Andre Norton - Quag Keep

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Quag Keep
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. Eckstern 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-polished steel than lead which was the usual material for playing
figures. Martin stared at it in fascination. He had seen many expertly 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 production of
unusual monsters, noble fighters, astute elves, powerful 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
compulsion; he must have this one. It was beyond any doubt meant for him.
Eckstern 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 dominance 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 horn 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 dubious inn on the edge of the Thieves' Quarter in the city of
Greyhawk. He frowned, troubled. But there had been something 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 experience, now unemployed. That much was
clear. And the hands before him were bare below sleeves of very supple, darkcolored 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, wandered 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 supported them. But the numbers on them were
wrought in glistening 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 experienced 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 swordsman did not wonder now that their two tables, so close together,
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 trying 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 together 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 intelligence, 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
human, 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 betrayed the reason for his self-naming-two teeth as great as tusks set on either side of his
lower jaw. He spoke as if compelled to, and Milo found that he answered as if he must offer 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 commands 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 fullthroated 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 earlier. 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 fingernail, 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-something 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 between its continually fluttering wings.
"These things I remember-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 answered 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 horn 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 impervious 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 before 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 cannot 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
fraternity.
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 ferocity such fighters fell into upon occasion, one was apt to forget that they had their own
powers and were moved by intelligence as well as by the superhuman strength they could command.
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 locate 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 whirred 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
homelessly 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 intricate 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 service…"
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 messenger. 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 himself.
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 offer 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 disdained 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 mindtalk alone. He made no more sound than the
shadows around them; far less than the hissing slip-slip of their guide's footgear 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 substance 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
repeated as the patch upon their guide's cloak.
From what he could distinguish, the stone was not the local grayish-tan either, but instead a dull
green, over which wandered lines of yellow, adding to the confusion of the carven 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 upward through an opening
in the roof. But the rest of the room... Milo drew a deep breath. This was no lord's audience 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 beckoned and, from the other
side of the fire, four others advanced.
"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 figure 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 beginning 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 carrion? 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 neutral
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 serpent 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 Jefferson, 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 Eckstern 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 Eckstern'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 oddstrong enough and yet as if this unending fog
muffled it a little.
"No game!" For the second time that curt answer was emphatic.
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 answer 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 divided, 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 reassure 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 purpose. This is a land where Law and Chaos are ever
struggling one against each other. But the laws of Chance will let neither gain full sway. Now this other
摘要：

QuagKeepAndreNortonTheauthorwishestoexpressapprecia-tionfortheinvaluableaidofE.GaryGygaxofTSR,expertplayerandcreatorofthewargame,DUNGEONSANDDRAGONS,onwhichthebackgroundofQUAGKEEPisbased.IwishalsotoacknowledgethekindassistanceofDonaldWollheim,anauthor-ityandcollectorofmilitaryminiatures,whosespeciali...

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