CHAPTER I

ENCOUNTER ON A LONELY ROAD

People taken from other universes should always be near death.
—The Books of Rules, XX, 109, 234(a)

JUST BECAUSE YOUR WHOLE LIFE IS GOING TO HELL DOESN'T

mean you have to walk there.

She was walking down a lonely stretch of west Texas free-
way in the still dark of the early morning, an area where nobody
walked and where there was no place to walk to, anyway. She
might have been hitching, or not, but a total lack of traffic
gave her very little choice there. So she was just walking,
clutching a small overnight bag and a purse that was almost
the same size, holding on to them as if they were the only two
real things in her life, they and the dark and that endless stretch
of west Texas freeway.

Whatever traffic there was seemed to be heading the other
way—an occasional car, or pickup, or eighteen-wheeler with
someplace to go and some reason to go there, all heading in
the direction she was walking from, and where, she knew too
well, there was nothing much at all for anybody. But if their
destinations were wrong, their sense of purpose separated the
night travelers from the woman on the road; people who had
someplace to go and something to do belonged to a different
world than she did.

She had started out hitching, all right. She'd made it to the
truck stop at Ozona, that huge, garish, ultramodern, and plastic
heaven in the middle of nowhere that served up anything and
everything twenty-four hours a day for those stuck out here,
going between here and there. After a time, she'd gotten an-
other ride, this one only twenty miles west and at a cost she
was not willing to pay. And so here she was, stuck out in the
middle of nowhere, going nowhere fast. Walk, walk, walk to
nowhere, from nowhere in particular, because nowhere was all
the where she had to go.

Headlights approached from far off; but even if they had

2            THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

held any interest for her, they were still too far away to be
more than abstract, jerky round dots in the distance, a distance
that the west Texas desert made even more deceptive. How far
off was the oncoming driver? Ten miles? More? Did it matter?

It was at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes before the vehicle
grew close enough for the woman to hear the roar of the big
diesel and realize that this was, in fact, one of those haunters
of the desert dark, a monster tractor-trailer truck with a load
of furniture for Houston or beef for New Orleans or, perhaps,
California oranges for the Nashville markets. Although it had
been approaching her from the west for some time, its sudden
close-up reality was startling against the total stillness of the
night, a looming monster that quickly illuminated the night and
its empty, vacant walker, then was just as suddenly gone, a
mass of diminishing red lights in the distance behind her. But
in the few seconds that those gaping headlights had shone on
the scene, they had illuminated her form against that desperate
dark, illuminated her and, in the cab behind those lights, gave
her notice and recognition.

She paid this truck no more attention than any of the others
and just kept walking onward into the unseen distance.

The driver had been going much too fast for a practical stop,
a pace that would have upset the highway patrol but was re-
quired to make his employer's deadline. Besides, he was on
• the wrong side of the median to be of any practical help himself—
but there were other ways, ways that didn't even involve slow-
ing down.

"Break one-nine, break, break. How 'bout a westbound?
Anybody in this here Lone Star truckin' west on this one dark
night?" His accent was Texarkana, but he could have been
from Maine or Miami or San Francisco or Minneapolis just as
well. Something in the CB radio seemed automatically to add
the standard accent, even in Brooklyn.

"You got a westbound. Go," came a reply, only very slightly
different in sound or tone from the caller's.

"What's your twenty?" Eastbound asked.

"Three-thirty was the last I saw," Westbound responded.
"Clean and green back to the truck-'em-up. Even the bears go
to sleep this time o' night in these parts."

Eastbound chuckled. "Yeah, you got that right. I got to keep
pushin' it, though. They want me in Shreveport by tonight."

JACK L. CHALKER                  3

"Shreveport! You got some haul yet!"

"Yeah, but that's home sweet home, baby. Get in, get it
off, stick this thing in the junkyard, and I'm in bed with the
old lady. I'll make it."

"All I got is El Paso by ten."

"Aw, shit, you'll make that easy. Say—caught something
your side in my lights about three-two-seven or so you might
check out. Looked like a beaver just walkin' by the side of the
road. Maybe a breakdown, though I ain't seen no cars on your
side and I'm just on you now. Probably nothin', but you might
want to check her out just in case. Ain't nobody lives within
miles o' here, I don't think."

"P 11 back off a little and see if I can eyeball her," Westbound
assured him. "Won't hurt much. That your Kenworthjust passed
me?"

"Yeah. Who else? All best to ya, and check on that little
gal. Don't wanna hear she got found dead by the side of the
road or something. Spoil my whole day."

"That's a four," Westbound came back with a slight chuckle.

"Keep safe, keep well, that's the Red Rooster sayin' that,
eastbound and down."

"Y'all have a safe one. This is the Nighthawk, westbound
and backin' down."

Nighthawk put his mike into its little holder and backed
down to fifty. He wasn't in any hurry, and he wouldn't lose
much, even if this was nothing at all, not on this flat stretch.

The woman was beginning to falter, occasionally stumbling
in the scrub brush by the side of the road. She was starting to
think again, and that wasn't what she wanted at all. Finally
she stopped, knowing it was beyond her to take too many more
steps, and looked around. It was incredible how dark the desert
could be at night, even with more stars than city folk had ever
seen beaming down from overhead. No matter what, she knew
. she had to get some rest. Maybe just lie down over there in
the scrub—get stung by a tarantula or a scorpion or whatever
else lived around here. Snake, maybe. She considered the idea
and was somewhat surprised that she cared about that. Nice
and quick, maybe—but painfully bitten or poisoned to death
by inches? That seemed particularly ugly. With everything else
so messed up, at least her exit ought to be clean, neat, and as
comfortable as these things could be. One thing in her life




4            THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

should go right, damn it. And for the first time since she'd
jumped out of the car, she began to consider living again—at
least a little bit longer, at least until the sunrise. She stopped
and looked up and down the highway for any sign of lights,
wondering what she'd do if she saw any. It would just as likely
be another Cal Hurder as anybody useful, particularly at this
ungodly hour in a place like this.

Lights approaching from the east told her a decision was
near, and soon. But she made no decision until the lights were
actually on her, and when she did, it was on impulse, without
any thought applied to it. She turned, put down her bags, and
stuck out her thumb.

Even with that and on the lookout for her, he almost missed
her. Spotting her, he hit the brakes and started gearing to a
stop by the side of the road, getting things stopped fully a
hundred yards west of her. Knowing this, he put the truck in
reverse and slowly backed up, eyeing the shoulder carefully
with his right mirror. After all this, he didn't want to be the
one to run her down.

Finally he saw her, or thought he did, just standing there,
looking at the huge monster approaching, doing nothing else
at all. For her part, she was unsure of just what to do next.
That huge rig was really intimidating, and so she just stood
there, trembling slightly.

Nighthawk frowned, realized she wasn't coming up to the
door, and decided to put on his flashers and go to her. He was
not without his own suspicions; hijackers would use such bait
and such a setting—although he could hardly imagine some-
body hijacking forty thousand pounds of soap flakes. Still, you
never knew—and there was always his own money and cards
and the truck itself to steal. He took out his small pistol and
slipped it into his pocket, then slid over, opened the passenger
door, and got out warily.

He was a big man, somewhat intimidating-looking himself,
perhaps six-three, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of mostly
muscle, wearing faded jeans, boots, and a checkered flannel
shirt. His age was hard to measure, but he was at least in his
forties with a face maybe ten years older and with very long,
graying hair. He was dark, too—she took him at first for a
black man—but there was something not quite of any race and

JACK L. CHALKER                  5

yet of all of them in his face and features. He was used to the
look she was giving him and past minding.

"M'am?" he called to her in a calm yet wary baritone. "Don't
worry—I don't bite. A trucker going the other way spotted you
and asked me to see if you was all right."

Oh, what the hell, she decided, resigning herself. / can
always jump out again. "I need a ride," she said simply. "I'm
kind of stuck here."

He walked over to her, seeing her tenseness and pretty much
ignoring it. He picked up her bag, letting her get her purse,
and went back to the truck. "Come on. I'll take you for a while
if you're going west."

She hesitated a moment more, then followed him and per-
mitted him to assist her up into the cab. He slammed her door,
walked around the truck, got in on the driver's side, released
the brakes, and put the truck in gear. "How far you going?"
he asked her.

She sat almost pressed against the passenger door, trying
to look as if she weren't doing it. For all he knew, she didn't
realize she was doing it.

She sighed. "Any place, I guess. How far you going?"

"El Paso. But I can get you to a phone in Fort Stockton if
that's what you need." ,

She shook her head slowly. "No, nobody to call. El Paso's
fine, if it's okay with you. I don't have enough money for a
motel or anything."

Up to speed and cruising now, he glanced sideways over at
her. At one time she'd been a pretty attractive woman, he
decided. It was all still there, but something had happened to
it, put a dull, dirty coating over it. Medium height—five-four
or -five, maybe—with short, greasy-looking brown hair with
traces of gray. Thirties, probably. Thin and slightly built, she
had that hollow, empty look, like somebody who'd been on
the booze pretty long and pretty hard.

"None of my business, but how'd you get stuck out here in
the middle of nowhere at three in the morning?" he asked
casually.

She gave a little sigh and looked out the window for a
moment at the black nothingness. Finally she said, "If you
really want to know, I jumped out of a car."

"Huh?"




6             THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"I got a ride with a salesman—at least he said he was a
salesman—back at Ozona. We got fifteen, twenty miles down
the road and he pulled over. You can guess the rest."

He nodded.
"I grabbed the bags and ran. He turned out to be a little

scared of the dark, I guess. Just stood there yelling for me,
then threatened to drive off if I didn't come back. I didn't—

and he did."

He lighted a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and expelled the
smoke with an accompanying sigh. "Yeah, I guess I get the

picture."

"You—you're an Indian, aren't you?"

He laughed. "Good change of subject. Well, son of. My
mom was a full-blooded Seminole, my dad was Puerto Rican,

which is a little bit of everything."

"You're from Florida? You don't sound like a southerner."
Again he chuckled. "Oh, I'm from the south, all right. South
of Philadelphia, anyway. Long story. Right now what home I
have is in a trailer park in a little town south of Baltimore. No
Indians or Puerto Ricans around, so they just think of me as
something a little bit exotic, I guess."

"You're a long way from home," she noted.
He nodded. "More or less. Don't matter much, though. I'm
on the road so much the only place I really feel at home is in
this truck. I own it and I run it, and it's mine as long as I keep
up the payments. They had to let me keep the truck, otherwise
they couldn't get no alimony. What about you? That pretty

voice sounds pure Texas to me."

She nodded idly, still staring distantly into the nothingness.

"Yeah. San Antone, that's me."

"Air Force brat?" He was nervous at pushing her too much,
maybe upsetting or alienating her—she was on a thin edge,
that was for sure—but he just had the feeling she wanted to

talk to somebody.

She did, a little surprised at that herself. "Sort of. Daddy

was a flier. Jet pilot."

"What happened to him?" He guessed by her tone that some-
thing had happened.

"Killed in his plane, in the finest traditions of the Air Force.
Sucked a bird into his jets while coming in for a landing and
that was it, or so I'm told. I was much too young, really, to

JACK L. CHALKER                  7

remember him any more than as a vague presence. And the
pictures, of course. Momma kept all the pictures. The benefits,
though, they weren't all that much. He was only a captain,
after all, and a new one at that. So Momma worked like hell
at all sorts of jobs to bring me up right. She was solid Okla-
homa—high school, no marketable skills, that sort of thing.
Supermarket checker was about the highest she got—pretty
good, really, when you see the benefits they get at the union
stores. She did really well, when you think about it—except
it was all for me. She didn't have much else to live for. Wanted
me to go to college—she'd wanted to go, but never did. Well,
she and the VA and a bunch of college loans got me there, all
right, and got me through, for all the good it did. Ten days
after I graduated with a useless degree in English Lit, she
dropped dead from a heart attack. I had to sell the trailer we
lived in all those years just to make sure she was buried right.
After paying out all the stuff she owed, I had eight hundred
dollars, eight pairs of well-wom jeans, a massive collection of
T-shirts, and little else."

He sighed. "Yeah, that's rough. I always wanted to go to
college, you know, but I never had the money until I didn't
have the time. I read a lot, though. It don't pay to get hooked
on TV when you're on the road so much."

She chuckled dryly. "College is all well and good and some
of it's interesting, but if your degree's not in business, law,
medicine, or engineering, the paper's only good for about thirty-
eight hundred—that's what I still owe on those loans, and it'll
be a cold day in hell before they see a penny. They track you
down all over, too—use collection agents. So you can't get
credit, can't get a loan, none of that. I got one job teaching
junior high English for a year—but they cut back and laid me
off. Only time I ever really enjoyed life."

"So you been goin' around from job to job ever since?"

"For a while. But a couple years of working hamburger
joints and all those other minimum-wage, minimum-life jobs
gets to you. I finally sat down one day and decided it was fate,
or destiny, or something. I was getting older, and all I could
see was myself years later, sitting in a rented slum shared with
a couple of other folks just like me, getting quickies from the
night manager. So I figured I would find a man, marry him,




8             THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

and let him pay my bills while I got into the cooking and baby

business."

"Well, it's a job like any other and has a pretty long history,"

he noted. "Somebody's got to do it—otherwise the government

will do that, too."

She managed a wan smile at the remark. "Yeah, well, that's

what I told myself, but there are many ways to go about it.
You can meet a guy, date, fall in love, really commit yourself—
both of you. That might work. But just to go out in desperation
and marry the first guy who comes along who'll have you—

that's disaster."

"Works the other way, too, honey," he responded. "That's

why I'm paying five hundred a month in rehabilitation money—
that's what they call alimony these days in liberal states that
abolished alimony—and child support. And she's living with
another guy who owns an auto-repair shop and is doing pretty
well; she has a kid by him, too. But so long as she don't marry

him, I'm stuck."
"You have a kid?"

He nodded. "A son. Irving. Lousy name, but it was the one
uncle he had on her side who had money. Not that it got us
or him anything. I love him, but I almost never see him."
"Because you're on the road?"

"Naw. You'd be surprised what you can work. I'm supposed
to have visitation rights, but somehow he's always away when
I come visiting. She don't want him to see me, get to know
me instead of her current as his daddy. Uh-uh."
"Couldn't you go to court on that?"
He laughed. "Honey, them courts will slap me in jail so
fast if I miss a payment to her it isn't funny—but tell her to
live up to her end of the bargain? Yeah, they'll tell her, and
that's that. Tell her and tell her and tell her. Until, one day,
you realize that the old joke's true—she got the gold mine in
the settlement and I got the shaft. Oh, I suppose I could make
an unholy mess trying to get custody, but I'd never win. I'd
have to give up truckin', and truckin's all I know how to do.
And I'd probably lose, anyway—nine out of ten men do. Even
if I won—hell, it's been near five years." He sighed. "I guess
at this stage he's better off. I hope so."

"I hope so, too," she responded, sounding genuinely touched,

JACK L. CHALKER                  9

with the oddly pleasing guilt felt when, sunk deep in self-pity,
you find a fellow sufferer.

They rode in near silence for the next few minutes, a silence
broken only by the occasional crackle from the CB and a report
of this or that or two jerks talking away at each other when
they could just as easily have used a telephone and kept the
world out.

Finally he said, "I guess from what you say that your mar-
riage didn't work out either."

"Yeah, you could say that. He was an Air Force sergeant
at Lackland. A drill instructor in basic. We met in a bar and
got drunk on the town. He was older and a very lonely man,
and, well, you know what I was going through. We just kinda
fell into it. He was a pretty rough character, and after all the
early fun had worn off and we'd settled down, he'd come home
at night and take all his frustrations out on me. It really got to
him, after a while, that I was smarter and better educated than
he was. He had some inferiority complex. He was hell on his
recruits, too—but they got away from him after eight weeks
or so. I had him for years. After a while he got transferred up
to Reese in Lubbock, but he hated that job and he hated the
cold weather and the dust and wind, and that just made it all
the worse. Me, I had it really bad there, too, since what few
friends I had were all in San Antonio."

"I'd have taken a hike long before," he commented. "Di-
vorce ain't all that bad. Ask my ex."

"Well, it's easy to see that—now. But I had some money
for the first time, and a house, and a real sense of something
permanent, even if it was lousy. I know it's kind of hard to
understand—it's hard to explain. I guess you just had to be
me. I figured maybe kids would mellow him out and give me
a new direction—but after two miscarriages, the second one
damn near killing me, the doctors told me I should never have
kids. Probably couldn't, but definitely shouldn't. That just made
him meaner and sent me down the tubes. Booze, pot, pills—
you name it, I swallowed it or smoked it or sniffed it. And
one day—it was my thirtieth birthday—I looked at myself in
the mirror, saw somebody a shot-to-hell forty-five looking back
at me, picked up what I could use most and carry easy, cashed
a check for half our joint account, and took a bus south to think
things out. I've been walking ever since—and I still haven't




10

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

JACK L. CHALKER

11

been out of the goddamned state of Texas. I waited tables,
swept floors, never stayed long in one spot. Hell, I've sold my
body for a plate of eggs. Done everything possible to keep
from thinking, looking ahead, worrying. I burned out. I've had
it."

He thought about it for a moment, and then it came to him.
"But you jumped out of that fella's car."

She nodded wearily. "Yeah, I did. I don't even know why,
exactly. Or maybe, yes, I do, too. It was an all-of-a-sudden
kind of thing, sort of like when I turned thirty and looked in
the mirror. There wasn't any mirror, really, but back there in
that car I still kind of looked at myself and was, well, scared,
frightened, maybe even revolted at what I saw staring back.
Something just sorta said to me, 'If this is the rest of your life,
then why bother to be alive at all?'"

He thought, but could find little else to say right then. What
was the right thing to say to somebody like this, anyway?

Flecks of rain struck his windshield, and he flipped on the
wipers, the sound adding an eerie, hypnotic background to the
sudden roar of a midsummer thunderstorm on a truck cab.
Peering out, he thought for a moment he saw two Interstate 10
roadways—an impossible sort of fork he knew just couldn't
be there. He kicked on the brights and the fog lights, and the
image seemed to resolve itself a bit, the right-hand one looking
more solid. He decided that keeping to the white stripe down
the side of the road separating road and shoulder was the safest
course.

At the illusory intersection, there seemed for a moment to
be two trucks, one coming out of the other, going right, while
the other, its ghostly twin, went left. The image of the second
truck, apparently passing his and vanishing quickly in the dis-
tance to his left, startled him for a moment. He could have
sworn there wasn't anything behind him for a couple of miles,
and the CB was totally silent.

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and things
took on a more normal appearance in minutes. He glanced over
at the woman and saw that she was asleep—best thing for her,
he decided. Ahead loomed a green exit sign, and, still a little
unnerved, he badly wanted to get his bearings.

The sign said, "Ruddygore, 5 miles."

That didn't help him much. Ruddygore? Where in hell was

that? The next exit should be Sheffield. A mile marker ap-
proached, and he decided to check things out.

The little green number said, "4."

He frowned again, beginning to become a little unglued.
Four? That couldn't be right. Not if he was still on I-10.
Uneasily, he began to think of that split back there. Maybe it
was a split—that other truck had seemed to curve off to the
left when he went right. If so, he was on some cockeyed
interstate spur to God knew where.

God knew, indeed. As far as he knew or could remember,
there were no exits, let alone splits, between Ozona and Shef-
field.

He flicked on his interior light and looked down at his road
atlas, held open by clips to the west Texas map. According to
it, he was right—and no sign of any Ruddygore. He sighed
and snapped off the light. Well, the thing was wrong in a
hundred places, anyway. Luckily he was still ahead of sched-
ule, so a five-mile detour shouldn't be much of a problem. He
glanced over to his left again for no particular reason. Funny.
The landscaping made it look as if there weren't any lane going
back.

A small interstate highway marker, the usual red, white,
and blue was between mile markers 3 and 2, but it told him
nothing. It didn't even make sense. He was probably just a
little crazy tonight, or his eyes were going, but it looked for
all the world as if it said:




°o? What the hell was that? Somebody in the highway de-
partment must have goofed good there, stenciling an 8 on its
side.

At the 2, another green sign announced Ruddygore, and
there was also a brown sign, like the kind used for parks and
monuments. It said, "Ferry—Turn Left at Stop Sign."

Now he knew he had gone suddenly mad. Not just that he
knew that 1-8 went from Tucson to San Diego and nowhere




12           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

near Texas, but—a ferry? In the middle of the west Texas

desert?

He backed down to slow—very slow—and turned to his

passenger. "Hey, little lady. Wake up!"

She didn't stir, and finally he reached over and shook her,

repeating his words.

She moved and squirmed and managed to open her eyes.

"Urn. Sorry. So tired.. .What's the matter? We in El Paso?"
He shook his head. "No. I think I've gone absolutely nuts.
Somehow in the storm we took an exit that wasn't supposed
to be there and we're headed for a town called Ruddygore.

Ever heard of it?"

She shook her head sleepily from side to side. "Nope. But

that doesn't mean anything. Why? We lost?"

"Lost ain't the word," he mumbled. "Look, I don't want to
scare you or anything, but I think I'm going nuts. You ever

hear of a ferryboat around here?"

She looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted feathers.

"A what? Over what?'

He nodded nervously and gestured toward the windshield.

"Well, then, you read me that big sign."

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked. "Ruddy-
gore—exit one mile," she mumbled.

"And the little brown sign?"

"Ferry," she read, suddenly awake and looking very con-
fused. "And an arrow." She turned and faced him. "How long

was I asleep?"

"Five, maybe ten minutes," he answered truthfully. "You

can still see the rain on the windshield where the wipers don't

reach."

She shook her head in wonder. "It must be across the Pecos.

But the Pecos isn't much around here."

"Yeah," he replied and felt for his revolver.
The interstate road went right into the exit, allowing no
choice. There was a slight downgrade to a standard stop sign
and a set of small signs. To the left, they said, were Ruddygore
and the impossible ferry. To the right was—Oblivion.

"I never heard of any town named Oblivion, either," he
muttered, "but it sounds right for these parts. Still, all the signs
said only Ruddygore, so that's got to be the bigger and closer
place. Any place they build an interstate spur to at a few million

13

JACK L. CHALKER

bucks a mile has to have something open even this time of
night. Besides," he added, "I'm damned curious to see that
ferry in the middle of the desert."

He put on his signals, then made the turn onto a modest
two-lane road. He passed under the highway and noted glumly
that there wasn't any apparent way of getting back on. Well,
he told himself, he'd find it later.

Up ahead in the distance he saw, not the town lights he'd
expected, but an odd, circular, lighted area. It was particularly
unusual in that it looked something like the kind of throw a
huge spotlight, pointed straight down, might give—but there
were no signs of lights anywhere. Fingering the pistol, he
proceeded on, knowing that the road was leading him to that
lighted area.

And it was bright when he reached it, although no source
was apparent. The road, too, seemed to vanish into it, and the
entire surface appeared as smooth as glass. Damnedest thing
he'd ever seen, maybe a thousand yards across. He stopped at
the edge of it, and both he and the woman strained to see where
the light was coming from, but the sky remained black—blacker
than usual, since the reflected glow blotted out all but the
brightest stars.

"Now, what the hell... ?" he mused aloud.

"Hey! Look! Up ahead there, almost in the middle. Isn't
that a man?" She pointed through the windshield.

He squinted and nodded. "Yeah. Sure looks like somebody.
I don't like this, though. Not at all. There's some very funny
game being played here." Again he reached in and felt the
comfort of the .38 in his pocket. He put the truck back in gear
and moved slowly forward, one eye on the strange figure ahead
and the other warily on the woman, whom he no longer trusted.
It was a great sob story, but this craziness had started only
after she came aboard.

He drove straight for the lone figure standing there in the
center of the lighted area at about five miles per hour, applying
the hissing air brakes when he was almost on top of the stranger
and could see him clearly.

The woman gasped. "He looks like a vampire Santa Claus!"

Her nervous surprise seemed genuine. Certainly her de-
scription of the man who stood looking back at them fitted him
perfectly. Very tall—six-five or better, he guessed—and very




14

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

large. "Portly" would be too kind a word. The man had a
reddish face, twinkling eyes with laugh lines etched around
them, and a huge, full white beard—the very image of Santa
Claus on all those Christmas cards. But he was not dressed in
any furry red suit, but rather in formal wear—striped pants,
morning coat, red velvet vest and cummerbund, even a top hat,
and he was also wearing a red-velvet-lined opera cape.

The strange man made no gestures or moves, and finally
the driver said, "Look, you wait in the truck. I'm going to find
out what the hell this is about."

"I'm coming with you."

'Wo!" He hesitated a moment, then nervously cleared his
throat. "Look, first of all, if there's any danger I don't want
you between me and who I might have to shoot—understand?
And second, forgive me, but I can't one hundred percent trust
that you're not in on whatever this is."

That last seemed to shock her, but she nodded and sighed
and said no more.

He opened the door, got down, and put one hand in his
pocket, right on the trigger. Only then did he walk forward
toward the odd figure who stood there, to stop a few feet from
the man. The stranger said nothing, but the driver could feel
those eyes following his every move and gesture.

"Good morning," he opened. What else was there to say to
start things off?

The man in the top hat didn't reply immediately, but seemed
to examine him from head to toe as an appraiser might look
at a diamond ring. "Oh, yes, you'll do nicely, I think," he said
in a pleasant, mellow voice with a hint of a British accent. He
looked up at the woman, still in the cab, seemingly oblivious
to the glare of the truck lights. "She, too, I suspect, although
I really wasn't expecting her. A pleasant bonus."

"Hey, look, you!" the driver called angrily, losing patience.
"What the hell is all this?"

"Oh, dear me, forgive my manners!" the stranger responded.
"But, you see, you came here, I didn't come to you. Where
do you think you are—and where do you want to be?"

Because, the man was right, it put the driver on the defensive.
"Uh, urn, well, I seem to have taken a bum turn back on
Interstate 10. I'm just trying to get back to it."

The big man smiled gently. "But you never left that road.

15

JACK L. CHALKER

You're still on it. You'll be on it for another nineteen minutes
and eighteen seconds."

The driver just shook his head disgustedly. He must be as
nutty as he looked, that was for sure. "Look, friend. I got stuck
over here by accident in a thunderstorm and followed the road
back there to—what was the town? Oh, yeah, Ruddygore. I
figure I'll turn around there. Can you just tell me how far it
is?"

"Oh, Ruddygore isn't an 'it,' sir," the strange man replied.
"You see, I'm Ruddygore. Throckmorton P. Ruddygore, at
your service." He doffed his top hat and made a small bow.
"At least, that's who I am when I'm here."

The driver gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, that's it. Forget
it, buddy. I'll find my own way back."

"The way back is easy, Joe," Ruddygore said casually. "Just
follow the road back. But you'll die, Joe—nineteen minutes
eighteen seconds after you rejoin your highway. A second storm
with hail and a small twister is up there, and it's going to cause
you to skid, jackknife, then fall over into a gully. The over-
turning will break your neck."

He froze, an icy chill going through him. "How did you
know my name was Joe?" His hand went back to the .38.

"Oh, it's my business to know these things," the strange
man told him. "Recruiting is such a problem with many people,
and I must be very limited and very selective for complicated
reasons."

Suddenly all of his mother's old legends about conjure men
and the demons of death came back from his childhood, where
they'd been buried for perhaps forty'years—and the childhood
fears that went with them returned as well, although he hated
himself for it. "Just who—or what—are you?"

"Ruddygore. Or a thousand other names, none of which
you'd recognize, Joe. I'm no superstition and I'm no angel of
death, any more than that truck radio of yours is a human
mouth. I'm not causing your death. It is preordained. It can
not be changed. I only know about it—found out about it, you
might say—and am taking advantage of that knowledge. That's
the hard pan, Joe. Finding out. It costs me greatly every time
I try and might just kill me someday. Compared with that,
diverting you here to me was child's play." He looked up at

16           THE RIVER Of DANCING GODS

the woman, who was still in the cab, straining to hear. "Shall
we let the lady join us?"

"Even if I buy what you're saying—which I don't," Joe
responded, "how does she fit in? Is she going to die, too?"

The big man shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea. Cer-
tainly she'll be in the accident, unless you throw her out ahead
of time. I expected you to be alone, frankly."

Joe pulled the pistol out and pointed it at Ruddy gore. "All
right. Enough of this. I think maybe you'll tell me what this
all is, really, or I'll put a hole in you. You're pretty hard to
miss, you know."

Ruddy gore looked pained. "I'll thank you to keep my weight
out of this. As for what's going on—I've just told you."

"You've told me nothing! Let's say what you say is for real,
just for the sake of argument. You say I'm not dead yet, and
you're no conjure spirit, so you pulled me off the main line of
my death for something. What?"

"Oh, I didn't say I wasn't involved in magic. Sorcery,
actually. That's what I do for a living. I'm a necromancer. A
sorcerer." He shrugged. "It's a living—and it pays better than
truck driving."

The pistol didn't waver. "All right. You say I'm gonna die
in—I guess fifteen minutes or less now, huh?"

"No. Time has stopped for you. It did the moment you
diverted to my road. It will not resume until you return to the
Interstate, I think you called it."

"So we just stand here and I live forever, huh?"

"Oh, my, no! I have important things to do. I must be on
the ferry when it comes. When I leave, you'll be back on that
road instantly, deciding you just had a nutty dream—for nine-
teen minutes eighteen seconds, that is."

Joe thought about it. "And suppose I do a flip, don't keep
going west? Or suppose I exit at Fort Stockton? Or pull over
to the side for a half hour?"

Ruddygore shrugged. "What difference? You wouldn't know
if that storm was going to hit you hard because you were sitting
by the side of the. road or because you turned back—you can
never be sure. I am. You can't avoid it. Whatever you do will
take you to your destiny."

Joe didn't like that. He also didn't like the fact that he was

17

JACK L. CHALKER

taking this all so seriously. It was just a funny man in a circle
of— "Where does the light come from?"

"I create it. For stuff like this, I like to work in a spotlight.
I'll turn it off if you like. "He snapped his fingers, and suddenly
the only lights were the truck headlights and running lights,
which still illuminated Ruddygore pretty well.

Suddenly the vast sea of stars that was the west Texas sky
on a clear night faded in, brilliant and impressive and, some-
how, reassuring.

Joe heard the door open and close on the passenger side and
knew that the woman was coming despite his cautions. He
couldn't really blame her—hell, this was crazy.

"What's going on?" she wanted to know.

Ruddygore turned, bowed low, and said, "Madam, it is a
pleasure to meet you, even if you are an unexpected compli-
cation. I am Throckmorton P. Ruddygore."

She stared at him, then over at Joe, half in shadow, and
caught sight of the pistol in his hand. "Hey—what's this all
about?" she called to him, disturbed.

"The man says I'm dead, honey," Joe told her. "He says
I'm about to have a fatal accident. He says he's a conjure man.
Other than that, he's said nothing at all."

Her mouth opened, then closed and she looked confusedly
from one man to the other. She was not a small woman, but
she felt dwarfed by the two giants. Finally she said to Ruddy-
gore, "Is he right?"

Ruddygore nodded. "I'm afraid so. Unless, of course, he
takes me up on my proposition."

"I figured we'd get to the point of all this sooner or later,"
Joe muttered.

"Exactly so," Ruddygore agreed. "I'm a recruiter, you see.
I come from a place that's not all that unfamiliar to people of
your world, but which is, in effect, a world of its own. It is a
world of men—and others—both very much like and very
different from what you know. It is a world both more peaceful
and more violent than your Earth. That is, there are no guns,
no nuclear missiles, no threats of world holocaust. The violence
is more direct, more basic—say medieval. Right now that
world is under attack and it needs help. After examining all
the factors, I find that help from outside my world might—
might—have a slight edge, for various reasons too long to go

18           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

into here. And so I look for recruits, but not just any recruits.
People with special qualities that will go well over there. People
who fit special requirements to do the job. And, of course,
people who are about to die and who meet those other require-
ments are the best recruits. You see?"

"Let me get this straight," the woman put in. "You're from
another planet?" She looked up at the stars. "Out there? And
you're whisking away people to help you fight a war? And
we've got the chance to join up and go—or die?"

"That's about the size of it," Ruddygore admitted. "Al-
though you are not quite right. First of all, I have no idea if
you will die. I had no idea you would be in the truck. And,
as an honorable man, I must admit that he might be able to
save you if, after returning to the road, he lets you off. Might.
He, however, is in the situation you describe. Secondly, I'm
no little green man from Mars. The world I speak of is not up
there, it's—well, somewhere else." He looked thoughtful for
a moment.

"Think of it this way," he continued. "Think of opposites.
Nature usually contains opposites. There is even, I hear, a
different kind of matter, anti-matter, that's as real as we are
yet works so opposite to us that, if it came into contact with
us, it would cancel itself and us out. When the Earth was
created, my world was also created—a by-product, you might
say, of the creation. It's very much like Earth, but it is in many
ways an opposite. It runs by different rules. But it's as real a
place as any you've been to, and, I think, a better, nicer place
than Earth in a number of ways."

Far off in the distance there seemed to come a deep sound,
like a boat's whistle, or a steam train blowing off. Ruddygore
heard it and turned back to Joe.

"You have to decide soon, you know," he told the driver.
"The ferry's coming in, and it won't wait long. Although few
ride it, because only a very few can find it or even know of
it, it keeps a rigid schedule, for the path it travels is impossible
unless you're greatly skilled and well timed. You can die and
pass beyond my ken to the unknown beyond, or you can come
with me. Face it, Joe. What have you got to lose? Even if you
somehow could beat your destiny, you're only going through
the motions, anyway. There's nothing for you in this world
any more. I offer a whole new life."

19

JACK L.CHALKER

"And maybe just as short," the driver replied. "I did my bit
of soldiering."

"Oh, it's not like that. We have many for armies. I need
you for special tasks, not military ones. Adventure, Joe. A
new life. A new world. I will make you young again. Better
than you ever were."

Something snapped inside the driver. "No! You're Satan
come to steal me at the last minute! I know you now!" And,
with that, he fired three shots point-blank at Ruddygore.

The huge man didn't even flinch, but simply smiled, pursed
his lips, and spat out the three spent bullets. "Lousy aim," he
commented. "I really didn't catch any of them. I had to use
magic." He sighed sadly. The whistle sounded again, closer
now. "But I'm not the devil, Joe. I'm flesh and blood and I
live. I am not a man, but I was once a man, and still am more
than not. There are far worse things than your silly, primitive
devil, Joe—that's part of what I'm fighting. Come with me—
now. Down to the dock."

Joe looked disgusted, both with Ruddygore and with the
pistol. "All right, Ruddygore, or whoever or whatever you are.
It don't make any difference, anyway. I can't go. Not if I can
save her. You understand the duty."

Ruddygore nodded sadly. "I feared as much when I saw her
in the cab. And for such a motive I can't stop you or blame
you. Damn! You wouldn't believe how much trouble all this
was, too. What a waste."

"Hey! Wait a minute!" the woman put in. "Don't / get to
say anything about this?"

They both looked at her expectantly.

"Look, if I had a million bucks, I'd bet that I'm still sound
asleep in that truck up there, speeding down a highway toward
El Paso, and that this is all a crazy dream. But it's a great
dream. The best I ever had. I'm on my way to kill myself.
I've had it—up to here. I gave up on this stupid, crazy world.
So I'm dreaming—or I'm psycho, in some funny world of my
own. Okay. I'll take it. It's better than real life. There's no
way I'm going back to that life. No way I'm getting back in
that truck, period. I've finally done it! Gone completely off
my rocker into a fantasy world that sounds pretty good to me."

Ruddy gore's face broke into a broad, beaming smile. He
looked over at the driver. "Joe? What do you say now?"

20

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"Well, I heard her story and I can't say I blame her. But
I'm the one who's gone bananas, not her."

"Dreams," Ruddygore mused. "No, this is no dream, but
think of it that way if you like. For, in a sense, we're all just
dreams. The Creator's dreams. And where we travel to is out
there." He gestured with a cane, gold-tipped and with a drag-
on's head for a handle. "Out across the Sea of Dreams and
beyond to the far shore. So take it as a dream, the both of you,
if you wish. As a dream, you have even less to lose."

The pistol finally went down and was replaced in Joe's
pocket. He looked back at the truck. "Maybe we should get
our things."

"You won't need them," Ruddygore told him. "All will be
provided to you as you need it. That's part of the bargain."
The whistle sounded a third time, very close now, and Ruddy-
gore turned to face the dark direction of its cry. "Come. Just
follow me."

Joe looked back at his truck again. "I should at least kill
the motor and the lights," he said wistfully. "That truck's the
only thing I got, the only thing I ever had in my whole life
that was real. This ferry—I don't suppose...?"

Ruddygore shook his head sadly. "No, I'm afraid not. Your
truck wouldn't work over there. The captain would never allow
it, anyway, because we couldn't get it off the boat and it would
take up too much room. But don't worry about it, Joe. It's not
really here, you see. It's somewhere back there, on your In-
terstate 10."

With that the truck faded and was gone, lights, engine noise,
and all, and they were in total darkness.

The whistle sounded once more, and it seemed almost on
top of them.

CHAPTER 2

ACROSS THE SEA OF DREAMS

Travel between universes shall be difficult and highly restricted.
—XXI, 55, 44(b)

THE FERRY CAME OUT OF THE DARKNESS, FLOATING ON A SEA

of black. It surprised them that it looked very much like the
old ferryboats—an oval-shaped, double-ended affair with a
lower platform for cars, and stairways up both sides to the
upper deck, where the twin pilothouses, one at each end of the
boat, flanked a passenger lounge of some sort with a large
single stack rising right up the middle. The sides of the car
deck weren't solid, but were punctuated by five large openings
•on each side, openings without windows or other obstructions,
yet the car deck could not be seen through them.

Each one of the huge, round holes had a gigantic oar sticking
out of it. The oars were in a raised position, seemingly locked
in place. It was clear from the engine sounds and the wisps of
white from the stack that the captain was using his engine.

"I never saw a ferry except in pictures," the woman re-
marked, "but I bet nobody ever saw one with oars before."

Ruddygore nodded. "The engine's in good shape for settling
in on this side, but, once out on the sea and to the other shore,
that kind of mechanical power just isn't possible to use." He
paused a moment. "Ah! It's docked! Shall we go aboard?"

Joe stood there and stared for a minute. "Funny," he mut-
tered, mostly to himself. "I swear I've seen this thing before
someplace. Way, way back and long ago. When I was a kid."
He scratched his head a moment, then snapped his fingers.
"Yeah! Sure! The old Chester ferry. Long, long ago." He
peered into the gloom, but the illumination from the passenger
deck allowed him to see what he was looking for. "Yeah. There
on the side. Kinda faded and peeling, but you can still make
out the words 'Chester—Bridgeport.' I'll be damned!"

Ruddygore nodded. "It takes many shapes and many forms,
for it's shaped from history and from memories, the backwash

21




22           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

of the world flowing backward into the sea whence it came.
It is as it is because of your memories, Joe. But—come! I
don't want to keep it waiting; as I said, it has a schedule to
keep." He paused briefly. "You're not having second thoughts

now, are you? Either of you?"

Joe looked at the woman, and she shrugged and gestured

ahead with her hand. "Guess not," Joe replied dubiously. As
Ruddygore led the way, first she and then the trucker followed,

still more than a little uncertain of it all.

Even stepping onto the ribbed metal of the car deck, they
both felt an air of dreamy unreality about the whole thing, as
if they were in the midst of some wondrous dreaming drug or,
perhaps, comatose and in some fantasy world of the mind.
Still, both looked in at the cavernous car deck—and saw noth-
ing. Nothing at all. It was totally and completely dark in there,

with not even the other end of the boat showing.

Ruddygore led them to the right stairway and saw them
peering into the dark. "I wouldn't be too anxious to see in
there," he cautioned them. "The ones who row this ship are
best not seen by mortal human beings, I assure you.- Come.
Climb up to the lounge with me and relax, and I will try to

answer your questions as best I can."

Hesitantly, they both followed him, still glancing occasion-
ally at the total dark that masked whoever or whatever could
manage oars that had to weigh a ton or more each.

It was quickly obvious that they were the only passengers,
and the lounge, as Ruddygore had called it, was deserted—
but they had obviously been expected. A number of wooden
chairs and benches were around, looking a bit shopworn but
not too bad; in the rear, around the stack and its housing, was
a large buffet table filled with cold platters and pitchers of

something or other.

"Just take what you want whenever you feel hungry," the

sorcerer told them. "The red jugs are a fair rose, the yellow a
decent if slightly warm ale. Use any of the flagons you see—

they're public."

The engines suddenly speeded up, and there was the faint

but definite sensation of moving, moving back out into the

dark. But moving where? And on what sea?

"What are we floating on—desert?" the woman asked.
Ruddygore cut himself a hunk of cheese, poured some wine,

23

JACK L. CHALKER

tore off a large chunk of bread, then sat down in a chair that
creaked under his great weight and settled back.

"We are heading across the Sea of Dreams," he told them
between large bites and swallowed.

Joe decided he might as well eat, too, and followed Ruddy-
gore's lead, except for taking some sliced meat as well and the
ale rather than wine. "I never heard of a Sea of Dreams," he
noted. "And it sure ain't in Texas."

Ruddygore chuckled, "No, Joe, it sure ain't. And yet, in a
way, it is very close to Texas—and everyplace else, for that
matter. It is the element that connects the universes. It isn't
anywhere, really, except—well, between."

The woman wandered out onto the deck for a moment and
stared down at the inky blackness. There was the strong feeling
of movement; wind blew her hair, wind with an unaccustomed
chill in it, but there was no sound of water, no smell of sea or
brine.

She shivered in the cold and came back in to join the others.
"That sea—is that water?"

Ruddygore reloaded with meat and half a loaf of bread and
settled back. "Oh, no. But it has the consistency of water and
the surface properties of water, so you treat it that way. In
truth, I couldn't begin to explain to you what it actually is."
He thought a moment. "The best way to give you at least a
sense of it is to provide you with a little background."

Both passengers settled down. "Shoot," Joe invited him.

"Go back to the beginning. I mean the real beginning. The
explosion that created your universe and mine. Where was the
Creator before He created the universes?"

Joe shrugged. "Heaven?"

"But he created the heavens and the earth, also," Ruddygore
reminded them. "Well, I'll tell you where He was. Here. And
when He created your universe. He also created all the natural
laws, the rules by which it all operates, and He generally has
played by those rules, particularly in the past couple thousand
years or so. But when He created your Earth, there was a
backwash from all that released energy. As it surged from here
toward your universe, an equal suction of sorts was created
that resulted in the creation of another world—indeed, another
whole universe on the other side of here. The force of it was
such that it was totally complete—but it wasn't the universe




24

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

He was interested in. Realizing, though, that it was there. He
turned it over to associates who were around. Angels, you
might call 'em, although that's far too simple a term."

Ruddygore paused to Stuff his face with gobs of meat and
cheese, washed everything down with most of a pitcher of
wine, then continued.

"The other universe was, of course, a mess, since it was
more or less a backwash of yours. Much natural law held, but
not enough to make any real sense out of it. It was chaos. How
it was in reality is totally beyond imagination, I assure you,
but it was an environment more alien than any other planet in
your universe. It was madness beyond imagining, and it was
obvious to those—angels—in charge that it must be stabilized,
must have rules like those in the universe you know. But these
were, after all, angels, not the Creator, and they could only
shape what the Creator had wrought, not really change it. The
result was a set of Laws, absolute Laws, governing how my
universe and my world would operate. These Laws incorporate
the basic physical laws needed for such a place to exist at all,
but only the Creator can think of everything. Thus, the Laws
of my world are, shall we say, soft. The simple ones, partic-
ularly on the local level, are subject to change."

"Huh?" the woman responded. "You mean, nine out often
times that you drop a rock it goes down the way it should—
but one in ten times it might go up? Or just stay there, suspended
in midair?"

"Ah, something like that," the sorcerer replied. "Basically,
that rock will drop every single time—unless someone with
the knowledge and the will applies them to that specific rock.
It won't do otherwise on its own, I assure you."

"This—place we're goin'," Joe put in. "It's got people and
stuff?"

Ruddygore chuckled. "Yes, Joe, it's got 'people and stuff.'
It didn't at the start, but the angels implored the Creator, once
they'd gotten it set up, and He shifted a small group from your
world over to mine. From that first tribe come the populations
of today. And in the millennia that have passed since then,
they've developed into different races, different cultures, just
as on your Earth. Not quite as diverse, but diverse enough,
and this despite the fact that there are far fewer languages there
than on your Earth. It's not as important as you might think,

25

JACK L. CHALKER

that different language business. In your world almost all those
peoples to the south of your own country, and many in your
country, speak Spanish, I believe—yet there are many cultural
differences among those peoples, and many countries that are
quite different from one another. Geography and isolation do
as much to make people diverse as language."

"You know a lot about our world," the woman noted. "Do
your people visit us?"

"Oh, my, no!" Ruddygore laughed. "If they did, they'd
soon be corrupted beyond belief. In fact, very few can cross
the Sea of Dreams, and none as of now can do it until and
unless / will it. You see, this is my ferry, and it's the only one.
Oh, others can see the Sea and others can try the crossing, but
it is tricky and dangerous. Impossible to cross, in fact, unless
you know exactly how to do it. Fail and you will merge with
the Sea, returning to the mind of the Creator—and you, your-
self, will cease to exist. This is more than death. Your very
soul is swallowed and merged back into the primal energies
below us. You are gone in true death."

"You're telling us that there is a soul—an afterlife?" the
woman pressed eagerly. "That's what it sounds like."

"Well, there is a soul, yes. Miss—just what is your name,
anyway? We can't keep calling you 'that woman' all the time."

"Marjorie's my real name," she told them, "but mostly I
just go by the nickname of Marge."

"All right—Marge," the sorcerer said, nodding. "At any
rate, yes, you have a soul. All the humans have souls, and a
few of the others. But as to the fate of those souls—there are
a lot of things that can happen. Evil can destroy a soul—outside
as well as internal evil—and leave the body empty. The soul
can wander, or it can be trapped, or a million other things can
happen. Otherwise it definitely goes somewhere, a somewhere
from which it occasionally, but very rarely, returns. And there
are, it seems, a lot of somewheres for that soul to go. Let's
not get into that now."

"Okay," Joe agreed. "But I noticed you said all the humans
have souls, and a few of the others. What kind of others do
you mean?"

Ruddygore sighed. "An infinite variety, really. Those with-
out souls are, of course, the creations of the original angels.
To compensate, most are immortal or nearly so, meaning they

26           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

don't age. They can still, of course, be killed—although, even
there, they have a lot of charms and protections. They are not
killed in the same way people are, usually. To that original
band have been added, over the millennia, ones from your own
world who were involved in the original creation but who have,
through the dominance of man, been displaced and, by luck,
or charm, or the help of me and my predecessors, or the mercy
of the Creator, have made their way to my side of the Sea. A
one-way trip, though. Some of these have souls, as the Creator
Himself willed."

"What sort of—others?" Joe pressed nervously.
"Elves, gnomes, leprechauns—those sorts. The stuff of your
legends the world over. The other folk who once shared your
world, but for whom man had less and less need and far less
room and tolerance. The stuff of your fantasies and legends.
Their ties to their native Earth, in fact, are bridges between
the worlds across the Sea of Dreams, in a way, for even today
those artists and writers of fantasy and the fantastic in your
world see them, experience them, if only in dreams, and write
of their exploits. The fantasies, the myths, the dreams of your
world, are the reality of mine."

Ruddygore sighed. "Look. We cross the Sea of Dreams,
and the Creator is even now all around us. He sleeps, and as
He sleeps He dreams. Some of the dreams are pleasant ones.
Some are nightmares. But His dreams take root and flow to
one side of the Sea or the other, entering the dreams of one
and the reality of the other. This war we now face may be but
one of His nightmares. Even now, some dreamer on your world
may perceive it in his own mind and write it as a fantasy. You
ought to think about that, anyway. You might well be the stuff
of an epic fantasy novel in your own world, the dreamer there
unknowing that he writes of your reality."

"I'd rather not think about that one," Marge said sourly.
"At any rate," the sorcerer continued, "you're going to a
world that will be at once totally different and very familiar to
you both. Like this boat. It is a familiar thing to Joe, yet it has
not existed since he was a child. It is familiar—yet it is some-
thing else. Listen! Have you sensed that the engines have shut
down?"

They were all suddenly quiet, attentive to the noises—and
found that he was right. The thrumming of the engine had

27

JACK L. CHALKER

ceased, and along with it, the vibration against the glass win-
dows of the lounge.

After a few moments of silence, they could hear the groan-
ings of grommets larger than they as the massive oars were
seized, freed, and dipped in unison down into the Sea of Dreams.

Below them, on that dark and mysterious car deck now
began a deep, hollow sound, rhythmic and somewhat intrusive.
It sounded like some giant drummer beating a slow tempo on
some great kettledrum. It was all around them, yet not quite
pervasive enough to drown out conversation.

"I know what that is," Joe said. "I saw Ben Hur nine times.
They're rowing to the beat."

Ruddygore nodded. "That's exactly what they're doing. And
they'll speed up when they can and maintain it for a long while."

"Just who are—they?" Marge asked apprehensively, think-
ing of the size of the boat and those oars.

"Monsters," Ruddygore replied casually, getting more
cheese. "Real ones. Lost balls, you might say. One-of-a-kinds
that didn't make it in either your universe or mine. Once evil
and all defeated, they had no real choice. They row the boat,
or they are cast adrift in the Sea of Dreams, unable to swim
to any shore, even in dock. Oh, don't look so shocked. All of
them deserve what they got, and all are volunteers, in a sense.
I offered them a chance to row or sink, and they all chose to
row. They are comfortable and reasonably kept and they are
all now doing something constructive rather than the terrible
things they did to destroy, way back in the past."

Marge shivered a little, suddenly even more aware of the
beat of the great drum, and tried not to think of what might
be beating it. She got up and went back over to the doorway,
looking out at the darkness once more.

"Hey! There's something out there!" she called to them. Joe
and Ruddygore walked over and joined her. The sorcerer slid
back the door and walked out onto the deck. The other two
followed.

The creak and groan of the great oars below was noticeable,
but with their present better speed and rhythm, they and the
drumming could be more or less tuned out. The breeze was
still cool. Ruddygore stood at the rail a moment, staring off
into the gloom and listening above the sound of the rowing and
creak of the ship. "Just what did you see?" he asked her.

28

JACK L. CHALKER                 29

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

She shook her head in puzzlement. "I—I'm not really sure.
Some large shapes and odd lights."

"You're liable to see just about anything out there if you
stare long enough," the sorcerer told them. "All that was is
drawn back to the Sea, and all that will be is formed and
dispatched from it. Only what is is elsewhere."

In the night, after a while, they all could see what Marge
had seen and more. Shapes, some familiar, some unfamiliar.
Skylines and odd buildings, then at another time what looked
like the fully deployed three masts of some great sailing ship,
although the ship itself could not be seen. There were sounds,
too—vague, low, yet omnipresent. The sounds of millions of
voices talking together far off in some void; the sounds of great
machines, of explosions, of building and destroying, all merged
into a vague whole. For a while they were caught in its eerie
spell, but finally Joe asked, "How long until we get to—
wherever it is we're going?"

"A few hours," Ruddygore told him. "You might want to
stretch out on one of the benches and catch some sleep—both
of you. You've had quite a time so far this night."

"Maybe I will," Joe responded, scratching and yawning a

bit.

Marge just shook her head. "No way for me. I'm afraid if
I go to sleep I'm going to wake up on the outskirts of El Paso."

Ruddygore chuckled. "I understand your worry, but it won't
happen, I assure you. Once we cast off from your world, you
were committed irrevocably and forever. Only a few from my
side may travel back and forth at will. For those like you, it
is a one-way trip."

Joe did stretch out and after a while was snoring softly, but
Marge was as good as her word, both anxious and too keyed
up to sleep now. She sat down near Ruddygore, who was eating
again, and tried to find out more.

"This place we're going to—does it have a name?" she

asked him.

He nodded. "Oh, yes. It hasn't just one name, but many.
Of course, the planet itself is simply called the world, or earth,
just as you call yours. Why not? It's logical. But the nations
and principalities are quite differently named and very distinct.

We are bound for Valisandra, my chosen land, to my castle
there."

"You're the ruler of a country?"

"Oh, my, no!" He laughed. "Valisandra is a kingdom and
quite well and fairly governed. The day-to-day administration
of a nation is far too complex and boring for me, I'm afraid,
and I'd probably do a very poor job if I ever got the chance.
I'm more a—sorcerer in residence, you might say. Long ago
I did a trifling service for the current king's grandfather and
was given my castle and some land around it as a gift of thanks.
With so much magic loose in the world, it gives comfort to
the king and his people to have a powerful sorcerer living
among them. I have great affection for the land and its people.
I have been one among them for a very long time, and I have
the same stake in its well-being and preservation as they do.
They know this—and they also know that I have no political
ambition whatsoever, and thus am no threat to them. There are
few ranking sorcerers in the world today—thirteen, all told,
including myself—although there are hundreds of slightly lesser
lights that may one day replace us."

"This—Vali—"

"Valisandra."

"Valisandra, then. What's it like?"

He sat back, took another long swig of wine, and smiled.
"It's a pretty country. The climate is mostly temperate, except
in the far north, and the land is rich in good, black earth made
for growing things. The people—about three million, all told—
are pretty well divided between free farmers and townspeople
and those on feudal holdings. The central government's fairly
strong, with its own army, so the feudal hold is weak—more
like sharecropping than the semi-slavery state some places have.
There are still wild areas, too, where the unicorn and deer play
free and the fairies come out to dance. Yes, it's a very pleasant
place indeed."

She smiled. "It sounds nice. But you said something about
a war. That doesn't sound so pleasant."

"It's a different world from yours," he reminded her. "In
some ways more peaceful by far. There are no laser-guided
battle stations in orbit, no ICBMs and strategic bombers ready
to destroy the world at the slip of a politician's nerve. But there
is war, and jealousy, and greed, and, yes, death there as well.




30

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER 31

as they are in every place that mankind exists. Think of a world
where magic, not science, is supreme. There are no hospitals,
no miracle cures or shock trauma units; and that means a higher
mortality rate. There is, of course, medicine—folk and herbal,
which can be surprisingly effective sometimes—and magical
healers as well. No electricity or great engines for good or
evil. Power is the wind and water and muscle, as it was in the
old days on your world, although there is a cleverness in civil
engineering that builds dikes and aqueducts and the like. On
the surface, a more primitive, simpler world—but only on the
surface. It would be a mistake to think of it as a medieval
Earth, for the world is very complex and far more diverse than
yours, and the magic is as complex in its own way as nuclear
physics is in your world."

She nodded. "It sounds like a fairy story."

"It is a fairy story. It is the origin of all such tales. But it
is very real—and right now, my part of it is in trouble."

"The war."

"Yes—the war," he responded. 'The overall district is called
Husaquahr. It's almost fifteen hundred miles from north to
south, and more than half that from east to west. There are six
countries, as well as five City-States around the mouth of the
river which dominates the land. The River of Dancing Gods."

"The River of Dancing Gods," she repeated. "It's a charm-
ing name."

"It's more than charming. The river itself winds its way
from the Golden Lakes in the north to the Kudra Delta far to
the south. It is the blood of Husaquahr—its arteries are its
many tributaries, and the system is life itself to the millions of
humans and fairy folk who make up its population."

"Why is it named Dancing Gods?"

"There are all sorts of legends and stories about that, but I
suspect its divinity derives from its importance to its people.
The dancing part may have a thousand reasons in legend, but
it is perhaps because it is a very old river that meanders greatly,
so much so that to travel on the river the fifteen hundred straight-
line miles to the delta from the lakes, you would actually travel
over twenty-four hundred miles. It is a primary water source
for irrigation, and it is navigable from the point where the
Rossignol joins it to form the southwestern border of Valisan-
dra. It is the Nile, the Mississippi, the Ganges, the Yellow,

the Volga—and more, all rolled up into one. And, in a sense,
it's what the war is about."

"Yes, we're back to the war."

He nodded. "The enemy force includes every destructive
element in Husaquahr and from elsewhere besides. Evil, greedy,
petty—you name it. It is a frightening force, commanded by
a charismatic general known only as the Dark Baron. Who or
what he actually is, is unknown, but he is, for certain, a great
sorcerer who takes some pains to escape being identified. That
makes me believe that he is the worst of all enemies, a fellow
sorcerer on the Council that oversees the magic of the entire
world. One of my brothers. Or, perhaps, sisters. The Dark
Baron is so totally cloaked that it might be either."

"But if the sorcerer is one of your own—doesn't that narrow
the field?" she asked. "I mean, it should be simple to discover
which of only twelve others he or she might be."

"You'd think so," Ruddygore agreed, "but it's not that sim-
ple. Our skills may differ, but our powers are equal—and we
are bound by our own rules and laws. No sorcerer may enter
the lands or castle of another without the permission of the
owner. Distances are great. Magical power being equal, there
is no way to tell who is doing what. I assure you that it is quite
possible to appear to be in two or even a dozen places at once.
Spies within a fellow sorcerer's lairs are impossible—we smell
each other too easily. And, of course, even if we knew, it
would require incontrovertible proof before any action could
be taken. Most of my brothers and sisters on the Council refuse
to believe that one of their own could turn this way, and the
Council would have to act in concert to defeat and destroy this
enemy once and for all. So they sit idly by while the Dark
Baron's armies march on Husaquahr, and unless those are de-
feated in battle, there's nothing that can be done. The Council
will not stop something as petty as a war. They are almost
traditional."

"But you're meddling," she pointed out.

He nodded. "Someone has to, I fear, and since I suspect
that I am at least one primary object of the war, it is in my
own self-interest to do so."

"You? They want to kill you?"

"No. I believe that the Dark Baron, with some of his great
and powerful allies, could kill me if he wished. Kill me—but




32           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

not capture me. You see, he has most certainly allied himself
with the forces of Beyond—you might call it Hell itself—and
that tips the scale in his favor. Oh, he's very clever about it—
if I could prove that alliance, it would be the evidence needed
to force the Council into action—but / know."

"This is starting to get complicated," she noted. "Who or
what are these forces of Beyond?"

"Well, you know the story basically, I'm sure. Some of the
angels of the Creator rebelled against Him and were cast out.
Since that time those forces have been trying to get back,
working through the actions of evil ones in your world and
mine. Well, now they have their most powerful ally, and the
assault's on my world, not yours, and thus more likely not to
worry the Creator. They've been terribly frustrated that your
own world hasn't yet blown itself into atoms despite their
agents' best efforts. But now they have a chance—by getting
back into Husaquahr and then, they hope, by forcing an ac-
commodation with me—literally to invade your world, using
my powers as a bridge."

She looked shocked. "You mean you'd do it?"

He shrugged. "They're not terribly interested in my world,
because it's not a primary creation of the Creator. It's yours
they want. But it's my world, after all. If they can seize and
dominate it, they might force a swap, a trade. If they can gain
control of the River of Dancing Gods, they will have Husaquahr
by the throat, and that's exactly what they're trying to do. It's
a slow, brutal conquest—but they are winning."

She sat back, a little dazed, and considered what he had
said. The forces of Hell were after Earth—her native Earth—
and were willing to conquer and destroy a whole different world
to do this. She could appreciate Ruddygore's position, too. He
alone knew the way across the Sea of Dreams. He alone could
ferry them safely through the very mind of the Creator Himself.
And since he controlled the pathway, he could be rid of them—
by sending them one-way into Earth.

"Why don't you just send them all over and be done with
it, then?" she asked him. "Wouldn't that solve your problem?"

He looked at her strangely and was silent a moment. Finally
he muttered, "Yes, your world has treated you most unkindly,
I see." He cleared his throat, and his voice grew loud and firm
once more. "You seem to forget that your world is the primary

33

JACK L. CHALKER

object of creation. What you suggest is that I precipitate Ar-
mageddon. Disregarding the billions of souls I would have on
my conscience for a moment, let me remind you that Arma-
geddon would engulf everything, involve the Creator directly.
My world would no more survive it than yours, and with less
promise of rebuilding thereafter. There will be no Armageddon
laid against my soul's account! I do not intend that—even if
it means the total destruction of Husaquahr. But they will never
believe that. Or they may believe, but not believe that they can
not somehow get the secret, anyway. But I have a different
plot in mind.

"I intend to beat them at their own game. Send them back
into the abyss from which they crawled, they and'all their ilk."

CHAPTER 3

"A PROPER HERO AND HEROINE"

Barbarians must be tall, dark, and handsome, exotic in race but
of no known nationality.

—XL, 227, 301(a)

SHE SLEPT THEN, THE DEEPEST, SOUNDEST, MOST PEACEFUL

sleep she'd had in recent memory, and so hard was it that she
barely stirred when shaken the first time. Finally she became
aware that somebody was trying to wake her, but she resisted.
It was so very peaceful and felt so very good, and it had been
such a long time ...

At last she muttered, "All right, all right," to the mysterious
shaker and, in a moment more, managed to open her eyes. She
gave a little gasp and rubbed her eyes, a slow smile creeping
over her lips. What she saw was the impossibly named and
improbably dressed Throckmorton P. Ruddy gore. "So it was
real," she breathed.

He grinned. "Oh, yes. Come. Time to get up, get something
into you, and get ready to begin. We're almost there now."

She yawned, stretched, got up, and looked casually out the

34

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

windows of the lounge. It was still dark right around them, but
off in the distance day seemed to be slowly breaking.

Joe was already up and he nodded to her as she went back
to the food table. It had changed somehow during the night
and was now filled with pastries, cheese, crackers, brown bread,
and condiments that made up a solid European-style breakfast.
The pitchers and flagons, she found, were filled with various
kinds of fruit juices—and there was a large pot of coffee.

Suddenly conscious of her hunger, she started in.

"No eggs or sausage or nothin'," Joe grumped. "A man's
got to have something solid in him to start a day."

Ruddygore laughed. "I'm afraid you'll have to get used to
this sort of thing, both of you. Everything's a bit more primitive
in Husaquahr, and without refrigeration your American-style
breakfasts just aren't practical. I wouldn't complain too much,
though. There are times when you'll wish you had a breakfast
like this."

"I don't mind at all," Marge assured him. "I never was
much for the breakfast stuff, anyway."

Ruddygore looked at her with a satisfied expression. "You
seem a lot more chipper today," he noted.

She nodded and sipped at the coffee, which was strong and
bitter, but still what she needed to complete the waking-up
process. "I woke up and you're both still here. That's enough."

Joe wandered over to the windows and looked forward.
"Funny, I can see the dawn over there, but it's still dark as
pitch right overhead."

"That's because it's never dawn on the Sea," the sorcerer
told him. "What you're seeing is not dawn but the edge of the
Sea of Dreams. You'll know we're out of it when we come
into full light, although I've arranged for a bit of a fog. It
wouldn't do to be seen putting in, you know."

Marge went over and looked out at the approaching sky.
"How long?"

"An hour, maybe less," the sorcerer replied. "It's actually
quite close, but particularly in this area we're going against
the current."

Joe scratched and stretched. "I could use a shower."

"Me, too," Marge seconded, feeling just how grubby she'd
let herself become. It was the first time in a long time that she
cared about it one way or the other.

35

JACK L. CHALKER

"Sorry. No facilities on the boat," Ruddygore told them.
"You've seen the pitiful little Johns—and they're more modem
than you'll likely see again. There's little for showering at the
castle, either, I fear, but I'm sure I could arrange for a bath.
Just hold on until we get there."

Marge looked back out at the approaching division in the
sky, then turned toward the sorcerer. "How long from when
we land until we get to this castle of yours?" she asked him.
"I seem to remember last night you said it was way up near
the source of this big river."

"Indeed it is," Ruddygore told her, "but that won't bother
us. The Sea of Dreams contacts all points in all universes. We
will land within walking distance of the castle, I assure you.
I could arrange even now for us to be met, but I think the walk
will do us all good—and you'll get a look at the land." He
turned and gestured toward the food table. "In the meantime,
let us eat, drink, and be merry."

"Yeah, 'cause tomorrow we die," Joe responded grumpily.
Clearly he was very much out of his element and most uncom-
fortable about it.

"We've broken through!" Marge called to them, and both
men came to join her at the window. The darkness was gone—
totally gone, with no sign fore or aft that it had ever been.
They were now in a dense, white fog that obscured everything.
Somewhere up there, though, was a bright point of light that
had to be a sun, and that cheered both of the newcomers.

They heard the beat slow, heard oars being shipped, and
realized now that they were drifting with a far different kind
of current from that of the Sea of Dreams. There was no mis-
taking the feeling that the boat was coming in to dock.

They went outside on deck, and Marge in particular was
cheered to find it comfortably warm, although the dense fog
threatened to soak them through. She walked forward, around
the pilothouse, and the two men followed. Neither Joe nor
Marge could resist looking in the pilothouse, but there was
nothing to be seen. Whoever or whatever the captain of this
ghostly ferry was, he, she, or it was definitely not visible in
the daylight, although the large wooden wheel moved with a
deliberateness that said that something, someone, was there.

"The captain and deck crew are nice folks," Ruddygore told

36

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

37

them, "but rather sensitive about being seen. Among other
things, unlike the rowing crew, they can and occasionally do
go ashore, and what the passengers don't know about them
can't someday be betrayed to an enemy."

Marge took a last look back at the apparently empty wheel-
house and shivered slightly despite the damp warmth. She
wondered idly if Ruddygore was being completely honest and
straightforward with them. Not that it made any difference
right now. They were totally in his hands and at his mercy.

Somewhere aft, a loud bell clanged four times, and again
some of the oars came down as the boat performed a steering
maneuver. There was a sudden lurch, then a great bump that
went the length of the boat, and abruptly the oars shipped again
and the boat came to a complete stop.

"Well, we're home!" Ruddygore announced cheerfully.
"Follow me." With that he made his way down one of the side
stairways.

Joe looked out at the all-encompassing fog and shook his
head. "Some home," he muttered to himself, but followed the
other two.

They walked across the ribbed metal car deck and saw that
there was a smooth area beyond the boat. Ruddygore stepped
off onto it unhesitatingly, and after a moment. Marge and Joe
did likewise.

The fog began to fade only a few paces from the boat, and
before they'd gone fifty yards it had completely vanished, re-
vealing an unexpectedly beautiful scene.

They were in a small wooded area beside a large river, the
woods following and hugging the river itself, which seemed
to be a thousand yards or more wide and whose other shore
was apparently dense forest.

But ahead was cleared land, gently rolling and lushly green
with tall, unmowed grasses. Everywhere, too, were wildflow-
ers by the thousands, of countless colors and shapes and va-
rieties, sticking up through the deep green grass. Insects, many
very familiar-looking, buzzed and twitted to and fro; here and
there small birds circled, dipped, or landed and hopped around
in the grass.

Beyond was a hill, not very high, really. Beyond it was a
bluff dominating the scene, and on top of the bluff was a castle
of the kind both newcomers had seen only in picture books.

"Just like Disneyland," Joe muttered.

"Colder, draftier, but a lot bigger and more useful," Ruddy-
gore responded. "That is Terindell. My home."

"It's beautiful," Marge told him. "Even more beautiful than
you described last night."

Ruddygore led the way along a path that seemed well-worn,
leading through the lush fields to the castle in an indirect,
meandering fashion. It was not paved, but was dry and solid
black earth and rock and proved no problem.

"The path is circuitous mostly because of erosion," the sor-
cerer explained. "As you might guess from the richness of the
vegetation, this region gets a lot of rain, and a straight path
would have worn its way into a crevass by now."

"I don't mind," Marge assured him. "It's so beautiful here,
and I never felt better in my life."

Joe looked back dubiously. "Where's the boat?"

"Oh, it's not here," Ruddygore replied. "It never quite makes
the whole trip either way. You might as well forget that boat,
Joe. You'll never see it again."

The walk up to the castle took the better part of an hour,
but it was time well spent in just enjoying life and feeling good.
Marge was like a kid again, laughing and smelling flowers and
chasing butterflies; even Joe seemed to be affected with a sense
of well-being after a while. He didn't join in, but at least he
laughed along with her.

Shortly before reaching the castle itself, the path intersected
the main road leading up to it. It was a dirt and gravel road
and not used very much, judging by the lack of real impressions
in it, but it was well maintained.

As their elevation increased, they could look down and see
the panorama that was Ruddygore's normal view.

"The river we just came from, back there, is the Rossignol,"
the sorcerer told them. "A gentle river that sings sweet, sad
songs, but is a grand old lady in her own right. Over there,
now, you can see her child, and the child of many other rivers
great and small. The River of Dancing Gods."

Even this far north, there was no comparing the great river
with its tributary. It flowed, shimmering golden in the sunlight,
a broad, wide, powerful river. Although here it was not much
wider than the Rossignol, they could see where the two rivers
joined, and where they seemingly flowed along together in the




38

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

same bed off into the distance, the dark of the Rossignol seem-
ingly resisting the mix with its golden master. But when they
joined, the River of Dancing Gods grew enormously, already
a mile or more from bank to bank, a great river indeed, with
more than a thousand miles left to grow in power and strength
even more.

"The other side of the Dancing Gods is Hypboreya, a very
different son of country," Ruddygore told them. "Across the
Rossignol is Marquewood, a republic that is even now threat-
ened on its southern border by the forces of the Dark Baron.
This little spot of Terindell is but a small finger of Valisandra
pointing southwest."

After a last, long look at the stunningly beautiful scene,
they regretfully continued around the castle and up to its great
outer gate with its massive wooden doors.

Somewhere inside, a trumpet blared briefly, echoing through
the inner courtyard, and a great gong sounded three times. At
the third gong stroke, the huge doors opened inward, revealing,
to the newcomers' surprise, a moat. The inner castle was still
a good forty feet beyond. Now from the inner castle, the draw-
bridge lowered slowly on rusting hinges with a clatter of chains
and a moaning of protesting timbers.

"Wow. Just like Robin Hood," Joe muttered, a bit awestruck
in spite of himself.

The drawbridge hit with a clang, and, allowing Ruddygore
to lead the way, they entered the inner castle.

The entire castle was more a complex than a single build-
ing—and complex was the word. The outer wall, including
small guard towers and turrets, was thick enough to have almost
an avenue along its protected top; inside, it presented a complex
of ledges connected by elaborate stairways, all made out of
granite. Beyond this was the moat—an ugly affair, oily on the
surface and smelling as stagnant as it must be.

The inner castle was a second, thicker shell that definitely
had rooms throughout. How many it was impossible to tell,
but from the positioning of the windows they could see that
there were at least four floors. It was perhaps a hundred feet
thick.

Inside this structure was a broad, green courtyard, well kept
and maintained, with decorative shrubbery and flower beds; it

39

JACK L. CHALKER

was broken by a series of blocky stone buildings of various
sizes.

They stopped at the edge of the courtyard, and Ruddygore
beamed with pride. "Terindell was built more than six centuries
ago," he told them. "It has a grand and glorious history, since
its position here commanded the heights overlooking the two
great rivers and their junction—and, therefore, what commerce
and use the rivers made possible. It is quite a fortress, and its
location is still vital; but so long as it is mine and I am here,
it is safe from the kind of violence it was built to withstand."

"They'd have a tough time getting anybody out of here who
didn't want to go," Joe agreed. "They'd have to surround you
and starve you out, most likely, and that would put their backs
to the river in case you wanted out."

Ruddygore looked surprised at his new recruit. "You seem
to understand the military factors of my world very well for
someone from such a technological culture as your own. Do
you have any experience in this sort of thing?"

"Naw. It just seemed logical, is all," the former trucker
replied.

"Hmmm..." Ruddygore muttered to himself. "Remind me
never to confuse ignorance and stupidity again." He cleared
his throat and regained command of the conversation. "Staff
quarters are in the inner ring, as we call it. I also do a bit of
teaching here, and those students also stay there. Inside here
we have the central kitchen, then the adjoining banquet hall.
The two-storey, blocky L-shaped building over there contains
my library, laboratories, and quarters. Come—we'll go there
first."

He led the way across the courtyard. For the first time the
two newcomers noticed others in the vast castle complex. Smoke
was coming from the great chimney that abutted the kitchen,
and from inside could be heard talking and the sounds of hard
work. Around the courtyard, a few small boys were caring for
flower groupings or trimming bushes. No, Marge saw, not
small boys. About the size of nine- or ten-year-olds and dressed
in green leotards and jerkins, but definitely not boys. One, at
least, had a graying beard, and there was something odd, almost
inhuman, about their wiry bowleggedness, oversized hands and
feet, and disproportionately enormous and slightly pointed ears.
Ruddygore caught her thoughts.

40

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"Elves," he told her. "Nice, pleasant folk. Nobody better
for landscaping and grounds maintenance work."

Even as they followed the sorcerer, both Joe and Marge
could hardly keep from staring at the little men busily at work.

They reached Ruddygore's building and headquarters and
were met at the door by a tall, exotic, and, again, not quite
human creature. He was close to six feet and stood ramrod-
straight, but he was oddly elongated. Joe thought of him as a
four-foot-six man stretched somehow to that height. His face,
too, was incredibly lean and thin, his ears large, thin, and
sharply pointed. His skin was yellowish, and his eyes, black
orbs set in deep red where white should be, darted this way
and that like those of some beast of prey sizing up its victims.
He was dressed in the same sort of jerkin and leotards as the
elves, but his were a muddy brown. He wore no shoes; both
hands and feet were long and had lengthy, eaglelike talons
instead of nails. His jet-black hair was cropped very short, but
a shock of it rose up and drooped slightly over his forehead.
He was a formidable and fearsome sight, that was for sure.

"Welcome back, sir," the creature said in the stiff, emo-
tionless tones of a butler or other professional servant. He
neither looked nor sounded as if he were genuinely glad to see
Ruddygore or anybody else. "Did you have a pleasant and
successful trip?"

"Yes, yes, indeed," Ruddygore replied and started to go in.
He was suddenly aware of his two guests' hesitancy, stopped,
turned, and beckoned them in. "Please come in. Poquah—
well, I won't say he doesn't bite, but he certainly doesn't bite
friends."

Poquah gave what was probably meant as a disarming grin,
but he showed an awful lot of sharp, pointy teeth and what
looked like a black, forked tongue. The effect was more intim-
idating than it was hopefully meant to be.

Giving the creature something of a wide berth, they entered
and found themselves in a large, two-storey open room com-
pletely lined by bookshelves going from floor to ceiling. The
floor was covered with thick carpeting with elaborate designs
in gold and silver against a burnt orange background. Around
a central fireplace were four large, overstuffed chairs. The
fireplace itself was reinforced with brick and stone and had a

JACK L. CHALKER                 41

funnellike cap a few feet from the top that sucked up smoke
and took it out the roof.

"My quick-reference library," the sorcerer told them with
pride. "The bulk of the books are in storage rooms below the
castle itself. The whole hill is really a man-made honeycomb
of chambers."

They looked around the great library, and one thing im-
mediately struck Marge, at least. "Very impressive," she told
him. "I see all sorts of sizes and bindings on books on three
of the walls—but all the books on that far wall look the same,
with that red binding."

Ruddygore looked over at the wall and nodded. "Indeed,
you're right in that they are related. You'll find a set of those
in every town center, in every main city, and in the home of
everyone wealthy enough to buy them or with any interest in
the magical arts. Those, my dear, are the Books of Rules. Five
hundred and thirty-seven leather-bound volumes with every
little Rule that makes this place tick."

Poquah cleared his throat behind them. Marge jumped, not
having heard him move at all. "Pardon, sir," the creature said,
"but it is now five hundred and thirty-eight. A new one came
in while you were away."

Ruddygore threw up his hands and looked to heaven. "By
all the gods and demons and the Creator! This Council is the
worst batch we ever had! No wonder the world is going to
hell!" He let out a big sigh, then motioned to Joe and Marge.
"Have a seat, you two, and I will try to explain this idiocy to
you. Poquah, can you see about some cold ale for us and then
rejoin us here? You're going to be involved in this, too, you
know."

The creature bowed. "At once." He was gone so quickly
they could hardly realize he had left.

Taking comfortable seats in the padded chairs, the two re-
cruits waited for Ruddygore to begin.

"First of all," he said, "you have to remember what I told
each of you in our different conversations last night. How this
world was pure chaos, and how the angels in charge created
order out of it."

They both nodded, each realizing now that the other had
been given the same information.

"All right," the sorcerer went on, "What they did, they did

42           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

just to stabilize the place. They delivered the Laws. Needless
to say, those Laws are complex and involved, and you could
no more make sense of them than you could make sense of
esoteric particle physics. But they're the operating Rules for
the place. You follow me so far?"

They both nodded, and he continued.

"All right, then. Those Laws should be sufficient for every-
body. They're very general and very universal, but they're all
we really need. Unfortunately, several centuries ago, when this
castle was an outpost in a major war, a new bunch of sorcerers
came to the Council who were, let me say, rather pedestrian.
All the really powerful magicians of the time had either perished
in the wars or gone on to higher planes. This new Council was
made up of pretty petty men—it was all male then, although
that's changed—who decided that the Laws contained a large
number of loopholes. They weren't specific enough. They didn't
address modem problems. With that, the Council ceased being
the guardian of the Laws and the integrity of magic and our
way of life and became, alas, a bureaucracy. Oh, it was a
creeping little thing—you never really noticed it, it was so
agonizingly creeping—but, after a while, what we had were
the Books of Rules to cover everybody's pet idea, theory, moral
code—you name it. Anything they could get a majority of the
Council to consider and pass on. Every generation of sorcerers
brings some new stuff, and that's what you see behind me here.
As long as none of the Rules break any of the Laws—nobody
can do that—they are as binding and restrictive as any law of
nature."

"Sounds like income tax," Joe commented sourly. "They
started with a simple little tax, I'm told, on just the very rich,
and got to the point where there were hundreds and hundreds
of books of tax laws. I never could know 'em. Last year I had
to pay over two hundred bucks to have my taxes done. And
even the guys at the IRS admitted nobody really understood
the whole thing. It was just too much of a big mess."

Ruddygore smiled. "Exactly! That is exactly it! I doubt if
anybody anywhere understands all that's in those volumes. Fact
is, you just live in the world and you aren't even aware that
what you live with is one of the Rules. It's just the way things
are. And they're constantly being revised and rewritten. Biggest
mistake we made was forming a subcommittee to look over

43

JACK L. CHALKER

the Rules and throw out the bad and resolve some of the basic
contradictions that came up. Instead, the fatheads just increased
the amount of Rules."

"It's the tax code, all right," Joe said agreeably.

"Only it's worse, since what's in there affects everything
and everybody," Ruddygore pointed out. "You have no choice
in the matter. And you have no idea—yet—just how petty it
can get. And how silly. In fact, that's one thing we will have
,to attend to right away with the two of you. Right now you're
aliens in this land and still pretty much outside the Rules. If
we don't attune you to them before you leave Terindell, all
those dumb things will fall on you at the same time, and the
Creator alone knows what sort of terrible things might happen
to you. Poquah, is the lab in good shape?"

"Excellent, sir," the creature replied, and both Joe and Marge
almost jumped out of their chairs. Poquah was standing there
with a service cart filled with pitchers and tankards—for how
long he had been present, they couldn't say. There hadn't been
a sound from either him or the service.

Ruddygore chuckled at the two. "I admit Poquah takes some
getting used to. He is my closest aide and boss of this place,
second only to myself in authority. However, he is an Imir—
a race distantly related to those elves you saw, but very dis-
tantly. The Imir are large, as you can see, and a warrior race
if there ever was one."

Poquah served the tankards to the three of them in a good,
professional butler manner, but then poured a fourth for himself
and took the last chair. He still looked something like a stick-
man, bending only at right angles.

The Imir took a swallow from the tankard and put it down
on the carpet. "We deny relation to elves," he said proudly.
"Except, perhaps, the other way around. We have little in
common, elves and Imir."

"His people have a basic gift of faerie,* though," Ruddygore
told them, "honed in the Imir's case to a fine edge. You simply
will not see or notice them until and unless they want to be
seen or noticed. It is a trait many of the magical folk have,

* Faerie refers to the heritage, magic nature, power, and "realm" of fairies in general;

it has a connotation of that which is withdrawn from human ken. Fairy refers in
more specific manner to individuals, races, trails, and abilities of the fairy folk; its
connotation is more that of a normal, day-to-day existence.




44           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

but in their case it is a defensive one, triggered by startlement,
apprehension, or fear. In the case of the Imir, they can turn it
on and off at will—a very handy thing for warriors."

"I can see that," Marge agreed.

"Well, Poquah, what do you think of our two new recruits?"
the sorcerer asked.

Poquah looked over at the two of them, those red eyes
surveying first Joe, then Marge. "Interesting choices," he said
at last. "But as a pilot project, they may do. I am surprised at
the presence of the woman, but it adds symmetry to the entire
affair."

Ruddy gore smiled. "The Imir are not known for tact and
diplomacy," he told them. "They tell you exactly what they
think."

"Diplomacy and tact are basic dishonesties developed by
races who can not fight," the Imir responded casually. "They
are unnecessary to the Imir."

Ruddy gore sighed and got up. "Very well, then. Let me get
a change of clothes, and we'll see to making a proper hero and
heroine out of the two of you."

CHAPTER 4

HOW TO MAKE
A GOOD APPEARANCE

All persons brought from other universes must be physically ac-
climated to this one and bound to the Laws and the Rules.

—XX, 210, 116(a)

WHAT RUDDYGORE CALLED HIS LABORATORY WAS A STRANGE

cross between a real lab and something out of the Middle Ages.
There were compartments, basins, beakers, and flasks very
much like those in a school chemistry lab, and there was even
a source of natural gas with small Bunsen burner-type nozzles
on flexible hoses. There was drainage in the basins, too, al-
though water was strictly a hand-pump affair from several lo-

JACK L. CHALKER                 45

cations. Other parts of the place, though, were what Joe called
"strictly voodoo."

There were open areas with all sorts of mystic and cabalistic
designs on the floors; long candelabras and incense burners in
the shape of odd and demonic idols stood about. Here, too,
were braziers and all the other paraphernalia one would expect
of an ancient court magician or high priest. There was even
an area with an unpleasant-looking altar set into one wall.

Even in the modem part, with its hundreds of little drawers
and compartments, things were less than usual. Bat's blood, a
jar of eyes of newts, and other things even less pleasant revealed
themselves when Joe opened a few compartments out of cu-
riosity. A drawer full of live spiders, quickly slammed shut
again, ended his meddling in a hurry.

Ruddygore entered from the rear, near the altar, looking
quite different from how he had looked earlier, resplendent
now in flowing robes of sparkling gold and wearing a skullcap
of the same material.

He smiled and nodded to them, then went over to one of
the clear areas near the altar and glanced down in disgust.
"Damn. Have to get a mop first and wait for the floor to dry.
Damned adepts with their love spells..."

Still grumbling, he got a fairly ordinary-looking mop out
of the base of an exotic offering stand, pumped out some water
from one of the well basins, soaked the mop, and quickly erased
the designs on the center of the floor. Replacing it all, he wiped
his hands on a towel and came over to them.

"I'll have to wait for the whole thing to dry," he said. "I
need to sketch out a few new designs down there." He sighed.
"Well, we can use the time a bit to discuss your future."

"That interests me a lot," Joe told him, and Marge nodded.

"Well, let me start with you, Joe. Did you ever imagine
yourself off in some other time and some other place as the
hero of a big epic? You seem fond of show business, by your
remarks. Ever imagine yourself as one of those big, strong
heroes?"

Joe thought a moment. "Not really. Not from movies or
TV, anyway."

"Not even when you were a kid?"

He thought a moment more. "Yeah. I guess so. I'm more
than half native American, you know, mixed with Seminole

46

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

and whatever part of Puerto Rican is from the old days. I used
to like to hear the old folks' stories about how it was before
the white man. You know, the great civilizations of the past.
A lot of times I saw myself as the great warrior chief, riding
down with super power and wisdom, turning back the white
man and saving the old ways. Kind of silly for a kid from
South Philly, I guess, whose idea of wilderness was Fairmont
Park, but it does something to a kid when all the other kids
are playing cowboys and yeu know what you are."

Ruddygore nodded thoughtfully. "I can see that. Can you
think back to it clearly? I mean, can you visualize that warrior
chief? What he looked like?"

Joe considered. "Yeah. I think I can. Sort of."

"Okay, then. Just hold that vision and don't let go." The
sorcerer turned to Marge. "And you? Any super cowgiris?
Beautiful princesses? Amazonian warriors?"

She smiled wistfully. "Yeah."

"Which one?"

"All of 'em."

The sorcerer chuckled. "Well, if you had to pick one, some
vision of yourself—perhaps as the warrior queen, gutsily de-
fending her splendid golden castle..."

She thought it over and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Yeah. I can think of a dozen novels I've practically lived
again and again."

"All right. Just keep that vision in mind." He looked over
at the floor. "I see it's dry now. Let me make my preparations."

He reached inside the mouth of a hideous bronze idol set
in the wall and took out what proved to be a piece of thick,
soft chalk. Working rapidly, he positioned first Joe, then Marge,
about eight feet apart in the clear area, then started drawing
around each of them on the smooth slate floor with the chalk.

The designs were identical. Pentagrams, clearly and solidly
drawn, and outside each pentagram a six-pointed star. He got
up from the floor and said, "Now, neither of you move. Not
an inch outside those pentagrams—not until I tell you. Un-
derstand?"

Joe looked nervous and uncomfortable. 'The real conjure
stuff," he murmured uneasily.

The sorcerer nodded. "The real stuff, Joe. You in particular
should understand that you stay where you are at all costs.

JACK L. CHALKER                 47

Marge, you take it seriously, too." He backed up a distance
from both of them, then drew a new, larger pentagram around
the two recruits, this time with Ruddygore inside. From a small
valise also inside the outer design he removed candles and long
candlesticks, which he proceeded to set at each of the five
points of the outer pentagram. He lighted each candle in turn
with a long stick which was burning at one end, being careful
at no time to cross the outer pentagram. Then, stepping back,
he proceeded to draw the same design around himself as around
the other two, so that he was equidistant from them and facing
them. He checked everything visually to make sure it was all
to his satisfaction, nodded, and took a deep breath.

"It is a simple spell. Child's play, really. But you get to be
an old sorcerer not only from long study but also because you
never take even the easy ones for granted. Now, don't be
startled by anything that happens from now on. Take it as a
show, a magic trick, but for the sake of your souls, do not
break your own pentagrams!"

"You gonna conjure a demon?" Joe asked uneasily.

"That's about it," Ruddygore agreed. "A very minor one of
little importance, but it owes me. It will appear between us,
so I warn you about that right now. It may look fearsome; but
as long as you remain totally within your pentagrams, it can
not touch you, let alone harm you. It may also sound very
decent and civilized, but don't let that fool you, either. At this
level, the demons are more raw emotion than intellect and have
just about no self-control. If you break your pentagram, it will
almost certainly eat you and carry your soul to Hell as its eternal
slave. There would be nothing I could do about that—under-
stand?"

They both nodded, and Marge couldn't help thinking over
and over, My god, this isn't a dream or a joke—it's real\ As
for Joe, he'd had no doubts from the beginning.

"All right," Ruddygore said, taking a deep breath. "Here
we go."

With that he closed his eyes and began chanting, softly, in
a language neither of the other two could comprehend. It was
an ancient tongue, though, seemingly of some race that far
predated humanity, and it was not designed for the human vocal
system.

It's no wonder sorcerers also go in for all sorts of potions,

48           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

Marge thought, hearing it. They all have to have chronic sore
throats.

For a while, nothing happened, and the newcomers began
to think that nothing would occur. Then, quite slowly, they
both realized that the light level was sinking ever so gradually,
the torches and lamp flames shrinking in intensity. It was grow-
ing, abruptly, quite dark; within four or five minutes, all light
sources in the lab were out, except the five candles at the outer
pentagram points. Again a minute or two passed with nothing
else happening, but the air grew thick with expectancy.

Suddenly, in the space between Ruddy gore and themselves,
there was a disturbance in the air. It began as a few silver and
gold sparkles, but slowly, about three feet from the floor, the
sparkles increased in number and intensity and started to swirl,
forming after a time a sparkling whirlpool or galaxy shape
which quickly widened, took a new shape, and outlined a
grotesque figure in its tiny flashing pattern. The sparkles sud-
denly vanished, and the shape became solid and real before
them.

It was a terribly ugly creature, round and squat, in some
ways resembling a toad but with a face that was more piglike
than anything else, complete with two big, curved, boarlike
tusks and lots and lots of teeth. It was hairless, naked, and
stood on two birdlike feet. Its eyes were round and bright yellow
with black dots in the center, like the eyes of a fish, and, like
them, seemed lidless. The skin itself was mottled, gray and
greenish, the color of death and mold—and it stank up the
place to high heaven.

It looked up at Ruddygore—being only three feet high—
and gave a nasty grin. "You don't mind if I check you out?"
it rasped in an unpleasant, grating voice. "Even the best slip
up now and then."

"Be my guest," the sorcerer responded.

With that the creature waddled around, checking the designs
around each of the three humans, then walking the length of
the outer pentagram. Finally satisfied, it returned to the middle
of the three and again looked at Ruddygore. "They're good
enough to restrain me," the demon admitted without sounding
in any way surprised. "Wouldn't hold an elemental or anything
stronger, though. You're slipping in your old age."

JACK li. CHALKER                 49

Ruddygore smiled. "It doesn't need to hold anything stronger.
You still owe me, Ratzfahr. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah. Damn. Ask a little favor just one time and
they never let you forget it," the demon grumped.

"One! You want the list?"

"Aw, okay, okay." Ratzfahr turned his head completely
around without moving his body and looked at the other two,
then swiveled back to Ruddygore. "They smell funny," the
demon noted.

"So do you," the sorcerer retorted, "but I've never let that
come between us."

"This is some nutty language you got us talkin', too," the
demon went on. "Where'd you get these two, anyway?"

"Earth Prime," Ruddygore told him. "Where else?"

The head swiveled again. "Well, I'll be a cherub! Earth
Prime! Been a long time. You figurin' on screwing up the
neighborhood?"

"No, but I have need of them," Ruddygore said. "So don't
you try any tricks on them, Ratzfahr. They're my guests."

"Guests." The demon chuckled evilly. "I'll bet. Still, what's
your pleasure?"

"Acclimatization. The works. Physical. Language. No soul,
though. That stays Prime."

"Aw, for cryin' out loud!" the demon protested. "C'mon,
you old windbag! That's a hell of a lot! You ask too much."

"No matter what, you must return to Hell," Ruddygore
reminded the creature menacingly. "It wouldn't do for everyone
down there to know the Profane Name by which you were
formed!"

The demon looked genuinely shocked. "You wouldn't!"

"You bet I would! And you know it!"

The demon sighed. "All right, all right, you got me where
it hurts. You sure about the soul, though? They'll stand out
like magnets to them that got the Power."

"I have my reasons," the wizard told him. "Just do as in-
structed."

"Okay, okay. What language you want?"

"Makti, of course. Unless you'd like to give them 'the Gift
of Tongues."

"You gotta be kiddin'," Ratzfahr scoffed. "You know what
that would take out of me."

50

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

51

"I do, which is why I ask rather than demand. Makti it is,
then."

The demon suddenly floated up two feet in the air, turned,
and looked at the man and woman critically. "Yeah, I can see
they need work," he commented idly.

Both Joe and Marge were tempted to return the insults, but
were a little leery about saying much of anything. The demon
was certainly not what either of them had expected, but Ruddy-
gore's warning had been seriously taken.

Ratzfahr gave a low whistle. "Wow. They really have high
opinions of themselves, don't they? Oh, well. Here goes nothin'!
Raddis on the frabbis! Freebix on the CliveV And with those
cryptic remarks he started spinning, picking up speed very fast
until he was only a whirling blur of motion in the near darkness.
Suddenly from him emanated two columns of gold and silver
sparkling rays that touched and then seemed to engulf the two
humans' pentagrams.

They both felt a sudden falling sensation, as in a fast-de-
scending elevator, and a tingling, like electric shock, only all
over their bodies. For a moment, it was all either could do to
remain standing in the pentagrams, and each had a fear of
falling out and into the clutches of the demon; but while both
wavered a bit, they held steady.

There was sound all around, too, now: the cacophony of
thousands of discordant voices shouting and competing with
what seemed like ten symphony orchestras all playing nonsense
and out of tune. It grew and grew inside their heads and all
around them until they thought they could stand no more.

And then, quite suddenly, it was over.

Marge shook her head a little as if to clear it, and Joe let
out a big "Whew!" Both looked back at Ruddy gore, who was
again facing the now stationary demon.

Ruddygore said something to them, and it sounded like
nonsense. Idiot syllables that hardly seemed like a language at
all, but more like the magical chanting he'd done at the be-
ginning. They both just looked at him in confusion, and Marge,
at least, worried that the demon had played some sort of nasty
trick on them.

Ruddygore, however, seemed satisfied. "How's this?" he
called to them. "Do you understand me now? By all means,
speak up and tell me."

"Yeah, that's fine," Joe called back.

Marge said, "I thought for a minute something awful had
happened."

Ruddygore nodded, mostly to himself. "Good job. Ratty.
Now, go! I banish thee back to the realm whence thou didst
come! In the name of Hagoth and Morloch, I do send thee to
thy world and charge thee remain until called once more! Go!"
Ruddygore paused for a moment. "A case of cigars will be
sent to you. Enjoy."

"Thanks, T.R.!" the demon responded—and vanished.

"Hold up!" Ruddygore called to the two humans. "Don't
go yet. He sometimes likes to pull a fast one!" With that, the
sorcerer commenced a long, unintelligible chant.

Suddenly in the air very near them, the demon's voice came.
"Aw, shit!" it said, and the sense of presence vanished.

All at once, all the lights, flames, and torches in the room
flared back into life. There was no sign of the demon. Still,
Ruddygore completed the chant, then looked around and seemed
to relax visibly. "It's all right now. Let's take a look at you!"

But they were already looking somewhat awestruck, staring
at each other.

"Come!" the sorcerer invited them both. "Stop staring and
walk with me back here to where the mirror is."

Both hesitantly waited until the sorcerer had walked from
his pentagram and crossed the outer one before following, but
that didn't keep them from rushing to the mirror once they
were assured in their own minds that they were safe.

They stood there, next to each other, gaping at their own
reflections as they had gaped at each other.

Joe had been a big man, but now he was even larger. Six
foot six, perhaps, in bare feet, and built like a man of iron,
muscles rippling with every movement, his skin a smooth,
metallic bronze. His face was strongly chiseled, an Indian
warrior's face, rugged yet strong and handsome. A young Ger-
onimo, perhaps, or Cochise, with a great mane of shoulder-
length, jet-black hair.

Marge, too, had thought taller, but she barely came to his
shoulders. Still, she was a vision of her mind—long, pure,
strawberry-blond hair, enormous, deep green eyes, with an
angelic face and perfectly proportioned supple, athletic, and
definitely sensual body.




52           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

Joe's voice was now a deep, rich baritone; Marge's, a strong
but inviting soprano. It was Joe, after perhaps four or five

minutes, who spoke first.

"Hey! We're stark naked!" he exclaimed.

Ruddygore summoned Poquah while he cleaned up his lab,
and the Imir took them back to two wardrobes, one with a vast
assortment for men, the other for women. The extensive cloth-
ing, in a wide range of sizes, told a little more about the land
of Husaquahr. Jerkins, tights, and other fashions more at home
in a medieval costume epic seemed the rule, although there
were hundreds of variations, including elaborate robes, long,
satiny dresses, and very ornate male and female clothing.
Everything was well made but obviously hand-done in all re-
spects. Poquah told them to select whatever from the wardrobes
they would feel most comfortable wearing and assured them
that later on they would be allowed to pick more extensively.

Right now, this was just to get them started.

Both discovered that undergarments either were not the fash-
ion or hadn't been discovered here. Oh, there were under-
clothes—more or less full-body types—but they seemed to go
with the fancy and uncomfortable-looking royal garb.

Marge finished first, then made her way back to the library,
where Poquah had coffee, tea, and pastries waiting. "It is best
to eat something, although lightly," he told her. "Your digestive
system will need a little help in starting up again without your

getting ill."

She accepted his advice, pouring some lightly sugared tea

and nibbling on a small croissant. She looked around for a
mirror, but there were only books about the place. Too bad,
she thought. / still can't believe that that image in the mirror
back there is really me. Still, she had to admit she felt—well,
different. Lighter, more agile, more nubile and nimble, and

disgustingly healthy.

"Almost feel like a kid again, eh?" came Ruddygore's voice

behind her, and she jumped slightly in surprise and turned to

him.

"Yes, that's really it," she answered. "I don't think I've

ever felt this good. And—do you read minds, too?"

"When I have to, but it took no sorcerous turns to guess
your thoughts this time," the wizard responded lightly. "I as-

JACK L. CHALKER                 53

sume Poquah has cautioned you against overindulging for a
while?"

She nodded. "That's all right. I don't really feel hungry.
Just a bit dry."

"That's natural," he assured her. "Drink anything you want,
but stay away from ales and other heavy stuff until you have
a few meals in you. I might warn you, too, as a matter of
general principle, not to drink any water you haven't boiled,
here or anywhere. Fermented stuff, boiled hot drinks, and fresh
fruit juices, though, are all right."

"I'll remember," she promised. At that moment Joe entered,
and she turned to look at him. She couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"Well! Look at you!"

"Look at you, too," he retorted, and seemed to mean it.

"What do you mean by thatT

Ruddygore decided it was time to step in, although he was
vastly amused by the reaction. "Welcome to the Rules," he
told them. "Come—sit down and I'll explain what this is all
about."

Poquah hastened to give Joe the same cautions he'd given
Marge. Joe, though, seemed more disturbed by the exchange
than by any cautions.

Marge continued to stare at him. She had hardly gotten used
to the rough, burly, dark truck driver, and now here was this
young, muscular—savage? No, that wasn't the right word. But
Joe had gone along with the body and the image. First he'd
chosen a crimson headband to keep his unaccustomed long hair
in place, and beyond that a wide leather belt—perhaps four
inches or more—with small bronze studs or rivets going evenly
around near top and bottom. Aside from the belt, though, he'd
chosen a long, thick cotton loincloth, leather sandals—and that
was it.

As for Joe, this new, strangely beautiful woman didn't bother
him much, either—after all, it had been probably no more than
a day and a half since they'd met for the first time—but he
could hardly understand why a woman wearing a pretty re-
vealing cotton-lined leather halter and a "skirt" apparently made
up of thousands of strands of individually strung red and purple
beads that showed practically everything every time she moved
had any right to comment on his garb.

Ruddygore, still wearing his golden robe, took a couple of




54

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER 55

large, fat pastries and sat back down in his chair. Marge sat
in a chair to his right, legs slightly crossed, and Joe sat facing
them, noting that, from almost any angle, the woman might
as well have nothing on at all as that "skirt," whose strands
fell away to reveal all, being connected only by a slim and
nearly invisible waistband.

"Your reactions to each other's choices are natural, but I
can explain it," the sorcerer assured them between bites. "First
of all. Marge, you're surprised that Joe chose what he did, so
let's take care of that. Joe—why did you choose the sword
belt, loincloth, and sandals over all the rest?"

Joe looked blankly back at them. "Why, I dunno, really... It
just seemed... right, somehow."

Ruddygore nodded. "Volume 46, page 293, section 103(c)—
the Books of Rules." He gestured back at the wall of red-bound
volumes. "Your mental image, Joe, was, in the parlance of
this world, the classical barbarian hero. Now, don't get mad
at that word 'barbarian.' It's simply a word applied by a culture
to anybody who obviously comes from a different one, one
they feel superior to—and which may well be superior to theirs.
Get used to it."

"I kinda like it," Joe responded. "Barbarian. Yeah. That's
about right. But what was all that volume and page stuff?"

"That particular section, Joe, says, 'Barbarian male heroes
in southern temperate climes shall wear their hair long, nor
shall they shave their beards, and will dress appropriately in
sword belt, loins, and sandals.' And that's what you did. Of
course, since you chose an Oriental barbarian, basically, you
won't have a beard or much body hair. But, you see, that's
how the Rules work. They don't order you to do something.
They just make it so you naturally want to do it."

Joe chuckled. "So that explains it. Still, it feels right. I don't
mind." He had a sudden thought. "But what if I have to go
where it's cold?"

"Don't worry about it. Section 103(b) covers it. You don't
have to know it. You'll just do it when the time comes. You'll
know. That's the most positive thing about this land, Joe. You
know. And if you meet someone similarly dressed, you'll know
what he is, too."

"Pair enough. And her?"

Ruddygore turned to Marge. "You realize, of course, that

you're almost more in a state of undress than dress. That's
what Joe was talking about."

"Well, yeah, but... Oh, those books again."

Ruddygore nodded. "Volume 46 is mostly concerned with
appearances. Page 119, section 34(a)—'Weather and climate
permitting, all beautiful young women will be scantily clad.'
It's as simple as that."

She just stared at him.

"Don't blame me," the sorcerer responded, reaching for
another pastry. "I told you they were petty—and in great detail.
The current Council is overdoing it quite a bit, I admit, but
the basics have been here for thousands of years. They lend
stability to the land. In a way, you have to sympathize with
the Councils of the past. They were faced with imposing sanity
on a world based upon magic. And, truthfully, does your cur-
rent garb bother you?"

She thought for a moment. "Well..."

"Truthfully, now. You didn't even realize it until it was
pointed out to you, did you?"

"No, I didn't," she admitted. "It's just that, spelled out like
that, there's something that offends me, deep down."

"Both of you may find yourselves compromising some of
your principles from your old world, but you have to accept
the Rules. It isn't like changing the mind of a legislature or
something. In a way, it's close to repealing the law of gravity
to change the Rules in any substantive manner. And, by the
way, gravity isn't locked in concrete here, either. The universe
still operates in pretty standard ways, but don't assume that
local conditions do. They most assuredly do not."

She got up and walked over to the wall of red books, pulled
one out, and opened it at random. She found it a mess of black,
blue, and red squiggles and she couldn't read a word of it. She
shook her head and put it back. "I guess we're both back to
being illiterate here. That brings up a point, by the way. Just
as these books are in some other language, people around here
aren't going to speak English, either. Do we have to take
language lessons?"

Ruddygore chuckled. "Oh, my, no! That was part of the
acclimatization process. You remember just after it was all
done I yelled something at you? Something neither of you could
understand?"




56

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

They both nodded.

"I was yelling in English. Look." He proceeded to give off
what sounded like a strange and inhuman series of sounds, then
smiled. "That was English. Neither of you speaks it any more,
nor understands it, either. We are right now conversing in a
language called Makti. It's the trading language of the river.
Although there are dozens of tongues spoken just on and around
the river, there is one—a sort of simplified amalgam of them
all with its own grammar and syntax—that developed because
of the need for it. It's locked in the Rules—Volume 306 is a
dictionary, 305 gives the Rules governing it. No matter where
you are in Husaquahr, there will be those who understand it
and speak it fluently."

"Yeah, but what about words not in the language?" Marge
asked him. "I mean, I still am a Texan, and that's not a likely
word."

"Nor is it one," the sorcerer agreed. "But that word, and
similar words, are provided for. They remain in a mental sec-
ondary vocabulary, still as they were in English, and under-
standable to a speaker of English. Makti is a very flexible
tongue, you see, and accommodates local idiom. Otherwise it
would be of little use as a trading language. However, with its
six tones and shorthand basics, it's not transliteratable into
English at all. The language as written is also ideographic, I
fear, with a basic alphabet of more than two thousand characters
and sixteen accent and tone marks. It takes years to leam if
you weren't raised with it, and a full vocabulary, capable of
complex writing and reading, say, the Rules, is tens of thou-
sands of symbols. The bottom line is that, yes, you're illit-
erate—like the vast majority of mis world—and probably going
to stay that way."

"It sounds pretty complicated to me," she told him. "You
mean the other languages are even more complicated?"

"Vastly so," the sorcerer assured her. "So much so that
Corabun, for example," spoken in the area of the Fire Hills and
Lake Zahias far to the west of here, has never had a successful
written language. Or Hruja, spoken in parts of Leander, which
is so ridiculous that you have to know some ideograms because
you have to draw in the air just to talk unambiguously to one
another."

57

JACK L. CHALKER

"Ideograms," Joe put in. "That's picture writing? Like the
Chinese and Japanese back home?"

"Something like that," Ruddygore replied. "But it's not the
same language by far."

"It seems this would lock in the hierarchy," Marge noted.
"I mean, if you can't read or write, you can't be a trader or
businessman, or get a top spot in government. So most of the
people can't read those Rules, either, which leaves the magic
up to those who can."

"I'll admit to that, in a general way," Ruddygore responded,
"but not totally. Remember, here most trades, skills, and po-
sitions are passed down from one generation to the next. And
whatever literacy is required gets passed along, too. Occa-
sionally somebody with a real knack for it comes along who
is, say, a peasant fanner, and then he—or she—rises in society
and power if he wants."

"So the farmer's kid can be king—if he's somehow able
to leam the language on his own, with nobody to teach him,
and then get access to all the books he needs. Clever. You
hold open the hope to the lowest that their kids might rise all
the way, while conditions make it just about impossible for
them really to do so. It's neat," Marge said sourly.

Ruddygore shrugged. "It works. What can I say? And every-
body knows some example somewhere. However, whatever
gave you the idea that a king has to be skilled or literate? Most
of them are blithering idiots, really. Figureheads for their ad-
visors, councilors, and bureaucracy."

"Pretty cynical, aren't you?" Marge retorted. "But since we
can't read or write this stuff, we're stuck on the low rung.
Some new world!"

"Oh, my, no!" The sorcerer chuckled. "Barbarians can rarely
read—but one or two have seized and held kingdoms. Your
wits are your best assets, I assure you. That and training and
working at needed skills—and keeping those bodies of yours
in peak physical shape. I have a great deal of hope for the two
of you and a great set of missions. You are very important to
me. You see, right now I have remade you to this world and
its laws and rules. Almost all of you. But your souls are still
of your native world, and that is important. The forces of Hell
must work through agents here, but their magic is far different
from any here. They attune themselves to the souls of our

58

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

59

world. You are totally vulnerable to the considerable magic of
this world and this land—but you will find yourselves invul-
nerable to the direct sorcery of Hell. It may be of small dif-
ference to you, but it may be of great consequence to me."

"I'm not sure I understand anything you just said, but it
doesn't sound like either of us is gonna have a long and happy
life," Joe grumped. "Seems to me like a pretty high price just
to get out of alimony and child support."

Ruddy gore smiled. "Long or short? Who knows? You were
minutes from death when I pulled you away, Joe."
"So you say. I ain't real sure I believe all that stuff."
"Believe it or not as you will, it is true. But it is also beside
the point now, anyway, and that's the way you should think
of it. You are here. You can't get back. Even if I were to let
you, you are so changed from who you were that you'd be a
strange barbarian in your old world speaking a language nobody
could understand. They'd lock you up in a little room and
throw the key away. Walk out of here now and you will be in
a world you know nothing of and are ill-prepared to live in.
Stick it out, Joe. Remember, I said I needed a hero, not a
martyr. You're no good to me dead, and I'm going to spend
a lot of time and effort to keep you alive. Take it like that. I
need you, and, at least for now, you need me. Fair?"

Joe considered it. "Yeah, I guess so. For now, anyway. But

what comes next?"

"I've been wondering that, too," Marge put in.
"Time is not on my side," the sorcerer told them. "Right
now the enemy is slowing to a halt far south of here because
it is flood season, and the lower river is one vast flood plain.
After that will come the monsoons, which make movements
unpredictable. Still, the enemy will be fully on the march again
in three or four months, and that means we have six months
at best before we either act or fight him at our gates. Not a lot
of time, but with a bit of magical help and a lot of experience—
and the cooperation of you both—I think we can use that time
to good advantage. You'll be seeing little of each other from
this point until you are ready. Each of you is now going to
school. A most unusual school. One pupil each. If and when
you finish, you will be well prepared for the hardships and
challenges you might face—and more than able to exist in
Husaquahr or anywhere else on our world." He turned to the

Imir, who stood nearby as always. "Poquah, show them to their
quarters and notify Huspeth and Gorodo."

"When do you wish them to begin?" the Imir asked him.
"As soon as possible. This evening, if practical or conve-
nient. We have no time to spare."

CHAPTER 5

ANSWERING THE MUNCHK1NS'
QUESTION

A witch is the term given to any practitioner of potion magic and/
or spells whose practice is based upon a system of religious beliefs.
—IX, 318, 201(a)

LATE THAT AFTERNOON POQUAH CALLED ON MARGE, WHO HAD

been relaxing on a feather bed in the small room the Imir had
brought her to earlier. She had mostly been just lying there,
thinking of how good it was to be alive and anticipating, per-
haps, romantic adventures to come. That and examining her
new body in minute detail.

I was dead inside, she realized, and now through an im-
possible miracle I'm more alive than ever. Having come so
close to death, she wasn't bothered by risk. In a sense, she
was already living on borrowed time—and each precious min-
ute was wonderful. The only thing she truly feared and could
not entirely shake from her thoughts was that this new life,
still so dreamlike and unreal to her practical mind, might end
as suddenly as it began. True, total insanity might be like this—
and, certainly, she was now living in her fantasies and dreams.
What if I'm somewhere inside a rubber roomi Somehow, deep
down, she wondered if she would ever really be rid of that one
fear, if she would ever really know. And, even more of a
question, did she fear knowing?

"You will come with me now," the Imir told her. "It is time
for you to begin your instruction."

She arose and nodded to him. "Where are we going?"




60            THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"It was decided that your best potential would be realized
by Huspeth in the Glen Dinig," Poquah replied, explaining
nothing. "As you know, we were expecting only the man.
Huspeth, however, is willing, and is better equipped than we.

Can you ride a horse?"

"Yes, I've ridden horses. At least I can manage. Why? Is

this Glen Whatsis far?"

"Not far," he said. "But too far to walk. Come with me.

We should make haste to get you there before dark." With that
he turned and walked out of the room and down the hall. She

followed, hurrying to catch up.

They went back down, across the drawbridge, and through

the outer ring. Just at the start of the road, two beautiful horses,
one coal black and the other snow white, waited, being held

by an elf groom.

She approached the horses excitedly. "How perfect they

are! But—no saddles, huh?" It was true. The horses were fitted
only with bridles and a smooth blanket tied about their mid-
sections.

"Saddles are a luxury. It is best you leam horsemanship

without them. Then a saddle will be a convenience, not a

necessity."

She looked dubious. "Well, okay, but I hope I can hold

on."

With the Imir's aid, she boosted herself up on the white

horse, grabbed the reins, and tried to get as comfortable as she
could. It felt a little strange being up, and she felt some muscles

being stretched in unaccustomed places.

The Imir mounted the black horse effortlessly and looked

over at her. "Shall we ride?"

She nodded. "Take it easy, though, at thestart, will you?

I'm a little wobbly."

"Slow and easy," Poquah assured her. Giving his mount a

light nudge with his foot, he started off. Her horse, apparently
very well trained, followed the black one at a slow, comfortable

pace.

Riding down the slope from the castle was fairly easy,

although they were following no trail. Still, Marge's horse
swayed and twisted with the land, and it took her several min-
utes and a few near spills to get anything approaching steadiness
without saddle or stirrups.

61

JACK L. CHALKER

"Who is this Huspeth?" she called to Poquah when they
closed ranks.

"She is a witch who lives in the Glen Dinig," the Imir told
her. "She is very old and very wise and very powerful. She is
a great one, but she never leaves her forest glades these days."

"Is she a friend of Ruddygore's?"

"Hardly. Huspeth has little use for people in general and
for sorcerers in particular. She is greatly feared by many, liked
by none."

"Thanks a lot," Marge said sourly. "And I'm being handed
over to her? Is it safe?"

"Nothing in life is safe," the Imir responded philosophically.
"However, she has her own reasons for wanting this task, which
was asked of her but could not be forced upon her. She will
do it, not because of the Master, nor for any cause, although
bur enemy is also her enemy, but because she chooses to do
it. We did not expect her to accept, but we chanced to ask."

They went on as the sun sank lower in the fields; with this
description of her prospective tutor. Marge's high spirits sank
a bit lower, as well.

After more than an hour's ride, out of sight of the castle
but just barely, they came over a rise and Poquah stopped.
Below, the plain gave way to thick forest, a distinct grove
perhaps two miles square between the rolling hills and the River
of Dancing Gods.

The Imir pointed. "The Glen Dinig," he told her. "Please
dismount." With that he jumped from his horse with a cat's
balance and turned to her. She found it difficult to move her
numbing legs, which throbbed with pain from the unaccus-
tomed ride, but she managed with his help to get one leg over
the other and sort of slide down to the ground. Relief shot
through her legs, although she staggered a bit from the painful
stiffness.

"Wow! I thought I was a better horsewoman than this!"

"Your old body's muscles were so conditioned, probably,"
he said, "but everything is new to you now. This body is drawn
from the energies that are around us and those which made up
your old self; it is a new body and it will need conditioning."

She whistled low and nodded, trying to shake the kinks out
of her legs. "Yeah. I keep forgetting that." She looked down
at the thick forest. "What now?"

62

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

63

"Huspeth never emerges from the Glen Dinig, and I can not
enter it. My instructions were to bring you to this point, then
direct you to walk down and into the wood. I will return to

Terindell."

Again she looked uncertainly down at the forest, which was

fast becoming a place of great shadow as the sun sank almost
to the horizon. "You're going to leave me to walk into those

woods at dusk alone?"

The Imir did not reply. Demonstrating his little trick once
more, he was gone, taking the horses. She looked around but
could see no sign of him or the mounts, nor hear anything
except a slight whistling of a warm wind. She was alone.

She sighed and shook her head. "Well, on your own again,
with not even a highway to bail you out." She considered
walking back to the castle, but it was a fair distance—several
miles, anyway—and most of it would be in the dark. She
sighed again. "Well, I've trusted old Ruddygore this far. May
as well keep doing it now." With this she walked down the
hill toward the woods.

It was much cooler in the Glen Dinig, and there was the
smell of the damp, with moss and rotting limbs giving it an
even eerier look in the gathering gloom. Insects and occasional
squirrellike creatures scampered here and there, startling her.

Having no other instructions, she just continued walking,
the forest getting thicker and darker as she went. She began to
grow nervous, fearing that she might be trapped alone in total
dark for the night, and she started having second thoughts about
going blindly through the place. She turned to make her way
back, but soon realized that back looked the same as forward
now. She had no idea how far she had come, nor exactly from
which direction. That being the case, and considering the small
size of the forest, she finally decided that the best thing to do
was to press on in one straight line. Eventually she'd have to
reach the edge of the forest or, at worst, the river.

In a few minutes, when things had just turned to a danger-
ous, nearly pitch-blackness, she came upon a small clearing;

in the middle of the clearing was an earthen hut. It was a very
primitive affair, looking much like a wood and straw igloo,
but there was a fire burning in a pit in front of the little hut—

and some sort of cauldron sat on an improvised stand above
the fire, smoke rising from it.

Relieved to see any sign of life, she hurried forward.

"Hold, girl!" came a voice, high-pitched and raspy, so grat-
ing that it almost sent chills up her spine. She stopped, turned,
and looked for the first time on Huspeth.

The woman was not merely old, she was ancient, mostly
stretched and wrinkled skin over a bare skeleton. The face was
scarcely human, with a long, pointed jaw and a tremendous
beaklike nose, and her eyes were like two huge, perfectly round
cat's eyes set in a yellow sea that literally glowed. She was
medium-sized, but bent over and leaning on a crooked stick.
She looked like everybody's bad dream of what a witch might
look like, down to the black, full-length robe, scraggly white
hair, and small, pointed black cap.

Huspeth looked Marge over critically, head twisting slightly
first one way and then the other, as a bird might examine
something before pouncing upon it. Finally she said, "So thou
art the one they send. Good! Good! Thou fairly bumest! What
is thy name, girl?"

"M-Marge, m'am. You are—Huspeth?"

The old woman cackled. "Sometimes. Sometimes. But come!
Sit by my fire! We shall get to know each other well over what
time is given to us. And stop that cowering! Art thou afraid of
an old woman like me?"

"I'm told you are a witch of great power," Marge responded
carefully. "Power is to be respected, and one mark of this
respect is fear."

The old woman roared with laughter. "Fairly said! Oh, truly
thou art a goodly one, and clever, too. If thou hast the will, I
will take thee farther than thou hast ever dreamed." She hobbled
up to the cauldron, sniffed, and looked a little quizzical.
"Hmmm.. .1 don't know. Come, girl. Smell and see if thou
canst decide if it is ready."

Expecting some foul witch's brew, Marge approached hes-
itantly, took a deep breath, let it out, then leaned over and
sniffed.

"it smells absolutely wonderful!" she exclaimed in surprise.
"What is it?"

"A recipe of mine. An old one, but a good one. I will teach




64           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

it to thee, and many others. Come! Get a bowl there, and a

spoon."

There were two wooden bowls and two small, hand-carved

wooden spoons beside the fire, and the old woman used one
spoon to fill first one bowl, then the other that Marge held up.

The food had the consistency of porridge, but had various
pieces of unknown fruits and vegetables—and perhaps other
substances—in it more like a stew. It smelled of all the good
tastes Marge could remember rolled up into one, and it tasted
even better, at least once it cooled slightly. Suddenly aware of
her hunger, she ate unhesitatingly, feeling more relaxed.

Huspeth, too, ate, but said nothing more. Still, she kept
looking at Marge with an almost hungry gaze, as if she saw,
somehow, something in the younger woman mat was of the
elder's own distant past, something lost forever but never from

the mind.

Only when they both had finished and the bowls and spoons

were put to one side did Huspeth decide to speak again.

'Tm sure they told thee a little about me," she began.
"Probably not the half of it. They think I do them a favor by
taking thee, but I do no one favors, and that is something thou

must remember."

"I'll remember," Marge assured her. "Actually, they said

very little. But they know you're not their friend."

The witch cackled. "That is certainly true! Still, when I first
knew of thee, before even they came to me as I already knew
they would, I knew that we had a destiny, thou and I. Thou
art unique. Virginal and with the soul of another world inside."
"Another world, yes," Marge agreed, "but virginal? Hardly."
"Virginal, yes!" the old woman snapped. "Hast thou still
not understood what Bakadur, who calls himself Ruddygore,
has done for thee? Thou hast cast off thine old body and with
it thy taints and sins. Thou art the one thing that all believe is
impossible. Thou art truly a virgin for the second time! Were
it not so, we would not be meeting here thus."

Marge just shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry—this is all
so new and so sudden. It takes time to accept something like

this."

"Time! Aye, time. Tell me, girl, what wilt thou do with

thy new life? More properly, what wouldst thou do with it if
the choice were entirely thine?"

JACK L. CHALKER

65

Marge thought a moment. "I—I guess I really haven't thought
that much about it. Right now I'm just going where I'm pointed."

The old woman nodded. "And yet that is the first thing thou
must decide, and quickly. Think on it now with me. Dost thou
have any skills? How wilt thou earn thy bread and board?"

Marge thought some more. "No skills, I guess. I've been
a flop at most things, and my education wasn't good for any-
thing back home and is of even less use here."

"Then thou hast the choices narrowed," Huspeth pointed
out. "Even the most base of peasants has great skills in plowing,
husbandry, and a thousand sundry other things that assure his
bread and board. There are no repair shops here. If thy roof
leaks, thou must patch it. If thou art cold, thou alone must
know the arts of sewing, weaving, and suchlike, and the uses
of tools and devices here, not in that odd land whence thou
dost come. Thou must see now that, alone in this world, thou
hast but one great and fragile asset, and that is thy great beauty."

Marge sighed. "Here, too, I guess, I'm reduced to that. I'm
even a total washout in my fantasies."

"Nay. There are two paths. One is easy and comfortable.
One such as thou can have many years as a dancer or courtesan,
perhaps finally finding a man to serve in marriage."

"I tried that. I wasn't very good there, either."

"There is a second way, though, for thee, but it involves
great work, nor is it easy to attain, nor comfortable, nor for
the weak in spirit. It will involve pain and great sacrifice, but
it has much reward as well, the greatest being freedom, that
thou needst do but as thou wilt. But the path is hard."

By the flickering firelight, the young woman turned in a
mixture of apprehension and hope to the older. "What path is
this?"

"The path of witchcraft, for which Bakadur has uniquely
prepared thy body and soul, whether from design or caprice,
I know not."

"Witchcraft!" Visions of dark and evil deeds, devil worship,
and women who looked .like Huspeth filled her mind. "I—I
don't know about that."

"Bah! Prejudice! I see the prejudice inside thee! That same
foolish, superstitious fear that marks all thy kind! Thinkest thou
of witches as servants of Hell? Thinkest thou that all witches
look like this?"

r

66           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"Why, I—"
"Some witches," Huspeth continued angrily, getting to her

feet, "look like this." With that, the entire area around her body
began to glow, enveloping her wizened, shrunken form, whirl-
ing and dancing as if alive. And out of the brightness stepped
a new form, a young woman of stunning beauty and elegance—
possibly the most beautiful woman Marge had ever seen. She
was beyond mere description, the distillation of all past visions

of female grace, beauty, and form.

Stunned by the vision. Marge opened her mouth both in

awe and wonder and sat transfixed.

A perfect hand reached out and gestured toward the seated

woman. "Arise, child," the vision said in a voice that was the
perfection of every woman's voice, sensual, musical, yet com-
pelling. Marge got up without even realizing it, feeling inside
that her new body, in which she'd so reveled up to now, was
like the old witch Huspeth compared with the one who now

stood before her.

"Why dost thou gape?" the vision asked. "Nothing has

changed except thy perception of me. I was, am, and remain

Huspeth, at least to thee now this night."

Marge managed to find a semblance of her voice. "You—

you are the same?"

"The same. It is thy first lesson. Judge not by appearance

in any manner. Yet since others do judge by thy visage, the
one who controls that visage holds power in and of the self.
Great beauty and youth yield one set of results, age and in-
firmity quite another. Such a power, to make others see as thou
dost wish, is of the greatest use. Male, female, child, adult—

all have their purposes."

"Wh-which are you?"
The vision smiled. 'That would be telling. But thou must

put away thy prejudices here. Hell is as much my enemy as it
is Bakadur's. Not that there are not witches bound to Hetl.
There most certainly are—and they are the most attractive of
the lot and the most seductive. But that is not a prerequisite
for witchcraft. Witchcraft is a methodology that may be applied
to many faiths, but it requires a faith to frame improperly for

use."

"I have little faith in much of anything," Marge admitted.

"First, thou must have faith in thyself, and that is the hardest

67

JACK L. CHALKER

of all. Thou must believe thyself better than the rest, capable
of great things, and thou must couple this with the desire and
wisdom needed to fulfill thy faith."

"That is the hardest faith of all," she agreed. "How can you
know unless you have been tested? How can you have goals
when you don't know what is attainable?"

"I will teach thee these things. Think upon it. What wouldst
thou do in this world? What is thy desire? Consider well thine
answer, for the wrong choices may yet deny thee these things."

She thought about it. Just what did she want from this world?
"Adventure," she decided and told Huspeth. "Excitement.
Challenge. The feeling of doing something important."

The beautiful vision smiled. "Ah! Those answers are the
ones that bring joy to my heart. Accept my proposition, and I
will teach thee faith—and after that power and skill. If thou
dost freely join of our order, I will give thee the means to what
thou sayest thou cravest. But the way is very hard."

Again Marge thought about it. Freedom. Independence. Ad-
venture. What were the alternatives? Nothing exciting. She
suspected, too, that this was what Ruddygore had intended, no
matter what the doubts of Huspeth. He didn't seem to do any-
thing randomly—except eat. Still, there were some doubts
... "You say the way is hard. What do you mean?"

Huspeth considered her reply. "For one thing, the longer
thou dost remain virginal, the greater thy powers will grow.
They will not vanish when thou dost submit, but they will
never increase beyond that point. Dost thou, young and beau-
tiful, consider that too great a price?"

"No," Marge responded quickly. "My life recently has been
pretty full of that. Until I can hold my own with the respect
of men, I can withhold myself. At least, I think I can."

Huspeth nodded. "No man may enter the Glen Dinig, not
even Bakadur and his precious Council. Thy testing will come
much later and far from here, when thou wilt need thy skills
the most. But come! The night is young! Let us begin!"

Huspeth was human once more, but still the figure of angelic
beauty. Only those catlike glowing eyes remained, although
such perfection was in itself inhuman. She walked over to
Marge, unhooked the halter and bead-skirt, and threw them
into the fire. "To begin, thou must return to the beginning,"
the witch said.




68           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

She reached down on the ground and picked up a gourd that
had been hollowed and hardened into a drinking vessel. "Drink
of this completely and do it now," she instructed Marge, who
took it, sniffed at it hesitantly, first cautiously tasted, then drank
the whole contents. It was a sweet drink that seemed honey-
based, but as it went down, she could feel a tingling begin,
first deep within, then slowly outward until her entire body
seemed covered with tiny little electric pricklings. Her mind,
too, was slightly numbed by it. She was wide awake, but
content to stand there, not really thinking at all.

"Thou art an empty vessel into which I will pour great
truths," Huspeth almost chanted. "Come! Stand before the fire."

In a trance. Marge moved as instructed and waited patiently,
aware but unable to do much of anything.

Huspeth positioned herself opposite the fire and raised her
hands. The fire seemed to grow brighter and leap up to her,
like a thing alive.

"Listen well," the witch began. "In the dawn of creation
were Adam and Eve created in the Garden, and of the sons
thou knowest, but of the daughters of the first time thou knowest
not. While the sons did quarrel and kill, the daughters did reject
those ways and sought to recommune with the Creator. One
found special favor of the Creator, and it is she who is at the
root of our order. Look! Look into the flames and behold Eden
as it was!"

Marge looked. In the flames she saw that which had been
so needlessly lost, a garden of impossible beauty; a magic
garden that was beyond any earthly experience because it was
created in true and absolute perfection. To see such total peace
and such absolute beauty and perfection fairly tore at her mind,
but within her, too, was a great sadness that such a place had
been lost forever.

"Feel thy sins, thy doubts, thy fears, leaving thee," Huspeth
intoned. "Feel them being drawn out when thou art faced with
the vision of the one perfect Garden. Peel them as they fall
into the flames and are so consumed. Feel thy past consumed,
thy guilt consumed, all consumed and gone in cleansing flames.
Thou art the daughter of perfection incarnate. Thou art but one
step from the Garden, a daughter of Eve, free of all save the
one sin that denies thee entrance."

As Huspeth spoke. Marge felt something drain from her,

r

JACK L. CHALKER

69

pour out from every part of her mind and body. Heavy, dark
feelings, things which she had lived with so long that she had
never even known they were there. Things from the dark cor-
ners where no human looked and where all things of Hell and
darkness dwelt. And as each poured out, unseen yet as tangible
as tumors excised from the body by a surgeon, she felt an
increasing lightness, a total sense of well-being.

"Thou daughter of Eve, dost thou accept they wedding to
the First and Perfect One and acknowledge her primacy?"

"I do, I do," Marge responded, meaning it.

"Then, thou daughter of Eve, closest to perfection, linked
to thy world and ours, know now the curse of our holy order.
Know that, having seen perfection, thou canst never attain it,
nor can any whom thou dost know or love. For only in knowing
what was forever lost canst thou know how truly cursed is all
humankind."

Tears welled up inside Marge and spilled out as she realized
the meaning of Huspeth's words. To have known perfection
and now to know that one might never attain it...

"Gather you, daughters of Eve, about this place and time
to see this child," Huspeth commanded. And all around the
fire Marge sensed but could not see a host of women, all of
great power.

"Do you approve this union?" the witch asked the unseen
host.

"We do, we do," came a hundred whispers from the dark
beyond the fire.

"Who is our Holy Mother?"

"Eve, who was first and created in perfection," came the
response from the unseen host.

"Who is our enemy?"

"Hell, who carried corruption to our Holy Mother's bosom,"
came the response.

"Who is now the mother of this child?"

"Eve, who was first created in perfection."

"Who shall her mother be among the daughters?"

"Thou, who bringest her forward."

"Child—dost thou accept this covenant and this sisterhood,
now and forevermore? Wilt thou be my daughter in covenant?"

"I will," Marge responded.

"She will. She will'." the host echoed.

70

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER 71

"As a sign of this, child, place thy hand in mine!" With
that the witch reached her hand directly into the flame.

Marge was aware that this was a critical choice and that she
was free to make it or not to make. It. To put her hand in the
fire...

She reached forward, feeling the heat of the flames, and
grasped the hand of Huspeth. There was a searing sensation,
then a sharp pain, ahd she knew that a razor-sharp cut had been
made in her hand. Blood, not just hers but Huspeth's, dripped
from their clasped hands into the flames and hissed.

"Witness the bonding of blood, you daughters," Huspeth
intoned. "Witness the act of trust in placing her hand in the
flame. She is truly flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, and
is bound over into our holy order and subject to all its strictures
and commands."

"Let it be so," the chorus intoned.

The hands were unclasped and withdrawn, and Marge some-
how had enough control to glance briefly at hers. It was un-
bumed, but there was a crosslike incision on the wrist which
was just starting to clot.

Slowly the fire died down to its original strength, and the
sense of presences all around diminished and was gone. They
were alone once more. Huspeth reached down and picked up
a second gourd and walked over to her. "Drink and rest," she
instructed gently.

Hardly aware of the pain in her wrist, Marge took the gourd
and drank from it unthinkingly, then allowed herself to be led
to a soft clump of grass in the small meadow, where she lay
down and was soon fast asleep.

Huspeth stood there a moment, then said, "Arise thou by
moonlight."

Marge's sleeping form did not stir, but from her body rose
a mistlike substance that congealed and solidified into a human
form. It was the form of a girl-child, perhaps six or seven, and
it bore little resemblance to the sleeping woman as she now
was, but a great deal of resemblance, had anyone there been
able to know it, to the little child Marge herself had once been.

Huspeth reached out her hand to the child and smiled, and
the child-spirit approached and took it, smiling back.

"Didst thou see the pretty Garden, my daughter?" the witch
asked.

"Oh, yes. Mommy! It was so beautiful!"

"Well, it's not completely gone. Look around thee here, at
this glade and this forest. See its beauty and its magic, for it
is alive."

The little girl looked around with a little girl's eyes and a
little girl's mind—and saw.

The weeks sped by quickly, and Huspeth proved a good
teacher indeed. Marge was aware that she was getting a lot of
information indirectly, somehow, but she didn't discover how.
Still, she found many of her old fears and attitudes changing,
and within her grew a new sense of self-confidence.

The forest and glade of the Glen Dinig, which had seemed
so lonely and fearsome not long before, became a familiar
friend in both day and darkness. It was certainly a magical
wood, filled with wonders, yet its most magical quality was
its utter peacefulness and tranquility. Not even the insects would
bite. The deer and marmots and other natural inhabitants had
no fear of her, nor she of them, although they were not tame.
There was a balance, a perfect balance, and carnivores were
not allowed.

Much of the instruction was rote memory, since she had no
means of recording or reading over anything, but Huspeth was
a good teacher with a lot of aids for problems. The lessons
ranged from the simple—how, in fact, to prepare wondrous
meals merely from what was around one, and all vegetarian—
to the making of potions from the same plants and the recog-
nition of them. There was magic, too—not only in the potions
but in how to sensitize oneself to the energies around one, and
to sense the life energy in the trees and grasses, the blaze of
a deer in full flight, even the furies of nature.

One day there was a great thunderstorm with enormous bolts
of lightning all around. Soaked completely, both of them stood
in the middle of the glen, and Marge watched as Huspeth called
down the bolts, directed them, and bent the terrible forces to
her will. Training mind and will, Marge learned a little of
wielding such natural power herself and found, later, that one
who could deflect the lightning could deflect other things as
well.

There was physical training, too. The use and throw of the
dagger, and how to conceal it while wearing only the flimsiest




72

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

of garments. The sword and saber also had their uses, partic-
ularly when one could subtly influence the thrust or direction
of an opponent's blade.

Her muscles were hardened and strengthened through long
runs and severe exercise including the use of weights. She
learned, too, to know her own body, to control its every move-
ment and action. Aided by potions, her physical and mental
control slowly jelled into almost absolute mastery. Even Hus-
peth was impressed. "Daughter," she said, "thou art truly su-
perior to most mortals thou wilt meet."

The training advanced, but it never let up. There were times
when there was no sleep at all, and she learned to draw on the
life energies around her to sustain her.

Eventually, concealed by spells, they went forth out of the
Glen Dinig to observe the ways of fairies and men. It took
some getting used to, for at the start Marge was almost over-
whelmed by the sense of corruption within all of them, but she
learned their ways and their powers, their strengths and weak-
nesses, as best Huspeth could teach. And she felt more and
more remote from them all.

"That is because thou art becoming more than human," the
witch told her. "It will mark thee. But thou wilt never forget
who thou art or whence thou hast come, 0 daughter."

Of Huspeth she learned only the very little the witch was
willing to impart. She knew, though, that the witch was thou-
sands of years old at the very least, that her power was as great
as any on the Council, but that she had become so much more
than human that she could no longer abide living in the world
among the corruption she felt so dearly. For all that Huspeth
had imparted to her. Marge knew that the power and wisdom
her teacher contained were as an ocean to her thimbleful.

One day, while out on their look at the world the witch had
forsworn but to which Marge knew she would have to return
too soon, they saw their first unicorns.

They were fully as beautiful and as grand as legend had
made them, far more than horses with curved, pointy horns.
Their eyes, too, were very different—almost human. And yet,
looking at them. Marge felt a disturbance within the magnif-
icent creatures that shouldn't be there.

The source of that was revealed rather quickly as a deer
wandered out from the edge of a wood. The unicorn herd,

73

JACK L. CHALKER

perhaps ten or eleven, took off after the deer, cut it off from
retreat, surrounded it, and began a cruel game of torture for
the poor deer.

Tiring, finally, of running the deer almost into exhaustion,
sticking it with their horns, and allowing it an escape route
only to block it and trip it up, the unicorns moved in—and
began eating the deer alive.

"How disgusting!" Marge exclaimed. "Those magnificent
animals!"

"The way of the world, as it must be to balance nature. The
unicorns are a relative to the horses, but they took a far different
path. Their teeth are many and are sharp and pointed, as are
the wolf's. They play with the cruelty that children exhibit,
for that is what they always are, but then they eat. They did
not choose their way, nor did the wolf choose his; they just
are. But, unlike their brethren, there is great magic within
them. Shall we go down and see?"

Marge hesitated. "Considering their eating habits, is it safe?"

"For thee, perfectly. The virgin alone is one with the uni-
corn. All others they will flee from or, if need be, destroy."

They walked down to the herd, which had finished its grisly
feeding and was now relaxing, some standing, some lying down
as horses never did. The unicorns eyed the two women warily
but did not flee.

"Call one," Huspeth prompted. "Go ahead."

Marge shrugged. "Ah, here, unicorn. Come here, unicorn."

"Not exactly the approved way of summoning, but it works,"
the witch noted as the nearest unicorn glanced up at the call,
looked at both of them, and then trotted right over to Marge.

Hesitantly, Marge put out her hand and petted the unicorn
on the neck, as she would a horse. The skin was quite different
from what she expected, with the feel and texture of velvet.
The unicorn seemed to like her touch, though, and the skin
certainly felt nice to her.

"Mount him," Huspeth told her. "Let him take you for a
ride."

With her tremendous muscle tone and practiced athletic
ability, she had no trouble jumping to the back of the beast,
although there was nothing to hold onto but mane.

Still, the beast started off at a trot and quickly accelerated.
Marge found that, far from being uncomfortable or badly

/4           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

mounted, she seemed to merge with the unicorn, to become
one with the creature, more and more so as it increased speed
and sped around the great meadow.

It was a magical and most wonderful transformation, with
all of the unicorn's enormous vitality and, yes, sexual energy
flowing into and through every fiber of her being. It was a
tremendously pleasurable, orgasmic experience that the unicom
gave, and so wonderful that it was Huspeth who had to bring
it to an end.

"Thou seest now why the unicom and the virgin always go
hand in hand in legend," she said. "But beware, for just as
thou dost take from it, so it takes from thee, and the energy it
removes from thee takes many days to replenish, longer if thou
hast not the will to stop it in time."

"I'll remember," Marge assured her teacher, still feeling as
if she had received a lot more than she had given.

"Now that the two of you are chosen, the unicom Koriku
is wed to thee so long as thou shall take no man. He will come
upon the call of his name by your lips, no matter where thou
art, to give pleasure or to rout thine enemies. His strength
should be used sparingly, for there is always a cost, but it is
there when needed. Beware, too, that Koriku, like thyself, is
a mortal creature, and should he die while in thy service, thou,
too, wilt die."

Marge shivered slightly at that. "I will remember."

The time flew by. In many ways Marge hoped it would
never end. Huspeth was the wisest and most wonderful person
she'd ever known, and she loved the witch who was the key
to all things wonderful and magical as she had loved no other.

But one day there was a cloud in Huspeth's soul as she
emerged from her hut, and a great foreboding filled Marge as
she saw it.

"It has come time for the trivial that now becomes the
paramount," the witch said enigmatically. "Come, sit beside
me, and I will tell thee of this world and its enemies."

"Something's wrong," Marge said nervously.

"The forces of Hell are again on the march. Great battles
are taking shape as we speak, and the war advances. The bulk
of Marquewood between the River of Sorrows and the Ros-
signol itself is at stake. If it goes, then the enemy is at our

JACK L. CHALKER                 75

front door, demanding entrance, and there will be few to stop
them."

"Who is the enemy, my mother?"

"The same who defiled lost Eden. This time he works, as
always, through others, in the guise of armies and wars and
philosophies and great promises. Many who march to his tune
are willing, many more arc unknowing servants, but it makes
no difference to him. The Dark Baron himself may be deluded,
although he certainly knows for whom he fights, since the gates
of Hell must be unlocked to create such a force. All the wizards
and sorcerers of Husaquahr traffic to some degree with the
demons of Hell, as thou well knowest. But such traffic, which
I abhor in all cases, for it involves compromise with the ultimate
evil, is the temptation to greater and greater evil. If Hell can
wield such powers to the wizard's tune, it can corrupt a wizard's
heart as well, and they have got themselves a master wizard
totally on their side, self-deluded and thoroughly corrupted by
the enemy."

"Who, my mother? Which wizard is it?"

Huspeth shook her head. "I know not at this time. Many of
the chief demons of Hell were once the angelic agents charged
with the making of our own world. Their power here is as great
as in thine own world, and they know all the counters for our
magic. The Baron's identity is hidden from all of us, until
discovered by other than magical means. But this continual
cancer is nothing new to our world. It is an incurable disease
that worms its way into every comer and must be continually
fought. When it grows too large to control, as it seems it has
now, it must be beaten down. The enemy can afford ten thou-
sand defeats, but we can not have one."

"This is not the first time, then?"

"Not even the first time in Husaquahr. But this is a big
world, much larger than the one from which thou comest. There
are many other continents and many other lands. One, called
simply The Land, is so fouled up no one from thy world will
believe it's real, even though he be there. Another once put
down a dark force under a great wizard, and now that wizard's
son, Alateen, refights his father's battles. From Lan Kemar to
Lemoria, all the lands that make up our world are continually
threatened. Now it is Husaquahr's turn."

"But what can they win, even if they capture the land?"

76

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"Ah, once captured, it will never be freed. But, worse, the
Dark Baron's plan is clearly diabolical. He hopes to seize or
destroy the lands, castles, and, if possible, persons of a majority
of the Council. If he accomplishes this, and he is already a
quarter there, he will be able to rewrite, suspend, or even
abolish the Books of Rules. Hell will rewrite the Rules and
will then have a world of its very own to rule and dominate.
This will become Hell, and will provide, too, a second front
for an assault on the Creator Himself. If Hell wins here, it can
devote all its time to thine own world. Armageddon, then, will
be fought by Hell from both worlds toward the Creator in the
middle. None truly knows the outcome, since Hell rebelled
once before and knows what it is up against, should it try
again."

"You mean—God could loseT'

"It is by no means certain. Sooner or later thou wilt find
myself in the clutches of Hell, and thou wilt know a sample
of what waits for all creation if we lose. That is why, now,
thou must go."

"No! I mean, not yet. I still have so much to leam!"

"Time later for that, if victory is ours. If not, we all are
better dead than what we will be. Thou must be a soldier in
this battle. There is the adventure and challenge thou didst wish
for and the important things to do. No woman of Husaquahr
is better equipped than thou to do great things, but all thy
studies and training will be for naught if not used. Thou must
follow the direction of Ruddygore, who is far more worldly
than I, in this matter. He traffics with Hell even as he fights
it, and I find him powerful but unworthy of such power—but
he is powerful, and he is fighting for his very life and so will
not waste thee or thy companion."

"Companion..." She'd almost completely forgotten about
Joe. After all, she'd known him such a short while.

"As for me, I have fought too many of these things. Yet
should all fail, and Terindell be besieged. Glen Dinig will fight
with Terindell against the common foe. I hope and pray it does
not come to that, for it would be Bakadur and I against the
Dark Baron and the demons of Hell itself. Thou mayest aid in
preventing that from happening, my daughter, if thou keepest
thyself as thou art now and if thou dost remember all I have
taught. So long as thou dost remain as thou art, thy powers

JACK L. CHALKER                 77

will increase by the day, infinitely so, and new ones will de-
velop as needs arise. Thy true trials and tests lie ahead of thee.
Remember well who thou art and what thou hast become."

Marge took Huspeth's hand and kissed it tenderly. "I will,
my mother."

Huspeth got up, went into her hut, and emerged with her
hands full of various items. "Some parting things, to aid thee
. in thy future endeavors."

The first was a one-piece garment, both legless and sleeve-
less, of bright forest green, which had a stretchy clinginess to
it yet gave breast support. It was woven out of an unknown
soft material that nonetheless was almost silkenly comfortable.
Its tightness, though, left nothing to the imagination about the
shape beneath, becoming almost a green second skin. It sat-
isfied decency—and the Rules. Also, there was a headband
much like a laurel wreath. It held firmly and smelted of forest
pine.

"Both wreath and garment are of the forest, of living things
magically transformed and transfixed. They will be a reminder
of Glen Dinig and the daughters of Eve."

"As if I could ever forget. A part of me will be here forever."

Next came a small green belt that blended with the garment
and hung on the hips, but was strong enough for a scabbard
shaped like leaves. Into it Huspeth placed a small but ornate
dagger.

"The dagger is of faerie metal," she told Marge. "It will
penetrate all save iron, which is very scarce here. The blade
is fused into the handle of pure dwarf jade. It is the truest and
most balanced of all blades, and was once mine when I went
forth as thou now goest. In the rear of the scabbard is a small
pocket which can be useful."

Next was a little case made out of the purest dwarf jade.
Inside was what Huspeth called Marge's "kit"—basic herbs
and hard-to-find materials for many potions, plus a small mortar
and pestle more or less carved into it. It, too, was designed to
be held by a thin belt and was not at all bulky. Finally came
a small gourd, useful for all practical purposes and also de-
signed for belt carry, leaving both hands free.

"With those thou canst travel the whole of this world and
need no more, with thine own knowledge of the land and its
bounty."

78

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L.CHALKER

79

"I believe I can now, my mother," Marge responded, mean-
ing it.

"Come. Let us see thee reflected in the pool."

They walked over to the small, mirror-smooth pond at the
edge of the glen that had been their water supply. In it Marge
saw a far different person—yet a third self. She was dark now;

the sun and wind had weathered her and toughened her without
in any way lessening her striking beauty. And, as she had
discovered shortly after her initiation into the order, her new
strawberry-blond hair had changed to a brilliant white, with
the exception of a streak of reddish brown running straight
down the center from forehead to back—the mark of the order.
She had trimmed the hair into something of a pageboy and,
with the forest-green garment she wore, it was a perfect com-
plement.

Her legs revealed that she now had the strength of the long-
distance runner and more, and her arms, still smooth-looking,
took on an almost bizarre quality when tensed, revealing their
tremendous muscles. Her brows, of the same reddish brown
as the streak, were long, thick, and sloping inward, setting off
her large blue eyes; she looked less human than like some great
warrior elf. Her appearance was unique and striking, yet her
movements still contained the catlike grace and form of the
woman she had been.

"All I need is a bow and a quiver of arrows to make it
perfect," she mused, more to herself than to Huspeth, but the
witch nodded.

"I agree, and thy skill with the bow warrants it." She left
and returned with a small quiver made of some plant's green
skin, and a bow of true professional beauty.

"Oh, no, I can't. You've given me so much already!" Marge
protested.

"I insist, daughter of mine. And I expect that which has
been given thee to be freely used in the fight against true evil."

"I promise I will not fail you, my mother!"

Huspeth now showed the only real emotion of the day,
hugging Marge and holding her close. "I know thou wilt. Now—
go. 'Tis time."

Marge went with the utmost reluctance but knowing her
duty. She was supremely confident now, both of herself and

of her abilities, and ready to prove that she had, at last, found
her place. Nothing would ever surprise her again.

But she was not only surprised but almost shocked to find
an impassive Poquah waiting atop the hill with the same two
horses they'd ridden when coming here.

Poquah did not greet her, but his red eyes looked her over
critically for a moment, and then he said, "Ah, yes. A proper
heroine indeed. It is well. Come. We must make the castle by
dinner."

This time she led him—at a gallop.

CHAPTER 6

BEING A BARBARIAN TAKES PRACTICE

No physical art may be achieved by magic, nor magical art by
physical means.

—VI, 79, 101 (b)

GORODO PROVED TO BE ABOUT NINE FEET TALL AND MUST

have weighed five hundred pounds, with lots of hair and ab-
solutely no fat. He also happened to be a bright blue color with
dark blue hair and had a nose that looked like a blue grapefruit,
not to mention a pair of very nasty-looking fangs that stuck
out of both sides of his mouth. He grinned when he first caught
sight of Joe, and the effect was less a real grin than the kind
of playful look a cat would give a mouse just before pouncing.

Joe, who was just beginning to feel really macho in his new
muscles, stopped, stared, and gulped.

"So this is the big, bad barbarian they want to train to be
a big-shot hero," Gorodo said sarcastically, looking down at
his new charge. "Boy! They really demand miracles of a tired,
weak old man."

Joe tried to find the tired, weak old man he was talking
about.

"What's your name, boy?" the blue giant asked.

He gulped slightly. "Joe."

"Joe? That's a pretty stupid name for a barbarian. Barbarians




80           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

should have fancy names, or funny-sounding ones, like Conan
or Cormac, things like that. Usually with a 'C' sound to start."
He sighed. "Well, there's nothin' in the Rules about that, I
don't think. Not yet, anyway. Still, a name like Joe doesn't
exactly inspire fear and respect. We got to get you a second
name, one with real command."

"I already have a second name," Joe told him, confidence
coming back slowly with the reasonableness of the giant's tone.
"In fact, I have lots of names."

"Indeed. Like what?"

"Jose San Pedro Antonio Luis Francisco Joaquin Esteban
Martinez de Oro, if you must know," Joe responded a bit
glumly.

Gorodo whistled. "How in the Nine Hells do you remember
all that? Anyway, that sounds just as ridiculous. I mean some-
thing strong, like Joe Thunderer or Joe Stonnhold or something
like that. Well, we'll leave that for now. The Master wants us
to get a start today, even though there's little left of it. I'd
rather just tell you what we're gonna do and let you get one
last night's decent sleep."

"Fine with me," Joe agreed. "I'm not exactly a volunteer.
More like a draftee."

Gorodo laughed. "Listen, boy. In the days and weeks to
come, I'm gonna put you through a living hell. Bet on it. You're
gonna curse me and yell at me and you're gonna hurt something
awful. But when I get through with you, ain't nothin' made of
solid stuff gonna give you trouble. You're gonna be prepared
like nobody's ever been prepared. Know why? Not because I
was ordered to, and not because I like it, but I would consider
your death a personal insult after all I'm gonna do. Understand?
You're gonna be the best damned barbarian in this whole crazy
world because my honor depends on it. Now, go eat decent
and get your beauty sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be one busy
day."

Joe gladly went and discovered the main dining room almost
by accident. The food was good, although the only utensils
they seemed to use here were a sharp knife and a wooden
spoon.

Few gave him much. of a glance at dinner or after, but some
elves in plain livery did tell him where he was to stay within
the outer castle. The room turned out to be of bare stone,

81

JACK L. CHALKER

furnished with a straw mattress, a single candle, and not much
else.

He lay there for some time, feeling more and more depressed
and moody. Barbarian hero, he thought sourly. I'm Joe, from
South Philly, that's all, lost somewhere in a land of freaks. He
thought of his ex-wife and his young son, who now had even
less chance of ever knowing his real papa. He thought, too,
of that girl who was more of a loser than he was. Marge. He'd
known her only a short time, and now she was God knew
where. He couldn't even really get a clear picture of her in his
mind just now, which bothered him, but, though it was crazy,
he missed her. She was his one link with what was real and
comfortable.

He was lonely as hell, and it took a long time for him to
slip into a fitful doze.

The routine didn't vary much. Gorodo got him up at dawn;

and he began running—first a mile, increasing as his muscles
built up to two, then three. Only then did Gorodo permit a
large breakfast, after which Joe was expected to run one more
mile just to work it down. Next came weight training, along
with general physical exercise to tone up a few muscles.

These extensive workouts hurt a lot, and early one morning
he'd protested and refused to do more. That was when Gorodo
had exploded, growling and snarling, his veneer of civilization
dropping instantly.

Very early in the training, Joe discovered that the blue giant
was an expert at beating the living daylights out of one without
doing any permanent damage whatsoever. The early choice
was pretty simple: it was painful torture to do what Gorodo
demanded, but it was even more painful to refuse.

It didn't take long for Joe to get both frustrated with and
hateful of the huge blue man, whose only redeeming feature
was that he did everything he asked Joe to do. Even that was
infuriating, though, since Gorodo showed absolutely no stress,
strain, or pain doing what was really awful to Joe.

After a big midday dinner, they would go down to a great
stone hall where a number of muscular types, human, non-
human, semihuman, and a few inhuman, were practicing with
one or another weapon. Here instructors in various types of
weaponry worked with him, and at least from them he felt he

82            THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

was getting something useful. Broadsword use. Balance. Tim-
ing. Dagger and spear-throwing. Mace and pike. All different,
all requiring a special set of skills and a lot of practice. Some
were also frustrating in their own right. The broadsword seemed
to weigh a ton when he was first introduced to it, and he
particularly resented the fact that the instructor was a thin, wiry
human a head smaller and a hundred pounds lighter than he—
who wielded the sword as if it were made of paper.

But he paid attention, and he did seem to have a natural
flair for it.

After a heavy supper, he was back to running and weights
once more and, by the time Gorodo gave him his freedom for
the night, he was so hurting and so tired he could do nothing
but head for bed.

Day after day, almost without a break, this schedule was
kept, varying only in that, as he seemed really to get the hang
of one weapon, a new one was introduced.

After a few weeks of this, the pain lessened but never really
went away, though he found himself able to lift increasingly
greater weights and run longer distances. The broadsword,
which had seemed so leaden at first, now felt as light as a
rapier. His body was becoming hard, lean, and even more
tremendously muscular from the regular hard workouts, which
never let up.

Still, a month or so into the course, the weaponry was
relegated to the evenings, and the afternoons were taken up
with more practical classes by a variety of humans and crea-
tures. Weeks were spent on horsemanship, and there were even
lectures and problems on warfare with the weaponry at hand,
and also a good deal of hand-to-hand combat. How to disable.
How to kill. Where the nerves were, those critical pressure
points. There were classes, too, in primitive first aid—what
roots and herbs did what, as well as the basics of tourniquets,
setting broken bones, and the like. He was acutely aware,
thanks to Gorodo's less than subtle methods of persuasion, of
the lack of any decent medical care in Husaquahr, and so he
paid particular attention to these practical lessons.

As he progressed in skills, particularly with the sword, he
was forced into fighting left-handed with it. It was tough going,
and for a while Gorodo gnashed and foamed and growled; but

JACK L. CHALKER                 83

while Joe never quite got as good with the left as with the
right, he became at least adequate.

The horsemanship also came very hard; even though he got
pretty good at it, he felt he would never be a hundred percent
comfortable with any animals. For a man who believed firmly
that steaks and milk were created magically at the chain stores,
he wasn't as bad as he thought he was.

Time ran on without any real feeling. The weeks stretched
to months, and he had no true concept of time or even duration
any more. Gorodo was his whole life and his whole world.

The blue giant, for his part, seemed to soften up as things
went along, though, not being nearly the hot-tempered beast
of those first few weeks. Joe never lost his intense dislike of
his tormentor, but he nonetheless developed a grudging respect
for what was being done—or at least attempted—by the trainer.
He suspected that Gorodo might be a lot smarter and a lot less
bestial than the blue man wanted everybody to believe.

Still, Gorodo pushed him and pushed him and pushed some
more. Every time Joe felt he had reached his absolute limit in
something, the blue man would literally force him to continue.
Finally, one day, his resentment boiled over so much in Joe
that he took a swing at Gorodo—and connected.

The blue giant was surprised, and then was the great man-
beast once again—but this time Joe didn't back down.

It was one hell of a fight—furniture smashed all over the
place as two bodies, one large and one larger, tumbled and
tossed each other about. It lasted the better part of an hour and
a half, a total brawl that brought just about everybody within
earshot to gawk at them—elves ran through the crowd taking
bets at one point—but ultimately Gorodo, winded, bruised,
and bleeding from a number of cuts and abrasions, won out
by knocking Joe cold.

Joe awoke in his room with a really nasty headache and a
lot of sore spots and abrasions, but all his wounds had been
well tended. Gorodo, looking pretty beat up, was there as well,
and he didn't even look that mean.

"How're you feeling?" the giant asked, and if Joe didn't
know better, he'd have sworn there was real concern in the
trainer's voice.

"Lousy," Joe responded.

"Me, too," Gorodo said, sighing and sinking into a chair

84

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

JACK L. CHALKER

85

he or somebody had brought in. He gave a low whistle. "That
was one hell of a fight you put up. I'm proud of you, boy. I
think you just graduated."

There was still a little ringing in Joe's head, and he was
sure he hadn't heard what he thought he heard. "Graduated?
But—you won."

The giant laughed. "Yeah. And I always will, too, sonny
boy. At least for quite a while. You're good, though, boy.
Real good. Best I ever trained, I'll tell you. Don't get too
bigheaded, though, 'cause I said that. As I say, I got one thing
you ain't got—and it will be a long time comin'."

"Yeah? What?"

"Experience. I been in a couple of armies. I been a pirate,
a raider and sacker, you name it. Fifty years' experience, boy,
and I'm still here and still in one piece. It's the one thing I
can't give you. But I will say that the more experience you
get, the better you'll be. There ain't but a few dozen in Hu-
saquahr could a given me the fight you did. What about you?
You think you're ready for the real thing?"

Joe nodded, even though it hurt. "I think so."

"Good. I been talkin' things over with everybody else train-
ing you here, and we're pretty well agreed. When you're good
enough to take me on and hold your own, it's exam time."

"Exam time?"

"Yep. The acid test. Look, you get some rest. You need
anything, you call out and somebody will be here on the double
to get it for you. Next day or two, when we're both back up
to snuff, we'll go into town and raise a little hell. Drink. Wench,
maybe. Then you'll be ready."

The river town of Terdiera was fairly small—perhaps seven
or eight hundred people—but it was civilization itself to Joe
after so long in Terindell. The buildings were mostly of straw
and mud but were well engineered, and here and there were
buildings of stone or brick. The main bazaar was a wooden
structure half a block long fronting on a square, with merchants
displaying their wares in stalls opening onto the street, and all
calling out to every passerby.

"Hoi! Love charms and potions! The strongest of the strong!"
"Hoi! The finest in mystic herbs and spices! More pleas-
urable than a harem without all the talking!"

"Hoi! The finest in jewels imported from far-off dwarf mines
in the mountains of Corimere! Mystic jade said to belong once
to the dwarf king Zakar himself!"

It was a bewildering array of products, most of them strange
and unusual to Joe's experience. Still, here were leather mer-
chants and stalls with the finest of swords, shields, knives, and
daggers. Women were measured and fitted in pretty patterned
costumes, and everybody from cobblers to coopers was very
busy.

There was money of many sorts, of various sizes, shapes,
and designs—possibly from many different lands. Still, all
appeared made out of gold or silver, and were worth what the
metal was worth rather than what the governments claimed;

gems, too, were often taken and given as if they were money.

Gorodo, for all his promises, did not come on this first trip.
He begged off, saying he had other work, and something in
Joe secretly hoped it was an injury very slow to heal.

Instead, his companion was the grim and humorless Po-
quah, not much of an improvement over Gorodo in his own
way. Poquah, however, was a good lecturer.

"Much of the commerce of Husaquahr is barter, but there
is a banking system—and coin, as you can see. Since most of
Valisandra's people are farmers and work at a subsistence level,
they trade their goods for the products of these merchants. The
merchants, of course, totally depend on the fanners for their
food and much of their raw materials. It works out rather well."

The bulk of the inhabitants in the town were human, but
here and there an occasional other would walk or scamper by,
given little notice. The two riders coming into town drew in-
terested glances, but it was Joe, rather than the Imir, who
attracted stares. He found he rather liked it, too—that glint of
nervousness or hesitant fear in the eyes of many of the men
and far different sorts of looks from the women. He knew he
not only looked exotic, even by barbarian standards, but could
hardly hide the tremendous muscles that made him look like
some sort of idealized bronze god. He knew, too, that this
was the first reward for all the pain and agony he'd undergone
in getting to this point.

The Imir gave him a small sack of gold nuggets, not a lot
of currency by Husaquahr standards, but more than enough to




86

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

87

buy a few things, should he be inclined, and perhaps a meal
and drinks in the town tavern.

He enjoyed the afternoon by taking advantage of that, and
he knew he was being scandalously cheated by the merchants
he dealt with—but it took some time to get the measure of
how much a few grams of gold would actually buy.

At the cobbler's, he traded in his worn sandals for a pair
of short, comfortable leather boots with a thin, soft fur lining.
The poor cobbler, of course, had nothing in stock for feet like
Joe's, but he was both fast and skillful and made a pair to order

while Joe went elsewhere.

The leather merchant was handy for buying a thick, com-
fortable, all-purpose belt with solid brass hooks and rings. To
this belt he could attach a scabbard with little trouble, as well
as other useful things, and it had a hidden money-purse. The
buckle, of intricately worked bronze, was a forest scene, but
he bought it because the shape between the trees seemed to
form the outline of a diesel truck cab. It was the closest to

home he could come.

The hatter was a bit taken aback by what he was looking
for; but after some pictures were drawn, she agreed to make
it if she could. He was satisfied and, after seeing some intricate
and presumably magical designs on some of the more Husa-
quahr-conventional hats, he also gave her a design he wanted

on the front of his own.

By the time he'd finished an adequate but not great dinner
and returned, he had what he wanted. It was, possibly, the
only such hat in Husaquahr, but to another from his own world
it would be instantly recognizable. It was a pretty good imitation
of a comfortable cowboy hat of some brown feltlike fur, and
right on the front was an outline of a design he knew well, one
that here would mean nothing. But he found he could certainly
still remember how to write, and on the front, in that mystic
symbol, was the alien word "Peterbilt."

He had to admit that the hatter was tremendously skillful,
considering she had never seen, let alone made, anything like

this in her life.

Feeling more comfortable than he had since reaching this
land, the great muscular barbarian, in loincloth, trucker's cow-
boy hat, and reinforced fur-lined boots—and nothing else—
went to the tavern.

People stared when he entered, and continued to stare out
of the comers of their eyes as he took a seat at a small table
in the back. A barmaid, looking timid, approached and took
his order for ale, brought it quickly, and went away. Nobody
tried to talk to him, approach him, or in any way make him
feel like a human being.

The tavern itself was primitive and basic, with a straw-
covered floor and hand-hewn crude furnishings, yet it had much
in common with all the bars and taverns he'd ever been in.
There was a kindred sort of feeling evoked by the place, with
its relaxing men, fresh from travels or the fields, and its rough,
worldly-wise women—the kind of place he as a trucker had
called home from strange town to strange town throughout a
large and distant country he'd once roamed. He could see
himself as one of these men, playing a little cards or just
swapping tall stories, with very little trouble.

Only, as he was uncomfortably aware, this sort of place
was no longer a haven for him, the kind of place where strangers
were fast friends. Most strangers, perhaps, but not Joe de Oro.
He was far too different-looking and far too potentially dan-
gerous to be invited into any of these groups. That depressed
him more, perhaps, than anything up to now and brought back
his searing sense of loneliness with crushing force. He won-
dered what they'd all say here, these strange dark men and
women, if they knew that inside that bronze god was a man
who desperately wanted to cry but could not.

And so he drank prodigiously, feeling it only a little, and
sat in his silent corner and watched the rest of them come and
go. After a while he also noticed that, occasionally, burly men
and tough barmaids would talk and then leave together, and it
wasn't hard to figure out why. Finally, the strong ale lowering
his inhibitions a bit, he propositioned the woman who was
serving him, more with few words and many gestures than
outright, and she thought a moment, looked at his purse, then
at him, nodded, and turned. He followed her out, not at all
worried about being mugged or rolled.

And he enjoyed it, too, feeling it more strongly and on a
more emotional level than he ever had before. The barmaid,
too, seemed to have a far more than businesslike good time.
It went on and on and on through the evening, as months of
frustration and loneliness gushed out of his soul and into the




88

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER 89

act. When finally done, both he and she fell into an exhausted
sleep.

He awoke with the dawn, while she still slept, and he felt
a little sense of ego buildup that she slept with a wisp of a
smile on her face. He weighed the purse. Not enough for the
sword he wanted, but considerable all the same still remained.
He knew her intent was to take it all at the end, but he was in
better condition than she. He paused a moment, then decided,
What the hell, it's not my money, and left the purse on the
small table near the bed when he departed.

It had been worth every penny, but he knew he could never
stand to go this long without sex again.

When he emerged from the little hut down the street from
the tavern, he was surprised to find Poquah waiting placidly
with the horses. The four irritated him with his seeming om-
niscience and cool manner. They said nothing that was not
necessary to each other on the way back.

"Now that you have passed the preliminaries, boy, 'tis time
to become a man," Gorodo told Joe. "The final exam. Pass it
and you're off to fame, fortune, and glory. Flunk it and I'll
kill you myself."

Joe looked at him. "I believe you would at that. If you
could. I guess this is some sort of big test of ability and skill.
I'm willing to give it a try."

"It's a test of that, all right, but a pretty simple one," Gorodo
agreed. "It's real simple but real effective. What we do is this.
First, you drink a little potion that kinda knocks you out real
gentle. Makes you feel great, though. When you wake up,
you'll be stark naked, without stitch, weapon, money, horse,
anything at all. We don't tell you where. Just that it's no more
than fifty miles from here. Your job is to get back inside the
inner wall of Terindell without us catchin' you. No time limit
to get back here, really, but one day to the minute after you
wake up, Poquah and me and some of the boys will start
tracking you down. If we catch you, at any point, you'll wish
you never was born."

Joe frowned. "And I'm not gonna have nothing at all? Where
the hell do I get what I need?"

"Up to you," the blue giant told him. "Steal it. Make it.
Improvise. You been shown the way."

Joe nodded, more to himself than to the trainer. "And what
do / get if I make it?"

Gorodo grinned. "What kinda question is that?"

"I mean it. You want me to risk my neck on this fool test.
What do 1 win? A gold star for bein' a good boy?"

"It is a fair question," Poquah's voice said, and Joe and
Gorodo both whirled reflexively. "It deserves an answer that
Gorodo can not give. I, however, can."

"Wish you wouldn't pull that act, ya bastard," Gorodo grum-
bled.

The Imir ignored the comment. "The first thing you will
receive is the satisfaction of knowing you have beaten the best.
That is good enough for some. But you will also be awarded
an elfsword, a magic blade that is almost alive and is not only
one of the best magic swords around but effective even against
some magical beasts. Finally, you will have a job with great
honor and rich rewards. Those are worthy prizes, are they not?"

Joe thought about it. "Yeah. Not bad, I guess. But you don't
sound like you expect me to win 'em."

"We are trained and experienced. We also will know where
you started from and exactly what you look like. We will know
the lay of the land. Using no sorcery, only our skills and
foreknowledge, we will get you. It's that simple."

Once more the Imir's tone rankled him, and he saw the
challenge in a different light. If he lost, he was no worse off,
really, than if he refused. But if he won... Beating Gorodo at
his own game and puncturing that enormous self-centered ego-
maniac of an Imir's pride would be more than worth it. And
Gorodo put the icing on the cake.

"Every hunter of you in this test will be one who has passed
a similar or identical test," the blue giant told him. "I don't
know about that sword crap, but you win the respect of the
few who've done it."

"When do we start?" he asked them, getting interested.

The Imir reached down to a small flask on his belt, poured
a little golden liquid into a tiny field cup, and handed it to him.

He sniffed it, and it smelled honey-sweet and quite plesant.

"Cheers!" he exclaimed and downed the potion.




JACK L. CHALKER

91

CHAPTER 7

GETTING IN AND OUT OF SHAPE

Barbarian tuck will not prevail without barbarian intelligence.
—XL,401,306(b)

HE AWOKE IN A SMALL CLUMP OF TREES, ITCHING ALL OVER.

Jumping up, he looked back and cursed whoever it was, prob-
ably Gorodo, who had put him so near that damned anthill.

They were true to their word—he was stark naked and
without anything except a lot of ant bites. It was' cool and
damp, the sun off in the east barely clearing the horizon. One
full day, he reminded himself. Then the chase begins. Still,
now was not the time to go running all over the unfamiliar
countryside. His training and his common sense told him other-
wise. So, moving away from the unfriendly insects, he walked
from the trees to the top of a nearby hill, the highest ground
within easy reach, already thinking about what he had to do.

First he needed information. The sun told him his directions,
so that wasn't a problem. But—in which direction from the
castle had they brought him?

The hilltop afforded a nice view for fifteen or twenty miles
around. Not a lot of habitation, from the looks of things, but
to the left—west—of where he stood, about four miles, was
a river. That was all right, but which river? Well, he decided,
time to cheat a little. He'd seen more than one map of the
region around Terindell, and even maps of the entire Dancing
Gods river system. He was certainly no more than fifty miles
if their word was good—and it would be an inconclusive test
if they had lied—and Terindell was in a little pocket of Val-
isandra between two other countries.

Truck drivers paid good attention to any maps they saw.

He sat down on the cool grass and thought it out. The odds
were that they hadn't put so much time and energy into his
training just to kill him off. They'd play it safe, put him where
they could control all the factors in the game. That meant
keeping him in Valisandra. That being the case, he was either

90

north or west-northwest of the castle. But that river down there
was to the west. If it were the west-northwest direction, the
Rossignol should be in the east or southeast. That river over
there, then, was most likely the River of Dancing Gods—and
that meant he had only to follow it down to Terindell.

It was too easy. He could run that before twenty-four hours
had passed and the chase began. But then, how would they
know he'd seen and interpreted the maps? They knew he couldn't
read them, but one didn't have to read the words or the legend
if one was told that the black block was where one was—
Terindell—and what the two rivers were. He decided to make
his way first to the river, with the idea that its current flow
would either confirm or deny his idea as to where he was.

Running the four miles was easy for him, and he found his
natural state no real problem at all. At least, as long as there
were only birds and animals around, he couldn't care less. It
was kind of fun, as in the old days. He remembered from
somewhere that the early Olympics, back in Greece or wherever
it was, were run in the buff. All he needed was a torch.

Pacing himself and enjoying it, he took about half an hour
to reach the trees lining the riverbank—and he felt only slightly
winded. After Gorodo, a free run at his own pace was easy as
pie.

The river, indeed, ran to the south—actually, southeast—
as it should. He stopped and looked at it for a few minutes,
relaxing after his run. It was a muddy river with a fast current,
but nothing spectacular at this point—certainly no more than
a quarter of a mile across. An easy swim. He considered the
idea. Across there was Hypboreya, a different country that
wouldn't march to Ruddy gore's tune. Not friendly to him,
certainly, but not friendly to Gorodo or, particularly, to Poquah,
either, the Imir being a somewhat official servant of the sorcerer
and the government. If there were any jokers in the pack—
and surely there must be—and Joe didn't make it before the
chase began, he would swim to the other side. He decided that
quickly, as something of an equalizer.

It occurred to him that if he did make that swim, he would
also no longer be under anybody's thumb. With a few clothes
and some honest work in that country he'd be truly free. That
might be the ultimate joke on all of them—to have their prize




92

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

pigeon not make for Terindell at all. He wondered if they had
considered that.

He put the idea aside for now, but left it as another option.

A large bird flew down, skimming the surface of the water,
and as it did, suddenly the water erupted and a thin, slimy,
black, whiplike tentacle shot up and caught the bird, dragging
it quickly under. It was all so sudden he was totally shocked
and stunned, but it was a reminder of an alien world. This
wasn't the Mississippi, nor his old Earth, and things existed,
deadly things, that could kill in a flash. If he'd decided to swim
the river at that point...

He needed a few things as quickly as possible, he knew.
He needed clothing of some sort, so he wouldn't have to skulk,
and he definitely needed some kind of weapon.

He searched around in the thin forest that hugged the river,
looking at deadwood, and finally found a nice, long stick that
was more or less straight, looked pretty strong, and, even better,
had a rough point at one end and a pretty solid other end.
Pointed weapon or club. It would do until something better
came along.

He glanced around. Fifty miles. Not much. But, considering
that thing in the river, he didn't really want to spend a night
out here.

Suddenly, above and behind him came the sound of laugh-
ter, as if from some very small children. He whirled, but no-
body was there. He stood silently, trying to catch whoever or
whatever it was. As he was beginning to feel it had just been
his imagination, the laughter came again—and again, above
and behind him. He whirled once more, seeing nothing, then
stood there gaping for a moment. On impulse, he whirled
around again, waiting for the sound—and saw them.

They were about the size of four- or five-month-old babies
and looked very chubbily babyish, but their eyes were large
and old, and they hovered there, a few feet above his head,
on tiny, rapidly beating, white wings.

"Oooo—look! He's naked!" one of them squealed in a
playful child's voice.

He relaxed and felt a little rush of anger. "So are you," he
retorted.

"Yeah, but it don't bother us none," the small creature said.
"It kinda bothers you, though, don't it?"

93

JACK L. CHALKER

"Not for the likes of you" he shot back, then paused a
moment. "Uh, just who and what are you, anyway?"

"Gosh, ain't you never heard of cherubs before?" one of
them asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

He thought a moment. "Little angels or something, if I
remember. You two look like Cupid."

They both giggled. "That's sorta right. I dunno 'bout the
angel part, though. Cupids, though, we been called before."

A sudden fright seized him. "You're not gonna shoot me
with love arrows, are you?"

They both giggled again. "Love arrows? That's rich. That's
a good one! We don't need no arrows to play with you mortals."
The speaking cherub paused, thought a moment, then said, a
playful smile on his lips, "You're such a big, strong guy. Bet
you ain't scared of nothin'f"

He frowned. As a matter of fact, he did feel a sudden
wrongness, a sudden, nameless fear. Trusting his instincts, he
looked around, the feeling getting stronger and stronger. He
felt suddenly trapped between the river and... what? The trees!
The trees were something else! Something plotting to snare
him! He had to get out fast.

Without a second thought, propelled only by the rising,
unreasoning fear, he bolted through the thin line of trees back
onto the open plain. Once in the clear, away from those men-
acing trees, he collapsed on the ground, sweating hard and
shaking slightly.

The two cherubs flew out from the trees, laughing uproar-
iously, and approached him. He needed only the smallest glance
at them and at their expressions to know he'd been had.

"You did that to me!" he accused.

"Awwww... Big, bad barbarian scared of a couple of trees,"
one of the sprites jeered mockingly.

He leaped angrily to his feet, wishing he had some kind of
weapon. A stone, anything. Common sense told him that these
two, flitting around like hummingbirds, would just play with
him if he tried to nab them bare-handed.

Suddenly he remembered his big stick, and was almost
surprised to see that he was still carrying it. Taking aim, trying
to get control of himself and not telegraph his intent, he looked
at the two.

"Wow!" one of the cherubs exclaimed. "You're real brave,

94           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

mister, if you keep holding onto that thing there. It will eat

your arm off in a minute!"

Abruptly the unreasoning fear filled him once again, and
with a yell he flung away the stick, which was, indeed, still a

stick. They had outguessed him.

Frustration overcame anger. Less than an hour into the con-
test, he was already defeated by two sorcerous sprites. "What

are you going to do? Torture me all day?"

"Gosh, no," one of them replied. "It's just kinda, well, you

know, irresistible."

A sudden suspicion hit him. "Did somebody from Terindell

send you?"

They both giggled. "Naw. Nobody sends us no place. But

we did kinda get the word that you'd be around."

He sighed- "I should have known. I suppose everybody
between here and there will be on the lookout for me. I knew

it was too easy."

"Probably, if we got the word," one of the sprites agreed.

They looked identical, and it was impossible to tell one from
the other. "So you're in a lotta deep mud, huh?"

He thought about it. "Could be. But if you'll let me go, at

least I'll have a crack at it."

"Let you go?" One giggled, then flexed a tiny arm. "How

are we gonna stop you?"

"You know how," he grumbled. "Don't rub it in. I'm a
match for any other man, I think, but I can't fight magic."

"Hey! Well, then, maybe we should go along with you for
a while," one said. "Maybe help you out on that score."

"Um. Thanks—but no, thanks. Nothing personal, you un-
derstand, but you might just get it into your little heads to play

some more with me, too."

"Hmph! Just for that we will come along. How're you gonna

stop us?"

"Yeah," the other one agreed. "We could make you want

us, but it's more fun this way."

He sighed. "All right, all right. Maybe you can help at that.

That is the River of Dancing Gods over there?"

"Oh, yeah. That's what all the mortals call it, anyway," a

cherub told him.

"So Terindell is about fifty miles downstream, then, as I

figured," he said, thinking out loud. "All right. Let's get going."

95

JACK L. CHALKER

He hesitated a moment. "I can't keep calling you 'hey, you'
if you're tagging along. You have names?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm Ba'el. He's Lo'al."

Joe gave the trees a nervous glance, then started back for
them, not going in but walking along on the plains side. "Okay,
Ba'el. You called me a mortal. Does that mean you're im-
mortal?"

"Sorta," Ba'el admitted, sounding uncomfortable. "If you
mean growin' old and croaking, nope. But if we're not careful,
we can get zapped by somethin' hungry or by sorcery."

"You're both males?"

They giggled. "That don't mean nothin' to us. We got no
sex. That's probably why we find it so much fun to watch you
folks."

Joe stopped a moment. "If that's true, how do you repro-
duce?"

"We don't," Lo'al told him. "Gee, you're awful ignorant.
Everybody knows we come from the egg of the tardris flower.
Where you from, anyway, barbarian?"

He sighed. "Another world," he replied. "Another time."

Once they decided to tag along, he was almost glad of them,
although a bit wary. They seemed intellectually adult but emo-
tionally infantile and easily distracted. He worried mostly about
their getting bored enough to start playing tricks with his emo-
tions again. Still, it made sense, particularly when he got out
of them that a tardris laid just one egg and then sheltered the
cherub at night. A new cherub was born only to replace one
that did not return in the evening, thus keeping the population
stable. The plant itself was almost immortal, it seemed, and it
was well known that anyone cutting or harming one would die
as it did, so the plants were tolerated where they grew, along
lakes and rivers.

The cherubs' tie to their parent flower also heartened him
a bit. He wasn't sure of their range, but he was pretty sure
they wouldn't go that far from their home, particularly when
Lo'al let slip that they ate only inside the flower, fed by a fluid
it manufactured. They were far too chubby to go long between
meals.

The day grew warmer as the sun rose in the sky; within a
couple of hours, it was really hot. So far he'd seen or heard
no other intelligent beings save his two cherubs, although oc-

96           THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

casionally in the distance, either from the river or from across
the plains, he could hear the sounds of humans calling or yelling

or doing something or other.

It occurred to him, though, that going right along the river
was exactly what they'd expect him to do. The cherubs were
merely a small nuisance, but they'd already shown how im-
potent he was against such as they. Certainly Terindell's nasty
little minds had more challenges ahead, particularly if he kept

to the course he was now taking.

Still, if he was to leave the river, he'd need something as
a guide. Remembering the map, he recalled that the main road
that led from the provincial capital of Machang to Terdiera and
Terindell ran down the middle of the little "neck" ofValisandra.
The road, he decided, would be much safer until he was closer

to the castle.

The cherubs were unhappy at his decision, but didn't put

up as much of a fuss as he'd anticipated. He got the distinct
feeling that they were already bored with him.

He headed southeast across the plain, glad to be rid of the
threat his two companions had posed, and began an easy run.
He knew it might be a long distance before he sighted the road,
maybe fifteen or twenty miles, but the detour would be worth
it. Still, he hoped that he would find some place where he
could beg, borrow, or steal at least something to use for a
loincloth and some food. It had been a long time since he'd
eaten. He also found himself wondering how perfect Eden could
have been if Adam had to go to the bathroom the same way
as he did. He felt grubby, hungry, and thirsty, and he was
ready to do about anything to solve those problems.

About a half hour inland, he came upon a small lake with
some bushes but no tree cover. There were a few birds about,
but no animals that he could see, save a couple of long-homed

cows drinking by the far side.

He looked at the water suspiciously, but there didn't seem
to be much of a film and it looked pretty clear. Certainly it
looked worth risking a drink and, perhaps, a cleansing swim.

He knelt down by the side of the pond, noting that things
were so perfect he was almost looking directly into a mirror.
He studied his reflection for a moment, still unable to get used
to it, then leaned down to sip. The water tasted fresh and clear,
amazingly so for such a small pond in such an isolated plain.

97

JACK L. CHALKER

The water rippled where he'd broken it, then slowly settled
and re-formed once more into his image. But it was not only
his image he saw.

He turned, both startled and embarrassed, to see a beautiful
woman standing behind him, fully one of the most beautiful
and voluptuous women he'd ever seen. She was also as totally
naked as he, which didn't stave off his initial embarrassed
feelings one bit.

"Oh, I'm sorry I startled you," she said in a soft, musical
voice. "I so seldom get visitors here that I often forget polite-
ness."

He gulped. "Uh, um, I'm sorry myself. I didn't know this
was anybody's land."

She laughed. "Oh, it's not my land. It is my pond. I am
Irium."

He hesitated a moment, trying to sort it out. For the first
time it penetrated that her skin was a pale bluish green, much
like the waters of the pond itself. Aside from that and a bit of
webbing between her fingers and toes, though, she looked
extremely human.

"Uh—•yovapondT he said questioningly. Something inside
him rejected all considerations of her color, webbing, or any-
thing else. She was beautiful... gorgeous... nothing else in
the world mattered but her. Considering his nakedness, his
emotions were pretty hard to hide from her.

She smiled at him, and he melted completely. "It's so nice
to see someone again. Few ever venture this way these days
except cows, and they are poor company."

With that she moved in and closed with him, and all he
could think of was her. He didn't even realize that, as she clung
to him, she was also edging him close to and then into the cool
pond. Waist-deep, then still going in, now neck-deep.

"Hold\" The shout was a woman's voice, icy, cutting, and
commanding. "Bring him to me or, by Sathanas and Doharic,
you shall have no pond at all!"

The threat caused the blue-green beauty to hesitate; then
slowly, still without his realizing what was happening, they
rose to the surface and moved as if on currents of force back
toward the shore.

He was aware only that somebody was butting in, coming
between him and consummation with Irium, and this angered




98            THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

him. He let loose his grip from his lady love and turned to see
a handsome, striking woman, dressed in long slit skirt and
faded brown blouse, standing there, holding a crooked stick of
some kind out toward them. "Go away!" he shouted at her.

"We don't need you!"

"We don't, but you do," the stranger responded coldly. Her

brow furrowed, and she seemed to be looking beyond just his
physical appearance. It was done in a flash, but she nodded to
herself. "You have been victimized by some mischievous cher-
ubs who almost killed you." She made a sign in the air, and
he felt a sudden deep chill shoot through him. He turned again
to his newfound lady love and screamed in horror, pushing
away from her and scrambling, splashing all the way, to the

nearby land.

The beauty who had so smitten him was a beauty no more,

but an ugly, hideous thing, the stuff of long-rotted corpses.

"Flee, wicked sprite of the water, for you shall not have
him!" his rescuer called, and the rotting thing gave a gurgling
cry and vanished beneath the waters of the pond.

Satisfied, the newcomer approached him as he lay gasping
on the beach and looked down on him with a mixture of scom
and contempt. Although a beauty herself, she exuded a strong,
confident, powerful aura that was unmistakable. This was a

woman used to command.

"Wha—what was it?" he gasped.
"A water sprite. She got trapped in here during a major

hurricane and flood, and there's been no getting rid of her.
She's really pretty much of an incompetent, anyway—she was
rushing to drown you without even the preliminaries. You
wouldn't have been such an easy mark if you didn't have that

spell cast on you."

He sighed. "Those bastards. Couldn't resist a parting shot."

She shrugged. "It is their nature. They are so childlike they
probably don't even remember you now." She looked down
and sighed. "Well, you're a real mess. Pick yourself up and
come with me. You look as if you could use a meal."

He got up, suddenly conscious of some aches and bruises,

and followed her meekly.

Her farm wasn't far away, and it looked very pretty and

well tended.

The farmhouse itself was set in an isolated grove of trees,

r

JACK L. CHALKER

99

but all around, the land had been cleared and tilled. Over in
the far fields he could see large animals, perhaps oxen, pulling
plows—apparently by themselves. Other animals turned irri-
gation wheels, while over in an uncultivated pasture cows grazed.

Animals, he realized, didn't work without supervision under
normal circumstances, but this strange woman had already
proved herself a witch or sorceress of some son. He owed her
his life, so he decided not to comment or pry.

The farmhouse was a simple wooden affair with a thatched
roof, but it had a good hardwood floor and seemed pretty cozy
inside. It was clear, though, that the woman lived alone.

He was acutely aware of his nakedness once more and apol-
ogized for it, but she just laughed it away. "Don't worry. I've
seen a lot in my life, and it doesn't bother me in the slightest.
If it bothers you, I suppose I could rig up something, but it
would take time. Just sit over there, relax, and I'll see about
getting you something to eat."

He sank wearily into the wooden chair offered, finally feel-
ing a little bit more human again. She went into another room
and returned with a bunch of home-baked pastries, bread, fresh
butter, and a jug of cold milk. "This will at least get you
started," she told him, sitting down opposite. He noticed that
she never let go of the strange, crooked walking stick she
carried, although she didn't seem to need it and hadn't used it
at all to support herself. "So," she asked, "how'd you happen
to be around the old pond, anyway?"

He sighed. "I'm a little new to everything around here, it
seems." Quickly, as he wolfed down the bread and pastries,
he told her of having been brought from his own world by
Ruddygore, then trained and tested. She nodded, taking it all
in.

When he'd finished, she said, "The old boy's off his block,
bringing in outsiders. Nothing personal, but from what you've
told me just today, you're no match for Husaquahr. Here most
humans fall into two classes: the majority—the bulk, really—
who do all the work in exchange for protection from all the
magical forces around them; and the few who are smart enough
or lucky enough to have the power, so they don't fear those
forces. The few others like you, adventurers and misfits, mostly,
who wander around getting into trouble, were born into this
world and know their way around the magic and the politics.

100

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

You can't be taught that kind of thing—you have to grow up
with all this. And even if it's true that Hell can't handle you—
which I most sincerely doubt—it makes no difference. The
sorcery of Husaquahr alone is enough to do you in, in ten
minutes on your own."

"After this morning, I have to agree with you," he admitted.
"Still, what choice do I have? I go along with it or I don't—
and if I can't make it on my own in a simple thing like this,
how could I make it on my own anyplace around here?" He
sighed. "Brawn and common sense, they told me. Well, my
brawn hasn't done me much good, and I've shown very little
common sense today, for all the good it will do me."

"I think you know you could be of little use to Ruddygore,
for all I care of his troubles, but you might be just what I need
right now. Come with me—outside for a moment." She got
up and went out the door, and he followed, curious.

She gestured with the crooked stick. "You see the farm
here. It runs itself, pretty much. Animals are my field of study
and my life. Everything I require is produced right here. The
locals steer clear of this place, which is why our friend in the
pond over there has so few victims. But there are certain hus-
bandry problems I have. Chickens need roosters to lay regular
eggs. Cows need a bull to keep the milk flowing. I lost my
prize bull the other day to a stupid accident."

He nodded, wondering where she was leading.

"Tell me—have you ever heard of Circe?"

He thought a moment, then slowly shook his head. "I don't
think so."

"The legends have Circe as a person, a sorceress. Actually,
it is a place. An island, far from Husaquahr. An enchanted
island, inhabited entirely by a race of women."

"I seem to remember some old stories of places where only
women lived," he told her. "Seems to me they'd die out after
a while."

"That would be true," she admitted, "but men are occa-
sionally lured there in collusion with sirens and other allies of
the sea. They usually act as expected, waking up on an island
of women, and the Circeans let them. In that way the population
is renewed."

"Sounds like a fun place to be shipwrecked," he murmured.

"Think you so? I said it was an enchanted isle. After the

JACK L. CHALKER

101

people are done with the men, the enchantment is brought into
play. A piece of sacred wood, like this, is brought out, and
the man is touched so." She touched him with the stick. "Then
the man is useful in other ways, and Circe is all female once
more."

He felt suddenly dizzy and dropped to all fours. "Hey!
What—?" he exclaimed, but his talk turned into an outlandish
bellow.

She stepped back and looked at him with satisfaction. "I
am from that island," she told him. "Exiled for reasons that
do not concern anyone but me. Eventually I came here with
my enchanted wand and built this place from barren fields. I
transform few, for sorcerers such as your Ruddygore could do
as they willed with me. But you owe me your life. And you
have no future here, as we both agreed. So now you are what
you reminded me of the moment I saw you. You are my new
bull, bound by my powers to do my bidding and bound, too,
to the limits of my land. Your power and your horns will guard
the land and herds from unseen interlopers, and you will keep
my cows in milk. It's not so much to ask. No petty magic or
sprites need you fear ever again, for you are under my protec-
tion." With that she turned and went back into her house,
leaving him there.

Vision and balance cleared in a bit, and he found what she
said was impossibly true. He could turn his massive head enough
to see his huge black body, and he could wag his barely seen
tail. His vision, he discovered, was poor—after twenty feet or
so, things started to blur—and he was totally color-blind, but
his powe-s of hearing and smell were increased tremendously.

He turned and looked back at the house, but knew he could
never fit through that door in any case. He needed time to
think, he decided, and wandered off toward the fields where
the cows were grazing, following—scent? Yes, that seemed
to be it.

Almost without thinking, he found himself lowering his
massive head and munching the tall grass, which tasted ex-
tremely good. But all he could think of was that he'd been
suckered again.

He sulked most of the afternoon, munching grass and feeling
rotten, and wandered across the farm without really realizing

102

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it. He was both shocked and startled late in the day to hear
somebody addressing him.

"So you're the new bully boy," a thin, reedy, male voice
said casually. "Welcome to the club."

His massive head came up, and he looked around with all
the concentration his weak eyes could muster but saw no one.

"Not there, bright eyes," came the voice. "Down here. And
watch where you're stepping!"

He looked down and saw in front of him a handsome,
strutting rooster.

"So what d'ya want, big boy? A bear?"

"But—you're a rooster!" he exclaimed in a deep series of
snorts and grunts.

"And you're a bull. You wanna make something of it?"

"But—you can talk!"

"To you, anyway," the rooster admitted. "And to any of
the other former men who are around here. Maybe a couple
of dozen. The rest are real animals."

He hadn't considered this. Just the opportunity for two-way
communication excited him. "I'm Joe. How long have you
been here?"

"Macore's the name," the rooster responded. "Been here
forever, it seems. You lose your sense of time, though. Don't
much matter, anyway. We're all stuck here."

He didn't like the sound of that. "Nobody ever tries to

escape?"

The rooster crowed derisively. "Escape? Man, you're bound
to this land by that stick she's got. No need for fences. It's
like hitting a stone wall."

"I'll take your word for it." Joe thought a moment. "Say—
you say it's the stick that does it?"

"Yep. From her native island. She never is without it."

His mind was suddenly racing with even this tiny glimmer
of hope. "But surely she sleeps?"

"Oh, sure. Oh, I see where you're headed. You figure to
swipe the stick, maybe hide it or break it up, right?"

"Something like that," he admitted.

"Well, don't think it hasn't been thought of before. You
want to risk her catching you and turning you into a snail or
worm or something, that's fine with me. Bein' a rooster maybe
ain't so much, but it's lot better than the alternatives."

103

JACK L. CHALKER

"I wonder. I wonder if everybody's as content as you are
to be an animal slave for the rest of his life."

"Hey! Wait a minute! Now, don't get me wrong. If there
was a real chance, I'd grab it for sure. But take it all the way.
Say we snatch the stick and get away with it. Her hold is gone.
We can leave. Hoo-ray! But you'll still be a bull and I'll still
be a rooster. The spell's worked through the charm, as with
all spells. It will hold even if she don't have the stick—and
without the stick not even she could undo it. Think about it.
You'd be steaks in the Machang markets before long, and I'd
be chicken salad. Even if we escaped that, what kind of life
would it be? Worse off than here, I'd say. Now do you see
why nobody tries?"

Joe nodded, but didn't really accept it all. Something the
woman had said kept rattling around in the back of his head,
something he couldn't quite pin down.

"You all right?" Macore asked, concerned about the silence.
"I know it's tough to accept, but—"

"Quiet\ I'm trying to think!" he snapped. Something she
had said... Yeah! That was it!

"/ transform few, for sorcerers such as your Ruddygore
could do as they willed with me..."

"How's that?" the rooster asked, sounding concerned.

"Ruddygore! Sure! You've heard of him, haven't you?"

"Oh, sure. Everybody has, I guess. One of the most pow-
erful sorcerers in the world, it's said. Also nuttier than a squir-
rel's hoard, by all accounts."

"I think you're right on both counts. But what she said, just
after she got me, was that Ruddygore was tremendously more
powerful than she. She's scared of him. Don't you see? If
Ruddygore personally took over, he could break her spell in a
minute. He could restore us—and protect us from her!"

Macore thought it over. "I dunno. Maybe you're right. But
what good does that do us? These necromancers don't give one
small damn about folks like us."

"This one cares about me, for some reason," Joe said, hope
returning full within him, and with it a sense of self-confidence.
"He suckered me from another world to this one, gave me a
new body, then trained, me with the best trainers around. If I
could get to him and make him know it was me, he'd change
me back for sure. And as long as he broke the one spell, he'd

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

104

do it for everybody. I think I know him well enough to promise

that."

The rooster looked and sounded interested. "So Ruddygore's

a buddy, huh? How do I know you're not just putting me on?"
Joe sighed. "The best I can do is tell you the whole story,"

And he proceeded to do so.

The rooster listened attentively, then finally said, "Well, /

believe you, for what this's worth. But I'm not the one you
got to convince. I couldn't possibly lift that stick, even though
I could get into the house, and you wouldn't fit through the
door. Uh-uh. We need help. I think it's time you met the rest

of the boys."

The rest of the boys proved to be a couple of magnificent-
looking stallions, two pigs, a gander, four oxen, a ram, and a
billy goat. They were harder to convince than Macore had been.
Many had been there so long they barely remembered being
anything else, and a strong undercurrent of fear of their mistress
ran through all of them. In the past, there had been examples
made that several remembered clearly. There were a lot of
unpleasant things the Circean could turn somebody into, and

Joe heard the whole catalog.

"It's not a bad life we have here," argued Posti, one of the

horses, "Plenty to eat. Security. An easy job."

Joe just couldn't see it. "Is that all being a man meant to
you? I mean, really, is that all life means to you? Agh! Better
she turned you into a carrot! Then you wouldn't even have to

think!"

"If you wasn't so damned big and mean-lookin', bull, I'd

tear you apart for that," Posti shot back. "What does anybody
want outta life 'cept food, sex, and security?" There were

several murmurs of agreement.

"If that's all being alive means, then you are better off

here," Joe told them. "If being human means something more—
maybe doing some great thing, or maybe being a part of some
great enterprise—then you're wrong. Maybe love, kids, learn-
ing something new, and teaching it to others count for some-
thing, too, though."

"Listen, buddy," Houma the goat broke in, sounding more

sheepish than goatish, "what you say may be true for you, but
not for most of us. I mean, how many people ever can do them

JACK L. CHALKER                105

great things you talk about? Most of us are just plain, simple
folk. Me, I was stuck on a farm workin' my ass off for some
duke I never even seen, roamed off young to a gal who looked
worse than Grogha here—" He meant one of the pigs. "—and
saddled with a half-dozen kids, all of which looked like her
and acted like demons. Hell, wanderin' on this place one day
was pretty good luck for me."

Joe looked from one to the other, understanding the problem
while not being able to understand fully how people could be
like that. He was conscious, though, that he was losing ground
in the debate and had little to offer. What kind of men were
these, who'd rather stay draft animals? He looked at Grogha
the pig. "You, too, hog? You like your life here?"

"It's not bad," Grogha grunted. "Not like what you people
seem to think it is."

It was Macore who came to Joe's rescue a little. "I can give
you a couple of arguments for going along with the bull here,"
he said. "The best reason, Grogha, is how you'd like your life
if the old bag got a sudden yen for pork chops."

The entire group gave a shocked gasp.

"Yeah,"the rooster persisted. "Pork chops. Bacon. Sausage.
That's what you'll wind up, you know, when you're too old
to produce the little piglets. Same goes for me. I don't like
being somebody's chicken dinner. How long do we live in this
form? A few years for me at best. Maybe five, six for pigs.
Longer for horses and oxen, shorter for sheep and goats, but
not very long. How long we been here? Anybody really know?"

"Ten or fifteen years is fine with me," the stubborn Posti
responded. "How long was I gonna live back home?"

"Yeah, but you been here the longest, I think," a hesitant-
sounding Houma said thoughtfully. "How long has it been,
Posti? You ain't as young as you used to be, I know that."

Mentally thanking Macore for the opening, Joe pressed the
advantage while it held. "Yeah, Posti. And what happens if
you break a leg? All you got to do is make one slip, break
down once, and you're nothing but several hundred pounds of
dog food."

"Hey! Now wait a minute!" the horse responded defen-
sively, but neither Joe nor Macore was willing to let him off
the hook.

"Yeah," the rooster pressed. "What happens to a man with




106

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

a broken leg? You get an adept in the healer's art, rest a couple
of weeks, and you got it. And how old might you grow? To
sit around the alehouses and swap the old yams and be the
object of respect—or to that certain fate our new friend here
predicts if you remain the same? As for me, I do not look
forward to my certain slaughter, but even if, as a man, I were
then to die, I would rather die a man than live this kind of
life."

As with any group of basically pedestrian, unimaginative
minds, sentiment shifted with the latest decent argument. Now
heads were nodding in favor of Macore's words. Joe decided
not to let anybody else swing things the other way.

"A vote!" he called. "Let's have a vote! Those with us will
try it. Those not with us can go back to their ways for a while,
until fate takes them, or until they are overrun and enslaved
by the Dark Baron's forces because they were not there to fight
him like men!"

That last, said in the heat of passion, shocked them a little
more. He'd forgotten how out of touch they'd be—and he
hoped he hadn't gone too far. Macore's rooster head cocked
and looked at him a bit dubiously, but there was nothing to be
done. "Yes," the rooster agreed. "Let us vote now. In turn, I
will call your names and you tell me aye or nay."

"I think—" Posti began, but Macore cut him off by starting
the roll call. The early vote was clearly for escape, but begin-
ning with Posti it seemed to go the other way. In the end, it
was Joe, Macore, Grogha, Houma, and the other horse, whose
name was Dacaro, who voted to escape. The others, the ma-
jority of the group, decided against.

"Very well," Macore told the dissenters. "Go back to your
stables and fields and vegetate. We will be gone soon."

"Or turned to maggots," one of the oxen snorted. Slowly
the nay votes 'drifted away into the gathering darkness.

Macore sighed. "Okay. Sorry if I have problems, but I have
no night vision at all. I make it five of us. We'll need a plan."

Joe looked at the odd barnyard assortment. "I'd say our
roles are pretty clear. Macore, you absolutely guarantee we
can get off this farm if she doesn't have the stick?"

"If she doesn't have ownership, then yes," the rooster as-
sured him. "That means it must be in the possession of one of
us or hidden where only we, not she, know about it."

JACK L.CHALKER                107

"I have no intention of chancing her getting it back again,"
Joe said flatly. "Who knows what she might do? So once we
have it, I'll take the stick. But I can't get inside her house to
get it. Our friends the pig and the goat must be the actual
burglars."

"I figured something like that," Grogha grumped. "Hell,
she's a light sleeper. She's lasted a long time.-Our hooves will
clatter on that stone floor of hers."

"Then you must go silently and slowly," Joe told them.
"But once one of you has the stick securely in your mouth,
both run like hell. I'll be waiting outside and I'll grab it. Then
we all start running."

"Damn! Wish I could see in this," Macore swore in frus-
tration. "Well, let's work it out as best we can. First the bur-
glary, then the getaway. We can't afford to get separated once
we're clear of here."

"Then let's get to details," Joe responded anxiously.

"When do you want to do this?" Houma asked uneasily.

"Frankly, I'd like to do it right now," Joe told him, "but
none of us have had any rest and we'd better be at our best
for this. There's no reason for waiting, though. There's just as
much chance of getting caught if we rehearse it as if we do it.
I'd say tomorrow, at mid-eve, about halfway through her sleep.
Macore—you seem to know a lot of her habits. When does
she usually go to bed?"

"She's asleep now," the rooster told the bull. "She eats her
meal shortly after sunset, makes a final check of the outbuild-
ings, then turns in. There's one help, too—she snores."

"How do you know so much?" the goat asked.

Macore laughed. "1 been dreaming of this for a long, long
time. But I'm not strong enough to lift that stick, and no good
at night. Believe me, though—I've worked it out again and
again..."

The company gathered in the dark away from the house
about an hour after moonrise. Joe didn't like the clear, moonlit
night much—it would make them very easy to spot—but Ma-
core liked it just fine. Although his vision was bad, there was
light enough for him at least to see what was going on.

They were surprised to find an addition to the night's work—
Posti, the leader of the opposition. "I just keep dreamin' and

108

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

dreamin' about dogs," he grumbled. "Besides, if you pull this
off, it might get lonesome around here."

"Glad to have you," Macore said, "but there's little for you
to do. Just stand out here with Joe and Dacaro and be ready
to run interference if you get the chance."

"When I get the stick, run like hell in any direction except
the one / take until you're out of sight, then double back to
the west gate." Joe looked around, his vision not so hot, either.
Finally he saw a small stick—actually the broken handle of a
shovel or something similar. "Hey! There's a thought. Find
one more like this. Then all three of us tearing off will have
something in our mouth. She won't know which one to chase."

They scouted around and finally found an old piece offence.
Joe sighed, looked at the company, said, "All right—we all
know what we're going to do. If we do it, we're free and clear.
If not, well, I'd rather try than sit and say I never did."

They moved slowly, singly or by twos, to the cottage. All
was dark inside, and they could hear that Macore had spoken
the truth when he said she snored, although it was soft and
low and would not mask much in the way of sounds.

Macore perched on Joe's back. "I can't get far alone and I
don't want to miss this," he explained. Joe just nodded, then
turned to the two smallest members of the team.

Grogha and Houma had been very hesitant about this from
the start; but once they had made up their minds, there was no
second-guessing.

"I figured we needed a small one or two," Macore explained
to Joe. "That's why I got the roll call in that order. The sure
ones first, then Grogha and, finally, Houma. I figured, if it
looked at first like everybody was going to make the break,
Houma'd come in. When it turned out different, he was too
stubborn and too proud to back down."

"I never could have gotten this far without you, Macore. I
owe you one," Joe told him.

"Maybe," Macore replied, almost to himself. "But maybe
I owe you one, Joe."

The pig and the goat had already disappeared inside the
house.

The fact was that the witch had little to fear and so had
taken few precautions. As long as the spell of her staff was on
the farm, anyone could get onto the property, but never off.

109

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 them-
selves, 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

110

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

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




JACK L. CHALKER

111

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, re-
alized 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.

112          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

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 the land and fencing would allow, avoiding any com-
plications. 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 midaftemoon, 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

-> -..hit n,p need?"

113

JACK L. CHALKER

"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 some-
thing 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 leam to

read?" he asked.

"Long ago, and in this very place. I am no friend of the

one you call Ruddy gore, 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,

114

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

115

although it wasn't that surprising, considering the weather.
There was inside activity, though—fires glowed through win-
dows, 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 Cir-
cean 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 ofTerindell," Dacaro said
smoothly. "Obviously, those who would receive aid will serve

in payment."

The Imir's arrowlike 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, sud-
denly, his granitelike 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 pos-
sible.

Poquah laughed.

Suddenly aware of how his demeanor had broken down, he
got himself under quick control and stared at the bull. "ReallyT'
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.




JACK L. CHALKER                117

CHAPTERS

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 addi-
tional 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, multiwinged suggoths. Behind were the bat-winged go-
fahr and at least two small legions of hoglike 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 sol-
diers, opportunists, and obvious conscripts.

The Dark Baron had doubled his forces since the start of
the flood season, and more were coming day after day. Ruddy-
gore 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

116

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.

East? West? North? East was slow, mountainous, and would
leave their supply lines long and ugly, while they would be
fighting in the best areas for Marquewood to defend. North lay
the Valley of Decision, named for an earlier great war's cli-
mactic battle, when the invader of that time was forced to
channel his forces through a narrow and uneven valley with
gorges at two points. Sorcery or not, anybody at the bottom
was going to have a pretty nasty time, and those hills and
ledges were hollowed-out castles and fortifications, running for




118

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER

119

miles and built right into the hillsides. But west he had to cross
the River of Dancing Gods. Easy going all the way to Stormhold
that way, but—how to cross? And how to supply his armies
if they crossed? The wealth and booty of Leander was far to
the west, and High Pothique was poor and treacherous.

Still, the sorcerer who called himself Ruddy gore reflected,
the Baron would have to cross the Dancing Gods and count on

supplies by river from the City-States.

The time to hit was during that crossing, when the Baron
would be weakest and most vulnerable. Either that or abandon
all until Stormhold and equal turf were reached. Valisandra
and Marquewood, he decided, needed a navy and an air force.

He was about to withdraw from the scene when he felt a
presence, a crimson force, in the headquarters tent. Drawn to
this strong feeling of power, he peered down and saw the Dark

Baron himself.

The crimson aura was incredibly strong and visible only to

those well versed in the Arts, yet it was not a distinctive,
personal aura as much as part of the mask; had it not blotted
out the Baron's true aura, Ruddygore could have instantly iden-
tified the evil leader.

His temporal disguise was also impressive, cloaked as he
was in shining black armor from head to foot, his head masked
by a demon's-head helmet whose eyes burned with an inhuman

yellow light.

The defenses, both magical and temporal, were perfect, as

always. Although the figure towered at far greater than seven
feet, it was impossible to guess the true height or build of the
sorcerer inside, or even the gender. More than once, Ruddygore
had suspected that the disguise hid far more than mere aura
and features, but there was no way to know for sure.

Ruddygore stared down at the massive, giant figure and
thought, angrily, / know you. I have eaten and drunk with you,
perhaps exchanged jokes and tricks of the craft. You have been
my guest, my friend, my rival in the world we both pledged to
serve, not destroy. Which one are you? Who are you, who has
sold his body and soul to Hell? In whose name do you ratio-
nalize the violation of your most sacred trusts? Damn you! I
will know you one day! I will know you and be present to
witness and participate in your total destruction—I swear it!

The force of his hatred and his will seemed to penetrate to

the huge dark figure standing below. The demon's mask looked
upward, as if searching him out. A right hand came up, and a
gloved index finger traced a searing orange pattern in the air,
a pattern which, when completed, suddenly sped up toward
Ruddygore, growing and blazing intensely as it approached.

Unwilling to face the Baron with a strictly astral form, and
not wanting to give that evil one the satisfaction of knowing
that there was somebody really watching, Rudddygore rapidly
withdrew, making sufficient countersigns to divert the blazing
pattern. Nothing clear, nothing obvious. A quick retreat. Let
the Baron wonder if it was real or only nerves, the sorcerer
decided.

He was quickly back at Terindell. After a brief glance around
to make certain he was not followed by anything, he floated
over the castle walls. The center quad looked like a barnyard,
he noted curiously. He would have to see what was going on.
Still, one horse there—an aura of pale greenish blue in a pattern
that was vaguely familiar to him. A horse with an aura?

He decided not to investigate until back in human form once
more. Some animals could see astral bodies, and he didn't trust
that horse with the aura at all.

His own body lay on his bed in his inner chamber, protected
by the strongest of spells, apparently asleep. Quickly he ap-
proached and merged with it. The body yawned and stretched;

the eyes opened. He was starving, he realized. Astral projec-
tions always did that to him. He looked around, found a couple
of pounds of chocolate-topped butter cookies, and tore into
them. They would be just about right as a snack while he undid
enough of the door spell to get out.

It was a little more than half an hour before Ruddygore
emerged from his building inside the compound and approached
the animals there. The ever-attentive Poquah followed slightly
behind, and had obviously briefed the sorcerer of Terindell.
For his part, Ruddygore seemed somewhat amused.

He looked them over critically. "Hmm... Not a bad spell
for the old bat. Still, she probably had to use some of that
stinkwood. She's going to be very unhappy and vulnerable
without it." He turned to Joe. "So—you claim you have won?"

Joe looked up at him and tried to see him clearly with his




120

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poor vision. "Sure I did. Nothing about shape or form was in
the rules one way or the other."

The sorcerer nodded. "That's true. But nothing said we had
to change you back, either. Still, you're right. I didn't go
through all this to have you go out making cows happy, and
your very survival and return here show that you have the three
qualities I counted on you to have. The first is luck—blind,
dumb luck that gets you out of jams. Don't sneer at it. It's
essential, to be anybody around here. The second is self-con-
fidence, which you have aplenty, it seems, or you wouldn't
have returned here no matter what. Finally, you use your head—
when it would have been easy to accept your new lot in life
meekly, you wasted no time in planning and organizing the
opposition and carrying your escape off. I approve. I think,
too, you've learned a valuable lesson here—that you can trust
nothing and no one, and that almost everyone is out to get you
in one way or another." He sighed and looked thoughtful. "I'm
tempted to leave you a reminder of all that. The tail, perhaps,
or the horns. But—no. This is too serious a business."

Ruddy gore's hand came up, and he made a series of ap-
parently random signs in the air. Joe suddenly felt himself
restored. He was there in the pasture, on his hands and knees,
a clump of grass still in his mouth. He spat it out, sputtered,
and got to his feet, looking down at himself and feeling all
over just to make sure. "Hey! I'm really back!" he couldn't
help exclaiming.

Ruddygore nodded and smiled. "We'll get you some food
and clothes and a good night's sleep. After that, we'll talk."

Joe made no move to go, but instead just stood there, looking
at the sorcerer and the remaining animals. "Uh—what about
them? They helped me. I couldn't have done it without 'em."
He cleared his throat a little embarrassedly. "I, uh, kind of
promised..."

The sorcerer nodded. "You promised what you couldn't
deliver and suckered them into helping you, and now you want
me to bail you out. That's about it, isn't it?"

"That's about it," Joe agreed a little sheepishly.

"I knew it," Houma sighed. "He's going to leave us stuck."

"Not necessarily, my homy friend. Who might you be?"
Ruddygore asked.

"Houma. Formerly a farmer on the lands of Cohom."

121

JACK L. CHALKER

"Uh-huh. And how did a farmer from Cohom happen to
wander onto that farm and get turned into a goat? That's a
hundred miles or more from Cohom."

"Urn. Well, sir, we broke a plow, and Cohom village had
no spares, since it was very old, and they sent me to get a new
bracing custom-made for it."

"Hmmm... A good liar, too. Come, now—what was it,
really? Women? Drink? Dishonesty? Or just plain oath-break-
ing?"

The goat sighed. "Not as bad as all that. We was out workin'
in the fields, and a friend of mine, Druka, got caught up in a
runaway plow team. Got pretty tore up. Well, this highborn
son of a bitch rides over, jumps off his fancy horse, and starts
screaming that we've screwed up the production schedule and
loused up a good master plow. Loused up a good master plow!
With Druka there all cut and bleeding to death! So I slugged
the bastard. Felt good. He looked real surprised and went down
like a sack of meal. Then I dragged Druka out. Finally I saw
he was dead. Chain had broken and snapped back, probably
broke his neck. Well, sir, I knew what would happen if that
fellow came to, him more concerned about plows than men
and all. I figured I either had to kill him or cut and run. He
wasn't worth killin' like that, and I'd hardly get a fair fight,
so I cut and ran. Bummed around for a while, took odd jobs,
and finally applied for work at the old bat's place."

Ruddygore nodded. "I see. And now you want—what? To
be restored and returned to Cohom?"

"Oh, no, sir! There's no time limit on hittin' a highborn.
Uh-uh. I'll be happy to join tip, work for you or whatever, but
if you're gonna send me back or turn me in, you might as well
leave me a goat."

The sorcerer laughed. "Well said, sir!" He turned to Joe.
"He meets with your approval?"

Joe nodded. "He has real guts, I'll say that. I don't know
what you two have been saying, but this fellow sneaked in,
got that wand. and didn't panic. I think I'd trust him at my
back."

"Then that is where he should be," Ruddygore replied. Again
he made a series of signs in the air; suddenly a spindly, knock-
kneed fellow with a light beard appeared, on hands and knees.
He looked uncertain, almost wondrous, as he made his way

122          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

unaccustomedly to his two feet. He looks like a young Uncle
Sam, Joe thought.

Next the sorcerer looked at Macore the rooster. "And you,
sir?"

"A tradesman. I sharpened and serviced household gadgets
door-to-door and farm-to-farm. I picked the wrong customer,
that's all."

Ruddy gore turned again to Joe questioningly.

"Macore was the first to agree to the plan and talked the
others into it," Joe explained. "He also had almost all the
information we needed."

"Hmmm... Macore, huh? Seems to me I heard of a Macore
a few years back from someplace in Leander. Funny. He was
in the same business you were. Only he had a reputation for
leaving with more things from the various farms than he should
have. You wouldn't be any relation to him, would you?"

"No comment until I've seen a lawyer," the rooster re-
sponded.

Ruddy gore laughed and turned back to Joe. "What the fellow
was, actually, was a common thief. Not even a fancy one.
Pretty good, though. He would have valuable skills for us—
but I wouldn't trust him too far. He is too clever to have to
steal for a living—he did it because he liked the work."

"I'll take the chance," Joe answered. "Besides, I owe him
that much."

Again the sign, and now Macore was revealed—a small,
slightly built man with a large hawk nose and tiny, deep-set
black eyes. For once Joe wondered about the choice of animal
the Circean had made. Macore looked more like a weasel than
a rooster.

Next was Grogha. That pig looked up expectantly at the
sorcerer and eventually told his story about the shrewish wife
and mean kids. Like Houma, he was willing to do anything in
the service of Terindell, but, rather than go home, he'd remain

a Pig-
Ruddy gore had no problem with him, and the Circean pat-
tern was once again revealed to be fairly consistent. He was a
middle-aged, fat man, short and stocky, with a round face and
an enormous wide mouth.

Next came Posti. Joe fold Ruddy gore about the hesitant

JACK L. CHALKER

123

horse, but emphasized that Posti, once committed, had ac-
quitted himself well indeed.

"So you would like to be restored and join our Company?"
the sorcerer asked. "I detect some hesitancy in you."

"I—I'm not really sure what I want," Posti admitted. "I
know I was a pain back on the farm, and I know, too, that I
came along mostly because I was damned bored. I wanted to
see more of the world, get in a little more real living. But I
ain't too keen on bein' me again, either. I wasn't no beauty.
I had a club foot and a cleft chin and I mostly did the haulin'
and dirty work, anyway. So y'see, sir, why I was torn. On the
one hand I wanted to feel like I saw something of this life,
more'n most folks, but, hell, sir, I mean, I'm a really pretty
horse. Strong, too."

Ruddygore thought a moment. "Do you understand what
we are doing here? We are fighting a war."

"Aye, sir. I'm willin' to do my duty."

"Suppose... Just suppose... Suppose we keep you a horse?
A horse for one of these men? We'd have a horse with your
courage and the intelligence of a man, and you would partic-
ipate and do your part. You would also get the travel and
adventure you seem to crave. How about that?"

"I was kind of thinkin' along them lines myself," Posti
admitted. "But I sorta thought it would sound crazy."

The sorcerer grew thoughtful once again. "Still, we must
have a way for you to speak, and you just don't have the
equipment for it—nor can I really give it to you without chang-
ing your nature. However, I think perhaps I have a spell for
it." Again the mystic patterns in the air. "There. Now you will
be able to communicate with anyone who sits upon your back—
and only that person under that circumstance. You will, of
course, retain your present ability to talk to others similarly
bewitched and to some of the fairies. What about it?"
"I think that will do fine, sir," Posti answered.
Ruddygore turned at last to Dacaro. The sleek black stallion
with the odd aura had remained silent and apparently disinter-
ested in the proceedings until now. The head came up, looked

down at Ruddygore, and Dacaro said, "Hello again, Ruddy-
gore."

Ruddygore frowned. "Well, I'll be damned! No wonder that
aura was familiar. Dacaro, isn't it?"




124

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GOOS

125

"You know it is."

"I had clean forgotten that you were exiled to the Circean's
care! But I have not forgotten why," Ruddygore added darkly.

"I did not think you had," the horse responded.

Ruddygore turned to the others, who, except forPosti, could
follow only the sorcerer's part of the conversation. All knew,
though, that something was wrong. "This man did me a great
disservice once," the sorcerer told them. "He alone was there

by force, not by accident."

"He was helpful to us, though," Joe said.
"Yeah, and he could read, too," Grogha added.
"Still, this presents a problem," Ruddygore told them. "Da-
caro was an adept here at Terindell several years ago. I'm
afraid he had the talent but not the self-discipline for the arts.
On his own, he opened the gates of Hell and almost destroyed
this place—and me. I was faced with a deep breach of trust
and faith and also with the fact that he knew far too much of
the darker side of necromancy to be allowed simply to go. He
was too ambitious and too easily seduced. He would right now
be with the Dark Baron, had I let him leave."

"That's not true!" Dacaro shot back. "In fact, that is the
only reason I joined in on this breakout, and certainly the only
reason I returned here, to you of all people. You forget I have
looked into the face of the ultimate evil that sponsors the Dark
Baron. Were you right about me, I could have easily cut and

run to him after the escape."

Ruddygore thought about it. "What you say has merit, I
admit. But I look inside you, Dacaro, and see your tragedy.
It is a tragedy I do not think you yourself understand—or, at
least, will admit to yourself. What you say is true—but there
is inside you something that draws you wrong. You have the
makings of a Dark Baron yourself, Dacaro. He really doesn't
think he's evil, or controlled from Hell. He has fallen com-
pletely into self-delusion, which the seduction of ultimate power
brings. It's inside you, too."

"I disagree."

"Obviously. And yet my original judgment stands. In your
present condition, your powers are somewhat limited, although
still there—as is your considerable knowledge. But I simply
can't take the chance of restoring you. Not now, particularly.
After this is over, perhaps. But not now."

"I thought as much."

"Still, I'm not about to throw you into the arms of the Dark
Baron, either," the sorcerer continued. "What say you to the
same deal I gave Posti there? Joe can use your magical knowl-
edge and your language abilities. The whole Company can.
Will you join the Company of your own free will?"

"As a horse?"

"As a horse. For now, anyway."

Dacaro thought it over for a moment. "All right. For now,
anyway. But I do not wish to die a horse."

"You have my word. Prove yourself once more, and perhaps
something can be worked out. Deal?"

The black stallion sighed. "Deal."

Ruddygore again made some signs, this time showing ob-
vious concentration.

"What are you doing?" Dacaro asked nervously. "I need no
spells from you to communicate!"

Ruddygore kept on, and Dacaro saw ribbons of gold and
blue and yellow flow from the finger of the sorcerer and weave
the signs in the air—the only one there, other than the sorcerer
himself and Poquah, who could see such things.

"You are bound by a stronger spell than the old one, which
was so easily broken," Ruddygore told him. "I wish you to
face your choices squarely. None but one of the Council could
undo my spell."

Dacaro thought about it. "I see. You expect me to run to
the Baron in the end."

"Self-discipline is the key to your growth or corruption,"
Ruddygore said. "Let's see who is right." He sighed and turned
to the others. "Now we are almost complete. Joe, Dacaro will
be your mount, and you will be able to communicate with him.
Listen to him. He has enough of the art to keep you out of
some trouble or advise you on the rest."

"Glad to have him," Joe responded.

"Posti, I'm going to give you the last member of the Com-
pany as your rider."

"Last member?" both Joe and Posti said.

Ruddygore nodded. "Have you forgotten, Joe, that you didn't
arrive here alone?"

The big man snapped his fingers. "Damn! I really /ladjust
about forgotten! How is she?"




126          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"Changed. In some ways greatly changed. In others still the
same. We will all dine together tomorrow evening. At that time
we will do the last things that must be done, and then I have
a job for you. All of you, in fact."

"So soon?"
"Time does not wait. Already the Dark Baron's forces strike

camp. In ten days, perhaps a little more, they will be at the
River of Sorrows to the south with nothing to stop them. In
four weeks or so, we will know where he is going and, there-
fore, the best point to make our stand. There will be a great
battle. I have no time to waste, nor do any of you."

"Four weeks..." Houma repeated. "You mean we're that

close to a fight?"

"Closer. You see, I have a far different but no less vital

task for you. There is a possibility, at least, that the outcome
of that battle and perhaps the war turns on your mission. Now
go with Poquah. Relax. Those of you who are again humans,
enjoy it. Tomorrow those of you who need it will be outfitted
and equipped, select horses, and the like. At dinner tomorrow
you will know your task. The morning after that, you will be
riding far from here. Some of you may not return again."

^n^r i i-rv f

ALL THE INGREDIENTS FOR A QUEST

Magic swords for quests must be named.

—XVU, 167, 2(c)

RUDDYGORE LOOKED MARGE OVER KEENLY AS SHE ENTERED

the room and he liked what he saw. "You have progressed

beyond my wildest hopes," he told her.

"I had a good teacher," Marge replied. "No fan of yours,

though."

The sorcerer chuckled. "I daresay not. Think of us as mem-
bers of the same family who went in different directions^ Both
were of equal potential and inclined, say, to, painting pic-
tures—but one saw the old school as outdated and uninteresting

JACK L. CHALKER

127

and became an abstractionist and cubist; the other painter saw
all that newfangled abstract stuff as nonsense and painted re-
alistic portraits. Neither of them could discuss the other without
each one's philosophies of art getting in the way. But even
though they disagreed on the nature of art, they saw in each
other a sincere belief in art itself. That's roughly the analogy
between Huspeth and me."

"But she said she would be with you if the Baron reached
Terindell, I remember."

He gave a soft smile and nodded. "Indeed. We disagree on
just about everything concerning our own, ah, art, and we can't
say three civil words to each other without getting into a fighting
and clawing match. Just like our realist and our cubist. But
both of those painters would be on the same barricade fighting
together the forces of those who would wish to bum all pretty
pictures. You see?"

She smiled and relaxed. "Now that you put it that way..."

"I had hoped she would see you as I did—the potential
there. Tell me—can you perceive and read auras?"

"I can see them—sort of. You're a fuzzy purple and yellow
pattern. But I can't really tell much from them."

"That comes with experience. You're already much further
along than I would have expected. Enough to be considered
an adept, at least, at the lower levels. If you wish, as time goes
on, I can add to your knowledge and instruction."

"I'd like that," she told him. "I find the whole thing fas-
cinating. But sooner or later I'm going to have to leam to read
to go anywhere."

"There are ways around just about everything here," he
assured her. "If you have the will, the way will open. But
nothing's for free. Not even the training you've had so far.
And Huspeth's developmental pattern for you contains a num-
ber of potential future problems, too."

Her eyebrows rose, and she waited for him to continue.

"First of all, have you looked at yourself—really looked at
yourself—in the past few days?"

"In the pond. Why?"

He pulled himself out of his chair and beckoned her to follow
him back into the lab. Again he pulled out the full-length
mirror. "Look there and tell me what you see," he said softly.

"A well-stacked Peter Pan," she responded dryly; except

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

128

for her obviously feminine, well-proportioned figure, she did
have very much the Peter Pan look, even to the hair, particularly
in the clothing Huspeth had given her.
"Nothing else?"

She looked hard. "The ears look a little funny," she decided.
He nodded. "Slightly pointed and angled back against the
head. That and the streak in your hair. They are marks of the
fairy folk. In order to get as much into you as the time allowed,
Huspeth took some shortcuts, I'm afraid. To sensitize you to
magic, she infused into you a measure of fairy blood, and it
tells. The more you use this new magic art, the more dominant
that fairy strain, that changeling strain, will become—and it

will show."

"You're telling me, then, that the more magic I use, the

less human I'll become. Is that it?"

He nodded.

"But she never told—"

"I know. You think of Huspeth as a kind and powerful
teacher. But the philosophical differences with her run a lot
deeper than you suspect. She idolizes the fairy folk. Always
has. With that bent, she has come, wrongly, to believe that
humans are the source of the world's corruption—the gate
through which Hell must work. In a sense, she thought she
was giving you a gift that would guard you from corruption
later. There's no undoing it, either. There isn't time, for one
thing, and also, those qualities will be more than useful. But
the more of fairy you become, the more those restrictions ap-
plying to fairies will also apply, and things you wouldn't think
twice about could be dangerous."

Marge looked worried. "Like what?"

"Well, for one thing, even now I would stay away from
iron of any kind. There's no natural iron in Husaquahr, by the
way, but some of the mercenaries from other lands have iron
weapons. The dwarves, whose power derives from their ability
alone in faerie to handle iron, always have access to it. Magic
swords, too, often have an iron alloy in them. Right now iron
will bum and make you a little sick. If you progress, it could

kill you with a touch."

She whistled low. "Any other nasty little things like that?"
"The nineteen volumes of Rules covering basic faerie pow-
ers and limitations are a bit much to go into now. Let's say

r

129

JACK L. CHALKER

that the general restrictions will be self-evident; the specifics
can be boiled down to an old Rule that applies to folks like
Huspeth and me, too—the more on the magic side you are,
the more vulnerable you are to magic as well. Just keep it in
mind—if you're tempted, or need to use any powers you might
have."

"Not much chance of that," she assured him. "Most of my
powers are chemical, not signs and spells. We didn't have
much time to get into that."

"More will come to you, with the temptation to use it, as
time goes on," he cautioned. "Just remember what I say."

They walked back out into his library. "Say—what would
happen if I did change all the way over to fairy?" she asked.
"Would I wind up looking like Poquah or something?"

He chuckled. "Oh, no. Actually, it's pretty hard to say. But
the nonhuman blood would force out the human all the way,
eventually. No matter what you became, you'd lose your mor-
tality to age and time."

"That sounds like a good deal."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. The difference between the fairies
and us is that our mystical part, our souls, is hidden from each
other—and often from ourselves. With the fairies, what you
appear is what you are. Thus, humans may die—and yet not
die. There are other planes and other paths. If a fairy dies,
though, it is gone."

She considered that, but decided that the concept was too
abstract for her right now. This was a new world and a new
life—and she wanted to get started in it.

"Let us go to the banquet hall," Ruddygore said. "It's time
you met the rest of the Company—at least that part of it that
is human. Afterward, I'll tell you what this was all about."

Joe was stunned at the change in Marge's appearance, and
she at his, but both still felt inside themselves a certain comfort
and kinship with each other that they did not share with the
people of Husaquahr. They hardly knew each other, it was
true, but both knew where New York and Paris were, and the
best Polish jokes—and why one shouldn't tell them. They were
from the same world; the others knew it not.

They had a fine meal with the convivial Ruddygore as host.
He talked between mouthfuls of this and that and practically

130

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

everything—except what he had in mind for them. Joe, at
least, couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that the condemned
were eating a last hearty meal.

Finally all was cleared away, and only Ruddygore appeared
to be still capable of eating anything. He passed around cigars,
which were mostly declined, then settled back in his big chair
and looked them over.

"Well, we've all had a nice evening," he began, "and now
it's time for business. I trust that there was something here for
everyone. I made it heavily vegetarian, I'm afraid, to accom-
modate the lady here."

"No problem," Macore responded. "I'm gonna have trouble
eating chicken ever again, and I'd guess the rest of 'em have
the same kind of problems."

The sorcerer nodded. "That'^what I figured. You'll work
into it, though. Ah, as you know, the two animal members of
our company did not join us, but Poquah is briefing them as
we sit—and they have been well tended." He looked at each
face in turn. "Are you ready to go to work now?"

"Not particularly," the portly Grogha replied honestly. "But
that don't mean we won't."

"Fair enough. First, let me tell you what is going on. The
Dark Baron has raised an army of at least ten thousand from
a dozen or more races and, now that the floods have subsided,
they are preparing to move northward."

Macore whistled. "Ten thousand!"

"And growing more by the day. Valisandra, Marquewood,
and Leander are preparing a master conference to decide strat-
egy. We still don't know which way they are going to move,
or how, but there's a battle, possibly decisive, in the works
about a month or two from now."

"You mean we're enlisted?" Houma said.

"Drafted, you mean," Grogha put in grumpily.

"Well, we can certainly use all hands at the right time,"
Ruddygore admitted. "If we fail to hold them this time, the
next battle will be right outside those walls there. But I don't
propose that you all trot off and join the army. Not right now,
anyway. There is a side errand that must be run, and it is of
vital importance. If anything, it must be completed before the
decisive battle, so time is also of the essence." He looked at
them, "Anybody ever been to High Pothique?"

JACK L.CHALKER                131

"I have," Macore told him. "Cruddy place. Not a real coun-
try at all. Just a lot of small holdings. Why?"

"In Starmount, just beyond the Vale of Kashogi, a thing of
great value has just been discovered, something believed lost
to Husaquahr for all time—and better left lost. But now that
it's been found, it must be returned to its rightful owner. If the
Baron gets his slimy hands on it, he may win a major objective
of his war without firing an arrow or raising a sword. It is
nothing less than the Lakash Lamp."

"Long ago, in the ancient fires that birthed the world, a
greater demon cheated on the laws agreed upon to govern the
world," Ruddygore told them. "It was not so much a cheat,
really, as a shortcut, a solution to a problem that the demon
found no other way to solve. In order to establish certain of
the laws of magic, it was necessary to have a safety valve, a
wild card, an exception to those very laws. And so, out of
those early fires was fashioned the Lamp of Lakash, named
for its demon creator.

"To make certain that such a dangerous thing as the Lamp
would never fall into the hands of one fully prepared to use it,
the Lamp was not left in the world but transferred, taken to
the other Earth whence Joe and Marge have come. There, up
until roughly two thousand years ago, it remained—occasion-
ally falling into the hands of a person who used it and causing
a great many stories and legends about evil genies and magic
lamps. But then new rules were placed upon both Heaven and
Hell, and all matter which had been displaced from one world
to the other was instantly returned to its world of origin, the
Lamp included. Thus, the Lamp came to Husaquahr.

"It went through many owners here, but all were eventually
trapped and defeated by its curses and limitations. Still, atten-
tion was drawn to it, and it came into the hands of my pre-
decessor, Jorgasnovara of Astaroth. When it came time for him
to pass on to the next level, he left the Lamp in my care, here
in Terindell, where I'd already set up shop. And here it re-
mained for a very long time—until, eventually, an error was
made. An inevitable error, considering the time involved, I
suppose, but an error all the same.

"There was an adept at that time named Sugasto—a very
talented adept, who was on his way to becoming a great sorcerer

132

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

someday. Sugasto was so good that I was blinded somewhat
to his great character faults and, as a result, I stupidly told him
one day of the Lamp's existence. He was seduced by its po-
tential, particularly since it could be wielded only by mortals
using magical arts—and were he to attain full wizard status,
he could not directly use it. He begged me to show it to him,
but I refused again and again, regretting I'd ever brought it up.
Jorgasnovara, after all, only told me about it some weeks after
he died. But somehow, Sugasto found out where the Lamp
was. It took him several months, but it had become an obsession
with him.

"I said he was good at the Art—and he was. Very good.
To get at it, he undid spells that would have defeated some
very good sorcerers and he stole the Lamp while I was away
on the other Earth plane. Knowing that I would sense the
undoing of those spells and hurry back, he ran from here, ran
south and west. We pursued, of course, and nearly caught him
near Stormhold—but he fooled us by going up into High Pot-
hique, and there vanished forever from our knowledge. All we
knew was that the Lamp was no longer in mortal hands and
we could not sense or trace where it was. That was more than
two centuries ago.

"But now, just recently, we have found the ending of that
story. Piecing together legends and old documents and working
with the Xota People, who've consented to talk to anybody
human only in the last few years and then just slightly, an
explorer and trader named Vaghast discovered that my way-
ward apprentice had fallen straight into the hands of the Xota,
who were upon him before he could use the Lamp. I suspect
that he was so reluctant to use the thing—waste it, to his
mind—that he died of his own greed and lust for power. At
any rate, the Xota sensed the tremendous power of the thing,
even if they didn't know what it was, and they put it in their
god-cave, a sacrificial place, and their own shamans placed
protections upon it. Supposedly the cave is guarded by a hor-
rible monster of unknown shape, size, and nature, held there
by spells and bound to destroy all who would enter the cave.

"We know the general location of the cave and we know
now for certain that the Lamp is still there. Unfortunately, the
Dark Baron knows this as well. I am quite certain that the
Baron is one of the Council, and it was to the Council that all

JACK L. CHALKER                133

this was reported not two days ago. It's a sure thing that even
now some of his forces ride to the cave. We must beat them
to it."

Macore whistled again. "That's pretty wild—and pretty
hairy. First of all, last I heard, the Xota were still as nasty as
ever, even if they did talk to this guy, and that high mountain
country is theirs for sure. Even if they were friendly as pet
dogs now, they'd still be savages when it comes to anybody
disturbing their god-cave."

Ruddygore nodded. "That's true. They'll be fairly noncom-
mittal now, but once the first group to get there betrays its
goal, they'll be ferocious."

"I'm more concerned with that horrible monster part," Houma
put in. "So we fight or sneak our way through this horde—
and once we go in, this thing just gobbles us up."

"That's a possibility," Ruddygore agreed. "But I didn't form
this Company for an easy job."

"All the while the Baron sends a small army," Macore
added. "Less and less do I like this."

"That is not a concern—at least the army part," the sorcerer
assured him. "First of all, it' s no mean trick to cross the Dancing
Gods below the River Tasqom, particularly with a large force.
Second, such a force would be set upon by Marquewood and
would have a hard fight through Stormhold, only to have to
climb and pass through the Vale. Not likely. No. He will send
a small company, somewhat under cover. They won't be pleas-
ant folk, but they, too, will know they have to get there by
stealth, not a fight."

"Okay, so that puts 'em in the same shape as us," Joe said.
"It still don't sound like a picnic."

"Neither was the Circean, and you managed," Ruddygore
noted. "You, Joe, and you, Marge, are particularly well pre-
pared. Dacaro has a great deal of knowledge to aid you, should
it be necessary, and Marge has the means to use that knowl-
edge."

"Okay, so we won't be completely disarmed," Joe re-
sponded. "Still, the odds look pretty bleak."

"As bleak as escaping from Circe's grasp and regaining
humanity?" the wizard teased. "Joe—all of you—trust me a
bit. We are not alone in this fight, you know. The Baron has

134

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

the forces of Hell, but the other side is pretty effective, too.
They told me that you were the one, Joe. They sent me over
to get you. I did—and at the time, I didn't even know why.
Frankly, I still don't—but I know you're their choice. Your
very survival the past few days proves it. You know you were
very, very lucky, Joe. Lucky the Circean came along just when
she did to save you from the water sprite. Lucky to have
succeeded in your crazy scheme to steal the rod and escape.
Well, Joe, there's no such thing as luck. Not really. Good luck
and bad luck are the terms we lesser ones give to angelic and
demonic forces. For some reason, Joe, you have friends in high
places. They'll help you out."

Joe chuckled dryly. "Friends in high places. Guardian an-
gels. Man! I sure ain't no saint!"

"There's no way to understand them—they are beyond us
and very alien from anything we know or understand. But
they're real. It's how they've operated the past two millennia.
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 1 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 understand-
ing 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?"

JACK L. CHALKER                  135

"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 fasci-
nated.

"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 na-
ture 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."

136          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"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/or 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 / 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."

"/ 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

JACK L.CHALKER                137

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 some-
thing 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. Unfortu-
nately, 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, any-
way."

"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

138          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

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 li-
brary. 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, how-
ever, was totally encased in a solid block of what looked like
transparent amber.

"Long ago I did a service for one incredibly high," Ruddy-
gore 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

139

JACK L. CHALKER

dwarves. Just a wound, the merest prick, would do it." He
turned to Marge. "Don't you touch it, either! Even if it's nec-
essary!"

"I'll remember," she assured him, looking at the beautiful
sword nervously.

"Additionally, such swords as these are harder than dia-
monds. They will cut through rock, metal—you name it—
amazingly easily. And they have something of a life of then-
own. 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?"

140

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

141

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'tyou 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 grum-
bled.

"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 begin—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 knowl-
edge 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




142

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

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 10

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.

Macore rode up beside him and pulled out the map of the
region. "We'll have to cross the Rossignol east of Terdiera,"
he pointed out. "That's the only bridge for a hundred miles,
and it wouldn't do to backtrack any more than we have to."

Joe shrugged. "So? What's the problem?"

"Trolls," the little thief replied, a sense of distaste in his

143

JACK L. CHALKER

tone. "Damn them. Only really decent bridge builders in Hu-
saquahr."

Joe gave another shrug, and they started off, enjoying the
early morning air. As they rode through a not-yet-open Ter-
diera, Joe looked around for familiar places and faces and saw
more of the former than the latter. Early risers stopped to gape
at the five riding through the town center, and particularly at
their leader, who thought he looked pretty good in his loincloth
and trucker's hat.

On the other side of town they departed from the main road,
down a narrow side street that quickly became a dirt track when
it left the town behind, going down to the river. It was a fairly
well traveled path, to judge from the deep ruts and gouges in
the road, but there was nobody on it this early in the day.

The bridge was nothing fancy, but still was impressive en-
gineering forAe technology ofHusaquahr. A wooden structure
supported by thick pylons made from the trunks of hardwood
trees, it stretched the thousand yards or more from shore to
shore and even curved up in the center to allow barges to pass
under. The channel was not wide but was fairly deep. The
bridge, also, wasn't very wide—they would have to pass single
file to feel safe, since there were no guardrails or other safety
devices or guides.

"Whew! I'd hate to have to drive a wagon and team across
that thing," Grogha noted. "I'm not too sure I feel thrilled
riding it now."

"The bridge is perfectly safe if you don't panic but just go
straight," Macore assured them. "However, this is no free ride.
See!" He pointed and they all looked.

The sign contained a series of pictographs and accompany-
ing very formal-looking text, the former for the mostly illiterate
locals, the latter for the unwary traveler who, being most likely
a trade or political figure, would be able to read and needed a
more detailed explanation. The sign's pictures fascinated them:




JACK L. CHALKER                145

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS










Joe frowned. "Now what the hell does that mean?"

"Dacaro is reading the sign to me now," Marge told him,
but it was Macore who spoke up first.

"That's standard picture writing," he explained. "It says,
'STOP! PAY TROLL! Pedestrians one chicken each, horse and
rider one pig, wagons and drivers one pig per axle or one cow
for the whole load.' What did you expect? It is a trollbridge,
after all."

Joe looked quizzically at Marge, who nodded. "That's what
the writing says, according to Dacaro, except that the text adds,
'Or equivalent.'"

"Pretty steep," Grogha noted.

Joe looked at Macore. "So what do we do? We don't exactly
have a barnyard handy."

"I'm not sure I like that live pig business," Grogha added
nervously.

"Oh, you're not a pig any more," Houma scolded. "You'd
probably be worth a whole wagon as you are."

Macore looked back at Marge. "You're the keeper of the
treasury. You have those silver coins Ruddy gore gave us?"

She nodded, reached down on her saddle pack, and removed
a heavy sack. "How much will we need?"

"Well, if a pig's the fare, we need five pigs. That'd be about
eleven of those coins at today's prices, I think—but I'm a little
out of touch. May as well go down and find out." He turned
to Joe. "Now don't panic or start swingin' that sword when
the troll comes up," he warned. "They're liars and crooks and
really nasty, but even if we took the one or two on this side,
they'd have us on the bridge. Better to pay."

Joe just shook his head sadly. "Yeah, I know. I'm used to
these things."

They went down to the bridge itself. There was no structure
or sign of life or authority anywhere around, which puzzled
Joe. "What's the matter? They not up yet?"

At that moment there was a great roaring sound from beneath
the bridge, and the water erupted. A gigantic blue creature
climbed out, covered in woolly hair, with two enormous eyes
and a teeth-filled mouth that went the two-foot width of the
eerie, vicious face.

The creature looked at the Company hungrily for a moment,

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

146

then said, in a voice much like an angry bear's, "You wanna

cross?"

"Why else would we be here at this ungodly hour?" Macore

shot back, sounding totally unintimidated. "Five horses and

riders. How much in coin?"

The creature looked over the people waiting and licked its
lips with a huge purple tongue. "I'll take two of the horses and
you can all go," it suggested.

"Uh-uh. No horses. We have a long way to go. Coin. How

much?"

"Twenty-five for the lot."

Macore sounded shocked and hurt. "Twenty-five! That's
robbery! We'll go back up to the village and buy five pigs
when the markets open and save a bundle."

"Yeah, but that's three hours from now." The creature
smirked. "You want special service, you pay the extra freight."

Macore sighed. "C'mon. We can kill three hours." He made

as if to turn.

"Wait!" the creature called to him. "All right. Special.

Twenty."

"Ten."

"You rob me! I tell you, little one—how about I just eat
you and the others go free? What about it, the rest of you? You
should be happy to be rid of such a robber and thief as this."

"Sorry," Joe told the troll. "But I think ten is too low for
such a fine bridge. How about twelve?"

The troll roared and splashed the water in very real-looking
mock anger. Finally he said, "Eighteen! Low as I go!"

"Split the difference," Macore suggested. "Fifteen. It's a
good profit. Either that or we wait for the markets to open—
which won't be very much longer if we keep this up, anyway."

The troll growled and gnashed his teeth and somehow man-
aged to foam at the mouth. They all thought he was going to
attack them in rage, and Joe's hand went to his sword hilt, but
finally the great troll calmed down. "Pay me!" he snarled.

Macore reached back, got the fifteen coins from Marge,
and flung them at the troll, who frantically grabbed for them
with massive clawed hands. He missed a bunch, and they went

into the water.

"All right, gang," Macore said. "Now—listen closely and
I'll tell you the rules. We go single file and keep a fair distance

147

JACK L. CHALKER

apart. Take it real show. We've met his price, so he and his
kin can't molest us in any way—that's the Rule—but they
may try some funny stuff to panic us or our horses. If any of
us fall in, we're fair game and they can eat us. Understand?
So keep real control of your horses, and ignore anything that
happens on either side of the bridge. You all understand?"

They nodded but looked slightly uneasy. "I'll lead," the
little thief told them and guided his mount onto the bridge past
the fuming troll.

Joe went next, then Marge, then Houma, with Grogha ner-
vously bringing up the rear.

All went well until Macore reached the point at which the
bridge arched sharply upward over the main channel. At just
that point the water erupted on both sides of them, with giant
trolls growling and screaming menacingly. There seemed to be
a dozen or more, all as repulsively ugly and nasty-looking as
the gate troll.

Posti gave a start but held, and Macore had firm control of
his mount, while Dacaro ignored the commotion, but Houma's
mount reared in shock and he almost toppled in. Grogha, having
the same problems, was just a little more in control than his
friend in front.

Macore turned angrily and screamed above the noise, "Get
those mounts under control, you two! As soon as you get 'emcalm-
ed, everybody dismount. Let's lead the horses from this point!"

Both Joe and Marge found it difficult to ignore the roaring
and screaming trolls, but Houma got his horse calmed a bit
and slid off, followed by the rest.

Macore turned to the nearest foaming troll. "Ah! Your mother
was a fairy princess!" he yelled derisively.

The troll roared and foamed all the more and slapped the
water.

"Your father was a fairy princess, too, pumpkin-nose!" Ma-
core taunted.

While this made the troll all the more furious, it had a
different effect on the other huge creatures, who stopped their
panic acts and started laughing uproariously at the obvious
discomfort of the target of Macore's insults. This, of course,
infuriated the target all the more, and it took a swing at the
nearest fellow troll. In a few moments, they were all oblivious
to the travelers and swinging away at one another.

148

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

149

Looking smug, Macore led his mount up the center span
and down, followed at prudent intervals by the other four. They
crossed the rest of the bridge without further incident, the

sounds of the fight still clear behind them.

"Trolls are good engineers and savvy bargainers, but outside
of that, they ain't so bright," the little man said, chuckling.
The Company mounted once more and followed the dirt track
on the other shore for a quarter of a mile or so until it hit a
main road. At the junction was a large sign. "Welcome to
Marquewood. Obey local ordinances," Marge repeated Daca-

ro's reading of it.

"Well, onward and upward," Joe called. "I'm beginning to

feel as if I'm back on the road again!"

About a mile farther down, the road split into three direc-
tions, and there was a roadhouse and inn. Joe looked at the
place hungrily, but Macore cut his impulse short. "I think we
better make time today. We got seventy miles to the Dancing
Gods, and that's a good two, three days. Best we stop when

we have to or we'll never get there."

Reluctantly, Joe nodded, and they rode past to the junction

itself, well marked but totally unintelligible to them.

Marge rode up to the signpost, letting Dacaro do what he
wanted, and the black stallion looked at the signs. "The extreme
right road is the one," his voice came into her mind.

Although they'd talked a bit before, it was still startling to
her to hear the horse speak to her. Dacaro was no conversa-
tionalist, and she hadn't had time to get used to the fact that
her mount was more than a beautiful, sleek, intelligent animal.

Marge pointed to the road. "Dacaro says this way. Any

objections?"

Macore looked at his map. "No -e. That should be right."

They traveled most of the day, and it was past dark when
they reached a small inn on the road. Macore cautioned them
to say as little as possible about their origin, mission, or des-
tination, "because you never know who's gonna sell you out,

particularly in places like this."

Joe nodded. "We better have some kind of cover story,
though," he suggested. "Just to keep it straight."

"Hmm... All right. You two—" Macore indicated Houma
and Grogha. "—are merchants. Get it?"

"What kind?" the practical Grogha asked.

"Anybody asks you, you tell 'em it's none of their business,"
Macore replied. "But you're picking up some raw materials
for clients in Valisandra. We're your associates, see? You say
that and everybody will figure we're your guards, anyway.
Don't pick fights or start conversations. Let me do the talking.
The less we say the better. Got it?"

They all nodded.

"And, lady, you get Dacaro to give you a neat little spell
for that money, huh? We need it bad, and they'll lift it at the
first opportunity."

Marge nodded and then paused, as if listening to something
none of the others could hear. Finally she said, "We'll take
out what we need ahead of time and leave the rest in the
saddlebag. He's got a pretty fair spell for it, and it will be right
there in the stable, where he can protect it and raise the alarm
if the spell fails."

"Good enough," Macore said. "Take out—oh, a dozen, I
suppose. I don't think we'll need more; if we do, we can always
come out and get it. Right?"

Marge paused again. "He says twenty and forget coming
back. It's a pretty strong spell to undo just to make change."

"I'll go along with that," the little man told her, and soon
they were at the inn and settled down.

The roadhouse was almost deserted, and the family that ran
the place seemed willing to ask no questions of paying guests.
The night passed uneventfully, which was fine with them all.
It had been at best a tiring day.

The next morning Macore was enthusiastic. "We have a
little more than thirty miles today, according to the innkeeper,
to reach the River of Dancing Gods," he told them. "Looks
like we might be in High Pothique by this evening."

"I understand that this High Pothique isn't really a country
at all," Marge said between bites of breakfast. "Will we have
any trouble on the roads there?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about the roads," the little man as-
sured her. "They're pretty well traveled. But there isn't much
of a central government in High Pothique—too many magical
domains and freeholds under minor sorcerers and the like. Right
along the river are a few villages that will be okay. It's when
we cross the low mountains into Stormhold that things might




THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

150

start getting a little dicey. It's kind of a magical free-for-all,
if you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," she replied, but pressed no further. She
began to wonder, though, as had Joe, who had appointed the
little thief as leader of this expedition. Still, they were helpless
without him—his knowledge of the country had already proved
itself out with the trolls. Marge just hoped he was as widely
traveled as he pretended to be.

On the trail later that day, she decided to press him a bit
on her doubts. "Have you ever actually been to this Stonnhold?"

she asked him.

"On the edges," he replied. "At the limits of navigation on the
Sik, a tributary of the River of the Sad Virgin, which forms the
southern border of High Pothique, there's a town called Kidim.
It's something of a trade center for the interior—at the river limit
and also at the foot of the Vale of Kashogi, which is the only real
way into the interior, considering that the mountains are two miles
high on both sides. I once got to Kidim." He looked suddenly
thoughtful, then shook his head. "Naw. They'd have forgotten
about that by now." That last was said mostly to himself, but in the
same loud tone which he used normally. "At least, I hope so,"he
added, sounding a little nervous.

Joe, who was following the conversation, gave a chuckle.
"Returning to the scene of the crime, huh?"

"Aw, it was nothing, really. They're a bunch of hicks up
there. Close-knit little community, never go anywhere or do
anything—solid burgher types. Nice-looking gals, though. Still
and all, they make all this money brokering among the races
and rulers of High Pothique and the rest of the world and they
don't do anything with it. Who can figure them? So I figured
I'd liberate some of that dough." He sighed. "Well, I found
out that the one thing they do spend money on is burglar
prevention. Those spells were so good I doubt if they can get
their hands on it."

They rode on to the south, approaching the great river that
was the life of Husaquahr. As Macore had hoped, they reached

it in late afternoon.

"How do we cross this one?" Houma wanted to know. "More

trolls?"

Marcore laughed. "You couldn't build a bridge over the
Dancing Gods. Too wide and too deep, that's for sure. The

JACK L. CHALKER

151

only way you can cross is by boat. See? There's the river. I
don't see the fairyboat, though."

"Another ferry," Joe muttered. "I'm still not too thrilled
about the last one I took."

They made their way down to a landing, actually nothing
more than a cleared area of hard dirt, and looked out. Anchored
to a piece of solid rock a few feet from the river's edge was a
thick cable that went out into, then dipped under, the river.

Joe got off, went over, and looked at the cable. "Damn!
Looks like steelf

Macore came over and examined it. "Well, I'm not really
sure what steel is, but I can tell you what that is. It's fairy-
spun rope, from the forest elves ofMarquewood. It's incredibly
strong and waterproof to boot. You can tell it's fairy—see how
it's actually fused with the rock, not tied to it?"

Joe nodded, then turned and gazed out at the river. It had been
extremely wide around Terindell, but now it was positively huge.
Two other rivers, the Rossignol and the River of Sighs, had merged
with it at this point, along with a hundred minor creeks and streams,
and the extra volume had added a mile to the width of the Dancing
Gods. Across on the opposite shore, little beyond a green smear
could be made out, although behind that smear rose a series of
imposing and barren, domelike mountains.

"Where's the ferry?" Joe asked nervously. "And why the
cable?"

"Oh, it's probably on the other side or on its way back,"
Macore told him. "Don't worry about it. They'll be making
trips, even at night. As for the cable—it holds the boat, of
course. If it didn't, we'd wind up forty miles downstream with
this current."

They settled back and relaxed a bit, aware that this was the
last really calm moment they could expect for some time. Once
across the Dancing Gods, with the great river to their backs,
they would be in hostile territory.

"We'll put up at a coastal inn tonight, I think," Macore
said. "It will probably be dark or a little after when we get
across, anyway."

"Sounds good to me," Joe responded. "Say—about this
boat. Who runs it? Some more nasty critters?"

Macore laughed. "Fairies run it. Why else would they call
'em fairyboats?"




152

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

153

"Um, yeah, uh-huh," was all Joe could manage.

Grogha stared out at the broad expanse of the river, then
frowned and shaded his eyes for a moment against the glare
off the water. "Yep! Here she comes!"

They all got to their feet and looked out. Still far off, they
could now make out a dark shape against the waters, approach-
ing with agonizing slowness. Try as he might, Joe couldn't get
a good idea of what the boat looked like.

It wasn't until it was very close that he realized why. It was
a large flat made of wooden planks, with big log bulkheads on
both sides. The cable went through a long tube on the right
side of the boat, keeping it in position but doing little else. The
motive power, however, was rather startling.

The motive power for the huge skid was eight small forms
on each side of the boat, all wearing harnesses that were at-
tached by cables to the boat and all of whom were flying their
hearts out. This was no mean feat for the sixteen of them—
they were quite small, perhaps two or three feet tall. Obviously,
Joe reflected, they had a lot more strength relative to their size

than people.

The boat was not empty; a very heavy-looking wagon loaded
with something and pulled by four draft horses was on board,
as well as a few individual horse-and-rider combinations.

The tiny fliers pulled the glorified raft right up onto the hard
landing; then the forward pair dipped down to the ground and
tied off their pulling cables to studs set in the ground.

The wagon lost no lime com'ung o'ff anu 'n&ad&A awa^. TW)
of the riders did likewise, but the third approached the Com-
pany, waiting its turn to board.

"Good afternoon," he said in a sonorous voice. "Might I
inquire how far it is to the nearest inn up the road?"

Macore studied the rider. He was tall and gaunt, possibly
of mixed human and elvish ancestry, with a gray goatee and
wide-set, reddish eyes. He wore a totally black riding outfit,
with cape and broad-brimmed black hat.

"About nine miles north," the little thief told him. "What
is the situation on the other side?"

The stranger paused to think. "The situation, sir, is un-
pleasant. All sorts of strangers flooding into Pothique's river
towns, looking very secretive. I fear the war is approaching."

Macore nodded seriously. "I suspected as much. But what
of inns along the river? We'll need to stay over tonight."

"Try the village ofJaghri a mile south of the landing," the
stranger suggested. 'There should be reasonable rooms there—
but watch your valuables and keep on guard." He looked at
the trail. "Well, I must be going. I don't like to be on strange
roads after dark."

"I don't blame you. Have a good journey, sir, and a suc-
cessful one!"

"And you the same," the stranger responded and rode off
down the road.

Joe approached Macore with a quizzical look. "What was
that all about?"

"Either he's a spy for the Barony—which I doubt, since
he's so incredibly obvious—or he's running scared. More likely
scared. I think we take his advice and be on extra guard to-
night—and every day and night after."

"Hey! You two! They're waving us on!" Grogha called,
and they turned and got on their mounts.

Dwarfed by the riders and the wagon, one of the fairies they
hadn't noticed until now stood on the deck, acting as load-
master. He was a curious sight as they passed him and stopped
where directed. He looked something like a tiny man—about
two feet high and very well proportioned, much like a Greek
statue—with a crop of purple hair between two overiarge pointed
ears; from his back sprouted a set of transparent wings that

»WS Wa&^lSWi SBKft. &&& •S. <!flSSSS&}''h •SK& 'WK. ?& teagtt 3S

the rest of him. Around his waist he wore a pair of leaves as
a loincloth, and around his head was a garland of what looked
like seaweed.

He both walked and flew—-flittered was the word that came
to Marge's mind—from spot to spot, showing each of them
where to leave their horses, apparently trying to balance the
load. Still, the raft could take far more than five horses and
riders, and it wasn't much of a problem.

Once positioned, the fairy got a series of stakes that seemed
to fit into holes in the deck and lock there and placed them so
that all five horses could be tethered.

Then the fairy rose straight into the air and gave a high-
pitched whistle; the crew on each side of the boat rose with




154

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

155

the paddles, kicked off to the boatswain's chant, and got in

unison. The boat began to move.

Once it was under way, the loadmaster fairy settled down,
so that he hovered about Five feet off the deck, making him
roughly equal in height to the humans, now dismounted and
stretching once again. The tiny creature approached Joe, and
there was no mistaking his intent, so the big man gestured back

to Marge.

More of the precious silver pieces were eked out, more than
for the trollbridge, but it wasn't the same, somehow. Hearing
and seeing the effort put into moving them and the craft across
the broad expanse of water, they all felt that this money was

well earned.

The crossing took about an hour and forty minutes, and the
sun was almost behind the rounded granite domes to the west
when they pulled up on the opposite shore and disembarked.
There were no signs of either direction or welcome, but they
had sighted the lights of a small town just a bit downriver as
they crossed, pretty much as the stranger had told them, and
they headed there at a moderate pace.

Still, as the fairyboat pulled out once more for its last run
of the day, they all felt a certain additional loneliness. The
great river now lay as not only a physical but a mental barrier
to the land they'd known, and they were heading into unknown
realms with that water barrier at their backs. For the first time,

all of them felt truly on their own.

The village ofJaghri was a ramshackle collection of wooden
shacks and a warehouselike inn around a boat landing. The
design was slapdash and primitive when compared with what
they'd been used to, and the whole thing looked weathered.
Clearly it had seen better days.

The stableman was a little hunchback with the face of a
' prune and the disposition of sour milk. His round eyes were
offset, so he looked as if his face were at an angle when it was
not, and he drooled and spat with no regard for people or

property.

Dacaro and Posti, however, assured the others that they'd

be fine, even if they had to take care of themselves, and Dacaro
suggested this time that the saddlebags be taken inside with
the group and kept under close guard. He reminded Marge of
the spell that would safeguard them.

The inn itself was a stinking waterfront dive. Where the
past night's roadhouse had been clean, modem, well kept, and
not very crowded, this place was in every way an opposite. It
was crowded and it stank.

Those inside were also a rough-looking lot, and a minority
was human. Even those who were human, though, didn't look
very friendly—or too human themselves. All eyes were on the
five as they entered, and there was a slight drop in the noise
level, but it quickly rose back to normal.

Macore looked around, spotted a bartender, and went over
to him. "You got any rooms to rent tonight?"

The barman, who. apparently had never bathed, gave a grin
that revealed yellowish, rotten teeth and said, "Yeah, we got
a couple upstairs and more in back. What d'ya need?"

Macore thought for a moment. He was about to suggest the
same as the night before—a quad for the men and a single for
the lady—but he decided that nobody had better sleep alone
around here. "Two rooms," he told the barman. "One for three,
one for two."

"Eight grains in advance," the bartender grunted. "Pit toi-
let's in the back."

Macore nodded and counted out the money, which vanished
even faster than the fairy had made the boat fare vanish. "Show
me the rooms."

The bartender gave an evil grin. "Rooms? You want rooms?
Sorry. Just rented the last two."

The little man stared at the bartender for a moment. "I play
no games and give few warnings," he said matter-of-factly.
"Either you stop this game now and give us our rooms, or you
are dead. I will count to five. If your life is worth eight grains,
let me count down."

The bartender laughed. "Who's gonna do it? You, little
squirt?"

The thief was swift, drawing his shortsword and leaping at
one and the same time, pushing the bartender right in the face
and landing on top of the bigger man, sword at his throat.
"Five," Macore said icily and made a small cut on the man's
throat. Blood trickled.

There was dead silence in the room, and the other four, who
had remained to one side, placed their hands on their weapons.




156

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

157

"Upstairs, first two on the left," the barman rasped. "Let

me be now!"

"Not until you give us our change," the little man responded,
as cold as before. "Ten grains I have coming. Now!" The sword
hand moved slightly once more.

"You bastard!" the barman snarled. "I only charged you eight!"
"That's true. And I charged you ten. Shall I count to five
again? Don't worry. If we have a decent sleep and are un-
molested, I might give you a big tip tomorrow. Perhaps ten

grains' worth. Understand?"

"You win." The bartender sighed. "Let me up."
Macore backed off with an athlete's grace, sword still at

the ready.

"I'm gonna have to reach under the counter here to get your
money," the bartender told him. "Just take it easy, friend." He
reached into a small compartment, brought out some coin, and
took out a ten piece, putting it on the counter. "There. See?"

Macore nodded, picked up the piece with his free hand, and

relaxed a moment.

"I'm beginning to feel useless around here," Joe muttered.
Macore grinned, sheathed his sword, and turned back to

them.

"MacoreF Houma yelled as the barman reached back under
his counter and took out a menacing-looking dagger. The little
man dropped and rolled, pulling out his shortsword as he did
so, and Joe brought his great sword from its sheath and leaped
over the thief to the barman with a yell.

Taken off-guard, the barman, who'd been ready to throw
the dagger or plunge it into Macore's back, instead tried to
shield himself with it against Joe's attack. Not really wanting
to kill the man despite his manner, Joe ignored the dagger and
brought the flat of the sword down on the barman's head.

Sparks flew from the point of contact; as a startled Joe
yelled, there was a sudden flash of smoke, heat, and light—

and the barman was gone.

The would-be barbarian stood there, getting his breath, look-
ing stunned at the spot where the barman had stood. "What the

hell... ?"

Macore got to his feet and put his sword away once more.   I
"He wasn't human, Joe. He looked it—sort of—but he wasn't.   '
You touched him with iron."

Joe whistled. "Well, I'll be damned... I never really killed
anybody before."

"Well, if it's any comfort, you probably still haven't," the
thief responded sourly. "He was sure a nobody if there ever
was one." He looked around. The crowd had stopped to watch
the show, but was now slowly returning to drinking and gaming
once more. Nobody seemed the least upset at the fight, and
particularly at the fate of the bartender.

Macore let out a breath. "I must be getting old. Houma—
Joe. I owe you both one, that's for sure."

"That's why we're a Company," the lanky Houma re-
sponded modestly. "You'd do the same for us."

Macore gave a slight shrug, but did not otherwise reply.
Instead he said, "Well, let's take our rooms—at least see if
there really are two vacancies upstairs."

There were. They weren't much—the linen was stained and
the whole place could have stood a fumigation, but it would
have to do for the night. "Joe, you and Marge take the first
room. The rest of us will take the second," Macore said. "That
way the numbers and experience are on one side, the power
on the other. Good enough?"

They all nodded. Joe went over to the door and saw that it
could be barred by a large board. There was a small window
with just a piece of burlap for a curtain, but there was no
bacony, and it was a good thirty feet to the ground. The room
would do.

Marge looked at the door and the window thoughtfully.
Finally she said, "You know, the same security spell Dacaro
taught me for the money would also work on the rooms, I
think. But you'd be stuck here until we came and got you."

"That might not be a bad idea, anyway," Macore replied
and looked at the other two. "Any objections?"

"Nope," Grogha said. "Might help me actually get some
sleep."

"I'll second that," Houma added.

"It's settled, then—if you're up to it," Macore told her.
"But first let's put the spell on the bag and go down and get
something to eat. If anything this place serves can be eaten
without eating us, that is."

"Let's just hope the cook isn't related to the bartender," Joe
responded nervously.




JACK L. CHALKER

159

CHAPTER

A COMPANY PICNIC

Energy for minor magicks is transformed/Torn the practitioner's
own energies.

—I, 346, 89(b)

MARGE PREPARED ONCE MORE TO PERFORM THE SPELL ON THE

saddlebag, after first removing a few coins for use and giving
them to the other four. She was acutely aware of her powers
and her lacks in the process. To work magic required three
things—-an inborn sixth sense that was the ability to see the
forces, the training to recognize and control what you could
see, and the ability to understand and, if necessary, solve
complex mathematical equations. For, of course, that was what
all spells were—equations involving the magical energies and
forces. The more complex the spell, the more complex the
math involved.

She certainly had the ability to see the forces, at least after
Huspeth had finished with her. In fact, the witch had probably
not given her the talent at all. She had the strong feeling that
she had always been able to see and sense those forces—but
failed to recognize them for what they were. Huspeth, too, had
shown her how to recognize those forces and spells; the mean-
ings of colors and auras—not just for people but for everything.
To work the forces was also simple for Marge, although she
was aware that none of the others in the Company save Da-
caro—and possibly Macore—could see what she could see.
But the equations were beyond her, at least for now. She had
been good in literature, the arts, and social sciences like history.
Math had never been her big subject, not since she'd barely
limped through high school algebra. Thus, she was dependent
on Dacaro. Prevented by his equine form from shaping the
forces, he yet knew from his training the necessary math and

158

could pass it along. Neither was powerful individually; as a
team, they were a complete minor sorcerer.

Most of the chants used in spells were mere devices, either
to aid in concentration, as memory tricks to bring forth the
equations, or simply to confuse onlookers. The actual practice
was quite simple—you just concentrated on the person, place,
or thing you were working the spell upon, then moved your
finger or hand and let the energy flow from you into the object
itself.

This spell consisted of yellow lines, glowing yellow strings
that looked like paint on air. She looked at the saddlebag,
repeated the little mnemonic Dacaro had given her as a memory
aid, then pointed at the bag with her finger and drew the yellow
lines, as if with crayon or marker. When she had finished, the
saddlebag looked normal to the rest of them, but to her it was
covered with a complex child's scribble of yellow lines. At
least, it looked like a child's scribble—in actuality, it was an
equation expressed that way. Anyone meddling with the sad-
dlebag would find the results extremely unpleasant; anyone
wanting it now would have to undo that yellow stringy mess
exactly the opposite from the way she'd done it, with no slips.

Such a task would be child's play for a sorcerer like Ruddy-
gore or a powerful sorceress witch like Huspeth, but the spell
was more than adequate for average men and fairies. In a sense,
it was like a good burglar alarm system—it wouldn't keep out
the competent pro, but it certainly discouraged the amateurs,
who were ninety-nine percent of any threat.

She rejoined the others, and they went downstairs. The same
motley crew was still there—and there was a plump, middle-
aged woman now behind the bar—but the only notice taken
of them was that folks tended to move away from them as they
took a table. They had gained a measure of respect, if nothing
else.

They were briskly attended to, though, by a small, sad-
faced waiter who gave them no trouble and no extra words.
They had some problems finding a proper vegetarian dish for
Marge—the others' repugnance to eating animal flesh had lasted
only until the first roadhouse—and when the food came, it
was greasy, overcooked, and tasted like an unwashed stove,
but it was filling and there wasn't any more to be said. They
talked little while eating, except about the quality of the food.




THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

160

Afterward Marge excused herself to go out to the stable and
see Dacaro. "I want to be sure of the spells," she told them,

and they agreed.

"Want me to come along?" Joe asked her. "You never know
whom you're going to meet."

"If I can't manage that much, I have no business being
here," she responded and left.

It was quite dark out and humid now. The smell of the river
was rich in the air, but she had no trouble walking the block
to the stables and finding the stableman. He was a little amazed
that all she wanted was to sit on the horse, but he simply
muttered about having seen everything in this business and left

her.

Once she was upon the black stallion, rapport was instan-
taneous. >

"Anything wrong?"

"No," she assured him, "but it's not the world's nicest inn."
Quickly she told him about the evening's exploits and the kind
of spell she wanted.

Dacaro thought a moment. "I think it is time you received
some instruction. Perhaps it will be a good way to while away
the miles from here on out. You seem determined to practice

the art."

"Of necessity," she responded, "although I admit it fasci-
nates me. I know I'll never be great at it, but it is something
unusual that I can do."

"Ruddygore explained to you the price of such dabblings?
The fact that you are a witch's changeling?"

"Something like that. I'm not sure I understand it and I'm
certainly not going to let it bother me."

"The principle is simple. Only the masters of the art may
create magical energies. All else must come from the practi-
tioner. The more difficult spells can literally take a lot out of
you, energy that must be replenished slowly. In your case, the
replenishment is not of flesh and blood but of the nature of
faerie. The more energy you expend—send from yourself—
the more faerie will replace it. If you lost blood, your body
would eventually replace it with new blood. But if you lose
the plasma of magic, it must be replaced from magical sources.   I
Your sources are attuned to faerie. If you continue, your entire   i
body will eventually be so replaced. You will be of faerie."

JACK L. CHALKER

161

"Is that necessarily—bad?"

He considered this. "It depends on how you look at it. The
more you are of faerie, the more magic of the minor sort will
be instinctive, requiring no training. But you will be subject
to the magic of mortals and the rules of faerie. Never having
been of faerie, I can not say if this is good, bad, or indifferent.
But it is certainly different."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she told him.
"For now, the protection spell for the rooms."

"Simple. You have a good memory. Remember this spell
and do it so." He sketched out in her mind a pattern and a
rhythmic chant to aid the pattern's symmetry. "Try it. Just a
bit. Just in the air here."

She concentrated and tried it, going just a little ways. The
color of the bands was orange, and they were a little thicker
and harder to manage, but not by much. "How's that?"

"It will do. Go now. Get some rest. We have a busy day
tomorrow."

She left him and returned to the inn, where the rest of the
Company was still at the table drinking ale. Joe and the portly
Grogha seemed in the best of spirits.

After a while, they went upstairs. She first checked the
saddlebag and found it undisturbed. That didn't mean that no
one had tried, but certainly the spell had worked. After bidding
the other three good night, she stood back and worked the
protection spell, first on the window and then, from outside,
on the door. It looked really pretty, she decided.

She and Joe went one door down to their room. From inside
this time, she traced the spell once more on door and window.
Joe watched her, fascinated, seeing only a chanting woman
waving her right hand about, but he knew that something was
indeed taking place.

She felt a little tired when she finished and sat down on the
bed of straw.

"I just happened to think of something," Joe said.
"Huh?"

"We had a lot to drink. What if I have to go to the can?"
She smiled and pointed under the window. "See that pot

there? That's a chamber pot, as in the old days."

He went over, looked at it, and frowned. "Umph. Some

privacy! But I suppose if you gotta go you gotta go."




162          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

She nodded and lay back on the bed. "I really am starting
to feel worn out. I think maybe I'll just go right to sleep."
He came over and knelt down beside her. "Sure ain't Texas,

is it? Or South Philly, either."

She smiled. "No, it sure isn't. And I'm glad it isn't. I
wouldn't go back for anything now, I think. We have something
everybody dreams about at one time or another but almost
nobody ever gets, Joe. A new life. A second chance. It's funny.
Here we are, in a dirty roadhouse in an ugly foreign country,
about to put ourselves into real danger—and I've never been
happier in my whole life. Never. You understand that?"

He nodded. "In a way. But only in a way. Me, I'm still on
the road for somebody else, stopping at flea traps and risking
my neck for not much. And I got nobody, really, to be doin'
it for—just like back home. This stuff ain't so glamorous,
either, when you bean somebody with a sword and electrocute
him or something like that. I got a feeling that the only thing
that's really changed about me is that now I'm gonna get paid
for killin' folks instead of haulin' their stuff."

She thought about it a moment. "Maybe you're right, Joe.
But it's the only life we've got now. Let's play it out. It could

be fun, too."

He sighed. "I dunno. Maybe—maybe you and me will be
a team, huh? We're different, you and me, from any of them.
We're from someplace else. Someplace different, if you know

what I mean."

She leaned over and patted his arm. "I think so. We'll see."

She snuffed out the lantern. It was an eerie scene for her
after that, with the orange bands of the window and door and
the yellow on the saddlebag aglow, yet reflecting not at all the
rest of the room. To Joe, of course, it was pitch-darkness.

"Marge?"

"Yes, Joe?"

"I'm just lonesome, is all. I have been for a long, long time.

Long before comin' here, I mean."
"I know."
"Marge?"
"Yes, Joe?"
"I'm horny, too."

JACK L. CHALKER                163

"I figured as much. Not now, Joe. Not for a while. Not
between you and me, that is. Let's just be—friends for a while,
huh? Companions from another world."

He sighed once again. "What's the matter? Afraid it will
louse us up?"

"No, it's not that. Look, Joe, I can't be as strong as you.
And this is even more of a man's world than ours is. My only
chance to be independent—to be free—here is through the
magic. The place Ruddygore sent me, well, it was sort of like
a convent. I joined their order."

"You mean you're a nun?" He sounded genuinely shocked.

"Think of it that way, if you can. It's not to say that—
someday—I might not bend. When I think me time is right.
When I'm ready. But as for now, the longer I stay celibate,
the stronger my magic power gets. Once I break it, I can never
get any stronger. I just told you what the magic means to me,
Joe. So I have to pay the price."

He was silent for a minute, then finally said, "You ain't the
only one payin' a price." But then he rolled over and was soon
snoring. She had no trouble joining him in that endeavor.

It was Joe who was up first, shortly after dawn, and he tired
rather quickly of just lying there and waiting for her so he could
leave. He gently shook her awake.

"Hope you don't mind—but I'm trapped," he said apolo-
getically.

"No, I don't mind at all,"^he told him. "In fact, the lack
of clocks and wake-up calls is a real pain around here. How
come you got up? Trouble sleeping?"

"Nope. When you're on the road and time is money, you
get so you can mentally set yourself to wake up at a particular
time. It's no big trick—just a practical necessity."

She got up, yawned, and stretched. "I always heard about
people who could do that, but I never could." She rubbed her
eyes and blinked a few times. "Right now I wish we had some
running water. I'd like to wash my face off and get the sleep
out."

He laughed. "And you were the one who really loved this
place."

"I didn't say it couldn't stand a few improvements." She

164

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

165

laughed back. She got up, yawned once more, then turned to
the saddlebag. "Easy stuff first."

Having made the pattern in the first place, she knew exactly
where to start and how to retrace the pattern backward. It was
so quick and effortless that even Joe was surprised. "You're
learning that stuff pretty good," he told her.

She nodded, then sighed and looked up at the window.
"Seems almost a waste to undo the window, but somebody
may have to jump out of this firetrap someday." The orange
bands were still a bit bulkier to manage but no real trouble.
The door was a bit slower, because of the greater complexity
and sheer size of the pattern, but it took only a couple of
minutes. Finally she said, "Okay, Joe. Lift the latch and let's

go spring the rest."

He did so, and the door opened without trouble. She grabbed
the saddlebag and they went to the next door, where another
two or three minutes was spent undoing the spell. Joe then
pounded on the door, and was greeted by a sleepy "Who's

that?"

"It's us!" he called. "You can open your door now! Time

to hit the road!"

There was the sound of grumbling on the other side, then
the sound of the board being removed, and the door opened.
All three were sleepy and grumbling, but were ready to go by
the time Marge had removed the window spell from their room.
She looked around at them. "I suppose it's too much to ask
for there to be a bath in this place, but let's at least wash up

and get breakfast."

Grogha yawned and scratched. "You ain't got no spell for

fleas, have you?"

"Maybe we can find something," she replied. "A bath would
be best—but I'm not too sure I want to expose myself around

here."

"Bath?" the portly man repeated, as if it were a totally alien

word.

"Yeah, you might try one sometime," Macore prodded play-
fully. "You should do everything at least once in your life."

Marge washed herself off at the outside pump, as did Joe
and the others. Then they went back inside the inn, almost
deserted at this early hour. Strong coffee was available, though,
and some fruit and pastries, which suited them all just fine.

When they had eaten, the stout woman who'd taken over the
bar the night before came over to them.

"You owe eight for the rooms and two for the breakfast.
Jajur is on the house. Skimmin' like that's not proper. At least
not so up front."

"Jajur?" Joe asked.

"The bartender. Though I should charge you for me havin'
to work extra hours last night."

Marge thought a moment. "How about twelve and call it
even?"

"Fair enough."

The money was counted out and paid, and they headed for
the stables. The five-grain charge there seemed a bit stiff, but
they paid it without complaint. Macore looked over at the
moneybag. "How much more we got in there, anyway?"

Marge shrugged. "About a hundred grains in various de-
nominations, plus some gems."

"Let's see some of the gems."

She reached in, took out a few, and gave them to him. He
looked them over with an appraiser's eye, then whistled. "Not
bad. These three ought to be enough." He kept them and handed
her back the rest. Then he sought out the stablehand to ask
about outfitting, and they went further into town, leading the
horses, until they came to a weathered store. It wasn't open
yet, but the owner was inside setting up, and it didn't take
much to get him to start business a bit early.

By the time the little thief was done, they had a mule, pack,
and harness, bedrolls, canteens, and a small camping outfit.
There was a lot of haggling, but, as Macore had predicted, the
three stones proved sufficient.

Joe and Marge were impressed. "All that for three oithoseT
Joe asked incredulously.

Macore nodded. "And he got the best of the bargain. One
thing, our Master Ruddygore is not stingy, I'll say that for
him."

Marge looked at the overloaded mule. "Is all this really
necessary?"

Macore took out the map. "I think so. I doubt if we'll make
it more than halfway today to Kidim, and that means a camp-
out in the wastes. Tomorrow we'll be climbing and maybe
we'll make it, maybe not. Besides, after Kidim we'll be fresh




THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

166

out of stores, anyway, so we had to buy some of this sooner
or later. Why not now? It will only be a lot more expensive

as we go further inland."

The next step was letting the horses and the mule drink and
filling the canteens. By that time, the first of the open-air
markets was open, and they were able to buy a fair amount of
fruit and some dried meat, as well as coffee and tea. Checking
the map once more and getting information from the fruitseller,
Macore was able to lead them on the proper path, first back
to the ferry junction road, then a bit north, where the shore
road forked, one way following the river, the other turning first

west, then south, into the mountains.

That road was clear, but it was obvious that it was not widely
used, particularly from the approach to the Bald Mountains
themselves. The mountains weren't high, but they were barren
granite domes of some ancient volcanic origin, and a natural

climatological barrier.

The trail led up to them, then began a series of switchbacks,
taking the Company up a thousand feet or so in slow stages.
The summit was only thirteen or fourteen hundred feet high,
but that was a lot when one was starting from the bottom.

Once the travelers were through the pass, the trail descended
much as it had brought them up, but the landscape had changed
dramatically. Almost up to the foot of the Bald Mountains, the
river-fed earth had been green and lush. Now it was mostly
desert, a desolate yellow, purple, and orange landscape of dry
beauty, marked with mesas and buttes wind-carved into fan-
tastic shapes.

"Looks like the Badlands," Joe commented.

At the bottom of the descending trail, they hit another junc-
tion, unmarked as had been all the others in High Pothique.

"Inland route," Macore told them. "Used mostly by caravan
traders who don't want to be that obvious. We go straight,
though. Through that." He pointed at the desolation. "See those
mountains in the distance, almost blending with the sky? Well,
they're the really big mother mountains, and that's where we're

heading."

"Lead on," Houma called to him. "You got the map."
The hot sun bore down on all of them as they went, and
Joe cracked that he should have brought his suntan lotion from
the truck, but he knew, somehow, that he would not bum. By

JACK L. CHALKER

167

the evening, though, he was already several shades darker than
when he began, and all their faces and hands showed weath-
ering.

Dacaro was as good as his word to Marge. "If you are
determined to master the art, then I will help you," he told her.

The theory of it was not all that esoteric—since they were
talking applied rather than theoretical magic—but to move
from doing presupplied spells to creating one's own to suit
whatever purpose one wished was something else again, some-
thing not mastered in a day.

It was with some inward fascination that she couldn't help
but think of it as being much the same as learning computer
programming—something she'd once taken a course in at one
of those fly-by-night business schools back when she was still
looking for a job. Up to now she had been using pre-prepared
"software"—the spells furnished by Huspeth or Dacaro. Now
she was being taught, in slow steps, how to build them herself.
Of course, she'd graduated from the course, but not with any
decent handle on programming. Her math was just a bit too
slow—and so it was here, with no pocket calculators to help
her out.

Still, Dacaro was patient and reassuring and seemed de-
lighted to be able to do something finally with the knowledge
he'd gained over his years as an adept.

At one point she asked him point-blank what he'd done to
incur Ruddy gore's wrath.

"I went on a trip with him—to your world," he told her.
"A most smelly and confusing place, I must say, but one with
a lot of things I thought would improve our situation here."

She was surprised at this. "Does he go to our world often?"

"Fairly often. Two or three times a year, perhaps, for a
week or so each time. He sees shows at theaters, mostly, and
buys horrendous souvenirs of places—tacky stuff even by your
world's standards. He did not show you his collection?"

"No."

"He will. You will be appalled. I argued with him that
bringing back some of the technology of your world would
ease a lot of misery here. He adamantly refused, even though
he admitted it. He talked about intangibles, values this world
had that had been bred out of yours by your technology. I did
not agree with him then and I do not now. So I disobeyed him.







168

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

169

I brought back something which I thought could be useful here
in our eternal fight against the enemy. I brought it back mostly
to study and have copied. But he discovered it, sensing the
iron in its construction, and so we had our bitter falling out

that left me in this state."

She grew curious. "What was it you brought back?"

"A—revolver, I think you call it. Or is the word 'gun'?
And five hundred rounds of ammunition."

She whistled. "Why a gun?"

"I argued with him. I asked him to imagine our brave forces
lined up against those of the Baron, armed with these or more
efficient versions of these, instead of swords and spears and

arrows."

"Sounds reasonable to me," she agreed. "What did he object

to?"

"He told me that I was looking at the problem the wrong

way. I was to imagine the Baron with such weapons. But we
would have then first—and we could always improve upon
them. It would end war as we know it!"

"Yes, it would, Dacaro," she said sadly. First one side
would have pistols. Then some would be inevitably captured
by the other side, and they would copy the design and make
their own—only better. Maybe scale them up. What was a
revolver but a miniature cannon? And then the other side
would... Was there uranium here?

She knew too much about that sort of pattern to be on any
side but Ruddygore's, and she could understand why Dacaro
so frightened him—and why poor Dacaro would never un-
derstand the reason. She gently changed the subject back to
magical spells and did not refer to his problems again.

Although the sun was still up, they made camp at a small
water hole right in the middle of nowhere. The horses and the
mule had no hesitancy drinking from the stuff, even though it
looked a little stale, so they didn't, either. It tasted odd, but

they suffered no ill effects.

The watering hole hardly qualified as an oasis—the pool
was barely ten feet around and looked to be a place where the
bedrock had weathered away at a soft spot, allowing an un-
derground river a small outlet. There were some bushes, but
no trees, and it looked as if it were used, but seldom.

"As far as I know, this is the only water between here and

Kidim," Macore told them. "Of course, all I know is the map.
I never actually crossed this way before." He frowned and
looked southward. "Still, I'd say we should make the town
before dark tomorrow." He sighed. "Man, I'm hot and tired!"

"We all are," Houma replied. "It is desolate country indeed.
Still, it is open country, too. Less likely to bump into funny
things."

"Don't get too confident!" Macore shot back. "The last time
I was real self-confident, I tried to sell sharpeners to a nice
lady who ran a farm all by herself—remember?"

There seemed no way to reply to that. Joe looked around.
"We should build a small fire. I doubt if it will attract much
attention, but it might make anything that lives out there think
twice about us, not to mention keeping us from stumbling in
the dark and drowning in the pool. It's gonna be mighty dark
here soon."

"Good idea," Grogha said. "I think we can use some of this
dead stuff in the thicket and maybe spare a couple of frame
boards from the pack mule."

"Or you could use the wood in the gray pack in the middle
there, as I intended when I bought it," Macore said laconically.
They all glared at him, but they had their fire going before
darkness fell, as it did with amazing suddenness.

Grogha proved a pretty good field cook, considering the
limited makings he had to work with. After cleaning up and
putting everything away. Marge looked at the packs, and the
mule. "Do you think I should put a spell on them—just in
case?" she asked.

"Better to be safe than sorry," Joe responded. "Go ahead.
Be kinda hard to protect us, though, so we'll have to stand
turns at watch."

"Yeah, but how will we know when to change watch?"
Houma asked worriedly. "No town clocks in sight."

"Candles," Macore said. "Actually, I can't take credit for
this. The merchant suggested them." He got them out of the
pack and lighted one in the fire. "They take two hours to burn
down. Simple, huh?"

"Good enough for me," Joe told him. "Who's first?"

"Me," Marge said. "I'd like a little time more or less to
myself."

They started to protest, since none of them had even thought




THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

170

of her for the duty, but she silenced them, and they knew better
than to press it.

Another hour or so was spent sitting around, talking about
nothing in particular and watching the spectacular stars that
appeared in the desert sky, then most were ready for bed. Marge
helped them get their bedrolls settled, and Joe suggested a
semicircular arrangement around the fire. Within two hours,
all were asleep except her.

She first made the spell on the mule pack—removed, of
course, from the mule—and on the all-important saddlebag,
finding it easier and easier. Like writing her name with a pencil,
she thought, pleased. Dacaro had told her that the more she
practiced any magic, the easier it would all become.

It was deathly quiet, without any sort of breeze, and the air
had not cooled off much at all. Idly, she started practicing some
of the simple exercises Dacaro had taught her. So sim-
ple... She could draw faces with the spell light, twirl it around
like a lasso, and hurl the energies where she willed, at least
within her line of sight.

She pointed her finger at the ground from a standing position
and traced a pattern. Once the pattern, in light blue, was es-
tablished, her index finger became a stylus, allowing her to
carve shallow designs in the rock itself.

The world is pure mathematics. Know the proportions and
the relationships of any given thing and you have the potential
of doing anything with it. That was the key, Dacaro had said.
And when you can look at a tree. a rock, a bush, or a person
and see the pattern in their auras, then you will take the final
step to sorcery.

She concentrated on a nearby bush. Pattern... pattern
. . .find the pattern...

And, to her surprise, she saw it. Thin, impossibly complex
spiderwebs of white plasma. She turned to the fire, which was
getting dangerously low. There was still a lot of combustible
material there, but it had not caught for some reason. She
concentrated on the fire and the unbumed wood and saw, after
a while, the magenta pattern of the fire and the white of the
wood. Tie one to the other, she thought, and maybe ...

She found an end on the magenta strand and another on the
white and willed them to move, move toward each other, touch-
ing, combining...

JACK L. CHALK.ER                  171

The fire suddenly roared up, looking like a Roman candle,
and she laughed aloud in delight. Suddenly conscious that she
might wake someone, she stopped and willed the fire back to
normal levels. It went obediently, as she knew it would. She
had the pattern. Still, she could make it dance, rise up and

down, gyrate—until the wood was completely burned, any-
way.

She turned to the water and saw its golden weave. In a
sense, it was simpler than the fire pattern, which was in turn
simpler than that for the wood or the bush. So simple to ripple
it, or cause a small eddy...

Suddenly she tensed, sensing something else where she
looked. There was certainly something other than water there,
something alive. It was not close, but it was down there, some-
where. She could feel it, knew it with absolute certainty.

She stood at the edge of the pool and made a decision. It
was a huge job to work the room preservation spell over the
mouth of the underground water hole, and took her quite some
time, but she made it doubly strong and extra tight, blue bands
forming a virtual net over the opening.

Whatever was down there might be able to break it, but at
least the thing would have a hard time, if indeed it was a threat
at all. But she somehow knew it was a threat, something ancient
and repulsive that fed on those who used the water hole. Not
us, she decided determinedly. Not without a fight.

She went back over to a rock near her bedroll and sat, feeling
suddenly tired and a bit drained. Parts of her face hurt—too
much sun, she decided, now taking its toll. She looked over
and saw that the candle had burned out. How long she had
been watching she didn't know, but she was certainly ready
for sleep now. As gently as possible, she shook Joe awake.

He yawned and groaned. "Anything?"

She shook her head. "But there's something living at the
bottom of that pond. Something nasty," she told him. "I put a
protection spell over the whole thing. Whether it will try and
come out I don't know. If it does, I don't know either whether
or not the spell will hold it, but keep an eye on it."

"I will," he assured her. "You get some sleep."

She needed no urging.




172

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

JACK L. CHALKER

173

It was still dark on Houma's watch when there was a sudden
roar from the pond that awakened them all and startled the
horses as well. A roar and a lot of splashing. They were quickly
on their feet, adrenaline racing, and Joe pulled a burning ember
from the fire to use as a torch, grabbing his sword in the other

hand.

They approached the fuming water cautiously, not knowing

that to expect. What they saw in the water was a sort of face—
a huge, incredibly old, demonic face, full of hatred. It exuded
a sense of terror none of them had ever known before, but the
hatred was only partly directed at them. It was straining, strug-
gling against the surface of the pond, and Marge understood
that, at least for the moment, the spell was holding.

She felt a nuzzle at her back and almost jumped a foot, but
then realized it was Dacaro. She understood what he meant
immediately and quickly jumped upon his back.

"Dacaro! What is it?"

"I have no idea," he replied, "but it's sure a good idea you
put that spell there. It's not going to hold, though. You can
see it unraveling around the edges. This thing isn't very bright,
but it has a hell of a lot of sheer power. Ask Joe if he can stick
his sword into the water and hit the face. Let's see if iron does

anything."

"Joe! Can you stab it without losing your sword or falling

in?" she called.

"We'll see!" he shouted back, revolted by that hideous face,
yet unable to tear his eyes from it. The sword hummed and
glowed in his hand. He poised, waiting for the face, which
filled most of the pool, to get a part of itself in a no-miss spot
against the edge, then plunged the blade into the water and
quickly withdrew it.

The face roared its pain and hatred, but only redoubled its

efforts to break its bonds.

"Well, scratch that," Dacaro told her. "I really doubted it
was that easy, anyway. This is going to test us both, woman."
He thought furiously for a moment. "Okay, we'll try some-
thing, but it's damned complicated. I'll feed it to you slowly,
and you do it as I tell you. Got it?"

"I'm ready." She looked at the men near the pool. "Hey!
Everyone get back! We're going to try some sorcery on it!

Keep your weapons ready, though! Be prepared to strike, but
not until I tell you!"

Slowly, cautiously, the four men backed off, giving both
Marge and Dacaro a clear field.

"Here goes," Dacaro said and began feeding the spell to
her. It was enormously complex, far beyond her ability to
understand or comprehend, at least at her level. She had begun
mastering arithmetic, she realized, upon seeing this thing; now
Dacaro was feeding her incomprehensible calculus. She had
no choice but to follow through.

The energy field that formed like a wall in front of them
was of all the primary colors and perhaps a hundred shades.
She had never seen anything like it, nor did she have any chance
to appreciate it, but she could feel its awesome power.

"Joe!" she called, relaying Dacaro's orders. "We're going
to let that thing come out! When it does, it will run headlong
into the damnedest spell you ever saw, like a net that will close
on it. When you hear me yell again, get in on the side and
hack that whole damned head off behind the face! Understand?"

"Got ya!" Joe called back, too charged up to feel afraid
right now.

Quickly, Marge, using a Dacaro shortcut, removed the blue

bands from the pool. "What if this doesn't work?" she asked

worriedly.

"Then we run like hell," the-equine adept replied.
Freed of the protection spell, the face roared up and out of

the water and onto the rock.

"I'll be damned! It's some kind of worm!" Grogha shouted.
"Yuk! Look at that slime!"

The demon worm was six feet out of the pool when it hit
the new and more powerful shield. It reacted to the great net
of force much as it had done to the blue—pushing into it with
a terrible rage.

"Good... good..." Dacaro said, mostly to himself. "It really
can't see the spells, as I figured. It's just so big and strong
it's used to pushing its way through anything."

Marge watched as the thing plunged directly into the net of
force, which gave a bit in the middle, enveloping the evil face.

"It's giving way!" she called nervously.

"No!" Dacaro shot back. "It's designed to do that. Tell Joe
to be ready."







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She did, and Joe brought his sword up. Grogha and Houma
also brought their bronze swords up, ready to tear into the
demon worm from the other side.

The face was now completely enclosed in a bulge in the
magical netting, and Dacaro gave the word. "Now!" Marge

shouted.

Coming in behind both net and face, all three started swing-
ing and hacking at the wormlike flesh in back. The face howled
in rage, but seemed unable to understand what was happening
to it, or where. Pieces of giant worm flew as they hacked away
and finally severed it. The severing was so sudden that both
Joe and Grogha almost fell into the mess and barely backed

away.

The remainder of the body flailed around for a moment,
then slid with astonishing speed back into the pool. The head,
apparently suspended in air to the human onlookers, continued
to snarl and snap for a while.

"We've won," Dacaro told her. "Now do this." He fed her
a small set of instructions, and she translated them into a huge
mental shove at the face in the net. It flew back, rolled, flopped
a bit, then rolled again into the pool, where it sank rapidly.

Again following Dacaro's instructions. Marge pushed back
the net, at one point having to shout Houma out of the way,
then laid it, like a tabletop, across the width of the pool. Only
after attaching it to the pattern of the bedrock did she relax and
realize that she was sweating like mad. She felt suddenly very,
very tired indeed. Before she knew it, she fell off the horse.

CHAPTER 12

ALL THE CIVILIZED COMFORTS

Virgins are uniquely useful/or certain magicks, yet they have draw-
backs beyond the obvious.

—CX, Introduction

WHEN MARGE AWOKE, SHE POUND HERSELF ON A MAKESHIFT

litter being pulled by Dacaro. They were on the move again,
that was for sure. A worried Joe rode an equally worried Posti
behind the litter. When her eyes opened, he gave a shout that
brought the party to a halt.

Joe jumped down and went to her. "How do you feel?"
"Lousy, but I'll live," she replied. She looked around. "What
hit me? Where are we?"

"You just keeled over," he said. "Luckily for you, one of
the bedrolls was underneath. I don't think anything's broken."

"I feel good enough to ride," she told him, not sure if that
was really the truth. "Untie me from this thing."

With Macore's help, Joe did as instructed and lifted her to
her feet.

"Woosh! A little dizzy, and I have a couple of bruises in
places I never had 'em before, but I think I'm okay." She
looked around again. The tall mountains loomed ahead, not
more than ten miles away. "So where's the pool?"

"Way, way back there," Joe told her. "We talked it over
and figured it was better to move with you this way than to
risk another night with our slimy friend back there."

She nodded. "I agree with that. But—didn't you kill it?"

He shook his head negatively. "I doubt it, and so does
Dacaro. What brains the thing had weren't in its head at all.
It will probably nurse its wounds down there, regenerate a new
face, and be ready for the next suckers."

She thought of that hideous face and shivered. "You know,
up to now, I've believed in good and bad and in between, but
that thing was true evil. Could you feel it?"

They all nodded. "Something from the dawn of the world,"

175




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JACK L. CHALKER

177

Macore said. "Some terrible force in that form. Maybe it once

thought, but now it's nothing but pure hatred and rage."
"And appetite," Grogha added.

"That, too," Macore agreed. "You want to try riding now?"
She nodded. "I'll manage. But help me up on Dacaro. He

may have some spell that can relieve me."

They helped her up, then disassembled the litter and'packed

it on the long-suffering mule.

"Glad to find you back among the living," Dacaro told her.
"So am I," she responded honestly. "I don't know what

came over me."

"That spell. It was far too complex and draining for a nov-
ice—but it was necessary. It took all your reserve. Hurt much?"

"A lot of bruises. I feel as if I had been run over by a truck."

"Didn't you say you had a witch's kit? Isn't there something
you could brew up for yourself?"

She felt foolish. "Sure there is. Damn. I almost completely
forgot. Uh—if we have any water."

"The water from the pool was all right—in the morning,"
he told her. "The canteen's full."

"How long was I out?"

He thought a moment. "Hard to say. Several hours. It's past
midday. But better whip up your witchery before we push on

again."

She called out to the others, and they obliged, watching as
she mixed certain herbs together from her kit, then brewed
them into a tea and drank it all, even eating the mixture.

"Taste good?" Grogha wanted to know.

"Terrible," she told him. "But I can already feel it starting
to work." She folded up her kit and put it on her belt. "Let's

get moving."

Back on the trail, Dacaro explained to her his correct guess
about the nature of the evil worm. "It was all rage and hate,"
he said. "When I saw how it simply tried to bully its way
through your spell, I knew it was pure emotion. Its sensory
apparatus was all in its head, while its brain was protected back
in the tail someplace. But it seemed to have no way of telling
anything without the information that head provided—and it
just pushed on straight ahead. I gambled it wouldn't even know
where it was being chopped—and I won. Once the head was
severed, it was blind, deaf, and dumb."

"I think I've had enough of monsters for a while," she
remarked. She suddenly had a thought. "Uh—Dacaro. That
big spell took a lot out of me, right?"

"Yes. All you had, really."

"And—it's being replaced slowly out of faerie?"

"Um, yes. I was wondering when you'd think of that."

"Have I—changed?"

"A little," he answered honestly. "But it will be gradual in
any event."

"Will it be—enough? To push me over the edge, that is?"

"I can't say. The external changes first, though, that much
I know. But you won't be beyond mortality until your wings
grow out, so you can at least tell from that."

She thought about it. "Wings. You mean like those the little
fairies had on the boat?"

"Perhaps. There are lots of wings. I don't expect you to
shrink much, since that would have been among the first things
to notice. So the wings would have to be different—they have
to support a different mass. Why? Having second thoughts?
Nervous?"

"Nervous? Yeah. Because I don't know what to expect,
what price I'm paying. Sort of like selling your soul to the
devil. At the time you don't even realize it's gone, but when
the time comes, you sure miss it."

"Perhaps, when this is over, you can talk with some of the
fairies," he suggested. "But, regardless, you either stop or go
on."

"It's not that much of a choice, really. Like last night. It
was me or nobody."

"I think I might have done it—differently—through Ma-
core. He has the sense of the art, but absolutely no knowledge
or training. It might have killed him, but I could have done
it."

She sighed. "Some choice. But that's not the only factor,
Magic's my edge. It's what I do here. If I give it up, I might
as well open a stall and sell potions."

"Suit yourself. I wouldn't get so worked up about this
changeling business, anyway. We'll probably all die in this
mission."

She chuckled. "Optimistic, aren't you?"

"We'll see."




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179

The pass through the mountains showed clearly now. The
slope was steep, but gentle enough for horses and perhaps a
wagon team if need be. The pass itself was quite wide, although
it looked to be a very slow and relaxed climb of a couple of
thousand feet, at least. They started up and were soon sur-
rounded by high mountain walls.

Within the first couple of hours the temperature had dropped
considerably, and they all were feeling chilled. Although there
was no snow evident in the pass, it was all around not too far

above them.

"We're going to have to buy some warmer clothes for this
place, if we don't freeze to death right here," Joe muttered.
"Near naked's all right for the hot stuff, but it's nothin' to be

in a snowstorm."

The others, who were dressed better than he but not for this,
could only nod in agreement. Making matters worse, the sun
was already low enough to be masked by the surrounding moun-
tains. Marge shivered and called to Macore, "How much longer
to this town of yours? Will we make it before nightfall?"

"Hard to say," the little thief called back. "Remember, I
never came in this way before. But I do know that it's in a
glacial valley just below this pass on the other side. It will be
touch and go between us and night, but we'll have to do what

we can."

It was early evening, and there were flecks of snow in the
air when they finally made the summit of the pass and could
look out to the other side. There was little sun left, but it was
still light enough for them to see, and the village just below
was as Macore had promised.

Kidim was set inside a U-shaped glacial valley carved out
long ago. The valley was almost a bowl set in the mountain,
not terribly deep but about a mile and a half wide. Its water
was glacial melt, which formed a formidable lake in about half
the depression; but while it was fed by mountain snows, it
overflowed away from the village part of the bowl, over in an
imposing, tall waterfall that dropped into another bowllike lake
several hundred feet below. That lower lake was in turn the
source of the River Sik—incredibly, navigable from that point
all the way down to the River of the Sad Virgin and eventually
to the great Dancing Gods itself. The lower pool was fed not

only from the waterfall but also from countless rivulets and
small streams, some gushing right out of the mountain.

Kidim, however, was above all that, in the best defensive
position. It reminded Marge of nothing so much as a Swiss
village, the kind they used for the Olympics or bobsled runs.
It was a town of perhaps seven or eight thousand living in
elaborately painted and decorated clapboard and gingerbread-
style houses, and it was alight with life.

Joe looked around. "Not bad. They could hold that pass
back there with a relatively small force; nobody would be safe
charging up here from down there. It's almost a perfect natural
fortress."

Macore nodded. "And those walls are heavily fortified. They
can close it off in a moment and withstand a tremendously long
siege. It is said, too, that caves in the mountain itself, known
only to the townspeople, are stocked with food and weapons—
and even offer escape routes. Their treasures are stored some-
where back there, which makes them so hard to get at."

Cold and miserable, they anxiously headed for the town
gates, the pillars of which were carved out of the natural granite.
The gates were open. Although there were guards atop the
walls looking down on them, there was no challenge or attempt
to stop them.

The town was busy at dusk. Sidewalk cafes were filled, and
from the various brightly lighted buildings that so resembled
chalets could be heard the sounds of entertainment, eating,
dining, and general merrymaking.

"Now this is more like it!" Marge exclaimed. "I'd begun
to give up on High Pothique!"

"It varies widely," Macore responded. "This little City-State
is extremely rich and fat. But it gets that way because of its
position here. Anyone who wants the valued raw materials of
High Pothique's interior deals through here. Anybody wanting
to sell anything to the remote tribes and nomads of the interior
has to go through here. This is a classic case of geographic
greed in action!"

First they found the stables and, for a very high charge, got
the horses and mule taken care of and the supplies stored in a
bonded and guarded storage area. It was clear from the almost
ten grains they were charged, though, that Kidim knew it had
travelers where it wanted them.




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181

At Macore's urging, they decided they would splurge for
this one night, staying in the highest-class inn—actually called
a hotel—in the town. Each would have a separate bed this
night—a soft, down-filled, luxurious one with silken sheets
and fine wool blankets. Again they took two rooms, using the
same arrangement as before.

They skipped the hotel dining room, though—it looked a
bit too posh for such burned and unwashed travelers as they—
and opted instead for a small, friendly restaurant down the
street. The food was wonderful, the wine choice, and when
Macore got the bill and told them what it was, they could only
wonder what the hotel dining room would have cost.

Afterward, since they wanted to walk off their stuffed feel-
ings, Macore counted out some money to each of them so they
could wander about and perhaps pick up some warmer clothing.

They walked around together for a while, but Marge got
interested in a clothing store with exotic fashions, Macore wanted
to check out some old haunts, and that left three. Grogha and
Houma were soon at home in a bar with the promise of live
female fairies performing erotic, unnatural acts on stage, and
that left Joe.

He wandered down the street, stopped in a clothing store
for men, and finally found a wool jacket and high-top, fur-
lined boots that would be good in mountain country. Feeling
wanner and much, much poorer, he just ambled around for a
bit. He was feeling lonely again, and there wasn't much he
could do about it.

A young woman—she couldn't have been more than sixteen
or a few months older—approached him coyly. She looked
too clean and well dressed to be a prostitute, but here one never
knew.

"Sir?" she whispered conspiratorially.

Well, maybe they were clean and well dressed here. "Yes?"

"Sir—you look like a gentleman. Would you care to seduce
and abandon me tonight?"

He chuckled over the phrasing. "Sed—how much?"

She looked shocked. "I'm not a common whore!" she
snapped. "I would not dream of charging!"

He was immediately suspicious in the extreme. It sounded
like one of those too-good-to-be-true offers—which they al-

ways were. Sure, honey. Go with you, then get waylaid by thugs,
robbed, and maybe murdered.

"Uh-uh, honey. Not tonight," he told her regretfully and
walked on.

He hadn't gone another block when a totally different woman,
perhaps even younger than the first, beckoned and made the
same offer. Again he refused, although she almost pleaded
with him.

Finally he said, "All right—what's this all about? Why does
every young girl in this town want to-be—seduced and aban-
doned—tonight?"

She looked a little apprehensive, then pulled him gently into
an alleyway right off the street. "You have been propositioned
before tonight?"

He nodded.

She sighed. "We're all trying it on every stranger we meet.
It is impossible to get anyone local to do it. They would insist
on marriage or we'd be dishonored because it would be found
out. But a stranger could do it—and no one would know. Lots
of girls have done it. What's wrong with we?" She pouted
almost like a small child.

He stepped back a moment, still confused. "Let me get this
straight. Are you telling me you're a virgin?"

"Of course!" she came back proudly. "Otherwise, what would
be the point of this?"

He coughed and swallowed back a snappy reply to that one.
Only a virgin would make that kind of a comment.

"What is it—some kind of bet? Or maybe some magic
spell?"

"Oh, of course not! It's the dragon!"
That stopped him. "Dragon? What dragon?"
"You are new here. Just a little over four weeks ago a dragon
was spotted flying to and from a new eyrie in the high mountains
just behind us. It's been seen almost every night since, flying
to and fro, probably establishing its nest. Once it does, it will—
hunt." She looked up at him desperately, and there were ac-
tually tears in her eyes. "Don't you see? Dragons are attracted
to virgins!"

He leaned back against the building wall, feeling the need
for support, an expression of utter disbelief on his face. "Let




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183

me get this straight," he said again. "There's a dragon in the

area?"

She nodded. "First one in more than a century in these

parts."

"And dragons eat virgins?"

"Everybody knows that."

Well, everybody didn't, but.. ."Are you trying to tell me
that every virginal girl past puberty is sneaking out at night in
this town and begging to be—" He groped for a word she'd
understand instead of the ten that came immediately to mind.
"—violated by every strange man she meets?"

"Well, of course! Why else would we be doing this?"

He broke into a big grin. "And about how many of you
virgins are there?"

"A couple hundred a month ago," she told him. "Maybe
half that now. It's kind of—hard—to bring yourself to do it.
But the Books of Rules state that the dragon could start hunting
any time after establishing its eyrie, and that takes thirty days.
So you see why..."

He shook his head in wonder. A trucker's paradise, he
thought. As if you died and went to heaven... Not, he told
himself, that he didn't feel sorry for the poor girls. He under-
stood their fears—he thought. But—a town full of willing
virgins whose honor would force them never to tell? It was the
most absurd thing he'd ever heard. Funny, too. He no longer
felt very tired at all...

It was quite late when Marge got back to the hotel room,
and she was surprised to find none of the men there as yet.
She sighed and shook her head. She felt really done in and
about as grimy as she ever had.

She spread out the garments she'd bought with almost all
her money. They were practical ones, good for mountain work,
but the fur was soft and fitted snugly about her. She couldn't
be certain what the fur was—the term used by the saleswoman
had been unfamiliar to her—but she decided it was probably
better not to know. Still, with these clothes, she'd be extremely
warm; and with the small, pointed-toe boots and tight-fitting
gloves, she'd look almost like an elf.

Like an elf She wondered about that. Casually she un-


dressed and went to the full-length mirror in the luxury room
and looked at herself once more. Had she changed?

The image looking back at her from the mirror was not
really a familiar one, of course, but it had changed since she'd
last examined it. Her ears, for example, which Ruddygore had
noted were turning back and changing, had changed more. They
were fully pointed now and sharply back on her head. Elflike
ears that looked fine, even exotic, with her streaked hair—but
were definitely not human in the slightest. Her eyes, too, seemed
huge, sad, and teardrop-shaped, with unnaturally long lashes.
They were beautiful, erotic eyes—but they were not human
eyes.

She thought of the fairies on the boat two days earlier. They
had all been male—sort of, anyway—but they had this sort
of ear and something subtly similar about their faces. Not the
eyes, though, or the general facial shape she was developing.
It was not their kind that she was becoming.

She went back to the clothes on the bed and just lay there
for a few moments, fingering them. Suddenly she stopped and
looked at her hands, then sat up and looked closer. There was
no doubt about it. Some sort of—webbing—was growing from
the points between each of the fingers. It was only a tiny extra
mass of very thin skin now, perhaps an eighth of an inch from
the base of the hand, but there it was. Her fingernails, too,
seemed extra hard, somewhat silvery in appearance, and were
taking on a different nature, perhaps more—animallike? She
couldn't decide.

Before she could think on it further, though, there was an
officious knock at the door. Acutely aware, suddenly, of her
nakedness, she called out, "Who's there?"

"Concierge, madam," came an equally officious reply. "You
had asked at the desk if a bath could be arranged?"

She frowned. "Yes—but they told me it was too late in the
day."

"A clerk checked with me, and I discovered that there was
more than sufficient hot water. It won't keep, so we thought
you might wish to use it tonight."

She smiled. A bath! A real bath! "Hold on, let me get
something on," she called back and quickly got back into her
dirty jerkin. Picking up the new clothes and a large towel, she
walked to the door and opened it. Only then did she think how




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185

trusting she had been—how she had only his word that he was

the concierge.

But he was the concierge. She had seen him at his desk in
the lobby. "Follow me, please, madam," the little man said,
and she followed him down the hall, down to the lobby level,
and then below. The bathhouse was small—not even the well-
to-do took many baths in Husaquahr, it seemed—but surpris-
ingly modem. The sunken tub was steaming with clear, hot
water brought in from coal-fired tanks that also provided some
heat for the main floor, and there was a large bar of soap, a
full supply of bath linen, and even a white towel-robe, im-
printed with the symbol of the hotel.

"I will see that no one disturbs you, madam," the concierge
assured her. "When finished, please stop by my desk in the
lobby and let me know, so that we may drain the tub."

"I'll do that," she promised him, eager for the water. "And

thanks!"

He left and shut the door behind him. She quickly laid out
all her stuff, got undressed, and slipped into the tub. The water
was quite hot, but that didn't matter at all. It wasn't too hot,
and the warmth penetrated her body, eased her bruises and
muscle tension, and just felt absolutely wonderful.

It was in the wee hours of the morning, after the last bar
had closed, that Joe returned to the hotel. He felt tremendous,
despite the long day, but he was really tired now. All he wanted

was sleep.

He knocked on the door of the room, softly, just to warn
Marge of his impending entrance, but then didn't hesitate to
open the door and walk in.

He stood there for a moment, puzzled. She wasn't there.
The oil lamps were still on, and there were signs that she'd
been lying on top of the bed at one time—but that was all.
Idly wondering if the Rules also specified boy virgins, he looked
around for a clue. He dismissed his thought about the boy
virgins in a minute. That wouldn't make sense. She had that
celibacy thing. He stopped and thought a moment. Everything
was closed now, he knew, so there was no place she could
have gone to, except maybe to the wall to look at the night
view—but that was unlikely. She'd had a hard day, and even
her potions weren't a hundred percent effective. She'd been

tired and achy when they'd first hit town, and she'd said after
dinner that she was going to get some mountain clothes and
then try for a bath and go to bed.

He snapped his fingers. A bath! Sure! He looked around,
saw that the big towel was missing, and nodded to himself.
Then he stopped for a moment, puzzled. A bath at three in the
morning? This wasn't like back home, where one just went
into the bathroom...

He turned and walked back down to the lobby. He didn't
immediately check with the desk, but saw a pictograph indi-
cating baths on a floor below. The desk clerk and the concierge
watched him but did not say or do anything as he went down
the stairs.

He checked both the small bathrooms. Nothing in the first,
but the second showed signs that somebody had used it recently.
He went over and tested the water temperature of the bath.
Cool, like the other—but the other had been clear. This was
soapy and still messed up. He glanced anxiously around, then
found in a small pile her old clothes and the new ones she must
have bought. Only the towel had been used.

Knowing now that something was terribly wrong, he bounded
back up the stairs to the lobby and approached the night clerk
first. The clerk smiled and looked up at the big man, nodding.
"Yes?"

"The woman who checked in with me—do you know where
she is?"

The clerk shrugged. "Sorry. I haven't been on very long.
Try the concierge."

Joe went over to the little man at the concierge's desk, who
also looked up expectantly. Joe noticed he seemed abnormally
nervous and couldn't quite sit still.

"The young woman who checked in with me," Joe repeated.
"Have you seen her tonight?"

The concierge frowned and pretended to look thoughtful.
"Young woman? Sir, we have many. I can't be expected to
remember everyone."

"Streaked hair, big eyes, pointy ears," Joe responded, get-
ting a little steamed up.

The man seemed to think hard again, and was about to
speak when Joe added, "She took a bath tonight—downstairs."

Sensing that he couldn't conceal obvious facts without




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THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALK.ER

187

sounding worse, the concierge brightened. "Ah, yes! But I do
remember her! She went down to the baths hours ago. Why,
is something wrong!"

"She's missing, that's what. You been here all night?"

"Except for a couple of calls, yes."

"Do you remember her coming back up from the baths?"

The concierge thought a moment more. Sweat was breaking
out on his brow. "Uh—yes, I believe I do."

Joe reached out, temper flaring, and literally picked the little
man out of his chair with one hand. "Liar! You forgot to remove
her clothes! They're still down there! What have you done with
her?" With one mighty move, he pulled the man across his
desk so that they were face to face, all the while keeping him
suspended off the floor by the grip on his clothing.

The concierge, deathly afraid and sweating like mad, yelled,
"Codoary! Help me!"

With an angry shove, Joe threw the concierge halfway across
the lobby, where he struck a stuffed chair and toppled over.
In the same moment the big man whirled, his face a fury, to
see, not just the desk clerk, but two other men, all with swords,

coming at him.

In an instant his great sword leaped to his right hand and
hummed brightly. "I hope none of you got any fairy blood,"
he growled at them, " 'cause I got to leave one of you alive to

torture!"

The three advanced in a semicircle, threateningly but not
very professionally. It was obvious that none of these men were
hired thugs or assassins. They looked like shopkeepers, hotel
clerks, accountants, that sort of thing—and they looked mighty
uncomfortable facing a barbarian warrior.

He didn't wait for them to make up their minds. With a
mighty yell, he leaped at them, and his sword hand moved
with swift and terrible precision. He didn't even have time to
think about it—it was as if the sword itself were alive and
doing all the right things.

In an instant's time, or so it seemed, the humming sword
slashed off the nearest assailant's sword hand at the wrist, then
came back up under the next and knocked the sword away and
into the air. With his left hand he punched the disarmed middle
man in the stomach, and he fell back and collapsed on the
floor.

This left only the desk clerk, who was aghast and scared to
death. The shock of what had happened to the first two totally
unnerved him. With a squeal, he dropped his sword, raised his
hands, and cried, "Please! Don't hurt me!"

Joe approached him, then pushed him rudely against a pillar
and brought the sword up to the frightened man's throat. The
clerk made a noise and looked so close to pure terror that, for
a moment, the big barbarian was afraid the fellow was having
a heart attack. Still, he was the most conscious of the four, so
it was best to start with him.

"You see my friend here? His name's Irving." Joe pushed
the point to the throat so the clerk could really feel it.

Even so, the clerk managed to gasp back, "IrvingT' in a
disbelieving tone.

The big man nodded. "Think it's a funny name, huh? He
don't like it when he thinks people are makin' fun of his name."
Joe paused a moment, genuinely angry but thinking. "All right—
you know what my friend Irving's good at? Cuttin'! How about
it? Shall I let him cut off a hand, maybe, like your friend's
there? Then another hand? Then maybe the legs—and what's
between 'em?"

The clerk whimpered.

"All right, you tell me what they've done with the girl, and
now! I'm not a patient man!"

"Please! You got to understand!" The clerk was almost
gibbering. "The dragon. It had to be appeased. Our daugh-
ters—"

"Dragon!" Joe stormed. "What the hell does this have to
do with the dragon?"

"W-we saw that she was a virgin. Duoqua, who's the town
elder, can see the magic. She was the first virgin stranger we'd
seen! Honest! You gotta understand! My own sister's pregnant
by some outland stranger because she was so scared! We had
to!"

"What did you do with her—scumball?" Joe roared. "Where
is she?"

"C-castle rock! They took her to castle rock! The altar there!"

"Where is it? How do I get to it?"

"I—I can't!"

"Either you can or you're dead," Joe snapped coldly, and




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he meant it. "I have no time for you to think about it. Your
friends are coming around!"

"I'll take you! Let me loose!"

Joe let the clerk lead the way—down again toward the baths.
"If there's any trickery, just a little, anything, not only will
you regret it but, I swear by all that's holy, so will your whole
stinking town. Forget that she's an agent of the sorcerer Ruddy-
gore! Forget that she's sister to the great sorceress Huspeth!
She's my rider, damn it!"

At hearing the first two names, the clerk swallowed hard
and muttered, "Oh, my god!" They were apparently sufficient
to strike in the man the realization that, while armies could
never conquer Kidim, enemies like those could cause terrible
desolation and hardly feel it. The clerk gave Joe no more

trouble.

Through a service door they went, then down again, into a
maze of well-lighted tunnels with steps and railings, past rooms
with symbols for various Kidim banks and merchants on them,
others with pictographs for various kinds of foodstuffs, and
even a whole chamber full of wine. Joe knew that this was the
labyrinth in the mountain of which Macore had spoken. For a
moment he regretted not rousing the other three, but there
wasn't time, really. Right now Marge could be staked out, with
a horrible monster circling to strike...

"I'm surprised you don't have guards all over the place,"
Joe remarked as they went.

"Don't need 'em," the clerk told him. "There are spells and
magic guardian beasts all over those rooms—and as for the
labyrinth, once in—how would anybody find his way out? It's
booby-trapped, too."

"It better hadn't spring any traps on me," Joe warned.

"It won't!" the clerk cried nervously. "Ruddygore...
Huspeth... God! Did we pick the wrong one! But you gotta

understand..."

"Cut the moral justifications! Just get me there as quick as
you can!" Joe snapped. He was becoming increasingly irritated
by both the dme it was taking to get where they were going—
if the clerk was playing fair with him—and the growing knowl-
edge that labyrinth was the right word and that he had very

little idea of where they were and less of how to get out of
there;

Suddenly they emerged outside. The cold wind hit them in
the face, and they were on a stone walkway along a mountain
ledge. Joe and not been conscious of much upward movement
in their walk, yet they were either above the town or on a
different side of the mountain at about its level.

Someone had lighted torches all along the way, their flames
whipped by the wind, but they showed the path. It wound
sharply up, around a curve, then out to a lookout station that
seemed suspended in space.

"Anybody guarding this path?" he asked nervously.

"With a dragon around? Are you kidding?"

That sounded reasonable enough. "All right—stop. She's
out there—on that ledge?"

The clerk nodded. Suddenly he gave a sharp cry. "The
dragon!"

Joe didn't wait for anything more. He slugged the clerk
hard, knocking him cold and thus preventing him from easy
escape or raising an alarm, then started running up the stone
walk at full speed.

Something suddenly flew over and quite near him, raising
a wind so large it almost bowled him over. He stopped and
turned, sword at the ready, and saw the dragon. He could not
get a clear look at it in the dark beyond the torches, but it was
a big sucker, he kept thinking. He stopped to get his bearings
on it, knowing timing would be crucial, and saw that the crea-
ture seemed fascinated by the lookout and was, in fact, slowly
and warily circling it.

Joe took off again, knowing that this probably meant that
the dragon had not yet taken its sacrifice, but that it could and
would at any moment. The trail took a sudden slight and un-
expected dip, and he stumbled and cursed, then got up and
took up the chase once more. The trail wound around now,
putting him for just a moment out of sight of the lookout itself.
But the dragon's huge, dark shape was too great to be hidden,
and it descended, just in front of him, where the overlook would
be. I'm too late! he thought frantically.

At that moment the mountains echoed with the most terri-
fied, horrible scream of fear he had ever heard. Crying out in




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frustration, Joe rounded the bend to the overlook, determined
that he and Irving were going to avenge Marge, at least, or die
in the attempt.

CHAPTER 13

A BATTLE IN THE VALE

Dragon motives are inscrutable.

—C, 228, 167(a)

JOE WAS PURE EMOTION AS HE ROUNDED THE BEND AND SAW

clearly the scene on the lookout. He was so charged up that
what he saw only penetrated his consciousness when he was
halfway to the makeshift altar to which Marge had been tied.
Only then did he realize that, although tied down stark naked
on the altar stone, she was unharmed.

Just beyond, on a huge stone ledge overlooking the lookout,
the dragon perched, gazing down upon the scene below with
unconcealed terror in its great crimson eyes.

"You all right?" Joe called anxiously to Marge.

She managed to turn her head slightly. "Yeah, 1 think so.
If my heart's started again."

"When I heard you scream..."

"But I didn't scream," she told him. "He did." She gestured
with her head toward the dragon.

Joe kept one eye on the great beast while he edged closer
to Marge. Once there, he started to cut the ropes with his sword,
but she cautioned, "Watch it! If that sword touches me, it could
kill me!"

Joe risked looking down at her, then carefully cut the arm
and leg ropes binding her to the structure. She sat up, massaging
her wrists and ankles, all of which bore discolorations and
minor rope bums. Finally, though, she felt well enough to
stand and joined Joe, who was staring at the dragon.

It was a magnificent-looking beast. The old legends had
never done the dragon proper justice. It was sea green except

on its underside, where it was a dull rust-red, with massive
scales protecting its vulnerable points. Its great, leathery wings
were a curious mixture of silver and black in a pattern. The
piercing crimson eyes seemed aglow with a light of their own,
neither reptilian nor mammalian, but filled, somehow, with a
great alien power. There did, indeed, seem to be little puffs
of smoke coming from the large, flared nostrils at the end of
its perfect reptilian snout, and Joe suddenly grew nervous that
it might breathe fire on the overlook and cook them both.

At that moment the dragon opened its great mouth...

And whimpered.

Joe frowned. "The damned thing acts as if it's scared to
death."

"Maybe it thinks you're Saint George," she suggested.

He shook his head. "No. It screamed and backed off while
I was still out of sight. I don't get it. I thought they were
supposed to love virgins."

"Well, I, for one, am sure glad things aren't that cut-and-
dried around here," she responded. "I thought I was a goner
for sure."

"Snarfle," added the dragon, which sounded as if it had to
blow its nose.

"For my part, I'm all for getting the hell out of here before
somebody rushes up and reads it the Books of Rules on dragon
preferences," Joe muttered. "Besides, you must be half frozen."

"I'm still too scared to be cold. Later I'll get frostbite."

Joe started edging Marge and himself back from the altar,
at all times facing the dragon, Irving still in hand and at the
ready. The dragon's eyes followed them, but it still looked as
nervous as they were. They were almost to the path when a
gruff voice yelled, "How dare you! How dare you! Six weeks'
work, down the drain!"

Joe risked a turn and saw, coming toward them from farther
up the trail, a medium-sized figure that looked at first to be a
walking bush. It was running, though, on what seemed to be
enormous, bare human feet. Out of the mass, two thick arms,
raised high in fists, gestured angrily at them.

Joe pushed Marge behind him and made ready to meet this
new threat. The creature or whatever approached fairly closely,
oblivious of the sword, and they could see that it was a manlike
figure completely covered with thick, matted black hair. Other




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193

than the arms and legs, the only things visible were two huge,
yellow, oval-shaped eyes peering from beneath the brush.

It went past them and out to the altar. Joe let it go, still
aware of his precarious position on the trail but too curious to

run.

The hairball, as Joe thought of it, reached the altar, turned,

saw the cowering dragon, and stopped. "Oh, poor Vercertorix!
What have those nasty people done to you?" he called out, in
a tone one would use to a small child.

The dragon snarfled some more, then sniffed and seemed
about to break into tears.

"I think I've had about enough of this," Joe muttered to
Marge. "Hey! You!" he called out. "On the overlook there!
What in hell is going on here?"

The hairball turned. "Ruining a month and a half of hard
work!" the creature snapped angrily. "Not to mention scaring
the poor thing half to death."

"We didn't do anything!" Joe told him. "The villagers kid-
napped this woman and stuck her out here as a sacrifice to that

'poor thing' there!"

"Bah! Ignorant, superstitious fools! I'd have Vercertorix
here destroy that pesthole if his nerves were up to it!"

"They think he made a nest up here—that he was going
to attack the town, anyway," Joe called out. "That's why the
sacrifice of this innocent stranger."

Naked and cold though she was. Marge was madder than
anything. "Don't you snap at us! Who the hell are you, any-
way?" she demanded.

At the sound of her voice, the dragon whimpered and tried
to press himself back into the rock, causing no small landslide.

"Nest, indeed!" the hairball scoffed. "Why any self-respect-
ing dragon would want to nest in this hole, I can't tell you.
But will you please stop scaring him, woman? You're only
making him worse!"

"How am / scaring him?"

The dragon had another minor fit. "Don't do that!" the
hairball screamed angrily.

"Do what?"

"Talk. Remind him of your presence. He's got enough prob-
lems without being tortured. Have you no humanity?"

"But he's not human," Joe noted. "He's a dragon."

"Semantics! Bah! That's why I went up high into these
mountains seventy years ago and why I haven't had any truck
with human civilization since. Stupidity, greed, war, supersti-
tion, bureaucracy, and semantics. Stupid ills for stupid people!"

Joe thought it over for a minute. "This dragon's been visiting
you each night, then. Why?"

The hairball sighed. "Isn't it obvious? We may as well shout
it now. The damage is done. Everybody will know, and his
shame will be such that we'll probably have one less dragon.
They breed only once every thousand years, you know!" He
sighed, calming down slightly. "I've been treating him for his
neurosis, of course. He has a complex. Isn't that obvious?"

All Joe could see was the fairy stories of his childhood
collapsing like houses of cards. "You don't mean..."

"Certainly! He has a morbid fear of fair maidens! And now
look at what you've done!"

"We didn't do anything," Joe retorted. "Besides, if he's
scared of pretty women, why'd he come this close to begin
with?"

The hairball took a tone of utter impatience with such stu-
pidity. "If you had a brain, barbarian, you'd figure it out.
Dragons are as curious as cats. Sensing something alive staked
out here and seeing the torches, he had to investigate and find
out what it was. That's his nature. And as you see, he wasn't
ready yet."

"Thank heaven!" Marge breathed.

Aware of how cold it was, Joe took off his jacket and put
it around the freezing Marge. She was thankful, despite the
fact that it fitted like an army tent.

"And who are you?" Joe asked the hairball.

The strange man cackled. "They call me the Old Man of
the Mountains, I'm told. I'm a scientist, of course. I specialize
in dragons and other endangered species."

"Well, see to your patient. Doc. I think we'll go back down
now."

"Wait!"

"What now?"

"I see that the lady is a halfling," the Old Man of the
Mountains noted, sounding friendlier. "And I recognize that
sword. It was given a thousand years ago to a man I once knew.
How did you come by it?"




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195

"I got it from the sorcerer Ruddygore," Joe told the hairy
one. "If that's any business of yours."

"Ruddygore? The name is unfamiliar. Huge, fat man with
a beard? Always eating?"

"That's him."

The mass of hair seemed to bend in a nod. "I thought so.
So he's still alive, huh? Come on up the trail a bit. I have a
cave nearby with a warm fire and some strong drink where I
was waiting for Vercertorix here. I would like to talk to you."

"No, thanks," Joe told him. "We have to get back to town."

The Old Man of the Mountains chuckled. "And how are
you going to do that? Could you find your way back through
that rabbit warren of theirs? Come to think of it, how'd you
find your way here?"

"There's a clerk from the hotel down there. I knocked him
cold. He'll get us back."

"Oh, yes? Well, go on down for a moment, if you will—
but you will find, I think, that you did not hit him hard enough.
He is gone."

Joe didn't have to go down. He figured that the hairball
was telling the truth.

"Come up to my cave," the Old Man invited again. "I'll
get you back."

"Won't we—scare that friend of yours?"

The two big, yellow eyes glanced over at Vercertorix. "You
just stay there and get calmed down," he soothed the dragon.
"When you're confident, go to your nearest den and sleep it
off. It will all be better in the morning. Then see me tomorrow
night as usual. We'll get this straight. And I'm sure these nice
people will not spread your problem around."

The dragon whined a bit, and there was a huge tear in its
left eye. Having no choice, but not relaxing his guard or his
sword grip, Joe followed Marge and the Old Man of the Moun-
tains up the trail.

"Dragons are unusually intelligent," the hairy one, who
introduced himself as Algongua, or just plain Doc for short,
told them. "Almost as smart as the average person. And they're
a lot more powerful and mobile. Of course, they get a bad
reputation, but any carnivore that has to eat a minimum of five
hundred pounds of meat a day just to keep up strength is not

going to be exactly beloved. They aren't hostile to people—
not really. They kill people only when those people are a threat
to them. Actually, they prefer cattle most of all, or aurochs."
"But that thing in the Rules about virgins..." Marge in-
terjected.

"Ah, that thing's caused more problems than it's solved.
Basically, it was intended to protect humans. If a dragon must
eat a human for food, he'll choose a virgin every time. That's
the Rule. And why? To give the rest of us a chance. Somehow
it's gotten all twisted by superstitious folk into a demand for
sacrifice. Stupid. Dragons want as little to do with human folk
as possible."

They reached his cave, which was well concealed, and then
they still had to squeeze through a narrow, twisting corridor
in the rock to get to the main cavern.

It was surprisingly luxurious inside. There was a roaring
fire in a large, conventional fireplace and a thick rug on the
floor. There was also a wall of books, including some—per-
haps ten or fifteen—of the Books of Rules.

It was, in fact, rather warm and cheerful. Joe wondered idly
where the chimney came out.

The drink was strong, but it tasted good to both Joe and
Marge after the chill on the ledge, and the fire was particularly
welcome.

Finally feeling relaxed, Algongua took a stiff drink and sat
in front of them. "Now, then—what's this all about? You're
not here for your health. Not from Malthasor."

"Who?" Joe responded.

"Ah—Ruddygore, I think you said he was calling himself
now."

Marge grew interested. "I've heard another name for him,
too, but it wasn't that one. How many names does he have?"

"Probably hundreds," the hairy man responded, cackling a
bit. "None of them his real one, of course. Sorcerers never tell
their real names to anybody—it can cost them. But he's bas-
ically a good man and a strong wizard as well."

"You knew him well?" she pressed.

"Long ago, as I said, we both had the same—er—-em-
ployer, let's say. That was long ago and far from here. So—
if I may be so bold—where are you headed in his service?"

Joe thought about his answer. He didn't want to alienate




THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

196

the strange man, but he had only Algongua's word that they
were on the same side—and, come to think of it, the Old Man
had never as much as said that, either. Only that he knew
Ruddygore. "We go up the Vale of Kashogi," Joe said at last.
"There is something in Starmount that was stolen from Ruddy-
gore and which he wants us to retrieve."

The hairy man whistled. "Starmount! I'm sure the Xota will
not be pleased. I wouldn't like to take an army into there!"

"The Dark Baron might—he wants what we want," Marge
put in, sensing Joe's caution and understanding it. "We are a
small Company—we hope to sneak in."

Algongua laughed. "Sneak in! Well, perhaps it can be done.
But this Baron, you say, may march on it? That should be most

interesting."

It was obvious he had no idea who the Dark Baron was,
and Marge decided to tell him, giving as much detail as she

herself knew.

The strange man sighed. "Always another arch villain! The
Dark This and the Black That and the Prince of Something
Else. They're all the same. Ridiculous. No sooner do you beat
one than another comes along. I long ago gave that up as
nonproductive. I am beyond these petty temporal battles and
wars." He sighed. "But that doesn't help you, does it? Here—
let me think a moment. Starmount... hmmm... Yes, I think
I can remember a few things."

"Can you tell us what the Xota people are?" Marge asked
him. "That alone would be a great help."

"They're a degenerate race of fairies. Ugly brutes, with bat's
wings. More animal than anything else. Expect no mercy or
quarter from them! They'll eat people, other fairies, even them-
selves. They sacrifice to primitive, bloody gods. Still, my dear,
I'd kill myself if I were you, rather than let them capture me.
You they won't kill. You're a halfling, and they'll just complete
the process and keep you as a slave—and they do terrible

things to women slaves."

"I'll keep that in mind," she assured him. "Still—since
we're on the subject, you said they'd 'complete the process.'
I'm a little curious and nervous as to what I'm turning into
even now. Can you tell?"

He looked at her with his big eyes and cackled again. "Too

JACK L. CHALKER

197

soon to tell, really. Depends on what your fairy parent was. I
gather you don't know."

She decided not to go into her true origins—or Joe's. "No,
I have no idea. It began when I served an apprenticeship with
the witch queen Huspeth."

"Huspeth!" He made a sound that was definitely derisive
and sounded something like bleah. "Who knows, indeed? But,
I assure you, she didn't start the process, Halflings are born,
not created—and remain human, and occasionally ignorant of
their nature, unless heavily exposed to faerie or given to dab-
bling in sorcery. Since I see you're well along and he certainly
is human enough, I assume you're an adept of some sort."

"A rank beginner. Otherwise I wouldn't have been surprised
in the hotel tub, knocked out, and carried out to that overlook."

"Still—enough. From your looks, I'd say you were prob-
ably in the nymph family, which is common for changelings,
but there are a hundred types and tribes of nymphs, all different.
Well, you'll find out soon enough." He thought a moment.
"Starmount. Hmm..." He got up, went over to the book-
shelves, opened an old book and took out a small piece of
yellowed paper, then returned to them. "This is, if memory
serves, a map of the Vale and the Starmount Gateway." He
unfolded it. "Yep. As I thought. There's an old high trail. Real
narrow—single file for horses a lot of the way, and a long
way down if you slip—but at the three-thousand-foot level
most of the way. See?"

He laid it out for them and they looked at it. They couldn't
read the script, but the trail and many natural features were
well marked.

"Once you're in Starmount you're on your own, but this
should get you there—if you're plucky enough to use it. Also,
I can't vouch that the trail's maintained at all. This map's two
hundred years old. But you have a fighting chance if it is."

Joe felt a sense of excitement rising within him. What was
it Ruddygore had said? Luck rode with the barbarian hero.
And here was just what they needed—handed to them.

"I don't want to be ungrateful, but we'd better be getting
back," he told the strange hairy man. "We've had a long travel
day and a longer night—and no sleep as yet."

"Of course, of course. I was just enjoying conversation

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199

again. But—how well will those meddling fools receive you

down there?"

Joe thought about it. "I don't know. They can't be too
friendly—after all, I did beat up two of 'em and take one's
hand off right in the hotel lobby. But they kidnapped Marge.
I figure they better hadn't do anything."

"Come, then. I have a small complex of caves here that tie
into theirs. I'll get you back."

He was as good as his word, although the route was even
more tortuous and confusing than Joe's had been on the way
out. Still, once more they stepped into the bath level of the
hotel. When they turned around to thank Algongua, he was
already gone.

"Wait a minute," Marge told Joe. "Let's see if they left me
my clothes." They checked the bath room, but it had been
drained and cleaned. There wasn't a sign of anything that was
hers. It wasn't just me clothes—her kit had been there as well.

"So they even steal my stuff!" she stormed, sounding really
angry. She took off Joe's coat, which had almost reached the
ground on her, and gave it back to him. "Well, I hope they're
easily shocked!" And with that, stark naked, she marched up
the stairs into the lobby, Joe following, curious to see what
she was going to do. He was by no means certain of their
reception and put his hand on his sword.

There was a new clerk and a new concierge on duty when
they came up, and the mess from the fight had been cleaned
up completely, but there was no question from the shock both
men on duty showed at the sight of them that they knew full
well whom they were facing.

She marched up to the concierge. "You! You'll get me my
clothes and have them cleaned, neat, and ready when I call for
them in the morning!" she commanded, then whirled on the
clerk. "And you—we will be staying one more night. All five
of us. On this hotel. That's just for starters. If you don't agree,
I will cast a spell on this place that will make it fit only for
worms like those miserable creatures who run it!" And with
that, she stormed up the stairs.

Joe looked around, noted that neither man had so much as
breathed during that, grinned, and said, "If anything is out of
place while we're here, this hotel and all who work for it will
be destroyed. Even so, I assure you its reputation for what was

done tonight will be spread the length and breadth of Husa-
quahr." He sniffed. "First-class, indeed!" Then he followed
Marge upstairs.

There were snores coming from the room of the other three,
so they didn't disturb them, but Marge insisted on putting a
full protection spell on the room she and Joe were in. She
collapsed on her bed and sighed. "Oh, god! I feel as if that
dragon did eat me! Don't wake me, no matter what you do."

"Don't worry—I won't," he assured her and blew out the
light.

The events of the previous evening were the talk of the town
by morning. After the fight in the hotel lobby, there had been
no real way to keep anything secret. Most of Kidim sympa-
thized completely with the men who'd done the deed, but were
now acutely embarrassed by it, particularly since it hadn't
worked. A merchant and trade city like Kidim fed on reputa-
tion, and its reputation was for honorable transactions and a
totally safe and secure haven in the midst of a barbaric country.

Thus, while Macore, Houma, and Grogha had no idea what
<    had gone on when they awakened, dressed, and went down to
a late breakfast, they were more than pleasantly surprised to
discover they could not pay for anything at all—whatever they
wanted was theirs, with hopes that the "incident" would not
be held against the whole town. They were so pleased by the
reception that they took full advantage of it for several hours
before they could find somebody to tell them what it was all
about.

Joe and Marge did not appear until midday. Marge was
delighted to find outside the door both sets of clothes—the old
ones laundered and neatly folded—and all her belongings from
the bath. She donned the brown skin outfit and packed away
the skimpy green one for better weather.

Grogha had come up every hour or so to check on them,
and so they were just about ready to go out when the portly
man, seeing the clothing taken in, had pounded on the door.
He quickly told them of their treatment by the town, which
pleased Marge no end.

"Just remember, they're only being this way because they
aren't sure they could kill all of us," Joe warned. "But I think
they know it won't bottle up forever, regardless."




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They had a large brunch on the hotel and noted that they
were being stared at again and again by various townsfolk.
This would be one those people would tell their grandchildren.

They decided to spend one more night, simply to get their
systems back in order, and they supplemented their supplies
and weapons—on the house, of course. Marge even had an-
other bath the next night—although with full protection spells
around this time. Joe, too, took advantage of the bath and got
his meager regular clothing cleaned as well. The other three
couldn't see the sense of it.

Still and all, the town was mighty happy to see them go the
next morning.

"Maybe we should have told them that the dragon was no
threat to them before we left," Marge suggested.

"No!" all four men responded in unison, then looked sheep-
ish. "Ah, that is," Macore added, "they don't deserve it. Let
'em worry. I doubt if they'll try this kind of trick again."

"Besides, finding out it was no threat might lose us our
status—which is pretty nice—while increasing their sense of
guilt," Joe continued smoothly. "They deserve to sweat." He
was, however, amused by the frantic reactions of the other
three. So he hadn't been the only one to have a full night, it

seemed.

They reached the point where Algongua's map said that the
higher trail branched off, but it took them a half hour to find
what they hoped was it. It was overgrown, worn, and weathered
and only hinted that it was a trail—but it went west at roughly
the three-thousand-foot level, and that was what the map claimed.

There were several rocky stretches where any semblance of
a trail just gave out, and they spent some time hunting to pick
it up again, but it did not prove in the early going too difficult
to follow. As it thinned and hugged the granite sides of the
mountains, it became more definite. But a trail that was no
more than three or four feet wide on the side of a sheer cliff
and that had a drop on the other side of more than fifteen
hundred feet at the minimum was by no means comforting,
and parts of it had been weathered uncertainly, while small
streams and waterfalls crossed it and wore deep grooves in the

face.

There were actually some clouds below them, but after a
while they disappeared, and the main road up the Vale of

Kashogi to Starmount and beyond could be clearly seen. It
looked pretty deserted, but Macore thought at one time he saw
the dust of some riders far ahead. It might have been a wisp
of cloud or some optical illusion, he admitted both to them and
to himself. But the enemy forces had been conspicuous by their
absence so far, and there had been no real sign in Kidim,
although even Ruddygore had thought they would be thickly
represented there.

"Perhaps they were," Dacaro suggested to Marge. "Those
are merchants and bankers, and most are educated men. Who
stirred up the dragon fears? Who could read the Rules—and
only those parts on dragons guaranteed to scare the hell out of
people? And who suggested they do what they did to you? I
suspect more than meets the eye there. Evil is often best when
it is the most subtle, reasonable, and invisible."

"But they failed—if in fact it was them at all," she noted.
"That means we have to expect another try."

"Yes. More of a brute-force one, I would suspect. They
won't have any easier time with the Xota than we, if that's
any comfort. And they may not know about this trail—although
they'll draw some conclusions when we fail to show up down
there. We will have to take things as they come. The enemy
may even be at the cave already."

She didn't like to think of that. Not after all this. She did,
however, tell Dacaro about the Old Man of the Mountains and
his comments on her.

"I don't know who—or what—he is," the equine adept
told her, "but he is certainly correct in that halflings and change-
lings are not made. Not by Huspeth, anyway. It is something
that, considering your unique origins, I did not take into account
before. But, yes, Ruddygore himself must have cast you like
this—and let Huspeth take the heat for it."

"But why?"

"Only a guess. He saw that you had an aptitude for the art,
but also understood that you had not the time, nor the ability,
perhaps, to leam the complexities of the spells. And certainly
your lack of reading ability as an adult is also limiting. So he
took the path of best advantage—for him. As one of the fairy
folk, you would have natural, instinctive uses of magic and
total sensitivity to it."

"Algongua said I would be a—nymph, I think he called it.




202

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

203

I know what the old legends are on nymphs, but not what that
.means here. Can you tell me?"

"Well—yes and no. Basically, a nymph is a race of faerie,
all members of whom are female. They are closest to human in
size and general form and are quite often extremely oversexed in
all senses of the word. A nymph has the ability to mate with any
male of any species, whether fairy, human, or animal — you name
it. Her progeny, then, are always halflings themselves, generally
human in form, but if they become involved with fairies or in the
an, as you are, then they will change into their fairy form. The
results can be quite bizarre. Satyrs. Centaurs. The small winged
ones. Strange amphibians. Depends on who—and what—the
father was. Whole new races of faerie have been created in that
way. Of course, if the child is female, it has a fifty-fifty chance
of being another nymph, so the race doesn't die out. As to kind,.
there are wood nymphs who live in and are linked to trees, field
nymphs, water nymphs, all sorts. You name it. But I still sense
the potential for wings in you, so you may be an aerial of some
sort. We will see, won't we? It should be interesting to discover
what happens if the transformation is completed."

Sl;

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"As primarily human, your powers gain with celibacy. As
those of a full nymph, your powers will gain with the opposite
type of conduct."

"What! You mean..."

"Precisely. Since the magic of faerie is innate—the potential
is there and develops automatically under certain circumstances
rather than having to be learned—the more times you do it
with anybody, the stronger you will become."

She was silent for a while. Finally she said, "You're amused
by that, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry, but I must admit I am. Don't be too angry.
Would you rather have your problem or mine?"

There really wasn't much of a comeback to that.

They camped out early in the evening, at the first area they
came upon, with enough room, not wanting to chance being
on this trail after dark with no place to turn into. It was damned
cold, but a small waterfall provided water, and there were some
scrub bushes for the horses. It was still a cramped evening and
a nervous one that high up and in the cold.

The next day dawned cloudy, but they were anxious to get

going. During the morning they made good time. Early in the
afternoon the clouds descended to the trail level, and travel
became something of a nightmare. With so little tolerance, they
soon were chilled, wet, and unable to see the tail of the horse
ahead of them. It was sheer luck that they came upon another
wide place—narrower and even less comfortable than the pre-
vious night's, but enough—and found themselves having to
stay the afternoon and through the night. Quarters were really
close then, and they had to be careful simply not to step in and
slip on the horse droppings, but they had to stick it out and
remain through the second night.

The third day showed not much improvement, and they
feared that they would be stuck yet another full day in that
cramped space. But after a couple of hours, the sun broke
through and bumed off the fog. Not all the way—still, the
cloud level was a hundred feet or more below the low points
of the trail. While there was no guarantee of safety, they were
all willing to chance it. Dacaro, with his bulk, was particularly
uncomfortable and offered a fog dispeller spell if need be rather
than remain there any longer. He didn't normally want to risk
any spells until he had to—the enemy below might be sensi-
tized to such things.

On the fourth day, about midmoming, the trail started down
in a series of hairy switchbacks that left no margin for error.
They almost lost Grogha when his horse came close to losing
its footing, but he was able to keep control in the nick of time.

Macore and Joe consulted AIgongua's map and decided that
they were coming down to join the main trail—which was
rising to meet them. The Starmount Gateway, then, would be
only a few miles ahead of them—and where, again, they would
be on their own. Still, it was supposedly only eight or nine
miles from the Gateway—actually a natural pass that opened
onto the great Starmount Plateau—to the cave they sought.
That brought another sobering realization—the Xota could be
anywhere, starting now. As fliers, they could leap down from
hiding places above, or swoop in in aerial attacks. The Com-
pany was suddenly acutely aware of how exposed it was on
the high trail.

The junction was certainly not far, perhaps just around the
next bend, from the looks of it, when Macore put up his hand,
halting them, and turned and put a finger to his lips.




204

JACK L. CHALKER                205

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

Joe, just behind him, frowned and whispered, "What's the

matter?"

"They're ahead of us. Probably laying for us," the little thief

whispered back. "I can almost smell 'em. But I heard a horse

snort and shuffle."

As quietly as possible, Joe relayed the message back.
"Horses!" Marge exclaimed to Dacaro. "Then this won't be

the Xota."

"No. These are the ones we have feared. Obviously they
got here ahead of us and set ambushes at this end of both

trails."

Macore slipped off his horse, aware that he had very little
room on the trail. He drew his sword and made his way forward,
in front of his horse. Slowly, with a thief's skill and practice,
he crept ahead and soon more or less oozed around the bend

in the trail.

They all drew their own weapons, but aside from Joe's
getting in front to hold Macore's horse, there was little he could
do. They waited anxiously, fearful that the little man had been

taken.

Finally, though, Macore slipped back around as quietly as
he'd gone. "There are six of them," he whispered softly to Joe.
"They picked a nice position, too. We would have been exposed
at least three hundred yards on the trail. They may have been
there for some time. They're all dismounted and seem to be
mostly sitting around looking bored. That will change the mo-
ment we appear, though."

Joe thought about it. "No way to sneak up on them?"

"Not unless you can fly," the thief told him. "Three hundred
yards to a broad, flat rocky area with some trees and bushes
where we Join the main road. It ain't much when you just gotta
walk it, but it's ten miles when you're fighting. And this drop
is all the way to the junction, almost. There's a mighty big
hole until the trails join."

Joe nodded and looked down. He could see the other trail,
only forty yards or so away on the other side, but in between
was about a four-hundred-foot-deep gap. He thought furiously.

"All downhill?"

"You said it. Real grade, too."

"I wonder—considering none of us can fly, and we'd be
suckers for crossbows..."

"So? So?"

"How about a charge? You sure they don't know we're
here?"

"Pretty sure. Did you say a charge?"

"Uh-huh. As soon as we round the bend, go for a gallop.
Full charge, yelling and screaming, weapons brandished and
ready."

"Are you crazy? The horses will probably lose their footing
and fall into the ravine!"

"Yeah—but if they don't, it will sure surprise the hell out
of those men, won't it? They'll have to pick up and aim their
weapons; maybe some of 'em will have to mount up. Three
hundred straight downhill yards... I figure maybe twenty, thirty
seconds at full gallop at the worst. Maybe even ten."

Macore shook his head wonderingly. "It's impossible."

Joe grinned. "That's what they think, sure. You go tell the
others." He looked back and sighed. "I wish Posti was in front,
but you'll have to do as the leader," he said to Macore's brown
horse.

Macore went back, talked to the others, then made his way
forward again. "They all think you're nuts, top."

"Anybody got another idea? We can't back up—not enough
room. We can't fly over that ravine. We don't have any way
of climbing down, even if we were willing to desert Posti and
Dacaro. And the longer we stay here, the more likely it is that
one of us or one of the horses is going to give us away."

Macore nodded glumly. "I know, I know. But if we must
commit suicide, why do you have to be so logical about it?"
He looked at his horse. "Who leads?"

"You take Posti—and brief him. He'll come through. I'll
take yours."

"That I won't argue about," Macore responded honestly and
made his way back once more.

"When I raise my sword, be ready to follow," Joe called
after him. "When I drop it, we start."

They all drew their weapons and waited tensely, eyes on
Joe. Both Marge and Houma had small crossbows with a supply
of bolts conveniently in front of them; the other three held
swords at the ready. It wasn't much of an attack force, but
would have to do.




206

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

207

Macore glanced nervously around. "I hope he's as good a
rider as he thinks he is," he muttered aloud.

"I hope we're all better fighters than I think we are," Grogha
responded worriedly.

Joe raised his great sword, positioned himself, and was
ready to begin when he heard Marge say, "Wait!" in a loud
whisper. As tense as he was, it was almost enough to start him
off, anyway, but instead they all turned and looked question-
ingly back at her.

"I can call a friend," she told them. "One who will cause
one hell of a ruckus. That will give us the diversion we need
to go in."

"A friend?" Macore repeated, frowning. "Here?"

"A unicorn," she told them. "My—protector." 7 hope, she
added silently to herself. "I don't know why I didn't think of
him earlier."

Joe was skeptical. "How the hell can a unicorn get here in

time?"

"I don't know, but it all just came back to me. What have

we got to lose?"

He thought it over and knew the answer was "Not much."
He nodded and said, "Okay, give out the call. The rest of the
plan stays the same, though. If this unicorn comes thundering
by, it's the ball game, so as soon as we're sure they've seen
or heard it, in we go. Got it?"

They nodded, but none, not even Marge, really believed in
any sort of unicorn savior.

"Stay away from the unicorn no matter what," Marge warned.
"He's friendly only to me." With that she sat back, tried to
concentrate, and said, more mentally than physically, "Ko-
nku—come! I am in great danger and need your help!"

For a moment nothing happened, and Joe relaxed, turned,
and raised his great sword once more. Then abruptly there was
a roll like thunder and the sound of hooves, and they saw the
great magical white beast coming toward them, riding the air
above the ravine, level with their road. Marge smiled, then
gestured for the creature to move to the opposite, main road
and continue. The signal was taken and heeded.

Around the bend, there were sudden shouts as the men in
the ambush both heard and saw the creature charging in upon
them. At that moment Joe dropped his sword and kicked his

horse in the ribs. The time for thinking was done, The others
quickly followed, yelling, as was Joe, to add to the confusion.

Posti kept Macore almost in the rear end of Joe's mount,
showing the guts he had displayed so long ago at the Circean's
farm. Next came Marge and then Houma, who released their
initial crossbow bolts as soon as they could see the men in the
wooded clump. Grogha brought up the rear, his horse pretty
much taking him along, and tried mightily not to fall off.

The sight of the great unicorn bearing down on them was
a complete shock to the defenders, who had been very lax up
to now. They looked up and saw the charging white, single-
homed apparition and were frozen for a moment; then they
moved as one to counter it, toward the main road and away
from the high path.

At that moment, the riders came around the bend with their
yells, and the defenders were caught, divided in their attention
and ducking the first bolts sent their way, even though those
were far short of any mark.

Two, though, were clearly pros, archers who jumped up,
bows ready, and let loose two wild shots in the direction of
the exposed party. While neither hit the mark, the archers were
shooting and reloading with a fluidity that seemed almost in-
human.

Koriku sensed the immediate threat in the archers and lunged
for them with a snort that became something of a roar, landing
on both and knocking them down. Suddenly he was the enraged
carnivorous beast Marge had seen in the fields, spearing men
with his great horn and rending flesh with row upon row of
sharp, pointed teeth set in powerful equine jaws.

By this time Joe had reached the guardpost itself. In ma-
neuvering around the unicorn, he exposed himself to the no
longer dazzled defenders. He felt an arrow pierce his side and
he whirled and bore down on a crossbowman who was now
trying to reload, running over the hapless man and trampling
him. Joe's horse went down, rolling on top of a swordsman
who screamed in agony, but Joe managed to jump off and come
up on his feet, the arrow in his side now causing some bleeding
he was too charged up to notice.

Between Joe and the unicorn, the defenders were turned
inward, allowing the rest of the party to make it in relative
safety. Posti hit the ledge with his hind legs, kicked off, and




208

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

landed full on top of another archer, who also went down—
as did Macore, who flew from Posti's saddle and spilled onto
the rocky ground, losing his sword for a moment.

Marge and Houma had managed to reload, and each took
out a swordsman, one of whom was running for his horse,
which was tied up in the rear. Another soldier leaped from a
rocky bluff and carried Grogha over onto the ground. The portly
man struggled with his larger assailant for a while, but blood
was trickling from his month and he was in great pain. When
it was clear that Grogha was out of the fight, the soldier aban-
doned him to writhe and moan there and turned to Macore,
just now getting groggily to his feet. The soldier, a huge,
bearded man in black uniform and chain mail, towered over
the little thief, and the first blow of the soldier knocked Ma-
core's sword away; a second, with the flat striking Macore's
head, sent the little man reeling backward, coming to rest in
a bush where he groaned once, then fell back, still.

Now the soldier smelled victory and turned on Marge. Ko-
riku, finished with his archers, saw the move, turned, and in
a great leap was upon the bearded man, first pushing him down,
then knocking the sword from the man's hand with his great
hom. As the huge equine head came down and the gaping,
blood-soaked jaws filled the soldier's vision, all confidence
vanished and he screamed in terror.

Joe, for his part, took on another swordsman. It was quite
a duel, since the soldier was extremely good and obviously
well trained, but Irving's magic always seemed to provide the
proper counterblow and move into every opening. Finally gain-
ing the upper hand, Joe flung the sword from the other's grasp
and then plunged his own into the soldier's abdomen. The man
gave a terrible cry, bent over backward, then collapsed in a
heap.

Marge saw another uniformed shape come from behind a
rock, sword in hand, toward Joe's back. She let loose a bolt
that penetrated the attacker's chain mail, and the man gave a
horrible cry that brought Joe quickly around. Irving wasted no
time in finishing the man off.

Houma looked around, saw the bleeding and broken Grogha,
and cried out the man's name, riding swiftly to him. Joe spotted
Macore's limp form in the bush and ran to him. Marge leaped

JACK L. CHALKER

209

off Dacaro and ran first to Macore, examining him for vital
signs.

"Is he dead?" Joe asked worriedly.

She shook her head. "Not yet. But he's in a bad way, I can
tell. Help me get him down here on the grass and keep him
still. I'll see about Grogha."

Houma was leaning over the portly man, and there were
tears in his eyes. "Grogha, you filthy pig, don't you dare die
on me!" he shouted. Marge had some trouble getting him away,
but then she bent down and examined the fallen man's wounds.
Her moderate powers of witchcraft came to the fore, for they
included diagnostic and healing arts. She tried to soothe Grogha,
who was conscious but in terrible pain, while she probed his
body.

Finally she sighed, got up, and went back to Joe, who asked
her, "How is he?"

"Beyond my powers," she responded sadly. "So is Macore,
although he's not nearly so bad off. Macore's got at least a
nasty concussion and a broken rib or two; Grogha's got bad
internal bleeding. I'm afraid a rib may have punctured a lung."

Joe thought frantically. "Wait a minute! Magic's gotten us
out of a number of scrapes. Don't they use it instead of doctors
here?"

She looked up at him, suddenly a little cheerier. "I'll ask
Dacaro," she said and jumped up on the horse. "Can you do
anything?"

"Perhaps," the adept replied. "Perhaps not. It will depend
on the nature of the injuries. But there is no good way for me
to treat them as it stands. It's not like spoon-feeding you a
spell. I will have to project myself inside each and effect what-
ever repairs, major and minor, are needed as I go." He paused
a moment, thinking hard. "There might be one way, though.
Do you trust me enough to let me take over your mind?"

The question startled her. "Can you do that? If so, why
should I object if you can help them?"

"Because if you consent and assist, I can. But consider—
I do not have to reverse it once it is done. You will have to
trust that I will do so."

She understood what he was saying now, but she looked at
the unconscious Macore and the limp form of Grogha, which,

210          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

even now, had only the most tenuous of threads to life, and
made her decision. "What do I do?"

"I'm certain Huspeth taught you the trance state. Clear your
mind. Make it as blank as possible. You will feel me enter—
but do not resist, for that will simply seal me off. Let it happen.

Understand?"

"I can do it. Let's hurry, though. I'm afraid we're already

too late."

"That is up to the gods," the adept responded fatalistically.

"Let us do what we can."

One of the archers was badly wounded but still alive. Joe
checked all the soldiers' bodies out, finding little or nothing
on them, and then went to the archer on whom his horse had
fallen. The horse itself was in bad shape, he could see, and
would probably have to be destroyed. Posti, at least, had come
through with nothing more than a bruise.

Like the others, the injured soldier was dressed in a silver-
trimmed black uniform of some kind, chain mail, and a partial
helmet, and was ruddy-faced and bearded. The man writhed
and groaned in agony, but stopped when Joe approached and
just stared with eyes blazing hatred at the man who'd done him

in.

"How many did the Baron send to the cave with you?" Joe

asked coldly.

"Barbarian!" the soldier gasped defiantly. "I die, but I tell
you nothing!"

"You die slowly, friend," Joe noted and looked up, then
back at him. "Already the buzzards and other scavengers are
gathering. You could last a long time here—picked alive by
beak and claw. It's a pretty unpleasant way to go."

"Do what you will," the man responded.

"I'll pull you out from that horse and give you swift release,"
Joe offered. "Swift release and burial from those that eat the
dead. I'm not asking for a betrayal. Only the answer to a couple

of questions."

The man seemed to think it over, and Joe knew he'd hit a
nerve. "What does it matter, anyway?" the soldier asked mostly
himself. "What questions?"

"How many in the Baron's party?"

"Thirty-six of his best fighters."

JACK L. CHALKER                211

Joe felt uncomfortable. If that was the truth, there were still
thirty like this man ahead.

"How far ahead are they?"

"More than half a day," the soldier told him. "They left at
dawn."

That, too, was disturbing—but if it was only a few miles
to the cave, why hadn't they returned by now? Joe wasn't sure
whether he should feel better or worse that they hadn't returned.
The fact that they hadn't meant they'd walked into some big
trouble—and they were thirty seasoned army men. As of now,
he had Marge, himself, and Houma in any shape to go on.

"One more question. They went up the main road here?"

The dying soldier nodded. "Yes. There really is no other
way."

That was enough. He looked down at the man and drew his
sword. "Too bad you're with the bad guys," he said softly,
"but you're a good soldier, a gallant fighter, and you die with
honor."

The man looked genuinely pleased and touched by that.
"Hold, barbarian, one moment. That sword is a magic one that
will slay me. Which great name does it bear?"

"Irving," Joe replied.

The man looked aghast. "Irving?" he repeated unbeliev-
ingly.

Irving came down and severed his head from his body at
that moment. Then Joe tried to get the body out from under
the horse, and almost made it, when he suddenly felt dizzy and
collapsed over the horse's torso.




CHAPTER 14

THE GENIE WITH THE LIGHT BROWN
HARE

All magic lamps, charms, etc., shall be guarded well.

—LXXX, 494, 361(b)

HE WAS ROLLING DOWN INTERSTATE 80, A BUXOM BLONDE AT HIS

side, a beer in his hand, and Merle Haggard on the tape deck
as the miles flashed by. It was a wonderful, satisfying life, and
it was good to be alive ...

"He's coming 'round!" a voice called out from somewhere,
somewhere far from 1-80 and the blonde and the beer.

"Clean towel!" another voice ordered, wrenching him far-
ther and farther away. Something was wrong, really wrong,
and even Merle Haggard was singing English madrigals in a
foreign tongue...

He opened his eyes and looked around. It took a minute or
so for him to remember where he was, and who these people
were, and the details of the day. He could see that it was dark
now, and there was a small fire in the wooded glade. He saw
Marge come to him with a towel soaked in hot water, bend
down, and wipe his face.

"Wh—what happened!" he managed, his voice sounding
like a croak.

"You had an arrow in you. Went almost through you, too.
You're very lucky, Joe. Dacaro says a one-inch difference and
you'd be dead now. As it is, the wound's already healing,
although you might feel it for a few days yet."

"Macore? Grogha?"

"Much worse off, I'm afraid. Macore will recover, but he'll
need a couple of days before he's up to riding. Grogha, how-
ever—he was real bad, Joe. His back is broken. I've given
him a potion that's knocked him out, but even the magic's no
good unless you know exactly what to do. Dacaro's a good
sorcerer, but he's no healer. He was able to repair your hole

212

213

JACK L. CHALKER

pretty well and fix up Macore's leg and ribs, but Grogha lost
a lot of blood, mostly internal, and he's too cracked up for
anybody but a specialist. The nearest specialist would be in
Kidim. I doubt if he could stand the ride."

Joe whistled, coming out of it now. "I don't know. Until
today it still was something like fun and games. That bartender,
it didn't seem real somehow, and none of the rest made much
difference. No matter what we did, no matter what scrape we
got into, we always got out of it. Now this." He suddenly grew
tense. "The rest of the Baron's men—any sign?"

She shook her head from side to side. "We've been watch-
ing. Nothing. Not a sign."

He sighed. "Well, keep a watch. But, somehow, I don't
think we have to worry about them. Just a feeling. Still—we'll
know soon enough." He pulled off the moist towel and brought
himself to a sitting position. It hurt like hell in his side when
he did, but it was bearable. "I'll be okay. Just whip me up
something to dull the pain a bit, give me the night, and I'll be
ready to ride tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! How can we possibly go tomorrow?"

"We have to," he told her. "For one thing, either those
nasties are going to come back, in which case we're dead if
we stay, or they aren't—in which case the reason why they
aren't is going to come sometime to see who else might be in
the neighborhood. We're too close to stay put. Besides—we
got a wishing lamp to get, huh? Maybe one of those wishes
can be used on Grogha."

She thought about it. "Yeah! You're right! It may be the
only way. But if thirty hardened soldiers couldn't do it..."

"We have no choice. And we have to know what's going
on in advance." He looked up. "That's almost a full moon up
there. Where's Houma?"

"By Grogha."

"Get him."

She did as instructed, and soon the lanky farmer and former
goat was by Joe's side. It was clear he'd been crying some,
and Joe didn't hold it against him at all.

"Houma, I'm sorry I got you both into this mess," he said
sincerely.

"Oh, hell, you didn't exactly torture us," the other replied.

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

214

"We did our share today, didn't we?" There was a certain pride

in his sad tone.

"You sure did. But you know we're going to lose Grogha
unless we get the Lamp."

Houma brightened. "Sure! The Lamp! I damn near forgot!
Then there's a chance!"

"A slim one," Joe said. "Look, not too far ahead, the road
reaches Starmount Plateau. It's a clear, moon-bright night, so
it should give a good view of where we're going. If these Xota
are fliers, and if the Baron's men were trapped by them in
daylight, chances are they're day folk themselves and will be
licking their own wounds tonight."

"I getcha," Houma said. "You want me to go up and find
out what we're up against."

Joe nodded. "This wound's pretty painful, but I think I can
live with it. I'd rather get a night's sleep, but if things look
good, I'm all for trying it tonight."

"Are you out of your mind?" Marge practically screamed
at him. "You're too banged up!"

But Houma was game. "I'll take Posti. That way, if anything
happens to me, he might be able to get back with the word."

"Good. But don't take any chances—and get back as soon
as you know anything."

With that, Houma was off. Marge sat down beside Joe and
shook her head in wonder. "I don't know what I'm going to
do with you. You're crazy."

He chuckled. "Well, you were the one who wanted adven-
ture, right? I'm going to keep going with my impulses. They've
been pretty good so far."

Marge looked over at the two motionless forms across the
fire. "Yeah. Real good."

"We're all still alive. That's more than anybody would have
figured at this point. This close to our goal, I don't want to
lose now." He sighed. "It's not a simple world any more,

though."

She looked at him strangely. "Yeah. You and those close

to you can die here."

"No, not even that. That soldier I talked to. He wasn't some
nasty, evil, menacing Baron or supernatural wart on the world.
He wasn't evil at all, I don't think. Just an honorable man
doing the job he was best at. That makes it a lot tougher, really.

JACK L. CHALKER

215

It's easy to fight and hate your enemies when you think of
them as some kind of supernatural monsters. I dunno. I just
figured the kind of folks that would ride with the Baron would
be more like, well, Nazis or something, at least. Now I find
out they're the same kind of folks we are."

Marge sighed and leaned back for a moment. "Yeah, I think
I know what you mean. This should be a kind of romantic
world—you know, knights, dragons, that sort of thing. But
it's a real place, not some fairy tale. It's a place where most
of the people are owned by feudal lords, where the garbage is
still tossed out the back window, and the same kind of people
still die for the wrong causes. Even the supernatural side isn't
all that glamorous, with these silly Rules and hung-up dragons
seeing psychiatrists. I wonder if maybe it's the price we pay
when and if our fantasies ever do become real?"

"These aren't my fantasies," he grumbled.

She smiled. "Are you sorry you came?"

He thought about it. "I'm not sure. Even now I'm not sure.
Ask me when this heals and this stuff is over and done with."
He paused a moment. "Where's your friend the unicorn, by
the way?"

"Gone. I don't know where. I'm not even sure just what he
is. Until recently, I thought of unicorns as just, well, pretty
animals. Now I'm not sure what they are. I'm not even sure
if whatever they are is good, frankly, or whether that's a
proper question. You see, there's a price I must pay for that.
It was much too busy here for me to pay it now, but Koriku
will remember the bill and collect. Oh, don't look so upset.
It's not that bad—but I'm not sure what it is, either. Don't
worry about it for now." She sighed. "I want to look at Macore
and Grogha. Then we all better get some rest—you in partic-
ular."

She left him there to ponder all that had been said, and he
managed to drift off to sleep without the aid of Marge's potions.

He was awakened gently about four hours later, in the dead
of night, by Houma. He was so glad to see the lanky man that
he didn't even grumble at being awakened.

"I got almost to the cave itself," Houma told Joe. "Had to
make the last part on foot, though, to keep close to the rocks.
Posti would have stuck out."

"Any sign of the Baron's forces?"




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THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER

217

Houma nodded grimly. "They're all over the place. It was
pretty ugly, Joe. Their bodies, and the bodies of their horses,
were spread out all over the flat about four miles up. Most of
'em were badly torn up, and a lot of the bodies of both the
men and the horses looked—gnawed, if you can believe it."
He shuddered. "It was the worst thing I've ever seen."

Joe sighed. "Did you count the bodies?"

The farmer nodded. "I think it's all thirty. Couldn't be
positive, since I didn't really want to go out there too far, and
there were some—things—working on a couple of me corpses."

"Xota?"

"Naw. Don't think so. Looked like animals. I didn't see
any signs of them Xota people."

Joe struggled to his feet. "That settles it, then." He got up,
staggered a bit, then winced and stretched. "I'll do." He looked
at the two sleeping forms. "Marge—you stay with them. Houma
and I are going to take a little trip."

She looked stubbornly at them. "Oh, no! Even if you manage
somehow to get by and in that cave, which I doubt, don't forget
there's some kind of monster in there. You need me, Joe.
Dacaro gave me a number of spells that may or may not do
any good, but I know enough to know that you shouldn't go
in there without me."

"But somebody's got to stay here with them," Joe pointed

out.

She nodded. "Houma will stay. He's done enough tonight."

Houma's expression was a cross between protest and relief.
Still, he said, "I can give a good fight."

"No, she's right," Joe told him. "This is as far as the Com-
pany can go for now, and you might have to protect them and
this camp. Marge and I will go. If we're not back by tomorrow
evening, though, don't come after us. Do what you can for
those two and get back. Ruddygore must know what happened
to both expeditions."

Houma sighed. "I guess you're right. If you ain't back by
this time tomorrow, poor Grogha will be dead, anyway, and I
guess me on Posti and Macore on Dacaro—tied down if need
be—could make it on the low road." He paused, then suddenly
leaned over, kissed Marge, and gripped Joe's hand hard. "You
two be careful. I already lost Grogha, I figure. I don't want to
lose you, too."

"Neither do I, my friend," Joe answered sincerely, then
looked around. "Where's Irving?"

The road went up through the pass, then down onto what
appeared to be a wide plain. They knew that this was Star-
mount, the great plateau at twenty-eight hundred feet that
stretched for almost seventeen miles westward into the interior
of High Pothique. It was aptly named, with a full view of the
sky and a great moon now far lower than it had been earlier
in the night, but still bright enough to see by. The cave was
supposed to be against the mountains to the right of the road,
and they turned their horses northwest to hug the rocky side
of Starmount.

In a short while they came upon the scene of an earlier
battle. It was much as Houma had said, but they did not try
to get close to see the grisly details. There were dark, four-
footed animal shapes out there, and some snarling could be
heard. Best to leave them alone, they decided.

And then, at last, they came upon the point where the moun-
tain wall became smooth and sheer. They dismounted and looked
across the way—a clear stretch of perhaps a quarter mile, with
no cover whatsoever, to a dark spot at the base of the mountain
wall.

"Right where it should be," he muttered, and she nodded.
"That moon's getting awful low. Shall we ride or leave the
horses here?"

"I think leave them," she told him. "I feel more confident
on that open flat on foot—and without cover, there's no point
to taking the horses, anyway."

"Speed," he pointed out.

"Yeah—and noise. They'll attract whoever killed those sol-
diers. And we'll have to tether them right outside the cave.
We couldn't advertise better."

"You convinced me," He sighed, thinking of his aching
side.

She thought of it, too, and handed him a gourd off her belt.
"Here. Drink this. It will deaden the pain a little and give you
some extra energy."

He took it gratefully, sipped it, almost spat it out, and said,
"Yuck! This is as foul as sewage water!"

"Most of 'em taste awful, but they work. Drink it down."




218

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

219

He held his nose and finally managed it, making a terrible
face afterward. But he had to admit that within two or three
minutes he felt far better, with less pain and less tiredness.
They gave a light tether to the horses, hoping it would keep
them there but allowing them to pull free and run if spooked.
There was nothing else they could do.

"Let's go—slowly and carefully—while we still have some
moon," he said, and they were off.

There was an eerie stillness about the whole place, one that
was more than a little unnerving, and they moved toward the
cave, weapons drawn, looking in all directions, expecting
something or someone to rise against them at any moment. But
nothing did, and after a suspense-filled fifteen minutes, they
were at the mouth of the cave itself.

Now that they were there, facing it, they could see that there
was light inside. Torches flickered, not right near the entrance,
but farther in, giving enough light for them to see but not to
betray the cave to any distant onlooker.

"Looks as if we were expected," Marge whispered.

"Or our monster is scared of the dark," Joe replied. "Well,
it's now or never."

She nodded. "I just wish somebody knew what this monster

was."

They entered, Joe first, and kept cautiously to the walls of
the cave. It was a narrow and winding entrance, but shortly it
opened up, until they were on the edge of a huge chamber,
perhaps half a mile across and almost that wide. It was here
the torches were set against a far wall. There was a huge altar,
and before it were stacked an enormous number of bodies of
black, winged creatures. They stared at the scene, and Marge
absently counted.

"There are more than fifty bodies there," she whispered to
loe. "No wonder the Xota are off licking their wounds some-
where. Those soldiers made them pay for the attack."

He nodded, looking at the altar itself. "That carved altar
there. See the larger shape carved around it? Remind you of

anything?"

She stared, then frowned. "A rabbit?"
"Yeah. A rabbit god. I'll be damned. Never heard of that

one before."
.. At that moment they heard a fierce, screaming noise, like

a beast in a terrible rage. There was no way to tell where it
came from—the echoes in the cavern masked any source. Both
of them tensed at the sound. 'The monster," Marge breathed.

Joe looked around what he could see of the cave. "Say!
Look—out there in the middle! Those are two of the soldiers'
bodies! Some did get this far!"

Marge stared at the two forms. "They look squashed flat."

"Yeah... squashed." He looked around once more. "Where
would you say they'd keep the Lamp?"

She shrugged. "The altar's the only place I can see that
looks used."

He nodded. "And that's where the two soldiers lie—be-
tween here and the altar. But what kind of monster could do
that? It looks as if they were swatted with a giant flyswatter."

Marge thought a minute. "Listen! You hear heavy breath-
ing?"

"My heart's too loud," he responded. But now that she
mentioned it, he did hear it. It sounded as if the whole cavern
were breathing. "Still can't put a handle on where it is. But
anything that big—we ought to be able to see it."

She sighed. "Maybe it's invisible. Well, I guess it's time
to use one of those spells. I want to see what we're up against
before going out there."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Dacaro figured we might be able to confuse a monster. If
this spell works as advertised, you and I are going to walk
across that cave in a couple of minutes—while we're both
here."

"Huh?"

"Just shut up and watch." She turned to the cave, put her
hands to her temples, and concentrated on the spell Dacaro had
made her memorize. It had been easy to get a number of such
spells while he'd been inside her head, and she had taken full
advantage of the opportunity. The only trouble was, of course,
that neither she nor Dacaro knew what spells would come in
handy in an unknown situation—they had to guess.

The air shimmered in front of her, and slowly the images
of two people faded in before them. As the images grew clearer,
Joe could see that they were taking on the shapes of him and
Marge.

In another minute the visions had solidified to the point




220

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER

221

where he could almost swear he was looking at himself and
Marge. The illusion was, in fact, uncannily real. She sighed,
looked up at them, and said, "Walk to the altar."

The two simulacra turned stiffly and started walking out
onto the cavern floor toward the two squashed soldiers. Marge
kept looking directly at them, which Joe understood was nec-
essary to preserve the illusion, but he was under no such com-
pulsion. He started looking around for the monster once more,
hoping that it could be fooled by this trick.

Suddenly there was a roaring sound, the same as they'd
heard before, followed by a sharp and sustained odd sound that
reminded Joe of nothing more than a giant's fart. And down
on the two replicas fell the great monster of the cave from its
hiding place above.

"My god! It's a giant bunny rabbit!" Joe said, amazed.

"It's the biggest damn Texas hare I've ever seen," she ad-
mitted. The thing was enormous—twenty feet high, not count-
ing the ears, and terribly muscular, the Mr. Hyde of hares. Its
face, too, was not the passive hare's face, but an ugly, contorted
version; its large, yellow eyes were burning with fierce hatred,
and its two great buckteeth were flanked by saber-toothed fangs:

Its giant legs struck the two replicas full, then did a dance
on top of them. Had they been real, it would have flattened
them for sure.

Marge wasted no more time keeping up the illusion, but
couldn't help staring at the rabbit, then up. "There are no ledges
up there for something that size," she noted. "Where did it
come from?"

The great hare god roared its conquest, then quieted and
glanced around. They ducked back for a moment into the cave
mouth and were certain they hadn't been seen. Joe peered out
again, just as the hare roared and screeched once more, looked
at the altar, roared at it, then did something that neither Joe
nor Marge expected.

Its great mouth opened, and it inhaled—and kept inhaling.
As it did, its great brown body seemed to fill up and stretch
like a balloon, until it was as big around as it was tall. And
with that, the enormous hare floated up the sixty feet or more
to the roof of the cave, becoming almost invisible in the dark-
ness, its brown hair blending with the weathered limestone.

"So that's it," Joe breathed. "This is crazy. How can it float
up there like a helium balloon on just plain old air?"

"Because it's not a normal monster," she responded. "It's
some sort of magical creature, a demon, perhaps, in the form
of a hare. I was taught that true demons have no form. Their
form is made for them by the ones who bring them into the
world, and can be almost anything. Somebody, long ago, de-
cided that the Xota people needed a god. Who knows? Perhaps
one of their most powerful magicians once tried to control a
demon, or accidentally let one in, and it took on the form of
the common hares that might be all over these parts. If it were
trapped here, this might be the result."

"That's all well and good, but how do we get this gasball
demon out of the way? Got any spells for that?"

She thought a moment, then looked up at the cave ceiling.
"I can see where it is now that I know what I'm looking for.
Hmmm... Well, disguising ourselves as Xota is out. I don't
know how to do that one." She unhooked her crossbow from
her belt and loaded a bolt. "But I think I can shoot it."

He whistled. "Man! If you miss—or if you only wound the
thing—it will go nuts."

She nodded. "Don't I know it. But that's a chance we have
to take. I'm pretty sure it's too big to get at us in here."

"Yeah—but it's loud enough maybe to bring the neighbors
at our backs," he responded nervously. "Still, I don't have any
better idea." He stopped a moment, thinking furiously. "Or do
I?"

She turned to him. "Got something?"
' "I doubt if an ordinary bolt would do it," he told her. "But
if we could shoot Irving..."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Yes. I think I could jury-
rig it so that we could shoot the sword. But it would be terribly
unbalanced, and so heavy it might not make the distance."

"I can always call it back to me," he assured her, then caught
her frown. "What's wrong?"

"Joe—I can't touch that sword. You know that."

"That's all right. I've had training with the crossbow. Have
I ever! Hand it to me—hey! Uncock it first! Yeah. There.
Now—stand back."

He drew the sword and tried loading it in the simple cross-
bow. He failed several times, and Marge felt frustrated that




222

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

223

she dared not reach out and show him how to adjust it; but
finally, with her coaching, he managed to load it and cock it.
Still, it looked ridiculous and unwieldy. "I don't think it's going
to work," Marge said worriedly. "The bow just wasn't designed
for this."

"All it has to do is give Irv a boost," Joe assured her con-
fidently. "This sword has a mind of its own. It won't fail." /
hope, he added mentally. "Irving, speed true to your target and
puncture it."

The sword seemed to glow slightly and hummed in response.
Joe took a deep breath. "Well, here goes."

He stepped out into the cavern, looked up, spotted the quiv-
ering ball above, and took aim. "Hey! Gasball! Come and get
it!" he yelled.

The hare god roared and started its drop. At that moment
Joe lifted the bow and shot the sword right at the descending
mass. The sword flew from the crossbow and, as Joe had said,
seemed to take on a life of its own, flying straight and true. It
was helped by the fact that the hare god was descending toward
it, and the sword struck and penetrated the flesh of the horrible
creature.

There was a loud bang, like a cannon shot, that almost broke
their eardrums, and they yelled in pain. Joe was sure he was
deaf. All around the cavern, however, bits and chunks of flesh
fell in a grisly rain.

Ears still numb and ringing, Joe stepped into the cavern
again, shouted, "Irving! To me!" and held out his hand.

From somewhere far across the cavern, the great sword
hummed and flew like iron to magnet right into his hand.

Their sense of hearing returned slowly. "It burst like a bal-
loon!" Marge laughed.

He nodded and grinned. "Yeah. That's all it really was. A
big bag of air. Come on. That noise is bound to bring somebody
curious. Let's get to the altar." They made it on the run.

The bodies of the gargoylelike Xota were grisly even without
their gaping wounds and injuries, and they smelled as all de-
composing flesh did, but Marge and Joe went around the large
bier of dead to the stone hare itself, carved into the solid rock.
Behind the bier were a lot of things, many of which looked
quite valuable, but it was on the stone hare's "lap" that they
saw what had to be what they sought.

"It looks just like Aladdin's Lamp in the old fairy tales,"
Marge noted. She bent over and picked it up. "I wonder if it
currently has a genie? And, if so, how you get him—or her?"
"Rub it—right?" Joe suggested, remembering the stories.
"Yeah. Here. Let's see." She rubbed the Lamp—and, al-
most immediately, from the spout flowed an ethereal shape
that took form as a young man dressed in odd, baggy clothes.
He looked around and smiled.

"Well, I'll be damned! Somebody finally got it!" he ex-
claimed.

"You're the slave of the Lamp?" Marge asked. "This is the
Lamp of Lakash?"

"Yes and yes," the man responded.
"And who are you?"

"I am Sugasto," he told her. "If that means anything to you
after so long a time."

"Sugasto! Ruddygore's adept!" Marge cried. "So you didn't
die!"

He sighed. "Hardly. I made a very stupid wish on it for
power and wealth—and wound up having to travel to High
Pothique to claim both. I got cornered by the Xota. They killed
my horse, my companions, and their horses as well—it was
pretty absolute—and they had me totally trapped. There was
only one thing I could do, and that was to use the Lamp again.
I wished that I would be safe from harm from the Xota—and
got my wish, as you see. As the slave of the Lamp, I can not
be harmed, because I'm basically a spirit, not solid at all. I
just look that way. The second wish made me the genie, freeing
a most unpleasant old woman who was immediately torn apart
by the Xota. Of course, since they saw the old bag emerge
from the Lamp and me flow into it, they knew it was magic—
and so they brought it to their all-too-real god. I've been stuck
in this damned hole ever since."

Marge thought a moment. "You've got to do whatever the
possessor says, right?"

He nodded. "That's about it. Not much I can do, though,
being a spirit."

"And I'm the possessor?"

"As of now. I can not tell a lie or fail to answer a question-
to you."




224

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

JACK L. CHALKER

225

She hooked the Lamp on her belt. "Well, come on, then.
We have to get out of here—and fast."

"I go where the Lamp goes," Sugasto noted. "I have no
choice."

They made their way across the cavern floor once more and
around the narrow, winding entrance until they reached the
cave mouth.

"Uh-oh. It's gotten to be daylight," Joe muttered. "That's
bad. Even if the Xota didn't hear all that commotion, they're
probably back now."

Marge turned to Sugasto. "How about it? Can you recon-
noiter for us?"

"I can."

"Okay, do it. That's not a wish, now. Just an order."

"That's the way you play the game," he agreed and sped
from the cave mouth out into the early morning. It didn't take
him long to return.

"Well?" Marge demanded.

"You've got troubles," He sighed. "Half the Xota nation's
out there right now. There are forty or fifty directly above the
cave, ready to pounce on whoever comes out, and maybe six
or seven hundred staked out along the two miles from here to
the road."

She thought a moment. "We couldn't wish both of us back
to our camp, could we?"

"You could," the genie replied, "if your camp's not more
than forty or fifty miles from here. I can check. It would have
to be within my range from the Lamp."

"It's at the trail junction outside the Gate," she told him.

"Go."

In a flash he was off once more, and back within twenty or
thirty seconds. "Yes, you can transport out. But as much as I
would like you to overwish and free me, I don't want to suffer
the fate of my predecessor—particularly not now that I'm out.
You've got a small army of black and silver uniforms not ten
miles farther on. Maybe a hundred pretty tough-looking sol-
diers. If you transport out, you'll be a sandwich between the
Xota and the soldiers—who, I assume, are not your friends,
considering the dead bodies around here."

"You're right about that," Joe agreed. "We'll fill you in on
the political news later, though. Hmmm... What about sor-

eery? Anything we can do to trick those people conventionally?
You were supposed to be an adept of some kind."

"I was pretty good," Sugasto huffed with pride. "But I'm
way out of practice, and in this form I can't do anything,
anyway."

"I can carry out your spells," Marge told him.
He looked surprised. "Can you, indeed?" He thought a mo-
ment. "Still and all, this isn't exactly a situation I can spell us

out of. If I could, I wouldn't be here in the first place."
He had a point there. "That means the Lamp or nothing,"

Marge said, thinking furiously. "But I'll have to get the wish

exactly right."

"And fast," Joe noted. "They won't wait all day without
coming in to see if we got smashed by their god." He had to
chuckle. "Wonder what they're gonna do for a religion when
they find we popped him?"

"Quiet! I'm trying to think!" she snapped. She looked back
up at the genie. "I don't suppose they left us our horses."

"Breakfast, I think," Sugasto replied ruefully. "Sorry."

She sighed. "Well, so much for that. Hmmm... Wait a
minute. How compound can this wish be?"

"Not too much," Sugasto told her. "One magical event,
that's it. You can't wish yourself invincible, immortal, and
rich all at the same time."

"All right. But could I wish for a single solution to the
problem of both armed forces?"

Sugasto thought that one over. "Maybe. Depends on how
you put it."

"I think I've got it. If not—Joe, it will be your turn."

"Go ahead," he invited. "I'm a little uncomfortable around
that thing."

She held the Lamp tightly in both hands. "I wish that our
entire Company would be rescued from all our enemies this
day by a powerful force friendly to us."

"Done!" Sugasto shouted.

Outside, there was a sudden, tremendous roaring sound.




JACK L. CHALKER

227

CHAPTER 15

FROM THE JAWS OF VICTORY

Companies must break up before an objective can be truly secured.
—XXXIV, 319, 251(b)

JOE HAD NO PARTICULAR TRUST IN WISHING LAMPS, BUT HE

had to see what was going on out there regardless. Sword held
at the ready, he approached the cave mouth from where he
could see the plains of Starmount clearly. Marge came close

behind him.

Just then a huge, dark shadow flew over the cave, and they
heard another mighty roar and felt the heat of great flames not
far away. Joe jumped back a bit. "Jeez! Did we get the Marines

with napalm?" he wondered.

"No! We got Vercertorix!" Marge replied, pointing. Joe

crept again to the cave mouth as a number of flaming bodies
fell from atop the cave to the area just in front of them. Off
in the distance, they saw the great form of the enormous dragon,
wings spread, looking both noble and magnificent as it made
pass after pass at the cave walls, occasionally bumping rock
and starting landslides, but more often barbecueing the Xota
with tremendous blasts of flame from its great mouth.

Some of the Xota, who were flying creatures themselves,
took to the air and managed to get into a reasonable attack
formation after the dragon had passed. Bows and spears at the
ready, the Xota, perhaps fifty or sixty of them, waited almost
suspended in midair for the great beast to turn once more and
come swooping back in. The flying force could hardly hide
themselves from the dragon, but they stood their ground and
waited until they could almost feel the dragon's breath before

letting loose their weapons.

"The little bastards have guts, I'll give 'em that," Joe mut-
tered, fascinated. "It's like pygmies against an armored tank."

For a moment it almost seemed as if Vercertorix were going
to fly directly into the formation, but at the last minute he

226

pulled up and beat several times with his massive wings. The
Xota tried to get off their arrows and throw their spears, but
the downdraft the dragon caused was so tremendous that their
formation was suddenly broken, sending them tumbling. Ver-
certorix, who'd expected that and planned it, did a magnificent
loop-the-loop in the air and came back again on the same tack,
now letting loose his flaming breath at the broken Xota for-
mation. It was no contest, and more small bodies f&il burning
from the sky.

"How can something that huge fly that gracefully?" Marge
asked, awestruck.

Joe was more pragmatic. "I couldn't care less—just so long
as the Xota don't have a fair maiden to drag in front of him."

The dragon made one more sweep of the terrain, scattering
the last of the Xota and making sure that no major force re-
mained, then came in for a pinpoint landing near the cave.

"Hey! My friends! Are you still alive in there?" they heard
a familiar voice call to them. "If so, come out by all means!"

Even Sugasto was impressed. "There's somebody riding that
thing!"

"Algongua!" Marge cried. "It's the Doc, Joe!" She was
ready to run to him, but Joe put out a hand and restrained her.

"Hey, Doc!" he called. "Won't Marge cause—problems?"

"I think not!" the hairy man called back. "Come and see!"

That was all they needed, and out they came. The dragon
glanced over at them as they emerged, and looked a little
dubiously at the woman but did not flee or yell.

"It worked! It worked!" Algongua exulted.

They came up beside the dragon and regarded the hairy man
on its back. "What worked. Doc?" Joe asked.

"Therapy! We owe it all to you two, really. After six weeks
of my treating him, it took only one look at the lovely lady
here to cause a complete relapse. I was angry at the time,
remember, but the more I thought about it, the more I was sure
I'd been on the wrong track. You see, his fear stemmed from
an encounter a few months ago with a powerful sorceress—
young and beautiful-looking, too. She caused him some great
pain, and that set up his problem. It really wasn't a tear of fair
maidens at all—that was just a symptom. It was a loss of self-
confidence! So, I reasoned, if I went with him and we eased




228          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

into a battle, with me shouting encouragement and sharing the
risk, it might restore him. And see? It worked!"

"Snarfle," the dragon agreed, nodding.

Marge frowned. "But now I am confused. Did my wish
cause this to happen—or would it have happened, anyway, in

which case I wasted it?"

"The Lamp is like that," Sugasto told her. "It's always a
little perverse if it gets the chance. My guess is that reality was
subtly altered with minimum—perhaps no—damage by your
wish, which made this rescue possible, even inevitable. But
we'll never really know."

Joe was more concerned with the reality of the dragon and
the hairy scientist. "I thought you were the hermit, beyond

battles and such."

Doc shrugged. "Maybe that's been my problem. I can di-
vorce myself from the miserable world, but I can't divorce my
patients and studies from it. Oh, well, it was fun, anyway."

"Marumph!" Vercertorix agreed.

Marge snapped her fingers. "I'd almost forgotten! This is
only half the battle. A company of the Dark Baron's soldiers
is almost to our camp now. Poor Houma's there with two very
injured men!" She looked up at Algongua. "Can you stop them,

too?"

The scientist thought a moment. "How about it, Vercertorix?
Want to try some soldiers? The ones we saw on the way in?"

"Grausch!" the dragon responded, nodding slightly.

"All right. Why don't you three hop on—I think you can
hang on here—and we'll drop you at your camp. Then we'll
take care of those soldiers."

Marge turned to Sugasto. "Why not get back in the Lamp
until we reach the camp?"

"Whatever you say," he responded, sounding a little re-
gretful—and flowed back into the Lamp on her belt.

Algongua was fascinated. "A real genie! How about that!
So that's what the old boy sent you for!"

"We'll talk later," Joe told him. "Give you the whole story.
Let's get those soldiers first."

They linked up, Marge grabbing Algongua and Joe grabbing

229

JACK L. CHALKER

Marge. It was pretty nerve-racking when the dragon began to
move and spread its massive wings, and even worse when the
great head suddenly came up and they lifted, but in a matter
of no more than two minutes they were level and headed at
great speed toward Stannount Gateway.

In another minute, no more, the dragon reached the Gate-
way, circled once, and landed just down the trail from the
junction camp. Joe and Marge wasted no time jumping off and
getting away from the great beast, and Doc waited only long
enough to assure Vercertorix clearance before taking off once
again. Joe and Marge had to brace themselves to keep from
being blown over by the backwash, but the dragon was soon
up and out of sight.

They were less than half a mile from the camp and reached
it quickly. Houma was both astonished and overjoyed to see
them, and they were pleasantly surprised to find Macore sitting
on a rock, smiling and waving to them.

"It will take more than a cracked skull to get me," the little
thief told them. "Now if it had been any place other than my
head.. ."

Marge was bubbling over to tell Houma and Macore about
their adventures and reassure them about the dragon, and she
was halfway through before she suddenly stopped and said,
alarmed, "How's Grogha?"

Both the others' faces fell. "He's gone, lady," Houma said
sadly.

"It was all for the best. He was in such great pain..."

She got up and walked over to the other side of the camp,
where Grogha's body had been carefully wrapped in his bedroll,
and looked down at it. Tears welled up in her big eyes, not
only for Grogha but also for her failure to remember him right
from the start. Most of all, she was frustrated by the fact that
she had the Lamp, but too late, too late...

"Damn!" she swore aloud. "I wish we'd been in time to
save him!"

Suddenly she heard Sugasto cry exuberantly, "I'm free!"
Then things happened too fast and too confusedly to be sorted
out properly.

There was a blurring, a dizziness that overtook not only
Marge but each of them, and then they were all there again,
in the same places—but Grogha was no longer dead and




230

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

JACK L. CHALKER

231

wrapped, but lying there pretty much as they had left him,
moaning and groaning in pain.

The Lamp fell from Marge's belt as if the loop had broken.
She bent down, still confused, to pick it up and found that her
hand went right through it. "What's happening?" she cried, in
something of a panic.

A very solid Sugasto stood near her. "You made a second
wish and it was granted," he told her. "Now you've paid the
price for it. You are the slave of the Lamp."

Joe was over checking the supplies and, except for the slight
dizziness, which he put down to lack of sleep, didn't seem
aware that anything was wrong. Houma and Macore, however,
had seen it and, while confused, went over to her and to the
stranger now suddenly in their midst.

Sugasto pointed to the Lamp. "If you want to save your
friend, pick up that Lamp, one of you, and wish him whole
and healthy once more. I'd do it quickly—he won't last long,
And since I can't use it or touch it ever again, it's only fitting
that the lady's sacrifice not be in vain."

There was a greedy gleam in Macore's eyes as he realized
what the Lamp was, but it was Houma who picked it up first,
held it, turned to Grogha, and said, rubbing the Lamp, "I wish
Grogha was whole and well, healed of all ailments and afflic-
tions."

The bloody, broken body of Grogha shimmered, then so-
lidified, and all traces of the illness, loss of blood, wounds,
and lacerations were gone. He opened his eyes, looked con-
fused, saw them all, shook his head, and said, "I—I had the
most horrible dream..."

Houma was so pleased and excited that he dropped the Lamp
and rushed to embrace Grogha, tears of joy in his eyes.

Seeing his opening, Macore grabbed up the Lamp, smiled,
then turned to Marge. "Inside the Lamp until I call you out!"

he commanded.

Suddenly she felt a tremendous force drawing her, like a
vacuum cleaner, into the Lamp's mouth. It was a strange, eerie
sensation, and the limbo in which she found herself was neither
dark nor light, but an odd, formless land that went on and on.
She could hear no sounds at all. No—wait. There was some-
thing. A voice. Macore's. He was talking to somebody—but
she could not hear any response, none at all. She was attuned

to his voice and his voice only. But something was happening
to her...

Forms, concepts, and a great deal of information poured
into her mind from out of nowhere, almost as if they had been
there all along, but unknown and untapped until now. She knew
everything there was to know about the Lamp of Lakash, its
powers and limitations, and her own nature, bonds, and powers.
She also suddenly knew the plane of existence she was now
on and understood that it was not empty at all...

Macore stared suspiciously at Sugasto. "You were the ge-
nie?"

"But no more," The Adept replied. "Nevermore. After a
thousand years!" He sighed. "It's good to be alive once more,
particularly with the new knowledge I' ve gained from the Lamp."

Macore looked crafty and thoughtful. "She was telling us
before that wish that you were the guy who stole it in the first
place. That true?"

Sugasto shrugged and bowed.

"You're some kind of adept, right?"

"Something like that," Sugasto agreed.

"Well, we're workin' for the guy you took it from. If you
don't fancy meetin' up with him again, you better use what
powers you got to get that guy Joe and these two off your
back."

The Adept thought about it. "And off yours?"
Macore grinned. At that moment Joe finished checking the
supplies and walked back to them, looking confused. He didn't
think Sugasto's appearance was unusual, since he didn't think
of him as flesh and blood, but he glanced around. "Where's
Marge?"

Sugasto smiled and made a few signs in the air in Joe's

direction. Joe suddenly froze, then looked even more confused.

"I forgot my train of thought! Damn!"

"You asked about Marge," Sugasto reminded him.

The big man frowned. "Marge? Who's that?"

"Nobody important," the adept responded smoothly, then

turned and made the identical gestures in the direction of Houma

and Grogha, who hardly noticed. "Why don't you see about

Grogha?"




232

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

JACK L. CHALKER

233

Joe nodded. "Yeah. Good idea." He walked over and bent
down beside Grogha.

Macore looked impressed. "That's some trick."

"A simple one. It won't last long, you know. When the
dragon returns, Vercertorix and Algongua will know, and it
would take a lot more work to make them forget. The dragon
is only here because of her—and so their return will precipitate
a return of memory."

"But that could be any minute!" Macore protested. "Some

trick!"

"There are other tricks," Sugasto bragged.

"Yes, there are," Macore agreed, touching the Lamp. He
suddenly became stiff and glassy-eyed. "I wish Sugasto and
Dacaro would exchange bodies, curses, and geases, and that
Sugasto would then be subject to and obedient to Dacaro in all

matters."

Nothing seemed to happen at all, but Sugasto's look of
astonishment suddenly changed into a broad grin. He flexed
his arms for a moment, then reached out and took the Lamp
from the still-stiffened Macore. "Thank you, Macore," he said,
his voice and inflection subtly altered. "I knew I could count
on your greed to get this Lamp sooner or later."

He turned to the three men now excitedly talking to one
another, oblivious of the little drama that had just taken place,
bowed his head, and concentrated for a moment. Grogha, who
was just getting to his feet, slumped down again, and Joe and
Houma fell into a heap on top of him, unconscious. The adept
then turned back to Macore, pointed to the ground, and snapped
his fingers, and Macore, too, collapsed.

Feeling satisfied, he walked over to the two remaining horses,
the gray spotted Posti and the black stallion that was Dacaro,
but who now looked at him with frightened and puzzled eyes.
He carefully saddled Dacaro, then placed the Lamp in the
saddlebag, got up on the horse, and turned to Posti, who stared

back at him.

"Don't look so shocked, Posti, old friend. You can explain
it all to them when they come to, which won't be very long
from now. But tell them not to look for me. Warn them. I wish
none of them harm, for they are good people, but I will do
whatever I have to to protect myself—and I am now very
powerful."

"Who are you?" the gray horse challenged. "And who's
now inside Dacaro?"

The man sighed. "You never were too bright, were you?
While in the mind of Marge to heal Macore, I was able to cast
spells—and I cast one on Macore, certain that the opportunistic
little thief wouldn't rest until he'd gotten his hands on the Lamp.
I triggered it, and dictated his wish, from my own mind. I'm
your old friend Dacaro, Posti, and I have no intention of letting
that bastard Ruddygore keep me a horse." With that he reined
around, then urged the horse forward, riding off on the upper
trail.

Posti was still confused, and tried to sort it out in his mind.
For a moment he considered chase, but realized that, alone,
the way he was, he had little chance of it. He remembered that
upper trail, though. There was no way off until almost to Kidim.
Dacaro might think he was smart, but he was trapped.

Joe, Grogha, and Houma came out of it rather quickly, as
did Macore. Of them all, only Macore realized what had been
done, and he was none too anxious to tell anybody about it.

Doc Algongua had brought them around when he returned
and found them out. He was no slouch on practical magic,
either, it seemed. Sorting it out, even with Posti's help, wasn't
quite so easy.

"So Dacaro planned all along to steal the Lamp," Joe said,
shaking his head. "Ruddygore never did trust him. But Marge
did—more and more. We needed his knowledge. And all he
did was lead us on until he had what he wanted. But—where
will he go now?"

Algongua thought a moment. "Not back to Ruddygore, that's
for sure. You remember he added that bit about transferring
geasesT'

They all nodded.

"That means he's freed from any obligation to get that Lamp
back to Ruddygore. Sugasto—the real one—now has the geas,
much to his discomfort, probably, but he's totally subject to
Dacaro's orders. I would say that Dacaro has no intention of
using his wish any time soon, and he's got enough power and
self-control not to waste it. That means he's got some greater
game in mind."

Joe thought a minute. "Marge said the whole thing between




234

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS JACK L. CHALKER

235

him and Ruddygore was over his trying to smuggle a gun into
this world." Briefly he explained what a gun was, and Algongua
seemed to get the general idea. "That means either he's going
to use his wish to open up the route between my old world and
this one to him, or he's going to the Dark Baron."

"Probably both," Doc replied. "He can't ally himself with
Ruddygore or with anybody who's a friend of Ruddygore's.
Any member of the Council he might turn to would demand
the Lamp and would then have him. That leaves the Baron.
He's got a lot to offer. His own considerable powers, the Lamp,
and the way to the other world, a world he knows and has been

to."

"Poor Marge," Joe sighed. "Trapped in that Lamp as a genie.
Slave to his wishes." As Sugasto had predicted, memory had
returned with the dragon's arrival.

"Well, she can't help us—or herself," Doc noted. "Looks
as if I'm going to be involved more than I figured. Vercertorix
and I will go the length of the upper trail and see if we can
pick them up. His powers will be few against a true dragon."

They all brightened. "Yeah! He wouldn't have figured on
the dragon! He thinks he's left us here with one horse!"

"Well, he's got several surprises," Algongua told them.
"First of all, you ought to be able to pick up a soldier's horse
or two or three not too far down from here. We finished them,
but a number of horses escaped unharmed." He sighed. "I'm
afraid I may have made another mistake about Vercertorix.
Now that he's had two battles, he wants more. It's like eating
peanuts—he just doesn't want to stop. I'm afraid he wants to
get into the war itself now."

They searched what they believed to be every inch of the
upper trail, and the lower one, too, but found no trace of the
elusive Dacaro. He was incredibly powerful in the magical
arts, that was clear—so much so that Ruddygore had not trusted
him with the human form to operate his skills. Now he was
joined with an adept of additional great powers subject to his
command—Sugasto, in the body of the horse, whose skills
and knowledge could be called upon when needed, as Marge

had used Dacaro.

About the only solace Joe took from any of it was that
Sugasto had thought he'd been freed and now he was captive

and slave once more. He certainly deserved it, as much as
Dacaro did, but there was little real comfort in that knowledge.
Marge was still captive, and Dacaro had all the high cards in
his favor.

After getting Vercertorix to scare a few of the runaway
horses toward them, Joe bade Algongua fly to Terindell with
the news, taking Macore with him. What was left of the Com-
pany would return by trail and, hopefully, pick up Dacaro's
tracks somewhere.

For Dacaro's part, the spells of concealment and invisibility
had been simplicity itself. He was confident that, while they
might follow him, even chase him, he was more than a match
for the lot of them. His only fear was that Ruddygore would
get personally involved.

The first night, he rubbed the Lamp and brought forth Marge,
mostly to have conversation with somebody other than the
seething Sugasto. He saw, somewhat to his surprise, that she
had changed more physically. She was somehow less human-
looking, more exotic than ever; her complexion was becoming
a light brown, and the webbing between her fingers and toes
was nearly complete. Her nails, too, were becoming harder,
thicker, more animallike, and sharp. All of which meant noth-
ing as long as she was in spirit form, unable physically to
manipulate any material thing in the real world, but it fascinated
him nonetheless that the process continued even in this state.

She was, of course, by no means very happy with him, and
he finally got tired of her cracks and ordered her to speak only
when spoken to. Ever obedient as required, she shut up, but
couldn't disguise her contempt for him regardless.

"Sugasto tells me that those of the Lamp don't live inside
it, but rather on a different plane," he said. "Is that true?"

"It is," she told him. "The land of the djinn. It is fasci-
nating."

"Tell me about it. Describe it."

"What you ask is not possible. There aren't any words for
it. The frame of reference is different. It's like trying to describe
our three-dimensional universe to a one-dimensional being. It
took me a while just to be able to perceive it myself. Even
now, I'm not sure what it is or what I'm perceiving, and I
certainly have no way of describing it. There is no way to relate
it to anything we know or experience."




236          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"So even the command of the master of the Lamp has limits,"
he muttered. "You can't tell about what you have no frame of
reference to relate to. Still, there is intelligence there—and

knowledge?"

She nodded. "Vast knowledge. Since the realm has no phys-
ical existence at all, as we know it, it is a realm of pure magic.
But the Lords of the Djinn impart little they don't wish to

impart."

"The Lords of the Djinn..." he repeated thoughtfully. "I

wonder. I have heard of their realm and of them, but I had no
idea that the Lamp was a gateway to it. In the end, the entire
Council studied there before becoming the most powerful. Yet
I find Sugasto's added knowledge from that realm to be mostly

petty or useless. Is it so with you?"

"It's not much," she admitted. "They are mostly concerned
with my triple nature—from another universe and a change-
ling. Still, I find my mind much clearer on magical principles
and procedures, and my understanding of spells and incanta-
tions is far greater, even for the short time I've been there. It's
like learning a foreign language, I think. The best way to leam
one is total immersion—going into an environment in which
only that language you wish to leam is spoken. Substitute magic
for language and you get the idea. When magic is everything,
learning is easier—and you leam or you go nuts."

He nodded. "Do they have a sense of what is going on
here?" he asked her. "The battle between the Dark Baron and

the rest?"

"They know of the battles between the greater forces. Heaven

and Hell, and that's all that concerns them. They take no sides
because they feel no threat from either side. Nor will they
deliberately help, hurt, or in any way interfere with events
here. That's in the laws of magic they obey."

He shook his head in satisfaction. "That's good enough for
me. I would like to go there sometime and see and learn for
myself. But, as of now, I know of only one way to do that—
and I am not willing to make that kind of sacrifice. There is
another way later. Perhaps the Baron will complete my training
to the point where I can go on my own."

He ordered her back into the Lamp and got some sleep.
Even a man with Dacaro's considerable powers was still a
physical and mortal being. As such, he required the same three

JACK L. CHALKER

237

days back that he'd needed getting to the Gateway, and he
also required food, shelter, and rest. He risked Kidim because
he had to, but used a spell to alter his features subtly so that
they might not betray him to later inquisitors.

Kidim, however, was more crowded than usual, he found.
More of the black-liveried soldiers were about, mostly relaxing
as they waited for the rest of their parties to return from Star-
mount, still ignorant that those parties would never return.

After a day or so in the town, he had a good idea of who
was who among the Baron's forces, and had overheard a hundred
conversations. He was satisfied and confident enough to ap-
proach an officer of the rear guard.

"I'm an adept, formerly with Ruddygore," he told the man,
a Captain Thymir. "We have had a falling-out. In the meantime,
I have acquired something that your master wishes very much."

The captain was distrustful. "How do we know you're not
a spy or double agent?"

Dacaro chuckled and, in the privacy of his room, showed
the captain the Lamp and brought forth its increasingly exotic
and beautiful genie. The captain was convinced and very im-
pressed, but discovered quickly that Dacaro was no pushover.
If the Lamp were to be taken from the adept, it would have to
be by one far more powerful in sorcery than Dacaro himself.

"All right," the captain said, after being forced within a
hairbreadth of spitting himself on his own sword, "what is it
you wish?"

"Safe and rapid passage from here to your lines," Dacaro
told him. "After that, as soon as practical, an audience with
the Baron himself."

The captain thought a moment. "All right. I think it can be
arranged. We'll take one of the boats downriver tomorrow. All
I can promise, though, is to get you to somebody higher up.
I've never even seen the Baron myself, so I haven't the slightest
idea of how to go any further."

Dacaro nodded. "That is satisfactory. But I remind you of
my own powers. Any attempt on me will bring a most un-
pleasant slow death. Do you understand me?"

The captain looked at his sword, on which he was so recently
almost impaled against his will, and shivered. "Don't worry.
As much as we want that Lamp—who wouldn't?—I'm not

238

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

239

about to go after it. But I'd suggest you keep it hidden. I'll
tell no one else until I report to my superiors, understand?"
"Agreed," Dacaro said. "Oh—my horse must go along.

Can you manage that?"

"If you speak the truth about our men, I can," the captain
responded. "The way you tell it, we won't have nearly so many
goin' back."

A day before Joe and the remaining Company reached Kidim
by the lower road, Vercertorix returned—but the rider was not

Algongua.

"Poquah!" Joe shouted. "Are we glad to see youF
The impassive Imir looked his usual grim self. "Had we
time, it should have been and would have been the Master
himself. But there is a great battle shaping up, perhaps only
days away, possibly only hours. If he were here tracking down
the traitor, he would get satisfaction, and probably the Lamp,
but it might cost the war."

"You'll do," Joe told him. "Where do we start?"
"First I'm sending Vercertorix back to Dr. Algongua, who
is still at Terindell," the Imir said. "Although I have never
heard of a dragon of Husaquahr taking part in the wars of men
and fairy folk before, this one seems most eager, and we are
happy to get him. Then we four will go into Kidim. It is certain
that our man stopped there, although probably in good disguise.
I think I can penetrate it, even if he has already flown."

Their return to the town was hardly welcome news to the
townspeople, but was final confirmation to the soldiers, too,
that what Dacaro had told their captain had been correct. They
were too far from their forces to cause trouble in Kidim now,
though, and so they made preparations to leave and return.
They, too, had gotten word of an impending battle.

Joe, Grogha, and Houma let the Imir do all the detective
work. It was magic they needed to penetrate, and magic was
Poquah's game. It didn't take him long, either. They were
never certain of his methods, but he was most thorough and

positive.

"Dacaro is here, and he and the horse are on one of the
transports in the lake below," Poquah told them.

Joe jumped up and grabbed his sword hilt. "Well, let's get
down and find him then!"

Poquah sighed. "Your heart and spirit are commendable,
but your common sense is addled. There are still seventy of
the enemy against us four. Dacaro, being of mortal stock, also
has the edge in any magical confrontation with me, our relative
powers being equal. And he has the Lamp, against which even
the Master might have problems if the wish were suitably nasty
and well phrased, as it would be. I know this Dacaro. He is a
terribly dangerous man, all the more so for being sincere. He
believes the modernization of Husaquahr is a cause, a way to
lift the people into a better life. As a result, he sees himself
as the good side in this contest and is willing to go to any
lengths to achieve his goal. In this he is much like the Baron,
who is also self-deluded yet quite sincere."

"I like things simple. You're complicatin' everything up too
much," Houma grumbled. "The bastard's an evil traitor. If I
get the chance, I'm gonna cut his throat."

"Me, too," Grogha added.

The Imir shrugged. "Have it your own way. I agree he must
die. But don't confuse what I say with what must be done. He
is evil, and he flees to an evil master, but no evil leader ever
thinks he is evil. The subtleness of Hell in this world or any
other is that it is always built on good intentions. That is why
it is so pervasive."

Joe understood him, but the other two remained uncon-
vinced. "Still," the big man asked, "if we can't go after him
now, what can we do?"

"We must take him when he is least prepared," the Imir
responded. "Therefore, we must first find out on what boat he
sails, and follow that boat and its occupants. If we have no
opportunity before to get at him, we must continue to follow
him—all the way to the Dark Baron himself, if need be." He
looked at Houma and Grogha. "But not all of us. The two of
you—with Posti—should join our forces. This is not a job for
all of us—our chance of discovery and betrayal is too great."

Both men protested vigorously, but Poquah was adamant,
and they accepted his decision with a lot of grumbling. The
Company had been dissolved. Now Joe and Poquah must go
with the enemy to catch a powerful fish.




JACK L. CHALKER

241

CHAPTER 16

THE DARK BARON

Those aligned with evil may cheat, but must always leave an open-
ing, however tenuous, for the virtuous.

—II, 112

POQUAH'S MAGIC MADE THE SOLUTION TO THEIR PROBLEM OB-

vious. Knowing that a force of this size probably would have
been put together only for this mission, and thus not everybody
would know everybody, the Imir cast a spell on both him and
Joe so that they appeared to be common soldiers to everyone
who looked at them. And, with that, they simply joined for-
mation and marched onto one of the boats when the main force

was withdrawn.

It was not the boat with Dacaro aboard, but Poquah was
relieved at that. "These disguises are more than sufficient for
man or fairy," he told Joe, "but a good adept would see through
them in an instant. Best we do not get too close to him until
we are ready to strike."

"It's lucky that most folks aren't magical, or I'd feel down-
right uncomfortable," Joe noted.

"You would feel more than that, my otherworldly friend,"
the Imir responded. "This place would be an insane asylum.
It almost is now."

They sailed down the Sik and joined the River of the Sad
Virgin, still pretty much in neutral territory. But the four boats
pulled in before they reached the Dancing Gods, and crews
busily changed the appearance of two, adding camouflaging,
redistributing and adding masts, and repainting. It was clear
that the boats were designed and the crews were trained for
this sort of thing. By the end of the day, they looked like two
merchant freighters, exactly what they should be in this kind
of commerce, and flew the Kidina flag and sail markings.

Neutral merchants.

The soldiers, too, changed their uniforms for civilian clothes,
those of merchants, sailors, and the like, causing Poquah to

240

have to alter his spells as well. Particularly interesting was the
fact that the soldiers' beards were shaved and their hair trimmed
short. Now they hardly matched any description of the soldiers
seen at Kidim.

Poquah had used his powers of persuasion to find out as
much information as was known. Of the four boats, they were
on the third in the convoy, while he was quite certain from the
crew's comments that Dacaro was on the boat directly in front
of them. Joe, in fact, was certain that he spotted the black
stallion with the others in the rear tethering area. But their boat
was not one of the ones changed.

Four boats had left, but now crews and passengers consol-
idated into the two that looked like Kidim' s. With over a hundred
and fifty of the company missing, it was no real crowd—and
it made their progress down the river less conspicuous. The
other two, including the one they'd been on, were scuttled.

Now they found themselves on the suspect boat and had to
be careful. It took Poquah no time at all to establish that there
was, indeed, a very special passenger none had seen, staying
in the captain's cabin. It was all very mysterious, but the troops
were good soldiers who asked few questions and started lots
of wild rumors.

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Joe said hopefully to the Imir. "I
mean, maybe we'll get overhauled and taken."

"I doubt it. First of all, our side has a weak navy with little
experience. I suspect these two crews are more than a match
for any on the other side. But in any event, I hope not. That
would simply force him in to the open, and he still has his
wish. That's his insurance policy in case the Baron proves less
than accommodating."

"But Ruddygore said either he or the Baron could probably
negate the Lamp," Joe pointed out. "Some insurance."

"That's true if it is used against them," the Imir agreed.
"But it need not be so. It can be used to elevate Dacaro's
status."

"I just wish there was some way to get to him."
"He never leaves the cabin. His meals are brought in. Yes-
terday I volunteered for galley duty, with the thought of poi-
soning the food he eats."
"And?"

"I succeeded. But there is no report of any problems, so he




242

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243

apparently has a routine cleansing spell in use, as I feared. So
far he has made no mistakes. The spells on the cabin are so
strong he would have a lot of warning, even if a member of
the Council went to work on them, and I am far lower than
that. We will have to wait. Sometime, somewhere, he must

make a mistake."

Joe understood mat this was more a hope than a certainty.
Where was his great luck now, all of a sudden? So far it had
saved his neck, but had mostly aided the wrong side.

It was another three days of hazardous travel downriver once
they reached the Dancing Gods. Below the Sad Virgin, the
river meandered all over the place and had countless bars,
eddies, and islands. It took a tremendous amount of skill,
experience, and flawless navigation to get through the ex-
tremely long stretch, and Joe's admiration for the crew tran-
scended his loyalties.

Now they passed the Dabasar, and the River of Dancing
Gods was more than three miles wide and tremendously deep
but, if anything, even more treacherous, since they were now
within the flood plain, and the annual great flooding always
changed the river's course and nature.

Poquah was a little concerned in the later stretches. They
were deep within the enemy's area of control, and he was afraid
that, on horse detail, he had been penetrated by the equine
Sugasto. He did not tell Joe, who was worried enough, and
hoped that, if true, the ancient adept either would think nothing
of someone with a disguise spell or would keep quiet. Sugasto
had no love for Dacaro, certainly, and although he was bound
to do his bidding, there was no need to volunteer information.
Before nightfall they made their landing. Joe and Poquah
were both relieved—at least now their quarry would have to

reveal himself.

Their patience did not go unrewarded. Late in the evening,
the captain came on deck, followed by a mysterious-looking
stranger in dark clothing. He didn't look quite like Sugasto,
whose body Dacaro wore, but Poquah was no more easily
fooled than Dacaro would have been in spotting him. He did
not allow that spotting to occur, though, and Dacaro certainly
had no reason to be suspicious of enemies from Ruddygore at
this stage. The adept would be much more concerned with
treachery by the Dark Baron and his men.

Joe and Poquah ducked out of sight as the two men walked
back, selected their horses, then led them off the gangplank to
shore.

"If they're going far, we'll have to steal some horses," Joe
noted. "And it's gonna be hard not to get pressed into duty
around here."

"Has my magic failed you yet?" the Imir asked him, and
together they slipped off the boat.

The two men made no move to mount their horses, but
continued to follow a road from the river landing for a few
hundred yards, leading their mounts. Soon they were in the
midst of a huge tent city, flags of many nations and peoples
flying before them, and a lot of hectic activity that actually
helped conceal the pursuers' true nature.

The captain and the dark stranger reached one particular
tent, not very distinguishable from the others but flying no flag,
and tethered their horses in front. The captain walked over to
the guard at the entrance and whispered a few words. The
guard nodded, and the two men entered the tent.

"The captain has already sent runners on ahead," Poquah
told Joe. "It is certain that they wait here for the Baron himself,
when he can spare the time from battle preparation. I think we
must move before the Baron gets here—or we will be totally
outgunned."

They turned off the main path to the tent and walked casually
around in back, making their way closer and closer by a cir-
cuitous route. So far, nobody had paid them the slightest at-
tention, and they were able to reach the rear of the tent they
sought without problems. They bent down to see if they could
perhaps get a piece of tent up and crawl under, but as they did
so, something fell on both their heads and they went out like
a light.

They came to in the tent. Both Joe and Poquah had been
stripped naked, and hung from a support beam by thick ropes
tied to their wrists.

In the center of the tent was a plain oak table and a few
chairs. The captain from the boat stood near the doorway op-
posite them, putting down a large bundle of stuff on the tent
floor—Joe saw that it was their clothing and swords, Irving
included.




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The other man, whom they now recognized as Sugasto—
at least in body—looked at them and smiled. The precious

Lamp of Lakash hung on his belt.

"I see you're awake," Dacaro said cheerfully. "You went
to so much trouble that I thought you should not be denied
meeting the Dark Baron. And you, Imir—you'll find your
magic nullified quite handily. I've learned a few new tricks

since we studied together at Terindell."

The Imir's face contorted with rage and contempt, the first
display of pure emotion Joe had ever seen on the creature, and
he spat in Dacaro's direction. "You bastard! The Master was
too kindhearted, but most certainly correct about you. You are

unworthy to lick his shoes!"

Dacaro shrugged. "New ways are coming, Poquah. The best
of the old with the new technology from the other world.
Neither you nor Ruddygore can cling to your power much
longer and you know it. The new ways we will introduce will
break your feudal hold on the oppressed people of this land."

"And replace them with a newer and even more bitter

oppression," Poquah shot back.

"We'll see. Or, at least, I'll see. I doubt if you two will
have to worry about things one way or the other. Oh, by the
way—I spotted you the first night you came aboard our boat.
Or, rather, Sugasto did. He doesn't like me very much, for
some reason, but he fears the wrath of Ruddygore far more.
That's why he's where he is and I am where I am. I am neither
fearful or in awe of Ruddygore. He represents a dying and

bankrupt way of life."

At that moment there was a commotion outside, and into

the tent burst an awesome figure. He was enormous, towering
over the others—but still below the suspended captives. He
wore a full set of shiny black armor covering every part of his
body, including gloves and a fighting helmet, 'visor down,
whose aspect was cast in the shape of a terrible demon. He
had the kind of commanding presence that seemed inborn, that
of regal bearing and total self-confidence. Even masked and
featureless, the Dark Baron captured everyone's immediate
attention. Dacaro seemed slightly awestruck by the presence,
which was a far cry from the fat and slovenly Ruddy gore.

The Baron wasted no time getting to the point. "You have
the Lamp of Lakash," he said to Dacaro in a deep, commanding

245

JACK L. CHALKER

voice that Joe couldn't help comparing to one electronically
disguised—although that was obviously impossible. "I am here
to receive it."

Dacaro was certainly awestruck and totally aware that he
was facing someone as far beyond him as Ruddygore was
beyond Joe, but not so awestruck as to buckle under. The stakes
were too high here. Instead, he unclasped the Lamp and held
it in his right hand. "I have the Lamp, my lord, here. It is my
intent to present it to you—but I must have certain assurances
of my own before I do."

The Baron seemed slightly amused. "You propose to bar-
gain with me? I do not drive bargains to receive what is mine
by right. And, since you are here in my camp and in my
presence, you are in a poor position to bargain."

"I am Dacaro, formerly adept to Ruddygore," he began, but
the Baron cut him off.

"I know exactly who you are and what you are. I have no
time to dawdle or dicker. The battle begins with the dawn and
I must be there. You will hand me the Lamp now."

Dacaro gave a slight smile. "I wish you would accept my
terms and conditions for handing it over," he said mildly.

The Baron started a bit. "So you have not yet used the
Lamp. Very well—what terms do you suggest?"

"I wish to have my training completed so that I may be
elevated to full rank and initiated as a true sorcerer. Then I
would aid you as, say, sorcerer to one of the armies, in the
balance of the war. After we are victorious, I would like to be
installed at Terindell."

The Dark Baron chuckled. "Only that, huh? You wish to
be elevated to the Council and replace Ruddygore. Well, my
treacherous friend, we see no reason for trusting traitors. The
man who would so willingly betray Ruddygore for such power
has no honor, and without honor he would as lief betray any
lord and all oaths of fealty and allegiance. / will take that Lamp

now!"

The veneer of self-confidence Dacaro had worn now crum-
bled in total confusion. "But—but I wished! You can't go
against the wish!" He took a step backward and looked about
nervously. "Slave of the Lamp! Attend me!"

Smoke poured out of the Lamp and congealed into the figure
of Marge. Joe was struck by how much she'd changed, but he

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

246

was too concerned with the drama being played out in front of
him to think much about that right now.

Dacaro looked at Marge. "Why didn't it give me my wish?"

he demanded.

Marge seemed to take some satisfaction in her answer. "Be-
cause this is not the Dark Baron," she told him, "but another
in his armor. And the other within is not of this earth, nor of
any earthly kingdom, and, as such, is not bound by the Lamp

at all."

The Baron's hands went to the demonic helmet, unfastened

it, and lifted it off, showing the head beneath. It was the same
as the mask—a terrible, demonic face, only not fashioned by
craft of metal but in a blue-black, leathery skin. "I am Hiccarph,
Prince Regent of Hell," the creature told him. "The Baron sends
his regrets, but he has a war to fight." And then the demon

prince laughed.

Dacaro screamed. "No! No! I wish you back to Hell! Be-
gone!"

"Free!" Marge, breathed and stepped back from the two

now facing each other.

Dacaro gave a laugh. "You haven't won me, Prince of Hell!
I go to the land of the djinn!" And, with that, he faded into
smoke and poured back into the Lamp, which had dropped on
the floor of the tent with his second wish.

The demon just stood there a minute, thinking. He moved,
then, to get the Lamp and picked it up.

Joe realized that, because he was hanging so high, the de-
mon's head was now between his hand and Irving. Held pain-
fully by the wrist, he nonetheless managed to open his hand.
The magic sword was on the floor, with Poquah's weapon and
their clothing. The idea had come into his head from the start,
and now was the first and perhaps only time it might work.
With a little silent prayer he yelled, "Irving! To me!"

The sword flew from the bundle of clothes right at the
demonic head, striking it and knocking the creature back, then
continued on to Joe's hand. With a flip of the wrist that was
tremendously painful, he brought the blade around and it sliced
neatly through the rope. One arm free, he brought the blade
up and cut through the other rope, falling to the floor.

The demon had been knocked over, losing the Lamp, but
now the terrible creature rose to its feet. Its face was the face

247

JACK L. CHALKER

of nightmare, its power something that could be felt by all in
the room.

Marge dived, scooped up the Lamp, and pitched it to Joe.
The demon got to his feet, smiled, and said, "Now feel the
powers of Hell, mortal!" He threw out his hand and Joe in-
stinctively drew back—but nothing happened.
The demon looked puzzled. "What in... ?"
Joe gave him no more time. "I wish all in this room and its
contents were now with Ruddygore!" he yelled, holding the
Lamp.

In a moment, they all winked out of the tent.

To say that Ruddygore was shocked and surprised was an
understatement. One moment he had been alone in his tent
thirty miles across the Valley of Decision from the enemy army,
meditating for added powers, when suddenly in popped Joe,
Marge, Poquah, a strange soldier looking scared to death, and
a full suit of the Dark Baron's armor.

Joe whooped and hollered, waved his sword in the air, then
tossed the Lamp to the astonished Ruddygore. "It worked! We
did it!"

It was Marge's and Poquah's turn to be astonished. "But—
how?" they both asked at the same time.

The black-clad captain, still in a state of shock, looked
around fearfully and squeaked, "I surrender! Won't somebody
accept my surrender?"

Ruddygore was the first to regain some sense of self-control.
He walked over to the fearsome armor, kicked it, and frowned.
It was empty. He turned to the captain. "Just put your sword
over there and sit down like a good fellow," he told the fright-
ened soldier. "We'll get around to you when everything's sorted
out." The captain complied.

"Now, then," the sorcerer continued, "just what is going
on here?"

As quickly as possible, the three sketched the events in the
tent. Ruddygore listened attentively. Finally he nodded his head
affirmatively and sighed. "Well, I think I can at least explain
it. The Baron, knowing that he was vulnerable to a well-stated
wish even if he could block moves against himself with the
Lamp, drew upon his ultimate power and raised Hiccarph.
Now, Hiccarph's powers are quite limited on this plane—he

248

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JACK L. CHALKER

249

has, in fact, no more real existence than the genies of the
Lamp—but he could move that suit of armor and, most im-
portant, he was totally invulnerable to any magic of Husaquahr.
Using the armor, he could pick up the Lamp and take it to his
ally. When you summoned Irving, Joe, the sword struck the
upper part of the armor. In the summons it was an irresistible
force—so the armor went sprawling. That was quick thinking,
by the way."

"I'd hoped it would run the Dark Baron through, damn it,"
Joe muttered.

"Be content. This was a major victory from the very brink
of total defeat. It's a good thing I wasn't in Terindell, though—
or you and the Lamp would have gotten there, but not the rest.
I shudder to think what might have happened to you."

Marge frowned. "But the Lamp was completely powerless
against this demon! And he seemed amazed to be powerless
against us!"

Ruddy gore nodded. "The forces of Hell would not be di-
rectly subject to any of the Laws or Rules, because they have
no physical existence on this plane. They must work through
humans—in this case the will of the Baron that placed Hiccarph
in that armor. But as to why Hiccarph had no power over you,
Joe—it was because you are not a native of this world. Your
soul is still your soul, and it is of a different place. Hiccarph
was summoned by a native of this world and, as such, he was
attuned totally to the things of this world. Since he had no
physical being beyond the armor, he could only reach out for
your soul—but he was wrongly attuned. That's the best way
I can put it. On your native world he would have plucked your
soul from your body and carried it with him back to Hell itself.
But here—let's just say he was on the wrong frequency. That's
what I counted on. It is the extra edge you and Marge have
over anyone else." He paused a moment. "I fear it will also
mean both of you are now marked. Hiccarph and his bosses
will never rest until they know why they failed against you.
They will be after you."

Joe grinned. "Let 'em come! We faced down the Prince
Regent of Hell a few minutes ago." He leaned over, grabbed
a startled Marge, and kissed her on the lips. "We're ready for
anything now." He paused and looked at her and smiled. "Wel-
come back to the land of the living."

She smiled and patted his hand. "What of Dacaro?" she
asked. "He's now in the land of the djinn."

"And there he'll stay," Ruddygore assured her. "Nor will
he get what he seeks there. They will string him along, but
give him nothing of substance. And one day I will pay him a
visit there, and he will leam that the Lords of the Djinn may
be disinterested in our affairs but do value old friendships."

A military officer entered, bowed slightly, and said, "Sir—
it will be dawn in less than half an hour. Lord Kasura awaits
your pleasure."

Ruddygore turned and looked suddenly very tired. "Tell
him I will be there straightaway." He turned back to Joe,
Marge, and Poquah. "The three of you have done what you
can, and it is more than any man had a right to expect. Get
something to eat at the mess tent—anyone will be able to tell
you where it is—and then get some rest. The outcome of this
day will no longer depend on your labors, but our cause has
certainly been fortified by your deeds."

Poquah, who was pulling on his clothes, said, "Master, I
will be with you. My place is not to rest during a battle."

"As you wish, old friend. But ours is a different sort of
battle from what those brave ones will face."

"I can still fight," Joe told him, and Marge nodded as well.

"No. It is time for the professionals now. A battle requires
planning and discipline, and you were not a part of the training.
Remain here, or go up the heights nearby at the command post
and watch it unfold as best you can. But fight not today—
unless we are lost and overrun." And, with that, he turned and
left, Poquah following, trying to get his pants fastened.

The captain'stirred in the corner. "Won't somebody take
my surrender?" he pleaded.

Joe looked at him. "Go. On your word of honor, go to the
river and join your own forces, but do not fight us until you
are with your own."

The captain shook his head from side to side. "Oh, no. I'm
going to surrender. / looked into that thing's eyes."

Joe sighed. "Then turn yourself in to the captain of the
guard. I'm sure they'll have a place to accommodate you."
Then they, too, walked out, leaving the prisoner alone.

They found the officers' mess tent with no trouble. They
filled plates from a cauldron of scrambled eggs, and Joe, at




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JACK L. CHALKER                251

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

least, took slices from the roast of pork on a spit as well. Both
sipped abnormally strong black coffee.

After a while they felt somewhat themselves again and began
to relax a bit, although the tension throughout the camp was
too thick to ignore. Still, in the moments before things broke
loose, Joe took advantage of the little time remaining. "Well—
you sure have changed, that I'll say."

She looked a little embarrassed. "The djinn accelerated the
process. It was only a few days, but time there didn't pass like

time here."

He nodded, although he didn't quite understand. Certainly

her short pageboy hair was now down to her shoulders, and
was a true silver color except for the ever-present streak in the
middle, now a burnt orange. Her elfin ears stuck out cutely,
and it seemed that her whole face and figure radiated an un-
natural sexuality. Her figure had become so exaggerated that
the clothes she wore bulged and pulled, and he knew they
wouldn't last long. "You're going to have a hard time with
that nun's vow," he noted playfully.

She sighed. "I know. But maybe that's for the best. Huspeth

will never understand, though."

His brows went up. "Then she didn't do this?"
"No. Ruddygore lies when it's convenient. It's his sort of

practical joke on Huspeth, I think. I can see why people get

irritated with him."

"So you're still glad you hitched a ride?"
She smiled. "Very glad, Joe. Very glad. And you?"
"I'm beginning to get the hang of this place. I think maybe
I'll stay a while. Have you thought of what you're going to
do—after today? Assuming we win, of course, and we aren't

on the run."

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'd like to go to the realm of

faerie for a bit, to complete this and to learn more about what
I am and what it all means. That will determine the future,
more or less, I guess. But I haven't had my fill of this land.
I'd like to see all of it someday. What about you?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I think I can hold my
own here now. I guess maybe I'd like to travel, too. Just sort
of let things take me along, like that river out there. Go with
the current and the flow and see where I wind up."

"Still—we made a hell of a good team, didn't we, Joe?"

He grinned. "We sure did. Marge."

Trumpets sounded across a broad area outside and seemed
to echo and go on forever. Officers still in the mess grabbed
their weapons and ran out, while the cooks started frantically
cleaning up the place. Drums began to beat, and there was the
sound of massive numbers of horses and men moving into
positions.

Joe sighed. "I think I'd like to see this battle."

She nodded. "Me, too."

With that, they got up and walked out into the breaking
dawn.

CHAPTER 17

THE BATTLE OF SORROWS GORGE

Although magic may play a significant part in any battle, victory
must be secured by soldiers supported by sound strategy.

—XIX, 301,2

"NOW IS THE TIME FOR SWORDS AND SORCERY'"

With that ritualistic exhortation required by the Rules, the
commanders of both forces urged their men into battle.

From the heights overlooking the great battlefield, the lead-
ers of the northern countries watched and plotted. Behind them,
apart from the rushing messengers and great birds and winged
fairy folk bringing reports and taking out orders to the field,
Ruddygore stood alone, dressed now in his robes of gold and
looking quite imposing. He sat in a large wooden chair that
seemed almost like a throne, and his arms rested on the arms
of the chair, while his eyes were closed.

Poquah saw Joe and Marge and came over to them. "The
Master is right, as usual," he sighed. "I am far too weakened
to do more than assist." His suited eyes seemed to bum, though,
and they knew he wanted to be out there with the moving
armies.

The sight was imposing. Huge masses of men and equipment




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252

marched in formations, while the nonhumans and people of
faerie formed their own ranks, covering the human foot sol-
diers. Ahead, almost a thousand massed cavalry stood, barely
holding back their mounts.

"Looks like a Roman epic from the late show," Marge noted.

"Only this is for real."

"I don't understand why they waited for dawn," Joe said to
Poquah. "This looks all too set for a guy with a reputation like

his."

"Crossing the River of Sorrows is no mean feat," the Imir
told him. "Our own forces harassed but could not prevent it.
We didn't have the time to get sufficient armies south. By the
time our troops were gathered, most of his were across, and
so it was better to take up defensive positions and wait. The
Baron has a real problem, you see—he's in Sorrows Gorge,
his entire force with its back to the River of Sorrows and the
Dancing Gods. If he loses, he could lose a lot of his main
force. But if he wins, he can break through the mountains there
and have a clear plain for hundreds of miles and an unimpeded

run to Terindell."

Joe shook his head wonderingly. "I'd have used all that to
cross the Dancing Gods. From the map, it's much easier going

on the other side."

"True—but he would telegraph his move weeks in advance
and he would be in essentially the same position at the Sad
Virgin. That is why the Valley of Decision has always been
the place would-be conquerors have come, and why none have

yet breached it."

Marge gazed out nervously at the assembling forces. "How

good a chance does he have to win?"

"About even, with the Master here," Poquah told her. "But
if he punches through here, there is nothing much to stop him."

The defenders had dug trenches and built effective-looking
earthworks, and Joe didn't envy anybody having to come against
them. There were also large catapults and other less familiar
machinery of war, but no permanent fortifications in the area.

The sky was suddenly alight with hundreds of fireballs,
rushing in toward them, landing, and bursting, spilling their
fiery death in a random manner. Poquah watched them come
in. "It has begun," he said softly.

The defenders took cover and generally weathered the storm
of fireballs, the catapult equivalent of heavy artillery. It w: ;

253

JACK L. CHALKER

merely a softening-up measure, for all its spectacle. While the
fireballs did little damage, they made certain that the main field
was clear for the attacker.

Now, across the field, perhaps ten miles from the command
post, a huge thing like a black snake moved across the length
of the battlefield. It took a little thinking to realize that what
they were seeing was a line of men almost a mile long and
perhaps ten or fifteen deep. It was not merely impressive—it
was downright awesome.

From defensive earthworks, a similar line began to march
out from the defenders' side. It was not quite so deep or so
wide, but they didn't have to march over a mile or more of
open ground. These were the elfin hacrist, master bowmen,
and they took their positions and stood their ground, waiting
for the approaching line to get within range. Behind them
formed cavalry, so many horsemen it was impossible to count
them from the command post. They formed into company-
sized detachments and waited, about a hundred yards behind
the hacrist.

When the two forces were within range of each other, the
bowmen let loose with a tremendous hail of arrows that nearly
blackened the sky. They concentrated on the center of the
attacking line, which suddenly seemed to turn into a solid wall
as the soldiers held their shields horizontal, forming something
of a roof. The closer they were and the better the discipline,
the more absolute that roof would be.

Soon there were holes in that roof, as such a concentration
of arrows and bolts as none there had ever seen struck with
great force. Without exception, the men who fell were left,
with those behind falling in and taking their place in the re-
lentless advance.

From behind the bowmen, the catapults of the defenders
went off in perfect series. Some were firebombs, but most
contained as much as a quarter of a ton of junk, rock, and scrap
metal that would tear into or crush flesh.

The catapults took their toll on the advancing marchers,
whose roof was certainly caving in at a number of key spots—
spots on which the bowmen now concentrated.

Joe frowned. "They're not going to get here that way," he
noted.

Poquah nodded. "Yes. They have something up their sleeves,

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254

In his great chair, Ruddygore, too, was thinking the same
thing. A frontal attack was useless unless supported by a flank;

if this kept up very long, the edges of the force would be the
only attackers and could be disposed of long before they could
close the vise. He rose up into the air, his astral shape taking
in the entire battle scene, but he could see nothing—and he
determined that the great mass of the Baron's troops was, in
fact, committed. They looked to be about the numbers and
types of beings he'd seen in his earlier reconnaissance. Some-
thing was definitely wrong here... But what?

On a hunch, he swung over his own forces, jubilant in their
easy victory, and beyond, in back of them, to the ox bows
near the River of Dancing Gods. He saw almost immediately
that his hunch was correct. Four thousand infantry together
with flying cosirs—perhaps several hundred, in nine flying
companies, all wearing the colors of Marquewood—ap-
proached. They were row less than two miles from the rear
camp of the defenders. They flew traditional Marquewood
colors, but the cosirs gave them away.

Abruptly, Ruddygore's physical body stood up from his
chair and he screamed, "We are attacked from the rear by men

in our colors!"

Two of the generals turned and frowned. "How?" one asked.
"They must have been carried in small groups up the river
and stayed dispersed until last night," the sorcerer told them.
"They wear the colors of Marquewood, but who of Marque-
wood would be supported by nine companies of cosirsT'

As suddenly as that, the Baron's true strategy was revealed,
along with the fact that there were far more of the enemy than
believed. The fight was no longer one-sided, but at least even.
Even if the new enemy were exposed, a large percentage of
the defenders would have to shift to open field fighting in their
rear, weakening the frontal assault. Now, instead of the de-
fenders having the Baron with his back to Sorrows Gorge, they
were caught in a vise themselves with no place to run to.

Either the Baron or some other sorcerer with the rear force
must have sensed Ruddy gore's astral presence; from behind,
even as orders were being issued for a defense of the rear
positions, committing the reserves to that fight, the cosirs came
silently out of the sky directly at the command post and re-
serves.

255

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!"

256

JACK L. CHALKER

THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

257

"No! / 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 redemp-
tion, Joe saw officers rounding up men and pulling them back
toward the original attack. He frowned, but followed, deter-
mined 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 Bar-
on'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 mon-
strous 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, tex-
ture, 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 direc-
tions, rumbling and shooting thunder, congealing around the
spot where the two great creatures of powerful sorcery grap-
pled. Even Joe could see this phenomenon, and stared at it,
fascinated.

The clouds, turning all sorts of colors and rumbling threat-
eningly, 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

•    '       ...  ,;;^j(_




258          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

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-Val-

isandran infantry.

Commanders still at the command post pulled back all sur-
viving 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, Ver-
certorix 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 soliders.
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 the 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. Ruddy-
gore 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.

JACK L. CHALKER                   259

"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 tre-
mendous 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 se-
verely.

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

The body of the fat man seemed to shudder slightly, and

...    ...                  .   .....     ..,._..  ^




THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

260

opened his eyes, groaned, and looked up at the anguished
Poquah. "Don't worry, old friend," he gasped, his voice crack-
ing 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 re-
covering 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 phys-
ical wounds, the wounds on Ruddygore's body had been phys-
ical 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 digni-
taries 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 unthink-
able 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 grer*

JACK L. CHALKER                  261

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 con-
vinced 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 Ruddy-
gore'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 re-
laxed, 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'm

262          THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

"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 be-
cause 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

263

JACK L. CHALKER

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."

They were thunderstruck by this last option, since both of
them had abandoned any hope of ever returning. Joe had often
thought of it, of course, but he'd never expected to have the
choice offered to him.             ,

Marge smiled at Ruddygore. "No, I don't think I want to
return. Maybe someday for a visit, but never for good. I've
been in this world perhaps only a year, but I've lived more
than I have in all my previous life. It's not the wondrous,
romantic world of my fantasies, true, but it is a wonderful place
nonetheless." Both she and Ruddygore looked at Joe.

"You know, ever since I met you, I've been aching to go
back. It's all I dreamed about. But—I don't know. Call it
inscrutable Indian perversity, or maybe just an old trucker's
whim, but there really is nothin' there for me. The funny thing
is, I might have still taken you up on it until we got back here.
Just seein' folks like Macore, Houma, and Grogha—you know,
I got more friends in this world than I have in the other? And
I'm still my own boss here, still on the move, only here one
place ain't so much like another."

Ruddygore sighed and nodded. "All right, then, that's set-
tled. As for the other, perhaps I wasn't playing quite fair with
you."

Both of their heads snapped up and looked at him suspi-
ciously.

He sighed. "Remember back at the start of this thing? Re-
member, Marge, when you labeled it the start of an epic?"

She chuckled. "Yes, I remember. I didn't know how true
that was when I joked about it."

"You still don't," he told her. "The Books of Rules, Volume
16, page 103, section 12(d)."

"Yeah? So what's that crazy set say about us?" Joe wanted
to know.

"All epics must be at least trilogies," Ruddygore replied,

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JACK L. CHALKER was born in Norfolk, Virginia, on De-
cember 17, 1944, but was raised and has spent most of his
life in Baltimore, Maryland. He learned to read almost from
the moment of entering school, and by working odd jobs
amassed a large book collection by the time he was in junior
high school, a collection now too large for containment in
his quarters. Science fiction, history, and geography all
fascinated him early on, interests that continue.

Chalker joined the Washington Science Fiction Asso-
ciation in 1958 and began publishing an amateur SF journal,
Mirage, in 1960. After high school he decided to be a trial
lawyer, but money problems and the lack of a firm caused
him to switch to teaching. He holds bachelor degrees in
history and English, and an M.L.A. from the Johns Hopkins
University. He taught history and geography in the Balti-
more public schools between 1966 and 1978, and now makes
his living as a freelance writer. Additionally, out of the
amateur journals he founded a publishing house. The Mirage
Press, Ltd., devoted to nonfiction and bibliographic works
on science fiction and fantasy. This company has produced
more than twenty books in the last nine years. His hobbies
include esoteric audio, travel, working on science-fiction
convention committees, and guest lecturing on SF to insti-
tutions such as the Smithsonian. He is an active conser-
vationist and National Parks supporter, and he has an intensive
love of ferryboats, with the avowed goal of riding every
ferry in the world. In fact, in 1978 he was married to Eva
Whitley on an ancient ferryboat in mid-river. They live in
the Catoctin Mountain region of western Maryland with their
son David.