Vengeance of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  Vengeance of the Dancing Gods

  Dancing Gods

  Book III

  Jack L. Chalker

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1985 by Jack L. Chalker

  ISBN 0-345-31549-9

  First Edition: July 1985

  Cover art by Darrell K. Sweet

  Map by Shelly Shapiro

  Content

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 Encounter On A Lonely Road

  Chapter 2 The Trouble With Godhood

  Chapter 3 Old Friends And Old Enemies

  Chapter 4 Invitation To Danger

  Chapter 5 A Long-Expected Reunion

  Chapter 6 Nostalgia Trip

  Chapter 7 Memories Are Made Of This

  Chapter 8 Soul Survivors

  Chapter 9 Mixed Doubles

  Chapter 10 Obliquity Split

  Chapter 11 Return To Earth

  Chapter 12 Providence, Ghosts, And Peter Pan

  Chapter 13 Of Power, Primitives, And Partial Planning

  Chapter 14 Into The Dragon's Lair

  Chapter 15 One Hell Of A Mess

  Chapter 16 Spelling Out The Big Broadcast

  Chapter 17 Explanations And Resolutions

  About The Author

  Dedication

  To Erica Van Dommelen, of the Dawntreader Cattery; the best proofreader in or out of the business.

  Chapter 1

  Encounter On A Lonely Road

  If a worshipped idol has power, it shall always emanate from the eyes or the navel, except for golems, in which case see Vol. XCVIH.

  —The Book of Rules

  XCLV, 194(d)

  IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES; IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES.

  In point of fact, Husaquahr had been blessed now with good government—as good as it was going to get, anyway—and peace for several years.

  In other words, it was pretty damned dull in Husaquahr.

  Oh, there were the usual quotient of crimes, magic spells, occasional irritating geases, and a number of black-art wizards and witches lurking about, and the general population was oppressed by a ruling class of one sort or another as usual, but it was minor, petty stuff. There'd be no great new warrior kings to fear and celebrate in song and story through the generations, no wondrous battles, the tales of which would thrill the newer generations for centuries, no epic quests or bold adventures that would make this a time to look back on. Since the defeat and subsequent exile of the Dark Baron and the dispersement of his armies, even those who were most evil in Husaquahr seemed willing to compromise with the good and just have a comfortable old time.

  The rider on the black horse was almost invisible in the dusk, wearing as he was a tight black body stocking, black belt, and worn riding boots. He was a small man, both short and slight, and wore only a small dagger for his defense. He looked elfin, although he was of totally human blood, and somewhat boyish; yet any who looked into his cold, penetrating eyes knew both fear and respect. They were dark eyes, as black as his garb, and they were very old eyes as well. They said to one and all that this was a dangerous man and not ever to be taken lightly.

  It had been seven years since he'd stood with the greats and fought with the best of this world the forces of evil and darkness brought forth from Hell itself by the Dark Baron. He had killed many men then and a few since, but never without cause.

  It was cool in Husaquahr right now; the gods of the north wind breathed down deeply this year into the southern lands and refused to take their rest, even as the days grew longer. He pulled his cloak a bit more tightly about him to ward off the stinging fingers of wind and saw in the waning light of the setting sun the signs of an approaching stormfront. There was no question as to what sort of front it might be—soon snow would be all that would be possible out here. It was already far too late for snow, but someone had forgotten to tell the snow that this was so.

  Only an idiot would be out in wastes like this with weather like that coming on, he told himself sourly. There seemed little hope that he could outrun the storm, less hope that there was any place along this route where he could find shelter for the night or the storm's duration, and it was much too far to turn back to the last settlement. He knew what was behind him; what was ahead certainly offered more hope, since he was ignorant of the details, although perhaps not anything better.

  He had taken this ancient road primarily to avoid uncomfortable pursuit. A slight smile came to his face and he reached down to his belt and into a small pouch and brought forth a giant emerald, as large as a lemon and alight with an inner green fire. He would have given it back, having proved his point and met the challenge, but the priests of Baathazar weren't the sort to be forgiving just for that. He had no use for the thing—he had long ago amassed more money than he knew what to do with and he had the most powerful friends and allies in all the world to bail him out if need be.

  Necessity had made him a thief; but once he'd chosen his profession, he'd been bound by the Rules concerning thieves, and the occupation had both shaped and gotten along famously with his personality. He was a thief, and he'd always be one—the greatest thief in all Husaquahr, perhaps the world. The profession was the grandest one offered someone of no means and little magic, for each theft was a challenge, each caper a unique puzzle to be solved. The more impossible it was, the more he was drawn to it as a fly to honey. He had stolen this, the jewel in the navel of the great idol Baathazar, in full view of ten thousand pilgrims and half a dozen high priests with great powers of wizardry. It had been easy—but only in retrospect. He was quite certain, without being egotistical, that no one else could have pulled it off.

  Still, he would have returned it to them—sent them a note telling them where to find it, perhaps involving them having to lower themselves to a great indignity to get it; but they would have retrieved it. What was the point? The thing was worthless to him now.

  They had not, however, a true appreciation of his skill and, yes, his integrity as well. They didn't really care if they got the stone back, so long as they got the "desecrator" of their sacred idol. It wasn't even much of a god, as these things went—one of those left over from the bad old days, supported by a decreasing number of followers.

  That, more than anything, was what had made them bad-tempered fanatics. Priests used to all that power now had to undergo a lot of belt-tightening, and they didn't tike it one little bit. He was a handy person to take all that frustration out on. In a way, he'd known it from the start and had taken steps to counter it, steps which included this escape route. The one thing he hadn't counted on, though, was snow.

  It began soon and quickly built up into an uncomfortable blinding world of white flakes. Within minutes he was no longer certain that he was still on the road, or in which direction he was going, and he knew he'd have to stop soon or perish. This was no weather nor fit place in which to be stuck, whether man or beast. His horse was already complaining and it had no place to go, either.

  Chance would not save him now, nor all his skills, and he knew it. Only magic would get him out of a fix like this, and he had very little that really mattered. He wished, at least, he had some power to dry up the snow or conjure a nice inn with good ale and a warm fire. Damn it, he wasn't even dressed for this weather!

  At the thought, the jewel in the pouch seemed to hum and throb, slowly at first, but with a building force that could no longer be dismissed as mere imagination. He stopped in the midst of the storm and removed it once more, noting its unnatural fire and glow.

  Why did a god have a navel to begin with? He wondered about that idly, knowing that he was trying to take his mind off his impending doom. He star
ed deeply into the jewel's throbbing fire, and suddenly it seemed to him as if the wind were calmed and the storm silenced. There was, all at once, a deathly hush about him and his mount, and he knew in a moment that he was not imagining things. This was indeed magic, dark magic of the blackest sort, the kind of magic that he would never touch in any other case but this. He didn't know whether or not he'd sell his soul to live—he frankly wasn't certain it was still his to sell—but it was better than the alternative.

  He hopped down off his horse and looked around. There was still near total darkness; yet where he stood no wind blew and no snow fell. There was, in fact, an unnatural warmth which was already melting the snow that had fallen upon the ground on which he stood, turning it to mud.

  He placed the stone on the ground and drew a pentagram around it with his dagger. It wasn't a very large pentagram, but that which he expected to occupy it would fit one the size of the head of a needle if need be. He stepped out of the pentagram and then closed it.

  "All right, green fire," he called aloud to the thing, "if indeed you are a gateway to elsewhere, then I hear your call. Whoever is bound to you should come through, so that we may discuss things."

  There was a sudden hissing from the stone, which flared into extraordinary brightness, and then the sound of escaping steam as a thin plume of smoke rose from it until it was perhaps shoulder-high. The steam, which gave off an uncomfortable heat in spite of the raging snowstorm all about him, widened into a turnip shape, expanding to fill the entire area. When it contacted the boundaries of his crude pentagram, it ceased growing and instead solidified.

  The demon who showed up was something of a turnip itself.

  It seemed to be all face, a comical, Humpty-Dumpty sort of thing whose waist was its mouth, above which sat two huge oval eyes. The head rose into a point, at the top of which was just a shock of purple hair. Below, the thing sat on two huge clawed feet, but seemed to have no legs to speak of. Its arms, coming out of its body just below that tremendous mouth, were short and stubby things of misshapen crimson, ending in long and mottled hands with great black claws at the fingertips. It looked around, spotted him, opened its mouth, and licked its lips with an enormous black tongue. The inside of the mouth was lined with more teeth than a shark's, all pointed and sharp, and beyond those teeth seemed to be a bottomless hole.

  This, then, was the source of the priests' powers and the reason why they were nearly frantic to get back the stone.

  "You're not one of those mealy-mouthed priests," the demon croaked in a voice so deep and reverberant that it moved the very air. "That means that either their silly faith is overthrown or you're a pretty damned good thief."

  "The latter. Sir Demon," the little man responded, bowing slightly. "I could not resist the challenge, although, to be sure, I had no idea I was stealing more than a great gem."

  "All great gems have demons assigned to them. You should know that. Otherwise, where do you think all those curses came from?"

  "Good point," he admitted. "However, this, I suspect, is a different sort of gem."

  "In a way," the demon agreed. "I can certainly see that you've mucked up your getaway. This is no curiosity call."

  "Quite right, sir. I need a service, it is true, if the price be not too high."

  The demon studied him. "What could you offer me, thief? Those in your profession tend to wind up with us anyway, so your soul isn't much of a deal. Still, you never know. What's your name?"

  "I am Macore of the Shadowlands," the thief replied.

  "Macore, huh? Seems like I heard the name. Hold on a moment while I check."

  Instantly the demon vanished, leaving Macore alone once more. No, not quite alone—from the center of the pentagram came forth the lush sounds of massed violins playing a rather pleasant if monotonous melody. It was very nice at first; but as time wore on and both he and his horse began to get very impatient, the strains of the music began to irritate him.

  Suddenly the music stopped. Just as abruptly the demon was back. "Sorry to keep you on hold so long, but his Satanic Majesty's filing system is lousy. We have so many customers and prospects these days that he really should automate it, but that would make it too easy for us." His voice took on a mocking tone. "It's supposed to be Hell, remember that!" He sighed, and the sound of it went right through the little thief.

  "Still," the demon continued, "I did find the file. Thought your name was familiar, too. One of the minor demon princes got sent all the way down to the dungpits a while ago and he ain't stopped wallowing in more than just dung, if you know what I mean. All the time, this self-pitying wail about how he was gonna deliver this world on a silver platter and got cashiered instead of rewarded for it. What's he expect, anyway? It's Hell, after all."

  Macore thought a moment. "His name wouldn't be Hiccarph, would it?"

  "Yeah. That's the one. So it is the same Macore. Okay, that simplifies everything. What do you wish, thief?"

  This was suspiciously too cooperative. "And what is the price?"

  "First you tell me what you want, then I'll quote you the going rates. That's simple enough. You keep it simple, I'll keep it cheap. Fair enough?"

  "I can ask for no more," Macore responded. Already the temptation was there to ask for whatever he wished, to go for it all, but he knew that this was the trap of demonic bargains. He had no intention of delivering himself totally, now and forever, as a slave to this creature. "Naturally, I wish safety and security from this storm and from my pursuers. Of course, I mean this in the way that I am thinking it, without loopholes or various things I did not think of when requesting it."

  The demon nodded. "All right. What else?"

  "That is it," the thief told the creature. "That is all I want from you."

  The demon sounded slightly disappointed. "Nothing more? Great wealth may I bestow upon you. I could make you irresistible to women of any sort. I could give you immunity from all spells, or give you many of the powers now reserved for wizards who must suffer to gain what I offer."

  "Suffer now or suffer later," Macore responded. "That is of no concern to me." He admitted to himself that the sex appeal was quite tempting, but he had never really had much trouble in that direction. "I have all the wealth I need—I steal for the sport of it. Women and I get along quite well without demonic spells. I have great protections against much of the spells of this world, and I have enough magic to get along. No, I'll seek the price for what I asked and no more."

  "You are hardly in a position to bargain," the demon pointed out.

  "Nor are you," the thief responded confidently. "I know enough of the laws of magic to know that one such as you has but one door into the world, and your door is obviously that gem. Were I to die here, that gem might well be lost in this wilderness for generations, perhaps forever. You would then have no outlet to relieve your own tedious existence in Hell. My passing over to your plane is not nearly as terrifying to me as your being cut off over there is to you, and I know this. Now, quote me fairly."

  The demon spat. "Bah! Ones like you are pains in the ass! However, I'll quote you fairly. You actually desire three things, then. You wish to survive and again take up your life. You wish to elude your pursuers. And you wish it straight, with no tricks or loopholes. Very well. For your miserable life, you must agree to give this stone at the first opportunity to one who can and will make use of it. Agreed?"

  "That is simple enough. Agreed."

  "For security against the priests and their followers, you must accept a mark that I will place upon you, so that all of Hell shall know that you have dealt with me and will recognize you at once."

  He was a bit nervous at that. A demon "mark" could be anything from a small scar or birthmark to something quite extreme and quite hideous. "I will not agree unless I know the nature of the mark."

  The demon didn't like that. "The priests will know your identity and they will hunt you down eventually. I promise only no physical deformity or infirmity. Take it or leave i
t."

  He sighed, knowing that he'd gotten as much out of the demon as he could expect, and knowing, too, that the demon was right. He had struck at the core of the priests' cozy racket and stolen the base of their power. They would never rest until they got him, unless called off by supernatural means more powerful than any in Husaquahr. "All right—agreed."

  "Finally, you can see the potential for traps and loopholes in the first two agreements. I could turn you into one of the faerie, an unpleasant sort of one, or make you a lover of other men, or perhaps a plain woman, or thousands of other possibilities. To gain it gently and without loopholes, I require that you freely accept a geas from me, one which you will not know but will be compelled to carry out."

  "I must know the nature of that geas, demon," the thief told him. "I would rather you changed me into a monster than perhaps to kill a friend."

  "Admirable. However, you must understand that any geas of which you have knowledge will be readable by wizards, and that is unacceptable. No, even this much will be taken from you if you accept. I will go this far. The geas is a single task, it involves no one's death or in fact even harm to anyone, friend or stranger, nor will it in any way alter the social, political, or military fabric of Husaquahr as it stands. The consequences do not, in fact, really affect Husaquahr at all. There is risk to the task, but none that you are not up to facing."

  "You wish me to steal something, then."

  "Sort of. The task is that, although you do not actually have to steal the object, you must reach it. That is all I can tell you, for anything more might render the geas useless."

  "It does not sound too bad. Will I know at some point what the geas was?"

  "You will know—when it is done."

  "Then I will accept."

  "Done!" cried the demon.

  Macore was slightly disappointed. "No blood contract? No terrible oaths?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. We save that sort of stuff for the psychos and fanatics. Your word is bond, as is mine. I return now to my dwelling place and expect to find at least one new sucker very soon, as per our agreement."