Horrors of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  "In a sense they are. This is the true faerie component of humanity," the Imir told her. "Everyone comes out his ideal and ageless self, of course. However, these will soon change, as this material is both malleable and corruptible. It is raw material on its way to the foundry to be reshaped to their new masters' whims."

  "Then they're on their way to Hell? Via boat?"

  "Perhaps. Some will go there, some won't. Don't think of Hell as a place of eternal punishment. It is not, except in the sense that it is totally removed from all that is Heaven. These people are now at the eternal mercy of Hell and its rulers. In a sense, going the other way is the same thing, but it is generally felt that God and the angels are much better to work under than Satan and the demons. Just don't think of it as necessarily eternal punishment. These people are being sent where their souls' owners wish, to be used for those owners' purposes."

  A mysterious tall, dark figure nearby overheard the explanation and came over toward them. It wore a dark robe and hood, and only the glow of two beady red eyes and a larger glow below showed any features at all.

  "Hello, brothers and sister," the creature greeted them in a deep but convivial voice that sounded so silky smooth, it reminded Marge of a Texas politician. "Couldn't help overhearing your explanation, there, friend, and you're pretty much on the mark." A black arm went up and took something from the mouth, and as the glow swept down with it, they could see that the mysterious larger object was a very large, fat, and somewhat smelly cigar. "Nimrod's the name. Louie B. Nimrod. That's my string over there." He pointed to a long and typically unhappy lot, and they could now see the nearly absolute black of the spell against the night that linked them to the demon.

  "You're taking them to Hell?" Marge asked uneasily. "I thought if you were supposed to go there, you just went."

  "Oh, my, no! I'm taking them to Yuggoth, of course. I assume that's why you and everybody else are here. I mean, this boat don't go to Hell, little lady. You're right to some extent about not needing some of this in the more routine operations, but you always got to collect 'em. Even the enemy collects. They generally got an easier collection job than we do, of course. Damn fools actually want to go with them. They don't know the eternity of total boredom that awaits them up there."

  "Your reputation for what happens to them after they go with you does not include boredom in general, I'll give you that," Marge commented dryly.

  "Oh, it's not nearly that bad. I mean, we're not talking circles of punishment and fiery pits and all that rubbish. Why would we? That would put us in the business of punishing the enemies of our enemy, wouldn't it? That lake of fire business is if we lose, and we've not lost by a long shot. We're at war. These are soldiers. They became soldiers the moment they enlisted in our cause when still alive, and they're even more useful now that they've gone through their enlistment incentives and bonuses."

  "Enlistment incen— oh!" Marge suddenly realized that the demon was talking about whatever these people got from demons like Nimrod while still alive. It took a little mental gymnastics to switch points of view here. "So what do they do for you now?"

  'Well, now that they're totally ours, they go to work. Privates all, of course. Pretty rare to get instant officer material from the living, although it does happen. These are mostly support troops in the making. We'll put 'em in and train 'em on Yuggoth in the basics. Sort of the ditchdiggers, heavy laborers, that kind of thing. We'll evaluate, test, observe, and the most promising ones will eventually get promoted, while the rest will stay down doing the crap work that always has to be done by somebody. And of course we'll be checking for special skills and aptitudes to develop."

  "Is this normal, though?" Poquah asked him. "So many off to Yuggoth instead of to Hell?"

  The demon took another puff and then replied, waving his cigar for emphasis like a prop. "See, we don't have to enlist most folks. They volunteer, whether here or on Earth. We don't even bother with them. These, though, are ones I had to enlist. Ones with a real possibility of going the enemy's way. These are the ones we really prize, since they're generally the most useful to us and have the most potential to harm the enemy. We always keep our bargains to the letter, so now they all get their chance before being sent down. It's not always easy, I don't mind telling you! I mean, we don't even bother with the usual types—murderers, rapists, torturers, politicians, lawyers, TV evangelists, that sort. These, now—revolutionaries, wide-eyed save-the-world types, bleeding hearts, guilt trippers—these people all had the best of intentions, the noblest and most self-sacrificing of motives. That's where I come in. My firm, Azaroth, Beelzebub, Zarnath, and Smith, P.A., is one of the top recruiting firms in Husaquahr. Why, in independent surveys by I. M. Power, four out of five of our clients rated us tops in delivering what we say, and our collection rate is among the best in the business. You won't catch ABZS clients haunting houses and stalking graveyards, no, indeed!"

  "It is nice to see someone happy in his work," Marge whispered.

  Another, larger demon noticed them and came over. "You been puffin' yourself up again, Louie? If you're that good, how come you're workin' the poor side of the street instead of Earth?"

  "Seniority, that's all, and you know it!" Nimrod snapped back.

  "Seniority, my ass!" the newcomer snapped. "You really want to know, folks? Because we're threatened with a two-front war, that's why! We need every soul in creation to build the dikes in Yuggoth or we're gonna get drowned, that's what!"

  Nimrod sounded genuinely shocked. "Blasphemy! Can't nobody beat Hell!"

  "Not one on one," the newcomer agreed. "But if we have to fight on two fronts, and if our ancient enemy is willing to turn its back on Husaquahr like usual, then we'll be stuck right in the middle. These souls aren't goin' to no backwater, folks! They're headed for the new front lines!"

  "Pardon me," Poquah said with his usual quiet authority, "but do I understand that there is someone attacking your people on Yuggoth?"

  "You heard me right, friend," the second demon said, nodding. "Somebody woke up the Ancient Ones from their long sleep and is preparing to let them through. The only common enemy we and you know who have is threatening to get loose. If they break out, half the dark forces will turn traitor just because they see the power, and since we're the ones who'll most get it in the neck over here, Old Sweetness and Light won't intervene until it's probably too late. He'd rather see this whole universe fall than help us. Makes you wonder how they can love a guy like that. And they wonder why we rebelled!"

  Marge had a sudden eerie realization of just what the demons and the Imir were talking about. God! God from the opposing point of view ...

  "They didn't tell me anything about this," Nimrod sniffed. "This was supposed to be a milk run! They promised!"

  "Yeah, well, you know what promises are worth," the other demon commented. "Buck up! You might have a chance to lead these miserable souls into battle against the greatest threat we can think of. Think of the glory!"

  "Think of the hurt," Nimrod grumped.

  The older demon turned from his companion in disgust and sniffed contemptuously. "How come you folks are heading toward Yuggoth?" he asked, apparently no more than curious. "Not too many faerie of your lineage go near the place, and that boy over there—he's red meat."

  "Do not underestimate the boy," Poquah warned. "He is working out a destiny under the Rules. As for us, we have been asked to go down and see exactly what you were just speaking about. I am the chief adept and majordomo for Master Ruddygore, and the lady here is a long veteran of his service. The boy is under his general protection."

  "Ruddygore, huh? I heard of him. Does he think he's gonna get a progress report from you or what? It's a lot tougher to get out of there than in."

  "So we have heard, but do not underestimate our patron, either," the Imir responded smoothly. 'We are under the seal and protection of His Majesty the King who sits upon the Throne of Horror. We should not be considered at risk in any event, I should think. O
ur job is to see how great the danger and its nature and to see if there is anything the powers of the Council might do to aid in keeping the Ancient Ones where they are. No return, no report."

  "Yeah, well, good luck. Yuggoth ain't no place to fool around." He turned, and his eyes blazed. "Hey! I think the boat's comin' in!"

  Sure enough, off in the distance there came a tremendous roar that canceled out the sound of wind and waves. It was a massive, powerful, pulsating sound, very regular and very controlled. It had been pulsing fairly fast, but now, as it approached them and the dock, the beat slowed appreciably, and all eyes, even those of the damned, turned in silent anticipation toward the pitch-dark sea. While not disturbing, the sound was certainly like nothing else any of them might ever have heard.

  "Hove . . Hove ... Hove . . . Hove . . ."

  "Well, it explains the name," Marge commented, trying to keep some semblance of humor and not think too much about what an idiotic thing she was doing even thinking of setting foot on that ship.

  For a while there was nothing apparent, but then, out of the gloom, they spotted some lights approaching, lights that grew larger and brighter as they approached the dock.

  There were shouts from out in the water, a sudden sense of huge black things suddenly letting go, and a settling of the boat into the water. What those things were they couldn't see; not even faerie sight helped with it except to show the nearly impossible massive shapes that were dark even against the pitch black of the night and that reflected not a thing, hovering up and over the boat, which was now and possibly for the first time floating in the water.

  It was a large craft, a hundred meters or more in length, and shaped like an extended oval, with tapered black outer skin going from a thick base that sat in the water up at least three stories to a large enclosed bridge.

  As it slid slowly up along one side of the dock and lines shot out from it and from shore to tie it off, Irving commented, "That's some ship!"

  Marge nodded, gaping along with Irving. It was a lot more than she had expected but also a lot more menacing for all that.

  There was a loud, hollow sound like the noise a million lost souls might make in torment, and from this came an eerie-sounding male voice that sent shivers up their spines.

  "The H.P. Lines hovecraft Eibon is now in port. Embarkation for Red Bluffs, Yuggoth, will be precisely one hour before dawn. All those needing passage must have checked in with the ticketing office prior to boarding and turn their documentation over to the purser. Boarding will be possible in one hour. We would reconsider if we were you."

  "Cheery," Marge noted. "They don't seem to be anxious for new business, anyway."

  "Considering the state of humankind, I suspect they get all the business they can handle as it is," Poquah responded with all seriousness. He turned to keep an eye on Irving, who, as a living, warm-blooded mortal was probably the one in most danger here. The boy was reading some pamphlet he had picked up at the ticket kiosk, which had just opened.

  "What is that you are looking at, Irving?" Poquah asked, curious.

  The boy showed him the face of the brochure, which contained a drawing of the bow of the ship flanked by a lot of dark shapes around which them was very prominent tiding.

  "Hmmmm . . . Journey to Yuggoth by HP Hovecraft. Rather standard-looking brochure. Any information of interest?"

  "Not particularly. Not terribly encouraging, though, either. Sort of says that they wouldn't go if they were us and then describes a bunch of scary stuff." He looked up and toward the boat, which was in the process of off-loading goods and passengers. The odd thing was that although there were again hints of black against black movement, you couldn't see any of the crew or longshoremen at all.

  The nature of the cargo also was impossible to determine, but for more conventional reasons: it was all more or less in large boxes, crates, or containerlike rectangular shapes that fitted into or onto the backs of waiting wagons and wagon frames. While some of the smaller boxes did seem to resemble coffins, overall there didn't seem to be much unusual there.

  The passengers, however, were something else again. Since they had been warned that nobody who went into Yuggoth tended to be able to leave it, it was something of a surprise to see that traffic did indeed go both ways, after all. These passengers, however, were probably not ones who had gone in before or at least gone in looking like they did now.

  "Holy smoke!" Irving exclaimed. 'What are they?"

  "They" were several very distinctive-looking women of supernatural endowments with exotic and erotic faces. They were certainly faerie; their skins were deep crimsons and purples and even had streaks of black, their hair was deep purple and thick, tumbling sensuously over shoulders and breasts, and they were wearing shiny form-fitting leather pants and incredibly high heels. They were certainly fliers; the wings on their backs, though, were sleek and stylized batlike appendages.

  Marge gasped at the sight of them and felt instant and nearly uncontrollable anger and revulsion. Poquah was ready and restrained her gently.

  "Succubi," she spat, saying the word as if it were the vilest of poisons.

  Irving seemed impervious to her tone and obvious loathing. "Yeah? I've read about them but never seen them. Funny, except for the colors and the wings and maybe a little more height, they don't look all that different from you."

  She spun around angrily. "Don't say that! Don't ever say that!"

  In point of fact, though, the Succubi and the Kauri were two sides of the same coin, the yin and yang of a single species. The Kauri could purge or cleanse men of their guilt and burdens through erotic sex and thus performed a service; the Succubi used precisely the same techniques to suck out a man's soul and leave only corruption. Both indeed had precisely the same powers and worked them in much the same way; it was the purpose and limits on those uses that differentiated the good from the evil ones.

  The Succubi got into waiting coaches with blinds drawn and roared off, but Marge wasn't off the hook yet. The next group off the boat was a small number of faerie males of much the same stripe. They had muscles on their muscles and the tightest of rear ends; their faces were totally masculine yet erotic, sensual, a male version of the Succubi, and the male organs showing through very tight pants almost as if they were naked were, um, impossible. They, too, were fliers, with wings that were far more pronounced as batlike but that when folded formed a kind of sexy and attractive cloak

  "Incubi, the male version," Poquah told Irving. "Neither of the two sexes appears as you are seeing them to their victims, although they do much the same. Instead, they appear as the perfect dream combination, male or female, that the subject most desires or would desire if fantasies were reality. Even with faerie sight they are difficult to resist. Without it they are next to impossible to defend against, since they are the subject's sexual fantasy incarnate. Except for being too good to be true, most mortals would not even recognize them as faerie, let alone as a threat. They're not too common here, though, since any faerie race can see them for what they are and there is no power over us."

  They were, however, the beginnings of a parade of very scary sorts, most of whom seemed somehow not quite so frightening in this context. There were vampires and ghouls and beasties and things that went bump in the night and all sorts of scary creatures, as well as a number of quite ordinary-looking people who seemed physically out of place but not the least bit uncomfortable.

  "Those are the most dangerous of all," Marge noted quite seriously to Irving. "They look and act just like everybody else, and they're friendly and trustworthy types you'd never look twice at. The vampires and ghouls can go after one or two at a time, but these people can corrupt or destroy whole nations, races, and ways of life, often with no more than a word, or a gesture, or simply a refusal to act. I'd rather deal with a vampire or a ghoul any old day."

  Had the Dark Baron once been a passenger like these? She wondered about that. Had he seen the misery and poverty around him here and found nobody
but defenders of the system around his own people? He'd been a good man once; they all attested to that. In that sense he, more than anyone else, had been the epitome of the phrase "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions." That and the curse of the true intellectual searching for meaning and order in a universe that had little of them. Just one creeping thought, one blasphemous doubt, might well be enough for somebody like him. "If God permits such suffering and misery, perhaps the Devil is right"

  In the end the Baron had betrayed both Heaven and Hell, and where his soul had gone was anybody's guess.

  All of a sudden it was as if it were yesterday, but with that additional element of doubt. If Joe could somehow survive, in some form, the fall into that lava, then why not the Baron as well?

  No, no! That way lay madness.

  "You are suddenly disturbed," Poquah noted. "Second thoughts?"

  "Tenth thoughts," she responded. "Never mind. Just seeing this dark bunch of villains and knowing where we're headed now kind of brings up all sorts of dark thoughts out of the dim corners of the mind—ones better left where they are, I think. Forget it."

  Poquah nodded. "I know what you mean. Wait here and keep an eye on the boy. I'm going to see if the Master did indeed arrange for our passage. I almost hope that somehow he did not."

  While Poquah made his way warily through the throngs of the damned toward the ticketing kiosk, Marge went over to Irving, who was simply sitting on the ground, half- reclined, looking at the assembled multitudes with a blank sort of expression.

  "Worried?" she asked him.

  He shook his head negatively. "Not yet. Maybe when we really get into it, but not now. Sort of neat to see all those white folks in chains. Kind of poetic justice. The rest? Well, I've seen their type before. Ruddygore deals with demons, you know, and I've had some contacts myself. You got to be careful and you can't trust 'em but so far, but overall they're not nearly as scary for what they are as for what they can do to you if you let them."

  "Yeah? Well, most kids your age tend to think they're both invulnerable and immortal. The ones who survive to grow up learn different. The rest learn right away."