Demons of the Dancing Gods (10 page)

she decided she had to play their game before they forgot their

challenge and started debating among themselves. She'd had

enough of that with the Kauri. "We're independent, yet collective!

You know that! It's in our nature to be so! What sort

of creatures are you that you don't know this?"

"We're kobolds, of course," the leader snapped.

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"And we're on strike," another piped up. Joe felt his horse

shudder, and began to feel that he was going to pass out on

his feet, as well. He couldn't take much more of this.

"Aye," another kobold responded. "No more of them fairy

rings and stuff until we get our contract!" The rest of them

cheered.

"Your dispute is none of our affair," Marge argued pleadingly.

"Please—this man will die if we're delayed even a few

moments longer."

The leader looked over at Joe. "How do you stand on unions?"

Right then Joe was not feeling in a fraternal mood. He

decided that, if he weren't about to die, he'd like to chop these

bastards up into-little pieces. He tried to snarl a reply, but only

inhaled more of the acrid smoke and started coughing.

"He is a union man!" Marge told them, thinking furiously.

"He's a Teamster."

The kobolds all looked at Joe critically. "Indeed? He don't

look like no wagon driver to me," the leader noted. "Let's see

your union card!"

At that moment, Joe's horse gave another great shudder and

this time collapsed onto the hot surface. Joe whirled, then fell

almost completely over the horse.

Marge yelled in a mixture of anger and panic, "In the name

of the Earth Mother, help me get him off this place before he

dies and quickly!"

"Religion is the opiate of the masses," one of the kobolds

muttered, seemingly unmoved.

"Still," the leader mused, "we can't have a popular workingmen's

movement—"

"And women," another added.

"—sullied at its great beginnings by a lack of compassion

... Hmm... You! Imli! Zimlich! Grab his head and feet!

You, Kauri—get going! We'll follow!"

Quickly the little men snapped to action. They were extremely

strong and powerful, despite their small size. It took

only two of them to lift Joe as if he weighed next to nothing,

and four more actually lifted the horse and started after Marge

and the others at what was close to a trot.

The obsidian bridge thinned appreciably as they went, and

it was none too clear just how much longer it could support

weight, but Marge's horse needed no urging. They were across,

followed by the kobolds, in a few brief minutes. The weight

of Joe's horse, though, was the final straw for the weakened

bridge; just as they cleared the last of it, the entire center

shuddered and collapsed with a rumble back into the volcano.

Joe awoke slowly in the darkness. He had been nearly comatose

for several hours, often delirious and out of his head. He

felt a cold compress being applied to his forehead and groaned,

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although it felt really good.

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"Joe?" Marge asked tentatively, and he could hear the concern

in her voice.

"Yeah," he croaked, his voice a dry rasp, "I guess I'm here."

Her joy at his coming out of it was such that not only was

it evident in her physical reactions but also was radiated from

her into him. It was a strange, warm sensation, unlike anything

he'd experienced before, and he was deeply moved by it.

"How bad am I hurt?" he asked her, trying not to show

what he was receiving. To his relief, the joyous emotions didn't

change.

"You're not bad. A little scorched around the edges, but

mostly it was dehydration. I've been feeding you water in small

doses all night and getting compresses on you to bring the

temperature down." She handed him a canteen, and he drank

from it so greedily that she had to pull it away. "Uh-uh. I know

something about dehydration, and you take water in slow doses,"

she cautioned. "Here. Take a little of this."

She handed him a small, crumbly ball of gray-white stuff,

and he put it in his mouth, then almost sat up and spat. "That's

salt\ "

"Yeah. I got it from a salt lick. You need it to replace what

you lost and help keep in the water."

He took a little more water, forcing himself to go slow, and

did feel a bit better. "What about those bastards on the mountain?"

"They finally carried you most of the way here," she told

him. "They're a very funny sort, but not bad really, once you

get to know them."

"I know what I'd like to do to them," he grumbled.

"You couldn't if you wanted to. They're hard as rocks; and

since they're related to the dwarfs, iron has little effect on

them. Besides, they could melt your sword before it ever got

to them, anyway."

"Where'd they get all that militant labor crap, though? They

sounded more like our world than this one."

She nodded. "I wondered about that, too. Apparently there's

been a movement going around to organize all the fairy workers,

particularly the heavy-labor types like the kobolds. Nobody's

sure where the idea came from, but it's going around

and it's catching on with some like the kobolds. I think we

better tell Ruddygore about it when we get there, though. There

JACK L. CHALKER

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53

was one thing that really puzzles me."

"Huh? Only one?"

"Well, in this instance, anyway. One of the kobolds quoted

Lenin, word for word. Lenin, Joe! Here! Where nobody ever

heard of him!"

"You mean the Russians are invading?"

"No, of course not. Don't be silly. But somebody over here

is bringing in ideas wholesale from over there, that's for sure.

That bothers me, Joe. Remember that Ruddygore was worried

about the plot to bring guns into Husaquahr?"

He nodded. "I remember. He had that rat Dacaro turned

into a horse for suggesting it."

"Well, maybe—but it doesn't add up. Ideas are stronger

even than guns, Joe, and somebody's importing ideas. Trouble

is, who's the only guy we know who can make the trip between

our world and this one any time he wants to?"

Joe, although still dizzy and weak, saw her point. The base

of Ruddygore's power was his unique ability to travel between

the worlds across the Sea of Dreams. They had never been

really sure about the big sorcerer, and this compounded the

doubts beyond measure. Ruddygore had fought the forces of

Hell head on, yet he conjured up and used demons from the

same place for his own purposes. He had fought the Dark Baron

to a standoff, which had put him with the good guys, yet—

had he fought for the same reasons as the rest of them? Or was

he, in fact, taking on a rival challenger to his ambition of ruling

the Council and the world? Certainly there were depths and

layers to the sorcerer far beyond the funny fat man in opera

clothes, depths and layers hidden by his wild personality.

"Let's let it rest for now," Joe suggested. "I'm tired, weak,

and dizzy and I feel that I could sleep for a month. But

let's remember that we're only doing some work for the old

boy. He doesn't own us, and we'll work for ourselves first.

Okay?"

She smiled at him, "Okay. You know, though, I—" She

stopped in mid-thought, seeing that he had sunk back down

into a more normal but very deep sleep. She got up and sighed,

looking around. Let him sleep—he certainly needed it.

Joe slept through most of the next day, and it was early

evening by the time he woke up. He was sore and stiff and

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still felt terribly dry, but he managed to go through a series of

exercises without doing too badly.

His horse, he found, was dead and already stinking up the

place. Marge or the kobolds had managed to get the saddlebags

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off, though, and he found some salted fish and the few cakes

remaining of the hard, extra-sweet Terdieran candy. It wasn't

enough, but it would have to do for now.

Marge's horse seemed to have come through the mountain

crossing reasonably well, but he thought it best not to push her

for another day or so. For now he'd repack the supplies into

one load and let the horse carry that. He felt he could walk.

He found what he could of dry wood and, with the flint

from the packs, made a small fire. There was a rustling in the

trees behind him and he turned warily, but it was only Marge,

who'd apparently been asleep up in the tree.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him, settling to the ground.

"You look a mess!"

He chuckled. "Oh, I'm okay. I think we ought to press on,

even though it's dark. You can see pretty well around here,

and my night vision's not all that bad. I've been looking at the

map and I figure it's about forty miles to the main road, if we

can go due west, then maybe another fifty to the city. It's a

long, tough walk, but I can make it."

She nodded. "The land's not bad. I went up and took a look

at it. While it's all overland, no good roads or clear paths, it's

mostly farmland and forest. Maybe we can hitch a ride when

we hit the main road. They might have some kind of coach

service or something. At least maybe we can buy another horse."

He frowned. "Do we have enough money left for that?"

"We do now. The kobolds decided it was their fault the

horse died, so they gave us compensation." She went over to

her own pack and rummaged through it for a moment, then

reached in and pulled out a large, blackish rock. She seemed

to have trouble with it, so he went over and took it from her,

then almost dropped it. It was incredibly heavy.

"What is that?"

"Raw fairy gold," she told him. "Worth a hundred horses."

"Well, then, let's get started, now that we're on the same

clock."

She laughed. "I think maybe you ought to go down to the

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55

riverbank first—it's really a creek, but the water's fine. You're

coal black from soot and ash."

He didn't feel much like it, but he went, and he did feel a

little better after he'd immersed himself in the cool waters for

a while. Coming back out, he checked over his clothing. The

belt with his great sword had come through pretty much untouched,

but the thick loincloth he'd been wearing was stained

and singed. He had spare loincloths, so that was no trouble.

The sandals, though, were his only pair, and they were cracked

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and worn almost beyond belief. He decided to go barefoot until

he could buy some new ones.

His cowboy hat, much to his relief, was virtually unscathed,

and he stuck it on his still v/et hair, fastened the loincloth to

the belt and strapped it on, checked to see that his sword was

easily drawn, then nodded to himself. "Okay, faithful scout,"

he called to Marge. "Let's pack up and get on the trail."

"Ugh! Kemo sabe!" she responded playfully, and they went

to work. Somehow they managed to get everything of importance

onto the horse.

Using Marge's incredible night sight as the pathfinder, they

had little trouble going for most of the night. By early morning,

although it was impossible to tell for certain, they thought they

had made at least fifteen miles. Joe let Marge sleep then on

the horse, in front of the pack—since she seemed to weigh

virtually nothing, the horse never noticed—and, taking frequent

breaks for both his and the horse's benefit, he managed

to add over five miles more before deciding to camp out in a

small wooded grove.

Marge had been correct—the rough land had given way

quickly to rolling farmland, with lots of herd animals idly

grazing and, here and there, red-roofed farmhouses and fields

of neatly planted wheat, corn, and other grains. He remembered

somebody telling him once, after some big eruption down in

South America or some place, that the reason people lived so

ciose to volcanoes was that they only went off once in a lifetime,

while the stuff they spewed out was the best farm dirt in the

world, and he could see that, at least here, it was true.

Occasionally they stopped at a farmhouse along the way.

But, while there were a few draft animals available, there were

no horses. Finally giving up, they settled for a mule and loaded

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57

most of the supplies onto it, allowing Joe to ride Marge's horse,

while she sat atop the packs on the mule. Now they would

make better time.

He kept to his modified schedule, remaining awake through

most of the night ana into the morning, then joining Marge in

sleep for the afternoon. He didn't really need as much sleep