L. Sprague De Camp - The Goblin Tower

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The Golbin Tower by L.

Sprague DeCamp

Chapter One

A LENGTH OF ROPE

"A CURIOUS CUSTOM," SAID THE BARBARIAN, "TO CUT

OFF your king's head every five years. I wonder your throne finds

any takers!"

On the scaffold, the headsman brushed a whetstone along the

gleaming edge of his ax, dropped the stone into his pouch,

squinted along the blade, and touched it here and there with his

thumb. Those in the crowd below could not see his satisfied

smile because of the black hood, which—save for the eye

holes—covered his head. The ax was neither a woodcutter's tool

nor a warrior's weapon. Whereas its helve, carven of good brown

oak, was that of a normal ax, its blue steel head was un-wontedly

broad, like a butcher's cleaver.

The scaffold rose in the midst of the drill ground, outside of

the walls of Xylar City near the South Gate. Here, nearly all the

folk of the city were gathered, as well as hundreds from outlying

towns and villages. Around the base of the scaffold, a battalion of

pikemen in black meshmail over scarlet coats was ranked four

deep, to make sure that no unauthorized person reached the

scaffold during the ceremony, and likewise that the victim did

not escape. The two outer ranks faced outward and the two

inner, inward.

Around the three sides of the scaffold, the notables of Xylar, in

crimson and emerald and gold and white, sat on benches.

Another rank of soldiers sundered the quality from the

commonality. The latter, in brown and buff and black, stood in

an expectant, amorphous mass, which filled the greater part of

the field.

On the western side of the platform, this multitude surged

against the inner ranks of soldiery. Here the throng consisted

mainly of young men. Besides the hundreds of mechanics from

the city and peasants from the farms, it included a sprinkling of

the younger gentry. Hucksters wormed their way through this

throng, selling cakes, sausages, fruits, sardines, wine, beer, cider,

parasols, and good-luck charms. Outside the crowd of spectators,

armored horsemen, with the scarlet hour-glass of Xylar on their

white surcoats, patrolled the edge of the field.

Overhead, a white sun blazed in a cloudless sky. A puffy little

wind ruffled the leaves of the oaks and poplars and gums that

fenced the field. It fluttered the red-and-white pennants that

streamed from the tops of the flagpoles at the corners of the

scaffold. A few of the leaves of the gums had already turned from

green to scarlet.

Seated among the notables, Chancellor Turonus answered the

barbarian's question: "We have never had trouble in finding

candidates, Prince Vilimir. Behold how they throng about the

western side of the scaffold!"

"Will the head be thrown yonder?" asked Prince Vilimir

around his forefinger, wherewith he was trying to pry loose a

piece of roast from between his teeth. Although he was

clean-shaven, Vilimir's long, light, gray-streaked hair, fur cap,

fur jacket, and horsehide boots with the hair on gave him a

shaggy look. His many massive ornaments of gold and silver

tinkled when he moved. He had led the losing faction in an

intertribal quarrel over who should be the next cham of the

Gendings and hence was in exile. His rival, who was also his

uncle, now ruled that fierce nomadic horde.

Turonus nodded. "Aye, and the catcher shall be our new king."

He was stout and middle-aged, swathed in a voluminous azure

cloak against the chill of the first cool day of autumn. "The Chief

Justice will cast the thing yonder. It is a rule that the king must

let his hair grow long, to give the judge something to grasp. Once

a king had his whole head shaven the night before the ceremony,

and the executioner had to pierce the ears for a cord. Most

embarrassing."

"By Greipnek's beard, an ungrateful wight!" said Vilimir, a

wolfish grin splitting his lean, scarred face. "As if a lustrum of

royal luxe were not enough… Be that not King Jorian now?" The

Shvenish prince spoke Novarian with fair fluency, but with a

northern accent that made "Jorian" into "Zhorian."

"Aye," said the Chancellor, as a little procession marched

slowly through the lane kept open by soldiers between the South

Gate and the scaffold.

"He took me hunting last month," said Vilimir. "He struck me

as a man of spirit—for a sessor, that is." He used a word peculiar

to the nomads of Shven, meaning a non-nomad or sedentary

person. Among nomads, the word was a term of contempt, but

the Chancellor saw fit to ignore this. The exile continued: "I also

found him a great talker—too much so for his own good,

methinks, but amusing to listen to."

The Chancellor nodded absently, for the procession had now

come close enough to recognize faces. First came the royal band,

playing a dirge. Then paced the white-bearded Chief Justice of

Xylar in a long, black robe, with a golden chain about his neck.

Four halberdiers, in the midst of whom towered the king,

followed. All those near the lane through which the party

proceeded, and many in other parts of the field, sank to one knee

as the king passed them.

King Jorian was a tall, powerful young man with a ruddy skin,

deep-set black eyes, and coarse black hair that hung to his

shoulders. His face, otherwise shaven, bore a fierce mustache

that swept out like the horns of a buffalo. A prominent scar

crossed his nose—which had a small kink in it—and continued

diagonally down across his left cheek. He was stripped to his

suppers and a pair of short, silken breeches, and his wrists were

bound behind his back. A crown—a slender band of gold with a

dozen short, blunt, erect spikes—was secured to his head by a

chin strap.

Prince Vilimir murmured: "I have never seen a crown with

a—how do you say it—a strap of the chin."

"It is needed, to keep crown and head together during the

casting of the Lot of Imbal," explained Turonus. "Once, years

ago, the crown came off as the head was thrown. One man

caught the crown, another the head, and each claimed the

throne. A sanguinary civil war ensued."

After the soldiers came a small, lean, dark-brown man in a

coarse brown robe, with a bulbous white turban on his head. His

long, silky, white hair and beard blew about. A rope was wound

around his waist, and he bore a kind of satchel by a strap over

his shoulder.

"The king's spiritual adviser," said Chancellor Turonus. "It

seems hardly meet that the king of Xylar be sent off by a heathen

from Mulvan, rather than by one of our own holy priests. But

Jorian insisted, and it seemed but just to grant his last request."

"Who—how did the king come to know the fellow?" asked

Vilimir.

Turonus shrugged. "For the past year, he has entertained all

sorts of queer persons at the palace. This mountebank—your

pardon, the Holy Father Karadur—drifted in, doubtless having

fled in disgrace from his own land after having been caught in

some vile goetic witchery."

Then came four beautiful young women, the king's wives. A

fifth had given birth the day before and was judged not strong

enough to attend the ceremony. The four present were gorgeous

in silks and jewels and gold. After the wives came the

shaven-headed, purple-robed high priest of Zevatas, the chief

god of the Novarian pantheon; then a score of palace officials,

and the ladies in waiting. Last of all came Kaeres the joiner,

Xylar's leading director of funerals, and six cronies of the king

carrying one of Kaeres' new coffins on their shoulders.

As the procession reached the foot of the scaffold, the band

fell silent. After a low-voiced consultation, the Chief Justice

mounted the steps of the scaffold, followed by two of the four

halberdiers.

King Jorian kissed his four wives goodbye. They clung round

his neck, weeping and covering his broad, heavy-featured face

with kisses.

"Na, na," said Jorian in a heavy bass voice, with a rustic

Kortolan accent. "Weep not, ma pretty lassies.

"The gods, who from their puerile pipes a billion bubbles blow,

Have blown us here. We waft and wobble, iridesce and glow,

Then burst; but from these pipes a billion bubbles more shall

flow.

"Within the year, ye'll all have better husbands then I ever was

to you."

"We do not wish other husbands! We love only you!" they

wailed.

"But the weans needs must have stepfathers," he reminded

them. "Now get 'along back to the palace, so as not to see your

lord's blood flow. You, too, Estrildis."

"Nay!" cried the wife addressed—though pretty, the least

beautiful of the four, stocky and blue-eyed. "I will watch you to

the end!"

"You shall do as I say," said Jorian gently but firmly. "You

shall go on your own feet, or I will have you carried. Which shall

it be?"

The two soldiers who had remained on the ground laid gentle

hands on the woman's arms, and she broke away to run,

weeping, after the others. Jorian called: "Farewell!" and turned

back to the scaffold.

As the king mounted the stairs, his gaze roved hither and yon.

He smiled and nodded as his eye caught those of acquaintances

in the crowd. To many, he seemed altogether too cheerful for a

man about to lose his head.

As, with a steady step, Jorian reached the platform of the

scaffold, the two halberdiers who had preceded him snapped to

attention and brought their right fists up to their chests, over

their hearts, in salute. Behind him came the Mulvanian holy man

and the high priest of Zevatas.

On the far, western side of the platform, a few feet from the

edge, rose the block, freshly carved and shining with new red

paint. Between the flagpoles on the western side, a length of

netting, a yard high, was stretched to make sure that the head

should not roll off the platform.

Leaning on his ax, the headsman stood beside the block. Like

Jorian, he was stripped to breeks and shoes. Although not so tall

as the king, the executioner was longer of arm and even more

massive of torso. Despite the hood, Jorian knew that his slayer

was Uthar the butcher, who kept a stall near the South Gate.

Since Xylar was too small and orderly a city-state to support a

full-time executioner, it hired Uthar from time to time for the

task. Jorian had personally consulted the man before approving

the choice.

"The great trick, Sire," Uthar had said, "be to let the weight of

the ax do the work. Press not; give your whole attention to

guiding the blade in its fall. A green headsman thinks he needs

must help the blade; so he presses, and the stroke goes awry. The

blade be heavy enough to sever any man's neck—even so mighty

a one as Your Majesty's—if suffered to fall at its natural speed. I

promise Your Majesty shan't feel a thing. Your soul will find

itself in its next incarnation before you wite what has happened."

Jorian now approached the headsman with a grin on his face.

"Hail, Master Uthar!" he cried in a hearty voice. "A lovely day, is

it not? By Astis' ivory teats, if one must have one's head cut off, I

can imagine no fairer day whereon to have the deed performed."

Uthar dropped to one knee. "You—Your Majesty—'tis a fine

day, surely—Your Majesty will forgive me for any pain or

inconvenience I cause him in the discharge of my duties?"

"Think nothing of it, old man! We all have our duties, and we

all come to our destined ends. My pardon is yours, so long as

your edge be keen and your arm be true. You promised that I

should not feel a thing, remember? I shouldn't like you to have to

strike twice, like a new recruit hacking at a pell."

Jorian turned to the Chief Justice. "Most eminent Judge

Grallon, are you ready with your speech? Take a hint and make it

not too long. Long speeches bore the hearer, be the speaker never

so eloquent."

The Chief Justice looked uncertainly at Jorian, who indicated

by a jerk of his head that he was to proceed. The magistrate

pulled a scroll from his girdle and unrolled it. Holding the stick

of the scroll in one hand and a reading glass in the other, he

began to read. The wind whipped the dangling end of the scroll

this way and that, hindering his task. Nevertheless, being

familiar with the contents, he droned on.

Justice Grallon began with a resum6 of Xylarian history.

Imbal the lion god had established this polis many centuries

before; he had also bestowed upon it its unique method of

choosing a ruler. The magistrate spoke of famous kings of Xylar:

of Pellitus the Wise, and Kadvan the Strong, and Rhuys the Ugly.

At last, Judge Grallon came down to the reign of Jorian. He

praised Jorian's bravery. He narrated the battle of Dol, when

Jorian had destroyed the horde of robbers that had infested the

southern marches of the kingdom and had acquired the scar on

his face.

"… and so," he concluded, "this glorious reign has now come

to the end appointed for it by the gods. Today the crown of Xylar

shall pass, by the Lot of Imbal, into those hands destined by the

gods to receive it. And we have been a true and virtuous folk,

these hands will be strong, just, and merciful; if not—not. The

king will now receive his final consolation from his holy man."

Old Doctor Karadur had been unwrapping the rope from

around his waist and coiling it in the center of the platform.

From his satchel he produced a little folding brass stand, which

he set down beside the rope. Out of the bag came a brazen dish,

which he placed upon the stand. Out, too, came a

compartmented pouch, whence he sprinkled various powders

into the dish. He put away the pouch, took out flint and steel,

and struck sparks into the dish.

There was a green flash and a puff of smoke, which the breeze

whipped away. A many-hued little flame danced over the dish,

sending up streamers of vapor. The high priest of Zevatas looked

sourly on.

Karadur intoned a lengthy prayer of incantation—those

listening could not tell which, since the holy man spoke Mulvani.

On and on he went, until some of the spectators grew restless.

True, they did not wish the ceremony over too soon, since it was

the biggest event in then-calendar. On the other hand, when it

came to hearing the unintelligible chant of a scrawny old fakir

and watching him bow his forehead to the platform, a little went

a long way.

Then Karadur rose and embraced Jorian, who towered over

him. The fire in the brazen dish blazed up and sent out a cloud of

smoke, which made those on the platform cough and wipe their

eyes. Thus they failed to see Karadur, at the moment when his

arms were around Jorian's huge torso, slip a small knife into the

hands of the king, which were bound behind him. Karadur

whispered:

"How is your courage, my son?"

"Oozing away with every heartbeat. In sooth, I'm frightened

witless."

"Face it down, boy! In boldness lies your only safety."

Next, the band played a hymn to Zevatas. The high priest, a

gaunt, imposing figure in his purple robe, led the throng in

singing the hymn, beating time with his staff of office.

Then the priest bowed his head and prayed that the lot of

Jorian's successor should fall upon one worthy of the office. He

prayed to the gods to look with favor upon Xylar; he prayed that,

in smiting sinners, they would take care not to harm the far

more numerous virtuous citizens. His prayer was as long as

Karadur's. The head of the cult of the king of the gods could not

let a foreign wizard go him one better.

At last the high priest finished. The Chief Justice read a

proclamation that whereas, in accordance with Xylar's ancient

customs, Jorian's reign had now come to an end, he willingly

offered his head as the means whereby the next king should be

chosen. Judge Grallon finished with a sweeping gesture towards

the block, indicating that Jorian should now lay his head upon it.

"Will Your Majesty have a blindfold?" he asked.

"Nay," said Jorian, stepping towards the block, "I will face

this with my eyes open, as I did the foes of Xylar."

"One moment, your honor," said Karadur in his nasal

Mulvanian accent. "I must—ah—it was agreed that I should cast

a final spell, to speed King Jorian's soul to the afterworld,

without danger of its being trapped in another incarnation in

this one."

"Well, get on with it," said the Chief Justice.

Karadur brought a little brass bell out of his satchel. "When I

sound this, smite!" He poured more powders into his dish, which

flamed and bubbled.

"Kneel, my royal son," said Karadur. "Fear nought."

The crowd surged forward expectantly. Fathers hoisted small

children to their shoulders.

Jorian cast a thoughtful look at the old Mulvani. Then he

knelt before the block and bowed his head until his throat rested

across the narrow, flat place on top. His chin lay comfortably in

the hollow that had been cut in the west side of the block. His

eyes, swiveling sideways, kept Uthar the butcher in the periphery

of his vision. Uthar, bending over him, brushed Jorian's long,

black hair forward to bare his nape.

Karadur uttered another incantation, gesturing with his

skinny brown arms. This continued until Jorian's knees began to

hurt from kneeling on the hard boards. Stepping back from the

block, Uthar took a firm grip on the helve of the ax.

At last the Mulvani tinkled his bell. Jorian, straining to keep

the headsman in sight without seeming to do so, felt rather than

saw the ax swing up to the vertical. Then the bell tinkled again,

meaning that the ax had started down.

Jorian's next action required exquisite timing, and he was not

at all sure of success—even though Karadur and he had

rehearsed for hours in his private gymnasium, with the old

wizard wielding a broom instead of an ax. For one thing, Jorian

was a little tired because four of his wives had insisted, the night

before, on proof of his love for them.

As the ax descended, Jorian cast off the thongs that bound

him, which throughout the ceremony he had been discreetly

sawing through with the little knife. Simultaneously, he hurled

his body to the left, falling on his side. Since the heavy ax had

already begun its downward course, the burly headsman was

neither quick enough of apprehension nor strong enough of arm

to stop it in mid-career. It thudded into the block, sinking deeply

into the red-painted wood.

In one swift movement, Jorian rolled to his feet and put the

little knife between his teeth. Karadur cast something more into

the dish, which flamed and smoked like a little volcano, sending

up a swelling column of green smoke shot with red and purple.

The wizard uttered a loud cry, flinging out his arms. Thereupon

the coiled rope before him sprang erect, like some monstrous

serpent. Its end shot up twenty feet or more, and the upper end

disappeared into a kind of haze, as if it had pierced a hole in the

sky. A tremendous cloud of smoke arose from the dish, obscuring

the vision of those on the platform and hiding them from the

spectators below. Some, supposing the king's head to have fallen

already, set up a cry of "Red and white! Red and white!"

One long stride brought Jorian to the executioner. With the

ax in his hands, Uthar the butcher would have been a formidable

foe. But, despite his desperate tugs, the head of the ax remained

firmly fixed in the block.

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