The Goblin Tower

Chapter Seven THE RUIN IN THE JUNGLE

IN the jungles of komilakh, which stretched for more than a hundred leagues from the marches of Mulvan to the Eastern Ocean, enormous trees of many species towered over a hundred cubits into the sky. In the upper branches, squirrels and monkeys scrambled and chattered; gaudy birds whirled and flapped and screeched. Lower down, beneath the permanent waves of this green sea of leaves, vines as thick as a man's leg hung in loops and braids and tangles. Along these lianas, hairy spiders as big as crabs, with eyes like octets of little diamonds, crept in search of prey. Parasitic plants with flowers of ghostly colors sprouted from the trunks and branches of the trees.

Still lower, in the permanent gloom of the ground level, an undulating surface of brown leaf mold stretched away among the tree trunks. Here and there this surface was broken by saplings—most of them dead —or clumps of ferns. From the ground, only an occasional fleck of blue sky could be seen through the all-covering ceiling of green; but now and then a golden gleam ahead through the trees gave the direction of the morning sun. Men seldom saw the larger denizens of this level—elephant, buffalo, tiger, rhinoceros, deer, antelope, tapir, and wild pig— because the beasts heard man afar off and made themselves scarce.

Through this somber, silent world, Jorian and Karadur rode, winding among the tree trunks and around the fern clumps, swaying and ducking to avoid the branches of saplings and the dangling loops of lianas. Jorian rode the tall roan, Oser; Karadur, the white ass. Their mounts' heads hung with fatigue, and their riders had to kick and beat them to prevent them from stopping every other step to snatch a mouthful of greenery.

They had been riding since well before dawn. When the brush was thin enough to permit, they forced the animals to a trot. They also kept turning their heads to look back and listen.

For several days they had fled from their pursuers, who consisted of two tracking elephants and ten well-armed mounted soldiers. At the beginning, the fugitives had had a start of several hours, because the first pursuit had been sent in the obvious direction, down the Bharma. But King Shaju had quickly corrected this mistake and dispatched another force up the Pennerath.

Although the pursuers' speed was limited by the elephants, who could not go long distances faster than a horse's trot, nevertheless the pursuers' familiarity with the country and the fact that they led spare horses enabled them to close the gap. When the farmlands of eastern Mulvan turned to isolated clearings and then gave way to roadless jungle, they were only an hour behind.

Since then, the fugitives had fled almost continuously, sleeping in snatches, sometimes on the backs of their animals. Both looked worn and weary. The fine clothes in which Jorian had begun his flight were now dirty, dusty, and stained by rain and sweat. This was the so-called dry season in Komilakh, when rain occurred only every two or three days in place of the continual downpour of summer.

Jorian was stripped to breeches and boots against the damp heat. His left arm was in a crude sling, and he handled the reins with his right hand. Two days earlier, in making camp, he had stepped into a hole, reached out to steady himself, and seized a branch of a small tree covered with long, needle-sharp spines. A few hours later, his left hand had been swollen to twice its normal size and had turned a fiery red. At the moment it was still too painful to use. Any sudden jerk sent sharp pains lancing up Jorian's arm, so that trotting his horse was one long agony. But the thought of being trampled by King Shaju's elephants urged him on.

From time to time he reined in his mount, to breathe the animals and to listen for pursuers. The night before, the rumbling purr of elephants had warned him of their approach. Luckily, this had occurred in a patch of jungle so dense that neither party had sighted the other. Galloping recklessly and riding the animals along a stream bed for several furlongs, Jorian thought they had thrown off the pursuit; but he was taking no chances.

Now, as he halted and let his horse munch ferns, he raised a hand Karadur froze. To their ears came, far but unmistakable, the squeal of an elephant and the jingle of harness.

"Doctor," said Jorian, "another run, ere our beasts have rested and fed, will kill them. Now's the time for your confusion spell."

"It will be the last time," mumbled Karadur, "for I have materials for but one such spell. Help me down from this ass, and I will do what I can."

Soon the old wizard had a tiny fire going. "Dry twigs, dry twigs!" he muttered. "Nothing wet, for that we want as little smoke as possible. Now, let me see, where did I put the powders for Confusion Number Three?"

He fumbled in his garments and at length produced one of his compartmented purses. When he opened this, however, he exclaimed in horror, "Ah, woe! I have none of the powder of the yellow mushroom of Hroth!" He searched frantically. "I must have forgotten it when I made up this battery of powders. We are lost!"

"Can't you use any old mushroom? Like this one?"

"I know not how it would work. But let us try; it can scarcely put us into a worse predicament."

Karadur crumbled the mushroom into the tiny caldron, added other substances, and stirred. Leaves rustled without any detectable breeze, and the green canopy overhead seemed to press down upon them, closer and darker…

At last Karadur leant back against a tree trunk. "Water!" he croaked in a ghost of a voice. "I am spent."

Jorian passed him the leathern water bottle. As Karadur drank, Jorian sniffed the air.

"What in the name of Zevatas is that stench?" said Jorian. He sniffed again. "It's you—nay, it's both of us! Your spell must have gone awry. We stink like a gymnasium, a slaughter-house, and a dunghill, all rolled into one. The gods grant that a wind carry not this odor to our pursuers… Oh, plague! There it goes!"

A wind had swung up, rustling the leaves of the vast green awning overhead and swaying the smaller branches. Only a light breeze could be felt at ground level, but such as it was, it came from the east and blew towards King Shaju's men.

"Mount! And be yare about it!" snapped Jorian.

"I cannot; I am fordone—"

"You damned old fool, get on that ass or I'll haul you on by your beard! Here they come!"

Through the forest came the loud, brassy cry of an elephant. This was echoed by a trumpet's blast and the sound of voices and movement. Jorian picked up Karadur bodily and set him down on the ass. Then he mounted himself.

"Hold tight!" he said. "They're galloping. They'll probably spread out, thinking to catch us with one quick rush. Off!"

The brief rest had given the animals back some of their strength. Jorian led the way at an easy canter, curving around obstacles, swaying and ducking, while the ass rocked along behind. Groaning, Karadur bounced along on the ass, clutching the saddle. He had little control over the animal; but the ass, being used to following the horse, did so with little guidance.

The sounds of galloping diminished as the pursuers spread out. There were more trumpetings, but farther away, as the elephants were left behind in the pursuit. After Jorian had cantered for some time in silence, he held up an arm and slowed. He led the way to the far side of an enormous tree, whose trunk at the base measured over twenty cubits through.

"There's but one man close behind us," he said. "The others have spread too far and lost touch with each other. They'll have to rally back at the elephants to pick up our trail again. Here, take your cursed Kistf."

"What mean you to do?"

"To await our pursuer behind this tree, whilst you go on. I can't shoot, with this polluted hand, but I can still handle a sword. Not, however, with that thing on my back. Get along!" he snarled as Karadur started to protest.

The ass trotted off, with Karadur bouncing in the saddle and the Kist, slung over one shoulder by its rope sling, bumping against the wizard's back. Unable to grasp the reins firmly enough with his swollen hand, Jorian wound them around his left forearm and drew the sword Randir. Then he waited.

Nearer and nearer came the galloping horse. When it seemed as if Jorian could bear the suspense no longer, the rider appeared: a Mulvanian trooper in scarlet silken pantaloons, hauberk of silvered chain mail, and spired helmet. A quiver of light twirl-spears hung across his back, and he balanced one of these darts in his right hand.

Jorian kicked his horse's flanks. The roan started forward, but not so quickly as Jorian intended, because its rider was not wearing spurs. The delay gave the soldier time to twist about in his saddle and fling his javelin.

Jorian, bouncing in the saddle as Oser broke into his rough gallop, ducked down behind his horse's head. The missile hissed past, missing him by a fingerbreadth.

The soldier made a tentative snatch at his quiver, then changed his mind and reached instead for the scimitar at his hip. But his horse, seeing Oser bearing down upon him, shied a little. Lacking stirrups, the soldier was shaken in his seat. His hand missed the hilt, and he was forced to grab at one of the hand-holds on the saddle to steady himself. He was still fumbling for his sword when Jorian's point took him in the throat. He fell into the leaf mold, while his horse, snorting, galloped off.

When Jorian caught up with Karadur, the wizard looked up at him from under his sweat-stained turban. "Well?"

"Dead," said Jorian, "thanks to the fact that I had stirrups and he did not. The way this nag bounces one, 'tis a wonder I hit the fellow at all. I'll relieve you of that chest now, if you like. Curse it, my hand is hurting again."

"Have you thought of the moral aspects of your slaying that trooper?" said Karadur. "Doubtless he was as good and pious a man as yourself— "

"Oil" cried Jorian. "I save your wretched neck and your box of worthless spells, and you read me a damned sermon! Dip me in dung, but if you do not agree it was he or us, you can turn back and give yourself up."

"Nay, nay, my son, be not wroth with me for indulging my bent for speculation. The question of what to do when one is confronted by a man no worse than oneself, and whom one must slay to achieve a goal as worthy as his, has long beguiled me. Portentous questions, like that of war and peace, hinge upon it."

"Well," said Jorian, "I don't go out of my way to kill King Shaju's soldiers; but when 'tis a question of him or me, I strike first and argue ethics later. Did I not, I should not be here to discuss the matter. Meseems that, when one takes the king's coin as a soldier, one accepts the risk that, sooner or later, one may suddenly depart this life. None compelled that ill-starred horse-darter to chase and shoot at me. Having done so, he has no legitimate complaint—assuming his spirit will be vouchsafed a chance to protest in one of your multifarious Mulvanian afterworlds."

"The trooper's officer compelled him to pursue and attack you, so he was not a free agent."

"But he put himself under the officer's orders voluntarily, when he joined the army."

"Not so simple, my son. In Mulvan, all must follow their sires' occupations. So this man, born the son of a soldier, had no option but to become a trooper in his turn."

"Then the blame lies, not on me, but on your polluted custom of hereditary occupations."

"But that, in turn, has many advantages. It provides a stable social order, lessens the bitterness of competition for advancement, and furnishes each man with a secure position on the social stair."

"All very well, Doctor, when the sons' natural bent lies in the same channel as their sires'. But when 'tis otherwise? I know from my own life. Esteeming my father as a good and kindly man, I had been well content to follow his trade of clockmaking; but whilst my mind could grasp the principles, my hands proved too clumsy for the practice. In Mulvan, I had been bound to this profession for aye, and starved in consequence."

Karadur: "But even when there's a free choice of livelihood, as in the Twelve Cities, the same dilemma presents itself, when the general levy is called up for war. Then you will find yourself opposed to another, each of you convinced his cause is just, and no way to settle the question but spear and sword."

"Well, when one fighter is slain, he ceases to have any cause at all, just or otherwise. So justice resides ipso facto in the winner."

"A frivolous answer, O Jorian, unworthy of one who has ruled a state! Well you know that, for all your prayers to your various gods, the winner is determined by strength, or skill at arms, or luck—none having aught to do with justice."

"Holy Father," said Jorian, "when you persuade all my quarrelsome fellow-Novarians to submit their disputes to a tribunal of the wisest and most learned minds and to accept without cavil this court's decisions, I will gladly bow to such judgments. But behemoths will fly or ever that happens, and meanwhile I must fend for myself as best I can. But hold! Here's a dingle athwart our path, with a brook running through it. I'll wade the stream for a few furlongs, to see if I can throw them off the scent again. You may follow if you like."

He turned his horse's head downstream and set off at a rapid amble, water splashing in fountains about the roan's fetlocks. Karadur followed.

The stream gathered volume as it flowed, and around noon it joined another. Below this confluence, the united stream formed a small river, a fathom or two in width—small enough for easy fording but too voluminous to use as a path. Because of the density of the vegetation along the banks, Jorian and Karadur followed the stream at some distance, glimpsing the water through the trees.

"Methinks this is an affluent of the Shrindola," said Karadur. "The Shrindola flows into the Inner Sea, they say, albeit no man to my knowledge has ever followed it to its mouth to make sure."

"Then it must curve northward somewhere, in which case we're on the right side to get to Halgir," said Jorian. "Stop and hush for a moment whilst I listen."

There was no sound save the hum of insects and the chatter of birds and monkeys. They rode on. Then Jorian noticed something about his surroundings. Stones or small boulders appeared, scattered about the forest floor. Presently, as these objects became more frequent, he realized that they were too regular in shape and arrangement to be products of nature. Although often half buried and covered with patches of moss, algae, and lichen, they still showed flat faces at right angles, evidently the work of a mason's chisel. Moreover, they lay in lines—wavering, broken lines, but lines nonetheless.

Now the ancient masonry became denser and better preserved. Peering into shadowy, silvan distances, Jorian saw pieces of megalithic wall and the stumps of tumbled towers. Here a structure had been invaded by the roots of a tree growing out of its top, groping downwards between the individual stones and prying them apart, like the tentacles of some vegetable octopus, until the tree supported the remains of the structure rather than the building the tree. There rose a megalithic wall, bedight with sculptured reliefs in riotous profusion. Intricately carven towers of sandstone blocks loomed up through the forest, their tops lost in the masses of greenery overhead. Trees grew out of a monumental staircase, whose massive blocks their roots had heaved and tumbled.

Sinister, scowling stone faces peered out from behind the fronds of palms and ferns. An immense statue, fallen and broken into three pieces, lay among ruined walls and towering tree trunks, its finer details largely hidden by splotches of moss. For a while, the animals walked along a raised causeway paved with large, square slabs of slate and supported on either hand by cyclopean walls made of blocks weighing hundreds of tons.

On either hand stretched endless galleries bounding vast, overgrown courtyards. The entrances to these galleries were stone portals lacking the true arch. Instead, the openings were headed by corbelled arches, each course of masonry overhanging the one beneath until they met at the top, forming tall isosceles triangles. Among the sculptures that decorated the walls of these galleries, Jorian glimpsed scenes of armies on the march, demons and gods in supernatural combat, dancing girls entertaining kings, and workers at their daily tasks.

A flock of small green parrots rose from the ruins and whirred away, screaming. Monkeys scampered over the tottering roofs. Little lizards, some green with purple throats, some yellow, and some of other hues, scuttled over the stones. Huge butterflies came to rest on the tumbled masonry, fanning the air with their gold-and-purple wings before flitting away once more.

"What ruin is this?" Jorian asked.

"Culbagarh," groaned the wizard. "Can we stop here? I shall soon be dead else."

"Methinks we've gained a few hours upon them," said Jorian, dismounting at the base of a headless statue. The head that belonged to the statue lay nearby, but so covered with moss and mold that its precise nature was not evident. As he helped Karadur, groaning, down from the ass, Jorian said: "Tell me about this Culbagarh."

While Jorian staked out the animals where long grass grew in a ruined courtyard and prepared a frugal meal, Karadur told the story:

"This city goes back to the kingdom of Tirao, which preceded the empire of Mulvan. When the last king of Tirao, Vrujja the Fiend, came to the throne, his first concern was to have all his siblings slain, lest any should aspire to usurp his seat. This massacre later became the usual procedure in Mulvan and is now a custom hallowed by time. But in the days of Vrujja—more than a thousand years ago—it caused much comment.

"Hearing of the fate in store for him, one of these brothers, Naharju, gathered his followers and fled eastward into the wilds of Komilakh. They marched eastward for many leagues, until they came to a few scattered ruins, on this very spot. Those ruins were, however, much less extensive than these about us and more dilapidated, because this earner city had stood abandoned much longer than the mere thousand-odd years since of the fall of Culbagarh.

"None in Prince Naharju's party knew what city those scattered stones were the remains of, although some opined that this had been a city of the serpent people ere they migrated thence into the denser jungles of Beraoti. Amid these scanty ruins stood a worn, moss-grown altar, and beyond the altar the remains of a statue, so weathered that none could be certain what sort of creature it had depicted. Some thought it a figure of an ape-man, like unto the ape-men who are the native inhabitants of Komilakh, and of whom the party had caught glimpses. Others thought the statue not that of one of the higher animals at all, but something nearer to a spider or a cuttlefish.

"Naharju had with him a priest of Kradha the Preserver, to minister to the spiritual needs of his people. It seemed to Naharju that preservation of their lives was the most urgent task confronting the refugees and that, therefore, Kradha were the most suitable god to worship. A modern theologian might argue that Vurnu, Kradha, and Ashaka are all merely aspects or avatars of the same godhead; but in those days thinkers had not yet reached such heights of metaphysical subtlety.

"On the first night they spent in the ruins, the priest, whose name was Ayonar, had a dream. In this dream, he reported, the god whereof the ruined statue had been the image appeared unto him. The folk pressed Ayonar for a description of this god—whether it had the form of a man, an ape, a tiger, a crab, or what; but when Ayonar tried to answer their questions, he turned pale and stuttered so that nothing intelligible came forth. And when they saw that merely to think about the appearance of this god so troubled their holy priest, they left off questioning him and asked instead, what this god demanded of them.

"So Ayonar told the people that the god was named Murugong, and he had indeed been the god of the folk who had dwelt in the city ere it became a ruin, and that he was the chief god of Komilakh and never mind what the priests of Tirao said about their holy trinity's ruling the world. Komilakh was his; other gods, despite their ecumenical pretensions, knew better than to quarrel with him. Therefore Naharju's colonists had better worship him and forget all other gods.

"Then it transpired that Murugong was worshiped with exceedingly barbarous and bloody sacrifices, wherein a chosen victim was flayed alive on his altars. Murugong had explained to Ayonar that, not having tasted the pain of such a sacrifice for thousands of years, he was nigh unto starvation, and they should find a victim to flay right speedily.

"Naharju and his men were troubled, for such usages had long been abandoned in Tirao, and they were not eager to take them up again, let alone to slay one of their own in this uncouth manner. So they took counsel, and whilst they disputed, the priest Ayonar said: 'May it please Your Highness, I have thought how to gratify the mighty Murugong and preserye our own skins intact. Let us go into the forest, seize one of the ape-men, and sacrifice it in the manner prescribed. For, if not so intelligent as a true man, the ape-man stands high enough in the scale of life so that it will suffer quite as acutely as any human being. And, since Murugong thrives on the pain of his victims, he should be just as well satisfied as if one of us had perished in this manner.'

"The men of Naharju's faction agreed that the priest had spoken sound sense, and a hunting party was made up at once. After the ape-man had been devoted to the god, Murugong appeared unto Ayonar in a dream and said he was well pleased with the sacrifice and would adopt the Tiraonian refugees as his chosen people as long as they continued the sacrifices. And so it went for many years. Under Naharju and his son of the same name, the people waxed in numbers and built the city of Culbagarh on the ruins of the older, nameless city.

"Meanwhile the leading men of Tirao, desperate over the enormities of Vrujja the Fiend, sought for a prince to head a rebellion against their sovran. They had trouble in this, for that Vrujja had made a clean sweep of his kinsmen, executing them unto third and fourth cousins and sending men to murder those who had fled to Novaria and other barbarian lands.

"At length, however, the rebels discovered a chief of the desert-dwellers of Fedirun, night Waqith, who boasted one-thirty-second part of royal Tiraonian blood in his veins. And they invited him to invade Tirao and become king in Vrujja's room. The invasion went briskly, for most of Vrujja's men deserted. Soon Vrujja was slain in an interesting manner that perturbs me too much to describe, and Waqith was crowned king.

"But Waqith did not prove so great an improvement over Vrujja as his supporters had hoped. His first public act was to arrest all the chief nobles of Tirao and have their heads piled in a pyramid in the public square. Having, as he thought, terrified the rest into being docile subjects, he next commanded that the contents of the treasury be dumped on the floor of the throne room. And the sight of so much wealth drove Waqith—who had all his life been a bare-arsed desert thief, to whom one silver mark was a fortune—clean out of his mind. They found him sitting on a heap of coins, tossing jewels in the air and laughing and babbling like an unweaned babe.

"So they slew Waqith and sought for someone to replace him. But now the word of Tirao's troubles had blown hither and yon about the deserts of Fedirun, and other bands of nomads, irrupted into the fertile plains of Tirao, where the surviving nobles fought amongst themselves to see who should rule the land. And soon the kingdom went down in blood and fire, and owls and bats and serpents nested in the ruins of the palaces and fortresses of former times. And so things remained until the coming of Ghish the Great.

"Meanwhile, Culbagarh grew and grew, as fugitives from the fall of Tirao sought sanctuary there. But under Naharju's grandson, Darganj, it became even more difficult to catch enough ape-men to keep up the sacrifices to Murugong. For the ape-men had become wary of Culbagarh and gave it a wide berth, so that the Culbagarhis were forced to keep hundreds of men constantly employed on hunts for these beings. And there was talk of choosing victims by lot from amongst the new arrivals in Culbagarh, in case the supply of ape-men failed altogether.

"Amongst the refugees from Tirao was a man named Jainini, who preached a new god, called Yish. This new god, said Jainini, had appeared to him in dreams to expound a religion of love instead of blood and terror. If only everybody, said Jainini, would love everybody else, all their troubles would be over. Furthermore Yish, being a mightier god than Murugong, would protect them more effectively than Murugong ever had.

"The priesthood of Murugong, now grown rich, corrupt, and powerful, sought to sacrifice Jainini on the altar of Murugong as a dangerous heretic. But Jainini had many followers, especially amongst the new immigrants, who had not been pleased to hear of the priests' intention of devoting them to Murugong. And it looked as if the two factions would have to fight it out.

"But then King Darganj went over to the side of Yish and his prophet Jainini. Some said Darganj was interested, not in any religion of love, but in getting his hands on the treasures of the temple of Murugong.

"Be that as it may, Yish became the chief god of Culbagarh, and Murugong was forsaken. And for a while the city enjoyed the benefits of the religion of love. The army was put to such civilian tasks as cleaning the streets of the city. Evildoers, instead of having a hand or a head sliced off by the executioner, were lectured on the virtues of love and turned loose with the admonition to sin no more—although it is said that few of them heeded this advice; the rest continued their careers of robbery, rape, and murder with greater gusto than ever.

"Then, without warning, a horde of ape-men overran and sacked the city and slaughtered its dwellers. For the continued raids of the Culbagarhis for "three generations had filled these creatures with hatred, and at last this persecution had driven the many little clans of ape-men to unite against their persecutors. The fact that the hunts for sacrificial victims had been halted made no difference; centuries would have had to pass before the ape-men lost their lust for vengeance.

"The invaders were armed only with crude wooden spears and clubs and sharpened stones, but they were very many, and the Culbagarhis under the influence of Jainini had put away their arms, melting them up and reforging them into the tools of husbandry. A few, including King Darganj and Jainini, escaped the massacre and fled westward. And the next day, the prophet told the king that the abandoned god Murugong had appeared to him in his sleep. No more than Ayonar, could Jainini describe this god; but natheless he had somewhat to tell of him.

" 'He said,' quoth Jainini, 'that it serves us right for deserting him.'

" 'Would he take us back under his wing if we resumed his worship?' " asked King Darganj.

" 'I asked him that,' said Jainini, 'and he said nay; we had proven such faithless and fickle rascals that he would have no more truck with us. The ape-men, on the other hand, would suit him as worshipers very well, being too simple-minded to question his authority by theological theorizing.'

" 'What of your mighty god Yish, who was supposed to ward us?'

" 'Murugong has trounced Yish and driven him out of Komilakh. I complained that Yish had told me he was the mightier of the two, whereas this did not appear to be the fact. But how could a god he? Easily, said Murugong, as easily as any mortal. But, I said, I always understood that gods never lied. Who had told me that? said Murugong. The gods themselves, I said. But, said Murugong, if a god be a liar, what hinders him from lying about this as about other matters? Then I was stricken with horror at the thought of living in a universe where not only the men lie, but the gods as well. It was unfair, I protested. Quite true, said Murugong, but then, existence is unfair.

" Thereupon I fell to cursing the gods and dared Murugong to slay me, but he only laughed and vanished from my dreams. So there we are, sire. And I pray you to flay me forthwith as a sacrifice to Murugong, that some at least of his wrath be turned from this sorry remnant of your people, which my folly had brought to this pass; and that, moreover, that I shall be quit of this dreadful world, where not even the gods are to be trusted.'

"But Darganj told Jainini not to talk rubbish but to flee with the rest of them to the West, in hopes of finding some corner of the former kingdom of Tirao where they could settle without attracting the notice of the barbarians who now fought one another on the ruins of that land. And they had just taken up their march again when a horde of ape-men appeared behind them. Whilst the rest of the Tiraonians fled in terror, Jainini walked boldly into the midst of the pursuers.

"This act so astonished the savages that the other fugitives had time to escape ere the creatures recovered their wits. The last that was seen of Jainini, the ape-men had seized him. It is not known what they did with him, but it is deemed unlikely that he converted them to the worship of Yish. And the city of Culbagarh has lain derelict ever since."

"The moral would seem to be," said Jorian, "to trust nobody—not even a god."

"Nay, that is not quite right, my son. The moral is, rather, to exercise a nice discrimination in all one's dealings, both with gods and with men, and to trust only the trustworthy."

"That's fine, could one only discover which they be. Holla! What's this?"

Jorian's boot struck a half-buried stone. Something about this stone led him to bend over and examine it. He kicked and pulled at it until it came loose in his hand. It was a statuette of a small, rotund, bald, grinning god, seated cross-legged on a plinth. The whole thing was less than half a foot high and weighed about a pound. Being made of an exceedingly hard, translucent green stone, it was in good condition, its outlines only slightly softened by weathering.

Jorian peered at the worn inscription on the plinth. "What's this?" he said, turning the statuette towards Karadur. "I do not recognize the writing; the characters are not those of modern Mulvani."

Karadur, peering through his reading glass, puzzled in his turn. "This," he said at last, "is Tiraonian, from the latter times of that kingdom. Modern Mulvani is derived from Tiraonian, with an admixture of Fediruni words. Evidently, one of the folk of Culbagarh dropped this statue here ere the city fell to the ape-men."

"What says it?"

Karadur traced the characters with his fingers. "It says Tvasha,' which I believe to be the name of a very minor god of the Tiraonian pantheon. There were so many that it is hard to remember which was which."

"Well, belike we should worship this Tvasha and ask him for help and guidance. After lying here in the mold for a thousand years, he ought to be glad of a worshiper or two, and I misdoubt the gods of my own Novaria have jurisdiction so far from their own demesne."

"If he-have not died from neglect."

"How should we go about it? Catch one of these little green lizards and cut its throat?"

"Not until we know his wishes. Some gods are highly offended by blood sacrifices. Pray that he will appear unto you and advise you."

"He'd better find us something to eat. This is the last of our journey cake. Tomorrow we shall be reduced to catching lizards and serpents for our supper."

Jorian thought he was standing on a black marble pavement in a hall of some kind, although he could not see the walls or the ceiling. Before him in the dimness glimmered the pale-green form of Tvasha, sitting on his plinth in the same attitude as he took in the little statue. The god's head seemed to be on a level with Jorian's own. But, although he tried to focus his eyes, Jorian could never be sure whether the god was the same size as himself at a distance of ten or fifteen paces, or much smaller at arm's length, or much larger and furlongs away. The god's lips moved, and a voice spoke in Jorian's mind:

"Greetings, Jorian son of Evor! If thou but knew how good it is to have a worshiper once again! Before the fall of Culbagarh, I had a worshiper like unto thee; let me think, what was his name? I cannot recall, but he was a big, handsome wight, always in some fantastic scrape, wherefrom he ever expected me to rescue him. I remember one time—"

"Thy pardon, lord!" Jorian, not without trepidation, interrupted the garrulous deity. "We are hotly pursued by men who wish us ill. Canst save us?"

"Let me see…" The god vanished from his plinth, leaving Jorian alone in his dark, misty space. A few heartbeats later, Tvasha was back again. "Fear nought, my son. Though thy ill-wishers are but a bowshot away, they shall do thee no scathe—"

"A bowshot away!" cried Jorian. "I must needs awaken at once, to flee! Let me go, O god!"

"Be not so hasty, dear Jorian," said Tvasha, smiling broadly. "It is so long since I have had a mortal to converse with that I am fain to continue our talk. I will take care of the Mulvanians and their trained elephants. Tell me, how fareth the empire of Mulvan these days?"

"First, lord, tell me how thou wouldst be worshiped."

"An occasional offer of a flower and a nightly prayer suffice me. Tell me how mighty I am. In sooth—betwixt thee and me—I am but a feeble little godlet; but, being like all deities exceedingly vain, I drink flattery as thou drinkest fine wine. Now that—"

The dark, misty hall vanished, and Jorian found himself awake, with Karadur shaking his shoulder. Through the massed leaves overhead, the silver shield of the full moon sent a few ghostly gleams.

"Awaken, my son!" whispered the wizard. "I hear elephants; and if my weak old ears can detect them, they must be close—"

Jorian scrambled up. "Could they be wild elephants? We have seen the signs of many such in this forest… Nay, I hear the jingle of horse trappings. It's the Mulvanians."

He started for the courtyard where the animals were tethered, then paused. The squeals of the elephants, the creak and jingle of harness, the muffled sound of horses' hooves on the forest floor, and the low-pitched snatches of talk receded. Soon they were so faint that he could barely hear them. Then they died away altogether. Jorian returned to the wizard.

"He's done it," he said.

"Who?"

"Tvasha. He said he would take care of the Mulvanians. I had my doubts, since he seemed a gabby old party and none too sharp. But whatever he did, it seems to have worked. We might as well go back to sleep, for if we go blundering about in the jungle in the dark we may run head-on into our pursuers by sheer mischance."

The air had cooled, so Jorian donned his upper garments, wrapped himself in his cloak, and lay down again. For a long time, however, sleep failed to come. His injured hand throbbed, and he thought about the problem of getting along with one's private god. He was still making up imaginary conversations with the deity when he found himself back in the dark, misty hall, before Tvasha on his pedestal.

"How didst thou do it, lord?" asked Jorian.

"Simply, my son. I cast an illusion upon the tracking elephants, so that they saw and smelt a beautiful cow elephant in heat, beckoning to them with her trunk. They rushed off to take advantage of her offer; and the Mulvanians, thinking their beasts were on a hot trail leading to you and your companion, harkened them on. Now they are leagues hence."

The god smiled smugly. "And now, my dear Jorian, let us resume the discussion we were having when the holy Karadur snatched thee away to thy own plane of existence. How fareth the empire of Mulvan? For the statuette thou foundest in the ruins is the only one of me still in fair enough condition to permit me to use it as a point of intersection between my world and thine. Hence, in my visits to thy plane, I am limited to a short distance from the ruins of Culbagarh. Say on."

Jorian gave the god a brief account of the state and recent history of Mulvan, as far as he knew it. When he told of the death of Shaju's father, King Sirvasha, Tvasha chuckled.

"That reminds me," said the god, "of one of the last kings of Tirao— Vrujja's great-grandfather, but I cannot recall his name. Dear me, what was it? No matter. Anyhow, I will tell thee a very funny story about this king, whose name—bless me, what was that name? It is on the tip of my tongue—anyway, this king…"

Tvasha went off into a rambling tale that seemed to have neither point nor end. Nor could Jorian see anything funny about it. A quarter-hour later, it seemed, he was fidgeting with boredom and impatience while Tvasha rambled on.

Then the god seemed to cast a glance over his shoulder and cry: "Oh, dear me! I have been so absorbed in telling thee this story that I have not noticed the dire peril that creepeth upon thee! And, alas, this time I cannot save thee, for they who menace thee are under the protection of the mighty Murugong, whereas I am but a small, weak god…"

Jorian frantically tried to wake himself up. It was like straining at physical bonds. And then a physical shock awoke him all at once. Hairy hands gripped his arms and legs: he yelped as one seized his still tender left hand. A few paces distant, a swarm of the ape-men of Komilakh had likewise pinioned Karadur. To the east, a ruby gleam through the jungle told of the rising sun.

The ape-men were about five feet tall, but very stocky and muscular. Their necks jutted forwards, and their chins and foreheads receded, and their wide, thick lips parted to show rows of large, yellow teeth. They went naked, were almost as hairy as the beasts of the wild, and stank.

Gathering his muscles, Jorian made a furious effort to tear himself loose. But, great as was his strength compared to most men, that of each of his captors was equal to his own. Hairy hands with blackened, broken nails gripped him all the more tightly, and a couple of the ape-men pounded him with their fists until he became quiet. As he lay in the ape-men's grip, he found himself looking at the half-buried head of the nearby headless statue. He suddenly realized that the stone face was that, not of a man, but of a tiger. Goania's warning…

"Resist not!" said Karadur. "It does but madden them the more."

"What are they going to do with us?" said Jorian.

"How should I know? Do you understand aught of their speech?"

"No. Do you?"

"Nay, though I speak five or six tongues besides my own Mulvani."

"Can you cast a spell upon them?"

"Not whilst they hold me, for no spell worthy of the name is effected by a simple babbling of magical words."

Jorian: "Tvasha told me they're under Murugong's protection."

"Ah, woe! Then what Jainini told King Darganj a thousand years ago is still true. I do fear the worst."

"You mean they'll skin—"

Jorian was interrupted by a movement among the ape-men. In response to a barked command from one of their number, they heaved Jorian to his feet and half-led, half-dragged him through the overgrown ways of Culbagarh. Others bore Karadur. They zigzagged through ruins until Jorian was lost.

They stopped before some large stones. The nearer and smaller of these was a simple block, two cubits high and twice as wide, weathered until its ancient edges and corners had all been rounded off, so that it might almost be mistaken for a natural boulder.

Beyond the low block rose a large, squat pedestal or plinth, atop which something had once been sculptured; but so worn was this statue that one could no longer tell for sure what it had depicted. Its general shape was that of a seated man, but no definitely human limbs or members could be discerned. It was low and squat and rounded, with here and there a mere suggestion of carving. A large, red-and-black banded snake, lying at the base of the statue, slithered away and vanished into a hole.

"This must be the statue of Murugong, whereof you told me," said Jorian.

"Ah me, I fear you are right. I do blame myself for bringing this doom upon you. Farewell, my son!"

An ape-man appeared, holding a rusty iron knife. This was the only metal tool or weapon in sight, all others being of wood, stone, or bone. The aboriginal whetted the edge on the altar block, wheep-wheep.

"Blame not yourself, Doctor," said Jorian. "We must all take our chances. If they'd only just tie us up and go off and leave us a bit, perchance I could do something…"

Wheep-wheep went the knife. The ape-men had no intention of tying up their captives. Instead, they stood or squatted about them, firmly gripping their arms and legs with ominous patience.

At last the ape-man with the knife completed his whetting, tested the edge with his thumb, and stood up. At a grunted word, the ape-men holding Jorian dragged him to the altar and laid him supine upon it, still holding him firmly. He of the knife, standing before the statue, raised his arms and intoned a speech wherein Jorian caught the word "Murugong."

Then the ape-man turned back to Jorian and bent over the victim. He raised the knife, then drew the blade in a long, deliberate slash along Jorian's breastbone from throat to waist, bearing down hard. Jorian tensed himself to bear the pain manfully.

The knife cut neatly through Jorian's tunic but was stopped by the shirt of fine mesh mail beneath. With a guttural exclamation, the sacrificer bent over, flipping the severed sides of Jorian's tunic aside to examine this garment. Words broke out among the ape-men holding Jorian, and a couple began tugging at the mail shirt to pull it off over his head. While they struggled and argued and got in one another's way, an altercation sprang up out of range of Jorian's vision. Soon all the ape-men were shouting unintelligibly.

Gradually the noise died down. The ape-men holding Jorian pulled him up, so that he was sitting on the altar. He confronted a peculiarly ugly, middle-aged ape-man, who thrust a thick, hairy forefinger at him.

"You Jorian?" said this one in barely comprehensible Novarian.

"Aye. Who are you?"

"Me Zor. You remember? You save my life."

"By Imbal's brazen balls!" cried Jorian. "Of course I remember, O Zor. Tell me not that after you got out of that cage, you marched afoot all the way from the western Lograms to Komilakh!"

"Me strong. Me walk."

"Good for you! How have you fared?"

"Me do well. Me chief."

"And now, what of us?"

"You help me, I help you. Where you go?"

"We should like to get to Halgir, to cross the strait."

"You go."

Zor pushed aside the ape-men holding Jorian and threw a thick, hairy arm around Jorian's shoulders. Jorian winced from the bruises he had received from his captors' fists. Gesticulating with the other arm, Zor made a short but emphatic speech to the other ape-men. Although he could not understand a word, Jorian thought the speech meant that he was Zor's friend, and nobody should harm him on pain of Zor's displeasure.

"How about my friend?" said Jorian.

"You go, he stay. He not help us. We kill him."

"Either let us both go, or neither."

Zor scowled into Jorian's face. "What for you say that?"

"He is my friend. You would do the same for your friend, would you not?" Zor scratched his head. "You speak good. All right, he go, too."

The next day, having left the banks of the Shrindola, they jogged across country northeast through a thunderstorm, with a squad of ape-men trotting along to show them the way and fetch food for them. Karadur said:

"An I have ever criticized you, my son, I humbly ask forgiveness now."

"What?" shouted Jorian over a roar of thunder. Karadur repeated.

"Why, Doctor?" said Jorian.

"You came within a hairbreadth of letting yourself be sacrificed—in a singularly painful manner—rather than abandon me, when you had an excellent opportunity to escape alone. I humble myself before you."

"Oh, nonsense! It just came out. Had I stopped to think, I should probably not have had the courage. As it was, I was so terrified of that skinning knife—oh, very well, very well, I'll say nought of my own fears aloud."

"Have you our new god with you?"

" Tis in the pack, though how much good Tvasha will do us is open to question. I think we ought to invent a new religion: the worship of the god of the absurd. If any force rule the universe, it is surely absurdity. Consider: you cast a confusion spell that goes awry and brings the foe right down upon us."

"That was not the fault of the spell. We lacked the proper ingredients."

"Then I stumble upon the statue of Tvasha. The god saves us from the Mulvanians—only to let us fall into the clutches of the ape-men because he's too busy telling me some long, boring tale about a king of olden times to notice them. When he does observe them, he's too fearful of the greater god Murugong to interfere.

"Then we are saved from painful deaths by Zor's happening along, and happening, moreover, to recognize me, when I should never have known him; these aboriginals look all alike to me. Zor believes I purposely released him from the cage of Rhithos' house. Truth to tell, that was a pure accident, resulting from my own stupidity, and for which Rhithos would have slain me had not the wench released me.

"Nor is that all. Were this a tale of some minstrel's fancy, Vanora and I should have been predestined mates and lovers—whereas, after trying me at stud, she finds she can't bear the sight of me and goes off with that halfwit Boso, who would be right at home amongst these escorts of ours. Now try to tell me that the universe makes sense?

"I am sure it makes most excellent sense, were our puny mortal minds strong enough to grasp its entirety."

"Ha! Howsomever, one more dinner of roots and fungi, served in a sauce made of mashed bugs, and I may tell our friends to take me back to Culbagarh and sacrifice me. From such a diet, death were a welcome relief!"