Jack L. Chalker - Dancing Gods 3 - Vengance of the Dance

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CHAPTER I

ENCOUNTER ON A LONELY ROAD

If a worshipped idol has power, it shall always emanate from

the eyes or the navel, except for gotems, in which case see

Vol. XCVIH.

—The Book of Rules, XCLV, 194(d)

IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES; IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES.

In point of fact, Husaquahr had been blessed now with

good government—as good as it was going to get, any-

way—and peace for several years.

In other words, it was pretty damned dull in Husa-

quahr.

Oh, there were the usual quotient of crimes, magic

spells, occasional irritating geases, and a number of black-

art wizards and witches lurking about, and the general

population was oppressed by a ruling class of one sort or

another as usual, but it was minor, petty stuff. There'd

be no great new warrior kings to fear and celebrate in

song and story through the generations, no wondrous bat-

tles, the tales of which would thrill the newer generations

for centuries, no epic quests or bold adventures that would

make this a time to look back on. Since the defeat and

subsequent exile of the Dark Baron and the dispersement

of his armies, even those who were most evil in Husa-

quahr seemed willing to compromise with the good and

just have a comfortable old time.

The rider on the black horse was almost invisible in

the dusk, wearing as he was a tight black body stocking,

2 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS

black belt, and worn riding boots. He was a small man,

both short and slight, and wore only a small dagger for

his defense. He looked elfin, although he was of totally

human blood, and somewhat boyish; yet any who looked

into his cold, penetrating eyes knew both fear and respect.

They were dark eyes, as black as his garb, and they were

very old eyes as well. They said to one and all that this

was a dangerous man and not ever to be taken lightly.

It had been seven years since he'd stood with the greats

and fought with the best of this world the forces of evil

and darkness brought forth from Hell itself by the Dark

Baron. He had killed many men then and a few since, but

never without cause.

It was cool in Husaquahr right now; the gods of the

north wind breathed down deeply this year into the south-

ern lands and refused to take their rest, even as the days

grew longer. He pulled his cloak a bit more tightly about

him to ward off the stinging fingers of wind and saw in

the waning light of the setting sun the signs of an

approaching stormfront. There was no question as to what

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sort of front it might be—soon snow would be all that

would be possible out here. It was already far too late for

snow, but someone had forgotten to tell the snow that

this was so.

Only an idiot would be out in wastes like this with

weather like that coming on, he told himself sourly. There

seemed little hope that he could outrun the storm, less

hope that there was any place along this route where he

could find shelter for the night or the storm's duration,

and it was much too far to turn back to the last settlement.

He knew what was behind him; what was ahead certainly

offered more hope, since he was ignorant of the details,

although perhaps not anything better.

He had taken this ancient road primarily to avoid

uncomfortable pursuit. A slight smile came to his face and

he reached down to his belt and into a small pouch

and brought forth a giant emerald, as large as a lemon

and alight with an inner green fire. He would have given

JACK L. CHALKER 3

it back, having proved his point and met the challenge,

but the priests of Baathazar weren't the sort to be for-

giving just for that. He had no use for the thing—he had

long ago amassed more money than he knew what to do

with and he had the most powerful friends and allies in

all the world to bail him out if need be.

Necessity had made him a thief; but once he'd chosen

his profession, he'd been bound by the Rules concerning

thieves, and the occupation had both shaped and gotten

along famously with his personality. He was a thief, and

he'd always be one—the greatest thief in all Husaquahr,

perhaps the world. The profession was the grandest one

offered someone of no means and little magic, for each

theft was a challenge, each caper a unique puzzle to be

solved. The more impossible it was, the more he was

drawn to it as a fly to honey. He had stolen this, the jewel

in the navel of the great idol Baathazar, in full view of

ten thousand pilgrims and half a dozen high priests with

great powers of wizardry. It had been easy—but only in

retrospect. He was quite certain, without being egotisti-

cal, that no one else could have pulled it off.

Still, he would have returned it to them—sent them a

note telling them where to find it, perhaps involving them

having to lower themselves to a great indignity to get it;

but they would have retrieved it. What was the point?

The thing was worthless to him now.

They had not, however, a true appreciation of his skill

and, yes, his integrity as well. They didn't really care if

they got the stone back, so long as they got the "dese-

crator" of their sacred idol. It wasn't even much of a god,

as these things went—one of those left over from the bad

old days, supported by a decreasing number of followers.

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That, more than anything, was what had made them

bad-tempered fanatics. Priests used to all that power now

had to undergo a lot of belt-tightening, and they didn't

tike it one little bit. He was a handy person to take all

that frustration out on. In a way, he'd known it from the

start and had taken steps to counter it, steps which included

4 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS

this escape route. The one thing he hadn't counted on,

though, was snow.

It began soon and quickly built up into an uncomfort-

able blinding world of white flakes. Within minutes he

was no longer certain that he was still on the road, or in

which direction he was going, and he knew he'd have to

stop soon or perish. This was no weather nor fit place in

which to be stuck, whether man or beast. His horse was

already complaining and it had no place to go, either.

Chance would not save him now, nor all his skills, and

he knew it. Only magic would get him out of a fix like

this, and he had very little that really mattered. He wished,

at least, he had some power to dry up the snow or conjure

a nice inn with good ale and a warm fire. Damn it, he

wasn't even dressed for this weather!

At the thought, the jewel in the pouch seemed to hum

and throb, slowly at first, but with a building force that

could no longer be dismissed as mere imagination. He

stopped in the midst of the storm and removed it once

more, noting its unnatural fire and glow.

Why did a god have a navel to begin with? He won-

dered about that idly, knowing that he was trying to take

his mind off his impending doom. He stared deeply into

the jewel's throbbing fire, and suddenly it seemed to him

as if the wind were calmed and the storm silenced. There

was, all at once, a deathly hush about him and his mount,

and he knew in a moment that he was not imagining things.

This was indeed magic, dark magic of the blackest sort,

the kind of magic that he would never touch in any other

case but this. He didn't know whether or not he'd sell

his soul to live—he frankly wasn't certain it was still his

to sell—but it was better than the alternative.

He hopped down off his horse and looked around.

There was still near total darkness; yet where he stood

no wind blew and no snow fell. There was, in fact, an

unnatural warmth which was already melting the snow

that had fallen upon the ground on which he stood, turning

it to mud.

JACK L. CHALKER 5

He placed the stone on the ground and drew a penta-

gram around it v/ith his dagger. It wasn't a very large

pentagram, but that which he expected to occupy it would

fit one the size of the head of a needle if need be. He

stepped out of the pentagram and then closed it.

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"Ali right, green fire," he called aloud to the thing, "if

indeed you are a gateway to elsewhere, then I hear your

call. Whoever is bound to you should come through, so

that we may discuss things."

There was a sudden hissing from the stone, which flared

into extraordinary brightness, and then the sound of

escaping steam as a thin plume of smoke rose from it until

it was perhaps shoulder-high. The steam, which gave off

an uncomfortable heat in spite of the raging snowstorm

all about him, widened into a turnip shape, expanding to

fill the entire area. When it contacted the boundaries of

his crude pentagram, it ceased growing and instead solid-

ified.

The demon who showed up was something of a turnip

itself.

It seemed to be all face, a comical, Humpty-Dumpty

sort of thing whose waist was its mouth, above which sat

two huge oval eyes. The head rose into a point, at the

top of which was just a shock of purple hair. Below, the

thing sat on two huge clawed feet, but seemed to have

no legs to speak of. Its arms, coming out of its body just

below that tremendous mouth, were short and stubby

things of misshapen crimson, ending in long and mottled

hands with great black claws at the fingertips. It looked

around, spotted him, opened its mouth, and licked its lips

with an enormous black tongue. The inside of the mouth

was lined with more teeth than a shark's, all pointed and

sharp, and beyond those teeth seemed to be a bottomless

hole.

This, then, was the source of the priests' powers and

the reason why they were nearly frantic to get back the

stone.

"You're not one of those mealy-mouthed priests," the

6 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS

demon croaked in a voice so deep and reverberant that

it moved the very air. "That means that either their silly

faith is overthrown or you're a pretty damned good thief."

"The latter. Sir Demon," the little man responded,

bowing slightly. "I could not resist the challenge, although,

to be sure, I had no idea I was stealing more than a great

gem."

"All great gems have demons assigned to them. You

should know that. Otherwise, where do you think all those

curses came from?"

"Good point," he admitted. "However, this, I suspect,

is a different sort of gem."

"In a way," the demon agreed. "I can certainly see that

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you've mucked up your getaway. This is no curiosity call."

"Quite right, sir. I need a service, it is true, if the price

be not too high."

The demon studied him. "What could you offer me,

thief? Those in your profession tend to wind up with us

anyway, so your soul isn't much of a deal. Still, you never

know. What's your name?"

"I am Macore of the Shadowlands," the thief replied.

"Macore, huh? Seems like I heard the name. Hold on

a moment while I check."

Instantly the demon vanished, leaving Macore alone

once more. No, not quite alone—from the center of the

pentagram came forth the lush sounds of massed violins

playing a rather pleasant if monotonous melody. It was

very nice at first; but as time wore on and both he and

his horse began to get very impatient, the strains of the

music began to irritate him.

Suddenly the music stopped. Just as abruptly the demon

was back. "Sorry to keep you on hold so long, but his

Satanic Majesty's filing system is lousy. We have so many

customers and prospects these days that he really should

automate it, but that would make it too easy for us." His

voice took on a mocking tone. "It's supposed to be Hell,

remember that!" He sighed, and the sound of it went right

through the little thief.

JACK L. CHALKER 7

"Still," the demon continued, "I did find the file.

Thought your name was familiar, too. One of the minor

demon princes got sent all the way down to the dungpits

a while ago and he ain't stopped wallowing in more than

just dung, if you know what I mean. All the time, this

self-pitying wail about how he was gonna deliver this world

on a silver platter and got cashiered instead of rewarded

for it. What's he expect, anyway? It's Hell, after all."

Macore thought a moment. "His name wouldn't be

Hiccarph, would it?"

"Yeah. That's the one. So it is the same Macore. Okay,

that simplifies everything. What do you wish, thief?"

This was suspiciously too cooperative. "And what is

the price?"

"First you tell me what you want, then I'll quote you

the going rates. That's simple enough. You keep it simple,

I'll keep it cheap. Fair enough?"

"I can ask for no more," Macore responded. Already

the temptation was there to ask for whatever he wished,

to go for it all, but he knew that this was the trap of

demonic bargains. He had no intention of delivering him-

self totally, now and forever, as a slave to this creature.

"Naturally, I wish safety and security from this storm and

from my pursuers. Of course, I mean this in the way that

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