The River Of Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  The creatures were as large as men, with folds of skin between arms and legs, yet they were also feathered and taloned and had tails that were vertical, acting almost like aircraft rudders. Their orange and blue coloring made them things of lethal beauty, and their faces, a curious blend of bird and elf, were triumphant as they swooped down in well disciplined columns. The early ones carried cauldrons of some thin, foul smelling liquid which they poured on the ground, the tents, and whatever forces they could reach. The latter ones carried only torches, and it was clear why, without thinking much about it.

  The reserve bowmen took a good toll of cosirs as they swooped in; perhaps one in three was struck, and more than half of the whose were knocked right out of the air, but that was not enough.

  Joe drew his great sword and swung around, ready to help the reserves. Then, at that moment, he saw that Ruddygore had chosen to ignore all this and was sitting calmly back down in his chair, eyes closed once again.

  The archers started aiming specifically at the cosirs with torches, preferring to smell like oil rather than boil in it, but many of the torchbearers made it through and dropped their loads. Suddenly the entire command post and reserve center were on fire, and men and fairy folk screamed and scattered, writhing in pain.

  Joe ran past the flaming holocaust to the rear, where he could see that the approaching enemy force was moving with astonishing speed for infantry toward their positions. Officers tried to regroup their troops and set up some sort of defensive line in all the confusion.

  Marge looked at Ruddygore, then at Poquah, with alarm.

  “How can he just sit there like that? They’ll get him for sure!”

  “No, he is well protected,” the Imir assured her, “although I can not for the life of me understand what he is doing right now.”

  At that moment Ruddygore came out of it once again, rose, and looked around in anger. “No!” he shouted to the generals.

  “Continue concentrating on the frontal assault! Frontal attack!

  Forget the rear guard! Press them back against the river!”

  One general, a very noble looking man with experience in his eyes, frowned. “But we must defend the rear!”

  “No! I will defend the rear! Trust in me as you have trusted no one since weaned from your mother’s milk, but do as I say, Prince! Do what I say or we are lost!”

  With most of the fires out or burning tents beyond redemption, Joe saw officers rounding up men and pulling them back toward the original attack. He frowned, but followed, determined to see this out no matter what. Still, he spotted Marge and Poquah and ran to them, confused. “If they’re all fighting forward, who’s gonna take out the thousands that are about a quarter mile back?”

  Marge looked at him, then past him, and broke into a big grin. “That’s who!”

  Joe turned and saw, coming in low over the flats, the dragon Vercertorix.

  The dragon had practiced on smaller numbers back in High Pothique, but now it faced a formidable array and it did not seem too worried by the greater number, even announcing its presence with a monstrous roar. It was obvious from the start that Algongua or someone else was telling the dragon what to do or, at least, making suggestions because Vercertorix approached the columns with careful precision, carving zigzag paths of flaming breath through the ranks, forcing the breakup of the columns and general disorganization.

  After doing as much initial damage as possible, the dragon then concentrated on keeping the main force back. The object wasn’t so much to fry all four thousand that would have been next to impossible but to keep them scattered and falling back toward the relative protection of the silt mounds around the ox bow lake. Heartened by the sight of the great dragon routing their enemies, what was left of the reserves and support troops on the command post hill began cheering, which let those below, who were fighting the main battle, know that something good was happening at their backs and taking the pressure off.

  Cavalry moved forward into the wrecked ranks of the Baron’s main force with a vengeance, breaking the attack column into smaller units which infantry moved to mop up. The Baron’s officers and field commanders, realizing that their rear attack had at least stalled, if not failed, tried valiantly to regroup and fall back to defensive positions against the river gorge.

  Ruddygore stood on the hill overlooking the battle, suddenly grim faced even despite near certain victory. Marge looked and saw what few others could see a tremendous field of magical force embodying every color imaginable and in such a tight pattern that its complexity was beyond her abilities to follow.

  The source of the magic flow was clearly from the Gorge area, and she understood that the Dark Baron was making himself felt.

  Now the field of force congealed and took on a new and more animated pattern, becoming a gigantic, three headed monster, all jaws, teeth, and claws. Although outlined in the near unreality of the magical lines of force, it was truly the most horrible and loathsome creature she had ever seen, and she gave a gasp at both its terrible visage and its enormous size it seemed to encompass the entire battlefield.

  Joe turned to her. “What’s the matter?”

  She pointed. “Can’t you see it? It’s horrible!”

  He looked, and saw only victory in the making.

  “The Baron’s trying to reach Vercertorix!” Poquah told them.

  “It must be black for him indeed to take such a chance. Now we’ll see the Master in action!”

  Joe just turned and looked at them, then at the battlefield, and shrugged.

  To those who could see magic, many things were happening.

  Ruddygore, who’d stood there watching the approaching monstrous shape, suddenly flared and changed into a shining giant being of near blinding white light. As huge as the monstrous creation now approaching, this was far different in color, texture, and form, almost as unbearable in its beauty as the Baron’s monster was in its hideousness. It floated eerily out to meet the monster, and the two met over the battlefield. So great was the force of their meeting that clouds came in from all directions, rumbling and shooting thunder, congealing around the spot where the two great creatures of powerful sorcery grappled. Even Joe could see this phenomenon, and stared at it, fascinated.

  The clouds, turning all sorts of colors and rumbling threateningly, began to swirl about them, kicking up a wind and bringing the smell of ozone and a deadly sort of chill. They swirled around the battlefield at an unnatural speed, as if being pulled into some sort of drain, but in the center of the drain the hole where the great beasts fought, the invisible battle continued.

  The patterns in the mixing of the two beasts were almost beyond endurance. Merely watching them started to give Marge a terrible headache and a sense of disorientation. This was power pure, unadulterated power, both of magic and of will, between two whose powers were greater than the sum of all magical powers she had witnessed in the past.

  The soldiers on the battlefield seemed aware of what was going on above and around them. The forces of Marquewood and Valisandra did not break, but took advantage of the swirling winds and terrible lightning and thunder. They were going to press the enemy to the Gorge, and the hell with the weather.

  The sight to the attackers, however, was simply one last terror that had been visited on their proud forces this day, and they retreated steadily before the advancing Marquewood Valisandran infantry.

  Commanders still at the command post pulled back all surviving rear guard troops, those not actually engaged in the press, and sent them immediately rearward. While this was little more than a thousand soldiers of mixed specialties, Vercertorix was having the time of his incredibly long life evening the odds. In fact, the dragon seemed to be making a game out of how he could split up, chase, and panic groups of soldiers.

  One entire company of the Baron’s rear troops fled before the fiery breath of the dragon straight into the ox bow lake itself.

  Unfortunately for them, most were wearing full battle armor, and th
e lake was about ten feet deep.

  The intense power generated by the fight of the two sorcerers over the battlefield finally became too great for those onlookers who could see it to bear. Marge felt dizzy, then swooned and collapsed, and even Poquah had to turn away, looking sick and weak. Joe demanded to know what was going on.

  “The Master and the Baron are directly engaged out there,” the Imir managed. “It is the greatest confluence of magical forces I have ever seen, and is too much for those of us of faerie to bear, though we live in magic constantly.”

  Joe thought about it. “If they’re evenly matched, though, it’s a draw. And that means the Baron can’t get to us. Ruddygore only has to hold, not win our boys on the ground are doing that.”

  From the vortex in the center of the battlefield, suddenly a voice rang out; a cold, mechanical voice that all could hear, not only those of the art but everyone on the battlefield.

  “Hiccarph! Rally your forces to me or we are lost! Forces of Hell, attend me now, for I have served you well!”

  And behind the great beast on the field, the Princes of Hell appeared to those who could see them; great, giant, ghostly outlines of creatures too horrible to look upon, mounted on vicious black creatures forged from the fires of Hell itself.

  And from the opposite forces, another great voice spoke.

  “You have failed. Baron, because of your own overconfidence, your own tactical errors. We will allow a withdrawal, but we will help you not, for it is beyond redemption. Another day, another time, another battle...”

  The Baron’s voice, so cold and mechanical, broke, and he cried out in anguish, “Noooooo...!”

  The storm that swirled around the warring sorcerers broke suddenly, the rain coming in so great a torrent that it was almost a physical force. The battlefield turned quickly to slippery mud, spilling horses and men and knocking the flying fairy folk out of the air. Lightning struck constantly, creating with the tremendous rain a huge wall that flowed out of the storm and into a great barrier between the forces.

  The Baron’s terrible three headed monster broke from its fight and faded into the wall of water and lightning, quickly becoming one with it and then vanishing entirely.

  To Joe, who watched the storm become the wall, it was merely very impressive and a little frustrating. “Damn! They’re going to get away behind it!”

  “Yes, a withdrawal will be possible,” Poquah responded, “but not without great cost, more to them than to us. We have won. The Baron failed to anticipate the dragon, and now he pays for it. But such a cost to us as well! Such a cost...”

  Joe turned and gently picked up Marge, taking her back to one of the few tents still standing. Poquah ran to the spot where Ruddygore had stood before the great battle and found his Master there, sprawled out on the grass. When the Imir turned him over, it could be seen that the sorcerer was still alive, but looked as if someone had tied him down and beaten him severely.

  “Master!” Poquah cried. “Master! Do not desert us now in your triumph!”

  The body of the fat man seemed to shudder slightly, and opened his eyes, groaned, and looked up at the anguished Poquah. “Don’t worry, old friend,” he gasped, his voice cracking and weak. “You shoulda seen the other guy...”

  The Battle of Sorrows Gorge was over, and the defenders had held, but the mopping up operation took several days. The sight of the battlefield the day after was sobering to the most romantic in the group. Bodies littered the field, wearing all sorts of colors, many human but many not. Joe was both shocked and sobered at the sight; it made him feel a bit sick.

  The Dark Baron had sent eleven thousand across Sorrows Gorge and another forty six hundred in the rearward force. Of that number, he managed eventually to extricate slightly more than half. Fewer than eight hundred, almost all from the rear force, had been taken prisoner. The rest lay dead upon the field.

  Roughly ten thousand total had defended. Of that number, only a bit over fifty one hundred remained, many of those wounded or maimed. It had been a costly battle indeed.

  Ruddygore was taken to Terindell by boat, along with Joe, Marge, Poquah, and a number of others associated with that castle. Of Grogha and Houma, who had been in the fighting force, there was, as yet, no word, although things were still extremely disorganized. Macore, however, who was still recovering from his wounds suffered in High Pothique or so he claimed, anyway had remained behind at Terindell and greeted them upon their return, wanting to know all the details.

  It was clear Ruddygore was in very bad shape, and they all relaxed and waited at Terindell until there was some word on him, some sort of reassurance about his condition. Unlike physical wounds, the wounds on Ruddygore’s body had been physical stigmata of the inner spiritual wounds he had suffered in the fight with the Dark Baron.

  During the next three weeks they saw the sorcerer not at all, although there was a steady stream of visitors and dignitaries to the great castle and lots of gifts and well wishes.

  Joe and Marge again talked of what they might do now, but all was put off until Ruddygore was well. It would be unthinkable to leave him without knowing, without a parting word.

  Near the end of the third week, two weary knights appeared on horseback, one on a gray spotted horse, and there was great rejoicing all around. Both Grogha and Houma looked very much as if they’d been in a terrible experience, and both had suffered many wounds, yet they were cheerful enough to start telling and embellishing their battlefield exploits until only a few days later they told how they’d won the war.

  Algongua, too, arrived, although not on Vercertorix, to say his farewells. He was going back to High Pothique, more convinced than ever that people weren’t worth it. Still, he was more worried about Vercertorix. “I’m afraid he’ll never be happy with an occasional cow again,” he sighed. “Oh, where have I failed!”

  Four weeks after the Battle of Sorrows Gorge, word came that the Baron’s forces were regrouping and re forming and that a new alignment of commanders had been established to the south. Lacking forces sufficient to counterattack and retake the southern areas, the north knew that it had indeed won a great battle victory but no war.

  And, too, on the same day as that word came, Poquah went first to Joe, then Marge, and asked them to come to Ruddygore’s library that evening. The sorcerer wanted to see them.

  They went anxiously, not knowing what to expect, but the sorcerer received them, looking fairly fit if still a bit gray and weak. He’d certainly lost a good deal of weight and was, possibly, down to a mere three hundred pounds. But the bruises and lacerations had faded, and he moved with far less stiffness and discomfort.

  They dined with him that evening and felt secure and relaxed, now that the sorcerer not only was going to make it but was his old self again.

  “I’ve been back to your world, you know,” he told them.

  “Oh?” Joe responded. “Why?”

  The sorcerer laughed. “I like it for a visit. Besides, there was a Gilbert and Sullivan theater festival in San Francisco.”

  His eyes twinkled slightly. “I could hardly pass that up. It was good therapy, too.” He relaxed in his plush chair and lighted a cigar, then grew a bit more serious. “Have you two thought of what you’d like to do now? Seriously?”

  “Nothing definite,” Joe told him, “but I do have sort of the wanderlust. I’d like to find my exact tribe and go to them for a bit,”

  Marge said. “I’d like to know more about myself and what I am.”

  “I can tell you the who, what, and where of that,” Ruddygore assured her. “I’m afraid I played something of a cruel trick on you, but I couldn’t resist doing it to Huspeth.”

  “I don’t mind. Not any more,” she told him. “I’d like to go to Huspeth one last time, though, and explain the situation. I’d feel better about it.”

  He nodded. “You can do that any time. Poquah will arrange for a proper horse and give you the route. It’s not far.” He sighed. “But I think now, considering
how much your service has meant to me, that I’ll play completely fair with the two of you. I’d like to give you a series of options and let you pick.”

  “Go ahead,” Joe urged, interested. “But I don’t see that we did all that much for the big picture.”

  “What you did was incalculable! With that Lamp, the Baron would not have had to engage me. He could have knocked Vercertorix into the ground, even masked that entire rear attack force until it was upon us! Getting that Lamp was the difference between victory and defeat. You can be very proud. It is because of you that so many of our brave people did not die a vain death. Control of the Dancing Gods is still not the Baron’s, and the bulk of Husaquahr is still free. It was the job you were summoned here to do and you did it well.”

  They both smiled. “I’d like to believe that, anyway,” Marge told him.

  “Well, it’s the truth. And because of it, I’ll lay out all your options. First, you can remain in the service of Terindell as honored folk. We have won a battle but not a war, and there will be much more to do in the future. The Baron will not be so overconfident again. Of course, I’d give you both whatever time you wanted or needed, and transport you anywhere you wanted to go, before sending you on any more missions. That is option number one.”

  He paused, puffed a few times on the cigar, then continued.

  “Now, option number two is that you both go your own way.

  Find your own lives here. I won’t hold you. But I do think the two of you make a good team, a near unbeatable combination of beauty and magic on the one hand and quick thinking brawn on the other. That business in the Baron’s tent, Joe, was sheer brilliance.” Again he paused, looking thoughtful. “There is a third alternative, of course.”

  “Huh? What?” Joe wanted to know.

  “You could go back. I could send you back. Your souls still belong elsewhere, and so you could return as you are, in fact. New lives. Marge, you could have every male eating out of your hand back there. A little cosmetic alteration on the ears, perhaps, and you’d be the most exotic and erotic woman since Helen of Troy and she was vastly overrated. And, Joe, with that body and quick mind of yours and some quantity of gold I could give you. You could be or do almost anything you want.”