Crewel Lye

by Piers Anthony

  The pooka neighed with terror, but was unable to flinch away. Then the blade caught the loop of chain and sliced through it. I had a good sword; it had been dipped in dragon’s blood, and so the blade was magically hard and sharp and could cut through almost anything.

  I took one of the severed ends, passed it down around the muck-buried barrel of the ghost horse, and drew it up on the other side. I kept working, unraveling the chain until I had what I needed. Then I made sure the rest was securely anchored about the barrel and forelimbs of the animal, so it could not slip free.

  “Now, Pook, I’m going to haul you under the firewall,” I said. “To get you out of this mess. But you’ll have to help. When you feel the pull, try to walk with it; you should be able to, with that help. When you reach the firewall, get your body as close to it as possible, duck your head down under it so you won’t get burned, and I’ll haul you across. Got that?”

  The pooka did not react. I couldn’t tell whether he understood. Well, no help for it; I had to do it. If this worked, I would save the ghost horse; if not—

  I slogged back to the firewall, hauling the chain. I dived under. On the other side, I picked a suitable scorched tree and strung the chain over a low, horizontal branch. Then I hauled on the end.

  There was resistance, of course. That muck didn’t want to let go of its prey. I hauled harder, hanging my whole weight on it. Gradually there was give; slowly the chain moved. I took a new grip and hauled some more, and more came. Now it got easier; the pooka was helping. Heave by heave and step by step, I hauled the animal toward the firewall, though I could not see him on the other side. If he failed to duck his head at the critical moment—

  Then the taut chain dipped into the muck, and I knew the ghost horse was following my orders. I increased my effort, and in a moment his head appeared on my side.

  After that, it was easier. I got the pooka past the firewall and into the shallow muck and finally onto the baked mud. I removed the chain from the tree and rewrapped it about the animal; he needed that chain to remain in existence, as far as I knew. But I did not let go of it.

  When I finished, I mounted him. “Willing or not, you’re giving me a ride,” I informed him.

  The poor thing was so bedraggled and tired he didn’t say neigh. I had my steed at last—or so I thought.

  Chapter 3. Callicantzari

  I rode Pook to a region where the trees had grown back considerably and I prepared to spend the night. “I’m going to let you go,” I told him. “But you can see how the firewall surrounds this region. You can’t get out without my help. So there’s no point in running from me; you might as well just relax and graze.” I dismounted—and the ghost horse took off at a gallop.

  I sighed. I had hoped—but of course I was just a backwoods lunk, not understanding the true motives of people or creatures, however much I tried. I foraged for some fruit for my meal—it was amazing how fast these trees progressed after being burned!—then settled down to sleep. I didn’t worry about predators here; they wouldn’t pass through the firewall.

  Smoke roused me. Night remained—but the horizon was bright. Fire was sweeping across the plain!

  I cast about, knowing I was in trouble. Secure against animate menaces, I had overlooked the inanimate. The fire had me halfway surrounded and was moving faster than I could run. The green grass and foliage had turned brown; apparently the accelerated cycle of growth did not stop with maturity, but continued through the season. Fall had come to this region—and with it the fire, to clean away the husks and set things up for the spring in the morning. Maybe I could bury myself in the ground until it passed. But the turf was hard; it would take hours to dig myself in properly, and all I had were minutes.

  I heard a rattle. There was the pooka, running terrified before the flame. “Get over here!” I yelled. “I’ll guide you out!” Naturally he paid no attention, but I cut across to herd him toward the advancing flame, where there was a cul-de-sac, then used my rope to snag him. I hauled him to me and climbed onto his back and gripped the chain. I had my steed again—just in time.

  It wasn’t comfortable, sitting on the chains. When the ghost horse had been in the muck, I had not felt the chains as much, but now I did. But I had no choice; the fire provided no time for comfort. I steered the horse by kicking the side I wanted him to move away from. We galloped for the closing gap in the ring of fire, my posterior bouncing intemperately on the hard chains.

  We reached the gap—and discovered that beyond it was only another closing ring. No escape here! Now what was I to do? I had promised to find a way out.

  But I saw that part of the new ring was, in fact, the outer firewall. That was the boundary; no fire beyond that. We could dive under it, and—

  There was no water or muck here to use to get under the fire. There was also no time. The burn was avidly pursuing us.

  “We’ve got to go through!” I cried. “Close your eyes and hold your breath!” And I whammed the end of the rope against the horse’s flank, causing him to leap wildly forward.

  In midair we sailed through that firewall. I felt the band of heat flash past my body, singeing my whiskers and clothing; then we were through. We had had the advantage of firm turf and high velocity this time; that had made it possible. But I was not eager to return to the realm of fire, if I had any choice in the matter.

  We were on a plain before the southern mountain range we had been unable to reach before. I was pleased; south was the way I wanted to go, and I preferred mountains to either bog or burn. I think Pook did, too.

  We moved on toward the mountains as the sun came up, then paused for breakfast. I let Pook graze, but this time I did not dismount, knowing he would bolt. I simply pulled down a dainty feminine fruit from an overhanging branch and bit into it. I was surprised; it was not fruit but meat—evidently a miss-steak, grown there by error. Sometimes spells got befuddled. It made a good, solid meal, however, though I would have preferred to cook it.

  In due course, we walked south again—and encountered goblin traces. Pook snorted nervously and I groaned; we both knew that goblins were trouble. But we weren’t about to go back the way we had come. So we continued south, much more warily.

  It did us no good. A party of goblins spotted us. The chase was on.

  With goblins, you see, you didn’t parley. Not in those days, anyway; maybe goblins have moderated over the centuries. You fought, or you ran, or you got tromped; that was the extent of your options. Since there were about ten of them, armed with sticks and stones to break our bones, and only one of me and one ghost horse, plus my good sword—well, I was young and foolish, but not that foolish. I was no dragon, to chomp goblins by the dozen, or ogre, to hurl them to the moon. So I took the sensible option—I ran.

  Pook, of course, was right with me. Under me, technically. Chains and all. He galloped. Ghost horses don’t like getting eaten by goblins, either.

  The goblins gave chase. They were afoot and they had stubbly little legs, big feet, and gross, ugly heads, but they moved along pretty well. Also, one of them sounded a blast on a horn, summoning the other goblins. It was a stink horn, and it made a foul-smelling noise, the kind that instantly attracted that kind of creature. So, though we handily outran that bunch, we did not get free of goblins.

  They poured like hot lava out of the mountain. Today I understand there are not great numbers of goblins resident on the surface, though it may be a different story in the dank, deep caverns; but in my day there were more. They surrounded us in a putrid mass, grabbing at my legs, yelling obscenely. Goblins are about as obscene as any creature except the harpies.

  Naturally I slashed with my sword, cutting off their hands or anything else that came within range. Fingers, noses, scalps, and other items flew out from our contacts; oh, you should have heard those goblins yell! But there were always more glaring faces, more hands, more sticks and stones. It is never a pleasant business, fighting off goblins, because they just keep coming thicker than before.r />
  We tried to veer right, away from the goblin mountain, but encountered the firewall. It blazed up brightly, ready for us this time, as if daring us to try to get through it alive. So we had to veer left—and discovered that we really hadn’t cleared the bog yet; an arm of it came down almost to the mountain, and a leg of it extended north of the mountain. That was no good either; the loan sharks were waiting in it to take my arm and leg. So we charged straight for the mountain—where most of the goblins were. Pook bowled them over in his galloping fright, but I knew we would soon be buried in goblins.

  We plowed straight ahead, because we didn’t dare turn or stop. That was directly toward the mountain, which loomed ever larger as we drew nigh. The goblins surrounded it like a warty blanket. As we got close, I saw that parts of it were terraced, with narrow winding paths following the contours, and this gave me a notion.

  I nudged Pook to the side, where a lance-tree grew. I severed a lance with a passing sweep of my sword. Then we looped back and slowed momentarily—the ghost horse, afraid of the massed goblins, was now obeying my every hint with marvelous alacrity, since I seemed to know what I was doing—so I could flip up the lance with the point of my sword and catch it with my free hand. I have pretty good coordination with weapons; it’s another barbarian specialty. Then we resumed speed, and I sheathed my sword and used both hands to hold the lance firm. It was a good long one, with the point extending well ahead of Pook’s head.

  Now we reached the base of the mountain. I guided my steed to the nearest convenient path, and we swerved onto it, churning out divots of turf as Pook’s hooves made the turn. The lance swept about, knocking goblins off the path; they tumbled heads over feets down the slope. Their heads were big and hard as rocks and dented the mountain slope where they struck, but their feet were soft; when the feet struck, the goblins let out angry yells. Gobs of goblins were crowding around the mountain, and the bowling ones knocked over the standing ones like eight-, nine-, or tenpins.

  We charged east along the path, the point of the lance leading, and the goblins ahead dived out of the way. They couldn’t get at us as long as we kept moving. I began to relax; my impromptu ploy was working, and we were escaping this pesthole. All we needed was to follow this path right out of the goblin territory.

  It turned out to be a trifle more complicated than that. The path curved wondrously, as if seeking to confuse us; it included a hairpin curve and a few nasty jags and jigs and it branched and intersected other paths as the convolutions of the mountain permitted. There were small goblin caves along the way, each with its messy little front yard strewn with fruit peels, animal bones, and other garbage. The goblins in these poked sticks out to try to trip us and threw rocks from their cover. Fortunately, neither their timing nor their aim was very good, and we escaped injury. But it was nervous business being bombarded from passing caves.

  More enterprising goblins rolled rocks down the intersecting paths; most of these were small enough to be mere nuisances, so that Pook could hurdle them, but some were large enough to be threats. We were also conscious of the sheer malignance of the massed goblins; there was not one of them who wouldn’t rejoice at our misfortune, simply because we were strangers. The goblins were the ultimate bigots of Xanth, hating all creatures who were not like themselves and not feeling too positive about themselves, either. I had heard that goblin females were different, but all I saw here were males. No doubt the females were smart enough not to indulge in this sort of quarrel.

  Then the path slid down the curving mountain, as if tired, and into the crevice between it and the next mountain. Too late, I saw that this was a dead end; the path did not go up the next slope. Instead it led directly into a large cave whose depths were dark, ominous, and dreadful. No good ever comes of caves like that!

  The goblins were massed and charging behind us, some carrying crude wooden shields, and several operated together to support a lance like mine. We could not turn about and go back that way. We would be trying to charge uphill against a prepared enemy formation. Neither could we turn aside; the slopes of the crevice were too steep for us to navigate. Glancing up; I saw goblins making ready to roll a boulder down on us; already it was nudging over the brink. They were leering with anticipation of the squash it would make of us.

  I had no choice—I guided Pook directly into the menacing tunnel. He didn’t like this and I didn’t like it, but it was the only route left. Behind, I heard the malignant rumble of the boulder coming down; then there was a sinister shudder as it crashed into the tunnel, lodging there with gruesome finality and blocking the entrance. Some debris shook loose from the ceiling to shower down around us, but the passage didn’t collapse. That was a relief; I knew that if the tunnel had survived this long, it was probably pretty stable, but doubts are easy to come by in the deep dark.

  We halted, but knew before we checked that we were trapped. Even if we managed to push or pry out the boulder, we would encounter an army of vicious goblins beyond it, eager to hurt us with sticks, stones, and names. Once again we had no choice but to go forward. I have always had a distinct dislike of such unchoices; they generally led to mischief; and even if they didn’t, I still preferred to get into trouble in my own fashion rather than the forced-path way.

  It was good and gloomy in that cave. Light seeped in around the ragged edges of the boulder; but in the deeper reaches, it was foreboding indeed. Pook was a ghost horse; he could see pretty well, since ghosts normally did their work at night, but I had trouble.

  “Pook,” I said, “we’re just going to have to follow this cave into the mountain fastness. It must go somewhere, because the path led right to it, and maybe the other end will let us out the other side of the hill.” But I felt a chill of nervousness coursing along my spine and hovering in that one region it is impossible ever quite to scratch, because I knew that not all paths that led in to things led out again. The path to a tangle tree was a good example. But there was no point in negative thinking at the moment. “So I’m going to have to trust you to follow it through and not drop us into some deep fissure. I know you don’t like having me ride you, but we’re in this together, and maybe we can get out together. Once we’re safely out, we can worry about who gets to ride whom where.”

  Pook made no response, but I hoped he understood the situation. I aimed him for the black hole ahead and nudged him with my heels. He moved forward at a walk, his hooves sounding sharply on the stone. In fact, there were little echoes—and I realized that my ears could serve in lieu of eyes, to some extent. Barbarians have keen hearing, though it can’t compare with that of most animals. The echoes told me that the walls were close beside us, but not ahead of us.

  The tunnel trended down, as such things tend to do. I didn’t like that; I wanted to travel up and out of the mountain. But one must go where one’s road leads, even when it’s a distressing road.

  After what seemed like an interminable time, I began to see a little. There were small fungi growing in cracks in the wall, casting a magic pastel glow. As we progressed, water dripped, and the air got cooler and damper; the fungi grew larger and brighter, until it was possible for me to make out most of the passage. Some fungi were yellow and some green or blue; in fact, they were all the colors of the rainbow, though faint. It was really rather pretty.

  The tunnel expanded, becoming a series of galleries, each lined with the rainbow fungi. This was fine—but now there were branching passages, and I didn’t know which ones to follow. Life is simpler when you don’t have many choices, even if you don’t like the route you’re stuck on. So I didn’t choose; I let Pook have his head, and we proceeded more or less straight ahead.

  Then Pook paused to sniff the air. I could see his head only in silhouette, where it blocked the faint illumination of the fungi, but I knew his nostrils were flaring. He smelled something!

  Then I smelled it, too—a fetid odor, the stench of some large and thoroughly unpleasant creature. We were not alone.

  “We’d bette
r try to avoid that thing,” I murmured to Pook. “It stinks a little like goblin, but worse.” I still had my lance, but wasn’t sure how useful it would be in the confines of the cave. I might run the point directly into a dead-end wall and jar myself right off my mount.

  We backed out of this chamber as quietly as we could and tried an alternate one, but the smell only got stronger. Then I realized that we weren’t approaching the monster; the monster was approaching us. It had heard our footfalls, our hoof-falls, and was coming to investigate. “Let’s get out of here!” I said urgently, yielding, with a certain relief, to panic. Oh, I know—barbarian warriors aren’t supposed to experience such emotion. Barbarian warriors don’t belong in deep, dark caves with stinking monsters, either.

  Pook picked up speed, moving as fast as he dared along the passage. It wasn’t fast enough; still the silent stink intensified. We were deep in monster territory and not getting out. Maybe the goblins had been herding us here all along, knowing what would happen to any creature who fearfully braved these dank depths.

  Suddenly the monster loomed before us. It was a gross manlike thing, with horrible distorted features. The worst monsters are always manlike; I’ve never been quite clear why this is so, but it definitely is so. Fur covered this thing’s face; from the fur, a grotesque and bulbous nose poked out, and under the fur, two great, ugly eye-slits peered, as from behind a dirty veil; at the bottom of the face, several twisted tusks projected. There must have been a mouth somewhere. The creature seemed to be male—the worst specimens of anything are always male, except for harpies. His arms were hairy extremities on which the muscles seemed to be attached backward, and his torso had several bones in the wrong places. In some ways he was like an unusually large and grotesque goblin, but in other ways he was worse—his breath, for one thing; his exhalations surrounded him like a putrid cloud. Pook and I were gagging.