The thief's name was Jurgash, and he considered himself, as did all good thieves, the finest at his craft in the world. Also like all great thieves, he was very rich and also knowledgeable in the magical arts. Unlike most, he was also a powerful practitioner of those arts, although he used that power, other than for gratification and amusement, only to combat such power in his objectives.
Like almost all the great thieves, too, he was a small, wiry, slightly built man, in the peak of physical condition. He had entered Terindell through the front gate, in the guise of a man who had been set upon and robbed on the road and who needed help. He was a convincing liar, so much so that he often believed his own lies while he was telling them.
Ruddygore, as he well knew, was not at home, nor was his adept and very dangerous companion, Poquah the Imir. This had left mostly the staff, which were a few humans, some elves, and various and sundry other creatures—even one ogre, Gorodo, the trainer of the wizard's small but powerful private army. Jurgash dealt mostly with the elves though, as he expected, and they had believed every word of his story, fed him a fine meal, and put him up for the night in a luxurious guest suite. In fact he had the virtual run of the place for the night, which was even better than he had hoped, although it showed just how dangerous the vaults might be. If the old and powerful wizard could in fact leave his castle in such gullible hands, then all that was truly worthwhile was so well guarded he believed none could get to it.
The door down to those vaults looked deceivingly simple, with a huge basic key lock that any amateur could pick. Of course, that was how it should be. The first traps would not be on the outside of such an entry, but just inside. The only advantage he had as a thief was the knowledge that Ruddygore himself had to go down there once in a while, so there was a way around every trick and trap, every spell and danger, if he could spot them all in the proper order and solve their riddles.
An experienced hand with a probe revealed the first one right away. The big wooden door, in fact, was not locked at all, and any attempt to fiddle with the lock mechanism meant instant activation of alarms. Examining the door carefully, he saw that it was, in fact, not a normal door at all. The hinges, for example, were false. The door, in point of fact, appeared hinged in some way from the bottom. Try and pick that lock and the entire door, built of heavy wood and probably reinforced with iron or lead, would suddenly and quickly fall outward, crushing the would-be thief like a rat in a trap.
He had his kit with him; from it he took a small handle that was actually a magnet. He placed the handle as far up on the door as he could and then, holding his breath, he pulled gently. The door, which was clearly iron-cored, gave, coming forward as he pulled. He stopped as soon as he dared and examined the small, dark area he had revealed. As he had suspected, there were two alarms, one mechanical and one magical. The mechanical one, nothing more than a pull-string, proved easy to bypass, but the spell was enormously complex and took some time to understand and build onto enough to bypass its trigger.
Removing his door block, he continued to pull down until he was satisfied that there were no more traps, at least on the door. No alarms that he could sense were sounding, and he felt reasonably satisfied that he was safe. He carefully stepped inside, then used his handle once more to pull the door back up to its closed position. He was now totally in the dark, and knew he would have to risk some light. He brought forth a small torch and lighted it with his flint, not wishing to try any spells in this place until he could see just what he was dealing with.
The torch flickered and then burst into life, and the thief gasped. In front of him was a great hole, a bottomless pit of blackness. The floor did continue, but it was a good twenty feet to the other side, and no ladder, rope, or other way to bridge the chasm was evident. He shifted his sight to the magical bands and saw a criss-crossing network of complex red and blue strands across the whole of the chasm. He realized quite suddenly that the spell was so complexly woven that it would take hours to unravel enough even to guess its nature. He ignored that as impractical; instead, he looked for loose ends and found none. The spell was a complete one, then, not an interactive type wherein he or another intruder would provide the additional mathematics to enact its horrors.
He wondered, in fact, about that chasm. Nothing in his research indicated that Ruddygore ever brought with him a great bridge or ladder, and he could hardly see the huge fat man going hand over hand on a rope. Clearly one could cross this without apparatus, but to do so would have required at least one loose end in that spell to which a small solidifying spell could be tied, sufficient to allow someone simply to walk across on thin air. This was a spell of concealment or revealment, then, not a true trap in and of itself. That meant that either it hid something that was actually there or showed something that was not there.
Could the chasm be false? He gingerly tested, and found his foot going down off the edge without finding any support. No, at least some sort of depression was there. But if the chasm was real, how did Ruddygore cross it? By added spell? If so, what was the purpose of this one? He doubted the added spell anyway; it was somewhat complicated, and he had many timings from his spies and paid informants. Ruddygore went in and rarely spent more than fifteen minutes inside; the longest time known was just over half an hour, which included the time going to and coming back from the vaults. He did not cast and uncast spells in that period of time.
Could the spell, then, conceal a bridge? One could not simply cast for it—that would break that fine spell there and send up an alarm, at the very least, and perhaps something fatal. A bridge, then—but perhaps a bridge that did not start at the edge and was barely wide enough for one of Ruddygore's bulk? Anyone testing the edge would find space, but if he knew where the bridge was, he could just blithely step across it.
But where would such a bridge be? On one side or the other, certainly, and not anywhere in the middle. Ruddygore would not risk a misstep, nor make it so complex that he couldn't get anywhere here in a hurry. But which side? If Jurgash were the wily wizard, he'd have that bridge on one side and a very ugly surprise on the other. There was no way to test it without possibly triggering an alarm, so the only solution here had to do with psychology. Ruddygore was right-handed; right-handed people tended to move to the right, which would place the bridge on the right-hand side. However, the wizard would know that this was an elementary trick.
Taking a deep breath, Jurgash the thief picked up his bag, sighted the left, ran to the edge and jumped off into what seemed to be open space.
He came down hard on a stone surface and fell forward, skinning his hand and knee. His kit flew forward out of his hands, but hit some sort of stop and halted. He felt the thrill of confidence, although it still looked to him as if he now sat on thin air. He reached over and retrieved his kit, then got carefully to his feet, feeling a surge of exhilaration and confidence. Not easy, no, but this was a challenge worthy of him for certain!
He did not, of course, fall for the gap further on in the bridge; it was almost inevitable, and only an amateur or a fool would be so thrilled at solving the bridge that they would not expect it.
At the other end, things changed once more. A tunnel made a sharp turn and then led to a deep descending stairway. The steps were of stone, but obviously could not be trusted and had to be examined one by one. Several proved to be booby-trapped, but the trap he appreciated the most was the invisible wall that moved down when one skipped over an obviously booby-trapped step, setting him up for a very close shave. He barely missed it, and redoubled his caution.
So far, most of the traps were mechanical. Fine, effective puzzles, but far below Ruddygore's skill as a wizard. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, though, he turned back around and saw that the whole series of forty stone steps were now ablaze with ribbons of red, yellow, and blue magic, tied in complex patterns. He immediately guessed the purpose—the same traps were there, but now all of them were reassigned, perhaps even reversed. Going up would be a
totally new challenge. Still, it told him something more, something which sobered him a great deal. He had passed the point of no return, the place at which the amateur would either be discouraged or easily fooled. Anyone getting this far would be a pro of the highest order. When a defender started blocking exits it meant that the thief must now win or die. He already now knew too much of the defensive system to be allowed to live.
He, however, had no intention of going back out.
Everyone knew that Ruddygore had in his vaults the magic lamp that granted wishes; it had been stolen once by the Dark Baron and then back from him, and had been used in plain sight. It would wish him out of here safely with whatever loot he wanted.
The tunnel had no more evident traps for about ten feet, although it still angled down, but then it emptied into a small chamber that was lined with mirrors. There seemed no way out—there were three reflections of him in front, two more on each side. The floor was still solid stone, with no signs of magic, and the ceiling was also featureless stone and a good fifteen feet up. Clearly, then, one of the mirrors was itself an illusion of a mirror, or was in some way hinged and trapped.
He stood there, in the center of the room, contemplating the new puzzle, when suddenly a ghostly, reverberant voice spoke to him. It was Ruddygore.
"You are to be congratulated, thief, for getting this far," the voice said. "Now you stand, however, in the primary trap, the one that cannot be passed by any other than myself. For the record, you are now twenty-six feet from the vault doors, and there are seven doors there, six of which, when opened, contain horrors more terrible than you can ever imagine, and only one of which contains what you seek. Don't worry. This is the end for you."
He knew that the voice was part of an activation spell now, and that in fact Ruddygore had no knowledge that he was here. It was a generic taunt, meant to discourage and unnerve.
"If you wish to halt things now, I give you ten seconds to turn and walk back through the tunnel to the base of the stairs. There you will find a recording of the one spell that will allow you to pass easily upward and back out into the castle. It will also, of course, turn you into an ogre and make you my absolute slave forever afterward, but that's the price you pay for staying alive. Fail to take this and you will die, and your soul will be consumed by these mirrors and used to feed their powers."
He looked frantically around. Ten seconds! He would not be panicked, but he knew enough not to take the threat lightly. He had triggered a spell for sure, and it was certain not to be a bluff. But how had the spell been triggered? With a sinking feeling, he thought he knew. The mirrors. The spell was triggered if they reflected any form but Ruddygore's!
He stared in horror at the mirrors, then watched as his own reflections seemed to take on a life of their own, then step out of the mirrors and come toward him, daggers drawn.
They were upon him before he could even take the offer to be an ogre.
Chapter 3
Old Friends And Old Enemies
Neither friendships nor relations shall be anything but subordinate to one's true nature as established by these Rules.
—Rules, III, 27(c)
THE FACT THAT THROCKMORTON P. RUDDYGORE LOVED to travel by ship was well known, so his arrival at the island castle retreat in a sleek racing yacht was not unusual. The fact that the lake in which the castle sat had only one outlet, the Khafdis River, which was not navigable made it a bit more unusual. Ruddygore's ships did not travel in conventional places or along conventional paths.
Lake Ktahr was broad and enormous, although quite shallow in places. From no point on Wolf Island, even the highest tower of its castle, could any land be seen beyond the waters, which made it ideal for Joe and Tiana. Beyond its cliffside castle and outbuildings, the island was still wild, although no wolves were known to be there. The island had received its name ages before because of a peculiar, wolflike prominence jutting out from the high cliffs. The vegetation was lush, the climate generally warm, and there were a few small white sand beaches accessible by steep trails from the high island floor.
Once, not long ago, this place of secluded beauty had been the center of Husaquahr's evil and the site of an epic battle between Ruddygore and its previous owner, the Dark Baron, Esmilio Boquillas. The castle itself had been expropriated by the couple regarded by many as gods and had been redone and staffed with Ruddygore's loyal servants, or "employees" as he always called them— mostly elves and other fairy folk whom he trusted over humans.
It was a bright, warm, sunny day when Ruddygore arrived, and Joe and Tiana went down to meet him personally at the only anchorage on the island, a mile or so from the castle itself. No matter how many times they saw him, the old sorcerer made an impressive sight.
Ruddygore was not merely tall—almost as tall as they were—but he was big, and with his long white hair and flowing white beard he looked very much like what the real Santa Claus should look like, complete with a rough, reddish complexion. Although he'd been known, in private moments, to dress quite informally, he was now dressed in his normal public attire—striped pants, morning coat, formal shirt with vest, bow tie, and top hat. He seemed not to notice the heat and humidity.
Ruddygore, of course, was not his real name. He had, it seemed, thousands of them, and probably more that were still not traceable to him. He was quite old—thousands of years old at the very least—and his past made up a considerable body of both Husaquahrian history and legend. To know a great sorcerer's true name was to have some magical power over him, and it had been so long since his own name was uttered by anyone or anything that it was said that even he had forgotten it.
His comical name and appearance belied his tremendous power, which was the strongest known in this world where magic ruled—at least the strongest known human. In addition, he had one other skill, one piece of information no other wizard knew, and one which gave him a decided edge in a world where magic worked and technology was virtually unknown. He alone knew how to cross the Sea of Dreams between his own world and Earth, and he alone was privy to the secrets of technology that Earth had.
He came down the gangplank like some great king, clutching his cane with the golden dragon on its hilt, but he warmly shook Joe's hand and hugged and kissed Tiana with evident real affection. "How good you both look!" he said enthusiastically in his great booming voice. "It's good to be back home and among friends once more. Come—let us go up to the castle. Poquah will see to our things."
Poquah was the thin adept of Ruddygore's, an Imir, or warrior elf, by birth and training. His race had but one innate power, but it served them well. No one, not even their closest friends, even noticed their existence unless they wanted to be noticed. It was often spooky or even irritating to have him seemingly pop up from nowhere and vanish just as quickly, but it was very handy for a warrior. Like humans, though, any powers of wizardry had to be learned by hard study and apprenticeship, and he was the first known of his race to have both the talent and the desire.
Ruddygore's great bulk looked unmanageable, but the old man was really quite spry. He mounted the horse they'd brought for him with a single easy motion and managed to look both comfortable and, considering his garb, ridiculous at one and the same time. The couple mounted their own horses, and they started off up the winding, switchbacked trail to the top and then to the castle.
"I can tell that something is amiss with you," Ruddygore noted as they rode. "Excuse my prying, but are you two having—difficulties?"
"Not in that way," Joe responded. "Frankly, we're just bored to death and sick and tired of all this."
"With your support, we are the richest and most powerful in all this world," Tiana added, "yet we are no more free than the lowest serf in the fields."
"Well, everyone's trapped in one way or another," Ruddygore replied. "No one is ever really free to do whatever he or she wishes, I fear. Still, if one has to be trapped, it's far better to be trapped at the top of the heap than at the bottom. Believe me, any o
f the peasants putting in eighty-hour weeks and going home to a mud-and-straw hut would trade places with you in a minute. It is, however, both ironic and unfortunate that the higher one climbs, the less freedom and more responsibility one finds. In that sense I am no more free than either of you."
"But you are," Joe retorted. "I know you're busy and have little time, but you can occasionally manage a break, a vacation, and you can do it on another world, where no one knows your identity or powers."
Ruddygore thought about it a moment. "Well, that's not really true. When I'm on Earth I manage mostly to get away for an evening here or there, but in general I'm quite busy. What happens there affects what happens here, as strange as that sounds. I'm not going to explain it to you, since it's somewhat mystical and technical, but let's just say that the greater Hell's power on Earth at any given time, the greater its power here."
"And how is Hell doing over there?" Tiana asked him, only half serious.
"Quite well," he responded. "Better than here, which worries me a great deal. The threat of nuclear war grows greater each day, while crime runs rampant. The human genius for killing other humans has developed whole new and massive ways of waging war without Armageddon, but that won't last forever. Repression and terrorism are up all over, and the true measure of Hell's success, the amount of fear injected into the daily lives of the most inconsequential of people, regardless of nation or ideology, is way up. The tides this causes in the Sea of Dreams are large and dark, and they are washing up on our shores as well. I do my best to build the dikes to keep it from engulfing us, but I fear it is a battle that cannot be won for long. The effect is not as strong the other way, alas— our defeat of the Dark Baron lowered tensions somewhat on Earth, but not nearly enough. They are back even now to their prewar levels."
Vengeance of the Dancing Gods Page 3