swollen Sorrows, or work out some way to cross the Dancing Gods in force. That would be some trick between the Sorrows and the Dabasar, the Dancing Gods was already two miles or more wide and over forty feet deep in mid channel.