“This is not the first time, then?”
“Not even the first time in Husaquahr. But this is a big world, much larger than the one from which thou comest. There are many other continents and many other lands. One, called simply The Land, is so fouled up no one from thy world will believe it’s real, even though he be there. Another once put down a dark force under a great wizard, and now that wizard’s son, Alateen, refights his father’s battles. From Lan Kemar to Lemoria, all the lands that make up our world are continually threatened. Now it is Husaquahr’s turn.”
“But what can they win, even if they capture the land?”
“Ah, once captured, it will never be freed. But, worse, the Dark Baron’s plan is clearly diabolical. He hopes to seize or destroy the lands, castles, and, if possible, persons of a majority of the Council. If he accomplishes this, and he is already a quarter there, he will be able to rewrite, suspend, or even abolish the Books of Rules. Hell will rewrite the Rules and will then have a world of its very own to rule and dominate.
This will become Hell, and will provide, too, a second front for an assault on the Creator Himself. If Hell wins here, it can devote all its time to thine own world. Armageddon, then, will be fought by Hell from both worlds toward the Creator in the middle. None truly knows the outcome, since Hell rebelled once before and knows what it is up against, should it try again.”
“You mean God could lose?”
“It is by no means certain. Sooner or later thou wilt find myself in the clutches of Hell, and thou wilt know a sample of what waits for all creation if we lose. That is why, now, thou must go.”
“No! I mean, not yet. I still have so much to leam!”
“Time later for that, if victory is ours. If not, we all are better dead than what we will be. Thou must be a soldier in this battle. There is the adventure and challenge thou didst wish for and the important things to do. No woman of Husaquahr is better equipped than thou to do great things, but all thy studies and training will be for naught if not used. Thou must follow the direction of Ruddygore, who is far more worldly than I, in this matter. He traffics with Hell even as he fights it, and I find him powerful but unworthy of such power but he is powerful, and he is fighting for his very life and so will not waste thee or thy companion.”
“Companion...” She’d almost completely forgotten about Joe. After all, she’d known him such a short while.
“As for me, I have fought too many of these things. Yet should all fail, and Terindell be besieged. Glen Dinig will fight with Terindell against the common foe. I hope and pray it does not come to that, for it would be Bakadur and I against the Dark Baron and the demons of Hell itself. Thou mayest aid in preventing that from happening, my daughter, if thou keepest thyself as thou art now and if thou dost remember all I have taught. So long as thou dost remain as thou art, thy powers will increase by the day, infinitely so, and new ones will develop as needs arise. Thy true trials and tests lie ahead of thee.
Remember well who thou art and what thou hast become.”
Marge took Huspeth’s hand and kissed it tenderly. “I will, my mother.”
Huspeth got up, went into her hut, and emerged with her hands full of various items. “Some parting things, to aid thee in thy future endeavors.”
The first was a one piece garment, both legless and sleeveless, of bright forest green, which had a stretchy clinginess to it yet gave breast support. It was woven out of an unknown soft material that nonetheless was almost silkenly comfortable.
Its tightness, though, left nothing to the imagination about the shape beneath, becoming almost a green second skin. It satisfied decency and the Rules. Also, there was a headband much like a laurel wreath. It held firmly and smelted of forest pine.
“Both wreath and garment are of the forest, of living things magically transformed and transfixed. They will be a reminder of Glen Dinig and the daughters of Eve.”
“As if I could ever forget. A part of me will be here forever.”
Next came a small green belt that blended with the garment and hung on the hips, but was strong enough for a scabbard shaped like leaves. Into it Huspeth placed a small but ornate dagger.
“The dagger is of faerie metal,” she told Marge. “It will penetrate all save iron, which is very scarce here. The blade is fused into the handle of pure dwarf jade. It is the truest and most balanced of all blades, and was once mine when I went forth as thou now goest. In the rear of the scabbard is a small pocket which can be useful.”
Next was a little case made out of the purest dwarf jade.
Inside was what Huspeth called Marge’s “kit” basic herbs and hard to find materials for many potions, plus a small mortar and pestle more or less carved into it. It, too, was designed to be held by a thin belt and was not at all bulky. Finally came a small gourd, useful for all practical purposes and also designed for belt carry, leaving both hands free.
“With those thou canst travel the whole of this world and need no more, with thine own knowledge of the land and its bounty.”
“I believe I can now, my mother,” Marge responded, meaning it.
“Come. Let us see thee reflected in the pool.”
They walked over to the small, mirror smooth pond at the edge of the glen that had been their water supply. In it Marge saw a far different person yet a third self. She was dark now; the sun and wind had weathered her and toughened her without in any way lessening her striking beauty. And, as she had discovered shortly after her initiation into the order, her new strawberry blond hair had changed to a brilliant white, with the exception of a streak of reddish brown running straight down the center from forehead to back the mark of the order.
She had trimmed the hair into something of a pageboy and, with the forest green garment she wore, it was a perfect complement.
Her legs revealed that she now had the strength of the long distance runner and more, and her arms, still smooth looking, took on an almost bizarre quality when tensed, revealing their tremendous muscles. Her brows, of the same reddish brown as the streak, were long, thick, and sloping inward, setting off her large blue eyes; she looked less human than like some great warrior elf. Her appearance was unique and striking, yet her movements still contained the catlike grace and form of the woman she had been.
“All I need is a bow and a quiver of arrows to make it perfect,” she mused, more to herself than to Huspeth, but the witch nodded. “I agree, and thy skill with the bow warrants it.” She left and returned with a small quiver made of some plant’s green skin, and a bow of true professional beauty.
“Oh, no, I can’t. You’ve given me so much already!” Marge protested.
“I insist, daughter of mine. And I expect that which has been given thee to be freely used in the fight against true evil.”
“I promise I will not fail you, my mother!”
Huspeth now showed the only real emotion of the day, hugging Marge and holding her close. “I know thou wilt. Now go. Tis time.”
Marge went with the utmost reluctance but knowing her duty. She was supremely confident now, both of herself and of her abilities, and ready to prove that she had, at last, found her place. Nothing would ever surprise her again.
But she was not only surprised but almost shocked to find an impassive Poquah waiting atop the hill with the same two horses they’d ridden when coming here.
Poquah did not greet her, but his red eyes looked her over critically for a moment, and then he said, “Ah, yes. A proper heroine indeed. It is well. Come. We must make the castle by dinner.”
This time she led him at a gallop.
Chapter VI
Being A
Barbarian Takes Practice
No physical art may be achieved by magic, nor magical art by physical means.
- VI, 79, 101 (b)
Gorodo proved to be about nine feet tall and must have weighed five hundred pounds, with lots of hair and absolutely no fat. He also happened to be a bright blue color with dark blue hair and had a nose
that looked like a blue grapefruit, not to mention a pair of very nasty looking fangs that stuck out of both sides of his mouth. He grinned when he first caught sight of Joe, and the effect was less a real grin than the kind of playful look a cat would give a mouse just before pouncing.
Joe, who was just beginning to feel really macho in his new muscles, stopped, stared, and gulped.
“So this is the big, bad barbarian they want to train to be a big shot hero,” Gorodo said sarcastically, looking down at his new charge. “Boy! They really demand miracles of a tired, weak old man.”
Joe tried to find the tired, weak old man he was talking about.
“What’s your name, boy?” the blue giant asked.
He gulped slightly. “Joe.”
“Joe? That’s a pretty stupid name for a barbarian. Barbarians should have fancy names, or funny sounding ones, like Conan or Cormac, things like that. Usually with a ‘C’ sound to start.”
He sighed. “Well, there’s nothin’ in the Rules about that, I don’t think. Not yet, anyway. Still, a name like Joe doesn’t exactly inspire fear and respect. We got to get you a second name, one with real command.”
“I already have a second name,” Joe told him, confidence coming back slowly with the reasonableness of the giant’s tone.
“In fact, I have lots of names.”
“Indeed. Like what?”
“Jose San Pedro Antonio Luis Francisco Joaquin Esteban Martinez de Oro, if you must know,” Joe responded a bit glumly.
Gorodo whistled. “How in the Nine Hells do you remember all that? Anyway, that sounds just as ridiculous. I mean something strong, like Joe Thunderer or Joe Stonnhold or something like that. Well, we’ll leave that for now. The Master wants us to get a start today, even though there’s little left of it. I’d rather just tell you what we’re gonna do and let you get one last night’s decent sleep.”
“Fine with me,” Joe agreed. “I’m not exactly a volunteer.
More like a draftee.”
Gorodo laughed. “Listen, boy. In the days and weeks to come, I’m gonna put you through a living hell. Bet on it. You’re gonna curse me and yell at me and you’re gonna hurt something awful. But when I get through with you, ain’t nothin’ made of solid stuff gonna give you trouble. You’re gonna be prepared like nobody’s ever been prepared. Know why? Not because I was ordered to, and not because I like it, but I would consider your death a personal insult after all I’m gonna do. Understand?
You’re gonna be the best damned barbarian in this whole crazy world because my honor depends on it. Now, go eat decent and get your beauty sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be one busy day.”
Joe gladly went and discovered the main dining room almost by accident. The food was good, although the only utensils they seemed to use here were a sharp knife and a wooden spoon.
Few gave him much. of a glance at dinner or after, but some elves in plain livery did tell him where he was to stay within the outer castle. The room turned out to be of bare stone, furnished with a straw mattress, a single candle, and not much else.
He lay there for some time, feeling more and more depressed and moody. Barbarian hero, he thought sourly. I’m Joe, from South Philly, that’s all, lost somewhere in a land of freaks. He thought of his ex wife and his young son, who now had even less chance of ever knowing his real papa. He thought, too, of that girl who was more of a loser than he was. Marge. He’d known her only a short time, and now she was God knew where. He couldn’t even really get a clear picture of her in his mind just now, which bothered him, but, though it was crazy, he missed her. She was his one link with what was real and comfortable.
He was lonely as hell, and it took a long time for him to slip into a fitful doze.
The routine didn’t vary much. Gorodo got him up at dawn; and he began running first a mile, increasing as his muscles built up to two, then three. Only then did Gorodo permit a large breakfast, after which Joe was expected to run one more mile just to work it down. Next came weight training, along with general physical exercise to tone up a few muscles.
These extensive workouts hurt a lot, and early one morning he’d protested and refused to do more. That was when Gorodo had exploded, growling and snarling, his veneer of civilization dropping instantly.
Very early in the training, Joe discovered that the blue giant was an expert at beating the living daylights out of one without doing any permanent damage whatsoever. The early choice was pretty simple: it was painful torture to do what Gorodo demanded, but it was even more painful to refuse.
It didn’t take long for Joe to get both frustrated with and hateful of the huge blue man, whose only redeeming feature was that he did everything he asked Joe to do. Even that was infuriating, though, since Gorodo showed absolutely no stress, strain, or pain doing what was really awful to Joe.
After a big midday dinner, they would go down to a great stone hall where a number of muscular types, human, nonhuman, semi-human, and a few inhuman, were practicing with one or another weapon. Here instructors in various types of weaponry worked with him, and at least from them he felt he was getting something useful. Broadsword use. Balance. Timing. Dagger and spear throwing. Mace and pike. All different, all requiring a special set of skills and a lot of practice. Some were also frustrating in their own right. The broadsword seemed to weigh a ton when he was first introduced to it, and he particularly resented the fact that the instructor was a thin, wiry human a head smaller and a hundred pounds lighter than hewho wielded the sword as if it were made of paper.
But he paid attention, and he did seem to have a natural flair for it.
After a heavy supper, he was back to running and weights once more and, by the time Gorodo gave him his freedom for the night, he was so hurting and so tired he could do nothing but head for bed.
Day after day, almost without a break, this schedule was kept, varying only in that, as he seemed really to get the hang of one weapon, a new one was introduced.
After a few weeks of this, the pain lessened but never really went away, though he found himself able to lift increasingly greater weights and run longer distances. The broadsword, which had seemed so leaden at first, now felt as light as a rapier. His body was becoming hard, lean, and even more tremendously muscular from the regular hard workouts, which never let up.
Still, a month or so into the course, the weaponry was relegated to the evenings, and the afternoons were taken up with more practical classes by a variety of humans and creatures. Weeks were spent on horsemanship, and there were even lectures and problems on warfare with the weaponry at hand, and also a good deal of hand to hand combat. How to disable. How to kill. Where the nerves were, those critical pressure points. There were classes, too, in primitive first aid what roots and herbs did what, as well as the basics of tourniquets, setting broken bones, and the like. He was acutely aware, thanks to Gorodo’s less than subtle methods of persuasion, of the lack of any decent medical care in Husaquahr, and so he paid particular attention to these practical lessons.
As he progressed in skills, particularly with the sword, he was forced into fighting left handed with it. It was tough going, and for a while Gorodo gnashed and foamed and growled; but while Joe never quite got as good with the left as with the right, he became at least adequate.
The horsemanship also came very hard; even though he got pretty good at it, he felt he would never be a hundred percent comfortable with any animals. For a man who believed firmly that steaks and milk were created magically at the chain stores, he wasn’t as bad as he thought he was.
Time ran on without any real feeling. The weeks stretched to months, and he had no true concept of time or even duration any more. Gorodo was his whole life and his whole world.
The blue giant, for his part, seemed to soften up as things went along, though, not being nearly the hot tempered beast of those first few weeks. Joe never lost his intense dislike of his tormentor, but he nonetheless developed a grudging respect for what was being done or at least attemp
ted by the trainer.
He suspected that Gorodo might be a lot smarter and a lot less bestial than the blue man wanted everybody to believe.
Still, Gorodo pushed him and pushed him and pushed some more. Every time Joe felt he had reached his absolute limit in something, the blue man would literally force him to continue.
Finally, one day, his resentment boiled over so much in Joe that he took a swing at Gorodo and connected.
The blue giant was surprised, and then was the great manbeast once again but this time Joe didn’t back down.
It was one hell of a fight furniture smashed all over the place as two bodies, one large and one larger, tumbled and tossed each other about. It lasted the better part of an hour and a half, a total brawl that brought just about everybody within earshot to gawk at them elves ran through the crowd taking bets at one point but ultimately Gorodo, winded, bruised, and bleeding from a number of cuts and abrasions, won out by knocking Joe cold.
Joe awoke in his room with a really nasty headache and a lot of sore spots and abrasions, but all his wounds had been well tended. Gorodo, looking pretty beat up, was there as well, and he didn’t even look that mean.
“How’re you feeling?” the giant asked, and if Joe didn’t know better, he’d have sworn there was real concern in the trainer’s voice.
“Lousy,” Joe responded.
“Me, too,” Gorodo said, sighing and sinking into a chair he or somebody had brought in. He gave a low whistle. “That was one hell of a fight you put up. I’m proud of you, boy. I think you just graduated.”
There was still a little ringing in Joe’s head, and he was sure he hadn’t heard what he thought he heard. “Graduated?
But you won.”
The giant laughed. “Yeah. And I always will, too, sonny boy. At least for quite a while. You’re good, though, boy.
Real good. Best I ever trained, I’ll tell you. Don’t get too bigheaded, though, ‘cause I said that. As I say, I got one thing you ain’t got and it will be a long time comin.”
The River Of Dancing Gods Page 10