Another Day, Another Dungeon

by Greg Costikyan

  "Dion," gasped Thwaite, calling on his god, "aid me now!" It was an expression of despair; he had no hope that anyone would answer.

  And then, something happened that Thwaite had problems remembering later. Something very strange. Suddenly, he no longer felt the belladonna in his veins. Instead, he felt—good. Happy. Wonderful, in fact.

  The orc was heating a sacrificial blade in a brazier. The blade glowed red. Well, maybe not wonderful, Thwaite thought.

  But the feeling was familiar, somehow. He felt like—like he'd just had six pints of stout, he realized. But without the need to pee.

  The orcish priest backed away, a look of horror on his tusked face. Thwaite didn't know it, but his entire body was englobed in brilliant, golden light.

  Father Thwaite looked at the niche to the right of the altar. It held Nick Pratchitt, now a hunk of stone. Thwaite knew, somehow, that he must touch the statue's toe.

  With a crack of thunder, Father Thwaite sat up from the altar, pulling the manacles right out of the rock. His muscles no longer twitched. However, his nose was red, and he was grinning happily.

  "Boo," he said to Fragrit, who gulped, backed away some more, and fell off the stage and into the congregation.

  In the distance there was thunder.

  "Thunder?" said Kraki. "Vhy is there thunder in cavern?"

  Sidney would have shrugged her shoulders if she'd had any. At least in this form, she could see in the dark. "Mraow, " she complained and led Kraki toward the orcish temple.

  Thwaite touched the toe of Nick's statue.

  Power thrilled through Thwaite's body. He could feel it pouring out of the altar, through him, and into the statue. The golden glow about Thwaite gradually diminished, and an equally golden glow spread across Nick Pratchitt. The orcs watched in awe.

  Fragrit peered over the lip of the altar. In sudden fear, he realized the power he'd tapped for so long was free.

  As suddenly as it had started, the power stopped flowing. Thwaite fell back on the altar. He felt wonderful. The room spun about him. He knew he should get up and do something, but it felt so much nicer just to sprawl there.

  The statue looked down and opened its hands, the glow suffusing its form.

  Sidney transformed. "Kraki," she said.

  The barbarian whirled in the darkness. "Vhat?" he cried. "Sidney?" "Yeah," she said. "We're almost there."

  "Vhere?" "The temple. Do you have an extra weapon?"

  "Yah, a dagger. Here. Vhere did you come from?" "Thanks. Never mind."

  Standing still, Nick Pratchitt rose out of the niche and floated across the temple.

  Nick touched Timaeus, then Garni. The bonds slipped from their bodies. Garfok and Dorog, who'd been holding the prisoners, were forced away as if by invisible hands.

  Garni's wounds closed.

  "My . . ." said Timaeus wonderingly, "my magic has been restored." The tableau held for a long moment. Then, the golden glow about Nick Pratchitt disappeared. He fell heavily to the ground, unconscious and, to all appearances, a normal human being.

  "Dey have defiled da temple!" screamed Fragrit. "Get 'em!" With a roar, the orcs boiled toward the altar.

  Timaeus began to chant.

  The temple door slammed open.

  "Die, foul vights!" said Kraki. He charged in, waving his sword. Sidney, naked, kept close to him, holding a dagger. The orcs, threatened from both the front and rear of the temple, milled confusedly.

  "Vights?" one orc said to another. "What does he mean, vights?" "I think he means wights," said the other.

  "But we isn't wights," said the first. "We is orcs." "Beats me," said the second.

  Kraki sliced both their heads off.

  The orcs divided. Some charged Timaeus and Garni; others turned to face Kraki and Sidney.

  "Duck!" yelled Timaeus. Sidney and Garni dropped prone. "Vhat?" said Kraki. Sidney pulled him down.

  "Duck?" said an orc. "What does he mean, duck?" "I dunno," said another. "We is orcs, not— Timaeus's fireball exploded.

  A handful of orcs survived, huddled at the side of the temple. All were scorched. Fragrit was dead, Garfok and Drizhnakh among the survivors. "YAH HA!" yelled Kraki and waded into the orcs, whipping his sword back and forth. He was in his element. Orcish gore flew.

  "Oi, Garfok," said Dorog. "Dat guy wiv da sword is gonna kill us all." "Parley!" yelled Drizhnakh.

  "YAH HA!" yelled Kraki again. He was happy. He was killing things. "Parley! Parley!" the orcs yelled, scrambling to get out of Kraki's way.

  Kraki paused, a little puzzled. "Come back," he yelled. "Fight like orcs, damn you!"

  "Can we please surrender?" pled Drizhnakh. "Pretty please?"

  "YAH HA!" shouted the barbarian, oblivious, as he killed three more orcs.

  Drizhnakh had a brainstorm. He threw his sword against the temple wall with a clang. He walked up to Kraki, lay down, and exposed his throat. "Awright," he said. "G'wan. Kill me."

  Kraki drew back his sword, then paused. "No fun," he complained. "Too easy. Get up and fight like orc."

  "No," said Drizhnakh. "If ya wants to kill me, it's gotta be like dis." All the remaining orcs tossed their weapons away.

  "Bah," said Kraki.

  "Oh, let them go, Kraki," said Timaeus. "They're no threat."

  Kraki pouted. "Hokay," he said reluctantly, hooking a thumb at the door. "Get lost."

  The orcs scrambled out of the temple.

  If the temple had looked grim before, it looked even grimmer now. Torches continued to gutter along the wall. Szanbu glared from behind the altar. Bits of orc lay hither and yon. Kraki sat down heavily on the dais. "Whew," he said and stretched out.

  Nick rose groggily, Sidney supporting him. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Yeah, I guess so." He noticed Sidney's state of undress. She was smeared with gore. "You've looked better, doll," he said.

  Sidney looked at herself. "Uh, yeah," she said. "Garni! Do you have another blanket?"

  "Aye," said the dwarf reluctantly. He was beginning to get a little tired of unpacking and repacking and unpacking . . .

  Timaeus was trying to get sense out of Thwaite. Thwaite wasn't being terribly cooperative. He was singing bits and snatches of drinking songs. "What happened there on the altar?" Timaeus demanded.

  "Hmm? Feel wonderful! Wonderful. And a hey down to the well, me lad, and a hey down to the well . . ."

  "You glowed golden."

  "Golden? Golden? Golden the ship was, oh oh oh . . ." Thwaite staggered away from Timaeus, beaming broadly.

  Timaeus wondered somewhat irritably how the cleric had managed to find booze while poisoned, comatose, and bound to an altar.

  Kraki sat up and wandered over to the altar. He grabbed the edge and pulled. It moved slightly. "Top comes off," he reported, and made to remove it.

  "Wait!" shouted Garni.

  Kraki looked down at the dwarf. "Vhat?" he demanded.

  "It could be trapped," said Garni. "Leave the job to professionals." Kraki scowled. "Bah," he said.

  "I'll do it," said Nick. He motioned Kraki away; the barbarian stepped off the dais reluctantly.

  Nick borrowed Sidney's ear trumpet and tapped over the altar, listening carefully. He frowned. "Magister," he said to Timaeus, "do you detect any magic within the altar?"

  Timaeus raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and chanted briefly. There was a flash before his eyes. The wizard jumped back, blinking furiously. "My dear Nicholas," he said slowly, "that altar virtually exudes power. I've rarely encountered a magical field of such intensity."

  Nick's eyes went wide. "We'd better be careful then," he said. "Yust lift the damn top off," Kraki said impatiently.

  Nick studied the altar for a moment, then looked at the statue of Szanbu. He took a coil of rope and tied it through the holes in the altar where the manacle pins had penetrated. He looped the rope through the brackets that held Szanbu's statue in place.

  He motioned everyone away from the altar, moved as far away himself as the rope would let h
im, and pulled on the rope, using the brackets as a primitive pulley.

  The rope strained. The altar top moved slightly. The brackets pulled free from the wall and Szanbu's statue crashed onto the floor.

  Thwaite winced. Szanbu was far from his favorite goddess, but desecration was desecration.

  Nick moved up to the altar and, crouching by its side, stuck a knife under the altar top. Carefully, covering his eyes, he pried the top up a crack.

  Nothing happened.

  He moved away from the altar and picked up the rope again. Standing as far away as possible, he pulled on the rope. The altar didn't budge. Kraki joined him and pulled too. The altar top slid off and hit the floor with a crash. It broke into several pieces.

  Nothing else happened.

  "Hoo boy," said Kraki sarcastically. "Big trap in that vone, for sure." He and Nick went forward to peer into the altar.

  Nick gasped.

  Lying in the altar was an exquisitely detailed, minutely rendered statue. The artistry alone was breathtaking. It was a life-sized depiction of a human male, wildly mustachioed, clad in pants and a leather harness, unarmed. His head was raised, as if he were looked upward; although he held himself proudly, his expression was one of trepidation.

  But it was neither the artistry nor the subject of the statue that caught the eye. It was the material.

  The statue shone richly, redly in the torchlight, shone with the unmistakable rosy tint of athenor.

  Athenor: chiefest among the magical metals. Athenor: which cannot be termed pink, nor red, any more than gold can be called yellow. Athenor: from which the greatest, most legendary objects of power are formed. Athenor: ounce for ounce and grain for grain, far more valuable than gold.

  Cautiously, Nick reached into the altar and rapped the statue. "Solid," he whispered. They were looking at a fortune; several fortunes; wealth beyond imagining.

  "Who is it?" Garni asked.

  Timaeus fingered his beard. "I don't know," he said. "But his garb is archaic. It must be immensely old."

  Garni ran his hand along the statue and peered at it closely. "No tool marks," he said. "I can't imagine how it was cast."

  "Let's get it out," said Nick.

  Kraki reached in and pulled. The statue barely budged. "Must veigh a ton," he grunted.

  They strung ropes under the statue and, pulling together, managed to haul it from the altar.

  "How in blazes are we going to get this thing up the shaft?" asked Timaeus plaintively.

  "Look," said Garni, "we'll worry about getting it out later. We still have other things to worry about. The chest, for one. And we still have wounded."

  The others fell silent.

  "Okay," said Nick. He walked to the chest by the altar and began to tap it.

  "Not again," muttered Kraki.

  "Right," said Father Thwaite, still dangerously red-faced but less obviously inebriated than before. "You're hurt the worst, Sidney, me lass . . ."

  She shook her head, "I'm sorry, Father."

  Garni took the priest by one arm. "She can't let you cure her," he said quietly.

  "Why not?"

  "She has . . . the taint of chaos." "She's a sh-shapechanger?"

  "It isn't widely known."

  "You bet. People don't like shapechangers. Why doesn't she do something about it? Therianthropy can be cured."

  "Yes, Father. But in her occupation, it comes in handy." "Oh? What is she?"

  "A cat. Who moves silently and sees in darkness. And can get places a human can't."

  "A pussycat," said Thwaite. "That's nice. But . . . ," he furrowed his brow, "if she dies unsanctified—"

  "That's her risk."

  While they talked, Nick fiddled with the chest. He listened with the ear trumpet. He pressed all over the chest for buttons or moving panels. He tied a rope around it and tugged. He cut one of the leather straps that bound the chest, and began to work the strap free.

  Kraki watched Nick with increasing impatience. "Bah!" he said finally. "Enough vith this silliness. Vhen you go through a door in a tavern, do you check it for traps?"

  "No," said Nick, "but—"

  "It's yust a chest. Vaste of time. I show you how." He muscled Nick aside and yanked open the lid.

  There was an explosion. Three steel darts shot forth and buried themselves in Kraki's chest. There was a faint hiss as a greenish gas spurted out the side. Smoke rose from the lid.

  Kraki inhaled the gas.

  "See?" he said hoarsely, bleeding from the dart wounds. "Is how varrior opens chest." He pounded his chest, coughed vigorously, and keeled over with a crash. Thwaite stumbled to the barbarian, pulling out his incense and aspergillum.

  "Thoroughly unprofessional," Garni muttered, shaking his head.

  Nick grinned bemusedly and peered inside the chest. "Looks like most of the treasure the orcs took off us," he said.

  "More stuff to get up the shaft," Timaeus grumbled, wandering over to look. "My pipe!' he yelped happily, diving into the chest. He pulled out his pipe and wiped it with his blanket, then started pawing through the chest, looking for pipeweed.

  VI

  Just dragging the statue to the base of the shaft was exhausting. They were all sweating, and Kraki, who'd borne the brunt of the labor, was panting heavily. The shaft itself was daunting. Their lantern lit only the first twenty cubits, but that was quite enough. They could see a five-foot cliff, thirty-degree slopes of smooth, water-worn rocks, and boulders blocking what would otherwise be the obvious path. They knew full well that the traverse became no easier at higher elevations.

  "Can we set up some kind of pulley system?" Sidney asked Garni. The dwarf considered.

  "I don't see how," he replied. "I only have about fifty feet of rope. To bear the weight of the statue, I'd have to quadruple it up-that only leaves a length of about ten feet. If we can find someplace to rest the statue every few feet while we move the pulley, we might be able to do it—but you remember what the shaft is like. Slanting places, cliffs, boulders . . ."

  "Yeah." She turned to Timaeus. "How about magic?"

  He puffed on his pipe. "Madam, we've been over this. The statue weighs close to a ton. The shaft is at least fifty feet high. The amount of energy I'd have to expend to lift a ton that far against the natural tendency of earthly objects to fall is simply prohibitive. Besides which, I am no polymage; my idiom is fire. Now, if you could find me a supply of magical energy to tap . . ." Timaeus took out his pipe and held it, staring into space. "Hmm."

  "How about the statue itself? You said it holds a great deal of magical energy. . . ."

  "Yes, bound in some way I cannot begin to fathom. But I have another idea."

  "What the hell are they doing up there?" said Sidney impatiently. Timaeus and Kraki had disappeared up the shaft thirty minutes ago to prepare some spell the wizard had in mind. They'd left the rest of the party with the statue. Sidney eyed the pool suspiciously and worried about crocodiles. And about orcs. "What if those orcs come back?" she asked.

  "Calm down," said Nick. "Everything'll be fine."

  They stood by the base of the shaft. There was nothing to be heard but the occasional splash of a croc or squeak of a bat. And . . .

  "Ssst! I hear something," Nick whispered. Walking on his toes, he moved out into the darkness.

  There was the sound of a brief struggle.

  "Well, well, well," Nick said. "What have we here?" He came back into the circle of light cast by the lantern, clutching Lenny by the neck. "Lenny run away from bad orcth," Lenny said, studying possible escape routes. "Come to find friendth!"

  Nick chuckled.

  "What did I tell you, lizard?" Sidney said coldly. Lenny said nothing. He looked forlorn.

  "You betrayed us," she said.

  "No! No! Lenny alwayth faithful. Bad orcth capture Lenny. Torture Lenny! Thay bad thingth. Make Lenny tell about friendth. Lenny want to help! Bad orcth make Lenny do bad thingth!"

  "I told you that if you betrayed us, I'd hunt
you down and kill you, lizard," Sidney said.

  "No! No! Don't kill Lenny! Lenny alwayth faithful! Lenny found good treasures!" His legs windmilled desperately.

  "I think he'd make a nice pair of boots," Nick said, studying the lizardman, still holding Lenny by the neck. Lenny whimpered.

  "You can't just kill him out of hand," said Father Thwaite. He was sitting on the rocks, clutching his head. He was in the unhappy state between drunkenness and sobriety, when one is neither entirely sober nor free of the pains of hangover.

  "Why not?" said Nick.

  "He does have a soul," said Thwaite, "and he is no immediate danger to us."

  "If we let him go, he'll just screw someone else," said Sidney.

  "No! No! Lenny reform! Lenny thee light! Lenny join monathtery! Lenny thpend retht of life repenting thins!" He began keening hymns, slightly off key.

  "Shut up, you," Nick said.

  Garni cleared his throat. "I have a practical consideration to offer," he said.

  "What's that?" asked Sidney.

  "We need to get an awful lot of stuff up the shaft," said Garni. "He's an extra pair of arms and legs."

  "True," said Nick, grinning. "Oh, all right. You live, Lenny, old pal." "Lenny very, very grateful. Lenny love human friendth. Lenny do anything for humanth!"

  "Stop grovelling!" snarled Sidney.

  Timaeus was puffing. Kraki's torso was covered with a sheen of sweat. The pile of rocks was turning into a sizable hill.

  They had scavenged the tabletop from the room where the trolls had been killed. Currently, it was standing between two outcroppings, a little way down the slope, holding the pile of rocks in place. "I hope this is enough," Kraki said. "Board is bulging." He was right. The inch-thick oak was visibly bending under the weight.

  "I believe this will do," said Timaeus. He paused to think, filled his pipe, and—Bang!—lit it. Flames enveloped his head, then gradually dissipated. "How does this vork, anyvay?" Kraki asked.

  "It's quite an elegant spell, really," Timaeus said enthusiastically. "All we do is establish a magical similarity between these rocks and the statue. But we reverse the sign on the position vector. That way, the potential energy of the rocks lifts the statue! We don't have to invest much power ourselves, except to establish the identity."