Demons of the Dancing Gods Read online

  Some said she was mad, of course, while others said she had transformed herself, and that she was not in the Glen Dinig but rather was the magical forest now. All that was agreed upon was that she was there, that her name was Huspeth, and that even those who really didn't believe in her still feared and respected the name.

  The woman who rode into the forest confidently had a great

  deal of the respect and awe that Huspeth and the Glen Dinig radiated within herself, but she did not fear either the witch of Glen Dinig or the forest itself. She knew them well, as old friends and great teachers, and she owed them much. She did have fears and concerns, though, and she dreaded this trip for what to the superstitious outsiders would seem amazing reasons. She was coming to ask of them that they separate her from this wonder and magic forever, because she had no choice.

  The woman had a strange appearance, both human and fairy, with a beautiful, almost unnatural face and figure set off by enormous, deep, sensuous eyes that no human ever had. Her skin, too, was a soft orange, and her hands and feet, with their length and clawlike nails, were pure fairy.

  Huspeth met her warmly at the small glen in the center of the forest and tried her best to put the newcomer at ease. The cauldron outside the hut where the white witch lived was bubbling with grand smells, and Huspeth would hear nothing serious from her visitor until both had supped and the sun had vanished far beyond the trees.

  Finally, by fireglow, the legendary witch gazed sadly at her strange-looking visitor and sighed. Well, my daughter, time has caught up with thee, and thine anguish I share.

  Marge smiled a sad smile and nodded. I owe you everything, she said sincerely, and I'm pained by this—but I can put it off no longer. It's—well, it's driving me crazy!

  Huspeth nodded sympathetically and gave her hand a motherly squeeze. Already thou art burdened with living in two worlds, not truly a part of either yet very much a part of both, the witch said soothingly, That is a far greater burden than any should bear, yet to live in three is impossible.

  Marge stifled a tear, knowing that at least one other understood. Two worlds and not truly a part of either, she thought sourly. A Texas girl who'd failed at a career, failed at marriage, even failed as a hooker and as a waitress, who'd hitched a ride on her way to Hell with a crazy trucker drafted by a sorcerer to fight a war in another world. Joe was supposed to be here in Husaquahr, at least, although he might argue the point. Ruddygore had needed a hero not born of this world and thus immune to the demons of this place and he'd plucked Joe from Earth just before Joe was to die in a crash. She'd hitched a ride with Joe that dark night, thinking of suicide and expecting to make El Paso. Instead, here she was, in the land where fantasy was real, the origins of all human fantasies and myths, across the Sea of Dreams. And here the sorcerer with the impossible fictitious name of Throckmorton P. Ruddygore—Huspeth had taught her that none of the Council of Thirteen used their real names, since knowing the real name of someone in their class gave an equal opponent some kind of advantage—had sent the hitchhiking Marge to Huspeth in the Glen Dinig, to be trained as a healer and white witch. After the training, she had done her job well and contributed to keeping the powerful magic Lamp out of the hands of the marching Dark Baron, but there had been a catch. The order of white witches to which Huspeth and she belonged drew power from their virginity and celibacy—and Marge had once again been virginal in Husaquahr—but the more magic she had used or been subjected to, the more she changed.

  Aye, thou art a changeling sure, Huspeth told her, echoing her thoughts. It is he whom thou dost call Ruddygore who did this knowingly. Is there hatred in thy soul for him for this?

  She thought a moment. No, not really. Not at all. Just for a moment there, I was back on that lonely west Texas highway, not caring if I lived or died. Without him I'd be dead, either in that wreck or not too long after by my own hand. Whatever he did, he had a right to do. I've got no kick coming.

  Huspeth smiled and nodded. Thou hast learned much, my daughter, and thy wisdom becomes thee. I do not much like him, as thou knowest, for he trafficks in demons, yet his heart is good even if his soul be impure. He had very good reasons for bringing thee and thy companion to this world, and his skill at the art placed you both in the place where you were most needed. It may seem cruel to send thee to a celibate order and then make thee a changeling, but I divine strong purpose in it. Thy string is complex and far from played out. At first I thought him taking a subtle jest at me, but now I see it is not so. He needed thee as a witch of the order, but the clouds of Probability change with events. The first act is done, the curtain is down, but the play is far from completed.

  Marge felt a little better on hearing this. Then—whatever I'm becoming—is what is needed next? The ancient witch nodded. It is clear now. Then—why? What must I face?

  That is unknown to all save the Creator, Huspeth told her. The future is not fixed but is all probabilities. One highly skilled in the arts may see that a thing is needed while not knowing why, or when, or how. But it is now clear that the curtain must rise on the next act of our play. A conference of the Sisterhood was already held. Thy vows are lifted, as they must be. Thou art free.

  Marge frowned. Just like that?

  Huspeth laughed softly. Just like that. And why hot? For all the magic of the initiation which confers the power, a vow is a vow and not a spell. It is not a command but a contract. Thou hast not broken thy vow, so there is no dishonor. Release is needed and granted freely and willingly. The war against the forces of Hell needs thee. She sighed. But stay the night with me. Enjoy the Glen Dinig. In the morning, perhaps, we shall visit the unicorn and say thy farewells. Then shalt thou ride forth to a new destiny.

  Marge was almost overcome with emotion, and tears welled up in her eyes. May I still—return? For a visit?

  At any time, my daughter, for my daughter thou shalt remain always. The Glen Dinig shall sing whenever thou dost approach, and here thou mayest always find rest and comfort.

  That made it much better, much more bearable. Mother— what shall I do now?

  Travel to the east along the Rossignol, Huspeth told her. Ten days' comfortable journey will bring thee to the tributary called the Bird's Breath, and so thou shall follow it to a forest called Mohr Jerahl, a place much like this one. There shalt thou find the fairy folk called the Kauri, who will complete the process and instruct thee in thy nature. Thou art bright, and so it will take some doing inside thee to trust thy feelings at all times, even over thy head, but this is the way of fairy folk, and they live lives far longer than humankind.

  What about Joe? Marge asked. Can he come with me? I think I'd like some moral support.

  Huspeth gazed off into space for a moment, seeming not to hear, then turned back to her visitor. He may accompany thee to the edge of Mohr Jerahl, but he must wait there for thee. There is mortal peril for a human to enter the home of a fairy folk; should he enter, he will almost certainly have to kill many Kauri or be consumed by their power. It would not be good to begin thy relationship with thy new people with death, for the fairies do not age as humans do, but exist in their soulstate, and death for any fairy, including thyself, is the true death, not the transition of the humans. If he must come, then make him wait. Time to the fairy folk in their own land is not like time elsewhere, so his wait will not be long, no matter how long dost thou tarry.

  These—Kauri. What are they like?

  An ancient folk of great power over mortal flesh, which is needed to safeguard their fragility. Their nature is quite elemental and is best experienced firsthand. Don't worry. Thou wilt find peace and confidence as one of them.

  Chapter 3

  A NICE LITTLE BUSINESS TRIP

  For a barbarian, image is the most important thing.

  —Rules

  LXXXII, 306(b)

  The man walking across the castle's inner courtyard would have stood out in any crowd. He was a huge man, well over six feet and so totally muscled that those looking at
him generally expected him to crash through stone walls rather than be bothered to walk around them. His face, which he himself described as vaguely Oriental—a meaningless term in Husaquahr but not back in his native Philadelphia—was handsome and strong, with piercing eyes that seemed almost jet-black, the whole thing set off by a thick crop of truly jet-black hair that hung halfway between his shoulders and waist. His skin was tanned a magnificent bronze and looked tough enough to deflect spears. He wore only a flimsy white loincloth, hung from an ornate hand-tooled leather belt, and a hat, made to his specifications by the milliner in the nearby town of Terdiera. It was a cowboy hat, brim sides turning up in starched salute, and on the front was a strange symbol and the word, in English: Peterbilt. The hat, which had shown great utility in deflecting the elements, had been widely imitated in the land around Castle Terindell.

  He approached a low building separated from the castle proper and knocked at the wooden door. It opened, revealing a tall, sinister-looking elf whose thin-lined face, penetrating eyes in perpetual scowl, and cold manner were in stark contrast to the small, happy groundskeepers always working on the castle itself. This was a warrior elf, an Imir, a professional soldier and deadly fighter.

  Hello, Poquah, the big man said cheerily. Is he in? Downstairs, working on cataloguing his sculpture collection, the Imir responded. Come in—the lady is already waiting inside. You can go down together.

  Joe entered, having to bend his head slightly to clear the door, and looked around the familiar study of the sorcerer Ruddygore, its sumptuous furnishings complementing the walls of red-bound volumes that seemed to go on forever—the Books of Rules, which governed this entire crazy world and were constantly being amended.

  Marge was standing there, just looking at the huge books as she always did, probably wishing she could read them. Although the trading language they now used routinely as a first language bore an amazing resemblance to English, at least in many of the nouns, adjectives, and adverbs, its written form was pictographic, like the Chinese of their old world, with over forty thousand characters representing words and ideas rather than letters. It took an exceptional mind to learn it, starting from childhood. Total literacy meant power and position, no matter from what origins one came; but there was far too little time to learn it, once one was an adult.

  She looked around as he entered and gave him a mild wave, then turned back to the books. You know, she said, they still remind me of the U.S. Tax Code. Thousands of years of petty, sorcerous minds constantly making Rules on just about everything they can think of. And every time there's a Council meeting, there's another volume of additions, deletions, and revisions. I bet nobody knows or understands it all, not even Ruddygore.

  He just nodded and shrugged. The whole world was nuts, but people still acted like people, and that meant nutty, too. He'd long since stopped being amazed at much of anything in this world and just accepted whatever came. So how are you doing? he asked her, trying to start a more normal conversation.

  She turned and shrugged, and he couldn't help but reflect how she seemed to get more beautiful and sexy every time he saw her. Not bad. You?

  Bored, he said honestly; The first time I bent a three inch iron bar into a pretzel, I was like a little kid and I went around bending all sorts of stuff, lifting horses, wagons, you name it. But now it's all just nothin'. I mean, it's no big deal any more.

  Nothing, in fact, was any big deal any more. He was used to stares and people scrambling out of his way—so used to it that he pretty well took it for granted now. Just going into a town was an experience only for those with him for the first time—the women all gaga over him, no problems with service, conquests, you name it. There wasn't even any fun in claiming that he could outdrink and outfight anybody in the town. Hell, he could and he knew it. In the two months since the battle, he'd become totally bored, jaded, and itchy for anything new, even if it was risky. Just a couple of days before, two thieves from out of the area had attacked him in a back alley. One had hit him over the head with a club while the other had swung a board into his stomach. Both the club and the board had broken on impact—and so had the two thieves.

  Just now he'd come from the practice field down by the river where several trainees had tried to shoot arrows into him. Without even thinking about it he'd twisted, turned, and knocked those arrows that still would have hit him down in midair. Gorodo, the huge, nine-foot, blue, apelike trainer of heroes and military men, had asked him for permission to have trainees try to kill him any time. So far, none had shown the least promise. He feared no man and no physical threat; only against sorcery was he powerless and, even in that department, he'd used his brains and quick reflexes to dodge most of it.

  That had been the plan, anyway, since the start of all this. He would be the brawn and Marge would deal with the magic, aided by this Huspeth she always talked about and by Ruddygore, of course. They made a near-perfect team. But since the Dark Baron's defeat, there had been little to do.

  Poquah appeared—he had the habit of doing that, without any sound or sign until he spoke up—and said, The Master says to come down. He's in the middle of the catalog and he doesn't want to lose his place.

  Marge joined them, and they walked out a back door and down a corridor which led to the sorcerer's magical laboratory. They were not going there, though, but to a basement beneath the main hall and study, where Ruddygore kept many of his more personal valuables. She looked up at Joe and whispered, Ever seen this collection? He shook his head negatively.

  Don't crack up or make jokes when you see it, she warned him. He's pretty sensitive about it.

  Before he could ask any questions, they were in the basement and surrounded by what she was talking about. For a moment he looked around, trying to sort out the collection from the junk—but it didn't take him long to realize that the junk was the collection.

  There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of them— in every size, shape, color combination, and in just about every style. It was, he had to admit, the largest grouping in one spot of tacky plaster sculptures short of a Hong Kong factory. Here they were—the monkey contemplating the human skull while sitting on a plaster book labeled Aristotle, plaster dogs, plaster cats, pink flamingos, lawn jockeys, and just about every other expression of the tacky art ever won by contestants at Beat-the-Guesser stands and fire carnivals the world over. The souvenirs were there, too—the plaster Statues of Liberty, the U.S. Capitols, even ones with a foreign flavor like the seven Eiffel Towers, half a dozen Big Bens, and three different Mannekin Piss statues from Brussels, one of which had a definitely obscene corkscrew imbedded in its painted plaster.

  He was about to say something when a shaggy head popped up from the midst of the statuary that virtually filled the room, looked at them, and beamed. Marge! Joe! How good of you to drop in! How do you like the collection? I daresay it's the finest of its type on any world!

  Joe was about to make a comment on just what he really thought of the junk when Marge kicked his shin. Um, I'll agree that nobody else has a collection like this one, he managed, trying to sound diplomatic.

  Throckmorton P. Ruddygore got up slowly from the floor, where he'd been working, then started looking for a way to get out of the pile that surrounded him without breaking anything. This was no mean task for him, since the sorcerer looked like nothing so much as the classical depiction of Santa Claus, although, at a height of more than six feet, his proportionate bulk was certainly over four hundred pounds.

  Joe and Marge carefully helped to make a path for him by moving statuary where they could, and at last the sorcerer was able to reach the entry way. Usually dressed in fine clothes or majestic robes, he allowed few people to see him in the gigantic T-shirt and Bermuda shorts he was now wearing.

  After greeting them warmly, he looked at Marge with his piercing blue eyes and asked, What is it you want, my child?

  I think you know, she responded. At least, you'd better know.

  Well, I don't k
now, Joe grumbled.

  Ruddygore just nodded. I think it's best you go and do it as soon as possible. Events are moving at a far faster pace than I had anticipated. Something very odd is going on in the Baron's lands, and that spells trouble. I may need you both at any time.

  That interested the big man. You mean another battle?

  Not like the old one, Joe. I think the Baron has learned his lesson on that one. But there are disturbing reports from the south. Whole military units seem to have vanished or been broken up and re-formed elsewhere. Boundary defenses have been strengthened, although obviously we can't possibly mount a successful counterattack, and it's getting tougher to get in and out of his areas. Something's up, something new, and we can't get a handle on it; but it's certain that the only reason for such ironclad border control, other than to repel invasion, is either to keep your own people in—and he has other means to do that—or to keep the flow of information to a minimum. Our usual spies have been next to useless, I'm afraid, so I'm hoping to learn something at the convention.

  Convention? Marge prompted.

  The sorcerer nodded. Yes, the annual meeting of the sorcerers, magicians, and adepts of Husaquahr. It's a rather large, elaborate affair lasting five days, and it's only three weeks away. This year it's in Sachalin, Marquewood's capital. I leave in ten days for it, since it's a long way. Everybody will be there, though—the entire Council, as a courtesy, including those members, both greater and lesser, from the Baron's lands. I might learn something useful.