And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Mac alighted on the balcony and turned back into his human form.

  He could not enter, could not raise the window, although it was half raised as it was to accommodate a screen. It wouldn't have mattered if the window had instead been wide open French doors-he had to be invited. There were ways, though, to finagle an invitation.

  Not having taken blood from the woman, he had no real control over her, yet he did have great mental powers. He rejected merely tapping on the window-doing so might just raise an alarm or wake the others. He concentrated hard on the restless woman in her bed, projecting one simple thought, one action, that he needed.

  It is stifling hot, he projected. You need some fresh air!

  For a minute or two he was unsure that he was get­ting through; you just couldn't tell about such things. Then he saw the woman sigh, sit up on the side of her bed, and rub her eyes. He kept projecting.

  Finally she stood up, looking sleepy but uncom­fortable, and walked over toward the window. Now here she was-looking out, breathing in the fresher air. He stepped in front of her quickly and made in­stant eye contact. His movement was so sudden that she had no time to react; once eye contact was made, he had her.

  Open the window quietly and remove the screen, he ordered, not vocally but directly from his mind to hers.

  She carefully, yet unthinkingly, did as instructed, then returned, stepped back from the window, and gazed at him expectantly, arms slightly outstretched, inviting him in.

  He entered the house quietly and looked nervously at the other three women, still sleeping soundly. He could control all four, but only by taking blood from all of them. That would take time. It was past midnight now; he had only a few hours to prowl the house. Still, he needed one ally here, one person he could call upon by mental command if necessary. He went up to the woman, embraced her, and puncturing her neck low, drank some of her blood.

  She was his slave now; unlike those whom he usually fed upon in the city, he had taken from her not merely blood but a portion of her life force. Her thoughts were what he wished them to be, her mind and its contents his to tap no matter what.

  Never had he encountered so vacuous a brain. She was not just an unliberated woman, she probably couldn't spell either "liberated" or "woman." Her world was the house, her thoughts on service, and her mental activity on such a low level that she actually enjoyed waxing floors and making beds. Worse, these duties weren't at all dull to her but were almost a chal­lenge.

  There was no sign of a spell or supernatural tam­pering. O'Malley or Constanza had obviously re­cruited such people as the perfect servants. That there were such people-so desirable on the outside and on the inside so much a doss between a puppy dog and a trained monkey-disturbed Mac slightly.

  She knew the house, though; it was her world. After taking the plan and what little else was there, he had her replace the screen, close the window down to it, and return to bed and get to sleep. He left the room quickly; once in, it would be easy to get out.

  He searched the place from top to bottom, finding much out of the ordinary but nothing whatsoever to indicate that a demon might be kept there. He found hidden passageways all over, and one cleverly con­cealed chamber held not only a sacrificial altar with stains, indicating that it was used on occasion, but also eerie potions and paraphernalia that went far beyond those of a common sorcerer. There were pentagrams aplenty as well, some of which he found impossible to cross, but none that couldn't be completely can­vassed and none large enough for what would be necessary.

  Worse, for all his versatility at snooping, Mac knew deep inside that he was retracing well-worn ground and that none of this could be concealed from the feds' sorcerers, either. Reluctantly he had to conclude that the demon was not in the house nor on the grounds, nor was there any sign of his ever having been there-no records or other clues to point the way.

  Records! he thought sourly. The feds had seized the records of all the magical spells used by Constanza, a potentially devastating blow in the long run, but the investigators might need years to unravel them. At least they still hadn't discovered the demon's prison, that was clear-so there was still a chance.

  He flowed under the front door as a mist, changed to a bat, and beat the dawn back to his culvert hiding place by only a few minutes. He kept thinking that something was wrong with what he'd seen-that there was a clue there if only he could figure it out. He sat in his coffin trying to think as lethargy overtook him with the dawn. Just before he slept he thought he might have it, but if so, it slipped away into oblivion.

  He didn't think of Jill McCulloch at all.

  5

  At dawn she had started riding to the north and they had begun to come to her. The prior spells of O'Malley had summoned them to this desolate place and armed and motivated them with his force of will, yet she was required to lead them.

  Women . . . a trickle at first, coming across the plains on horseback toward her, then more, and still more, until a force of more than five hundred women had joined her, their horses' hooves beating like thun­der against the distant mountains.

  They were of all shapes and sizes and races; although they acted proud and singleminded as a great force, they seemed to have no true will of their own other than to follow her and to obey her commands as wild creatures of the forest were said to obey the pipes of Pan.

  She knew them, even through their different clothes and habits and accents; they were the dispossessed, the spiritual outcasts of this world. They were the cruelly treated, the abused, the lesbians, and the mal­contents-the square pegs existing in this ordered so­ciety either by birth or by circumstance. They were armed with swords and daggers, yes, but also with nasty-looking repeating rifles. Two drove a sleek wagon that carried more ammunition and supplies. Jill, herself, wore nothing except a great silver sword on a copper link belt; she needed nothing more, even for protection against the elements. Her aura of power and total command precluded any other threats.

  They rode through some small towns, mostly American farm settlements, and none spoke with them nor tried to stop them. Their power was awesome, her will unstoppable. They took only water from the towns, drawing sparse rations from tins in a supply wagon. As she passed through each town, slowly, proudly, a few of the women among the townspeople would lay down whatever they were doing, come out, and take a horse and join them. Sometimes the men near them would cry out their names in fear or anguish and occasionally run after them, but the women would pay no further attention to those left behind. A withering glance from Jill would stop them in their tracks. She radiated both awe and fear; mere humans were powerless to stop her or contest her will.

  As O'Malley had promised, she was a power, an elemental force loosed disruptively in the world, yet a force that was required to draw and hold and bind these women for the task. It was too much power; lit­tle wonder the sorcerer had waited for one who would voluntarily have to leave this place.

  Isolated women also joined them on the road; mostly Indian women, and women from various se­cluded farms and settlements far from them. She was calling to them like a magnet if they qualified, and they kept coming.

  For herself, she was torn by her sense of time pass­ing them by, of gaining the jewel too late if she did not make all speed with her force. This was tempered by her unwillingness to shed innocent blood, particularly in O'Malley's cause. These conflicting desires, to take things slowly and put off the hour of decision on the one hand and to get her mission over with on the other, caused her the most disturbance. The power and confidence felt good as well; she would love to remain, to stalk this land with her elemental forces, to seek out and attack those forces which O'Malley served and stamp them out.

  The road turned west at dusk and led into the mountains which rose up like a solid wall from the Great Plains. She decided to press on to more level ground, at least a plateau, where her people could be fed and bedded down.

  They came over a rise and Jill stopped, looking down at a fla
t region between two mountains. Her night vision was exceptional; she was the Queen of Darkness, and her magnetism drew and guided the force of women behind her.

  Down in the valley she saw a single farmhouse with a small barn next to it, and it was burning.

  She stared hard at the scene, at the hundreds upon hundreds of tiny figures lurking in the darkness around the burning farm. Too tiny. She spurred her mount and she and her army descended into the val­ley. She needed to give no order to draw weapons and be on the ready.

  She had been right, she saw as they drew closer. This was not an Indian attack-that sort of thing had gone out with the Wild West here as well, replaced by Indian farmers and game managers in enclavelike countries who, themselves, had rid the plains of the barbarian nomads.

  The attackers were gnomes.

  Instantly she knew that their guns would have no effect on the squat, meter-high, bearded ancient crea­tures that circled the farm. They had set it afire by propelling flaming torches with catapults, but had not been able to go in themselves. Why?

  And then she saw a fence, a fence of iron built around the structures. It was iron and its alloy, steel, which they were powerless against; they had simply set the place afire and waited for the inhabitants to come out. If the people crossed the fence line, they would be captives or victims of the gnomes; if they didn't, the gnomes, who, like people, were diurnal, could simply starve them to death in a siege or shoot wooden and copper spears and arrows at them from the outside.

  But everyone in the women's force she led held iron and steel swords. She slowed and turned back to her force. "Draw swords! Cold iron only," she snapped crisply, and the order was passed back. Normal mili­tary tactics were included with the spell that bound them; they spread out, creating a solid wall ten deep, and advanced.

  The gnomes saw them and formed a line across the road between them and the burning farm. Their eyes reflected the spreading fires, and their almost comic fairytale appearance was offset by grim and deter-mined expressions in those eyes and behind those beards.

  They looked less human close up; more stonelike and with an alien construction to their bone structure.

  Jill stopped and faced the gnome force. She had no fear of them as such, since she greatly outnumbered them and possessed the weapon they most feared; but gnomes were magical creatures that had powers be­yond those of humankind. She was immune to them, she knew that intuitively, although her female force was not. The gnomes could cost her dearly in injuries and lives before she reached her goal.

  "What is the meaning of this?" she shouted imper­iously to the lead gnome.

  "It is none of your affair, Spirit Queen," snarled the gnome in a gruff, low voice that was unexpected from the small creature. "Go about your business and pro­ceed unharmed, but do not interfere in our work!" The threatening tone was unmistakable.

  She looked at the house. It was a conflagration now, yet she sensed someone in there still lived, some-how, and could be gotten out before the walls collapsed; someone who was now one of her own.

  "I claim the life that remains for my own," she told the gnome. "Stand aside. I will take what is mine and proceed."

  "It is not your right," snapped the gnome leader. "All lives in yon structure are forfeit to the Collec­tive!"

  She was conscious that time was running out. Her first major decision on life was at hand, yet she re­sponded. "Collective? Why do you attack the humans now, gnome? Was it not agreed long ago by treaty that your domain is not ours nor ours yours? How dare you break it!"

  The gnome leader laughed. "Treaties! Bah! Trea­ties between the bourgeoisie humans who enjoy the fruits of proletarian labor while returning no labor to those Underearth. The time for revolution is at hand! We have nothing to lose but our chains!" A roar of approval went up from his gnome force.

  Holy smokes! she thought. Radical communist gnomes?

  "Is this the start of your revolution, small one?" she retorted aloud. "If so, we shall see just how well prepared you are." She drew her sword from its hilt, holding it high in the air. As one, the rest of her force followed her lead.

  The action scared the hell out of the gnomes. Even the leader, who was good at bluff, gulped. Cold steel. Gnomes reproduced only once in a century, and cold steel, with its iron base, was the only substance that could kill them. They could not afford a war-or revolution-of attrition, particularly not these few against so many.

  There was hatred in the gnome's eyes, but it was mixed with a certain knowledge of defeat as well. He made one last attempt.

  "This is not the revolution-that is still coming, creeping over all the Underearth," he told her. "These people received our goods and repaid us by drilling a well deep into our domain, without our permission, and with a drill of steel! They killed one of us!"

  She understood now what had brought this confron­tation about. These farmers were young and dumb; a sign on the gate read TALL TREES COMMUNE. City kids playing at independence, forgetting, in their utopian dreams, that in a modern society interdependence was the rule. They had forgotten the interdependence between human and gnome, and they had paid for it.

  "There is but one left," she told the gnome. "She will join us. You have been avenged many times over. Go, now!" She started forward.

  The gnomes stood their ground for a moment, then, after a signal from their leader, gave way to her. Jill jumped the fence and bounded quickly off her horse, who was kept from panicking only by being under her mental control.

  She stalked into the house and the flames receded from her. Much of the place was burning; it was incredible that some of the structure should still be rel­atively, although very temporarily, untouched. Back in the kitchen, in a trough of water, was the lone survivor, a water-soaked blanket over her head. It was already becoming unbearably hot, even for Jill; the smoke, too, was thick and acrid. There were only mo­ments left.

  She pulled the blanket off the trough and saw the woman, already unconscious from smoke inhalation. Jill was afraid she was too late, but she had to try. She lifted the woman out of the water and kicked open the back door.

  Seconds later the flaming roof caved in. Jill looked back briefly and let out some breath.

  She put the woman down on the cool grass and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Pressing on the woman, she realized for the first time that the fire vic­tim was not only pregnant but in a very advanced stage. She pumped air in carefully, steadily, then bent low over the woman's face and breathed in, out, in, out, tasting the smoke. She willed the woman to live, gave her tiny spark of life a supercharge by trans­ferring energy from herself inside as she breathed.

  The woman coughed, groaned, then started gasp­ing and wheezing.

  Several of the women in Jill's force approached, and she turned to them. "Get her to a wagon!" she or­dered. "Those among us with any kind of medical skills should attend to her. We will camp on the farm land just beyond the fence tonight."

  They hastened to do her bidding, bowing slightly in deference. She got up and walked back to the gnomes.

  "How many lived there?" she demanded to know.

  "Ten-five males and five females," the gnome re-plied. He looked around, still trying to sound haughty, defiant. "We have decided that nine for one is atone­ment. We will consider this matter closed. The well, however, shall not be used. We shall seal and destroy it."

  She had to admire his nerve. He was still talking as if he had a choice in this.

  "We agree," she responded, allowing him his pride. "Now you will return to your domain and we shall keep to ours."

  The little creature nodded and started to turn to go, then turned back to her. "Answer me one question, if you will," he said in a curious and respectful tone. He gestured to the women now setting up camp in the fields. "Whither is such a strange force as this bound, and to what purpose?"

  She smiled at his obvious prodding for information. "I should answer you that you should keep going, that it is none of your affair," she taunte
d, "but I will ask you this question in turn. How far from this spot are the lands and castle known as the Citadel?"

  He looked at her strangely. "You are a free spirit, not bound," he noted. "The others are under spells, yes, but not you, nor is your soul with lein. Why would you go against such peaceful folk as those when your victory is one for such evil?"

  It was odd to hear him take so moral a tone after he'd just murdered nine human beings by burning them to death.

  "But was the spell not cast by one equally as evil?" she retorted, throwing the ball back to him.

  He looked genuinely surprised. "Do you not know, then? Not all the elemental forces between the worlds are evil. You speak as if man vanquished them, but it was not so. We-human, gnome, faerie, all the deni­zens who now live upon this earth-were the by-products of that struggle, not the victors but the inheritors. They were vanquished in civil war, not by the efforts of others. This world is where the bat­tle was won, not anything more. The others still rule the spaces between the worlds of our own universe-they have no need of Earth. They who still rule the light and the darkness aided the spell you would break. I beg you, do not do so, for beneath the Cita­del lies the gate to evil most foul!"

  "I will take your words to heart," she told him, "but I beg you to remember that even free souls are not fully free, nor are all chains visible. I bid you goodbye." She turned and started walking toward her women now camping in the fields. After a few seconds she turned and looked back.

  There was no one there. The gnomes had com­pletely vanished.

  She made her way to the food wagon where the pregnant woman-no more than a girl, really, she saw-lay. They had removed and burned her scorched dress and covered her with a blanket. She was still in shock. An older woman was tending her, wiping her brow and occasionally trying to force some water into her mouth.

  The women of the force spoke little except in their duties, yet they responded to the girl as ordered. The older woman looked up and nodded slightly in defer­ence to her Queen.