"Andre Norton - Greyhawk - (1978) Quag Keep v1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

QUAG KEEP

by Andre Norton

The author wishes to express apprecia-

tion for the invaluable aid of E. Gary

Gygax of TSR, expert player and creator

of the war game, DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS,

on which the background of QUAG KEEP is

based. I wish also to acknowledge the kind

assistance of Donald Wollheim, an author-

ity and collector of military miniatures,

whose special interest was so valuable for

my research.

OF DRAGONS

AND DUNGEONS

"We have discovered that it may be entirely

possible that what a man dreams in one world

may be created and given substance in another.

And if more than one dream the same dreams,

strive to bring them to life, then the more solid

and permanent becomes that other world. Also

dreams seep from one space-time level of a world

to another, taking root in new soil and there

growing-perhaps even to great permanence.

"You have all played what you call a war

game, building a world you believe imaginary in

which to stage your adventures and exploits.

Well enough, you gay, what harm lies in that?

Only-what if the first dreamer, who 'invented'

this world according to your conception, gath-

ered, unknowingly, dream knowledge of one that

did and does exist in another time and space?

Have you ever thought of that-ha?"

Contents

1 Greyhawk

2 Wizard's Wiles

3 Geas Bound

4 Out of Greyhawk

5 Ring of Forgotten Power

6 Those Who Follow-

7 Ambush

8 Black Death Defied

9 Harp Magic

10 The Domain of Lichis

11 Lichis the Golden

12 The Sea of Dust

13 The Liche Ship

14 Rockna the Brazen

15 Singing Shadow

16 Into the Quagmire

17 Quag Heart

18 Roll the Dice

1

Greyhawk

Eckstern produced the package with an exaggerated flourish

and lifted the lid of the box to pluck out shredded packing

with as much care as if he were about to display the crown

jewels of some long-forgotten kingdom. His showmanship

brought the others all closer. Eckstem liked such chances to

focus attention, and tonight, as the referee chosen to set up

the war game, his actions were backed with special authority.

He unwrapped a length of cotton and set out on the table,

between the waiting game sheets, a two-inch figure, larger

than any they habitually played with. It was, indeed, a

treasure. A swordsman-complete with shield on which a

nearly microscopic heraldic design blazed forth in brilliant

enamel paints. The tiny face of the figure was sternly set

above the rim of the shield, shadowed by a helmet with a

small twist of spike rising from it. There was an indication of

mail on the body which had been modeled as if the figure

were advancing a step in grim determination. The sword in

the hand was a length of glittering metal, more like well-pol-

ished steel than lead which was the usual material for playing

figures.

Martin stared at it in fascination. He had seen many ex-

pertly painted and well-positioned war-game figures but

this-this gave him a queer feeling, as if it had not been

turned out of a mold, but rather had been designed by a

sculptor in the form of a man who once had lived.

"Where-where did you get that?" Harry Conden's slight

hesitation of speech was more pronounced than usual.

"A beauty, isn't it?" Eckstern purred. "A new company-

Q K Productions-and you wouldn't believe the price either.

They sent a letter and a list-want to introduce their pieces

to 'well-known' players. After we won those two games at the

last convention, I guess they had us near the top of their

list. . ."

To Martin, Eckstern's explanation was only a meaningless

babble. His hand had gone out without his conscious willing,

to touch fingertip on that shield, make sure it did exist. It was

true that the makers of playing pieces for the fantasy war

games were starting to try to outdo each other in the produc-

tion of unusual monsters, noble fighters, astute elves, power-

ful dwarves, and all the other characters a player might call

for, identify with while playing, even keep on display like

some fabulous antique chessmen between games. Martin had

envied those able to equip themselves with the more ornate

and detailed figures. But the best he had seen in displays

could not compare to this. Within him came a sudden com-

pulsion; he must have this one. It was beyond any doubt

meant for him.

Eckstem was still talking as he unwrapped other figures,

set them out, his elbow firmly planted meanwhile on the

referee notes for the coming game. But Martin's attention

never Wavered from the swordsman. This was his! He

grasped it lovingly.

There were good smells and stale ones fighting for domi-

nance in a room lit only by baskets of fire wasps, one of

which was close enough so that he could see every old

stain on the table at which he sat. By his right hand stood a

drinking hom mounted on a base of dull metal. His right

hand...

He stared at both hands, the fists lightly clenched and lying

on the scored board. This was (it seemed that his mind had

skipped something of importance as a heart might skip a

beat), this was, of course, the Sign of Harvel's Axe, a dubi-

ous inn on the edge of the Thieves' Quarter in the city of

Greyhawk. He frowned, troubled. But there had been some-

thing else-something of importance-of which only a hint

slithered so swiftly through his brain that he could not fasten

on it quickly enough.

His name was Milo Jagon, a swordsman of some experi-

ence, now unemployed. That much was'.-clear. And the hands

before him were bare below sleeves of very supple, dark-

colored mail which had a hint of copper in it, yet was darker

brown. Turned back against his wrists were mitts fastened to

the sleeves. And about each of his thumbs was the wide band

of a ring. The one to the right was set with an oblong stone

of dull green, across which, in no discernible pattern, wand-

ered tiny red veins and dots. The setting on the left was even

more extraordinary-an oval crystal of gray, clouded and

filmed.

On the right wrist there was a glint of something else;

again that faintest hint of other memory-even of alarm-

touched Milo's mind. He jerked down the right mitt and saw,

banded over the mail itself, a wide bracelet of a metal as

richly bright as newly polished copper. It was made of two

bands between which, swung on hardly visible gimbals, were

a series of dice-three-sided, four-sided, eight-sided, six-sided.

They were of the same bright metal as the bracelet that sup-

ported them. But the numbers on them were wrought in glis-

tening bits of gemstones, so tiny he did not see how any gem

smith could have set them in so accurately.

This-with his left hand he touched that bracelet, finding

the metal warm to his fingertips-this was important! His

scowl grew deeper. But why and how?

And he could not remember having come here. Also-he

raised his head to stare about uneasily-he sensed that he

was watched. Yet there were none in that murky room he

Was quick enough to catch eyeing him.

The nearest table to his own was also occupied by a single

man. He had the bulk, the wide shoulders and thick, mail-

covered forearms, of a man who would be formidable in a

fight. Milo assessed him, only half-consciously, with the ex-

perienced eye of one who had needed many times in the past

to know the nature of an enemy, and that quickly.

The cloak the other man had tossed to the bench beside

him was of hide covered with horny bristles. And his helmet

was surmounted with a realistic and daunting representation

of a snarling boar brought dangerously to bay. Beneath the

edge of it, his face was wide of the cheekbone and square of

jaw, and he was staring, as Milo had been, at his hands on

the tabletop before him. Between them crouched a bright,

green-blue pseudo-dragon, its small wings fluttering, its

arrow-pointed tongue darting in and out.

And on his right wrist-Milo drew a deep breath-this

stranger wore a bracelet twin to his own, as far as the

swordsman could see without truly examining it.

Boar helm, boar cloak-memories and knowledge Milo did

not consciously search for arose. This other was a berserker,

and one with skill enough to turn were-boar if he so desired.

Such were chancy companions at the best, and the swords-

man did not wonder now that their two tables, so close to-

gether, were theirs alone, that the rest of the patrons, eating

and drinking, had sought the other side of the long room.

Nor was he surprised that the stranger should have the

pseudo-dragon as a traveling companion or pet, whichever

their relationship might be. For the weres, like the elves and

some others, could communicate with animals at will.

Once more Milo gave a searching, very steady survey of

the others in the room. There were several thieves, he

guessed, and one or two foreigners, who, he hoped for their

own sakes, were tough enough to defend themselves if they

had wandered into Harvel's Axe without due warning. A

cloaked man who, he thought, might be a druid (of low

rank) was spooning up stew with such avidity that spattering

drops formed gobbets of grease on his clothing. Milo was

paying particular attention to right wrists. Those he could see

were certainly innocently bare of any such banding as he and

the berserker wore. At the same time, the impression that he

was being watched (and not with any kindness) grew in him.

He dropped hand to sword hilt and, for the first time, noted

that a shield leaned against the table. On it was emblazoned

an intricate pattern which, though dented in places and

plainly weatherworn, had once been skillfully done. And he

had seen that... where?

The vagrant curl of memory grew no stronger for his try-

ing to grasp it. He grinned sourly. Of course he had seen it

many times over-the thing was his, wasn't it? And he had

callouses from its weight along his arm to prove that

At least he had had the wisdom to pick a table where he

sat with his back to the wall. Now there flowed through his

mind half memories of other times when he had been in just

such uncertain lodgings. A table swung up and forward could

serve as a barrier to deter a rush. And the outer door? . . .

There were two doors in the room. One led, uncurtained,

to the inner part of the inn. The other had a heavy leather

drape over it. Unfortunately, that was on the opposite side of

the room. To reach it he would have to pass a group he had

been watching with quick glances, five men gathered close to-

gether whispering. They had seemed to show no interest in

him, but Milo did not depend on such uncertain reassurance

of innocence.

The eternal war between Law and Chaos flared often in

Greyhawk. It was in a manner of speaking a "free

city"-since it had no one overlord to hold it firmly to his

will. For that reason it had become a city of masterless men,

a point from which many expeditions, privately conceived

and planned for the despoiling of ancient treasures, would set

out, having recruited the members from just such masterless

men as Milo himself, or perhaps the berserker only an arm's

length away.

But if those on the side of Law recruited here, so did the

followers of Chaos. There were neutrals also, willing to join

with either side for the sake of payment. But they were never

to be wholly depended upon by any man who had intelli-

gence, for they might betray one at the flip of a coin or the

change of the wind itself.

As a swordsman Milo was vowed to Law. The berserker

had more choice in such matters. But this place, under its

odors of fresh and stale food, stank to Milo of Chaos. What

had brought him here? If he could only remember! Was he

spell-struck in some fashion? That idea caught and held in his

mind to worry him even more. No man, unless he had won

to high adeptship and therefore was no longer entirely hu-

man, could even begin to reckon the kinds and numbers of

spells that might be set to entangle the unwary. But he knew

that he was waiting-and he again tested the looseness of his

sword within its sheath, keeping his other hand close to the

edge of the table, tense as a man may be before he reaches a

position he has chosen for his own defense.

Then-in the light of the fire wasps he caught the flashes

from his wrist. Dice-moving! Again he half remembered a

fast, fleeting wisp of some other knowledge he should have

and did not-to his own danger.

But it was not the suspected men in the corner who were a

threat. Instead the berserker got to his feet. Up the mighty

thickness of his mailed arm fluttered the pseudo-dragon, to

perch upon his shoulder, its spear tongue darting against the

cheekpiece of his heavy helmet. He had caught up his cloak

but he did not turn to the leather curtain of the outer door.

Instead he took two strides and stood towering over Milo.

Under the brush of his brows his eyes held a red glint like

those of an angry boar, and he thrust out his hand and wrist

to match Mile's. There, too, showed the glint of the dice,

turning by themselves on their almost invisible gimbals.

"I am Naile Fangtooth." His voice was close to a low

grunting. And, as his lips moved to form the words, they be-

trayed the reason for his self-naming-two teeth as great as

tusks set on either side of his lower jaw. He spoke as if com-

pelled to, and Milo found that he answered as if he must of-

fer some password, lest the danger that made his flesh crawl

break forth. Yet at the same moment he knew that his sensed

danger did not come from this mighty fighting machine.

"I am Milo Jagon. Sit you down, fighting man." He moved

his shield, slid farther along the bench to make room for the

other.

"I do not know why, but-" Fangtooth's eyes no longer

held those of the swordsman. Rather he was looking with an

open expression of perplexity at their bracelets. "But," he

continued after a moment's pause, "this is what I must do:

join with you. And this"-he attempted to slip the bracelet

from his thick wrist but could not move it-"is what com-

mands me-after some fashion of its own."

"We must be bespelled." Milo returned frankness with

frankness. Berserkers seldom sought out any but their own

kind. Among their fellows, they had comradeships that lasted

to the shores of death and beyond, for the survivor of a fatal

encounter was then aware always of only one driving force,

the need for revenge upon those who had slain his other self

in battle-kinship.

The berserker scowled. "Spells-they have a stink to 'em.

And, yes, swordsman, I can pick up that stink a little.

Afreeta"-the pseudo-dragon flickered its thread of tongue

like a signal-"has already sniffed it. Yet it is not, I think,

one sent by a dark-loving devil." He had kept his voice low

with a visible effort as if his natural tone was more of a full-

throated roar.

Milo noted that the eyes beneath those heavy brows were

never still, that Naile Fangtooth watched the company in the

room with as keen an eye for trouble as he himself had ear-

lier. Those who whispered together had not once made any

move to suggest that the two were of interest to them. The

shabby druid licked his spoon, then raised the bowl to his lips

to sup down the last of the broth it contained. And two men

wearing the shoulder badges of some merchant's escort kept

drinking steadily as if their one purpose in life was to see

which first would get enough of a skinful to subside to the

rush-strewn, ill-swept floor.

"They-none of them-wear these." Milo indicated the

bracelet on his own wrist. The dice were now quiet on their

gimbals. In fact when he tried to swing one with his finger-

nail, it remained as fixed as if it could never move, yet it was

the same one he had seen turn just before Naile had joined him.

"No." The berserker blinked. "There is something-some-

thing that nibbles at my mind as a squirrel worries away at a

nut. I should know, but I do not. And you, swordsman?" His

scowl did not lighten as he looked directly at Milo. There was

accusation in it, as if he believed the swordsman knew the

secret of this strange meeting but was purposefully keeping it

to himself.

"It is the same," Milo admitted. "I feel I must remember

something-yet it is as if I beat against a locked door in my

mind and cannot win through that to the truth."

"I am Naile Fangtooth." The berserker was not speaking to

Milo now, but rather affirming his identity as if he needed

such assurance. "I was with the Brethem when they took the

Mirror of Loice and the Standard of King Everon. It was

then that my shield brother, Engul Wideband, was cut down

by the snake-skins. Also it was there later that I picked

Afreeta from a cage so she joined with me." He raised a big

hand and gently stroked the back of the dragon at a spot be-

tween its continually fluttering wings. "These things I remem-

ber-yet-there was more. .. ."

"The Mirror of Loice . . ." Milo repeated. Where had he

heard of that before? He raised both fists and pressed them

against his forehead, pushing up the edge of the helmet he

wore. The edges of the two thumb rings pressed against his

skin, giving hitn a slight twinge of pain. But nothing an-

swered in his memory.

"Yes." There was pride now in his companion's voice.

"That was a mighty hosting. Ores, even the Spectre of Loice

herself, stood against us. But we had the luck of the throws

with us for that night. The luck of the throws-!" Now it was

Fangtooth's turn to look at the bracelets on his own wrist.

"The throws-" he repeated for the second time. "It means

... it means...!"

His face twisted and he beat upon the table board with one

calloused fist, so mighty a blow that the hom cup leaped

though it did not overturn. "What throws?" The scowl he

turned upon Milo now was as grim as a battle face.

"I don't know." Milo wet his lips with his tongue. He had

no fear of the berserker even though the huge man might

well be deliberately working himself into one of those rages

that transcended intelligence and made such a fighter imper-

vious to weapons and some spells.

Once more he struggled to turn the dice on the bracelet.

Far back in his mind he knew them. They had a very definite

purpose. Only here and now he was like a man set down be-

fore some ancient roll of knowledge that he could not read

and yet knew that his life perhaps depended upon translating

it. "These," he said slowly. "One turned just before you

joined me. They are like gamers' dice, save that there are too

many shapes among them to be ordinary."

"Yes." Naile's voice had fallen again. "Still I have thrown

such-and for a reason, or reasons. But why or where I can-

not remember. I think, swordsman, that someone thinks to

play a game with us. If this be so, he shall discover that he

has chosen not tools but men, and therefore will be the worse

for his folly."

"If we are bespelled . . ." Milo began. He wanted to keep

the berserker away from the battle madness of his kind. It

was useful, very useful, that madness, but only in the proper

place and time. And to erupt, not even knowing the nature of

the enemy, was rank folly.

"Then sooner or later we shall meet the spell caster?" To

Milo's relief, Fangtooth seemed well able to control the

power of were-change that was his by right. "Yes, that is

what I believe we wait for now."

The druid, without a single glance in their direction, had

set by his now empty bowl and got to his feet, ringing down

on the table top a small coin. He wore, Milo noted as he

turned and his robe napped up a little, not the sandals

suitable for city streets, but badly cured and clumsily made

hide boots such as a peasant might use for field labor in ill

weather. The bag marked with the runes of his training was a

small one and as shabby as his robe. He gave a jerk to bring

his cowl higher over his head and started for the outer door,

nor did he make any attempt to approach their table. Milo

was glad to see the last of him. Druids were chancy at best,

and there were those who had the brand of Chaos and the

powers of the Outer Dark at their call, though this one was

manifestly lowly placed in that close-knit and secret fra-

ternity.

Fangtooth's lips pursed as if he would spit after the figure

now tugging aside the door curtain.

"Cooker of spells!" he commented.

"But not the one who holds us," Milo said.

'True enough. Tell me, swordsman, does your skin now

prickle, does it seem that, without your helm to hold it down,

your very hair might rise on your head? Whatever has netted

us comes the closer. Yet a man cannot fight what he cannot

see, hear, or know is alive."

The berserker was far more astute than Milo had first

thought him. Because of the very nature of the bestial feroc-

ity such fighters fell into upon occasion, one was apt to forget

that they had their own powers and were moved by intelli-

gence as well as by the superhuman strength they could com-

mand. Fangtooth had the right of it. His own discomfort

had been steadily growing. What they awaited was nearly

here.

Now the five whisperers also arose and passed one by one

beyond the curtain. It was as if someone, or something, were

clearing the stage for a struggle. Yet still Milo could not lo-

cate any of the signs of Chaos. On the berserker's shoulder

the pseudo-dragon chittered, rubbing its head back and forth

on the cheekplate of the boar-crowned helmet.

Milo found himself watching, not the small reptile, but

rather the bracelet on his wrist. It seemed to have loosened

somewhat its grip against his maiL Two of the dice began

slowly to spin.

"Now!"

Naile got to his feet. In his left hand he held a deadly

battle axe of such weight that Milo, trained though he was to

handle many different weapons, thought he could never have

brought to shoulder height. They were alone in the long

room. Even those who had served had gone, as if they had

some private knowledge of ill to come and would not witness

it.

Still, what Milo felt was not the warning prick of normal

fear-rather an excitement, as if he stood on the verge of

learning the answer to all questions.

As Naile had done, he got to his feet, lifted his shield. The

dice on his bracelet wBirred to a stop as the hide door curtain

was drawn aside, letting in a blast of late fall, winter-touched

air. A man, slight and so well cloaked that he seemed merely

some shadow detached from a nearby wall to roam home-

lessly about, came swiftly in.

2

Wizard's Wiles

The newcomer approached them directly. His pale face above

the high-standing collar of his cloak marked him as one who

dwelt much indoors by reason of necessity or choice. And,

though his features were human enough in their cast, still

Milo, seeing their impassivity, the thinness of his bloodless

lips, the sharp-beak curve of his nose, hesitated to claim him

as a brother man. His eyelids were near closed, but, as he

reached the table, he opened them widely and they could see

that his pupils were of no human color, rather dull red like a

smoldering coal.

Save for those eyes, the only color about him was the

badge sewn to the shoulder of his cloak. And that was so in-

tricate that Milo could not read its meaning. It appeared to

be an entwining of a number of wizardly runes. When the

newcomer spoke, his voice was low-pitched and had no more

emotion than the monotone of one who repeated a set

message without personal care for its meaning.

"You are summoned-"                               

"By whom and where?" Naile growled and spat again, the

flush on his broad face darkening. "I have taken no serv-

ice-"

Milo caught the berserker's arm. "No more have I. But it

would seem that this is what we have awaited." For in him

that expectancy which had been building to a climax now

blended into a compulsion he could not withstand.

For a moment it seemed that the berserker was going to

dispute the summons. Then he swung up his fur cloak and

fastened it with a boar's head buckle at his throat.

"Let us be gone then," he growled. "I would see an end to

this bedazzlement, and that speedily." The pseudo-dragon

chittered shrilly, shooting its tongue at the messenger, as if it

would have enjoyed impaling some part of the stranger on

that spearpoint.

Again Milo felt the nudge of spinning dice at his wrist. If

he could only remember! There was a secret locked in that

armlet and he must learn it soon, for as he stood now, he felt

helplessness like a sharp-set wound.

They came out of Harvel's Axe on the heels of the messen-

ger. Though the upper part of the city was well lighted, this

portion was far too shadowed. Those who dwelt and carried

out their plans here knew shadows as friends and defenses.

However, as three of them strode along, they followed a

crooked alley where the houses leaned above them as if eyes

set in the upper stories would spy on passersby. Milo's

overactive imagination was ready to endow those same

houses, closed and barred against the night and with seldom a

dim glow to mark a small-paned window, with knowledge

greater than his own, as if they snickered slyly as the three

passed.

Before they reached the end of the Thieves' Quarter a dark

form slipped from an arched doorway. Though he had had

no warning from the armlet, Milo's hand instantly sought his

sword hilt. Then the newcomer fell into step with him and

the very dim light showed the green and brown apparel of an

elf. Few, if any, of that blood were ever drawn into the ways

of Chaos. Now better light from a panel above the next door

made it plain that the newcomer was one of the Woods

Rangers. His long bow, unstrung, was at his back and he

bore a quiver full of arrows tight packed. In addition both a

hunter's knife and a sword were sheathed at his belt. But

most noticeable to the swordsman, on his wrist he, too, wore

the same bracelet that marked the berserker and Milo him-

self.

Their guide did not even turn his head to mark the coming

of the elf, but kept ahead "at a gliding walk which Milo found

he must extend his stride to match. Nor did the newcomer of-

fer any greeting to either of the men. Only the pseudo-dragon

turned its gem-point eyes to the newcomer and trilled a thin,

shrill cry.

Elves had the common tongue, though sometimes they dis-

dained to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. However,

besides it and their own speech, they also had mastery over

communication with animals and birds-and, it would seem,

pseudo-dragons. For Naile's pet-or comrade-had shrilled

what must be a greeting. If the elf answered, it was by mind-

talk alone. He made no more sound than the shadows around

them; far less than the hissing slip-slip of their guide's foot-

gear which was oftentimes drowned out by the clack of their

own boot heels on the pavement.

They proceeded into wider and less winding streets,

catching glimpses now and then of some shield above a door

to mark a representative of Blackmer, a merchant of sub-

stance from Urnst, or the lands of the Holy Lords of Faraaz.

So the four came to a narrow way between two towering

walls. At the end of that passage stood a tower. It was not

impressive at first, as were some towers in Greyhawk. The

surface of the stone facing was lumpy and irregular. Those

pocks and rises, Milo noted, when they came to the single

door facing the alley that had brought them and could see

the door light, were carving as intricately enfolded and re-

peated as the patch upon their guide's cloak.

From what he could distinguish, the stone was not the lo-

cal grayish-tan either, but instead a dull green, over which

wandered lines of yellow, adding to the confusion of the car-

ven patterns in a way to make the eyes ache if one tried to

follow either carving or yellow vein.

He whom they followed laid one hand to the door and it

swung immediately open, as if there was no need for bars or

other protection in this place. Light, wan, yet brighter than

they had seen elsewhere, flowed out to engulf them.

Here were no baskets of fire wasps. This light stemmed

from the walls themselves, as if those yellow veins gave off a

sickly radiance. By the glow Milo saw that the faces of his

companions looked as palely ghostlike as those of some liche

serving Chaos. He did not like this place, but his will was

bound as tightly as if fetters enclosed his wrists and chains

pulled him forward.

They passed, still in silence, along a narrow corridor to

come at the end of it to a corkscrew of a stairway. Because

their guide flitted up it, they did likewise. Milo saw an oily

drop of sweat streak down the berserker's nose, drip to his

chin where the bristles of perhaps two days of neglected

beard sprouted vigorously. His own palms were wet and he

had to fight a desire to wipe them on his cloak.

Up they climbed, passing two levels of the tower, coming

at last into a single great room. Here it was stifling hot. A fire

burned upon a hearth in the very middle, smoke trailing up-

ward through an opening in the roof. But the rest of the

room . . . Milo drew a deep breath. This was no lord's audi-

ence chamber. There were tables on which lay piles of books,

some bound in wooden boards eaten by time, until perhaps

only their hinges of metal held them together. There were

canisters of scrolls, all pitted and green with age. Half the

floor their guide stepped confidently out upon was inlaid with

a pentagon and other signs and runes. The sickly light was a

little better here, helped by the natural flames of the fire.

Standing by the fire, as if his paunchy body still craved

heat in spite of the temperature of the chamber, was a man

of perhaps Milo's height, yet stooped a little of shoulder and

completely bald of head. In place of hair, the dome of his

skin-covered skull had been painted or tattooed with the same

unreadable design as marked the cloak patch of his servant.

He wore a gray robe, tied with what looked like a length

of plain yellowish rope, and that robe was marked with no

design or symbol. His right wrist, Milo was quick to look for

that, was bare of any copper, dice-set bracelet. He could have

been any age (wizards were able to control time a little for

their own benefit) and he was plainly in no cheerful mood.

Yet, as the swordsman stepped up beside Naile, the elf

quickly closing in to make a third, Milo for the first time felt

free of compulsion and constant surveillance.

The wizard surveyed them critically-as a buyer in the

slave market might survey proffered wares. Then he gave a

small hacking cough when smoke puffed into his face and

waved a hand to drive away that minor annoyance.

"Naile Fangtooth, Milo Jagon, Ingrge." It was not as if he

meant the listing of names as a greeting, but rather as if he

were reckoning up a sum important to himself. Now he beck-

oned and, from the other side of the fire, four others ad-

vanced.

"I am, of course, Hystaspes. And why the Great Powers

saw fit to draw me into Ihis meeting...." He scowled. "But

if one deals with the Powers it is a two-way matter and one

pays their price in the end. Behold your fellows!"

His wave of the hand was theatrical as he indicated the

four who had come into full sight. As Milo, Naile, and the

elf Ingrge had instinctively moved shoulder to shoulder, so

did these also stand.

"The battlemaid Yevele." Hystaspes indicated a slender fig-

ure in full mail. She had pushed her helmet back a little on

her forehead, and a wisp of red-brown hair showed. For the

rest, her young face was near as impassive as that of their

guide. She wore, however, Milo noticed, what he was begin-

ning to consider the dangerous bracelet.

"Deav Dyne, who puts his faith in the gods men make for

themselves." There was exasperation in the wizard's voice as

he spoke the name of the next.

By his robe of gray, faced with white, Deav Dyne was a

follower of Landron-of-the-Inner-Light and of the third rank.

But a bracelet encircled his wrist also. He gave a slight nod

to the other three, but there was a frown on his face and he

was plainly uneasy in his present company.

"The bard Wymarc-"

The red-headed man, who wore a skald's field harp in a

bag on his back, smiled as he were playing a part and was

slyly amused at both his own role and the company of his

fellow players.

"And, of course, Gulth." Hystaspes' visible exasperation

came to the surface as he indicated the last of the four.

That introduction was answered by a low growl from Naile

Fangtooth. "What man shares a venture with an eater of car-

rion? Get you out, scale-skin, or I'll have that skin off your

back and ready to make me boots!"

The lizardman's stare was unblinking. He did not open his

fanged jaws to answer-though the lizard people used and

understood the common tongue well enough. But Milo did

not like the way that reptilian gaze swept the berserker from

head to foot and back again. Lizardmen were considered neu-

tral in the eternal struggles and skirmishes of Law and Chaos.

On the other hand a neutral did not awake trust in any man.

Their sense of loyalty seldom could be so firmly engaged that

they would not prove traitors in some moment of danger.

And this specimen of his race was formidable to look upon.

He was fully as tall as Naile, and in addition to the wicked

sword of bone, double-edged with teeth, that he carried, his

natural armament of fang and claw was weaponry even a

hero might consider twice before facing. Yet on his scaled

wrist, as on that of the bard and the cleric, was the same

bracelet.

Now the wizard turned to the fire, pointed a forefinger.

Phrases of a language that meant nothing to Milo came from

his lips in an invoking chant. Out of the heart of the flames

spread more smoke but in no random puff. This was a ser-

pent of white which writhed through the air, reaching out. It

split into two and one loop of it fell about Milo, NaHe and

the elf before they could move, noosing around their heads,

just as the other branch noosed the four facing them.

Milo sputtered and coughed. He could see nothing of the

room now or of those in it. But...

"All right, you play that one then. Now the problem

is..."

A room, misty, only half seen. Sheets of paper. He was

... he was ...

"Who are you?" A voice boomed through the mist with the

resonance of a great bell.

Who was he? What a crazy question. He was Martin Jef-

ferson, of course.

"Who are you?" demanded that voice once more. There

was such urgency in it that he found himself answering it:

"Martin Jefferson."

"What are you doing?"

His bewilderment grew. He was-he was playing a game.

Something Eckstem had suggested that they practice up on

for the convention using the new Q K figures.

That was it-just playing a game)

"No game." The booming voice denied that, leaving him

bewildered, completely puzzled.

"Who are you?"

Martin wet his lips to answer. There was a question of two

of his own for which he wanted an answer. The mist was so

thick he could not see the table. And that was not Eckstem's

voice-it was more powerful. But before he could speak.

again he heard a second voice:

"Nelson Langley."

Nels-that was Nels! But Nels had not come tonight. In

fact he was out of town. He hadn't heard from Nels since

last Saturday.

"What are you doing?" Again that relentless inquiry.

"I'm playing a game . . ." Nels' voice sounded odd-

strong enough and yet as if this unending fog muffled it a

little.

"No game!" For the second time that curt answer was em-

phatic.

Martin tried to move, to break through the fog. This was

like one of those dreams where you could not get away from

an ever-encoaching shadow.

"Who are you?"

"James Ritchie."

Who was James Ritchie? He'd never heard of him before.

What was going on? Martin longed to shout out that question

and discovered that he could not even shape the words. He

was beginning to be frightened now-if this was a dream it

was about time to wake up.

"What are you doing?"

Martin was not in the least surprised to hear the same an-

swer he and Nels had given-the same denial follow.

"Who are you?"

"Susan Spencer." That was a girl's voice, again that of a

stranger.

Then came three other answers: Lloyd Collins, Bill Ford,

Max Stein.

The smoke was at last beginning to thin. Martin's head

hurt. He was Martin Jefferson and he was dreaming. But...

As the smoke drifted away in ragged patches he was-not

back at the table with Eckstern-no! This was-this was the

tower of Hystaspes. He was Milo Jagon, swordsman-but he

was also Martin Jefferson. The warring memories in his skull

seemed enough for a wild moment or two to drive him mad.

"You see." The wizard nodded as his gaze shifted from

one of the faces to the next.

"Masterly-masterly and as evil as the Nine and Ninety

Sins of Salzak, the Spirit Murderer." The wizard seemed di-

vided, too, as if he both hated and feared what he might

have learned from them. Still, a part of him longed for the

control of such a Power as had done this to them.

"I am-Susan." The battlemaid took a step forward. "I

know I am Susan-but I am also Yevele. And these two try

to live within me at once. How can this thing be?" She flung

up her arm as if to ward off some danger and the light

glinted on her bracelet.

"You are not alone," the wizard told her. There was no

warmth of human feeling in his voice. It was brisk in tone as

if he would get on to other things at once, now that he had

learned what he wished of them.

Milo slipped off his helm, let his mail coif fall back against

his shoulders like a hood so he could rub his aching forehead.

"I was playing-playing a game. . . ." He tried to reas-

sure himself that those moments of clear thought within the

circle of the smoke were real, that he would win out of this.

"Games!" spat the wizard. "Yes, it is those games of yours,

fools that you are, that have given the enemy his chance.

Had it not been that I, I who know the Lesser and the Larger

Spells of Ulik and Dom, was searching for an answer to an

archaic formula, you would already be his things. Then you

would play games right enough, his games and for his pur-

pose. This is a land where Law and Chaos are ever struggling

one against each other. But the laws of Chance will let nei-

ther gain full sway. Now this other threat has come to us,

and neither Law nor Chaos are boundaries for him-or

them-for even yet we know not the manner or kind of what

menaces us."

"We are in a game?" Milo rubbed his throbbing head

again. "Is that what you are trying to tell us?"

"Who are you?" snapped the wizard as if he struck with a

war axe and without any warning.

"Martin-Milo Jagon." Already the Milo part of him was

winning command-driving the other memory far back into

his mind, locking and barring doors that meant its freedom.

Hystaspes shrugged. "You see? And that is the badge of

your servitude that you set upon yourselves in your own

sphere of life, with the lack of wit only fools know."

He pointed to the bracelet.

Naile dug at the band on his wrist, using his great strength.

But he could not move it. The elf broke the short silence.

"It would seem. Master Wizard, that you know far more

than we do concerning this matter. And that also you have

some hand in it or we would not be gathered here to be

shown what you deem to be sorcery behind it. If we were

brought to this world to serve your unknown menace, then

you must have some plan-"

"Plan!" The wizard near shouted. "How can a man plan

against that which is not^of his world or time? I learned by

chance what might happen far enough in advance so that I

was able to take precautions against a complete victory for

the enemy. Yes, I gathered you in. He-it-them are so confi-

dent that there was no part ready and waiting for you to

play. The mere fact that you were here perhaps accomplished

the first purpose toward which the enemy strives. By so little

am I in advance of what is to come."

"Tell us then, follower of sorcerous ways," the cleric spoke

up, "what you know, what you expect, and-"

The wizard laughed harshly. "I know as much as those

who serve those faceless gods of yours, Deav Dyne. If there

are any gods, which is problematical, why should they

concern themselves with the fates of men, or even of nations?

But, yet, I will tell you what I know. Chiefly because you are

now tools of mine-minel And you shall be willing tools, for

this has been done to you against your will, and you have

enough of the instincts of lifekind to resent such usage.

"Karl!" He clapped his hands. From the darker end of the

room moved the messenger who had led Milo and his com-

rades. "Bring stools and drink and food-for the night is long

and there is much to be said here."

Only Gulth, the lizardman, disdained a stool, curling up on

the floor, his crocodile-snouted head supported on his hands,

with never a blink of his eyelids, so that he might have been

a grotesque statue. But the rest laid their weapons down and

sat in a semicircle facing the wizard, as if they were a class

of novices about to leam the rudiments of a charm.

Hystaspes settled himself in a chair Karl dragged forward,

to watch as they drank from goblets fashioned in the form of

queer and fabulous beasts and ate a dark, tough bread spread

with strong-smelling, but good-tasting cheese.

Though Mile's head still ached, he had lost that terrible

sense of inner conflict, and for that he was glad. Still he

remembered, as if that were the dream, that once he had

been someone else in another and very different world. Only

that did not matter so much now, for this was Milo's world

and the more he let Milo's memory rule him the safer he

was.

"The dreams of men, some men," the wizard began,

smoothing his robe across his knees, "can be very strong. We

know this, we seekers out of knowledge that has been found,

lost, hidden, and found again, many times over. For man has

always been a dreamer. And it is when he begins to build

upon his dreams that he achieves that which is his greatest of

gifts.

"We have discovered that it may be entirely possible that

what a man dreams in one world may be created and given

substance in another. And if more than one dream the same

dreams, strive to bring them to life, then the more solid and

permanent becomes that other world. Also dreams seep from

one spacetime level of a world to another, taking root in new

soil and there growing-perhaps even to great permanence.

"You have all played what you call a war game, building a

world you believe imaginary in which to stage your adven-

tures and exploits. Well enough, you say, what harm lies in

that? You know it is a game. When it is done, you put aside

your playthings for another time. Only-what if the first

dreamer, who 'invented' this world according to your concep-

tion, gathered, unknowingly, dream knowledge of one that

did and does exist in another time and space? Have you ever

thought of that-ha?" He leaned forward, a fierceness in his

eyes.

"More and more does this dream world enchant you. Why

should it not? If it really is a pale, conscious-filtered bit of

another reality, therefore it gains in substance in your minds

and in a measure is drawn closer to your own world. The

more players who think about it-the stronger the pull be-

tween them will be."

"Do you mean," Yevele asked, "that what we imagine can

become real?"

"Was not playing the game very real to you when you

played it?" countered Hystaspes.

Milo nodded without thought and saw that even the lizard'

head of Gulth echoed that gesture.

"So. But in this there is little harm-for you play but in a

shadow of our world and what you do there does not influ-

ence events that happen. Well and good. But suppose some-

one-something-outside both of our spaces and times sees a

chance to meddle-what then?"

"You tell us," Naile growled. "You tell us! Tell us why we

are here, and what you-or this other thing you do not seem

to know very much about-really wants of us!"

3

Geas Bound

In so far as I have learned, it is simple enough." The wizard

waved his hand in the air. His fingers curved about a slen-

der-stemmed goblet that appeared out of nowhere. "You have

been imported from your own time and space to exist here as

characters out of those games you have delighted in. The why

of your so coming-that is only half clear to me. It would

seem that he-or it-who meddles seeks thus to tie together

our two worlds in some manner. The drawing of you hither

may be the first part of such a uniting-"

Naile snorted. "All this your wizardry has made plain to

you, has it? So we should sit and listen to this-"

Hystaspes stared at him. "Who are you?" His voice

boomed as it had earlier through the smoke. "Give me your

name!" That command carried the crack of an order spoken

by one who was entirely sure of himself.

The berserker's face flushed. "I am-" he began hotly and

then hesitated as if in that very moment some bemusement

confused him. "I am Naile Fangtooth." Now a little of the

force was lost from his deep voice.

"This is the city of Greyhawk," went on the wizard, an al-

most merciless note in his voice. "Do you agree, Naile Fang-

tooth?"

"Yes." The heavy body of the berserker shifted on his

stool. That seat might suddenly become not the most com-

fortable perch in the world.

"Yet, as I have shown you-are you not someone else

also? Have you no memories of a different place and time?"

"Yes . . ." Naile gave this second agreement with obvious

reluctance.

"Therefore you are faced with what seems to be two con-

trary truths. If you are Naile Fangtooth in Greyhawk-how

can you also be this other man in another world? Because

you are prisoner of that!"

His other hand flashed out as he pointed to the bracelet on

the berserker's wrist.

"You, were-boar, fighter, are slave to that!"

"You say we are slaves," Milo cut in as Naile growled and

plucked fruitlessly at his bracelet. "In what manner and

Why?"

"In the manner of the game you chose to play," Hystaspes

answered him. "Those dice shall spin and their readings will

control your movements-even as when you gamed. Your

life, your death, your success, your failure, all shall be gov-

erned by their spin."

"But in the game"-the cleric leaned forward a little, his

gaze intent upon the wizard, as if to compel the complete at-

tention of the other-"we throw the dice. Can we control

these so firmly fixed?"

Hystaspes nodded. "That is the first sensible question," he

commented. "They teach you a bit of logic in those dark,

gloomy abbeys of yours, do they not, after all, priest? It is

true you cannot strip those bits of metal from your wrists and

throw their attachments, leaving to luck, or to your gods,

whichever you believe favor you, the result. But you shall

have a warning an instant or two before they spin. Then-

well, then you must use your wits. Though how much of

those you can summon"-he shot a glance at Naile that was

anything but complimentary-"remains unknown. If you

concentrate on the dice when they begin to spin, it is my be-

lief that you will be able to change the score which will fol-

low-though perhaps only by a fraction."

Milo glanced about the half-circle of his unsought compan-

ions in this unbelievable venture. Ingrge's face was impassive,

his eyes veiled. The elf stared down, if he were not looking

outward at all. at the Band resting on his knee, the bracelet

just above that. Naile scowled blackly, still pulling at his

band as if strength and will could loose it,

Gulth bad not moved and who could read any emotion on

a face so alien to humankind? Yevele was not frowning, her

gaze was centered thoughtfully on the wizard. She had raised

one hand and was running the nail of her thumb along to

trace the outline of her lower lip, a gesture Milo guessed she

was not even aware she made. Her features were good, and

the escaped tress of hair above her sun-browned forehead

seemed to give her a kind of natural aliveness that stirred

something in him, though this was certainly neither the time

nor place to allow his attention to wander in that direction.

The cleric had pinched his lips together. Now he shook his

head a little, more in time, Milo decided, to his own thoughts

than to what the wizard was saying. The bard was the only

one who smiled. As he caught Milo's wandering eyes, the

smile became an open grin-as if he might be hugely enjoy-

ing all of this.

"We have been taught many things," the cleric replied with

a faint repugnance. He had the countenance of one forced

into speaking against his will. "We have been taught that

mind can control matter. You have your spells, wizard, we

have our prayers." He drew forth from the bosom of his robe

a round of chain on which dull silver beads were set in pat-

terns of two or three together.

"Spells and prayers," Hystaspes returned, "are not what I

Speak of-rather of such power of mind as is lying dormant

within each of you and which you must cultivate for your-

selves."

"Just when and how do we use this power?" For the first

time, the bard Wymarc broke "in. "You would not have sum-

moned us here. Your Power-in-Possession," (he gave that

title a twist which hinted at more than common civility, per-

haps satire) "unless we were to be of use to you in some.

manner."

For the first time the wizard did not reply at once. Instead

he gazed down into the goblet he held, as if the dregs of the

liquid it now contained could be used as the far-seeing mirror

of his craft.

"There is only one use for you," he stated dryly after a

long moment.

"That being?" Wymarc persisted when Hystaspes did not at

once continue.

"You must seek out the source of that which had drawn

you hither and destroy it-if you can."

"For what reason-save that you find it alarming?"

Wymarc wanted to know.

"Alarming?" Hystaspes echoed. Now his voice once more

held arrogance. "I tell you, this-this alien being strives to

bring together our two worlds. For what purpose he desires

that, I cannot say. But should they so coincide-"

"Yes? What will happen then?" Ingrge took up the ques-

tioning. His compelling elf stare unleashed at the wizard as

he might have aimed one of the deadly arrows of his race.

Hystaspes blinked. "That I cannot tell."

"No?" Yevele broke in. "With all your powers you cannot

foresee what will come then?"

He flashed a quelling look at the girl, but she met that as

she might a sword in the hands of a known enemy. "Such has

never happened-in all the records known to me. But that it

will be far more evil than the worst foray which Chaos has

directed, that I can answer to."

There was complete truth in that statement, Milo thought.

"I believe something else, wizard," Deav Dyne commented

dryly. "I think that even as you had us brought here to you,

you have wrought what shall bind us to your will, we having

no choice in the matter." Though his eyes were on the

wizard, his hands were busy, slipping the beads of his prayer

string between his fingers.

Ingrge, not their captor-host, replied to that. "A geas,

then," he said in a soft voice, but a voice that carried chill.

Hystaspes made no attempt to deny that accusation.

"A geas, yes. Do you doubt that I would do everything

within my power to make sure you seek out the source of this

contamination and destroy it?"

"Destroy it?" Wymarc took up the challenge now. "Look

at us, wizard. Here stands an oddly mixed company with

perhaps a few minor arts, spells, and skills. We are not

adepts-"

"You are not of this world," Hystaspes interrupted.

'Therefore, you are an irritant here. To pit you against an-

other irritant is the only plausible move. And remember

this--only he, or it, who brought you here knows the way by

which you may return. Also, it is not this world only that is

menaced. You pride yourself enough upon your imaginations

used to play your game of risk and fortune-use that imag-

ination now. Would Greyhawk-would all the lands known

to us-be the same if they were intermingled with your own

space-time? And how would your space-time suffer?"

"Distinctly a point," the bard admitted. "Save that we may

not have the self-sacrificing temperament to rush forth to

save our world. What I remember of it, which seems to grow

less by the second, oddly enough, does not now awake in me

great ardor to fight for it."

"Fight for yourself then," snapped the wizard. "In the end,

with most men, it comes to self-preservation. You are com-

mitted anyway to action under the geas." He arose, his robe

swirling about him.

"Just who stands against us, save this mysterious menace?"

For the first time Milo dropped his role of onlooker. The in-

stincts that were a part of the man he had now become were

awake. Know the strength of your opposition, as well as the

referee might allow, that was the rule of the game. It might

be that this wizard was the referee. But Milo had a growing

suspicion that the opposition more likely played that role

"What of Chaos?"

Hystaspes frowned. "I do not know. Save it is my belief

that they may also be aware of what is happening. There are

adepts enough on the Dark Road to have picked up as much

as if not more than I know now."

"What of the players?" Yevele wanted to know. "Are there

dark players also?"

A very faint shadow showed for an instant on the wizard's

face. Then he spoke, so slowly that the words might have

been forcably dragged from his lips one by one.

"I do not know. Nor have I been able to discover any

such."

"Which does not mean," Wymarc remarked, "that they do

not exist. A pleasant prospect. All you can give us is some

slight assurance that we may leam to control the roll of

these"-he shook his hand a little so that the dice trembled

on their gimbals but did not move-"to our advantage."

"It is wrong!" Naile's deep voice rang out. "You have laid

a geas on us, wizard. Therefore give us what assistance you

can-by the rule of Law, which you purport to follow, that is

our right to claim!"

For a moment Hystaspes glared back at the berserker as if

the other's defiant speech offered insult. Visibly he mastered a

first, temper-born response.

"I cannot tell you much, berserker. But, yes, what I have

learned is at your service now." He arose and went to one of

the tables on which were piled helter-skelter the ancient

books and scrolls. Among these he made a quick search until

he located a strip of parchment perhaps a yard long that he

flipped open, to drop upon the floor before their half-circle of

stools. It was clearly a sketchy map, as Milo began to recog-

nize by that queer mixture of two memories to which he pri-

vately wondered if he would ever become accustomed.

To the north lay the Grand Duchy of Urnst, for Greyhawk

was clearly marked nearly at the edge of the sheet to his

right. Beyond that swelled the Great Kingdom of Blackmoor.

To the left, or west, were mountains scattered in broken

chains, dividing smaller kingdoms one from the other. Rivers,

fed by tributaries, formed boundaries for many of these. This

cluster of nations ended in such unknown territories as the Dry

Steppes which only the Nomad Raiders of Lar dared venture

out upon (the few watering places therein being hereditary

possessions of those clans). Farther south was that awesome

Sea of Dust from which it was said no expedition, no matter

how well equipped, had ever returned, though there were

legends concerning its lost and buried ships and the treasures

that still might exist within their petrified cargo holds.

The map brought them all edging forward. Leaning over

the parchment, Milo sensed that perhaps some of this com-

pany recognized the faded lines, could identify features that

to him were but names, but that existed for them in the

grafted-on memories of those they had become.

"North, east, south, west!" exploded Naile. "Where does

your delving into the Old Knowledge suggest we begin,

wizard? Must we wander over half the world, perhaps, to find

this menace of yours in whatever fortress it has made for it-

self?"

The wizard produced a staff of ivory so old that it was a

dull yellow and the carving on it worn by much handling to

unidentifiable indentations. With its point he indicated the

map.

"I have those who supply me with information," he re-

turned. "It is only when there is silence from some such that

I turn to other methods. Here-" The point of the staff aimed

a quick, vicious thrust at the southwestern portion of the

map, beyond the last trace of civilization (if one might term

it that) represented by the Grand Duchy of Geofp, a place

the prudent avoided since civil warfare between two rivals for

the rule had been going on now for more than a year, and

both lords were well known to have formally accepted the

rulership of Chaos.

The Duchy lay in the foothills of the mountain chain and

from its borders, always providing one could find the proper

passes, one might emerge either into the Dry Steppes or the

Sea of Dust, depending upon whether one turned either north

or south.

"Geofp?" Deav Dyne spat it out as if he found the very

name vile, as indeed he must since it was a stronghold of

Chaos.

"Chaos rules there, yes. But this is not of Chaos. Or at

least such an alliance has not yet come into being. . . ."

Hystaspes moved the pointer to the south. "I have some skill,

cleric, in my own learning. What I have found is literally-

nothing."

"Nothing?" Ingrge glanced up sharply. "So, you mean a

void." The elf's nostrils expanded as if, like any animal of

those woods his people knew better than Hystaspes might

know his spells, he scented something.

"Yes, nothing. My seekings meet with only a befogged

nothingness. The enemy has screens and protections that an-

swer with a barrier not even a geas-burdened demon of the

Fourth Leyel can penetrate."

Deav Dyne spun his chain of prayer beads more swiftly,

muttering as he did so. The wizard served Law, but he was

certainly admitting now to using demons in his service, which

made that claim a little equivocal.

Hystaspes was swift to catch the cleric's reaction and

shrugged as he replied. "In a time of stress one uses the

weapon to hand and the best weapon for the battle that one

can produce, is that not so? Yes, I have called upon certain

ones whose very breath is a pollution in this room-because I

feared. Do you understand that?" He thumped the point of

his staff on the map. "I feared! That which is native to this

world I can understand, this menace I cannot. All non-

knowledge brings with it an aura of fear.

"The thing you seek was a little careless at first. The un-

known powers it called upon troubled the ways of the Great

Knowledge, enough for me to learn what I have already told

you. But when I went searching for it, defenses had been

erected. I think, though this is supposition only, that it did

not expect to find those here who could detect its influences.

I have but recently come into possession of certain scrolls,

rumored to have once been in the hands of Han-gra-dan-"

There was an exclamation from both the elf and the cleric

at that name.

"A thousand years gone!" Deav Dyne spoke as if he

doubted such a find.

Hystaspes nodded. "More or less. I know not if these came

directly from a cache left by that mightiest of the northern

adepts. But they are indeed redolent of power and, taking

such precautions as I might, I used one of the formulas. The

result"-his rod stabbed again on the map-"being that I

learned what I learned. Now this much I can tell you: there

is a barrier existing somewhere here, in or about the Sea of

Dust."

For the first time the lizardman croaked out barely under-

standable words in the common tongue.

"Desert-a desert ready to swallow any venturing into it."

His expression could not change, but there was a certain tone

in his croaking which suggested that he repudiated any plan

that would send them into that fatal, trackless wilderness.

Hystaspes frowned at the map. "We cannot be sure. There

is only one who might hold the answer, for these mountains

are his fortress and his range. Whether he will treat with

you-that will depend upon your skill of persuasion. I speak

of Lichis, the Golden Dragon."

Memory, the new memory, supplied Milo with identifica-

tion. Dragons could be of Chaos. Such ones hunted men as

men might hunt a deer or a forest boar. But Lichis, who was

known to have supported Law during thousands of years of

such struggles (for the dragons were the longest lived of all

creatures) must have a command of history that had become

only thin legend as far as men were concerned. He was, in

fact, the great lord of his kind, though he was seldom seen

now and had not for years taken any part in the struggles

that swept this world. Perhaps the doings of lesser beings (or

so most human kind would seem to him) bad come to bore

him.

Wymarc hummed and Milo caught a fragment of the tune.

"The Harrowing of Ironnose," a saga or legend of men, once

might have been true history of a world crumbled now into

dust and complete forgetfulness. Ironnose was the Great

Demon, called into being by early adepts of Chaos, laboring

for half a lifetime together. He was intended to break the

Law forever. It was Lichis who roused and did battle. The

battle had raged from Blackmoor, out over Great Bay, down

to the Wild Coast, ending in a steaming, boiling sea from

which only Lichis had emerged.

The Golden Dragon had not come unwounded from that

encounter. For a long time he had disappeared from the sight

of men, though before that disappearance, he had visited the

adepts who had given Ironnose being. Of them and their

castle was left thereafter only a few fire-scorched stones and

an evil aura that had kept even the most hardy of adven-

turers out of that particular part of the land to this very day.

"So we seek out Lichis," Ingrge remarked. "What if he will

have no word with us?"

"You"-Hystaspes swung to Naile-"that creature of

yours." Now he pointed the staff at the pseudo-dragon curled

against the berserker's thick neck just above the edging of his

mail, as if it had turned into a torque, no longer a living

thing. Its eyes were mere slits showing between scaled lids.

And its jaws were now firmly closed upon that spear-pointed

tongue. "In that creature you may have a key to Lichis. They

are of one blood, though near as far apart in line as a snake

and Lichis himself. However-" Now he shrugged and tossed

the ivory rod behind him, not watching, as it landed neatly

on a tabletop. "I have told you all I can."

"We shall need provisions, mounts." Yevele's thumb again

caressed her lower lip.

Hystaspes' lips twisted. Perhaps the resulting grimace

served the wizard for a smile of superiority.

The elf nodded, briskly. "We can take nothing from you,

save that which you have laid upon us-the geas." With that

part of Power Lore born into his kind, he appeared to per-

ceive more than the rest of their company.

"All I might give would bear the scent of wizardry."

Hystaspes agreed.

"So be it." Milo held out his hand and looked down at the'

bracelet. "It would seem that it is now time for us to test the

worth of these and see how well they can serve us." He did

not try to turn any of the dice manually. Instead he stared at

them, seeking to channel all his thought into one command.

Once, in that other time and worid, he had thrown just such

dice for a similar purpose.

The sparks which marked their value began to glow. He

did not try to command any set sum from such dealing, only

sent a wordless order to produce the largest amount the dice

might yield.

Dice spun-glowed. As they became again immobile, a

drawstring money bag lay at the swordsman's feet. For a mo-

ment or two the strangeness, the fact that he had been able

to command the dice by thought alone, possessed him. Then

he went down on one knee, jerked loose a knotting of strings,

to turn out on the floor what luck had provided. Here was a

mixture of coins, much the same as any fighter might possess

by normal means. There were five gold pieces from the Great

Kingdom, bearing the high-nosed, haughty faces of two re-

cent kings; some cross-shaped trading tokens from the Land

of the Holy Lords struck out in copper but still well able to

pass freely in Greyhawk where so many kinds of men,

dwarves, elves, and others traveled. In addition he saw a

dozen of those silver, half-moon circles coined in Paraaz, and

two of the mother-of-pearl disks incised with the fierce head

of a sea-serpent which came from the island Duchy of

Maritiz.

Yevele, having witnessed his luck, was the next to concen-

trate on her own bracelet, producing another such purse. The

coins varied, but Milo thought that approximately in value:

they added up to the same amount as his own effort had pro-

cured. Now the others became busy. It was Deav Dyne, who

through his training as a clerk was best able to judge the?

rightful value of unusual pieces (Gulth had two hexagons of

gold bearing a flaming torch in high relief-these Milo could

not identify at all) and tallied their combined wealth.

"I would say," he said slowly, after he had separated the

pieces into piles, counted and examined those that were more

uncommon, "we have enough, if we bargain skillfully.

Mounts can be gotten at the market in the foreign quarter.

Our provisions-perhaps best value is found at the Sign of

the Pea Stalk. We should separate and buy discreetly. Milo-

and-shall we say you, Ingrge, and Naile-to the horso

dealers, for with you lies more knowledge of what we need.

Gulth must have his own supplies-" He looked to the lizard-

man. "Have you an idea where to go?"

The snouted head moved assent as the long clawed hand

picked up coins Deav Dyne swept in his direction, putting

them back into the pouch that had appeared before him. Un-

like those of the others it was not leather, but fashioned of a

fish that had been dried, its head removed, and a dull metal

cap put in its place.

Milo hesitated. He was armed well enough-a sword, his

shield, a belt knife with a long and dangerous blade. But he

thought of a crossbow. And how about spells? Surely they

had a right to throw also for those?

When he made his'suggestion Deav Dyne nodded. "For

myself, I am permitted nothing more than the knife of my

calling. But for the rest of you-"

Again Milo was the first to try. He concentrated on the

bracelet. Striving to bring to the fore of his mind a picture of

the crossbow, together with a quota of bolts. However, the

dice did not fire with life and spin. And, one after another,

saving only Wymarc and Deav Dyne-the bard apparently

already satisfied with what he had-they tried, to gain noth-

ing.

The wizard once more favored them with grimace of a

smile. "Perhaps you had already equipped yourselves by

chance before that summoned you," he remarked. "I would

not waste more time. By daylight it would be well for you to

be out of Greyhawk. We do not know what watch Chaos

may have kept on this tower tonight, nor the relation of the

Dark Ones to our enemy."

"Our enemy-" snorted Naile, swinging around to turn his

back on the wizard with a certain measure of scorn. "Men

under a geas have one enemy already, wizard. You have

made us your weapons. I would take care, weapons have

been known to turn against those who use them." He strode

toward the door without looking back. His mighty shoulders,

with the boar helm riding above, expressed more than his

words. Naile Fangtooth was plainly beset by such a temper as

made his kind deadly enemies.

4

Out of Greyhawk

Parts of Greyhawk never slept. The great market of the mer-

chants, edging both the Thieves' Quarter and the foreign sec-

tion of the free city, was bright with the flares of torches and

oil lanterns. People moved about the stalls, a steady din of

voices arose. You could bargain here for a bundle of noisome

rags, or for a jewel that once topped some forgotten king's

crown of state. To Greyhawk came the adventurers of the

world. The successful brought things that they showed only

behind the dropped curtains of certain booths. The prospec-

tive buyers could be human, elvish, dwarf-even ore or other

followers of Chaos as well as of Law. In a free city the bal-

ance stood straight-lined between Dark and Light

There were guards who threaded among the narrow lanes

of the stalls. But quarrels were settled steel to steel. In those

they did not meddle, save to make sure riot did not spring

full bom from some scuffle. A wayfarer here depended upon

his own weapons and wits, not upon any aid from those

guardians of the city.

Naile muttered to himself in such a low whisper that the

words did not reach Milo through the subdued night roar of

the market. Perhaps the swordsman would not have under-

stood them even if he had heard, for to a berserker the

tongues of beasts were as open as the communication of hu-

mankind. They had gone but a short way into the garish,

well-lighted lines of booths, when Fangtooth stopped, waiting

for the other two, swordsman and elf, to come up with him.

The pseudo-dragon still lay, perhaps sleeping, curled about

the massive lift of his throat. Under his ornately crowned hel-

met his own face was flushed, and Milo could sense the heat

of anger still building in the other. As yet that emotion was

under iron control. Should it burst the dam, Naile might well

embroil them all in quick battle, picking some quarrel with a

stranger to vent his rage against the wizard.

"Do you smell it?" The berserker's voice sounded thick, as

if his words must fight hard to win through that strangling

anger. Under the rim of his helmet, his eyes swept back and

forth, not to touch upon either of his companions, but rather

as if in that crowd he sought to pick out some one his axe

could bring down.

There were smells in plenty here, mainly strong, and more

than half-bordering on the foul. Ingrge's head was up, his

nostrils expanded. The elf did not look about him. Rather he

tested the steamy air as if he might separate one odor from

all the rest, identify it, lay it aside, and try again.

To Milo the slight warning came last. Perhaps because he

had been too caught up in the constant flow of the scene

about them. His sense for such was, of course, far less acute

than that of either of his companions. But now he felt the

same uneasiness that had ridden him in the inn, as well as

along the way the wizard's guide had taken them. Somewhere

in this crowd there existed interest in-them!

"Chaos," Ingrge said, and then qualified that identification.

"With something else. It is clouded."

Naile snorted. "It is of the Dark and it watches," he re-

turned. "While we walk under a geas! I wish I had that damn

wizard's throat between my two hands, to alter the shape of

it-for good! It would be an act of impiety to foul my good

skullsplitter"-he touched his axe where it hung at his belt-

"with his thin and treacherous blood!"

"We are watched." Milo did not address that as a question

to either elf or berserker. "But will it come to more than

watching?" He surveyed the crowd, now not seeking the iden-

tity of the foe (for unless the enemy made an overt move he

knew his skills could not detect the source of danger) but

rather noting those places where they might set their backs to

a solid wall and face a rush-should that materialize.

"Not here-or yet." There was firm confidence ia Ingrge's

answer.

Seconds later the berserker grunted an assent to that.

"The sooner that we ride out of this trap of a city," he

added, "the better." His hand rose and he touched with a

gentleness that seemed totally alien to his shaggy and brutal

strength the head of the pseudo-dragon. "I do not like cities

and this one stinks!"

The elf was already on the move, threading a way through

the market crowd. Milo had an odd feeling that the three of

them were nearly invisible. No hawker or merchant called

them to look at his wares, though those about them were

sometimes even seized by the cloak edges and urged to view

this or that marvel so cheaply offered that no man could

resist.

He would have liked to linger by one display where the sel-

ler did not raise his head from his work as they pushed past.

Here were dwarf-wrought arms-swords, throwing knives,

daggers, a mace or two-one large enough even to fit into

Naile's paw. The owner stood with his back to them, his

forge fire glowing so that the heat reached out as his hammer

rose and fell in a steady beat upon metal.

If what Hystaspes had said was true (and Milo felt it

was), even if he had carried twice as heavy a purse as that

which the bracelet had brought him, he could not have spent

a single piece at this booth. Those rules, dim and befogged,

but still available in part to his memory, told Milo that he

was already equipped with all that fate-or the sorcery -of

this world-would allow him.

"This way." Just a little past the temptation of the sword-

smith's forge, the elf took a sharp turn to the right. After

passing between two more rows of booths (these smaller, less

imposing than those they had earlier viewed), they came

upon the far side of the market itself where there were no

more stalls, rather rope-walled corrals and picket lines and

some cages set as a final wall. Here the live merchandise was

on view.

Camels, kneeling and complaining (placed -by market regu-

lation as far from the horse lines as possible), puffed out

their foul breath at passersby. Beyond them was a small flock

of oriths, their mighty wings pinned tight up their feathered

sides by well-secured restraints. Oriths were hard to handle

and must be eternally watched. They just might answer to an

elf's commands but for a man to attempt to ride these winged

steeds was folly.

There were hounds, their leashes made fast to stakes driven

deeply into the ground. They raised snarling lips as Naile

passed, but backed away and whimpered when he looked

upon them. A berserker was not their meat for the hunt, their

instinct told them that.

Some feline squalled from a cage but kept to the shadows

so only a dusky outline of its crouched body could be seen.

It was onto the horses that Milo, now in the lead, moved ea-

gerly. He began at once to study the mounts, which ranged

from a trained war steed, its front hooves already shod with

knife-edged battle shoes, to ponies, whose ungroomed hides

were matted with mountain weeds and who rolled their eyes

and tried to strike out with their hind feet at anyone reckless

enough to approach them unwarily. To tame such as "those

was a thankless task.

Milo wanted the war horse. It was seldom one of those

came into the open marketplace for sale, unless some engage-

ment had left an army or a raiding party so bloated with loot

they could afford to cull captured animals. But for such an

expedition as faced them now-no, that fighting-trained stal-

lion could not last in a long wilderness or mountain haul.

They were not even ridden, except in a battle, their owners

having them led instead, while riding a smaller breed until

the trumpets sounded.

Resolutely Milo turned from that prize, began eyeing criti-

cally the animals on a middle line. Beyond was thick-legged,

uncurried farm stock-some already worn out and useless,

better put out of their misery by a quick knock on the head.

But on the outer line he spotted about a dozen ragged-maned,

dark grays. Steppe mounts! What chance had brought those

here? They were raider-taken probably, passed along across

the more civilized country because they had long-use stamina.

They would be considered too light for battle except for ir-

regular calvary and too hard to control for farm service. Add

to a careful choice from among them some of the better-tem-

pered of the mountain ponies for packing....

Ingrge had already moved forward toward the very horses

Milo had marked down. Elves had the animal speech, he

could be communicating with the Steppe mounts.

"Those?" Naile asked. There was a dubious note in his

voice and Milo could understand why. In the first place the

berserker was the heaviest of their company. There was need

for a powerful horse, one used to the weight of a large man,

to carry him. Second, allied though such as Naile were,

through their own particular magic, to the animal worlds,

some horse would not accept a were near them at all-going

mad at the scent which no human nose could pick up until

the Change-but which seemed always present to animals.

There was swift movement at Naile's throat. The pseudo-

dragon uncoiled with one lithe snap of her slender body.

Spreading her nearly transparent wings, she took off before

the berserker could reach her with a futile grab, to sail with

lazy wing beats through the air toward the horses. She hov-

ered over and between two of the largest. Suddenly, as she

had taken to flight, she folded wings again, settling on the

back of the mount to the right.

The horse flung up its head with a loud whinny, jerked

against the lead rope and turned its head as far as it could,

endeavoring to see what had alighted. Then the mount stood

still, its wild roll of eye stopped.

Naile laughed. "Afreeta has chosen for me."

"Your servant, sirs. You would deal?"

Ingrge passed among the horses, slipping his hand lightly

over haunch, down shoulder. Those he touched nickered.

Milo looked to the speaker.

The man wore leather, with an over-jacket of spotted black

and white pony hide. A piece of his long, tousled hair flopped

down on his forehead like a ragged forelock, and his teeth

showed large and yellowish in a wide grin.

"Prime stock, warriors." He waved a hand at the house

lines.

"Steppe stock," Milo answered neutrally. 'Trained to a

single rider's call-"

"True enough," the trader conceded without losing his grin.

"Brought them out of Geofp. There was a manhood raid over

the border. But the young whelps who tried that had no luck.

Forstyn of Narm was doing a little raiding himself along the

same general strip. He got some Nomad skins to cover his

storage chests and I got the horses. Forstyn heard the old

tales, too-'bout a Steppe man and his chosen horse. But

you've an elf with you. Never heard tell that any one of them

couldn't get into the skulls of anything that flew, crawled, or

trotted, always supposing they were both of the Law. And the

Nomads-they give lip service to Thera. Not since I heard

tell has the Maned Lady ever bowed head to Chaos."

"How much?" Milo came directly to the point.

"For how many, warrior?"

An old trick of the mountain country, again a memory

that was only a part of him, took over Milo's mind. There

were seven of them, a dozen of the Steppe mounts. For two

reasons it might be well to buy them all. First, it might pos-

sibly confuse that watcher or watchers, whom they all sensed,

about the eventual size of their own party, though that, Milo

decided, was probably a very faint hope. Second, once out in

the wilderness, the loss of a single horse might mean disaster

unless they had a spare, for none of them, even the cleric

who wore no armor, could be mounted on a pack pony.

"For the lot," Ingrge, back from his inspection, returned

quietly.

Naile stood to one side, it would seem that they were

willing to leave this bargaining to the swordsman.

"Well, now . . ." There was a slyness near open malice in

the dealer's never-ending grin. "These are seasoned stock,

good for open country traveling. Also, this is a town where

there are a-many who come to outfit a company-"

"Steppe stock," repeated Milo stolidly. "Are all your

buyers then elves-or dwarves, perhaps?"

The trader laughed. "Now you think you got me by the

short hairs with that one, warrior? Maybe, just maybe. I say

ten gold for each; you won't find their like this far east. Of

course, if you plan to take them west-I'd go south of the

Steppes. The Nomads are blood feuding and won't take

kindly to see a kinsman's mount carrying a stranger."

"Five pieces," Milo returned. "You've just talked yourself

into another ill thought with that warning, trader. The No-

mads may have already taken sword oath for the trail. Keep

these and they could be willing to hunt the new riders down

to meet Thera's Maidens."

"Not even sword oaths are going to bring them to Grey-

hawk, warrior. And I don't propose to ride west again nei-

ther. But you've a tongue on you, that's true. Say eight pieces

and I am out of purse in this bargain."

In the end Milo got the mounts for six. He had a suspicion

that he could have beaten that price lower, but the uneasiness

that was growing in him (until it was all he could do to not

look over one shoulder or the other for that watcher or

watchers) weakened his resolve to prolong the bargaining. He

also bought five pack ponies, those Ingrge methodically

selected, counting upon the elfs skill to control that wilder,

mountain-born stock.

Naile's Afreeta returned to sit on his shoulder, crouching

there alert, her bright beads of eyes missing nothing. Ingrge

had indicated his choices and Milo was counting out a mix-

ture of strange coins to equal the price of their purchases,

when the elf's head swung left, his large green eyes set

aslant in his narrow face opened wide, his nostrils flared.

There had been other men, among them a dwarf and a

cloaked figure, whose species was well concealed by his body

covering, drifting or walking with purpose through the animal

lines. Neither Ingrge nor Naile had shown any interest in

these. Now a man approached them directly, and it was plain

he was seeking them in particular.

His clothing was made of supple leather, not unlike that

worn by the elf. However, it was not dyed green or dull

gray-brown such as became a ranger. Rather it was a shiny,

glossy black from the high boots on his feet to a tunic which

had a flaring collar standing up so high about the back of his

head as to form a dark frame for his weather-browned face.

Over those garments (which reminded Milo of the shiny

body casing of some great insect and might have been fash-

ioned from such, as far as the swordsman knew) he wore a

single splash of vivid color-a sleeveless thigh-length vest,

clipped together slightly below the throat with a round metal

clasp, and made of short, plushy fur of a bright orange-red.

A skull cap of the same fur covered the crown of his head,

allowing to escape below its edging oily strands of hair as

dark as his jerkin.

There was an odd cast to his features, something that

hinted of mixed blood, perhaps of the elven kind. Yet his

eyes were not green but dark, and he wore a half-smile as he

came up to them with the assurance of one certain of wel-

come.

Milo glanced at Ingrge. The elf presented his usual im-

passive countenance. Yet even without the use of any recogni-

tion spell, Milo knew (just as he had been able to sense the

watchful waiting that had dogged them through the market)

that this newcomer did not have elf favor.

The stranger sketched a gesture of peace-his open palm

out. He wore weapons-a blade, which was not quite as long

as a fighting sword nor short as a dagger, but somewhat be-

tween the two, and a throwing axe, both sheathed at his belt.

Coiled on his right hip, diowing only when his vest swung

open a bit, was something else, a long-lashed whip.

"Greetings, warriors." He spoke with an assurance that

matched his open approach. "I am Helagret, one who deals

in rare beasts .. ."

He paused as if awaiting introductions from the three in

turn. Naile grunted, his big hand had gone up to stroke

Afreeta, and there was certainly no welcome in. his lowering

scowl.

Milo tried to sharpen his sense of uneasiness. Was this

their watcher come at last into the open? He glanced at

Ingrge. From a fleeting change of expression on the elfs face,

the swordsman knew that this was not the enemy.

The swordsman dropped the last counted piece into the

trader's grimy palm. Then he answered, since it would seem

that the others left reply to him.

"Master Helagret, we have no interest in aught here save

mounts."

"True," the other nodded. "But I have an interest in what

your comrade has, swordsman," He raised his hand, gaunt-

leted in the same glossy leather, to point a forefinger at

Afreeta. "I am gathering specimens for my Lord Fon-du-Ling

of Faraaz. He would have in his out-garden the rarest of

beasts. Already"-now he waved towards the line of cages

-"I have managed to find a griff-cat, a prim lizard, even

a white sand serpent. Warrior." Now he addressed Naile

directly. "To my Lord, money is nothing. A year ago he

found the hidden Temple of Tung and all its once-locked

treasures are under his hand. I am empowered to draw upon

them to secure any rarity. What say you to a sword of seven

spells, a never-f ail shield, a necklet of lyra gems such as not

even the king of the Great Kingdom can hope to hold, a-"

Naile's hand swept from cupping Afreeta to the haft of his

axe. The pseudo-dragon flickered out of sight within the col-

lar of his boar-skin cape.

"I say, trapper of beasts, shut your mouth, lest you find

steel renders it unshutable for all time!" There were red

sparks in the berserker's deep-set eyes. His own lips pulled

back, showing fangs that had given him his war name.

Helagret laughed lightly. "Temper your wrath, were-man. I

shall not try to wrest your treasure from you. But since this is

my mission there lies no great harm in my asking, does

there?" His tone was faintly derisive, suggesting that Naile

was too closely akin to those bristled and tusked beasts,

whose fury he could share, to be treated with on the true hu-

man level.

"If you will not deal with me on one matter, warriors, per-

haps we can bargain on another. I must transport my animals

to Faraaz. Unfortunately, my hired guards indulged too

deeply in the wine the Two Harpies is so noted for. They

now rest in the Strangers' Tower where they have been given

a period to reflect upon their sin of indulgence. I have cart

men, but they are no fighters. If your passage is westward I

can pay fighting wages until we reach the castle of my lord.

Then he may well be so delighted with what I bring him that

he will be even more open-handed."

He smiled, looking from one to another of them. Milo

smiled in return. What game the other might be playing he

had no guess, but no one could possibly be as stupid as this

beast trainer presented himself. Though Ingrge had passed the

sign that this was not their watcher, yet the very way he at-

tempted to force himself upon their company was out of

character.

"We do not ride to Faraaz." Milo tried to make his voice

as guilelessly open as the other's.

Helagret shrugged. "It is a pity, warriors. My lord has had

unusual luck in two of his recent quests. It is said that he is

preparing for a third. He has been given a certain map-a

southward map .. ."

"I wish him luck for the third time then," Milo returned.

"We go our own way. Master Trainer. As for your guards-

there are those in plenty here who need fill for their purses

and are willing to take sword oath for the road."

"A pity," Helagret shook his head. "It is in my mind we

might have dealt well together, swordsman. You may dis-

cover that pushing away the open hand of Fortune may bring

ill in return."

"You threaten-beast chaser?" Naile took a step forward.

"Threaten? Why should I threaten? What have you to fear

from me?" Helagret moved both his hands wide apart as if

displaying that he was not in the least challenging a short-

tempered berserker.

"What indeed." Ingrge spoke for the first time. "Man of

Hither Hill."

For the first time that smile was lost. There was a spark

for a second in the dark eyes-quickly gone. Then Helagret

nodded as one who has solved a problem.

"I am not ashamed of my blood, elf. Are you of yours?"

Yet he did not wait for any answer but tamed abruptly and

moved away.

Milo felt a faint warmth at his wrist and looked hurriedly

to the bracelet. It was glowing a little but none of the dice

swung. An exclamation from Naile brought his attention else-

where. Ingrge held out his hand. There was a bright blaze of