The River Of Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  Why they choose one over the other, why they let good men be tortured and killed and evil ones march, I can’t begin to understand. But I go with the flow, Joe, because it’s also in my best interest. And you’re it.”

  Joe sat back, trying to accept what he’d been told and having trouble with it. “Well, I’ll be damned uh, I guess if you’re right, maybe I won’t be, huh?”

  Ruddygore laughed. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t.

  Dante put most of the popes in Hell, remember. So don’t let it go to your head. And don’t count on it. They can drop you, or make you a sacrifice, as easily as they can take you all the way. But they have forearmed you a bit.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a Company of brave men. You picked up this young woman on the road, and she has proved a talented adept.

  You have by chance? Dacaro’s knowledge and understanding of the magical arts. And these three men know the territory, more or less. One has been near there; the other two still are more accustomed to this world and are valuable as, say, native guides. And I’ll add one additional factor before we leave here tonight. For now any more questions?”

  “I think I have a bundle,” Marge said. “For one thing, why is this Lamp so vital?”

  “Surely you recall the legends of magic lamps,” the sorcerer replied. “What were those magic lamps like in the old stories?”

  “Grant wishes,” Grogha said brightly.

  Ruddygore nodded. “Yes. Grant wishes. With this Lamp you can more or less suspend both Laws and Rules, magical or physical .Within limits, of course, or the Lamp could destroy the structure of the universe. Still, whatever mortal holds the Lamp of Lakash has the wishing power. And contrary to all those stories you may have heard, one wish and one wish only is what you get.”

  Marge frowned. “Only one? Isn’t it always three?”

  The sorcerer smiled. “That is the curse of the Lamp. Almost everyone believes it that way, and there are few to tell you different. And so, consumed by power, you make a second wish, secure in the old tales that you will get it.”

  “And what happens?” Houma asked, breathless and fascinated.

  “Interestingly, you get it. But you get something else as well. Come! Come! What is the other thing that comes with the Lamp?”

  Marge thought a moment. “A genie?”

  “Exactly!” Ruddygore cried. “A genie! But what is the nature of this genie? What sort of being is he, and whence does he come? The answer is rather simple the genie is the last person to use the Lamp more than once!”

  “But they always called the genie the slave of the lamp in my old stories,” Grogha noted. “What does he do, anyway?”

  “He is, in every respect, the slave of the Lamp, bound to serve whatever mortal next possesses it. And I do mean slave.

  You must do whatever the possessor commands. And you’re stuck that way until somebody else makes the same stupid mistake you did and replaces you. Now you see the greatest curse of the Lamp. If you don’t get rid of it literally give it to somebody else you’ll eventually be trapped. And if you do, then they will have a wish so you had better trust them absolutely, since you no longer may use the Lamp. Of course, no matter what, the Lamp’s possessors eventually run out of a chain of people they can trust. And that’s why it’s best in the hands of somebody like me. I can not use it and, therefore, can not be cursed by it. And I will seal it away so that no one will get to it unless there is dire need and under my control.”

  “Hey, now! Wait a minute!” Joe jumped in. “If you can’t use it, then neither can this Baron, right?”

  Ruddygore nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “So what harm is it just to let him have it?”

  The sorcerer sighed. “Joe, surely your own experiences show that mortals can be placed under a ton of spells and told to do just about anything at all. Remember your cherubs? The Baron wouldn’t need to use it himself but he has an endless supply of people he owns and controls body and soul to make wish after wish for him.”

  “Yeah, I guess he could just wish he’d win the war and that’d be that,” Houma speculated.

  “No,” the wizard assured him. “I said the Lamp was quite limited and it is. First, the wish must be personalized, and confined to a specific localized magical event. So all right, he could wish for a fog before the battle, or that our horses take sick. Even for an earthquake, if he were losing. But a battle has too many people, human and nonhuman, with too many variables for the Lamp to handle it properly. He couldn’t even wish for the enemy army to turn to stone, since that wish would affect only the mortals in the army and would be limited to his specific area of battle. It would allow him to escape a desperate situation, but not to win or lose. It could, however, tip the balance in his favor.”

  “If it works only on mortals, does that mean we can’t wish this monster somewhere else?”

  The sorcerer shrugged. “Probably you could. I doubt if you could wish it dead, though. And you can never be sure if you’ve properly phrased your wish. That’s another little curse. For example, saying ‘I wish we didn’t have that monster to worry about any more’ gives the Lamp a lot of leeway. It could allow you to die and then you wouldn’t worry. If I wanted a sure thing, I would wish that the monster was friendly toward me and my companions and would not bother us in any way. That would be pretty sure.”

  “I see,” Marge nodded. “Make the wish about us and our relationship to the threat.”

  “Man! You could still wish yourself filthy rich! Or maybe immortal!”

  “’Filthy rich’ is an interesting term,” Ruddygore noted.

  “Knowing the Lamp, I imagine it would probably put your gold at the bottom of a great cesspool. Yes, you could wish for wealth but even there you must be careful. Being rich or noble does you no good if your riches and title are in some far off land. As for immortality I suspect that that wish would be a real curse, particularly if you could never remove it. And once you make that wish, beware of any loopholes you leave, such as about whether or not you’d age. The rules are basic.

  Keep it simple, very specific, and very personal. And be careful about random wishes. The possessor of the Lamp has only to preface a statement with ‘I wish’ and it is one. So, saying ‘I wish I had a drink’ or something like ‘I wish I were dead’ can at best be wasteful and surprising at worst, fatal. Even something as simple as ‘I wish I knew’ would do it.”

  “You seem pretty confident of us,” Macore noted. “What makes you think we won’t be corrupted by that power?”

  “Oh, some of you probably will,” he responded cheerfully.

  “However, I have laid a geas on you that will require you to get the Lamp back to me.”

  Marge thought a moment. “Can’t we just wish us all back here as soon as we have the Lamp?”

  Ruddygore sighed. “I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, the Lamp’s transportability is somewhat limited. A rule of thumb would be that, if you can’t see it, you probably can’t reach it. Actually, the possessor alone could wish himself anywhere at all and probably get there but only the possessor.

  For a group, its power is limited more or less to line of sight.

  Say, fifty miles.”

  Joe sighed. “Oh, great. One of us can escape, but we’d leave the others stuck. So we have to make a run for it, anyway.”

  “That’s about it,” the sorcerer agreed. “In and out. Unless, of course, there is only one of you left.”

  That thought sobered them. “I wish you were coming with us,” Grogha.said. “Then it would be easy.”

  “Not so easy, with me or not, for there are some things beyond my powers,” he replied. “In any event, I am needed to aid and coordinate the battle that must come, no matter who wins the Lamp if anyone does. But regardless of what else may happen, I must be assured that the Lamp either is in friendly hands or is impossible to get by either side. If the Baron gets it, we may fail. I think we have forces that are a match for him.
It is much better to defend than attack. But if I must spend all my time negating the Lamp, the Baron will be free to aid the battle. The Lamp’s power is considerable, no matter what I’ve said. I think I can cancel or negate anything it does, if I work fast and furiously but I can not handle the Baron and the Lamp. Better we have the Lamp and the Baron have the problem. See?”

  “Negate...” Marge repeated, thinking. “You mean we might get the Lamp and then find the Baron lousing us up?”

  “You could. And a negated wish still counts. Remember that.” He sighed and got up. “Well, I have done what I could.

  Dacaro can help with advice, although he can’t use the Lamp himself.” Again he paused. “You understand now why I had to be so harsh with Dacaro? He was is very, very much like Sugasto. I simply could not take the chance with him after he, too, violated a sacred trust. Come.”

  They walked out into the darkness and to Ruddygore’s library. He went over to a wall, pressed a hidden stud, and the bookcase moved back and then to one side, revealing a small chamber. He entered, then returned with a long, heavy object wrapped in silk cloth. He went to the table as they all watched and carefully unwrapped it.

  They crowded around and gasped when they saw what the silk masked. It was a sword a great, magnificent sword. Its fancy hilt looked like polished gold, and its blade was sharp and shone with an unbelievable brightness. The blade, however, was totally encased in a solid block of what looked like transparent amber.

  “Long ago I did a service for one incredibly high,” Ruddygore told them. “This was a reward, of sorts. A true magic sword, forged by the ancient dwarf kings thousands of years ago. It’s one of a number of such swords, all made during that time and all given only through supernatural will. It’s rare, though, in that it remains as it was when forged. It has never been used. I had no need of it, and nobody before was worthy enough of it. Now, I think, Joe, it is time to put it to use.”

  Joe looked down at the sword. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed.

  “But why is it magic?”

  “First, the blade is an alloy of steel better than any ever seen. Most blades here are bronze, as you know. Steel contains iron, which means the blade is fatal to most fairy folk except dwarves. Just a wound, the merest prick, would do it.” He turned to Marge. “Don’t you touch it, either! Even if it’s necessary!”

  “I’ll remember,” she assured him, looking at the beautiful sword nervously.

  “Additionally, such swords as these are harder than diamonds. They will cut through rock, metal you name itamazingly easily. And they have something of a life of thenown. No one, save the owner, so long as he lives, will be able to wield the blade and the sword itself will pick its next owner; so it can not be stolen. It may have other powers that will manifest themselves it’s hard to say.”

  Joe looked at it hungrily. “It’s great. Just what I needed. I didn’t have enough to buy a sword at the market.” He frowned.

  “But it’s stuck in this plastic or whatever.”

  “The amber prevents anyone from using it but the right one,” the sorcerer told him. “There! Take the hilt. Raise it high. Let’s see if it will accept you.”

  Joe reached out and took the sword in his hand. It felt extremely heavy, but he managed to lift it, even raise it over his head.

  There was a strange humming sound, and a moment passed before they all realized it was coming from the sword itself.

  The humming grew louder and louder as he held it and finally the vibration from the sword cracked, then shattered the amber casing, which fell to the floor as so much dust.

  “Hey! It’s suddenly real light! Almost like a fencing foil!”

  Joe exclaimed.

  “To you,” Ruddygore told him. “Only to you, Joe. Nobody else will even be able to pick it up. It accepts you. It is yours. One with you. Use it well. Its relative strength is unknown but it is very possible that it could even kill the Dark Baron himself if you gave it a chance.”

  That thought pleased Joe. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’!”

  He lowered the sword, which seemed to have taken on a glow, and placed it in the scabbard on his newly purchased sword belt. The glow subsided and was gone when he let go of the hilt.

  “You must name it, Joe,” the sorcerer told him. “It is a virgin sword. You will name it for all times.”

  “Uh name it?”

  The sorcerer nodded. “Just take it out once again, hold it in front of you, and give it a name with real meaning. You should be honored few have the opportunity, and this may be the last unnamed magic sword anywhere.”

  Joe did as instructed. The sword glowed and hummed softly in front of him. He thought for a moment, then seemed to brighten. “Okay. Uh, let me know if I’m doing this wrong. I name this sword, my sword Irving.”

  “WHAT!” It was Marge who screamed. “Irving? That’s ridiculous! Joe haven’t you ever read anything? Magic swords are named things like Stormbringer or Excalibur. Fancy, exotic names.”

  Joe looked puzzled. “But I like the name Irving. That’s the name I gave my son. I never could have him, but at least I got somethin’ here named in his honor so I don’t forget him.”

  Marge looked frantically at Ruddygore, who shrugged. “The sword has accepted the name,” the wizard noted. “Irving it is.

  Somehow it is fining that a barbarian named Joe has a sword named Irving. I don’t know why, but it is.”

  Marge shook her head, started mumbling to herself, and went over and sat down in a chair, still shaking her head and saying all sorts of unintelligible things.

  “I kinda like the name,” Grogha said, trying to be cheerful.

  “I mean, it’s different.”

  “It sure is,” Ruddygore muttered, but Joe beamed at the comment and sheathed the sword once more.

  “Now, then,” the sorcerer continued, “let me show you a couple of tricks. Joe, remove the sword again and place it back on the table there. Go ahead do it.”

  Joe looked uncertain, but did as instructed.

  “Now move back over by that chair. Ten feet or so, I’d say.”

  Again the trucker turned barbarian complied.

  “Grogha, pick up the sword and bring it to Joe.”

  The portly man went over, took hold, and tried. He tried very hard, until sweat rolled off his brow. Finally he gave up and turned to Ruddygore. “Man! That is a heavy blade!”

  “Anybody else?” the sorcerer invited.

  Each in turn, except for the unconsolable Marge, also gave it a try and failed. “That thing’s nailed there,” Macore grumbled.

  “All right now, everybody over by Marge, out of the way of Joe,” the sorcerer instructed. “Ah. That’s fine. Remember, Joe, try this only when nobody you like is in the way. Call the sword. Put out your hand.”

  Joe put his hand forward.

  “No. Not like that. As if you were going to catch the hilt.”

  Joe looked puzzled, but did as instructed.

  “All right. Now call it. By name.”

  “Uh heeere, Irving!”

  “It’s a sword, Joe! Not a dog!”

  Joe cleared his throat. “Irving! To me!” he shouted. In an instant the sword flew threw the air and right into his raised hand. The movement was so sudden and startling that he almost fell over from the shock and surprise but he didn’t drop the sword. Recovering, he looked down at it. “I’ll be damned!”

  He turned to Ruddygore. “How far is that effective?”

  “If it can hear you, it will come no matter what’s in the way. Farther than that, if you have a clear line of sight from it to you.”

  “Wow! That’s really neat!”

  Marge looked up at him sourly. “Really neat. I don’t believe you.”

  He looked back at her, frowning again. “But it is.”

  She sighed. “If you say so. Jesus! Irving!”

  “And now, my friends, you should all get some sleep,”

  Ruddygore told them. ‘Tomorrow you begi
n and very early.

  Macore, you remain. Since you’ve been in Pothique, I’ll give you the terrain and trail maps. Before you leave tomorrow, Poquah will brief you on the basic route, although he’s already briefed Dacaro and Posti. The rest of you will have more conventional horses, but Dacaro will have power over them.

  Oh, by the way. Rather than my original idea, I think I’ll let Marge have Dacaro, and you, Joe, will ride Posti. It makes more sense to have the magic application and the magic knowledge together.”

  “Whatever you say,” Joe told him. “Hell, I’m ready to go now. If I’m stuck here with all this, I guess I’d better get into the spirit.”

  Marge sighed. “Think of it, Joe,” she prompted. “Don’t you remember Ruddygore once saying that the fantasies of our world are the truths of this one? This could be the start of an epic! The Chronicles of Marge and Joe, think about that”

  He thought about it. “Not bad. The Chronicles of Joe and Marge. It has a ring to it, I guess. I doubt if I’d ever read it, though.”

  “You make light of that possibility, yet you may regret labeling your adventures an epic in times to come,” Ruddygore warned them.

  “Huh? Why?”

  “Oh, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, don’t dream too much of immortality in legend. First you have to earn it. And I might as well tell you, the odds of any of you surviving this mission are beyond those any bookmaker would give or take.”

  Chapter X

  Of Troll

  Bridges And Fairyboats

  Unlike all other/arms of energy, magical energy may be created and destroyed by applications of positive and/or negative spells.

  - II, 139, 68.2(a)

  Joe, mounted on Posti, looked around at the rest of the Company and found the group somewhat imposing. Marge seemed almost dwarfed on the sleek black Dacaro, but the other three looked well matched to their more normal steeds.

  Ruddygore had said that seven was the proper number for a Company, according to the Rules, but this Company included five humans and two transformed ones upon whom he and Marge rode. He had to trust it to Ruddygore that the number worked out.