Land of Unreason

by L. Sprague De Camp

“Because—I love—the Boss—would die—for him—we all—love him—excuse please.” The leech had emptied the hod and filled the basket, and now trotted off. He had certainly lied; never had Barber’s new sixth sense given him a clearer warning. But never, either, had there been a more bewilderingly complete lack of use for the knowledge. He decided he had been mistaken about the resemblance to the kobolds. At least that lot had been enjoying themselves.

  Behind a row of the stately columns two piles of gravel lay on the bottom, several yards apart. A couple of leeches were at work on these while a third supervised. The two laborers each had a wheelbarrow and a shovel, and one was at either pile. At the supervisor’s “Hup!” each would fill his wheelbarrow as fast as possible; with another “Hup!” they started toward each other’s piles, pushing the barrows ahead of them. As they passed in mid-course the supervisor smiled, saying no more till each leech had emptied his wheelbarrow on the other’s pile and raced back to his own for a repetition of the process.

  It made even less sense, if possible, than the construction of the eyeless tower, and Barber watched the procedure for some minutes in an effort to find the key. But the routine never varied. Finally, as one of the leeches passed, Barber was driven to ask him what it was all about.

  The green-and-brown mannikin continued its gallop, so that Barber had to trot back and forth beside it as it jerked out: “Aesthetic—pursuit—orders of—the Boss.”

  “I don’t see anything very aesthetic about it,” said Barber honestly.

  They had reached the end of the run, and the wheelbarrow man had a moment’s respite before the next “Hup.” He turned a stricken face to Barber and said rapidly: “There isn’t. You frogs know—you’re artists. Help me get out of—”

  “Hup!”

  The leech’s eyes leaped over Barber’s shoulder, his face set in lines of fear, and he began to shovel frantically, panting out words: “Glad we—have—opportunity—for artistic—expression—unlike outworn—communities—our Boss—patron of—the arts.” Barber turned and almost ran into two of the guides, who were gazing past him at the laborer, their permanent smiles twisted into peculiarly malevolent grins.

  One of them took him by either arm. “This way, sir,” they said in chorus. They had led him perhaps fifty yards farther down the plaza, when a short shriek behind made him turn round. The wheelbarrow of the leech with whom he had been conversing lay on its side with the gravel spilled. Of the individual there was no sign.

  “What became of him?” asked Barber.

  “He was tired,” said one of the escorts smoothly, “so he was relieved, and sent on a vacation. Our Boss is aware of something the decadent communities have never learned; that labor is entitled to adequate recreational facilities.” It was false as hell, and Barber knew it. He was getting pretty tired of glorious Hirudia, which seemed to have been developed on a pattern entirely too familiar.

  He said: “I’d like very much to see more of your city, but this is more of a business trip than a visit for me. When can I see your Boss?”

  “We’re taking you to him,” said one of the guides. At this end of the plaza, the reed columns were spaced wider, and through them there became visible buildings of a cyclopean architecture, flat, fat and squatty. They drew in till the plaza ended in a square arch at the door of one; Barber was conducted into a passage, round a turn, up one ramp and down another. Beyond was a smaller plaza and more overstuffed buildings, and so on, till he quite lost orientation. In one of these places they came to a halt, while one of the leeches went into a blocky structure.

  In a surprisingly short time he was back. “The Boss is holding an important conference. Will the gentleman come with us to the place of attendance?”

  “What’s that?” demanded Barber, his suspicions now unappeasably aroused.

  “The place where gentlemen who wish to see the Boss wait,” purred the leech. “In Hirudia everything is done systematically.”

  “How long do they have to wait?”

  “Very little time.” (Lie.) “Every comfort will be at your disposal.” (Lie.) “And you may leave to conduct other business whenever you wish.” (Lie.)

  “Sorry,” said Barber. “Convey my respects to your Boss and say that I regretted not having seen him, but I had business that couldn’t wait. Which is the quickest way out of here?”

  “Oh!” said all four leeches together. “You don’t want to leave Hirudia! You haven’t seen half of it! You want to come with us to the place of attendance.”

  “No,” said Barber. “I know what I want, and that is to get out of here. Will you please—”

  The leeches interrupted: “Sir, it is contrary to regulations and good sense for anyone to leave Hirudia until he fully understands it.” “You cannot understand beautiful Hirudia in a few minutes.” “Perhaps he’s socially underdeveloped.” “Needs instruction.”

  Barber pointed at random. He barked: “Is that the way out?”

  “No,” said a leech. Barber knew it was a lie, and set off in the direction indicated. The leeches followed him, yammering that he was being impulsive instead of reasonable; that he didn’t want to leave Hirudia; that he hadn’t seen . . .

  Other leeches swarmed out of the buildings and joined the procession till there were dozens of them around and beside him, all talking at once. One worked up courage enough to grab Barber’s arm. He shook the flaccid hand off angrily. The clamor grew louder.

  “You can’t get away, sir!” they cried. “Why try?” “You’ll only cause a lot of fuss, and somebody will get hurt.” “Send for the Symptosites.” “Anything is better than having trouble and people getting hurt, isn’t it?” “Honestly, we’re nice fellows, not so different from you; why not join us?” “This is really your big chance to learn about Hirudia; it’s expanding to take over the whole river in time, and you might much better join us now, when it’s easy.” “When you really understand us, you won’t want to leave.” “Don’t cause a commotion, sir, please! It’s so uncivilized.” “You ought to be so happy over the chance to get in step with the new Laws of the Pool.” “Here’s a fair warning—if you provoke us to the use of force it will be all your fault.” “Isn’t he stupid? He thinks he can get away from all of us together.”

  Oh, to hell with this babble, thought Barber. He could still swim. He flexed his muscles and took off, rising over the leeches’ heads and the featureless pediments of their buildings. A powerful leg kick sent him in the direction where he hoped the exit was, cursing himself for never being able to remember turns.

  A bend to avoid a reed column gave him a glance rearward. The leeches were coming along behind, all right, with an undulating stroke, swimming fast, though not as fast as he was.

  Something went bong, bong, slowly and with decision. More leeches appeared, swarming up from all directions out of the boxlike buildings. Barber dodged round a tower that reared itself above the rest, and found two right in his path, vacuous mouths open, arms spread to catch him. He gave another leg-stroke and at the same moment swung at the nearer; fist met jaw with soulful violence, and he felt the flimsy bones crumble. “Left hook!” he shouted for no reason, as the other leech dodged, wrapped itself around his leg and began to chew his calf. A kick flung it loose; beneath him legions of leeches were streaming up with outstretched arms, while the two he had disposed of drifted away, belly-up.

  Yet that brief delay had given those ahead time to get past his level, and now as Barber looked, he perceived he was the center of a sphere of leeches. They were closing in with evident reluctance, but closing. Where was the exit? The sphere seemed denser at one side; that was probably it, they would concentrate to keep him in. He charged in that direction. One leech, braver than the rest, stood straight across his path. He butted it amidships, and from the tail of his eye saw it turn belly-up as he kicked and punched his way through the soft, clutching things.

  They gave; he sped through, dodged scattered single leeches still floating up, and found himself over the
great plaza. A few foreshortened forms were visible below, one or two swimming toward him, but for the most part it was empty. He slid across it, outdistancing pursuit here in the open, feeling free at last—

  Until he saw the reason. All up and down, the great wall was a solid mass of leeches. He dived toward the base of the wall, where the gate was. They gave way before his rush. No gate; the wall loomed smooth as a mirror, and around him on every side were the leeches in a hemisphere, millions of them, blotting out the light with their bodies and inching in. The surface, which might be an escape, and might not—how far did this wall go?—was far away.

  Barber got his feet on the ground and his back to the wall and cocked his fists for a last-ditch struggle. Might possibly discourage them. The leeches inched in, their array thickening as the radius of the sphere lessened. Their hands spread, when the pressure of the wall against Barber’s shoulder blades ceased.

  He took two steps, threw a wild menacing punch to drive the nearest back, and spun to face whatever leeches were coming from behind.

  It was not leeches; or rather, there were only two. Between them stood Arvicola, Sir Lacomar and another knight, the last two clad from top to toe in armor.

  CHAPTER XIV

  One of the newcomer leeches said: “What’s this? Most unseemly; just when we are bringing visitors to admire—”

  This was as far as he got. Sir Lacomar crossed his arms in front of him, fists down, and jerked them up, whipping paired broadswords out of their sheaths. They hit the two leeches simultaneously, the blades shearing deep into soft bodies. The other knight’s visor came down clang; with a long, lashing blade he disemboweled a venturesome leech that dove at them from above.

  “Outside, you two!” roared Lacomar. “We’ll cover the bloody retreat!”

  But the gates beyond were closed; and even as Barber and Arvicola turned to that inmost gate, it slid smoothly into position behind them. The four were inside Hirudia and held there.

  Pressure from the constantly growing mass drove the nearest leeches, willy-nilly, in on the two knights. For a few seconds they moved in a web of whirling steel before the tide surged back amid squeals of panic. The water was murky with their blood and the small clear space was littered with heads, legs, arms and entrails, while the crowd above emitted a confused growling roar of mingled anger and terror.

  Lacomar glanced over his shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Froggy? Told you to push off.”

  “The gate’s closed,” said Barber.

  Lacomar gave a little leap, and his point just caught a dangling knee. “Ha, Santiago! Open it, Froggy.”

  “Can’t. Don’t know how.”

  The other knight boomed something that was lost in the recess of his helmet, turned, and ran his sword along the surface of the wall behind them, searching for the joint. It gave the exquisite shriek of a pin dragged across a windowpane, but wall and gate fitted solidly. He snapped up his visor. “The frog’s right,” he said. “No way out.”

  “Tell him to produce an idea,” said Lacomar, still facing out and up. “Frogs always have ideas.”

  “Not this one or this time,” said Barber grimly. Lacomar sidestepped like a dancer as one of the leeches came sweeping in at knee level, and stabbed him through the guts. The leech screamed. “That’ll teach the blighter,” remarked Lacomar, with a barking laugh, “but what’ll we do?”

  Arvicola said, with obvious effort: “There is another way out. It—leads through His . . .”

  “Good!” said Lacomar. “Show us the way, old gal!”

  “How about lending me one of those swords?” asked Barber. Lacomar looked surprised, then doubtful.

  “Be damned!” said the other knight. “A fighting frog! Here, take my anlace.” He fumbled at his belt and handed Barber an object like a clove, all metal and about two feet long. It balanced well, and had dangerous-looking spikes around the head.

  “Swim or walk?” asked Barber.

  “Swim?” boomed the stranger-knight. “Not in this hardware.” And Lacomar gave a dry chuckle. “Told you frogs always have ideas—usually wrong ’uns.”

  They set out, Lacomar leading with his two-sword sweep, Barber and the other knotting around Arvicola. At the third step the leeches burst into a frantic gabble of shouts and squeals: “Give up?” “Come with us—you’ll be treated kindly.” “You’ve put up enough resistance to make your showing—it will be all right, we understand good fighters.” They gave no answer, and after a minute or two of talking themselves into a fury, the creatures charged again.

  Barber was the center of a circle of clutching arms and biting mouths, laying about him furiously. Once Arvicola screamed and clung to his left arm; he executed a difficult pirouette with a leech clinging to his legs, and drove the anlace, once and repeat, into the faces of the pair who had her by the shoulders. They collapsed, floating away upward, but another dived in from behind to catch him by the throat and carry him to his knees. Here we go, he thought, but a voice bellowed something like “Tambo!” and the pressure was released. He scrambled to his feet, head swimming, to see the stranger-knight standing over him, and shouted. Then the fight was ended for the moment, with fragments of leech bodies drifting dejectedly past through the water.

  Sir Lacomar’s face bore a look of intense and even joyous concentration, but the stranger was looking at him oddly. “Aye, if we only had them,” he said.

  “Had what?” asked Barber.

  “The Franconian spears; you shouted for them.”

  With a shock of recall, Barber realized he had said something of the kind, but before he could analyze it, Lacomar plucked at his arm.

  “Look sharp now,” he said, “before they get over that last bout. Which way, Cola?”

  The girl pointed, and they ducked through the row of pillars around the plaza, with the leeches forming a hemisphere of foes around them. Ahead was a flight of long and wide steps that might be the entrance to an impressive building had it not been hidden by the moving swarm of leeches. Sir Lacomar led the way up, Arvicola touching him on the shoulder now and then to indicate a change of direction.

  The illumination dimmed suddenly, and Barber, looking up, could see no more leeches right above. It was too high and dark within for any ceiling to be visible. Behind them, too, it was dark now, the entrance by which they had come packed with the swarming leeches, who remained behind an invisible line.

  Something went bong once with the same deliberate and decisive note that had heralded the first attack on Barber. There was a rumble; some kind of gate or movable wall slid to and cut off all sight of their pursuers. Now it was almost utterly dark, with the only light a faint bluish glow, whose source was high on a pair of cyclopean pillars. The source moved so that the light changed and threw curious shadows across their faces. “Ha!” barked the stranger-knight. “We’ll make a night affair of it. Good thing there are few of us. Get in one another’s way.”

  His sword made a soughing sound as he whipped it around his head, but Lacomar said: “No, bad tactics, Acravis; dark for the attack but light for the approach,” and signed to Arvicola.

  She detached herself from the group and dived smoothly upward to one of the light-sources. Barber saw her fumble briefly; then light and vole together darted across to the other pillar, and in a moment she was back with a blue-glowing something in either hand.

  “Take this,” she said, and handed him something that squirmed so he almost dropped it. When he gripped hard its radiance brightened angrily and he could make it out as a sort of superworm, the size of a frankfurter.

  “Hold it gently, Fred-Froggy,” she whispered, “but tight enough so it doesn’t get away.” She shivered with obvious nervousness.

  Sir Lacomar swept out a powerful arm and drew their heads together. “You first, Acravis,” he counseled, “then Cola, Barber, and I’ll bring up the rear. Can get a better cut that way. Heavy metal in reserve.”

  Barber asked the question that had been worrying him: “How did you
two happen in at the right moment?”

  Arvicola turned and touched his arm. “I—was afraid for you, so asked Sir Lacomar . . . You’re such a bloody fool, Fred.”

  “If we get out of this—” began Barber, and then stopped. He had intended promising to do anything she wanted, but what could a strictly temporary frog do for a water rat? If he was a temporary frog.

  “Look here,” Lacomar’s voice rang out, suddenly loud, behind him. “Why were you afraid, my gal? This leech-Boss isn’t—His Nibs, is he?”

  The girl turned a stricken face. “Yes. Quiet. If he hears us, we die.”

  Acravis stumbled with a clank of metal and cursed in a low voice. Cola reached her light past him, and Barber caught a glimpse of a huge helical staircase, going down, down. “Let your light dim,” she murmured, gripping his fingers and pulling them back gently. The worm lay quiescent; in the pale glow he could only just see the back of the girl’s head before him, only just hear Lacomar coming behind, moving with surprising noiselessness for all his armored bulk.

  Stairs. Barber had to feel with his toes for the edge of each next step. If it were not there, he would go tumbling . . . no, wait, underwater he did not have to fear falling whatever else betide. But something might swoop from above—and what good were all their precautions, since that entrance door had slid shut behind them? It was proof positive that whoever ruled this grim place knew of their presence . . .

  The girl reached back and touched his arm again, so unseen that it made him start. Her other hand, with the worm, was pointing forward, just over Acravis’ shoulder, the faint glow reflecting from the side of his helmet. Barber noted that the knight no longer stood a level below, and sure enough, at the next step, he found the stair ended. They were in a passage. Cola kept one hand on his with the lightest of touches, the other guiding Acravis, and Barber, by reaching back, could just link with Sir Lacomar in the same fashion. There was a faint, dulled clink of armor, echoed by another from the knight ahead. Then he stopped.

  The girl whirled round, soundless and so suddenly that Barber was almost overbalanced, her lips against his cheek. “Won’t hurt you for once, old thing,” she breathed voicelessly. “We may—never—again—” and her lips sought his and clung to them for a brief, thrilling, perilous moment. There was a snorting chuckle from Lacomar behind, no louder than a snore.