The Tritonian Ring and Other Pasudian Tales

by L. Sprague De Camp

  The Tritonian Ring

  ( 1953 ) *

  L. Sprague de Camp

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Alert readers will note resemblances between some of the names in this story and the names of persons and places in ancient history and mythology. Thus my "Euskeria" is cognate both with Scheria, the land of the Phaeacians or kingdom of Alkinoos in the Odyssey, and with Euskara, the Basques' name for their anomalous language. The story, however, has nothing to do with my serious opinions on such subjects as lost continents, human prehistory, and the origins of civilization, for which see Willy Ley's and my Lands Beyond and my various articles on these subjects.

  Pronounce these names as you please. The letters d and (preconsonantal) y are meant for vowels like German ö and ü (or French eu and u), but may be rendered by the vowels of "up" and "it" respectively, rhyming Söl and Ryn with "hull" and "in." The characters â , ê , and ô stand for long ah, eh, and oh sounds in French. Awoqqas may be rhymed with "caucus." The X in Ximenon is meant for a ks sound as in "box," but you may simplify it to z or s if you prefer.

  L. Sprague de Camp

  THE TRITONIAN RING

  I. – THE GORGON GOD

  When the gods of the West were gathered in their place of assembly, Drax, the Tritonian god of war, said in his ophidian hiss:

  "Events will take a deadly turn for us in the next century unless we change this pattern."

  The assembled gods shuddered, and the vibration of their trembling ran through the universe. Entigta, the sea-god of Gorgonia (a kingdom so ancient that it had withered to mere myth when Imhotep built the first pyramid for King Zoser) spoke in his bubbly voice out of the midst of his tentacles:

  "Can you not tell us the true nature of this danger?"

  "No. The only further clue my science gives is that the trouble centers in the continent of Poseidonis, in the kingdom of Lorsk. There is something about its being caused by a member of the royal family of Lorsk. I believe my own folk are also involved, but I cannot be sure. Since King Ximenon got that accursed ring I can no longer get through to them."

  Entigta turned to Okma, the god of wisdom of Poseidonis, or Pusâd to use the more ancient form. "That, colleague, would be in your department. Who are the royal family of Lorsk?"

  Okma replied: "There are King Zhabutir and his sons Kuros and Vakar, and the infant children of the former. I suspect Prince Vakar, whose spiritual obtuseness is such that I cannot speak directly to him."

  Entigta's tentacles writhed. "If we cannot communicate with this mortal, how shall we deflect him from his intended path?"

  "We might pray to our gods for guidance," said the small bat-eared god of the Coranians, whereupon all the gods laughed, being hardened skeptics.

  Drax hissed: "There is another way. Set other mortals upon him."

  Okma said: "I object! Vakar of Lorsk, despite his defect, has been a faithful votary of mine, burning many fat bullocks upon my altars. Besides it might be true that such patterns of event are laid down by an inflexible fate, not to be altered even by a god."

  "I have never subscribed to that servile philosophy," said Drax, his forked tongue flicking. He turned his wedge-shaped head towards Entigta. "Colleague, of all of us here, you command the most warlike worshippers. Send them to destroy the royal family of Lorsk and all of Lorsk if need be!"

  "Wait!" said Okma. "The other gods of Poseidonis—" (he looked around, noting Tandyla with all three of her eyes shut and Lyr scratching his barnacles) "—and I ought to be consulted before such devastation is loosed upon our own—"

  The rest of the gods (or at least those not of Poseidonian provenance) shouted Okma down. Drax concluded:

  "Waste no time, squid-headed one, for the peril is imminent!"

  -

  In Sederado, the capital of Ogugia in the Hesperides, Queen Porfia sat in her chambers with emeralds in her night-black hair and eyes as green as the emeralds, consulting with her minister Garal. The minister, a short stout bald man who deceptively appeared to radiate bluff good humor and sterling worth, rolled up a sheet of papyrus and said:

  "Come, come, madam. You are not consulting your best interests in refusing to marry the king of Zhysk. Why should you boggle at the mere detail of his present three queens and fourteen concubines when—"

  "Mere detail!" cried Queen Porfia, looking too young for a widow. "While Vancho was no god, at least while he lived I had that fat slob to myself. I do not care to wed one-seventeenth of any man, however royal."

  "One-eighteenth," corrected Garal. "But—"

  "Besides, who would run Ogugia whilst I languished in gilded durance in Amferé?"

  "Perhaps you could spend most of your time here, where young Thiegos could comfort you."

  "And how long before King Shvo found out and slew us both? Moreover, despite his fair promises to respect our independence, he would soon send some grasping Zhyskan governor to squeeze you dry as bones."

  Garal gave a slight start, but said calmly: "You must remarry some time. Even your supporters murmur over the lack of a man at the head of the state. They would take even Thiegos ..."

  "I do not see it. The island flourishes, and Thiegos, while amusing as a lover, would be quite impossible as king."

  "My thought also. But since you must eventually have a consort, you could hardly ask for one better situated than Shvo of Zhysk. Or is there some other man ...?"

  "Not unless you count ..."

  "Whom?" Garal leaned forward, eyes bright with interest.

  "Just a foolish idea. When I went to Amferé as a girl ten years ago for that wedding of Shvo's daughter, one young princeling took my fancy: Vakar of Lorsk. Though no great beauty or mighty athlete, there was something about him—an irreverent wit, a soaring fancy, a keenness of insight, unlike most of his lumpish compatriots—Oh, well, he will no doubt have collected a dozen women by now and have forgotten the awkward Porfia. Now about this rise in harbor dues ..."

  -

  Zeluud, king of the Gorgon Isles, slept after his midday meal, lying on his back upon his ivory-legged couch. With each inhalation his paunch rose, and with each exhalation the paunch sank while the silken handkerchief that covered his face rose in its turn with the force of the king's breath, which issued from his hidden features with a mighty snore. A Negro dwarf, kidnapped years ago from Tartaros by Zeluud's corsairs, tiptoed about the chamber with a fly-swatter of reed and shredded palm-frond lest any noxious insect disturb the king's rest. And the king of ancient Gorgonia dreamed.

  King Zeluud dreamed that he stood before the wet black basalt throne of Entigta, the squid-headed sea-god of the Gorgons. The king knew from Entigta's dark coloration that the god was in no affable mood, and from the rapidity with which the color-patterns chased each other over Entigta's mottled hide Zeluud further inferred that the god was in a state of ungodly agitation.

  Entigta leaned forward on his sable throne, his slimy hands gripping the arm-rests carven in the likeness of sea-dragons, and fixed King Zeluud with his cold wet eyes. His voice bubbled out of the parrot-beak in the midst of the octet of tentacles that served Entigta for a face, like the gaseous products of decay bubbling up through the slime of one of the somber swamps of Blackland. Entigta said:

  "King, do you obey me?"

  "As always, God," said Zeluud, beginning to shake in his sandals, for he was sure that Entigta was about to impose some outrageous demand upon him.

  "Well, trouble comes upon us from the North, and it is your place to deal with it. Trouble not merely for the Gorgades, but also for the entire race of the gods."

  "What trouble, Lord?"

  "The exact nature thereof we know
not. I can but tell you it centers in the royal family of Lorsk in Poseidonis."

  The king replied: "And what, God, shall I do? Lorsk lies far from here, with its capital well inland, so that it is not vulnerable to a sudden raid from my corsairs."

  Entigta's tentacles writhed impatiently. "You shall follow two courses. First you shall send my priest Qasigan to deal with these princes in person. He is well qualified, being hardy and discreet, widely travelled, and devoted to my interests. Moreover he has two able non-human helpers."

  "And the other course?"

  "You shall prepare to conquer Poseidonis."

  Zeluud, aghast, took a step back. "God! The Gorgades are but three small islands, whereas Poseidonis is a great land whose people outnumber ours fifty to one and are famed for their athletic prowess. Moreover bronze is so common there that they even use it for arrowheads. How in the seven hells do you expect ..."

  Zeluud fell silent as Entigta turned an ominous black.

  "Is your faith then so fragile?" gurgled the squid-god. "By whose help have you long raided with impunity the coasts of Poseidonis and the mainland, and the rich commerce of the Hesperides?"

  "Well then—what am I to do?"

  "Seize Lorsk and the rest will fall, for Lorsk is the strongest of the Pusadian states, among whom there is no unity but only mutual hatred and suspicion. Your warriors are the world's mightiest, and even if they were not, my priests have the world's deadliest weapon: their captive medusas. With your warlike people and the mineral wealth of Lorsk you can conquer the world! And I," murmured Entigta, "shall be sea-god not merely of the Gorgades ..."

  "Still—" began Zeluud doubtfully, but Entigta said:

  "There is another point of attack against Lorsk. King Zhabutir has twin sons, Vakar and Kuros. Vakar, being the younger by a quarter-hour, is heir according to their old system of ultimogeniture. Now Kuros, who mortally hates his brother, might serve your interest in return for a promise of the throne, even as a tributary of yours. And once in control you can slay all three of them."

  "How can I deal with this Kuros? He is too far for messengers, and the Pusadian sea-god would not let you communicate with one of his votaries."

  "I can handle Lyr. There is a Gorgonian fisherman on the west coast of Poseidonis, in the Bay of Kort. In accord with the pact between Lyr and myself, I visit this fisherman in dreams as if he were back in Gorgonia. You can therefore speak to Kuros through this man."

  "Mightiest of gods though you be, not even gods know all, or you would know more of the doom overhanging you. What if we fail?"

  "Then the reign of the gods is ended, unless Poseidonis be sunk beneath the sea."

  "What?"

  "Know you not the continent settles, the water round its shores having risen three feet in the last century? We can speed this process so that in a few centuries nought would show above the waves save the tallest peaks." The god's slit-pupilled eyes stared into space. "The outlines of land and water would be altered from the swamps of Blackland to the snows of Thule. Nor would this be all. Without the copper of Poseidonis, men might even forget the metal-working art and return to stone. But even that is preferable to the other doom, for without the gods to guide you, how could you poor weak mortals survive? Return to the waking world, then, and set about your allotted tasks."

  Entigta dissolved into a swirl of slime. The king awoke, threw the handkerchief off his sweating swarthy face, and sat up on his gold-knobbed couch. He shouted:

  "Khashel! Go to the temple of Entigta and tell the priest Qasigan to come to me at once!"

  -

  II. – THE SINKING LAND

  On an early spring evening months later, thirteen hundred miles north of the Gorgades, on the continent of Poseidonis, in the kingdom of Lorsk, in the capital city of Mneset, the king of Lorsk held council. A cold wind roared through the streets of Mneset, whipping tatters of scud across the pocked face of the moon and rattling the shutters of the houses. Inside the castle of King Zhabutir, the wind swayed the wall-hangings and made cressets flare and lamps flutter. Outside in the castle courtyard the pigs huddled together to keep warm.

  In the king's council room the light of the central hearth-fire flickered upon the walls of massive cyclopean stonework and the ceiling of rough-hewn oaken beams. Four men, wrapped in cloaks against the drafts, sat around the council-table listening to a fifth: Söl the spy, a thickset commonplace-looking fellow with quick-shifting eyes.

  As these eyes flickered across the table they first passed over, on the left, Ryn the magician, peering vaguely through watery eyes over a stained beard like an elderly and absent-minded billygoat. A hunched back added to the grotesqueness of his appearance. Next sat the king's elder son Kuros, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, nibbling on a wedge of cheese. Then came King Zhabutir himself, in the chair of pretence at the head of the table, looking with his high-bridged nose and flowing white beard like the serene embodiment of justice and wisdom, though his nickname of "the Indecisive" belied his looks. His golden crown glowed redly in the firelight, and little gleams from his uncut stones, polished by the black craftsmen of Tartaros, chased each other about the walls when he moved his head. A great shaggy wolfhound lay across his feet.

  On the king's left sat his younger son Vakar, the twin (but not the identical twin) brother of Kuros, looking a bit vacuous (for age and experience had not yet stamped his features with character) and a bit foppish. The jewels on his fingers shone as he nervously cracked his knuckle-joints. He had a narrow hatchet-face which swept back from a long forward-jutting nose that had been straight until a fall from a horse had put a slight dog-leg in it. Instead of the normal Pusadian kilt he wore the checkered trews of the barbarians, and (another fad) copied the barbarian custom of shaving all the face but the upper Up. He was small for a Lorskan, a mere five-ten, with the swarthy skin and thick black hair of most Pusadians. Deepset dark eyes looked out of his narrow face from under heavy brow-ridges and thick black brows into those of Söl, who said:

  "I couldn't get to the Gorgades myself, for their system of public messes serves to check all adult men, and they'd soon see through any disguise. Since the land lives by robbery, the ships of other nations have no peaceful occasion to touch there. I did however spend a month in Kernê and there learned that the Gorgons are preparing a great expedition somewhither."

  Kuros said: "Pff. The Gorgons' ferocity has been exaggerated by distance and the envy of their neighbors. If we knew them at first hand we should find their intentions as peaceful as anybody's."

  Prince Vakar shifted his gaze from the smoking wood-fire to the pocked face of the spy. His tight-drawn lips betrayed his inner tension as he spoke:

  "Certainly their intentions are peaceful, like those of the lion for the lamb. The Hon wishes only to be allowed to devour the lamb in peace. But, Master Söl, if the Gorgons have no peaceful contacts with other nations, how could such news reach Kernê?"

  "The Gorgons' isolation isn't so perfect as they pretend. They carry on a small secret trade with certain merchants in Kerné for things they can neither make, grow, nor steal. Though the Kerneans hang or head any man they catch in this traffic, such are the profits that there's always someone to take the chance. A Kernean would brave the seven hells for a profit."

  Ryn the wizard blew his nose on his robe and spoke: "Was there any indication of the Gorgons' direction?"

  The wind blew a gout of smoke into Söl's face as if trying to stop him from replying. When the spy got over coughing and wiping his eyes he answered:

  "Nothing definite, but the shadow of the echo of a whisper that said 'Lorsk'."

  "No more?"

  "No more, sir. I had it from a harlot of the town who said she'd learned it from a sailor who worked for a trader who'd heard ... and so on."

  Kuros swallowed the last of his cheese, dusted the crumbs off his fingers, and said: "That's all, Sol."

  Vakar wished to hear more, but before he could protest, Söl had glided out and Kuros said:


  "Very interesting, but let's not work ourselves into a sweat over the shadow of an echo of a whisper—"

  "Is that so?" said Vakar sharply. "With due respect, my brother wishes us to take the attitude of the man in the story who went to sleep on the skerry thinking he had a spell that would hold back the tides. You remember:

  "Shoreward they shouldered with crests ever-curling,

  The waxing waves washed higher and higher—"

  "For Lyr's sake don't start one of those!" said Kuros. Vakar shot a dagger-glance at his brother and continued: "Where there's shadow there's more often than not a substance to cast it. And the words of so reliable a spy as Master Söl should not lightly be thrown aside. The Gorgons—"

  "You have Gorgons on the brain," said Kuros. "Suppose they did sail against us? They must pass Tartaros and Dzen, sail west through the Hesperides, land upon the coast of Zhysk, and march through that land to come to grips with us. We should have ample warning, and one Lorksan's worth three Gorgons—"