Horrors of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  At the end was an enormous piece of statuary, a great demonic idol whose ruby-red eyes blazed down on them. It was right in character, reminding Marge of the demonic figure atop the mountain in Fantasia, and when it actually moved, as if it were a living thing itself, it was pretty damned scary.

  "Who disturbs the King?" the creature demanded in a deep, spooky voice that echoed down the broad entrance hall.

  "The ones from Husaquahr," Sammy told it, unimpressed and underawed. "About that stuff goin' on down south."

  "Oh, yes. Ruddygore's group. Very well; bring them in."

  To everyone's surprise, Sammy ran right up to the demonic figure, pushed something in the base, and made a keystone pop out. He then turned it, and there was a noticeable click and a door was framed in the base. It opened, blasting light into the room, and with it also something else.

  Marge at least recognized it as sixties rock music. It sounded in fact like Jim Morrison.

  Following the boy through, they emerged not in some creepy place but in a rather modern-looking office with a nice computer sitting on a desk and built-in bookshelves all around containing lots and lots of reference works, classic horror novels, science fiction, history, geography, you name it.

  A fairly normal looking human man of average size was at the computer, typing away. He didn't stop when they entered, and they stood there quietly as he continued on, until he filially completed whatever he'd been typing and looked up at them.

  "Sorry. When you're going good, you can't just stop. You have to finish the thought or you lose it," he explained in a very friendly American-accented voice.

  Irving frowned and blinked. "You are the King of Horror?" he asked.

  "At your service, at least for, oh, for ten or fifteen minutes or so. Best I can spare today. Lots to get done. It's not easy being the foundation for all contemporary horror on Earth, you know. The imitators drive you nuts, then there's the sycophants, all the folks wanting your money or your endorsement for something, and even strangers deciding you're so damned public, they can tramp through your house. It was that damned Amex commercial that started it. Never should have done that one. I've had to hide half the time over here ever since." He seemed lost in his own world, then suddenly remembered his guests. "Sorry. Just what am I supposed to do for you?"

  "Uh, Your Majesty, there are eldritch horrors about to emerge from a crack in space-time near Mount Doom," Poquah said as respectfully as possible. "We're supposed to stop them within the Rules."

  The King nodded, sat back in his chair, and sighed. He pointed to one wall of the room. "Those Rules drive you nuts sometimes. Worst part is, when you wind up in this job, you find that the next volume's all your Rules that everybody's stuck with. What a burden! Still, okay, it's probably not eldritch horrors—they're pretty passé. Most likely the Ancient Ones, I'd guess. That mythos never went out of style and keeps inspiring more and more of our best. Inspired me, too. That's the only reason they're still around at all, still a threat as an alternate opposition, see. They're useful, they're valuable, and a lot of Earth still really gets into them."

  Irving cleared his throat. "Um, excuse me. Do you mean that all these horrors .only exist or have great power because Earth still believes in them?"

  "Oh, no. I doubt if anybody sane on Earth believes in 'em. But folks still sit down and read the stories they inspired, that they communicated to the best of the bunch, starting with Chambers and Bierce, and folks still find the stories scary. When you're scared, then for that period you believe. See? And that's enough to keep anything or anybody alive in the Sea of Dreams."

  Marge should have been between groggy and comatose, but she was wide awake for some reason here. "But I thought it was the reality here that influenced the dreams and nightmares over there."

  "It's both. No communication is ever just one-way, and this is no exception. The difference is that what we take from here over there is a dream; what we take from there over here becomes reality. We go back and forth like that. It's what connects us together. The only way to destroy these Ancient Ones is by destroying all vestiges of them in the imaginations and literature of Earth, which is very unlikely. It would be really interesting if they took over here, I have to admit. It would make things easier for people like me back on Earth. Think of the universal dreams and nightmares that would travel then!"

  "And yet you are willing to aid us in blocking their coming?" Poquah prompted hopefully, not at all pleased at how this was developing.

  "Oh, sure. Take me, for example. Everything you see here isn't what's real, it's what enough of Earth thinks of as a kind of fantasy. When all is said and done, I kind of like the job. When people like you, they can make things very nice in their imaginations. I'd find them coming through interesting but not enough to risk all this. So you want me to unlock the gates of the Garden Wood for you. That about right?"

  "The Garden Wood? Is that what you call the forest near Mount Doom?" Irving asked him.

  "Well, yeah, it's what I call it, not what everybody else calls it. See, there's one part of it on every continent here. The trees of the ancient Garden, all split up. This is the part with the mean one, the Tree of Knowledge that screwed everything up but gave us all the plots. Pretty tough to build interest or suspense if you can't tell the difference between good and evil. Of course, it also introduced pain, death, all the things that make life exciting. Used to be a great place for snakes, too, but this business has chased them all out. They're mad as hell about it, too. Just what will you do once you're in there?"

  "We'll use the McGuffin," Poquah told him. "I have a basic formula provided by Master Ruddygore. It will seal the rift and restore things to a normal equilibrium without doing much else. It is thought that the status quo is the best possible resolution."

  "Okay, I'll buy that. You might have some problems, though. Nobody knows where the McGuffln is in there; the hiding place can be seen only by mortals, and no mortals have survived that place that I know of. There's also a lot of turncoats and surreptitious followers of the Ancient Ones all through there. That's a lot of power and a lot of danger roaming around the woods while you go hunting for the sucker." A watch alarm began to beep steadily, and the King shut it off. "Look, that's it. I have a lot to do here. I'll make sure that you're authorized, and that's all I can do. You should also speak with Prince Mephistopheles and see if you can figure a quick and dirty way in. Sammy can show you the way."

  "Meph—the Mephistopheles?" Marge was amazed.

  "Sure. The idea of there being two of them is too terrible to think about. At least he's used to dealing with humans. Go on down and talk it out. Good luck. I really hope you make it."

  He turned and was soon absorbed once more at his computer keyboard, oblivious to their presence. They knew they had been dismissed.

  Sammy came in and looked at them. "Follow me," he piped, and they had no choice but to follow.

  The contrast between the opulence and comfort level of where they'd been and the spartan, monastic-looking medieval room where they were taken by the boy couldn't have been more marked. There wasn't even electricity in this underground chamber, just oil lamps.

  Marge felt quite comfortable in the cold, stony place, but less so mentally as she realized that this was where they were to meet with the prime minister of Hell. She'd met a demon face-to-face before, one far more minor than this august presence, and it had been among the scarier things she'd ever experienced.

  They waited, and finally Irving whispered, "How long do we stay here?"

  "Learn patience," Poquah cautioned. "Being too impulsive and in too much of a huffy can get us all killed down there."

  "A mature sentiment, sir," said a strange, deep, but quite pleasant voice that seemed half cleric and half schoolmaster for some reason. They all turned and saw that Mephistopheles had arrived through the wall.

  He was dressed in dark earth-brown robes like a monk, and there was nothing about him to suggest that he was a major supernatural
entity or in fact that he was demonic in any way. The face, deep within the hood of the robe, was next to impossible to make out and darkly shadowed, but the hands looked quite human and, interestingly, quite unblemished.

  "They will not let you get in, you know," the demon prince commented.

  "Then how do we do it?" Poquah asked him.

  "It might have been possible to sneak in even a few weeks ago, but now they have pretty well secured the entire region and the three provinces around it. A great many have been impressed to build some sort of structure in the center of the forest. We're not quite certain what it is or why, but there could be thousands of their minions working on it. It is certain that this is where they will come through."

  "When?"

  "Soon. There is not much time. We thought we had several months, but now that looks far less likely. One ... entity ... has already passed through; we don't quite understand how. The entity itself is quite small, certainly not one of them, and must have come through primarily by using their linking of power to push himself through, a worrisome and unheard-of effort. They do not tend to like each other very much, although the Ancient Ones are somewhat elemental in nature and thus can work together to split the rewards. There is one for the sea, one for the land, one for air, one for fertility, one for the space between the stars, and so on. The entity has gathered, built, organized, and seems ready to open the way."

  "How does the way get open?" Irving asked, genuinely curious.

  "That we do not really know, but already there are nightly rituals in the structure. You must get in, and you must close the way as quickly and unobtrusively as possible."

  'Two others went before us," Marge noted. "They had an exact map with the location of the object that can close the way to the Ancient Ones. Did they not reach the valley or not get in, or was it that neither one could see it?"

  "The companion could see it, halfling or not," Mephistopheles replied. "The key is half-human and mortal, and she is almost precisely that. She is also otherwise a total and complete cipher—to us, to them, to herself. They were in fact a complication, and we moved to stop them lest they get the McGuffin and not use it in the way it must be used. We missed. They got into their dominion and beyond ours. We know, however, that they did not get it, for the energy disruption would be easily monitored. The Grand McGuffin remains in its sanctuary. We assume, then, that they are either dead or have suffered an even worse fate at the hands of our mutual enemy."

  Poor Joe, Marge thought, then realized that Joe couldn't die. That meant that falling into the hands of whatever they were was almost dead certain. She almost would have preferred Joe dead. If they had the same kind of powers, or greater, that Hell had, then it might well come down to fighting Joe for the McGuffin—and Joe couldn't die.

  "We will marshal our main forces and push through a hole that you can use to enter," Mephistopheles told them. "It will be a challenge, but so long as the Rules hold, we can do this—and so far, the Rules still command. A legion of Hell will ride before you, clearing a path straight to the wood, but it cannot enter. Once you are inside the valley, you will be entirely on your own. Use every power of magic and intellect that any of you possess; show no mercy, for they will show you none. Avoid contact with the enemy if you can—we shall keep the pressure on and thus keep their attention upon us for as long as we can. If your companions are caught and their lives or worse threatened, you must be willing to sacrifice them, since all else can be fixed but once the others come through, what difference will your friends' lives make?"

  Marge sighed. "We really don't have all that much. I can't see how we can hope to win."

  "All the signs, all the Rules, say that you are the only ones who might do it. Also, you will find them more deadly and repulsive than filled with strange powers. Their followers devolve; there is emotion and animalism within them more than sheer intellect, even though it is intellect that gets them hooked in the first place, a phenomenon with which I am very familiar myself. Avoid, however, the Dark Faerie who serve them, for they have such power. We do not believe that there are many of these, and they are at least subject to the same restrictions and vulnerabilities as those on your side."

  Irving considered that. "Then are there iron weapons available here? In deference to these two, I've carried only bronze up to now."

  "It will be provided to you, but do not be overconfident with your iron. As it would have little effect on me, it may not work on the entity, depending on its true nature. Unlike its masters, when it emerged here, it was not of godlike strength and thus was bent to conform to the Rules. They must have known that and prepared for it, even come with some sort of template for serving their aims. The entity would have been energy alone in the Sea of Dreams but would have solidified here. As what we cannot say, but beware of putting too much faith on any one thing. Your best bet is secrecy, dedication, and the McGuffin."

  "Do you know exactly where the McGuffin is?" Poquah asked smoothly.

  Mephistopheles was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "No, but you do. You have the map from the thief?"

  It wasn't an admonishment, merely a demonstration and reminder. They were not dealing with just another faerie creature here; this was a creature of Hell, of nearly godlike powers, as comfortable in his own dominion or here as on Earth. Although this was his traditional way of appearing to men, he must in reality have been something incredibly grand and powerful.

  He read their thoughts, also child's play for such a one, and asked, "Do you know the difference between monotheism and polytheism?' Nobody answered, and so he went on.

  "Semantics," he answered. "One angel can slay an entire army or pick out only the firstborn of a nation. That which you read in the ancient books of the powers of angels is understated; they would be gods in any other pantheon under a chief god, just like Odin or Jupiter or Zeus."

  "Good point, I suppose," Irving responded after a moment, feeling the power radiate from the strange monk but figuring he had little to lose. "But if you're that powerful, why don't you go in and we'll stay back here."

  The others gasped at his nerve and impudence, but Mephistopheles wasn't at all disturbed, or at least didn't sound so. "Quite correct. There are limits. Were there none, we would own you all and not have to work nearly so hard. We need each other. You need us to get you in there past a kind of power you cannot imagine. We need you to go the rest of the way. It is good to notice, however, who allies with whom here. Hell is at the side of human and faerie. You see none of Heaven here. A bit of war or pestilence or disease from us and everyone curses. But if Heaven commands Joshua to kill all the men, women, and children in three cities and bum them to the ground, it's 'praise God!' Our influence here is about the same as on Earth, no more, no less. Their influence would be absolute if they were allowed to materialize here. You'll see their minions. You'll see what this world will easily become under them. And Heaven is content to allow it to happen. Keep that in mind."

  Nobody wanted to argue theology with Mephistopheles under the best of circumstances and particularly not now. Instead, Marge asked, "So when do we go?'

  "The King has given his blessing. My own ruler has sanctioned the plan. The legion even now is being gathered and briefed. Do you wish to go in by day or by night?"

  Now it was the military one among them, Poquah, who took over. "Is there an advantage one way or the other?"

  "Not really. We're not dealing with minor creatures like vampires and the like here. Some of the greatest accomplishments of Hell were achieved in bright sunshine. Likewise, they tend to a more normal sort of schedule, with heavy work and such during the day and then reduced activity at night, with little advantage one way or the other in overall powers."

  'Then we should go in near sunset," the Imir told him. "This will give us sufficient light to establish ourselves and set up a camp and some, cover if we have opportunities later."

  "So be it. Use today to try and shift yourselves a bit in schedule and prepare.
Use tonight for practice. Tomorrow sleep most of the day and then awaken refreshed and prepared," the demon instructed. "We will insert you at the gate of the forest tomorrow at one hour before sunset. Meet me on the battlement here precisely at eighteen hundred tomorrow night. Let us end this matter, resolve this grave crisis, and quickly."

  ****

  There had been little discussion about what they should and should not bring. They had traveled light up to now, and even cooking would be risky once they were inside, so supplies would be mostly things that were dried or sealed and could be eaten cold or raw. Although the forest was fruit-bearing, there was little likelihood that a large workforce in there would have left much edible.

  For Irving they secured a full and well-balanced sword of a nice iron alloy with a plain but quite solid hilt. He wasn't a master swordsman, it was true, but this weapon might well be just as effective handled crudely. Nothing that might withstand it or ward it off was going to be any less clumsy when it did.

  For Larae they took a sling, since she claimed to be adept with one, and a spear of light but aerodynamic wood that ended in a serrated and polished stone tip that had been dipped in and coated with a paint high in the mineral magnetite. It would do the same damage, depending on where it struck, whether the object was mortal or faerie. Finally, she selected a sharp dagger that might well be thrown if it could not be plunged, again with an iron alloy blade.

  Poquah could not handle the iron, but his own short sword, his bow and quiver, and a sharp boomeranglike device he called a jerun satisfied him as much as anything could. All those familiar with or flout Earth agreed that a nice submachine gun and grenades would be handy, but they weren't very common in those parts.

  Marge took nothing, as always, and Thebes seemed more trustworthy without a weapon than with one and not all that much of an asset considering his cowardice in the face of the zombies. Still, he had begged to go, swearing that one way or the other he could get in there anyway. Short of killing him, which would have been easy enough but still would have bothered the Company, the only way to make sure he wouldn't blow their entry was to take him along.