Songs of the Dying Earth

my own stomach, something that is already the case.” The Deodand laughed in pleasure. “After all, you spoke glowingly yourself of the closeness of our acquaintanceship, Laqavee — surely you could wish no greater proximity than within my gut!”

The foul stench of the thing’s breath was almost enough to snatch away what little remained of Lixal’s dizzied consciousness. He closed his eyes so that he would not have to see the Deodand’s terrible gaze when it murdered him. “Very well, then,” he said with as much aplomb as he could muster, although every limb in his body trembled as though he had an ague. “At least I die with the satisfaction of knowing that a Deodand has never beaten a human at King’s Compass, and now never shall.”

He waited.

He continued to wait.

Lixal could not help remembering that the Deodand had earlier spoken of a death both slower and more satisfying than simply having his throat torn out — satisfying to the murderous creature, Lixal had no doubt, rather than to himself. Was that why the thing hesitated?

At last he opened his eyes again. The fiery yellow orbs were asquint in anger and some other emotion, harder to discern.

“You have put your finger on a problem,” the Deodand admitted. “By my account, you have beaten me thrice-three-hundred and forty-four times out of an equal number of contests. And yet, I have felt for some time now that I was on the verge of mastering the game and defeating you. You yourself must admit that our matches have become more competitive.”

“In all fairness, I must agree with your assertion,” said Lixal. “You have improved both your hoarding and your double sentry maneuver.”

The Deodand stood, keeping its claw wrapped around Lixal Laqavee’s neck, and thus forcing him to stand as well. “Here is my solution,” the creature told him. “We will continue to play. As long as you can defeat me, I will let you live, because I must know that when I win, as ultimately I feel sure I must, it will be by the sole fact of my own improving skill.”

Lixal felt a little relieved — his death was to be at least momentarily postponed — but the knowledge did not bring the quickening of hope that might have accompanied such a reprieve in other circumstances. The Deodand did not sleep, while Lixal felt the need to do so for many hours of every day. The Deodand was swift and powerful while he, Lixal, was a great deal less so. And no human with any wit at all would try to help him.

Still, perhaps something unforeseen might happen that would allow him to conquer the beast or escape. The events of Lixal’s life had taught him that circumstances were bound to change, and occasionally even for the better.

“You must also keep me well-fed and healthy,” he told the Deodand. “If I am weakened by hunger or illness, any victory of yours would be hollow.”

“Fair enough.” The creature transferred its iron grip to his arm, then, without further conversation began to walk. It made a good speed through the patchy forest, forcing Lixal to hurry to keep up or risk having his limb pulled from its socket.

“Where are we going?” Lixal called breathlessly. “What was wrong with that particular camping spot? We had a fire, and could have started a game at our leisure once you had provided us with some dinner.”

“I am doing just that, but dinner of the kind I seek is not so easily obtained near our previous camping site.”

Sometime after this unsettling declaration, just as the morning sun began to bring light to the forest, the Deodand dragged Lixel out of the thickest part of the trees and into an open grassy space dotted with lumps of worked stone, some standing upright but many others tumbled and broken, all of them much patched with moss.

“Why have we come here?” Lixal asked. “This is some ancient graveyard.”

“Just so,” said the Deodand. “But not truly ancient — burials have taken place here within relatively recent years. You have long forbidden me the chance to dine as I please, on the meat that I most like. Now I shall no longer be bound by your absurd and cruel strictures. And yet I do not want the vigilante impulses of your kind to interfere with our contest, so instead of sallying forth for live human flesh, we will encamp ourselves here, where suitably aged and cured specimens wait beneath only a shallow span of topsoil.” The creature grinned hugely. “I confess I have dreamed of such toothsome delicacies for the entire span of our annoying and undesired companionship.”

“But what about me?” said Lixal. “What shall I eat? Will you hunt game for me?”

“You seem to think you still hold the upper hand, Laqavee.” The Deodand spoke as sternly as a disappointed father. “You are far away from the assistance of any of your fellows, and in the passing of a single heartbeat, I can tear your throat with my talons. Hunt game for you? Nonsense.” The Deodand shook its head and shoved him down onto his knees. “You will eat what I do. You will learn thrift as the Deodands practice it! Now set up the gaming board and prepare to defend the honor of your species, Lixal Laqavee! In the meantime, I will begin digging for breakfast.”

Afterword:

To be honest, I couldn’t say exactly when I discovered the Dying Earth. Since it happened during my first great flowering of love for science fiction, the time I was about eleven to fourteen, I suspect my primary encounter must have been Eyes of the Overworld, the opening tales of Cugel the Clever. What I do remember was the delight with which I encountered both Jack Vance’s fabulous imagination and the chortling joy with which I followed the elaborate, circumlocuitous conversations between his wonderfully amoral characters in a thousand different strange situations. Dickens and Wodehouse had prepared me for this sort of word-drunkenness, but I had never encountered anything quite like it in science fiction (nor have I found anything quite so piquant in the many years since.)

I was definitely in love, and I have remained so ever since — not just with the Dying Earth, but with all the products of Vance’s imagination. I only hope that seeing how he has influenced some of the best writers of today (and me, too!) will bring new readers to Vance’s work. Not just because his work deserves it — although it does, it does, it does — but because readers who love wit and imagination have not fully lived until they have spent a while sitting at the master’s feet, laughing and marveling.

You lucky readers, who still have that discovery ahead of you!

— Tad Williams

John C. Wright GUYAL THE CURATOR

John C. Wright attracted some attention in the late 90s with his early stories in Asimov’s Science Fiction (with one of them, “Guest Law,” being picked up for David Hartwell’s Year’s Best SF), but it wasn’t until he published his “Golden Age” trilogy (consisting of The Golden Age, The Golden Transcendence, and The Phoenix Exultant) in the first few years of the new century, novels which earned critical raves across the board, that he was recognized as a major new talent in SF. Subsequent novels include the “Everness” fantasy series, including The Last Guardians of Everness and Mists of Everness, and the fantasy “Chaos” series, which includes Fugitives of Chaos, Orphans of Chaos, and Titans of Chaos. His most recent novel, a continuation of the famous “Null-A” series by A.E. van Vogt, is Null-A Continuum. Wright lives with his family in Centreville, Virginia.

Here he regales us with the story of the last Remonstrator of Old Romarth, who keeps civic order in the streets of the city with the mystic weapon called the Implacable Dark Iron Wand of Quordaal, but who soon will find himself facing threats of unprecedented severity from demons, evil magicians, and immense, sky-towering giants.