Used by permission of Atheneum Publ.
— due for release Spring, 78 —

 

-	-	-	-	-
Dungeons & Dragons	-	-	-	Dragon magazine

Milo Fagon, swordsman, and Naile Fangtooth, were-boar berserker,
have met in an inn in the Thieves’ Quarter of Greyhawk. They have
one thing in common, each wears on his wrist a wide copper bracelet in
which are set a number of unusually shaped dice. Puzzling over this
strange bond, they are also uneasily aware that something momentous
is about to happen to them both, though they cannot see that any of the
other people in the inn are paying any attention to them.

Milo Fagon, swordsman, and Naile Fangtooth, were-boar berserker,
have met in an inn in the Thieves’ Quarter of Greyhawk. They have
one thing in common, each wears on his wrist a wide copper bracelet in
which are set a number of unusually shaped dice. Puzzling over this
strange bond, they are also uneasily aware that something momentous
is about to happen to them both, though they cannot see that any of the
other people in the inn are paying any attention to them.

“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 would seem 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 psuedo-dragon chittered shrilly,
shooting its forked tongue at the messenger, as if it would have enjoyed
impaling some part of the stranger on that spear point.

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. For those who dwelt and carried out their plans here
knew shadows as friends and defenses. As the three of them passed
along they followed a crooked alley where the houses leaned above
them as if eyes set in the upper stories would spy on passerby. 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 sword hilt. 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 of 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 swordsman, on his wrist he, too, wore
the same bracelet which 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 that was absolutely necessary. However, beside their
own speech and that, they also had mastery over communication with
animals and birds — and, it would seem, pseudo-dragons. For Naile’s
pet — or comrade — 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 footgear which was oftentimes drowned out by the clack of
their own bootheels 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 cut of 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 being, Milo
noted, when they came to the single door facing the alley which had
brought them and could see the door-light, were really carving as intricately
enfolded and repeated as the patch upon their guide’s cloak.

From what he distinguished the stone was not the local greyish-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 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
his place. Light, wan, yet brighter than they had seen elsewhere, flowed
out to engulf them.

Here were no baskets of fire wasp; this light stemmed from the
walls themselves, as if those yellow veins gave off a sickly radiance. By
its 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 at a cork-screw of a stairway. Because their guide flitted up
that 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
day’s 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 covered with wooden boards eaten by time, until perhaps
only their hinges of metal held them together. There were the 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, 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 grey robe, tied with what looked like a length of plain
yellowish rope, and that robe was marked with no design nor symbol. 
His right wrist, Milo was quick to look for that, was bare of any copper, 
diceset 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
that 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, waving a hand to drive away that
minor annoyance.

“Naile Fangtooth, Milo jagon, Ingrege,” it was not as if he meant
the listing of names as a greeting, but rather he might be reckoning up a
sum important to himself. Now he beckoned and, from the other side
of the fire, advanced four others.

“I am, of course, Hystaspes. And why the Great Powers saw fit to
draw me into this netting—” 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 helm back a little on her forehead, and a
whisp 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.”
Their was exasperation in the Wizard’s voice as he spoke the
name of the next.

By his robe of grey faced with white, Deav Dyne, was a follower of
Landron-of-the-Inner-Light and of the third rank. But a bracelet en
circled 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 bagged skald’s field harp on his
back, smiled as if 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, scaleskin, 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 to be neutral in the eternal struggles and skirmishes
of Law and Chaos. On the other hand a neutral did not awaken
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 spear, the sword of
bone, double-edged with teeth, which he carried, his natural armament
of fang and claw were weapons 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 which meant nothing to Milo came from his lips in an envoking
chant. Out of the heart of the flames spread more smoke but in
no random puff. This was rather a serpent of white which writhed
through the air, reaching out. It split into two and one loop of it fell
about Milo, Naile and the elf, before they could move, noosing around
the heads of the three of them, just as the other branch noosed the four
facing them.

Milo sputtered and coughed. He could see nothing of the room
now nor 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
—
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 upon for the convention
—using the new QK figures.

That was it—just playing a game!
"No game—" the booming voice denied that to leave him be-w
wildered, completely puzzled.

“Who are you?”
Martin wet his lips to answer. There was a question or 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 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 do you do?” Again that relentless inquiry.

“I’m playing a game —” Nel’s voice sounded odd — strong
enough and yet as if this unending fog muffled it a little.

“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 do you do?”

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 least 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 Fagon, 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 chain 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 few 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, who 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,
searching for an answer to an archaic formula, you would already be
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 threat has come to us, and both Law and Chaos
are no 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
without any warning.

“Martin — Milo Jagon.” Already the Milo part of him was winning
— driving the other mamory far back into his mind, locking and
barring doors which meant its freedom.

Hystaspes shrugged. “You see?” And that is the badge of your
servitude which you yourselves in your own sphere of life set upon you,
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 here gathered to be shown that there is what you deem
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-itthem
are so confident that there was no ready part waiting for you, The
mere fact that you were here perhaps accomplished the first purpose towards
which the enemy strikes. 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, yes, I will tell you what I know. Chiefly
because you are now tools of mine — mine! And you shall be willing
tools, for this has been done to you against your will, and you have
enough of the instincts of life-kind 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 comrades. “Bring
stools, and drink, and food — for the night is long and there is much to
be said here.”

Only Gulph, 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 learn the rudiments of a
charm.

While 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 well tasting, cheese.

Though Milo’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 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 which 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 dreams the same dreams, strives 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 to even
great permanence.

“You have all played what you call a game, building a world you
believe imaginary in which to stage your adventures 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 conception,
did instead gather, unknowingly, dream knowledge of one which
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. The more players who think about it — the
stronger the pull between them will be.

“Do you mean,” Yevele asked, “that what we imagine can become
real?”

“Was not all very real to you playing the game when you have
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 influence events which
happen — well and good. But suppose someone — something — outside
both of our space-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!”
 

Geas Bound
“In so far as I have learned it is simple enough,” the wizard waved
his own hand in the air. His fingers curved about a slender stemmed
goblet which appeared out of nowhere. “You have been imported from
your own time and space to exist here as such characters your imagination
would select for these 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 mouthed 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 mazement 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 almost
merciless note in his voice. “Do you agree, Naile Fangtooth?”

“Yes —” The heavy body of the berserker shifted on his stool.
That seat might suddenly become not the most comfortable 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 contrary
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, wereboar, 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 governed 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 attention of the
other, “we throw the dice. How can we now 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 of an instant or two before they spin of their own
accord. Then — well, then you must use your wits. Though how much
of those you can summon,” he shot a glance at Naile which was anything
but complimentary, “remains unknown. If you concentrate on
the dice when they begin to spin, it is my belief that you will be able to
change the score which will follow — perhaps only by a fraction.”

Milo glanced about the half circle of his unsought companions in
this unbelievable venture. Ingrge’s face was impassive, his eyes veiled.
The elf stared down, if he were looking outward at all, at the hand resting
on his knee, the bracelet just above that. Naile scowled blackly, still
pulling at his hand as if strength and will could loose it.

Gulth had not moved and who could read any emotion on a face so
alien to human kind? 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 that escaped tress of hair above her sun-browned forehead
seemed to give her a kind of natural aliveness which stirred something
in him. Though this was certainly neither the time nor place to allow his
attention to wander in that fashion.

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. While the bard was the only one who smiled, as he
caught Milo’s wandering eyes, that smile became an open grin — as if
he might be hugely enjoying all of this.

“We have been taught many things,” the cleric spoke with a faint
repugnance. He had the countenance of one forced into speaking
against his will. “We have been taught that it is true 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 patterns 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 yourselves.”

“Just when and how do we use this power?” For the first ime the
bard Wymarc broke in. “You would have not summoned us here, Your
Power-in-possession” (He gave that title a twist which hinted that more
than common civility might lie behind his use of it, perhaps 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 which 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 has 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 questioning.
His compelling elf stare unleased 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 left 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 which carried chill.

Hystaspes made no attempt to deny that accusation.

“A geas, yes. Do you doublt that I would not do anything within
my power to make sure that you seek out the source of this contamination
and destroy it?”

“Destroy it?” Wymarc took up the challenge now. “Look at us,
wizard. Here stand 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 another irritant is the only
plausible move. And — remember this — he — or it— who brought
you here knows alone the way by which you may return. Also, it is not
this world only which is menaced. You pride yourself enough upon
your imaginations to have played your game of risk and fortune — use
that imagination now. Would Greyhawk — would all the lands known
to us — be the same if they were intermingled with your own spacetime?
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 committed 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 instincts which
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 if not more as I know now.”

“What of 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 forceably
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 learn to control the fall of these,” he shook his hand a little
so that the dice trembled on their gimbles 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 simply glared back at the berserker as if
the other’s defiant speech offered insult. Visibly he mastered a first,
temperborn 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 which he flipped open, to drop upon the floor before
their half circle of stools. It was clearly a sketchy map, as Milo began to
recognize by that a queer mixture of two memories which he privately
wondered he would ever become accustomed to.

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. While 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 which still might exist within the petrified
cargo holds of those.

The map brought them all edging forward. Leaning over the
parchment Milo sensed that perhaps some of this company recognized
the faded lines, identify features which to him were but names, but
which 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 itself?”

The wizard produced a staff of ivory so old that it was a dull yellow
and the carving on it had been worn by much handling to unidentifiable
indentions. With the point of that he indicated the map.

“I have those who supply me with information,” he returned. “It
is only when there is a 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
Deofp, 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.

“Deofp?” Deav Dyne spit out as if he found the very name vile.
As indeed he must since it was a stronghold of Chaos.

“No. Chaos rules there, yes. But this is not of Chaos. Or at least
such an alliance has not yet come into being —” Hystaspes moved a
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 which answer with a barrier

not even a geas burdened demon of the Fourth Level 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 constraining demons for his service, which made that claim
a little equivocal.

Hystaspes was swift to catch the cleric’s retraction to that 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 nonknowledge
brings with it an aura of fear.

“The thing you seek was a little careless at first. The unknown
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. Even 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 mightest of the northern adepts. But they
are indeed redolent of power, and, taking such precautions as I might, I
used one of the formulae. 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, or about the sea of
Dust.”

For the first time the lizardman croaked out bearly understandable
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 which 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 identification.
Dragons could be of Chaos. Such hunted men as men might hunt a deer
or a forest boar. But Lichis, who was known to support Law during
thousands of years of such struggles (for the dragons were the longest
lived of all creatures) must have a command of history which 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 which swept this world.
Perhaps the doings of lesser beings (or so most human kind would seem
to him) had come to bore him.

Wymarc hummed and Milo caught a fragment of that tune. The
Harrowing of Ironnose, a sage of legend of men, one which 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, who was intended
to break Law forever. It was Lichis who roused and did battle. That the
battle had raged from Blackmoor, out over the Great Bay, down to the
Wild Coast, ending in a steaming, boiling sea from which only Lichis
had emerged.

Even the Golden Dragon had not come unwounded from that encounter.
For a long time he had disappeared also 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 which had kept even the most
hardy of adventurers 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 for us?”

“You,” Hystaspes swung to Naile, “that creature of yours.” Now
he pointed the staff at the psuedo-dragon curled against the berserker’s
thick neck just about 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 staff behind him,
not watching, though it landed neatly on a table top. “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 perceive 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 world, 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 command
to produce the largest the dice might yield.

Dice spun — glowed. As they became again immobile, a drawstring
money bag lay at the swordsman’s feet. For a moment or two the
strangeness, the fact that he had been able to command the dice by
thought alone in this matter, 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 highnosed, haughty faces
of two recent 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 these silver, halfmoon circles
coined in Faraz, and two of the mother-of-pearl discs 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 concentrate 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 produced. Now the others became busy.
It was Deav Dyne, who by his clerky training 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)
who tallied their combined wealth.

“I would say.” he said slowly, after he had separated the pieces
into piles, counted and examined those which 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 at
the Sign of the Pea Stalk. We should separate and buy discreetly. Milo
and — shall we say you, Ingrge and Naile — to the horse dealers, for
with you lies more knowledge of what we need. Gulth must have his
own supplies —” He looked to the lizardman. “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 which had appeared before him. Unlike those of the others it
was not leather, but fashioned of a fish which had been dried, its head
removed, a dull metal cap put in that 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 nothing.

The wizard once more favored them with a grimace of a smile.
“Perhaps you had already equipped yourselves by chance before that
summoned you,” he remarked. “But I would not waste more time. By
day 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 mightly
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 such deadly enemies.

THE END?