The River Of Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Experience. I been in a couple of armies. I been a pirate, a raider and sacker, you name it. Fifty years’ experience, boy, and I’m still here and still in one piece. It’s the one thing I can’t give you. But I will say that the more experience you get, the better you’ll be. There ain’t but a few dozen in Husaquahr could a given me the fight you did. What about you?

  You think you’re ready for the real thing?”

  Joe nodded, even though it hurt. “I think so.”

  “Good. I been talkin’ things over with everybody else training you here, and we’re pretty well agreed. When you’re good enough to take me on and hold your own, it’s exam time.”

  “Exam time?”

  “Yep. The acid test. Look, you get some rest. You need anything, you call out and somebody will be here on the double to get it for you. Next day or two, when we’re both back up to snuff, we’ll go into town and raise a little hell. Drink. Wench, maybe. Then you’ll be ready.”

  The river town of Terdiera was fairly small perhaps seven or eight hundred people but it was civilization itself to Joe after so long in Terindell. The buildings were mostly of straw and mud but were well engineered, and here and there were buildings of stone or brick. The main bazaar was a wooden structure half a block long fronting on a square, with merchants displaying their wares in stalls opening onto the street, and all calling out to every passerby.

  “Hoi! Love charms and potions! The strongest of the strong!”

  “Hoi! The finest in mystic herbs and spices! More pleasurable than a harem without all the talking!”

  “Hoi! The finest in jewels imported from far off dwarf mines in the mountains of Corimere! Mystic jade said to belong once to the dwarf king Zakar himself!”

  It was a bewildering array of products, most of them strange and unusual to Joe’s experience. Still, here were leather merchants and stalls with the finest of swords, shields, knives, and daggers. Women were measured and fitted in pretty patterned costumes, and everybody from cobblers to coopers was very busy.

  There was money of many sorts, of various sizes, shapes, and designs possibly from many different lands. Still, all appeared made out of gold or silver, and were worth what the metal was worth rather than what the governments claimed; gems, too, were often taken and given as if they were money.

  Gorodo, for all his promises, did not come on this first trip.

  He begged off, saying he had other work, and something in Joe secretly hoped it was an injury very slow to heal.

  Instead, his companion was the grim and humorless Poquah, not much of an improvement over Gorodo in his own way. Poquah, however, was a good lecturer.

  “Much of the commerce of Husaquahr is barter, but there is a banking system and coin, as you can see. Since most of Valisandra’s people are farmers and work at a subsistence level, they trade their goods for the products of these merchants. The merchants, of course, totally depend on the fanners for their food and much of their raw materials. It works out rather well.”

  The bulk of the inhabitants in the town were human, but here and there an occasional other would walk or scamper by, given little notice. The two riders coming into town drew interested glances, but it was Joe, rather than the Imir, who attracted stares. He found he rather liked it, too that glint of nervousness or hesitant fear in the eyes of many of the men and far different sorts of looks from the women. He knew he not only looked exotic, even by barbarian standards, but could hardly hide the tremendous muscles that made him look like some sort of idealized bronze god. He knew, too, that this was the first reward for all the pain and agony he’d undergone in getting to this point.

  The Imir gave him a small sack of gold nuggets, not a lot of currency by Husaquahr standards, but more than enough to buy a few things, should he be inclined, and perhaps a meal and drinks in the town tavern.

  He enjoyed the afternoon by taking advantage of that, and he knew he was being scandalously cheated by the merchants he dealt with but it took some time to get the measure of how much a few grams of gold would actually buy.

  At the cobbler’s, he traded in his worn sandals for a pair of short, comfortable leather boots with a thin, soft fur lining.

  The poor cobbler, of course, had nothing in stock for feet like Joe’s, but he was both fast and skillful and made a pair to order while Joe went elsewhere.

  The leather merchant was handy for buying a thick, comfortable, all purpose belt with solid brass hooks and rings. To this belt he could attach a scabbard with little trouble, as well as other useful things, and it had a hidden money purse. The buckle, of intricately worked bronze, was a forest scene, but he bought it because the shape between the trees seemed to form the outline of a diesel truck cab. It was the closest to home he could come.

  The hatter was a bit taken aback by what he was looking for; but after some pictures were drawn, she agreed to make it if she could. He was satisfied and, after seeing some intricate and presumably magical designs on some of the more Husaquahr conventional hats, he also gave her a design he wanted on the front of his own.

  By the time he’d finished an adequate but not great dinner and returned, he had what he wanted. It was, possibly, the only such hat in Husaquahr, but to another from his own world it would be instantly recognizable. It was a pretty good imitation of a comfortable cowboy hat of some brown felt-like fur, and right on the front was an outline of a design he knew well, one that here would mean nothing. But he found he could certainly still remember how to write, and on the front, in that mystic symbol, was the alien word “Peterbilt.”

  He had to admit that the hatter was tremendously skillful, considering she had never seen, let alone made, anything like this in her life.

  Feeling more comfortable than he had since reaching this land, the great muscular barbarian, in loincloth, trucker’s cowboy hat, and reinforced fur lined boots and nothing else went to the tavern.

  People stared when he entered, and continued to stare out of the comers of their eyes as he took a seat at a small table in the back. A barmaid, looking timid, approached and took his order for ale, brought it quickly, and went away. Nobody tried to talk to him, approach him, or in any way make him feel like a human being.

  The tavern itself was primitive and basic, with a straw covered floor and hand hewn crude furnishings, yet it had much in common with all the bars and taverns he’d ever been in.

  There was a kindred sort of feeling evoked by the place, with its relaxing men, fresh from travels or the fields, and its rough, worldly wise women the kind of place he as a trucker had called home from strange town to strange town throughout a large and distant country he’d once roamed. He could see himself as one of these men, playing a little cards or just swapping tall stories, with very little trouble.

  Only, as he was uncomfortably aware, this sort of place was no longer a haven for him, the kind of place where strangers were fast friends. Most strangers, perhaps, but not Joe de Oro.

  He was far too different looking and far too potentially dangerous to be invited into any of these groups. That depressed him more, perhaps, than anything up to now and brought back his searing sense of loneliness with crushing force. He wondered what they’d all say here, these strange dark men and women, if they knew that inside that bronze god was a man who desperately wanted to cry but could not.

  And so he drank prodigiously, feeling it only a little, and sat in his silent corner and watched the rest of them come and go. After a while he also noticed that, occasionally, burly men and tough barmaids would talk and then leave together, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Finally, the strong ale lowering his inhibitions a bit, he propositioned the woman who was serving him, more with few words and many gestures than outright, and she thought a moment, looked at his purse, then at him, nodded, and turned. He followed her out, not at all worried about being mugged or rolled.

  And he enjoyed it, too, feeling it more strongly and on a more emotional level than he ever ha
d before. The barmaid, too, seemed to have a far more than businesslike good time.

  It went on and on and on through the evening, as months of frustration and loneliness gushed out of his soul and into the act. When finally done, both he and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  He awoke with the dawn, while she still slept, and he felt a little sense of ego buildup that she slept with a wisp of a smile on her face. He weighed the purse. Not enough for the sword he wanted, but considerable all the same still remained.

  He knew her intent was to take it all at the end, but he was in better condition than she. He paused a moment, then decided, What the hell, it’s not my money, and left the purse on the small table near the bed when he departed.

  It had been worth every penny, but he knew he could never stand to go this long without sex again.

  When he emerged from the little hut down the street from the tavern, he was surprised to find Poquah waiting placidly with the horses. The four irritated him with his seeming omniscience and cool manner. They said nothing that was not necessary to each other on the way back.

  “Now that you have passed the preliminaries, boy, ‘tis time to become a man,” Gorodo told Joe. “The final exam. Pass it and you’re off to fame, fortune, and glory. Flunk it and I’ll kill you myself.”

  Joe looked at him. “I believe you would at that. If you could. I guess this is some sort of big test of ability and skill.

  I’m willing to give it a try.”

  “It’s a test of that, all right, but a pretty simple one,” Gorodo agreed. “It’s real simple but real effective. What we do is this.

  First, you drink a little potion that kinda knocks you out real gentle. Makes you feel great, though. When you wake up, you’ll be stark naked, without stitch, weapon, money, horse, anything at all. We don’t tell you where. Just that it’s no more than fifty miles from here. Your job is to get back inside the inner wall of Terindell without us catchin’ you. No time limit to get back here, really, but one day to the minute after you wake up, Poquah and me and some of the boys will start tracking you down. If we catch you, at any point, you’ll wish you never was born.”

  Joe frowned. “And I’m not gonna have nothing at all? Where the hell do I get what I need?”

  “Up to you,” the blue giant told him. “Steal it. Make it.

  Improvise. You been shown the way.”

  Joe nodded, more to himself than to the trainer. “And what do I get if I make it?”

  Gorodo grinned. “What kinda question is that?”

  “I mean it. You want me to risk my neck on this fool test.

  What do I win? A gold star for bein’ a good boy?”

  “It is a fair question,” Poquah’s voice said, and Joe and Gorodo both whirled reflexively. “It deserves an answer that Gorodo can not give. I, however, can.”

  “Wish you wouldn’t pull that act, ya bastard,” Gorodo grumbled.

  The Imir ignored the comment. “The first thing you will receive is the satisfaction of knowing you have beaten the best.

  That is good enough for some. But you will also be awarded an elfsword, a magic blade that is almost alive and is not only one of the best magic swords around but effective even against some magical beasts. Finally, you will have a job with great honor and rich rewards. Those are worthy prizes, are they not?”

  Joe thought about it. “Yeah. Not bad, I guess. But you don’t sound like you expect me to win ‘em.”

  “We are trained and experienced. We also will know where you started from and exactly what you look like. We will know the lay of the land. Using no sorcery, only our skills and foreknowledge, we will get you. It’s that simple.”

  Once more the Imir’s tone rankled him, and he saw the challenge in a different light. If he lost, he was no worse off, really, than if he refused. But if he won... Beating Gorodo at his own game and puncturing that enormous self centered egomaniac of an Imir’s pride would be more than worth it. And Gorodo put the icing on the cake.

  “Every hunter of you in this test will be one who has passed a similar or identical test,” the blue giant told him. “I don’t know about that sword crap, but you win the respect of the few who’ve done it.”

  “When do we start?” he asked them, getting interested.

  The Imir reached down to a small flask on his belt, poured a little golden liquid into a tiny field cup, and handed it to him.

  He sniffed it, and it smelled honey sweet and quite pleasant.

  “Cheers!” he exclaimed and downed the potion.

  Chapter VII

  Getting In

  And Out Of Shape

  Barbarian tuck will not prevail without barbarian intelligence.

  - XL,401,306(b)

  He awoke in a small clump of trees, itching all over.

  Jumping up, he looked back and cursed whoever it was, probably Gorodo, who had put him so near that damned anthill.

  They were true to their word he was stark naked and without anything except a lot of ant bites. It was’ cool and damp, the sun off in the east barely clearing the horizon. One full day, he reminded himself. Then the chase begins. Still, now was not the time to go running all over the unfamiliar countryside. His training and his common sense told him otherwise. So, moving away from the unfriendly insects, he walked from the trees to the top of a nearby hill, the highest ground within easy reach, already thinking about what he had to do.

  First he needed information. The sun told him his directions, so that wasn’t a problem. But in which direction from the castle had they brought him?

  The hilltop afforded a nice view for fifteen or twenty miles around. Not a lot of habitation, from the looks of things, but to the left west of where he stood, about four miles, was a river. That was all right, but which river? Well, he decided, time to cheat a little. He’d seen more than one map of the region around Terindell, and even maps of the entire Dancing Gods river system. He was certainly no more than fifty miles if their word was good and it would be an inconclusive test if they had lied and Terindell was in a little pocket of Valisandra between two other countries.

  Truck drivers paid good attention to any maps they saw.

  He sat down on the cool grass and thought it out. The odds were that they hadn’t put so much time and energy into his training just to kill him off. They’d play it safe, put him where they could control all the factors in the game. That meant keeping him in Valisandra. That being the case, he was either north or west northwest of the castle. But that river down there was to the west. If it were the west northwest direction, the Rossignol should be in the east or southeast. That river over there, then, was most likely the River of Dancing Gods and that meant he had only to follow it down to Terindell.

  It was too easy. He could run that before twenty four hours had passed and the chase began. But then, how would they know he’d seen and interpreted the maps? They knew he couldn’t read them, but one didn’t have to read the words or the legend if one was told that the black block was where one was Terindell and what the two rivers were. He decided to make his way first to the river, with the idea that its current flow would either confirm or deny his idea as to where he was.

  Running the four miles was easy for him, and he found his natural state no real problem at all. At least, as long as there were only birds and animals around, he couldn’t care less. It was kind of fun, as in the old days. He remembered from somewhere that the early Olympics, back in Greece or wherever it was, were run in the buff. All he needed was a torch.

  Pacing himself and enjoying it, he took about half an hour to reach the trees lining the riverbank and he felt only slightly winded. After Gorodo, a free run at his own pace was easy as pie.

  The river, indeed, ran to the south actually, southeast as it should. He stopped and looked at it for a few minutes, relaxing after his run. It was a muddy river with a fast current, but nothing spectacular at this point certainly no more than a quarter of a mile across. An easy swim. He considered the idea. Across there
was Hypboreya, a different country that wouldn’t march to Ruddygore’s tune. Not friendly to him, certainly, but not friendly to Gorodo or, particularly, to Poquah, either, the Imir being a somewhat official servant of the sorcerer and the government. If there were any jokers in the pack and surely there must be and Joe didn’t make it before the chase began, he would swim to the other side. He decided that quickly, as something of an equalizer.

  It occurred to him that if he did make that swim, he would also no longer be under anybody’s thumb. With a few clothes and some honest work in that country he’d be truly free. That might be the ultimate joke on all of them to have their prize pigeon not make for Terindell at all. He wondered if they had considered that.

  He put the idea aside for now, but left it as another option.

  A large bird flew down, skimming the surface of the water, and as it did, suddenly the water erupted and a thin, slimy, black, whiplike tentacle shot up and caught the bird, dragging it quickly under. It was all so sudden he was totally shocked and stunned, but it was a reminder of an alien world. This wasn’t the Mississippi, nor his old Earth, and things existed, deadly things, that could kill in a flash. If he’d decided to swim the river at that point...

  He needed a few things as quickly as possible, he knew.

  He needed clothing of some sort, so he wouldn’t have to skulk, and he definitely needed some kind of weapon.

  He searched around in the thin forest that hugged the river, looking at deadwood, and finally found a nice, long stick that was more or less straight, looked pretty strong, and, even better, had a rough point at one end and a pretty solid other end.

  Pointed weapon or club. It would do until something better came along.

  He glanced around. Fifty miles. Not much. But, considering that thing in the river, he didn’t really want to spend a night out here.

  Suddenly, above and behind him came the sound of laughter, as if from some very small children. He whirled, but nobody was there. He stood silently, trying to catch whoever or whatever it was. As he was beginning to feel it had just been his imagination, the laughter came again and again, above and behind him. He whirled once more, seeing nothing, then stood there gaping for a moment. On impulse, he whirled around again, waiting for the sound and saw them.