Another Day, Another Dungeon

by Greg Costikyan

  If she could get down to Garni, he could remove the loop. But once down there, she couldn't get back up; there was no way she could jump two stories, even as a cat.

  It was a conundrum. Up here, she couldn't get the rope off; down there, she couldn't tie the rope to the chimney. What was she going to do? She meowed.

  A moment later, Garni stuck his head from the window. "What took you so long?" he said in a low voice.

  She flicked an ear. "Mrowr. "

  "This is the rope?" he said, and grabbed it.

  She hissed violently and backed away. If Garni tried to climb now"Not ready yet?" Garni asked.

  "Mrow!" she said.

  "Okay," he said. "Meow when ready."

  She sat back on soggy haunches. Her fur was wet through and through and wasn't getting any dryer. She'd gotten this far, and she wasn't going to give up now. But how was she to tie the rope?

  She studied the chimney. Perhaps if she just wrapped the rope around it three or four times, that would do . . . yes, that sounded plausible.

  She ran around the chimney four times, pulling the rope after her. She tried to keep it tight against the bricks. Then, she studied her work. It looked reasonably sturdy. Faint heart never won fair lady, she thought to herself, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. "Mrowrorw!" she said, as loudly as she could.

  Garni grabbed the rope and, using it to steady himself, stood on the windowsill. He began to climb. Sidney could see the rope go taut.

  The chimney was not in direct line with the window. The rope held against a tile for a moment-and then the tile broke off. Garni swung at the end of the rope along the side of the building. Sidney heard him grunt. She envisioned the dwarf scraping along the stucco, losing his grasp and falling. . . .

  But the rope continued to swing gently back and forth, like a pendulum. "Mrow?" said Sidney.

  "I'm okay," the dwarf gasped. He climbed gingerly.

  Sidney was suddenly yanked forward by the loop around her neck. The rope had slipped around the chimney an inch or two. Garni gave a yelp as he dropped an equal distance. Sidney felt a momentary panic. The loop was tighter than ever.

  Uncomfortably tight. "Sidney?" said Garni.

  "Mrow!" she said, hoping he'd hear urgency in the sound. He began to climb again.

  The rope slipped again. It slipped a third time. Desperate, she hooked claws under the tiles and held on, hoping that the little resistance she could add would stop the rope from giving.

  It helped, but she could feel the loop tightening . . . tightening. . . . Breath rasped in her throat.

  Garni pulled himself over the gutter and onto the roof. Sidney was choking.

  He came to her. She clawed desperately at the loop. She could barely breathe. He sized up the situation quickly. While Sidney choked, he worried at the loop and the knot that held it. . . .

  The loop loosened. Sidney panted for air. She stood up wearily, and rubbed up against the dwarf.

  "Thanks, Sid," Garni said, and stroked her wet fur.

  On hands and knees, he followed her across the sloping, rain-slick tile. The grand duke stood on the battlements of Castle Durf. "I see what you mean," he said, lowering the looking glass.

  Flying creatures whirled in the skies over Five Corners parish. Several buildings had collapsed. At least one building was in flames. There was a flash of green and then a red line that hung in the sky for a second or two.

  "Still," said Mortimer petulantly. "I hardly see why you needed to drag me away from my studies. If there's unrest in the city, put it down. Eh?" "My men stand ready, Your Grace," said Major Yohn.

  "What? You puppy," said General Carruthers contemptuously. "Your Grace, I hardly think a passel of backwoods bandit fighters are what we need here. My men will make short work of whatever's out there."

  "Fine, fine," muttered the Grand Duke. He itched to get back to his mushrooms. "See to it."

  Carruthers smiled nastily at Yohn, then turned and strode off. Carruthers would probably make a botch of things, Yohn reflected. He'd better restrict his men to the castle. He expected a summons to arms before the night was out.

  Nick's legs were stiff. It was uncomfortable, sitting on the floor with ankles bound. He scooted forward and pulled in the coins.

  Garfok's ears were drooping. Drizhnakh looked upset. Spug was grinning tusk to tusk.

  "Dis is a dumb friggin' game," said Garfok.

  "You is just pissed cause you is losin'," said Spug. "So is you, ya maroon!" said Garfok.

  "Ya got anything better to do?" said Drizhnakh. There was no response, save the crackling of the torch.

  "Another round?" said Nick.

  "Yeah, sure," said Garfok resignedly.

  "Good," said Nick. "What can you tell me about the statue?"

  Garfok and Drizhnakh exchanged glances. "What statue?" Drizhnakh said.

  "Come on, boys," said Nick. "You know about the statue. The one we took out of your temple. The one the baroness said she wanted. That statue. What do you know about it?"

  "Nuffing," muttered Garfok.

  "Now, now," said Nick. "No answer, no pay. No pay, no play." "Okay, okay," said Drizhnakh. "But we doesn't know much. A long time ago, see, our granfaders' granfaders used to live in the Orclands. But dere was dis big brouhaha. Da Dark Lord got pissed at dem or somethin'. So dey split, wiv dis statue thing."

  "Days what Gramma said, anyhow," said Garfok. "I din't know it was in da temple, though."

  "Fragrit din't never tell nobody nuffing," said Spug. "Days right." Drizhnakh nodded.

  "Thanks, boys," said Nick. He shoved three stacks of silver coins across the table.

  Timaeus studied the gaming table as the others argued. He was no judge of military matters, but it appeared as if the II Cobatrix was badly outflanked. And there did seem to be a great many orcs. He wondered how Macpherson planned to pull this battle off.

  Macpherson and the dark-skinned man were pouring over an incunabulum and bickering.

  "Vellantius says the dress was standardized, doesn't that imply that previous distinctions were eliminated? And . . ."

  "Yet, in the same paragraph, he refers to the elephant head emblazoned on the shields of the Ceterinae auxilia. This indicates a degree of variation from the accepted standard. . . ."

  Timaeus puffed on his pipe and wandered about the table. Macpherson, or more probably his graduate students, had done a fine job painting the figures. He had to squint to make out some of the finer details in the gray light. He picked up an orc.

  "Leave that be," snapped Macpherson. "Positions are important, and you'll never set it back in precisely the same place."

  "Oh, let the poor lad alone," said the dark-skinned man. "It's not that vital." They began to argue once again.

  Timaeus studied the table. The historians had built little hills of sand and had stuck bits of painted lichen here and there to represent trees. A ribbon of blue indicated a river, in the center of which stood an island.

  Nob Island, Timaeus slowly realized. The River Jones. And that steepsided hill must be—"Miller's Seat," he said. But where was Castle Durf? And the city of Urf Durfal?

  The dark-skinned man looked over. "That's right," he said. "Topography look familiar, eh?"

  "Yes," said Timaeus. "I assume this is how it looked in Imperial days?" "As near as we can tell," said Macpherson. "Durfalus, later Urf Durfal, was little more than a market village."

  "And this battle?" asked Timaeus.

  "The Battle of Durfalus," said Macpherson. "3708. Where Stantius the Third was captured by the orcish forces."

  Timaeus pondered this for a moment. "And the V Victrix was on this ridge? Here?" he said.

  "Quite so," said Macpherson. "I've maneuvered them into approximately the same position. And—"

  "What happened to V Victrix?"

  "Destroyed," said the dark-skinned man, "to the last soldier. They died defending Stantius, and the Dung-beetle Clan trolls hauled away the bodies as provender."

 
"Hmm," said Timaeus. "In that case, why don't you do some digging?" "Pardon?" said Macpherson.

  "Where is this?" said Timaeus, pointing to the ridge. "Collin Hill, somewhere, isn't it? Looks like—mm, Market and Sylvan streets. If they all fell there, you should be able to find the bones, armor, weapons. Perhaps even a button or two."

  Macpherson's eyes lit up. "An excellent notion!" he said enthusiastically. "I've been meaning to bring out my Intro Ancients class on a field trip. Just the thing, set the undergrads to digging ditches. That's about all their intellectual attainments render them suitable for, in any event."

  " 'Twould certainly solve the argument," said the dark-skinned man. "Mind if I tag along?"

  "Afraid I'll plant blue buttons if you don't?" said Macpherson nastily. "I wouldn't put it past you," said the dark-skinned man.

  "Good heavens, look at the time," said Macpherson. "I've got a seminar with my graduate students in fifteen minutes . . . we'll have to continue the game another time."

  "Oh, bother," said Timaeus. "Look, I have a few questions you may be able to answer. Do you mind if I—"

  "Come along," said Macpherson shortly, pulling on a pair of boots and a canvas jacket. "Ask on the way." And he strode quickly out the door, Timaeus nearly trotting to keep up.

  "Stantius," said Timaeus. "What happened to him after he was captured?"

  "No one really knows," said Macpherson, bounding down the stairs. "Except Arst-Kara-Morn, of course. They took him back to the Orclands."

  "And then?"

  Macpherson threw open the door to the hall and dashed out into the rain. "Devil should I know?" he said. "Ask the Dark Lord."

  "Why was he the last emperor?" said Timaeus, puffing to keep up. He hated the rain. Water and fire mages don't mix too well.

  "Damned good question," said Macpherson. "The mantle of imperium never descended on another."

  "How is that possible?" asked Timaeus.

  Macpherson shrugged, scattering raindrops from his canvas jacket. "Perhaps Stantius isn't dead. Perhaps Arst-Kara-Morn performed some great magic to prevent it. Perhaps the gods got tired of humanity, and decided they'd not bother selecting our next king." He paused briefly to let Timaeus catch up, then squelched onward, diagonally across the Common. "We do have some sketchy evidence that a great ritual magic was to be performed on the plain of Arst-Kara-Morn after Stantius's arrival. What happened then, it is impossible to know. Humanity, of course, was in the throes of a dark age, and the orcs were nearly as badly off; some great civil war broke out. Arst-Kara-Morn took centuries to recover, and it's only now that they've launched another great war of conquest."

  "Is that what it truly is?" said Timaeus, disturbed. "You think this thing at Ish is . . ."

  Macpherson splashed through a puddle, wetting Timaeus to the knee. "Damned right," he said. "Just the beginning."

  "Do you know anything about a statue?" said Timaeus. "What statue?"

  "A life-size statue of Stantius."

  Macpherson ran up the steps to Cranford Hall. Gargoyles peered down from the soffit. "All over the empire during his reign," he said.

  "Cast entirely of athenor," said Timaeus.

  Macpherson halted, blinked, and peered at Timaeus. "Impossible," he scoffed. "No one would be so profligate with the metal. Why, its magical uses alone—"

  "I know about that," said Timaeus. "But I've, ah, heard a rumor about such a statue, and I was wondering whether there's any historical record." "No," said Macpherson, shaking his head. "I've never run across any such mention." He peered more closely at Timaeus. "If you should run across such a thing, I should be extremely interested in examining it." Morglop was quite relieved when the end of the tunnel came in view.

  Several sections of the tunnel were already on the verge of collapse; once, a cave-in had begun around them, and they'd had to run to avoid burial. Morglop pulled himself over the tunnel's lip. Wentworth, recently restored to his accustomed weight, followed. It was drizzling. Jasper flitted around Morglop and into the rain.

  "Where are we?" said Wentworth.

  "Just a mo," said Jasper. He flew straight up for a few dozen cubits and surveyed the city. He zipped back down to the other Boars. "Near Roddy Square," he said.

  Morglop studied the ground around the tunnel. He noticed the impressions made by a pair of boots. He began to follow the tracks. They led to one edge of the lot, then walked along it. They turned, and walked back. On the third iteration, Morglop realized that whoever had worn these boots had been searching the lot, perhaps for the statue.

  He came back to the others, who were examining a pile of dirt. Someone or something had been digging at it. "Someone here before," Morglop said. "Search for statue. Not find. I am puzzled; no wagon, no heavy prints. How they take statue from tunnel?" He shrugged.

  "Recognize that?" said Wentworth, nodding at the mound of dirt.

  "I believe so," said Jasper. "It looks like what's left of an earth elemental when the summoned force dissipates. So we're looking for an earth mage, eh?"

  "So it would seem."

  "Now what?" said Morglop.

  "Tracking the statute from here looks pretty futile," said Wentworth. "Let's go back to my shop, and I'll conduct a magical scan. With luck, I should be able to pinpoint the statue's current location."

  "Okay," said Morglop. "Get cleaned up. Have tea." "That sounds pleasant," said Jasper.

  XIV

  Ross Montiel stood in the top floor of number eleven with his pet water mage. George's body lay in the street. Ross peered at it sadly. "Golly," he said. "Micah is sure taking his time."

  The water mage was close to tears. "Duh-duh-demons," he blubbered. A winged form flitted past the windows.

  "I can see that," said Ross. "And zuh-zombies!" "Right, right," said Ross.

  There was a creaking sound from the roof. Ross looked up uneasily. There was a sharp crack, then a rumble. Plaster fell about them. Ross and the water mage ran for the stairs.

  The roof ripped off the building. Above them, peering in, was a giant demonic form, something with compound eyes and tentacles. It emitted a peculiar high-pitched giggle. A tentacle grabbed the water mage, who was too terrified to attempt a spell. He screamed. The demon giggled again and inserted the mage in a massive, toothless maw. It gummed the wizard to death.

  "Oh, phooey," said Ross as he skipped down the stairs. It was hard to find magicians who worked cheap. "Who's running these darn demons, anyhow?" he muttered.

  Someone was banging on the cellar door. "Let me out!" yelled Elma. "Shut up!" shrieked Ross. Where was Micah, anyhow?

  Ross considered running across the street to number twelve. He went to the parlor window. A phalanx of zombies marched down the street, heading for a bunch of dockyard toughs.

  Ross recognized the dockers. It was the Death Spuds, a petty waterfront gang. He'd fought a gang war with them once. He was happy to see them die.

  Where was Micah, anyhow?

  Up ahead, odd shapes flitted among the clouds. Carruthers, who was rather nearsighted, failed to see them. There was the occasional flash and boom of a spell.

  "Righto," said the general. Behind him was a century of the Ducal Guard, a hundred middle-aged men on horses. "We'll sweep the blighters before us, what?"

  "I say," said one of his men. "This'll be fun, eh? Haven't seen action since last Carnival."

  "A hundred men charging on horseback ought to give the scum whatfor, eh, lads?" said the master sergeant. There were chuckles.

  "Right, then," said the general. "On my mark, charge!"

  With yells and laughter, the horsemen thundered down Thwart. Three of Micah's thugs broke from hiding. They darted down Thwart Street into the doorway of the next building. Micah watched them go.

  A demon swooped. It had three rotating wings, an arrangement Micah had never seen before. It grabbed one of the goons in its claws and began to lift.

  "Now!" piped Micah. Crossbows twanged about him. Several bolts hit the demon. The demon was s
tartled enough to drop the goon. The goon fell twenty feet and broke his neck on the cobblestones.

  The other two made it to the safety of the doorway.

  Micah sighed. There were too many demons and random blasts of magic out there. The only reasonably safe way for his men to get to Montiel was by working down the street from building to building. The buildings provided a modicum of shelter from demonic attack and haphazard explosions. Unfortunately, Micah was losing too many men. It wasn't just the demons, either. There seemed to be at least a dozen opposing groups out there—zombies, elves, dockyard toughs . . . Half the city was out after the statue.

  "Better get the next group ready," said Micah to a hulking thug. "A lot of the boys are deserting," said the thug.

  "Of all the disloyal twerps," said Micah.

  "Aw, come on," said the thug. "These guys signed up to kneecap debtors and make an easy quid. Monsters from the nether hells ain't in the job description."

  Another group of thugs dashed for the far doorway. They made it.

  "Ross is in danger," shrilled Micah. "He needs us."

  The thug dug a finger into his ear and drilled for earwax. He didn't want to respond to that statement. In his opinion, a boss who got himself into this much trouble didn't much deserve to stay boss.

  But no one was asking his opinion.

  The elven sailors huddled in the ruins of an apartment building. "Gosh, Cap'n," said one. "This was supposed to be easy money."

  "Yeah," said another. "Grab a statue and run."

  "Sorry, guys," said the captain. "Looks like a lot of other bozos heard about this statue thing, too."

  The baroness's headquarters was in a sewer. The scent left something to be desired, but it was well hidden, and the catacombs gave her scouts ready access to the whole parish.

  The lich plodded up to her, dragging a dead elf. The baroness grabbed the body and inspected it. She spoke a Word; she spoke several. She did not need to kill an animal to fuel this spell. Enough people were dying up above; she tapped the energy of their deaths.