Horrors of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  "But they went?"

  He nodded. "I guess so. They had a little money, and it was probably enough for the hovecraft."

  "You mean hovercraft?" Marge asked him.

  He shrugged. "They all call it a hovecraft around here, that's all I know. Spooky ship, I'll tell you that. Takes folks in on occasions, but very few come back. They wanted me to go with 'em—at least Joe did. I got the impression that the halfling didn't want anybody else around. That and common sense was why I refused any offers of helping them out beyond what little I did here. I think, though, that they were between the rock and the hard place themselves. At least, not five days after the two of them left, the others showed up hunting them."

  "Others?" Poquah was suddenly curious.

  Macore nodded. "Real nasties, too. Couldn't tell much about them. They came at night in shiny black armor, the interior of the visors jet black. I don't know why, but I had the idea of big, man-sized insects on horseback. They sure weren't human, but they weren't any faerie I'd ever seen before, either."

  "And they were after Joe?'

  "Actually, they were after the halfling, but I got the impression that Joe was on the short list of folks to get even with. I'll tell you this—you don't say no to guys like that. At least you don't do it twice. I could only hope that by being vague and not volunteering information I might buy 'em a little time."

  "And did you?' Marge wanted to know.

  "Hard to say. I think they already knew more than me, even about the two of them tryin' to make for Yuggoth. There was this magic ring from her late father that said to go there and get something."

  "We know that part. But how could they possibly think they had a chance to do it? Even Ruddygore thinks that our chances are only so-so in alliance and cooperation with the King of Horror himself. These two wouldn't have nearly that, and what they're after is a secret from most everybody except the King," Marge told him, pretty well relating Ruddygore's take.

  "Could be," the old man admitted. "Still, seems to me that you got at least as much chance if you have a map."

  "A map! They've got a map to the McGuffin?" Marge was suddenly excited. "Where did they get it? How? Even Ruddygore doesn't have that information."

  "They got it all right, because that's what I did for them. Broke the damnedest encryption spell I ever saw. Damned near got me, too. I was rusty, but I still got through it. There's never been a thief like me!"

  "Stop patting yourself on the back so much and tell me about the halfling," Marge responded, shaking her head. "What's her story?"

  Macore shrugged, then told them all pretty much what Alvi had told to Joe, plus Joe's account of her rescue. He also described the halfling in a way that made her seem far more of a monster than she really was. "Pretty face, though. Really pretty."

  "You believe she was truthful?" Poquah probed.

  "Leading Joe along, you mean? Naw. She wasn't that kind, and I can usually tell 'em. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure she's almost driven to try this crazy thing on Yuggoth."

  "A curse, you mean?" Marge asked him. "You saw it?'

  "Uh uh. With as much crap as most halflings have, you couldn't tell a curse from a beauty treatment, and you know t. Too much crazy magic on those one-of-a-kinds. No, what set my nose twitching was how determined she was in spite of the fact that I got the strong idea she wasn't at all unhappy just the way she was. Hell, Joe has more drive to find that thing and use it than she seemed to have. You spend your whole life hiding out, a virtual prisoner, denying what you are—and, like, she's never been anything but what she is, so she's got no comparisons—and then you come out like this, and the world doesn't end and the mobs don't grab torches and chase you. You even find a friend with tons of experience. See what I mean?"

  Irving shifted. Until then he'd been taking no real part and showing very little apparent interest. Now, though, he said, "But somebody is chasing her, right? Those things in armor, the manlike insects? And somebody tried to capture her when her father was killed. I don't know, but if I had that kind of situation, I think maybe I'd want to change into something more comfortable myself."

  "Good point," Marge agreed, a bit surprised at the boy's sophisticated reasoning. Maybe she had underestimated him. "But who was her father? And mother, for that mater? What are these creatures that seem so bold but nobody seems to be able to identify? Who wants her, and obviously alive? As a halfling, the laws of the human world here wouldn't allow her to inherit. She's classed as faerie whether any faerie will accept her or not. It doesn't make any sense." She sighed. "If only we knew her real father! But even she didn't know that."

  "There is one possibility," Poquah commented. "An enchantment. An enchantment so comprehensive that it can be broken only by beating overwhelming odds and gaining what is most unlikely. A halfling could easily hide that."

  "Huh? You mean she's really not a halfling? But what good would that do? I mean, if you can't break it without the McGuffin, then it's the same as real, and they obviously don't want her to get to that thing," Marge pointed out.

  "True," the Imir agreed. "However, you overlook the obvious possibility of a truly perfect enchantment Someone, perhaps only one person, knows. This one also is the only one who either knows how to break the enchantment or has the means, often a physical object, with which to do so. He, she, it, whatever, needs the girl at a certain age when the enchantment can be broken. Whoever, whatever, the enchantment hides may have great power, or great authority, or great wealth and knowledge, or be the key to gaining it. I wish we had her at Terindell. We might well be able to at least find out the meaning of it all. Now she's out there somewhere, with Joe her only friend, walking straight into the most dangerous place in the world, pursued by a legion. I would say that we have little time to lose on this."

  Macore looked at them and shook his head in wonder. "So you three are going after them, after all?"

  "Close enough," Poquah replied. "We will go after the McGuffm. They are headed toward the same goal, so it is one and the same thing. In my hands, the McGuffin may get safely to Ruddygore. In his hands, it will solve the problems and mysteries that vex us all."

  "We kinda hoped you'd come with us for old time's sake," Marge told him. "Off one last time into the great adventure. Isn't it tempting?'

  Macore looked around at his nymph crew and boat and tropical port and then fingered his gray-white whiskers. "No, it's not. It might have been once upon a time. Might even have been irresistible. The thing is, Marge, I'm not like you. I'm not like any of the rest of you, which should be pretty clear if you just think about it."

  "Huh? What do you mean?"

  "Marge—you, Joe, Poquah—you're faerie. You don't age. Time has only local meaning to you, as in morning, noon, night, or next week. Irv's a big, strong lad, and he's not faerie, that's true, but he's only in his teens and about primed to make a name for himself. Either that or he'll die, but I don't think you will, Irv. I think there's too much in the way of smarts in your blood and bone for that. So, what do we have? Faerie, a sorcerer who's beyond any of us, a kid out to carve a reputation for himself in the manner of Husaquahrian legends—and then you've got me. I'm old. I'm old and mortal, and I'm not getting any younger. I have aches in my joints whenever the weather's changing, my eyes don't see clearly the way they once did, and things that were once easy for me come hard. The talent's still there, and my brain almost always says, `Macore, you're still twenty years old and the world's greatest thief,' but then my body interrupts and says, 'No, you ain't, either. You're an old fart, and your adventure days are past.' And that's the way it is. I'm lucky I can do it enjoyably and comfortably, but I'm falling apart. I can see the darkness at the end coming even though I can hardly believe it's me in this situation, and I can't figure for the life of me how it all went so fast. But the only thing I got left is my soul, if it's worth much these days and if it doesn't have too many second mortgages on it. I ain't sure what comes after the dark I can see, but I sure don't want to hu
rry it."

  It was a strong, profound, and serious statement clearly coming from his heart, and it wasn't easy to dismiss what he was saying or talk him out of it because the truth of it was all too evident. For the first time since coming there Marge suddenly realized that there was a chance that one day she'd come for a visit and Macore wouldn't be there anymore, or anywhere else, either. Even Irving would age almost before her eyes and one day crumble to dust as well.

  That was why you weren't supposed to get too close to humans, ever.

  "Macore ..." she began, but couldn't think of anything to say.

  He smiled. "Don't worry about it. It's time. The younger generation replaces the old. In one sense I've got better odds than the rest of you, since there's something beyond that dark wall for me, but you're stuck where you are. In a sense, that's the other reason for not coming. Maybe I get killed, but that's looming anyway. But what if I got you killed, or Poquah, by being too slow or too sore or just not up to moving at the speed safety demanded? You're probably gonna get yourselves killed anyway, since you keep going out on these damn-fool quests, but if that happens, it should be on your head, not my conscience or my soul. You're immortals. You die and that's it. I won't be responsible for that."

  "We'll miss not having a master thief of your experience, but I understand," Marge assured him. "Still, I wish we weren't going in so damned blind. This is tough enough as it is, but I think I'd give a lot for that map."

  Macore grinned. "Oh, I don't think you need to give up that much," he said playfully, reaching into a folder and pulling out a large folded piece of parchment. He handed it to her, and she unfolded it.

  "The map! But—you didn't let Joe go off without it, did you?"

  Macore sounded hurt. "Of course not. They have exactly the same map you do right here. The thing was contained in a monstrously encrypted spell. You don't think I wouldn't make a copy, do you? It's almost second nature to steal anything that comes along, even this. I lifted some pretty nifty official secrets with this technique once upon a time, and several treasure maps."

  It was quite dark, so they brought the lamps close to examine the map. It showed a continental mass that even looked ugly.

  "Looks like a giant clutching hand with claws," Marge noted.

  "If you take the hovecraft, which is the fastest way there, then you'll land here, at Red Bluffs," Macore told them, pointing to an area midway between the fingers of the "hand."

  "Seems pretty much like an advertisement to land in a town," Irving noted worriedly.

  "Well, it's not all that bad, and it's not like they won't know you're coming," the former thief replied. "The hovecraft is the only assurance that you'll get by all the evils that surround the place, and that means tickets, and that means everybody official will know, right? It's no big deal. You have to take Yuggoth on its own terms. Sure, it's the source of all evil, but in many ways it's just another place with a lot folks, a lot of races, a lot of threats, and maybe even some normal types. Even some good guys."

  "Good guys? But you and everybody else said you couldn't trust anybody there!"

  "You can't trust them, but that's because you never know who you can trust. Look, think it out. You can't have pure evil without victims. Otherwise it's just an intellectual exercise. So the vast majority of folks on Yuggoth are, like everywhere else, just ordinary folks. Hell, suppose there weren't any normal folks for vampires to bite. I mean, they'd all starve, right? And there have to be folks to dominate, to take over, to rule and oppress, like that. And now and again, from that kind of stock, rises somebody who can really battle the evil bastards. It's just a million times more likely that the scientists really are mad, that the nice boy next door really is an ax murderer, that the local meat market—well, you get the idea."

  "Um, yeah. Sort of."

  Irving held up the Rules volume. "I've been studying things about it. It's not a place where I'd like to live, but at least it's still got rules. Wolfsbane, garlic, crosses, those sorts of things still work. There's nothing over there that's any more absolute than here."

  'Well, yeah. But there's a lot more of it, and it's a lot more concentrated and in a lot more varieties. And once you're there, you're committed to one of a limited series of options," Macore warned them.

  "Yeah? Like what?' Marge asked.

  "Well, get control of that McGuffin thing and you're made and home free. Otherwise, you'll wind up either being trapped there or corrupted, warped, and changed until you are more at home there than here. Nobody who gets on the hovecraft ever comes back and walks off it at this end."

  "You said you'd been there—and you got back," Irving noted.

  He nodded. "Yeah, but you don't know the deal I had to make or what I had to do. That's why I have such doubts about what's beyond that darkness I see ahead. You don't want to do anything close to that if you can help it, kid. I was stupid-ass lucky, nothing else. And these two—they are made of different stuff. Don't count on coming out of there whole. You plan to get that McGuffin and wish all of you out whole. You just don't want to deal with any alternatives."

  Chapter 6

  Cruising Destiny's Thread

  The Land of the Sources of Evil shall always be across the waters toward some bleak shore.

  —Rules, Vol. p. 6660)

  They had discussed various ways of reaching Yuggoth, but eventually the evidence both from Macore and from other old hands around the docks convinced them that the hovecraft was the only reasonable way in. Out was a different question entirely. Additionally, word came by messenger from Ruddygore that their passage had been taken care of, which kind of settled the question. The message also stated that as yet even the nearly all powerful wizard hadn't been able to put a background to the halfling or a true name to the slain stepfather. It seemed almost inconceivable that that much could be hidden from Ruddygore, and this indicated to them all that whoever was behind this was very powerful and very formidable, indeed, in all realms.

  The boat sailed once a week from its own private dock about ten kilometers west of the resort. It was a lonely spot, forced on the operator by a tourist industry that didn't want anybody scared off.

  In point of fact, it looked like nobody wanted much to do with them. The spot consisted of a large pier, a small closed terminal and ticketing kiosk, and nothing else or any sign that anyone had set up even temporarily to help the passengers either on or off. There wasn't even a large sign to indicate what docked or sailed from this remote place, but somehow, just looking at it, you knew. You could feel it, a kind of deep chill down to your very soul.

  Of course, gargoyles on the ticket kiosk didn't help, either.

  Large black birds circled above and occasionally came down and landed on the kiosk. The huge yellow-eyed creatures seemed to be the masters of the area; the gulls and others so prevalent elsewhere seemed to avoid the place.

  "Ravens," Marge noted. "It figures."

  Irving walked up to the kiosk, ignoring the birds, and read the very fancy sign in the window. "Arrives one hour after sundown every Monday, leaves one hour before sunrise every Tuesday. Nice. I wonder what happens if it's late and doesn't get off until sunrise. Does it turn to dust or explode or something?"

  Marge yawned. "Well, being a night person myself, I can't complain about the scheduling, but I guess we ought to keep crucifixes and the like around anyway, huh?"

  "No religious symbol, for good or evil, has any power without the holder's complete and absolute faith in what it represents," Poquah reminded her. "I'm afraid we are all much too jaded to depend on that."

  "Um, yeah. It does sort of put us at a disadvantage," she admitted.

  Irving wandered back over, frowning.

  "What's the matter, Irv? Second thoughts?"

  "No," he replied. "I was just wondering where everyone else is."

  "Huh? What do you mean?"

  He looked up at the sky for a moment. "I would say we're no more than an hour or so before sundown. It's Monday, so unle
ss they're skipping a week, they should be here in about two hours, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess so. So?"

  "Well, where's the traffic? Somebody has to use this service. That's a pretty big dock from the looks of it, and the length of space between the knobs they use to tie things up shows a pretty fair-sized boat, too. You don't run a big boat empty. You either run a small boat or no boat, right? But here we are, maybe two hours ahead of the boat, and we're the only ones here."

  Poquah looked around and shook his head. "I don't know, but something tells me that we will find the answer to this shortly. I feel it. We will not be the only passengers."

  And as the sun set and shadows began to shimmer and then blend into the landscape, he was proved correct.

  You needed faerie sight to see them, but Irving's cultivation of some magical powers in his own right had given him that ability, which his two companions had as a matter of course. It was not, however, an unmixed blessing, particularly in this case.

  It began with what seemed like the wind, although there was no wind, a great, deep roar of misery, a cosmic sigh of regret, coming, it seemed, from all places at once. Then, slowly, they began to arrive and resolve themselves in the total darkness.

  People ... long chains of people, male and female, all linked together by spell threads so deep and dense that they seemed jet black. All were nude, and in spite of a deathly pale cast to their skins and a hollow, hopeless series of expressions that were hard to look at, they seemed in the main no older than Irving and in excellent shape. It was easy to see, though, that they were not what they appeared; although they seemed to be regular humans of a number of human racial types, the bodies were actually entirely faerie.

  "Human souls," Poquah explained, shaking his head.

  Marge was aghast. In all the time she'd been on this world, she'd never seen anything like it. "But—they look so healthy!"