The Fallable Fiend

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  At my captive’s shout, both sentries hastily rose. After an exchange of words with my captive, the sentry with the top clumped into the tent and soon returned to say that the cham would see me forthwith.

  I leaped down from the horse and walked towards the entrance. My captive also dismounted and started for me, drawing his sword and yelling threats. I half-drew my own blade, but at this point the sentries intervened. They pushed him back with the shafts of their spears; I left them shouting, and entered.

  Part of the oversized tent had been partitioned off as an audience room. As I came in, the cham and two more guards scrambled into official positions and assumed expressions of dignified sternness. The cham sat on a saddle placed on a block of wood to hold it clear of the floor, thus giving visitors the impression of the fearless leader of intrepid horsemen. A guard in fancy dress, with squares of gilded brass sewn to his leathern cuirass, stood on each side of the cham with spear and shield.

  Cham Theorik was an elderly Hrunting, as tall as I and hugely fat, with an enormous white beard curling down his chest. He wore a purple robe embroidered with silken patterns from far Iraz. Golden hoops, chains, and other gauds larded his neck and arms.

  As instructed, I got down on all fours and touched my forehead to the carpet, remaining in that ungraceful pose until the cham said: “Rise! Who are you and what do you want?”

  “If,” I said, “Your Terribility could furnish an interpreter of Novarian, since I know little Shvenish—”

  “We speak Novarian, also, our good—we cannot say ‘our good man,’ now can we? Ho ho ho!” Theorik slapped his sides and guffawed. “In fact, we are told we speak it perfectly. So we will proceed in that tongue.”

  Actually, the cham spoke Novarian with such a thick accent that I could not understand it much better than I could his Shvenish. I did not, however, deem it prudent to offer my opinion. I related the circumstances of my visit to Shven.

  “So,” said Theorik when I had finished, “the money-grubbing Syndicate wants us to save them from the fruit of their own avarice and poltroonery, eh? Or so you say. Where are your credentials, and where is the Syndicate’s offer in writing?”

  “As I have told Your Terribility, the cavemen of the Ellornas took all my papers when they captured me.”

  “Then what proof have you?” He wagged a fat forefinger. “We have a short way with people who try to deceive us. They are apt to find themselves with sharp stakes up their arses, ho ho ho!”

  By a mighty effort of thought, I found a solution to this latest snag. “Great Cham, before the invasion, a few hundred Hruntings served Ir as mercenaries. After the battle, these men marched off to their homeland. Some will remember seeing me in Ir.”

  “This shall be looked into. Rodovek!”

  “Aye, sire?” said an official-looking Hrunting, issuing from a curtained doorway.

  “See that Master Zdim be lodged in a style proper to an ambassador. See also that he be guarded against attack from without—or against escape from within. If he turn out in sooth to be an ambassador, well and good; if not, ho ho ho! Now then, Master Zdim, you shall return hither at sunset, when our chieftains and we hold a drunken tribal council. We shall then discuss your proposal.”

  “Excuse me, sire, but did I hear you say ‘drunken tribal council’?”

  “Certes. Know that it is our custom to discuss all at two councils, the first drunken so that thoughts shall come freely and fearlessly, the second sober so that reason and prudence shall prevail. The sober council will be on the morrow. Fare you well, lizardman; you have our leave to go.”

  My last glimpse of Cham Theorik on this occasion showed his two guards, with much heaving and grunting, getting him off the saddle he used as a throne.

  ###

  The drunken council was held in a pavilion in the open space behind the cham’s abode. Unlike the latter, it was a tent of canvas, supported by poles and guys like the main tent of Bagardo’s circus. In fact, it had a familiar look. It harbored fifty-odd chiefs and other tribal officials, stinking worse than the Zaperazh.

  When I had been shown my place, my table mate on one side was an extremely tall, powerful young Hrunting, with shiny hair the color of gold falling to his shoulders. He was Prince Hvaednir, a nephew of the cham. Since he belonged to the same royal clan as Theorik and was the strongest and handsomest man of that clan, he was considered next in line for the rule of the Hruntings. As he spoke only a few words of Novarian, he and I exchanged no more than polite amenities.

  The neighbor on the other side, Prince Shnorri, was short and fat. He, too, belonged to the royal clan. More to the point, he was fluent in Novarian, having studied at the Academy at Othomae. To him I spoke of the familiar look of the tent.

  “It is no wonder,” said Shnorri. “An I mistake not, this is the same tent that your circus man employed. When his properties were auctioned, an enterprising trader brought it over the Ellornas and sold it to the cham. He argued that it would hold more diners with less weight and bulk than would one of our traditional round tents of poles and felt.

  “The deal caused a great to-do amongst the Hruntings. Some said: Buy the tent, for it represents progress. Progress is inevitable, and our only defense against it is to keep up with it. Others said: Nay, the old and tried ways are best. Besides, to use essentials from Novaria were to make ourselves dependent upon the Novarians, who would soon, by greed and trickery, reduce us all to beggars. As you see, the party of progress prevailed.”

  The council began with a dinner. Unlike the Novarians, the Shvenites chewed loudly with their mouths open. The huge drinking jacks were set out and filled with beer by the women. The cham and his chiefs began guzzling.

  The time arrived for toasts. The Shvenish custom differs from the Novarian. Novarians drink to others whom they would honor; the honored one remains seated and abstains while his dinner mates rise and drink to him simultaneously. A Shvenite, on the other hand, stands up, boasts of his prowess, and drinks to himself. For ensample, one burly fellow with a broken nose stood up, belched, and declaimed as fellows:

  “Who has led the foremost in every battle? I, the fearless and invincible Shragen! Who slew five Gendings single-handed at the battle of the Ummel? I, the mighty and valorous Shragen! Who won the interclan wrestling tournament in the fifth year of Cham Theorik, on whom may the gods ever smile? I, the fierce and redoubtable Shragen! Whose sense of honor has never failed him? Mine, that of the noble and virtuous Shragen! Can any warrior compare with the peerless and well-beloved Shragen? Nay, and therefore I drink to my own magnificence!”

  Down went a mugful of beer. When the magnificent Shragen had sat down, another arose and delivered a similar harangue, which Shnorri translated for me. As we say at home, self-conceit oft precedes a downfall.

  ###

  After an hour of this, the chiefs of the Hruntings were well into their cups. At last, Cham Theorik hammered on his table with the hilt of his dagger.

  “Time for business!” he bellowed. “We have two items only tonight. One is a complaint from the Gendings that one of our brave heroes has stolen a flock of their sheep. The other is the proposal brought from Ir by the demon Zdim—that dragonny-looking fellow yonder, between Shnorri and Hvaednir. First, the sheep. Step forward, Master Minthar!”

  The Gending envoy was a middle-aged Shvenite, who told how a Gending had been robbed of fifty sheep by a gang of Hrunting thieves. Cham Theorik questioned Minthar. No, the victim had not seen the rustlers. How knew he they were Hruntings? By his shepherd’s description of their costume and horse trappings, and by the direction in which they had fled . . .

  After an hour of this, during which several chiefs went to sleep, Theorik ended the proceedings. “Enough!” he roared. “You have produced no competent evidence. If the Gendings need more sheep, they can buy them from us.”

  “But, Your Terribility, this is a weighty matter to us—” protested the envoy.

  Theorik belched. “Begone, wretch! We do not be
lieve a word of your tale. Everybody knows what liars the Gendings are—”

  “Everyone knows what thieves the Hruntings are, you mean!” shouted the envoy. “This means another war!”

  “You insult and threaten us in our own tent?” yelled Theorik. “Guards, seize me this pestilent knave! Off with his head!”

  Guards dragged Minthar, screaming and struggling, out of the tent. A buzz of argument arose among the chiefs. Several tried to speak to the cham at once. Some said that this was the way to treat those treacherous scum; others, that the person of an ambassador should be respected regardless of his message. By shouting louder than the other, one of the latter party got the chain’s ear.

  “Aye, aye, we see your point,” said Theorik. “Well, we will consider the matter again on the morrow, when we are sober. If Minthar merit a more considerate treatment—”

  “Cham!” cried my companion Shnorri. “Minthar will be in no state tomorrow to get better treatment!”

  Theorik shook his head in a puzzled way. “Aye, now that you put it thus, I see what you mean. Guards! Belay our last order, about killing—oh oh, too late!”

  A guard had just stepped into the tent, holding at arm’s length, by its scalp lock, the dripping head of Ambassador Minthar. Theorik said: “A good joke on us, ho ho ho! By Greipnek’s balls, we shall have to think up some excuse or apology to Cham Vandomar. The other item is the proposal brought from Ir by the demon Zdim . . .”

  Theorik gave a resume of my proposal. “At first we suspected some sessor trick,” said the cham, “for Zdim brought no credentials or other evidence with him, claiming they had been stolen by the Zaperazh. Several of our men who served in Ir, however, confirm that Zdim was there, in service to a lady of that city. So we are inclined to believe him. At least, it is hard to see what ulterior motive he could have in making so long and arduous a journey by himself. But now let him speak to you in person. His Excellency Zdim!”

  By “sessor,” Theorik meant a non-nomad, like a farmer or a city-dweller. The nomads use the word as a term of contempt for all men of sedentary occupations.

  I had some difficulty in standing up, for Prince Hvaednir had fallen asleep with his golden head on my shoulder. When I had disengaged myself from him, I told the chiefs of the facts, while Shnorri translated. I was circumspect in my speech, having seen what might befall an ambassador who roiled this crowd of drunken barbarians.

  The ensuing discussion ran on and on. Because the speakers were now thoroughly drunk, their arguments were also largely irrelevant or unintelligible. At last the cham rapped for order.

  “That will be all for tonight, comrades,” he said. “We shall come to our deshish—our deshiss—we shall make up our minds tomorrow at the sober council. Now—”

  “I crave your pardon, Great Cham, but it is not all!” cried a Hrunting, whom I recognized as the man I had forced to convey me to the tent city. “I was fain not to interrupt your business; but now that is over, I have something to settle with this demon!”

  “Oh?” said the cham. “What would you, Master Hlindung?”

  “He has insulted my honor!” Hlindung told of our meeting on the steppe and of my coercing him to bear me to the chain’s abode. “So I name him a vile, inhuman monster and will prove my words upon his corrupt and loathsome body, forthwith! Stand forth, demon!”

  “What means this?” I asked Shnorri.

  “It means you must fight him to the death.”

  “Cham!” I called. “If this man slay me, how shall I present the proposals from Ir on the morrow?”

  “Let that fret you not,” said Theorik. “I have heard the proposals, and I am sure that Shnorri as well knows them by heart. Meanwhile, this combat will provide an amusing end to a prolixious evening. How jolly, ho ho ho! Stand forth and take your chances, Master Zdim!”

  Hlindung swaggered back and forth in the space before the cham’s table. He bore a sword, which he swished through the air, and an iron-studded leathern buckler.

  “I endeavor to give satisfaction,” I said, “but what am I supposed to fight him with?”

  “Whatever you have with you,” said the cham.

  “But I have nought with me!” I protested. “Your guards disarmed me when they took me into custody, and my weapons have never been returned.”

  “Ho ho ho, how funny!” roared Theorik. “How unfortunate for you! I cannot order that you be given weapons, for you might hurt Hlindung with them, and then I should have been disloyal to my own tribesman. Come on, push him out, somebody.”

  My tendrils tingled with the lust of the assembled chiefs to see blood flow.

  Hvaednir awoke, and he and another seized me by the shoulders from behind and began to push me out from behind the table.

  “What if I kill him?” I cried to the cham.

  “That would be a fine jest, ho ho ho! Why, nought so far as I am concerned, since you would have slain him in fair fight. Of course, his kinsmen would then be at feud with you and entitled to slay you on sight.”

  Before I knew it, I stood in the cleared space, facing Hlindung. The latter went into a crouch, holding his shield up before him, and began to slink towards me, making tentative little motions with his sword, on whose blade the yellow lantern light danced.

  “But, Your Terribility—” I began, when Hlindung rushed.

  Although in strength I far surpassed the ordinary Prime Planer and was more solidly put together, I did not delude myself that Hlindung’s sword would simply bounce off my scales. Since the space was cramped, I did the only thing I could to avoid that wicked-looking blade. I leaped clear over Hlindung’s head, alighting behind him.

  The Hranting was well gone in drink, whereas I had drank only a moderate amount of beer. Besides, alcohol seems to affect us of the Twelfth Plane much less than Prime Planers. Perhaps the alchemists can puzzle out the reason.

  When Hlindung realized that I had vanished, instead of turning around, he slashed the air where I had been standing. “Witchcraft!” he shouted. “Demonry!”

  I sprang upon him from behind, seizing the collar of his jacket and the slack of his trousers with my talons. Then I swung him off his feet and spun him in a circle, wheeling on my heels. The third time around, I let him go on the upswing. With a scream, he flew against the sloping side of the tent and went right on through. A thump came from outside.

  Several Hruntings rushed out. Presently some came back in, saying: “Great Cham, Hlindung is not badly hurt. He merely broke a leg coming down.”

  “Ho ho ho!” chortled the cham. “So my brave swasher thinks he can take liberties with beings from other planes, eh? This will teach him. He should be harmless for a few moons. By the time he recovers and can seek a return match, Master Zdim, you will doubtless have found business elsewhere. Cursed clever of you, by Greipnek’s bowels! Even if you did damage my tent. To bed, everybody; I pronounce this drunken council ended.”

  ###

  The sober council, the following afternoon, was less picturesque but more reasonable, despite the hangovers of some of the chiefs. In fact, some Shvenites displayed reasoning powers that would not shame a Twelfth Plane demon. The chiefs favored an expedition to Ir but boggled at the dragon-lizards.

  “The mammoth is a fell weapon,” said one, “but the beasts have a craven mislike of wounds and death. Confront them with some outlandish sight and smell, like these dragons, and they are wont to panic and flee back through their own host. This leaves the host in an untidy state.”

  “We demons,” I said, “have a saying: to seek to save oneself is a natural law. But have you no magicians amongst you, to render these monsters harmless?”

  “We have a couple of old warlocks, good only for curing bellyaches and forecasting the weather. We brave nomads had rather trust our sword arms than the juggleries of magic.”

  “If the Paaluans invaded Shven,” mused another, “it were simple. Wait for a cold spell, and their dragons—being cold-blooded reptiles—would slow to a halt as the cold s
tiffened them.”

  “That gives me an idea, if I may take the liberty of speaking,” said I. “I know a shaman of the Zaperazh—if ‘know’ be the word I want for a man who tried to sacrifice me to their god. He has a cold spell in his magical armory; in fact, they captured me when this fellow Yurog froze me so that I could not move. Now, could we persuade Master Yurog to apply his spell to the Paaluans . . .”

  This suggestion met with shouts of approval from the chiefs. “Good!” said the cham. “That is, if Master Zdim can enlist this savage in the enterprise. We’ll march as far as the Needle’s Eye and then see what his powers of persuasion will do.

  “Now,” he continued, “another matter. We still have no written contract with the Syndicate, and we should be fools to bleed ourselves white on their behalf without a solid agreement. We know those tricksters all too well. We could sacrifice half the nation for them, but if we had no piece of parchment to show, they would say: ‘We owe you nought; we never agreed to your helping us.’ ”

  There was general agreement with the cham. Since nearly all Shvenites are illiterate, they have a superstitious reverence for the written word. Besides, from what I had seen of the Syndicate, I doubted not that the Shvenites’ apprehensions of being cozened had a basis in fact.

  In the end it was decided that, first, an expeditionary force of five thousand warriors and a hundred mammoths should be sent as far as the Needle’s Eye. If I could enlist Yurog, the force would then march on through Solymbria, which would be in no position to resist the trespass, to Ir.

  After some chaffering, they and I agreed upon essentially the terms the Syndicate had offered: one mark per man per day, with sixpence a day for each mammoth and a maximum of a quarter-million marks. They insisted on adding a minimum of a hundred thousand marks, to which I acceded.

  Before engaging the Paaluans, however, we should make every effort to get a written promise from the Irians. How this could be done, with Ir surrounded by the Paaluans, would have to wait upon the event. Lastly, Theorik said: “O Hvaednir, since you may someday succeed me, it is time you learnt the art of independent command. Therefore you shall lead this foray. I shall furnish you with a competent council of war, made up of seasoned commanders, and I advise you to heed their rede.”